The Happy Valley.
My gloomy forebodings were only too fully realized. Never was a more miserably monotonous journey. After riding for weeks, through sodden, sunless forests and trackless wastes we had to abandon our mules and take to our feet, spend weeks on nameless rivers, poling and paddling our canoe in the terrible heat, and tormented almost to madness by countless insects. Then the rains came on, and we were weather-stayed for months in a wretched Indian village. But for the help of friendly aborigines—and fortunately the few we met, being spoken fair showed themselves friendly—we must all have perished. They gave us food, lent us canoes, served us as pilots and guides, and thought themselves well paid with a piece of scarlet cloth or a handful of glass beads.
My men turned out quite as ill as I had been led to expect. Several deserted at the outset, two or three died of fever, two were eaten by alligators, and when we first caught sight of the Andes, Gahra was my sole companion.
We were in a pitiful plight. I was weak from the effects of a fever, Gahra lame from the effects of an accident. My money was nearly all gone, my baggage had been lost by the upsetting of a canoe, and our worldly goods consisted of two sorry mules, our arms, the ragged clothes on our backs, and a few pieces of silver. How we were to cross the Andes, and what we should do when we reached Peru was by no means clear. As yet, the fortune which I had set out to seek seemed further off than ever. We had found neither gold nor silver nor precious stones, and all the coin I had in my waist-belt would not cover the cost of a three days’ sojourn at the most modest of posaderos.
But we have left behind us the sombre and rain-saturated forests of the Amazon and the Orinoco, and the fine country around us and the magnificent prospect before us made me, at least, forget for the moment both our past privations and our present anxieties. We are on the montaña of the eastern Cordillera, a mountain land of amazing fertility, well wooded, yet not so thickly as to render progress difficult; the wayside is bordered with brilliant flowers, cascades tumble from rocky heights, and far away to the west rise in the clear air the glorious Andes, alps on alps, a vast range of stately snow-crowned peaks, endless and solemn, veiled yet not hidden by fleecy clouds, and as cold and mysterious as winter stars looking down on a sleeping world.
For a long time I gaze entranced at the wondrous scene, and should probably have gone on gazing had not Gahra reminded me that the day was well-nigh spent and that we were still, according to the last information received, some distance from the mission of San Andrea de Huanaco, otherwise Valle Hermoso, or Happy Valley.
One of our chief difficulties had been to find our way; maps we had none, for the very sufficient reason that maps of the region we had traversed did not at that time exist; our guides had not always proved either competent or trustworthy, and I had only the vaguest idea as to where we were. Of two things only was I certain, that we were south of the equator and within sight of the Andes of Peru (which at that time included the countries now known as Ecuador and Bolivia).
A few days previously I had fallen in with an old half-caste priest, from whom I had heard of the Mission of San Andrea de Huanaco, and how to get there, and who drew for my guidance a rough sketch of the route. The priest in charge, a certain Fray Ignacio, a born Catalan, would, he felt sure, be glad to find me quarters and give me every information in his power.
And so it proved. Had I been his own familiar friend Fray Ignacio could not have welcomed me more warmly or treated me more kindly. A European with news but little above a year old was a perfect godsend to him. When he heard that I had served in his native land and the Bourbons once more ruled in France and Spain, he went into ecstasies of delight, took me into his house, and gave me of his best.
San Andrea was well named Valle Hermoso. It was like an alpine village set in a tropical garden. The mud houses were overgrown with greenery, the rocks mantled with flowers, the nearer heights crested with noble trees, whose great white trunks, as smooth and round as the marble pillars of an eastern palace, were roofed with domes of purple leaves.
Through the valley and between verdant banks and blooming orchards meandered a silvery brook, either an affluent or a source of one of the mighty streams which find their homes in the great Atlantic.
The mission was a village of tame Indians, whose ancestors had been “Christianized,” by Fray Ignacio’s Jesuit predecessor. But the Jesuits had been expelled from South America nearly half a century before. My host belonged to the order of St. Francis. The spiritual guide, as well as the earthly providence of his flock, he managed their affairs in this world and prepared them for the next. And they seemed nothing loath. A more listless, easy-going community than the Indians of the Happy Valley it were difficult to imagine. The men did little but smoke, sleep, and gamble. All the real work was done by the women, and even they took care not to over-exert themselves. All were short-lived. The women began to age at twenty, the men were old at twenty-five and generally died about thirty, of general decay, said the priest. In my opinion of pure laziness. Exertion is a condition of healthy existence; and the most active are generally the longest lived.
Nevertheless, Fray Ignacio was content with his people. They were docile and obedient, went regularly to church, had a great capacity for listening patiently to long sermons, and if they died young they got so much the sooner to heaven.
All the same, Fray Ignacio was not so free from care as might be supposed. He had two anxieties. The Happy Valley was so far untrue to its name as to be subject to earthquakes; but as none of a very terrific character had occurred for a quarter of a century he was beginning to hope that it would be spared any further visitations for the remainder of his lifetime. A much more serious trouble were the occasional visits of bands of wild Indians—Indios misterios, he called them; what they called themselves he had no idea. Neither had he any definite idea whence they came; from the other side of the Cordilleras, some people thought. But they neither pillaged nor murdered—except when they were resisted or in drink, for which reason the father always kept his aguardiente carefully hidden. Their worst propensity was a passion for white girls. There were two or three mestizo families in the village, some of whom were whiter, or rather, less coppery than the others, and from these the misterios would select and carry off the best-looking maidens; for what purpose Fray Ignacio could not tell, but, as he feared, to sacrifice to their gods.
When I heard that these troublesome visitors generally numbered fewer than a score, I asked why, seeing that the valley contained at least a hundred and fifty men capable of bearing arms, the raiders were not resisted. On this the father smiled and answered, that no earthly consideration would induce his tame Indians to fight; it was so much easier to die. He could not even persuade the mestizoes to migrate to a safer locality. It was easier to be robbed of their children occasionally than to move their goods and chattels and find another home.
I asked Fray Ignacio whether he thought these robbers of white children were likely to pay him a visit soon.
“I am afraid they are,” he said. “It is nearly two years since their last visit, and they only come in summer. Why?”
“I have a curiosity to see these; and I think I could save the children and give these wild fellows such a lesson that they would trouble you no more—at any rate for a long time to come.”
“I should be inexpressibly grateful. But how, señor?”
Whereupon I disclosed my scheme. It was very simple; I proposed to turn one of the most likely houses in the village into a small fortress which might serve as a refuge for the children and which Gahra and I would undertake to defend. We had two muskets and a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and the priest possessed an old blunderbuss, which I thought I could convert into a serviceable weapon. In this way we should be able to shoot down four or five of the misterios before any of them could get near us, and as they had no firearms I felt sure that, after so warm a reception, they would let us alone and go their way. The shooting would demoralize them, and as we should not show ourselves they could not know that the garrison consisted only of the negro and myself.
“Very well,” said the priest, after a moment’s thought. “I leave it to you. But remember that if you fail they will kill you and everybody else in the place. However, I dare say you will succeed, the firearms may frighten them, and, on the whole, I think the risk is worth running!”
The next question was how to get timely warning of the enemy’s approach. I suggested posting scouts on the hills which commanded the roads into the valley. I thought that, albeit the tame Indians were good for nothing else, they could at least sit under a tree and keep their eyes open.
“They would fall asleep,” said Fray Ignacio.
So we decided to keep a lookout among ourselves, and ask the girls who tended the cattle to do the same. They were much more wide-awake than the men, if the latter could be said to be awake at all.
The next thing was to fortify the priest’s house, which seemed the most suitable for our purpose. I strengthened the wall with stays, repaired the old trabuco, which was almost as big as a small cannon, and made ready for barricading the doors and windows on the first alarm.
This done, there was nothing for it but to wait with what patience I might, and kill time as I best could. I walked about, fished in the river, and talked with Fray Ignacio. I would have gone out shooting, for there was plenty of game in the neighborhood, only that I had to reserve my ammunition for more serious work.
For the present, at least, my idea of exploring the Andes appeared to be quite out of the question. I should require both mules and guides, and I had no money either to buy the one or to pay the other.
And so the days went monotonously on until it seemed as if I should have to remain in this valley surnamed Happy for the term of my natural life, and I grew so weary withal that I should have regarded a big earthquake as a positive god-send. I was in this mood, and ready for any enterprise, however desperate, when one morning a young woman who had been driving cattle to an upland pasture, came running to Fray Ignacio to say that she had seen a troop of horsemen coming down from the mountains.
“The misterios!” said the priest, turning pale. “Are you still resolved, señor?”
“Certainly,” I answered, trying to look grave, though really greatly delighted. “Be good enough to send for the girls who are most in danger. Gahra and I will take possession of the house, and do all that is needful.”
It was further arranged that Fray Ignacio should remain outside with his tame Indians, and tell the misterios that all the good-looking mestiza, maidens were in his house, guarded by braves from over the seas, who would strike dead with lightning anybody who attempted to lay hands on them.
By the time our preparations were completed, and the frightened and weeping girls shut up in an inner room, the wild Indians were at the upper end of the big, straggling village, and presently entered a wide, open space between the ramshackle old church and Ignacio’s house. The party consisted of fifteen or sixteen warriors mounted on small horses. All rode bare-back, were naked to the waist, and armed with bows and arrows and the longest spears I had yet seen.
The tame Indians looked stolidly on. Nothing short of an earthquake would have disturbed their self-possession. Rather to my surprise, for he had not so far shown a super-abundance of courage, Fray Ignacio seemed equal to the occasion. He was tall, portly, and white-haired, and as he stood at the church door, clad in his priestly robes, he looked venerable and dignified.
One of the misterios, whom from his remarkable head-dress—a helmet made of a condor’s skull—I took to be a cacique, after greeting the priest, entered into conversation with him, the purport of which I had no difficulty in guessing, for the Indian, laughing loudly, turned to his companions and said something that appeared greatly to amuse them. Neither he nor they believed Fray Ignacio’s story of the great pale-face chief and his death-dealing powers.
The cacique, followed by a few of his men, then rode leisurely toward the house. He was a fine-looking fellow, with cigar-colored skin and features unmistakably more Spanish than Indian.
My original idea was to shoot the first two of them, and so strike terror into the rest. But the cacique bore himself so bravely that I felt reluctant to kill him in cold blood; and, thinking that killing his horse might do as well, I waited until they were well within range, and, taking careful aim, shot it through the head. As the horse went down, the cacique sprang nimbly to his feet; he seemed neither surprised nor dismayed, took a long look at the house, then waved his men back, and followed them leisurely to the other side of the square.
“What think you, Gahra? Will they go away and leave us in peace, or shall we have to shoot some of them?” I said as I reloaded my musket.
“I think we shall, señor. That tall man whose horse you shot did not seem much frightened.”
“Anything but that, and—what are they about now?”
The wild Indians, directed by their chief, were driving the tame Indians together, pretty much as sheep-dogs drive sheep, and soon had them penned into a compact mass in an angle formed by the church and another building. Although the crowd numbered two or three hundred, of whom a third were men, no resistance was offered. A few of exceptionally energetic character made a languid attempt to bolt, but were speedily brought back by the misterios, whose long spears they treated with profound respect.
So soon as this operation was completed the cacique beckoned peremptorily to the padre, and the two, talking earnestly the while, came toward the house. It seemed as if the Indian chief wanted a parley; but, not being quite sure of this, I thought it advisable, when he was about fifty yards off, to show him the muzzle of my piece. The hint was understood. He laid his weapons on the ground, and, when he and the padre were within speaking distance, the padre, who appeared very much disturbed, said the cacique desired to have speech of me. Not to be outdone in magnanimity I opened the door and stepped outside.
The cacique doffed his skull-helmet and made a low bow. I returned the greeting, said I was delighted to make his acquaintance, and asked what I could do to oblige him.
“Give up the maidens,” he answered, in broken Spanish.
“I cannot; they are in my charge. I have sworn to protect them, and, as you discovered just now, I have the means of making good my word.”
“It is true. You have lightning; I have none, and I shall not sacrifice my braves in a vain attempt to take the maidens by force. Nevertheless, you will give them up.”
“You are mistaken. I shall not give them up.”
“The great pale-face chief is a friend of these poor tame people; he wishes them well?”
“It is true, and for that reason I shall not let you carry off the seven maidens.”
“Seven?”
“Yes, seven.”
“How many men and women and maidens are there yonder, trembling before the spears of my braves like corn shaken by the wind—fifty times seven?”
“Probably.”
“Then my brother—for I also am a great chief—my brother from over the seas holds the liberty of seven to be of more account than the lives of fifty times seven.”
“My brother speaks in riddles,” I said, acknowledging the cacique’s compliment and adopting his style.
“It is a riddle that a child might read. Unless the maidens are given up—not to harm, but to be taken to our country up there—unless they are given up the spears of my braves will drink the blood of their kinsfolk, and my horses shall trample their bodies in the dust.”
The cacique spoke so gravely and his air was so resolute that I felt sure he would do as he said, and I did not see how I could prevent him. His men were beyond the range of our pieces, and to go outside were to lose our lives to no purpose. We might get a couple of shots at them, but, before we could reload, they would either shoot us down with their bows or spit us with their spears.
Fray Ignacio, seeing the dilemma, drew me aside.
“You will have to do it,” he said. “I am very sorry. The girls will either be sacrificed or brought up as heathens; but better so than that these devils should be let loose on my poor people, for, albeit some might escape, many would be slaughtered. Why did you shoot the horse and let the savage and his companion go scathless?”
“You may well ask the question, father. I see what a grievous mistake I made. When it came to the point, I did not like to kill brave men in cold blood. I was too merciful.”
“As you say, a grievous mistake. Never repeat it, señor. It is always a mistake to show mercy to Indios brutos. But what will you do?”
“I suppose give up the girls; it is the smaller evil of the two. And yet—I promised that no evil should befall them—no, I must make another effort.”
And with that I turned once more to the cacique.
“Do you know,” I said, laying my hand on the pistol in my belt—“do you know that your life is in my hands?”
He did not flinch; but a look passed over his face which showed that my implied threat had produced an effect.
“It is true; but if a hair of my head be touched, all these people will perish.”
“Let them perish! What are the lives of a few tame Indians to me, compared with my oath? Did I not tell you that I had sworn to protect the maidens—that no harm should befall them? And unless you call your men off and promise to go quietly away—” Here I drew my pistol.
It was now the cacique’s turn to hesitate. After a moment’s thought he answered:
“Let the lightning kill me, then. It were better for me to die than to return to my people empty-handed; and my death will not be unavenged. But if the pale-face chief will go with us instead of the maidens, he will make Gondocori his friend, and these tame Indians shall not die.”
“Go with you! But whither?”
Gondocori pointed toward the Cordillera.
“To our home up yonder, in the heart of the Andes.”
“And what will you do with me when you get me there?”
“Your fate will be decided by Mamcuna, our queen. If you find favor in her sight, well.”
“And if not—?”
“Then it would not be well—for you. But as she has often expressed a wish to see a pale-face with a long beard, I think it will be well; and in any case I answer for your life.”
“What security have I for this? How do I know that when I am in your power you will carry out the compact?”
“You have heard the word of Gondocori. See, I will swear it on the emblem you most respect.”
And the cacique pressed his lips to the cross which hung from Ignacio’s neck. It was a strange act on the part of a wild Indian, and confirmed the suspicion I already entertained, that Condocori was the son of a Christian mother.
“He is a heathen; his oath is worthless; don’t trust him, let the girls go,” whispered the padre in my ear.
But I had already made up my mind. It was on my conscience to keep faith with the girls; I wanted neither to kill the cacique nor see his men kill the tame Indians, and whatever might befall me “up yonder” I should at any rate get away from San Andrea de Huanaco.
“The die is cast; I will go with you,” I said, turning to Gondocori.
“Now, I know, beyond a doubt, that my brother is the bravest of the brave. He fears not the unknown.”
I asked if Gahra might bear me company.
“At his own risk. But I cannot answer for his safety. Mamcuna loves not black people.”
This was not very encouraging, and after I had explained the matter to Gahra I strongly advised him to stay where he was. But he said he was my man, that he owed me his liberty, and would go with me to the end, even though it should cost him his life.