CHAPTER II.
THE MORROS.
Early the next morning we were aroused by the trampling of horses and tinkling of stirrups close to our resting places, apprising us that the hour of departure was near at hand. To travel with comfort in those hot regions, it is necessary to make the most of the absence of the sun, before its rays descend to the earth in glowing streams, parching the body and spirits of the traveller. Our people, therefore, commenced to saddle and load as early as three o’clock A.M. The operation usually occupied considerable time, as each animal had to be hunted in the dark, as well as its accoutrements. The baggage mules, especially, required more than ordinary skill in replacing and adjusting the loads upon their backs by means of a hundred turns of the lazos, or raw-hide halters. And even after the greatest precautions, the vicious creatures endeavored to displace their loads by running against each other or rolling on the ground, to the inconceivable disgust of the drivers, who were often compelled to alight from their sumpters to put things to rights.
Our road lay this day across a wild and desolate valley, presenting the appearance of having once been the scene of violent convulsions of nature, judging from the distorted masses of granite and gneiss piled along the route. The morning, though moonless, was bright with stars, which in those latitudes sparkle like diamonds in a setting of azure. The air was balmy; and the solitude of the spot, only broken by the occasional shriek of a night owl, or the refreshing murmur of a mountain stream, was truly sublime.
Slowly winding our course down the rugged sides of a deep ravine, we came suddenly in view of a most glorious spectacle. The delicate tints of dawn were already gilding the rugged crest of the distant mountains; above these rose in silent grandeur what appeared at first a heavy cloud of an intense blue, the irregular outlines of which set in bold relief against the transparent sky, forming the background to the picture. I eagerly spurred my mule forward to gain an eminence from whence I could contemplate more advantageously that magnificent spectacle, when, to my great astonishment, I discovered that, what I had supposed a cloud, was in fact the famous promontory known as the Morros de San Juan, the singular conformation of which has given rise to many speculations and legendary dissertations on the part of savants and others less versed in scientific researches. When the sun rose above the horizon, a more extraordinary scene was never unfolded to the eye of the spectator. The huge and rugged mountain, some thousand feet high, stood in the midst of a desolate gulf, apparently of volcanic origin; while the vegetation, stunted and scrubby for want of adequate nourishment, contrasted singularly with the granite masses scattered all over the valley. The meandering rivulet of La Puerta, twice the scene of sanguinary conflicts between patriots and Spaniards, threaded its sparkling way through that Valley of Death, to mix its waters with those of the beautiful Guárico in the distance. In both of those engagements the arms of Spain were victorious; but, as often happened in those days of guerra á muerte, the victors steeped their laurels in the blood of the vanquished with unsparing hand. These triumphs were shared alternately by the monster Boves and the sanguinary Morillo. It would be difficult to find two more bloody wretches than these myrmidons of despotism, whose very names are to this day the avenging cry against the race from which they both sprang. The forces opposed to them in these engagements hardly amounted to one-half their own numbers; but the patriots under Bolívar accepted the battle with the despair of men who have no alternative between death and an ignominious yoke. It is asserted that the rivulet became, on both occasions, completely glutted with the gore and dead bodies of the vanquished. Morillo had a very narrow escape from the lance of the famous Juan Pablo Farfan, who deliberately attacked the Spanish chieftain in the midst of his staff. Although the bold Llanero succeeded in piercing the groin of the Spaniard with his lance, the wound was not sufficiently deep to cause his death.
The rugged crest of the mountain surrounded by an atmosphere resplendently clear, the wild and shattered rocks, piled like the giant skeletons of an extinct race, together with the painful associations connected with the spot, made an impression upon my mind not easily forgotten.
Although I had often experienced a keen desire to see this natural wonder of my country, I could not repress a feeling of regret at the recollection of the sanguinary scenes enacted on this spot, and that my first impressions of astonishment should be replaced by others of a less pleasing character.
On awakening from the reverie into which the scene had plunged me, I perceived for the first time that I was alone, my less contemplative companions having proceeded on their journey while I was absorbed in wonder. I felt glad of my solitude, for the very silence seemed to breathe a prayer to the Almighty for the martyred children of Liberty before one of his most glorious temples.
