Manco, the Peruvian Chief / Or, An Englishman's Adventures in the Country of the Incas

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Alas! it is the climax of my destiny,” answered the Spaniard. “I have longed to discover you, and now that my wishes are fulfilled, death claims me as his own. Such has been my fate through life. I cannot even leave you the wealth I have amassed, for of that also I have been deprived.”

“O do not think of that!” exclaimed Pedro. “It is sufficient for me to know that you are my father; and do but recover and I will learn to work for you and support you. Say that you will not die, and I shall be happy.”

I need not further describe the scene. Pedro sat by his father’s side, and deep and earnest was their conversation. Ned and I left them alone and joined the Indians at their fire, for we saw that we could render no further assistance to our patients. The Indians had brought food with them, and as there was a supply of maize and dried meat and cocoa in the cavern, we had no reason to complain of hunger.

Manco had given orders that one of the Indians should at all times be stationed at the bridge I spoke of, leading to the ledge, to give notice of danger; and they regularly relieved each other at the post, though few would have ventured to cross that rocky ledge even in broad daylight, much less at night, uncertain what reception they might meet with at its termination. The night passed slowly, though I managed at intervals, as did Ned, to obtain some sleep. I after a time got up and stood at the mouth of the cave, looking up at the dark sky studded with thousands of stars, and then glancing down into the obscure depths below my feet. The air was perfectly still, and I fancied that I could hear the roar of cannon and the rattle of musketry echoing among the mountains.

At length I perceived a ruddy glare extending over the sky. I thought at first that it must be a sign of the rising sun, but, as I watched, it grew brighter and brighter, but did not increase in extent, and then by degrees it faded away before the genial glow of the coming day appeared. I guessed, too truly, that it arose from the burning of the village, which the Spaniards had attacked. I did not, however, inform my companions, for I felt that I should only add to their grief by so doing. The Indians continued sleeping till a late hour. They seemed to have the power of thus steeping their misery in oblivion. A night’s rest had somewhat restored Manco, but he was evidently fretting at the thought of the inactivity to which his wound would consign him. “But what would you do if you were able to move about,” I asked. “The Inca is a prisoner, and will, I fear, suffer death, for you cannot hope to rescue him.”

“The Inca never dies,” he answered, lifting himself up on his arm, and looking me earnestly in the face. “The young Andres is still in arms in the south, and may yet be victorious. Should the Spaniards add a deeper dye to the crimes they have committed, by the destruction of the Inca, he will succeed; and should he too be cut off, I and that infant sleeping by my side must succeed to the title. Little did the Spanish soldiers dream whom they were yesterday pursuing, when Nita fled from them with our babe in her arms.”

Hope still I saw supported my friend, and I would not deprive him of it, little as I entertained it myself. Don Gomez had not improved. He was feverish and weak, and I fancied that I saw death on his countenance; but he was happy at having his son by his side, and I was unwilling to warn Pedro of his danger. Several days passed away without the appearance of an enemy in the neighbourhood; and at length the Indians began to grow uneasy at confinement. We also were anxious to obtain information as to the state of affairs. It was just possible that, as Manco hoped, the Spaniards might have been driven back. And that we were shutting ourselves up for no object. The difficulty was to decide who was the most proper person to go in search of information. An Indian would, to a certainty, have been kept prisoner and publicly executed; Pedro could not leave his father; and when I proposed going, Ned declared that I should be either recognised as having escaped from prison, or treated as a spy.

“For my part I don’t mind going myself,” he observed. “I’ve no fancy for being cooped up here any longer; and if I’m asked any questions, all I shall say is, that I’ve got away from the Injuns, and want to get back to my own country.”

Very unwillingly I at last yielded to all the arguments he used to let him go instead of me. I was also afraid that it might have been suspected that he had assisted us to escape from prison; but he overruled that objection by saying that it was a very long time ago, and that it was not likely any of those who had seen him should be at Cuzco, or remember the circumstance. To prevent the risk of his falling into the hands of any Indians, Manco ordered one of those with us to accompany him to the neighbourhood of the capital, where he was to be hid till his return, and then to bring him back safe. It was with a heavy heart that I saw Ned set out. Still I was very anxious to commence our journey eastward, and without knowing the state of affairs, I could not quit my friend Manco, nor could we venture to move Don Gomez into the city. I watched Ned as he passed under the cliff, and saw him wave his hat as a sign that he, at all events, feared none of the dangers of his expedition.

Meantime the Indians ventured out a short distance across the mountains to hunt for game. Several of them were always stationed on the surrounding pinnacles of rocks, whence they could watch for the approach of danger. Now and then they killed with their arrows a tarush, an active and timid little roe which frequents the higher forests which skirt the Andes. At night they used to set snares made of horse hair, at the mouths of holes inhabited by little animals like rabbits. These were called viscachas and chinchillas. The skin of the latter supplies the beautiful fur so much prized in Europe. Their colour and form resembles the rabbit, but they have shorter ears and long, rough tails. As, however, we had an abundant supply of charqui, which is the name given to dried beef in the Andes, we were not dependent on the success of our huntsmen for food. Pedro employed all his time in reading to and conversing with his father; and I observed that a very satisfactory change had taken place with regard to his state of mind. He had now learned to bow to the decrees of Providence without repining, and to acknowledge that whatever the great Ruler of the universe orders, is for the good of His creatures. The event I had foreseen was fast approaching. Every day Don Gomez had grown weaker and weaker, and he could no longer raise himself on his bed of straw. One evening he called Manco and me to his side after he had made Pedro aware that his speedy death was inevitable. “You have both been friends of my son,” he said. “Most deeply do I thank you, though I have no means of showing my gratitude; indeed, I must call on you still further to befriend him. I found him poor, and may leave him so, unless the power of Spain is re-established in Peru. In either case, you can serve him. In the one, still support and protect him; and in the other, witness that I have acknowledged him as my son, and enable him to regain the property which was mine. There is a certain Father Manuel in Cuzco, who knows my signature, and is cognisant of all the particulars of my history. Let him see the papers I have left, should he have escaped the death which has overtaken so many of my countrymen, and he will assist him to the utmost of his means in his object. May Heaven help him to obtain what by right is his!”