Their chief cause of anxiety arose, however, from the hostile behaviour of a tribe of Indians, the Barawas, who inhabited the shores of the river Guaviare, falling into the Orinoco. They belonged to the great Carib family, and had many years before been driven by their white invaders from their native territory on the coast to the eastward, and had here settled themselves; retaining, however, their warlike disposition and many of their ancient manners and customs. Barawa is a Carib name for the sea; and they consequently took it, as was supposed, from their ancestors having lived on the borders of the ocean, or having crossed it from the lands they once inhabited. We had little doubt that our prisoner belonged to that tribe, and was probably a chief among them.
My father told us of a report he had heard, of Spanish emissaries having visited them for the purpose of inducing them to take up arms against the Republicans; and should such be the case, the capture of our prisoner, Kanimapo, might prove a fortunate circumstance, as we should hold him as a hostage for their good behaviour. The next morning, however, there appeared great probability that our hopes would be disappointed; for on my uncle’s visiting him he found him much worse. As the day advanced, Uncle Denis expressed his fears that the Indian would die, notwithstanding all the care bestowed on him.
Day after day, however, the wounded man lingered on. My father and Norah were assiduous in their attentions to him; and he refused to take such medicines as we possessed from any other hands but my sister’s. There was now no chance of his escaping, for he was too weak to walk; indeed, he could scarcely sit up in his bed. Still, the Indians possess wonderful vitality and endurance, which enable them to recover from wounds of the body; but they succumb very quickly to European diseases. Though apparently growing weaker, Kanimapo still clung to existence. He seemed grateful, too, for the attentions shown him; but except having mentioned his name, he had not told us who he was, nor had he given any reason for attacking our party.
Uncle Denis had gone home; and soon after Gerald and I paid a visit at his house. We then went on to that of our relation, Don Fernando Serrano, where we were received by him and my cousins with the greatest kindness. They were interested in hearing of all my adventures, and especially in the accounts I gave them of our capturing the Indian; but they were unable to conjecture who he was. I was delighted with all the family, they were so gentle and loving to each other, and so kind to me. What also surprised me much, was to find that Don Serrano regularly read the Bible and had prayers with his family. Such a thing was at that time probably unheard-of in South America. They did not speak unkindly of the nearest padre, who occasionally visited them, but they evidently held him in no respect.
“He is a poor ignorant man,” observed Don Carlos, “a blind leader of the blind; he expressed his horror at finding we read the Bible, and urged us to give up the practice, as one most dangerous to our souls. Now, it is very evident to me that from the Bible alone do we know anything about God, or how He desires men to live; and therefore, unless we read the Bible, we must remain ignorant of Him and His will, or obtain the knowledge second-hand from one who might make grievous mistakes in interpreting it,—as Padre Bobo would most certainly do.”
I suspected from this (what I afterwards found to be the case) that my relatives were really Protestants, though they did not openly declare themselves to be so; that their family had held these opinions from the time when many of the noblest in Spain had espoused them. Their ancestor had providentially escaped the doom which the horrible Inquisition had inflicted on the greater number of those who had become Protestants: having made his way to America with his wife, he had settled in this then remote region; but dreading persecution, he had not attempted to promulgate his opinions beyond his own family. My maternal grandfather, when he married Donna Teresina Serrano, had, through her instruction, become a Protestant. Thus, in the heart of South America, those principles were cherished which, as was fondly hoped, would spread around them when liberty should be established among the population.
I suspect it was owing to the machinations of the priests that the Barawa Indians had proved so hostile to one whose wish and aim was always to benefit them. That such was the case, Don Fernando could not clearly ascertain; but it was known that Padre Bobo had made several visits to the Indians, for the purpose, as he professed, of converting them to Christianity. He had managed, indeed, to induce some of them to allow him to baptise their children, but they remained as utterly ignorant of the Truth as before. (What I have here mentioned, I heard from my own family before Gerald and I set off to visit our friends.) As is often the case in Spanish families of wealth, there were three generations living in harmony together, and I was somewhat puzzled at first to distinguish between my numerous relatives. Gerald, who knew them all, helped me, but still I was frequently making mistakes. Among them was a very beautiful girl, whom I at first took to be one of my cousins, and whom I addressed accordingly; but after I had been there a couple of days, she laughingly told me that, though she should be very happy to be a relative, she was not so in reality: that her name was Isabella Monterola, and that she was a ward of Don Fernando. Then suddenly changing her tone from gay to grave, she said,—“I am happy here, and they are all very kind; but I cannot forget my poor father, who was murdered by the cruel Spaniards because he loved liberty and hated tyranny; and, alas! my mother, who was compelled to witness his execution, died of grief. They would have shot her too, had she lived, as they did other women, without remorse; and me, perhaps, because I was their child, had I not been so young but I was rescued from prison by Juan Serrano, and brought here secretly. The Spaniards did not know who carried me off, and therefore could not send to bring me back, or they would have done so. You have not been long enough in the country to have heard one-tenth part of the horrible cruelties those Gothos have inflicted on our people.”
“But you, Donna Isabella, are Spanish, and so are all our friends here,” I said, after having expressed my horror of the atrocities which had been committed in the country.
“I am a child of Venezuela,” she answered proudly. “I disown the name of Spaniard; do not, Señor Barry, ever call me one again. We speak the language of Spain, it is true, and boast our descent from noble ancestors who conquered the country in which we live; but we have for ever severed our connection with the land from which we came, because Spaniards desire to enslave us.”
I had considered Donna Paola a heroine, but as I listened to Donna Isabella I thought her a still more interesting one; and she was equally anxious to enlist recruits in the cause of liberty.