Mr. Fortescue by William Westall

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The cacique doffed his skull-helmet and made a low bow. I returned the
greeting, said I was delighted to make his acquaintance, and asked what I
could do to oblige him.

"Give up the maidens," he answered, in broken Spanish.

"I cannot; they are in my charge. I have sworn to protect them, and, as
you discovered just now, I have the means of making good my word."

"It is true. You have lightning; I have none, and I shall not sacrifice my
braves in a vain attempt to take the maidens by force. Nevertheless, you
will give them up."

"You are mistaken. I shall not give them up."

"The great pale-face chief is a friend of these poor tame people; he
wishes them well?"

"It is true, and for that reason I shall not let you carry off the seven
maidens."

"Seven?"

"Yes, seven."

"How many men and women and maidens are there yonder, trembling before the
spears of my braves like corn shaken by the wind--fifty times seven?"

"Probably."

"Then my brother--for I also am a great chief--my brother from over the
seas holds the liberty of seven to be of more account than the lives of
fifty times seven."

"My brother speaks in riddles," I said, acknowledging the cacique's
compliment and adopting his style.

"It is a riddle that a child might read. Unless the maidens are given
up--not to harm, but to be taken to our country up there--unless they are
given up the spears of my braves will drink the blood of their kinsfolk,
and my horses shall trample their bodies in the dust."

The cacique spoke so gravely and his air was so resolute that I felt sure
he would do as he said, and I did not see how I could prevent him. His men
were beyond the range of our pieces, and to go outside were to lose our
lives to no purpose. We might get a couple of shots at them, but, before
we could reload, they would either shoot us down with their bows or spit
us with their spears.

Fray Ignacio, seeing the dilemma, drew me aside.

"You will have to do it," he said. "I am very sorry. The girls will either
be sacrificed or brought up as heathens; but better so than that these
devils should be let loose on my poor people, for, albeit some might
escape, many would be slaughtered. Why did you shoot the horse and let the
savage and his companion go scathless?"

"You may well ask the question, father. I see what a grievous mistake I
made. When it came to the point, I did not like to kill brave men in cold
blood. I was too merciful."

"As you say, a grievous mistake. Never repeat it, senor. It is always a
mistake to show mercy to _Indios brutos_. But what will you do?"

"I suppose give up the girls; it is the smaller evil of the two. And
yet--I promised that no evil should befall them--no, I must make another
effort."

And with that I turned once more to the cacique.

"Do you know," I said, laying my hand on the pistol in my belt--"do you
know that your life is in my hands?"

He did not flinch; but a look passed over his face which showed that my
implied threat had produced an effect.

"It is true; but if a hair of my head be touched, all these people will
perish."

"Let them perish! What are the lives of a few tame Indians to me, compared
with my oath? Did I not tell you that I had sworn to protect the
maidens--that no harm should befall them? And unless you call your men off
and promise to go quietly away--" Here I drew my pistol.

It was now the cacique's turn to hesitate. After a moment's thought he
answered:

"Let the lightning kill me, then. It were better for me to die than to
return to my people empty-handed; and my death will not be unavenged. But
if the pale-face chief will go with us instead of the maidens, he will
make Gondocori his friend, and these tame Indians shall not die."

"Go with you! But whither?"

Gondocori pointed toward the Cordillera.

"To our home up yonder, in the heart of the Andes."

"And what will you do with me when you get me there?"

"Your fate will be decided by Mamcuna, our queen. If you find favor in her
sight, well."

"And if not--?"

"Then it would not be well--for you. But as she has often expressed a wish
to see a pale-face with a long beard, I think it will be well; and in any
case I answer for your life."

"What security have I for this? How do I know that when I am in your power
you will carry out the compact?"

"You have heard the word of Gondocori. See, I will swear it on the emblem
you most respect."

And the cacique pressed his lips to the cross which hung from Ignacio's
neck. It was a strange act on the part of a wild Indian, and confirmed the
suspicion I already entertained, that Condocori was the son of a Christian
mother.

"He is a heathen; his oath is worthless; don't trust him, let the girls
go," whispered the padre in my ear.

But I had already made up my mind. It was on my conscience to keep faith
with the girls; I wanted neither to kill the cacique nor see his men kill
the tame Indians, and whatever might befall me "up yonder" I should at any
rate get away from San Andrea de Huanaco.

"The die is cast; I will go with you," I said, turning to Gondocori.

"Now, I know, beyond a doubt, that my brother is the bravest of the brave.
He fears not the unknown."

I asked if Gahra might bear me company.

"At his own risk. But I cannot answer for his safety. Mamcuna loves not
black people."

This was not very encouraging, and after I had explained the matter to
Gahra I strongly advised him to stay where he was. But he said he was my
man, that he owed me his liberty, and would go with me to the end, even
though it should cost him his life.

CHAPTER XXI.

A FIGHT FOR LIFE.

We have left behind us the _montano_, with its verdant uplands and waving
forests, its blooming valleys, flower-strewed savannas, and sunny waters,
and are crawling painfully along a ledge, hardly a yard wide, stern gray
rocks all round us, a foaming torrent only faintly visible in the
prevailing gloom a thousand feet below. Our mules, obtained at the last
village in the fertile region, move at the speed of snails, for the path
is slippery and insecure, and one false step would mean death for both the
rider and the ridden,

Presently the gorge widens into a glen, where forlorn flowers struggle
toward the scanty light and stunted trees find a precarious foothold among
the rocks and stones. Soon the ravine narrows again, narrows until it
becomes a mere cleft; the mule-path goes up and down like some mighty
snake, now mounting to a dizzy height, anon descending to the bed of the
thundering torrent. The air is dull and sepulchral, an icy wind blows in
our faces, and though I am warmly clad, and wrapped besides in a thick
_poncho_, I shiver to the bone.

At length we emerge from this valley of the shadow of death, and after
crossing an arid yet not quite treeless plain, begin to climb by many
zigzags an almost precipitous height. The mules suffer terribly, stopping
every few minutes to take breath, and it is with a feeling of intense
relief that, after an ascent of two hours, we find ourselves on the
_cumbre_, or ridge of the mountain.

For the first time since yesterday we have an unobstructed view. I
dismount and look round. Backward stretches an endless expanse of bleak
and stormy-swept billowy mountains; before us looms, in serried phalanx,
the western Cordillera, dazzling white, all save one black-throated
colossus, who vomits skyward thick clouds of ashes and smoke, and down
whose ragged flanks course streams of fiery lava.

After watching this stupendous spectacle for a few minutes we go on, and
shortly reach another and still loftier _quebrada_. Icicles hang from the
rocks, the pools of the streams are frozen; we have reached an altitude as
high as the summit of Mont Blanc, and our distended lips, swollen hands,
and throbbing temples show how great is the rarefaction of the air.

None of us suffer so much from the cold as poor Gahra. His ebon skin has
turned ashen gray, he shivers continually, can hardly speak, and sits on
his mule with difficulty.

The country we are in is uninhabited and the trail we are following known
only to a few Indians. I am the first white man, says Gondocori, by whom
it has been trodden.

We pass the night in a ruined building of cyclopean dimensions, erected no
doubt in the time of the Incas, either for the accommodation of travellers
by whom the road was then frequented or for purposes of defence. But being
both roofless, windowless, and fireless, it makes only a poor lodging. The
icy wind blows through a hundred crevices; my limbs are frozen stiff, and
when morning comes many of us look more dead than alive.

I asked Condocori how the poor girls of San Andrea could possibly have
survived so severe a journey.

"The weaker would have died. But I did not expect this cold. The winter is
beginning unusually early this year. Had we been a few days later we
should not have got through at all, and if it begins to snow it may go ill
with us, even yet. But to-morrow the worst will be over."

The cacique had so far behaved very well, treating me as a friend and an
equal, and doing all he could for my comfort. His men treated me as a
superior. Gondocori said very little about his country, still less about
Queen Mamcuna, whom he also called "Great Mother." To my frequent
questions on these subjects he made always the same answer: "Patience, you
will see."

He did, however, tell me that his people called their country Pachatupec
and themselves Pachatupecs, that the Spaniards had never subdued them or
even penetrated into the fastnesses where they dwelt, and that they spoke
the ancient language of Peru.

Gondocori admitted that his mother was a Christian, and to her he no doubt
owed his notions of religion and the regularity of his features. She had
been carried off as he meant to carry off the seven maidens of the Happy
Valley, for the _misterios_ had a theory that a mixture of white and
Indian blood made the finest children and the boldest warriors. But white
wives being difficult to obtain, _mestiza_ maidens had generally to be
accepted, or rather, taken in their stead.

We rose before daybreak and were in the saddle at dawn. The ground and the
streams are hard frozen, and the path is so slippery that the trembling
mules dare scarcely put one foot before the other, and our progress is
painfully slow. We are in a broad, stone-strewed valley, partly covered
with withered puma-grass, on which a flock of graceful _vicunas_ are
quietly grazing, as seemingly unconscious of our presence as the great
condors which soar above the snowy peaks that look down on the plain.

As we leave the valley, through a pass no wider than a gateway, the
cacique gives me a word of warning.

"The part we are coming to is the most dangerous of all," he said. "But it
is, fortunately, not long. Two hours will bring us to a sheltered valley.
And now leave everything to your mule. If you feel nervous shut your eyes,
but as you value your life neither tighten your reins nor try to guide
him."

I repeat this caution to Gahra, and ask how he feels.

"Much better, senor; the sunshine has given me new life. I feel equal to
anything."

And now we have to travel once more in single file, for the path runs
along a mountain spur almost as perpendicular as a wall; we are between
two precipices, down which even the boldest cannot look without a shudder.
The incline, moreover, is rapid, and from time to time we come to places
where the ridge is so broken and insecure that we have to dismount, let
our mules go first, and creep after them on our hands.

At the head of the file is an Indian who rides the _madrina_ (a mare) and
acts as guide, next come Gondocori, myself and Gahra, followed by the
other mounted Indians, three or four baggage-mules, and two men on foot.

We have been going thus nearly an hour, when a sudden and portentous
change sets in. Murky clouds gather round the higher summits and shut out
the sun, a thick mist settles down on the ridge, and in a few minutes we
are folded in a gloom hardly less dense than midnight darkness.

"Halt!" shouts the guide.

"What shall we do?" I ask the cacique, whom, though he is but two yards
from me, I cannot see.

"Nothing. We can only wait here till the mist clears away," he shouts in a
muffled voice.

"And how soon may that be?"

"_Quien Sabe?_ Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps hours."

Hours! To stand for hours, even for one hour, immovable in that mist on
that ridge would be death. Since the sun disappeared the cold had become
keener than ever. The blood seems to be freezing in my veins, my beard is
a block of ice, icicles are forming on my eyelids.

If this goes on--a gleam of light! Thank Heaven, the mist is lifting, just
enough to enable me to see Gondocori and the guide. They are quite white.
It is snowing, yet so softly as not to be felt, and as the fog melts the
flakes fall faster.

"Let us go on," says Gondocori. "Better roll down the precipice than be
frozen to death. And if we stop here much longer, and the snow continues,
the pass beyond will be blocked, and then we must die of hunger and cold,
for there is no going back."

So we move on, slowly and noiselessly, amid the fast-falling snow, like a
company of ghosts, every man conscious that his life depends on the
sagacity and sure-footedness of his mule. And it is wonderful how wary the
creatures are. They literally feel their way, never putting one foot
forward until the other is firmly planted. But the snow confuses them.
More than once my mule slips dangerously, and I am debating within myself
whether I should not be safer on foot, when I hear a cry in front.

"What is it?" I ask Gondocori, for I cannot see past him.

"The guide is gone. The _madrina_ slipped, and both have rolled down the
precipice."

"Shall we get off and walk?"

"If you like. You will not be any safer, though you may feel so. The mules
are surer footed than we are, and they have four legs to our two. I shall
keep where I am."

Not caring to show myself less courageous than the _cacique_, I also keep
where I am. We get down the ridge somehow without further mishaps, and
after a while find ourselves in a funnel-shaped gully the passage of
which, in ordinary circumstances, would probably present no difficulty.
But just now it is a veritable battle-field of the winds, which seem to
blow from every point of the compass at once. The snow dashes against our
faces like spray from the ocean, and whirls round us in blasts so fierce
that, at times, we can neither see nor hear. The mules, terrified and
exhausted, put down their heads and stand stock-still. We dismount and try
to drag them after us, but even then they refuse to move.

"If they won't come they must die; and unless we hurry on we shall die,
too. Forward!" cried Gondocori, himself setting the example.

Never did I battle so hard for very life as in that gully. The snow nearly
blinded me, the wind took my breath away, forced me backward, and beat me
to the earth again and again. More than once it seemed as if we should
have to succumb, and then there would come a momentary lull and we would
make another rush and gain a little more ground.

Amid all the hurly-burly, though I cannot think consecutively (all the
strength of my body and every faculty of my mind being absorbed in the
struggle), I have one fixed idea--not to lose sight of Gondocori, and,
except once or twice for a few seconds, I never did. Where he goes I go,
and when, after an unusually severe buffeting, he plunges into a
snow-drift at the end of the ravine, I follow him without hesitation.

Side by side we fought our way through, dashing the snow aside with our
hands, pushing against it with our shoulders, beating it down with our
feet, and after a desperate struggle, which though it appeared endless
could have lasted only a few minutes, the victory was ours; we were free.

I can hardly believe my eyes. The sun is visible, the sky clear and blue,
and below us stretches a grassy slope like a Swiss "alp." Save for the
turmoil of wind behind us and our dripping garments I could believe that I
had just wakened from a bad dream, so startling is the change. The
explanation is, however, sufficiently simple: the area of the _tourmente_
is circumscribed and we have got out of it, the gully merely a passage
between the two mighty ramparts of rock which mark the limits of the
tempest and now protect us from its fury.

"But where are the others?"

Up to that moment I had not given them a thought. While the struggle
lasted thinking had not been possible. After we abandoned the mules I had
eyes only for Gondocori, and never once looked behind me.

"Where are the others?" I asked the _cacique_.

"Smothered in the snow; two minutes more and we also should have been
smothered."

"Let us go back and see. They may still live."

"Impossible! We could not get back if we had ten times the strength and
were ten instead of two. Listen!"

The roar of the storm in the gully is louder than ever; the drift, now
higher than the tallest man, grows even as we look.

Fifteen men buried alive within a few yards of us, yet beyond the
possibility of help! Poor Gahra! If he had loved me less and himself more,
he would still be enjoying the _dolce far niente_ of Happy Valley, instead
of lying there, stark and stiff in his frozen winding-sheet. A word of
encouragement, a helping hand at the last moment, and he might have got
through. I feel as if I had deserted him in his need; my conscience
reproaches me bitterly. And yet--good God! What is that? A black hand in
the snow!

"With a single bound I am there. Gondocori follows, and as I seize one
hand he finds and grasps the other, and we pull out of the drift the
negro's apparently lifeless body.

"He is dead," says the _cacique_.

"I don't think so. Raise him up, and let the sun shine on him."

I take out my pocket-flask and pour a few drops of _aguardiente_ down his
throat. Presently Gahra sighs and opens his eyes, and a few minutes later
is able to stand up and walk about. He can tell very little of what passed
in the gully. He had followed Gondocori and myself, and was not far behind
us. He remembered plunging into the snow-drift and struggling on until he
fell on his face, and then all was a blank. None of the Indians were with
him in the drift; he felt sure they were all behind him, which was likely
enough, as Gahra, though sensitive to cold, was a man of exceptional
bodily strength. It was beyond a doubt that all had perished.

"I left Pachatupec with fifteen braves. I have lost my braves, my mules,
and my baggage, and all I have to show are two men, a pale-face and a
black-face. Not a single maiden. How will Mamcuna take it, I wonder?" said
Gondocari, gloomily. "Let us go on."

"You think she will be very angry?"

"I do."

"Is she very unpleasant when she is angry?"

"She generally makes it very unpleasant for others. Her favorite
punishment for offenders is roasting them before a slow fire."

"And yet you propose to go on?"

"What else can we do? Going back the way we came is out of the question,
equally so is climbing either of those mountain-ranges. If we stay
hereabout we shall starve. We have not a morsel of food, and until we
reach Pachatupec we shall get none."

"And when may that be?"

"By this time to-morrow."

"Well, let us go on, then; though, as between being starved to death and
roasted alive, there is not much to choose. All the same, I should like to
see this wonderful queen of whom you are so much afraid."

"You would be afraid of her, too, and very likely will be before you have
done with her. Nevertheless, you may find favor in her sight, and I have
just bethought me of a scheme which, if you consent to adopt it, may not
only save our lives, but bring you great honor."

"And what is that scheme, Gondocori?"

"I will explain it later. This is no time for talk. We must push on with
all speed or we shall not get to the boats before nightfall."

"Boats! You surely don't mean to say that we are to travel to Pachatupec
by boats. Boats cannot float on a frozen mountain torrent!"

But the cacique, who was already on the march, made no answer.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CACIQUE'S SCHEME.

Shortly before sunset we arrived at our halting-place for the night and
point of departure for the morrow--a hollow in the hills, hemmed in by
high rocks, almost circular in shape and about a quarter of a mile in
diameter. The air was motionless and the temperature mild, the ground
covered with grass and shrubs and flowers, over which hovered clouds of
bright-winged butterflies. Low down in the hollow was a still and silent
pool, and though, so far as I could make out, it had no exit, two large
flat-bottomed boats and a couple of canoes were made fast to the side.
Hard by was a hut of sun-dried bricks, in which were slung three or four
grass hammocks.

There was also fuel, so we were able to make a fire and have a good
warming, of which we stood greatly in need. But as nothing in the shape of
food could be found, either on the premises or in the neighborhood, we had
to go supperless to bed.

Before we turned in Gondocori let us into the secret of the scheme which
was to propitiate Queen Mamcuna, and bring us honor and renown, instead of
blame and (possibly) death.

"I shall tell her," said the cacique, "that though I have lost my braves
and brought no maidens, I have brought two famous medicine-men, who come
from over the seas."

"Very good. But how are we to keep up the character?"

"You must profess your ability to heal the sick and read the stars."

"Nothing easier. But suppose we are put to the test? Are there any sick in
your country?"

"A few; Mamcuna herself is sick; you have only to cure her and all will be
well."

"Very likely; but how if I fail?"

"Then she would make it unpleasant for all of us."

"You mean she would roast us by a slow fire?"

"Probably. There is no telling, though. Our Great Mother is very ingenious
in inventing new punishments, and to those who deceive her she shows no
mercy."

"I understand. It is a case of kill or cure."

"Exactly. If you don't cure her she will kill you."

"I will do my best, and as I have seen a good deal of practical surgery,
helped to dress wounds and set broken limbs, and can let blood, you may
truthfully say that I have some slight knowledge of the healing art. But
as for treating a sick woman--However, I leave it to you, Gondocori. If
you choose to introduce me to her Majesty as a medicine-man I will act the
part to the best of my ability."

"I ask no more, senor; and if you are fortunate enough to cure Mamcuna of
her sickness--"

"Or make her believe that I have cured her."

"That would do quite as well; you will thank me for bringing you to
Pachatupec, for although the queen can make things very unpleasant for
those who offend her, she can also make them very pleasant for those whom
she likes. And now, senores, as we must to-morrow travel a long way
fasting, let us turn into our hammocks and compose ourselves to sleep."

Excellent advice, which I was only too glad to follow. But we were awake
long before daylight--for albeit fatigue often acts as an anodyne, hunger
is the enemy of repose--and at the first streak of dawn wended to the
silent pool.

As we stepped into the canoe selected by Gondocori (the boats were
intended for the transport of mules and horses) I found that the water was
warm, and, on tasting it, I perceived a strong mineral flavor. The pool
was a thermal spring, and its high temperature fully accounted for the
fertility of the hollow and the mildness of the air. But how were we to
get out of it? For look as I might, I could see no signs either of an
outlet or a current. Gondocori, who acted as pilot, quickly solved the
mystery. A buttress of rock, which in the distance looked like a part of
the mass, screened the entrance to a narrow waterway. Down this waterway
the cacique navigated the canoe. It ran in tortuous course between rocks
so high that at times we could see nothing save a strip of purple sky,
studded with stars. Here and there the channel widened out, and we caught
a glimpse of the sun; and at an immeasurable height above us towered the
_nevados_ (snowy slopes) of the Cordillera.

The stream, if that can be called a stream which does not move, had many
branches, and we could well believe, as Gondocori told us, that it was as
easy to lose one's self in this watery labyrinth as in a tropical forest.
In all Pachatupec there were not ten men besides himself who could pilot a
boat through its windings. He told us, also, that this was the only pass
between the eastern and western Cordillera in that part of the Andes, that
the journey from San Andrea to Pachatupec by any other route would be an
affair not of days but of weeks. The water was always warm and never
froze. Whence it came nobody could tell. Not from the melting of the snow,
for snow-water was cold, and this was always warm, winter and summer. For
his own part he thought its source was a spring, heated by volcanic fires,
and many others thought the same. Its depth was unknown; he himself had
tried to fathom it with the longest line he could find, yet had never
succeeded in touching ground.

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