"I shall send you with our sick to the hospital at Jauja. The air there is bracing, and will help you to recover more quickly."
"Thank you," I said, though really caring very little at that time where I was sent.
Next day I was placed with several Spanish soldiers in an open wagon, one of a number of vehicles guarded by an escort of troopers. My friendly surgeon had gone to Lima; but I must say the Spaniards behaved very well, making no difference between me and their own people.
As to the journey across the mountains, I remember little of it. The worthy Pedro had made such good use of his musket that my head was racked with pain, and I could think of nothing. Most of the sick soldiers were also in grievous plight, and it was a relief to us all when, after several days' travelling, the procession finally halted in Jauja.
Here we were lifted from the carts and carried to a long whitewashed building filled with beds. They were made on the floor, and many of them were already occupied. Accommodation was found for most of us, but several had to wait until some of the beds became vacant.
Two or three doctors examined the fresh patients, and one forced me to swallow a dose of medicine. Why, I could not think, unless he wanted me to know what really vile stuff he was capable of concocting.
I shall pass quickly over this portion of my story. For weeks I lay in that wretched room, where dozens of men struggled night and day against death. Some snatched a victory in this terrible fight, but now and again I noticed a file of soldiers reverently carrying a silent figure from one of the low beds.
By the end of September I was strong enough to get up, and the doctors pronouncing me out of danger, I was taken to another building. This was used as a prison for captured officers of the Patriot forces, and the very first person to greet me as I stepped inside the room was the lively Alzura.
"Juan Crawford," cried he, "by all that's wonderful! From the ballroom to the prison-house! There's a splendid subject for the moralist. Where have you been, Juan? your people think you are dead. Miller is frantic; all your friends in Lima are in despair."
"Do you know anything of Don Felipe Montilla?" I asked.