Mr. Fortescue by William Westall

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We found, moreover, that we could easily engage as many men as we wanted,
on condition of letting them be our co-adventurers and share in the finds
which they were sure we should make; for nobody believed that we would
undertake so long and arduous a journey with any other purpose than the
seeking of treasure. Our business being thus satisfactorily arranged, we
might have started at once, but, for some reason or other--probably
because he found our quarters so pleasant--Carmen held back. Whenever I
pressed the point he would say: "Why so much haste, my dear fellow? Let us
stay here awhile longer," and it was not until I threatened to go without
him that he consented to "name the day."

Now Don Esteban had a daughter, by name Juanita, a beautiful girl of
seventeen, as fresh as a rose, and as graceful as a gazelle, a girl with
whom any man might be excused for falling in love, and she showed me so
much favor, and, as it seemed, took so much pleasure in my company, that
only considerations of prudence and a sense of what was due to my host,
and the laws of hospitality, prevented me from yielding myself a willing
captive to her charms. But as the time fixed for our departure drew near,
this policy of renunciation grew increasingly difficult. Juanita was too
unsophisticated to hide her feelings, and I judged from her ways that,
without in the least intending it, I had won her heart. She became silent
and preoccupied. When I spoke of our expedition the tears would spring to
her eyes, and she would question me about its dangers, say how greatly she
feared we might never meet again, and how lonely she should feel when we
were gone.

All this, however flattering to my _amour propre_, was both embarrassing
and distressing, and I began seriously to doubt whether it was not my
duty, the laws of hospitality to the contrary notwithstanding, to take
pity on Juanita, and avow the affection which was first ripening into
love. She would be my advocate with Don Esteban, and seeing how much he
had his daughter's happiness at heart, there could be little question that
he would pardon my presumption and sanction our betrothal.

Nevertheless, the preparations for our expedition went on, and the time
for our departure was drawing near, when one evening, as I returned from a
ride, I found Juanita alone on the veranda, gazing at the stars, and
looking more than usually pensive and depressed.

"So you are still resolved to go, Senor Fortescue?" she said, with a sigh.

"I must. One of my principal reasons for coming to South America is to
make an expedition to the Andes, and I want much to travel in parts
hitherto unexplored. And who knows? We may make great discoveries."

"But you might stay with us a little longer."

"I fear we have trespassed too long on your hospitality already."

"Our hospitality is not so easily exhausted. But, O senor, you have
already stayed too long for my happiness."

"Too long, for your happiness, senorita! If I thought--would you really
like me to stay longer, to postpone this expedition indefinitely, or
abandon it altogether?"

"Oh, so much, senor, so much. The mere suggestion makes me almost happy
again."

"And if I make your wish my law, and say that it is abandoned, how then?"

"You will make me happier than I can tell you, and your debtor for life."

"And why would it make you so happy, dear Juanita?" I asked, tenderly, at
the same time looking into her beautiful eyes and taking her unresisting
hand.

"Why! Oh, don't you know? Have you not guessed?"

"I think I have; all the same, I should like the avowal from your own
lips, dear Juanita."

"Because--because if you stay, dear," she murmured, lowering her eyes, and
blushing deeply, "if you stay, dear Salvador will stay too."

"Dear Salvador! Dear Salvador! How--why--when? I--I beg your pardon,
senorita. I had no idea," I stammered, utterly confounded by this
surprising revelation of her secret and my own stupidity.

"I thought you knew--that you had guessed."

"I mean I had no idea that it had gone so far," I said, recovering my
self-possession with a great effort. "So you and Carmen are betrothed."

"We love. But if he goes on this dreadful expedition I am sure my father
would not consent, and Salvador says that as he has promised to take part
in it he cannot go back on his word. And I said I would ask you to give it
up--Salvador did not like--he said it would be such a great
disappointment; and I am so glad you have consented."

"I beg your pardon, senorita, I have not consented."

"But you said only a minute ago that you would do as I desired, and that
my will should be your law."

"Nay, senorita, I put it merely as a supposition, I said if I did make
your wish my law, how then? Less than ever can I renounce this
expedition."

"Then you were only mocking me! Cruel, cruel!"

"Less than ever can I renounce this expedition. But I will do what will
perhaps please you as well. I will release Carmen from his promise. He has
found his fortune; let him stay. I have mine to make; I must go."

"O senor, you have made me happy again. I thank you with all my heart. We
can now speak to my father. But you are mistaken; it is not the same to me
whether you go or stay so long as you release Salvador from his promise. I
would have you stay with us, for I know that he and you are great friends,
and that it will pain you to part."

"It will, indeed. He is a true man and one of the bravest and most
chivalrous I ever knew. I can never forget that he risked his life to save
mine. To lose so dear a friend will be a great grief, even though my loss
be your gain, senorita."

"No loss, Senor Fortescue. Instead of one friend you will have two. Your
gain will be as great as mine."

My answer to these gracious words was to take her proffered hand and press
it to my lips.

"_Caramba!_ What is this? Juanita? And you, senor, is it the part of a
friend? Do you know?"

"Don't be jealous, Salvador," said Juanita, quietly to her lover, who had
come on the balcony unperceived. "Senor Fortescue is a true friend. He is
very good; he releases you from your promise. And he seemed so sorry and
spoke so nobly that the least I could do was to let him kiss my hand."

"You did right, Juanita. I was hasty; I cry _peccavi_ and ask your
forgiveness. And you really give up this expedition for my sake, dear
friend? Thanks, a thousand thanks."

"No; I absolve you from your promise. But I shall go, all the same."

Carmen looked very grave.

"Think better of it, _amigo mio_," he said. "When we formed this project
we were both in a reckless mood. Much of the country you propose to
explore has never been trodden by the white man's foot. It is a country of
impenetrable forests, fordless rivers, and unclimbable mountains. You will
have to undergo terrible hardships, you may die of hunger or of thirst,
and escape the poisoned arrows of wild Indians only to fall a victim to
the malarious fevers which none but natives of the country can resist."

"When did you learn all this? You talked very differently a few days ago."

"I did, but I have been making inquiries."

"And you have fallen in love."

"True, and that has opened my eyes to many things."

"To the dangers of this expedition, for instance; likewise to the fact
that fighting Spaniards is not the only thing worth living for."

"Very likely; love is always stronger than hate, and I confess that I hate
the Spaniards much less than I did. Yet, in this matter, I assure you that
I do not in the least exaggerate. You must remember that your companions
will be half-breeds, men who have neither the stamina nor the courage for
really rough work. When the hardships begin they are almost sure to desert
you. If we were going together we might possibly pull through, as we have
already pulled through so many dangers."

"Yes, I shall miss you sorely. All the same, I am resolved to go, even
were the danger tenfold greater than you say it is."

"I feared as much. Well, if I cannot dissuade you from attempting this
enterprise, I must e'en go with you, as I am pledged to do. To let you
undertake it alone, after agreeing to bear you company were treason to our
friendship. It would be like deserting in the face of the enemy."

"Not so, Carmen. The agreement has been cancelled by mutual consent, and
to leave Juanita after winning her heart would be quite as bad as
deserting in face of the enemy. And I have a right to choose my company.
You shall not go with me."

Juanita again gave me her hand, and from the look that accompanied it I
thought that, had I spoken first--but it was too late; the die was cast.

"You will not go just yet," she murmured; "you will stay with us a little
longer."

"As you wish, senorita. A few days more or less will make little
difference."

Several other attempts were made to turn me from my purpose. Don Esteban
himself (who was greatly pleased with his daughter's betrothal to Carmen),
prompted thereto by Juanita, entered the lists. He expressed regret that
he had not another daughter whom he could bestow upon me, and went even so
far as to offer me land and to set me up as a Venezuelan country gentleman
if I would consent to stay.

But I remained firm to my resolve. For, albeit, none perceived it but
myself I was in a false position. Though I was hopelessly in love with
Juanita I liked her so well that the contemplation of Carmen's happiness
did not add to my own. I thought, too, that Juanita guessed the true state
of the case; and she was so kind and gentle withal, and her gratitude at
times was so demonstrative that I feared if I stayed long at Naparima
there might be trouble, for like all men of Spanish blood, Carmen was
quite capable of being furiously jealous.

I left them a month before the day fixed for their marriage. My companions
were Gahra, and a dozen Indians and mestizoes, to each of whom I was
enabled, by Don Esteban's kindness, to give a handsome gratuity
beforehand.

To Juanita I gave as a wedding-present my ruby-ring, to Carmen my horse
Pizarro.

Our parting was one of the most painful incidents of my long and checkered
life. I loved them both and I think they loved me. Juanita wept
abundantly; we all embraced and tried to console ourselves by promising
each other that we should meet again; but when or where or how, none of us
could tell, and in our hearts we knew that the chances against the
fruition of our hopes were too great to be reckoned.

Then, full of sad thoughts and gloomy forebodings, I set out on my long
journey to the unknown.

CHAPTER XX.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

My gloomy forebodings were only too fully realized. Never was a more
miserably monotonous journey. After riding for weeks, through sodden,
sunless forests and trackless wastes we had to abandon our mules and take
to our feet, spend weeks on nameless rivers, poling and paddling our canoe
in the terrible heat, and tormented almost to madness by countless
insects. Then the rains came on, and we were weather-stayed for months in
a wretched Indian village. But for the help of friendly aborigines--and
fortunately the few we met, being spoken fair showed themselves
friendly--we must all have perished. They gave us food, lent us canoes,
served us as pilots and guides, and thought themselves well paid with a
piece of scarlet cloth or a handful of glass beads.

My men turned out quite as ill as I had been led to expect. Several
deserted at the outset, two or three died of fever, two were eaten by
alligators, and when we first caught sight of the Andes, Gahra was my sole
companion.

We were in a pitiful plight. I was weak from the effects of a fever, Gahra
lame from the effects of an accident. My money was nearly all gone, my
baggage had been lost by the upsetting of a canoe, and our worldly goods
consisted of two sorry mules, our arms, the ragged clothes on our backs,
and a few pieces of silver. How we were to cross the Andes, and what we
should do when we reached Peru was by no means clear. As yet, the fortune
which I had set out to seek seemed further off than ever. We had found
neither gold nor silver nor precious stones, and all the coin I had in my
waist-belt would not cover the cost of a three days' sojourn at the most
modest of _posaderos_.

But we have left behind us the sombre and rain-saturated forests of the
Amazon and the Orinoco, and the fine country around us and the magnificent
prospect before us made me, at least, forget for the moment both our past
privations and our present anxieties. We are on the _montana_ of the
eastern Cordillera, a mountain land of amazing fertility, well wooded, yet
not so thickly as to render progress difficult; the wayside is bordered
with brilliant flowers, cascades tumble from rocky heights, and far away
to the west rise in the clear air the glorious Andes, alps on alps, a vast
range of stately snow-crowned peaks, endless and solemn, veiled yet not
hidden by fleecy clouds, and as cold and mysterious as winter stars
looking down on a sleeping world.

For a long time I gaze entranced at the wondrous scene, and should
probably have gone on gazing had not Gahra reminded me that the day was
well-nigh spent and that we were still, according to the last information
received, some distance from the mission of San Andrea de Huanaco,
otherwise Valle Hermoso, or Happy Valley.

One of our chief difficulties had been to find our way; maps we had none,
for the very sufficient reason that maps of the region we had traversed
did not at that time exist; our guides had not always proved either
competent or trustworthy, and I had only the vaguest idea as to where we
were. Of two things only was I certain, that we were south of the equator
and within sight of the Andes of Peru (which at that time included the
countries now known as Ecuador and Bolivia).

A few days previously I had fallen in with an old half-caste priest, from
whom I had heard of the Mission of San Andrea de Huanaco, and how to get
there, and who drew for my guidance a rough sketch of the route. The
priest in charge, a certain Fray Ignacio, a born Catalan, would, he felt
sure, be glad to find me quarters and give me every information in his
power.

And so it proved. Had I been his own familiar friend Fray Ignacio could
not have welcomed me more warmly or treated me more kindly. A European
with news but little above a year old was a perfect godsend to him. When
he heard that I had served in his native land and the Bourbons once more
ruled in France and Spain, he went into ecstasies of delight, took me into
his house, and gave me of his best.

San Andrea was well named Valle Hermoso. It was like an alpine village set
in a tropical garden. The mud houses were overgrown with greenery, the
rocks mantled with flowers, the nearer heights crested with noble trees,
whose great white trunks, as smooth and round as the marble pillars of an
eastern palace, were roofed with domes of purple leaves.

Through the valley and between verdant banks and blooming orchards
meandered a silvery brook, either an affluent or a source of one of the
mighty streams which find their homes in the great Atlantic.

The mission was a village of tame Indians, whose ancestors had been
"Christianized," by Fray Ignacio's Jesuit predecessor. But the Jesuits had
been expelled from South America nearly half a century before. My host
belonged to the order of St. Francis. The spiritual guide, as well as the
earthly providence of his flock, he managed their affairs in this world
and prepared them for the next. And they seemed nothing loath. A more
listless, easy-going community than the Indians of the Happy Valley it
were difficult to imagine. The men did little but smoke, sleep, and
gamble. All the real work was done by the women, and even they took care
not to over-exert themselves. All were short-lived. The women began to age
at twenty, the men were old at twenty-five and generally died about
thirty, of general decay, said the priest. In my opinion of pure laziness.
Exertion is a condition of healthy existence; and the most active are
generally the longest lived.

Nevertheless, Fray Ignacio was content with his people. They were docile
and obedient, went regularly to church, had a great capacity for listening
patiently to long sermons, and if they died young they got so much the
sooner to heaven.

All the same, Fray Ignacio was not so free from care as might be supposed.
He had two anxieties. The Happy Valley was so far untrue to its name as to
be subject to earthquakes; but as none of a very terrific character had
occurred for a quarter of a century he was beginning to hope that it would
be spared any further visitations for the remainder of his lifetime. A
much more serious trouble were the occasional visits of bands of wild
Indians--_Indios misterios_, he called them; what they called themselves
he had no idea. Neither had he any definite idea whence they came; from
the other side of the Cordilleras, some people thought. But they neither
pillaged nor murdered--except when they were resisted or in drink, for
which reason the father always kept his _aguardiente_ carefully hidden.
Their worst propensity was a passion for white girls. There were two or
three _mestizo_ families in the village, some of whom were whiter, or
rather, less coppery than the others, and from these the _misterios_ would
select and carry off the best-looking maidens; for what purpose Fray
Ignacio could not tell, but, as he feared, to sacrifice to their gods.

When I heard that these troublesome visitors generally numbered fewer than
a score, I asked why, seeing that the valley contained at least a hundred
and fifty men capable of bearing arms, the raiders were not resisted. On
this the father smiled and answered, that no earthly consideration would
induce his tame Indians to fight; it was so much easier to die. He could
not even persuade the _mestizoes_ to migrate to a safer locality. It was
easier to be robbed of their children occasionally than to move their
goods and chattels and find another home.

I asked Fray Ignacio whether he thought these robbers of white children
were likely to pay him a visit soon.

"I am afraid they are," he said. "It is nearly two years since their last
visit, and they only come in summer. Why?"

"I have a curiosity to see these; and I think I could save the children
and give these wild fellows such a lesson that they would trouble you no
more--at any rate for a long time to come."

"I should be inexpressibly grateful. But how, senor?"

Whereupon I disclosed my scheme. It was very simple; I proposed to turn
one of the most likely houses in the village into a small fortress which
might serve as a refuge for the children and which Gahra and I would
undertake to defend. We had two muskets and a pair of double-barrelled
pistols, and the priest possessed an old blunderbuss, which I thought I
could convert into a serviceable weapon. In this way we should be able to
shoot down four or five of the _misterios_ before any of them could get
near us, and as they had no firearms I felt sure that, after so warm a
reception, they would let us alone and go their way. The shooting would
demoralize them, and as we should not show ourselves they could not know
that the garrison consisted only of the negro and myself.

"Very well," said the priest, after a moment's thought. "I leave it to
you. But remember that if you fail they will kill you and everybody else
in the place. However, I dare say you will succeed, the firearms may
frighten them, and, on the whole, I think the risk is worth running!"

The next question was how to get timely warning of the enemy's approach. I
suggested posting scouts on the hills which commanded the roads into the
valley. I thought that, albeit the tame Indians were good for nothing
else, they could at least sit under a tree and keep their eyes open.

"They would fall asleep," said Fray Ignacio.

So we decided to keep a lookout among ourselves, and ask the girls who
tended the cattle to do the same. They were much more wide-awake than the
men, if the latter could be said to be awake at all.

The next thing was to fortify the priest's house, which seemed the most
suitable for our purpose. I strengthened the wall with stays, repaired the
old _trabuco_, which was almost as big as a small cannon, and made ready
for barricading the doors and windows on the first alarm.

This done, there was nothing for it but to wait with what patience I
might, and kill time as I best could. I walked about, fished in the river,
and talked with Fray Ignacio. I would have gone out shooting, for there
was plenty of game in the neighborhood, only that I had to reserve my
ammunition for more serious work.

For the present, at least, my idea of exploring the Andes appeared to be
quite out of the question. I should require both mules and guides, and I
had no money either to buy the one or to pay the other.

And so the days went monotonously on until it seemed as if I should have
to remain in this valley surnamed Happy for the term of my natural life,
and I grew so weary withal that I should have regarded a big earthquake as
a positive god-send. I was in this mood, and ready for any enterprise,
however desperate, when one morning a young woman who had been driving
cattle to an upland pasture, came running to Fray Ignacio to say that she
had seen a troop of horsemen coming down from the mountains.

"The _misterios_!" said the priest, turning pale. "Are you still resolved,
senor?"

"Certainly," I answered, trying to look grave, though really greatly
delighted. "Be good enough to send for the girls who are most in danger.
Gahra and I will take possession of the house, and do all that is
needful."

It was further arranged that Fray Ignacio should remain outside with his
tame Indians, and tell the _misterios_ that all the good-looking
_mestiza_, maidens were in his house, guarded by braves from over the
seas, who would strike dead with lightning anybody who attempted to lay
hands on them.

By the time our preparations were completed, and the frightened and
weeping girls shut up in an inner room, the wild Indians were at the upper
end of the big, straggling village, and presently entered a wide, open
space between the ramshackle old church and Ignacio's house. The party
consisted of fifteen or sixteen warriors mounted on small horses. All rode
bare-back, were naked to the waist, and armed with bows and arrows and the
longest spears I had yet seen.

The tame Indians looked stolidly on. Nothing short of an earthquake would
have disturbed their self-possession. Rather to my surprise, for he had
not so far shown a super-abundance of courage, Fray Ignacio seemed equal
to the occasion. He was tall, portly, and white-haired, and as he stood at
the church door, clad in his priestly robes, he looked venerable and
dignified.

One of the _misterios_, whom from his remarkable head-dress--a helmet made
of a condor's skull--I took to be a cacique, after greeting the priest,
entered into conversation with him, the purport of which I had no
difficulty in guessing, for the Indian, laughing loudly, turned to his
companions and said something that appeared greatly to amuse them. Neither
he nor they believed Fray Ignacio's story of the great pale-face chief and
his death-dealing powers.

The cacique, followed by a few of his men, then rode leisurely toward the
house. He was a fine-looking fellow, with cigar-colored skin and features
unmistakably more Spanish than Indian.

My original idea was to shoot the first two of them, and so strike terror
into the rest. But the cacique bore himself so bravely that I felt
reluctant to kill him in cold blood; and, thinking that killing his horse
might do as well, I waited until they were well within range, and, taking
careful aim, shot it through the head. As the horse went down, the cacique
sprang nimbly to his feet; he seemed neither surprised nor dismayed, took
a long look at the house, then waved his men back, and followed them
leisurely to the other side of the square.

"What think you, Gahra? Will they go away and leave us in peace, or shall
we have to shoot some of them?" I said as I reloaded my musket.

"I think we shall, senor. That tall man whose horse you shot did not seem
much frightened."

"Anything but that, and--what are they about now?"

The wild Indians, directed by their chief, were driving the tame Indians
together, pretty much as sheep-dogs drive sheep, and soon had them penned
into a compact mass in an angle formed by the church and another building.
Although the crowd numbered two or three hundred, of whom a third were
men, no resistance was offered. A few of exceptionally energetic character
made a languid attempt to bolt, but were speedily brought back by the
_misterios_, whose long spears they treated with profound respect.

So soon as this operation was completed the cacique beckoned peremptorily
to the _padre_, and the two, talking earnestly the while, came toward the
house. It seemed as if the Indian chief wanted a parley; but, not being
quite sure of this, I thought it advisable, when he was about fifty yards
off, to show him the muzzle of my piece. The hint was understood. He laid
his weapons on the ground, and, when he and the padre were within speaking
distance, the _padre_, who appeared very much disturbed, said the cacique
desired to have speech of me. Not to be outdone in magnanimity I opened
the door and stepped outside.

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