We were busily employed for the remainder of the day in collecting fruit, killing game, and preparing for our journey.
Chapter Eight.
Return journey commenced—Norah’s confession—A bamboo-bridge—Unexpectedly prevented from crossing—Foes and friends appear—The bridge gained—A fierce struggle—I take part in it—We defeat the enemy—My family return homewards under an escort—I join General Bermudez—The doctor and the padre promise to follow us—I accompany the army, and we encamp on the plains—The doctor appears, and remains with the army—Our numerous exploits—Capture of Caracas—I am sent with despatches to Bolivar—Discovered by the enemy—A race for life—I am wounded and captured—Carried to La Guayra—Thrown into prison.
The description I have given of the mountain-scenery amid which we travelled on our flight from home, will in many respects serve for that through which we passed on our return, by a different and somewhat more easy route. Though the sides of the mountains were steep and rugged, the valleys were fertile, with streams meandering through them, and in many places we saw herds of deer, among which were two or three beautiful milk-white animals; but having exhausted nearly all our powder, we were unable to shoot them, even had we wished to do so. We saw also a number of wild turkeys: and in the woods we heard micos—a small species of monkey—whistling to each other; but the moment the rogues caught sight of us, they disappeared among the branches. The roughness of the paths we followed prevented the horses from going beyond a slow walk; and even Norah, though a good horsewoman, was glad to have me at the head of her steed. I told her how much I wished to join General Bermudez.
“I shall be sorry to lose you, Barry,” she rejoined; “still, I believe that it is your duty to go. I only wish that I could serve my country as you have the power of doing. Still more do I wish that the hateful Spaniards were driven from our shores, and the blessings of peace restored.”
I then told her—for I had never before done so—how much I admired Don Fernando’s young ward, Isabella Monterola. “Perhaps, if I return from the wars crowned with laurels, she’ll have me,” I said, laughing.
She sighed, and the colour, I observed, mounted to her brow.
“Don Carlos Serrano has other sons besides the one I met under the name of Colonel Acosta,” I remarked.