I was lying in the coach of the Arequipena, when the commanding officer of the government troops came to see me. After detailing the story to him, I turned over fourteen rifles, ten revolvers, and seven 139 swords, all the cartridges and barrels of powder, together with the three soldiers whom I pleaded for, stating that compulsion was the cause of their joining the insurgents. I insisted on their hurrying to Sumbay bridge, although I told him they did not have anything now with which to destroy the bridge. However, they could post their troops should they arrive first and be in position to command the approaches. After leaving me, he ordered his troops forward.
I was getting weaker and weaker. At last orders came to go to Arequipa with the Arequipena. The station master telegraphed to have a doctor ready for me on my arrival. It was nearly forty miles from Pampa de Avieras to Arequipa, mostly down grade. I had to give the engine up to Manuel, as the pain in my arm became so intense I had to lie down. The station at Arequipa was crowded back to the street, the news having been telegraphed by the officer in command of the government troops. I could hear cries of “Viva 140 Juancita!” that being my name in Spanish.
The people in Arequipa were loyal to the existing government. The general manager met me with the doctor. His eyes were full of tears when he saw me. I presented a horrible and bloody appearance, the wound in my head still bleeding, my left arm in a sling and my clothes almost in rags.
I was carried from the coach by four of my friends to my room where the faithful Chico had everything prepared. Cries of “Viva Juancita!” rent the air from the time I left the coach until the doctor requested silence. Manuel was taken home by his friends. The poor people, ignorant of the revolution, but knowing by the demonstration that something unusual had happened, realized that he had done something deserving recognition.
My friends grouped about with tear-dimmed eyes, and warmly pressed my hand. Chico, looking at me with a most sympathetic expression on his Indian features, 141 did not restrain his tears. For days I tossed in pain and delirium.
One day when the general manager came, he told me that another engineer who had taken out the Arequipena to repair the telegraph, came up with a body of the insurgents who were going to surrender, but they intended to kill him first thinking he was I. Only the timely interposition of one who knew him, saved his life. The insurgents had got their engine back on the track after much time and labor, but it was damaged and as they were out of water, they gave up hope of winning their cause.
The train bearing the government troops stopped when within a few miles of Vincocaya, where they picked up the body of Don Rodrigo Garcia and buried it near the track. He would have exulted over my death, but I cannot say that I felt any satisfaction because he was dead. It only brought sad memories of the past.