Mr. Fortescue by William Westall

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"You are right," said Senor Zamorra, when I told him of my intention.
"America is the country of the future. Ah, if I were only fifty years
younger! You will, of course, visit Venezuela; and if you visit Venezuela
you are sure to go to Caracas. I will give you a letter of introduction to
a friend of mine there. He is a man in authority, and may be of use to
you. I should much like you to see him and greet him on my behalf."

I thanked my host, and promised to see his friend and present the letter.
It was addressed to Don Simon de Ulloa. Little did I think how much
trouble that letter would give me, and how near it would come to being my
death-warrant.

Zamorra then besought me, with tears in his eyes, to go in search of the
Golden Volcano.

"If you could give me a more definite idea of its whereabouts I might
possibly make the attempt," I answered, with intentional vagueness; for
though I no more believed in the objective existence of the Golden Volcano
than in Aladdin's lamp, I did not wish to hurt the old man's feelings by
an avowal of my skepticism.

"Ah, my dear sir," he said, with a gesture of despair, "if I knew the
whereabouts of the Golden Volcano, I should go thither myself, old as I
am. I should have gone long ago, and returned with a hoard of wealth that
would make me the master of Europe--wealth that would buy kingdoms. I can
tell you no more than that it is somewhere in the region of the Peruvian
Andes. It may be that by cautious inquiry you may light on an Indio who
will lead you to the very spot. It is worth the attempt, and if by the
help of St. Peter and the Holy Virgin you succeed, and I am still alive,
send me out of your abundance a few arrobas (twenty-five pounds) of gold
and a handful of diamonds. It is all I ask."

It was all he asked.

"When I find that volcano, Don Alberto," I said, "not a mere handful of
diamonds, but a bucketful."

This was almost our last talk, for the very same day news was brought that
Lord Wellington, having been forced to raise the siege of Burgos, was
retreating toward the Portuguese frontier, and that Salamanca would almost
inevitably be recaptured by the French. Orders were given for the removal
of the wounded to the Coa, where the army was to take up its winter
quarters, and Zamorra and I had to part. We parted with mutual expressions
of good-will, and in the hope, destined never to be realized, that we
might soon meet again. I had seen Don Alberto for the last time.

A few weeks later I was sufficiently recovered from my hurts to use my
bridle-arm, and before the opening of the next campaign I was fit for the
field and eager for the fray. It was the campaign of Vittoria, one of the
most brilliant episodes in the military history of England. Even now my
heart beats faster and the blood tingles in my veins when I think of that
time, so full of excitement, adventure, and glory--the forcing of the
Pyrenees, the invasion of France, the battles of Bayonne, Orthes, and
Toulouse, and the march to Paris.

But as I am not relating a history of the war, I shall mention only one
incident in which I was concerned at this period--an incident that brought
me in contact with a man who was destined to exercise a fateful influence
on my career.

It occurred after the battle of Vittoria. The French were making for the
Pyrenees, laden with the loot of a kingdom and encumbered with a motley
crowd of non-combatants--the wives and families of French officers, fair
senoritas flying with their lovers, and traitorous Spaniards, who, by
taking sides with the invaders, had exposed themselves to the vengeance of
the patriots. So overwhelming was the defeat of the French, that they were
forced to abandon nearly the whole of their plunder and the greater part
of their baggage, and leave the fugitives and camp-followers to their
fate.

Never was witnessed so strange a sight as the valley of Vittoria presented
at the close of that eventful day. The broken remains of the French army
hurrying toward the Pamplona road, eighty pieces of artillery, served with
frantic haste, covering their retreat; thousands of wagons and carriages
jammed together and unable to move; the red-coated infantry of England,
marching steadily across the plain; the boom of the cannon, the rattle of
musketry, the scream of women as the bullets whistled through the air and
shells burst over their heads--all this made up a scene, dramatic and
picturesque, it is true, yet full of dire confusion and Dantesque horror;
for death had reaped a rich harvest, and thousands of wounded lay writhing
on the blood-stained field.

Owing to the bursting of packages, the overturning of wagons, and the
havoc wrought by shot and shell, valuable effects, coin, gems, gold and
silver candlesticks and vessels, priceless paintings, the spoil of Spanish
churches and convents, were strewed over the ground. There was no need to
plunder; our men picked up money as they matched, and it was computed that
a sum equal to a million sterling found its way into their knapsacks and
pockets.

Our Spanish allies, officers as well as privates, were less scrupulous.
They robbed like highwaymen, and protested that they were only taking
their own.

While riding toward Vittoria to execute an order of the colonel's, I
passed a carriage which a moment or two previously had been overtaken by
several of Longa's dragoons, with the evident intention of overhauling it.
In the carriage were two ladies, one young and pretty the other
good-looking and mature; and, as I judged from their appearance, both
being well dressed, the daughter and wife of a French officer of rank.
They appealed to me for help.

"You are an English officer," said the elder in French; "all the world
knows that your nation is as chivalrous as it is brave. Protect us, I pray
you, from these ruffians."

I bowed, and turning to the Spaniards, one of whom was an officer, spoke
them fair; for my business was pressing, and I had no wish to be mixed up
in a quarrel.

"Caballeros," I said, "we do not make war on women. You will let these
ladies go."

"_Carambo!_ We shall do nothing of the sort," returned the officer,
insolently. "These ladies are our prisoners, and their carriage and all it
contains our prize."

"I beg your pardon, Senor Capitan, but you are, perhaps not aware that
Lord Wellington has given strict orders that private property is to be
respected; and no true caballero molests women."

"_Hijo de Dios!_ Dare you say that I am no true caballero? Begone this
instant, or--"

The Spaniard drew his sword; I drew mine; his men began to look to the
priming of their pistols, and had General Anson not chanced to come by
just in the nick of time, it might have gone ill with me. On learning what
had happened, he said I had acted very properly and told the Spaniards
that if they did not promptly depart he would hand them over to the
provost-marshal.

"We shall meet again, I hope, you and I," said the officer, defiantly, as
he gathered up his reins.

"So do I, if only that I may have an opportunity of chastising you for
your insolence," was my equally defiant answer.

"A thousand thanks, monsieur! You have done me and my daughter a great
service," said the elder of the ladies. "Do me the pleasure to accept this
ring as a slight souvenir of our gratitude, and I trust that in happier
times we may meet again."

I accepted the souvenir without looking at it; reciprocated the wish in my
best French, made my best bow, and rode off on my errand. By the same act
I had made one enemy and two friends; therefore, as I thought, the balance
was in my favor. But I was wrong, for a wider experience of the world than
I then possessed has taught me that it is better to miss making a hundred
ordinary friends than to make one inveterate enemy.

CHAPTER VII.

IN QUEST OF FORTUNE.

When the war came to an end my occupation was gone, for both circumstances
and my own will compelled me to leave the army. My allowance could no
longer be continued. At the best, the life of a lieutenant of dragoons in
peace time would have been little to my liking; with no other resource
than my pay, it would have been intolerable. So I sent in my papers, and
resolved to seek my fortune in South America. After the payment of my
debts (incurred partly in the purchase of my first commission) and the
provision of my outfit, the sum left at my disposal was comparatively
trifling. But I possessed a valuable asset in the ring given me by the
French lady on the field of Vittoria. It was heavy, of antique make,
curiously wrought, and set with a large sapphire of incomparable beauty. A
jeweler, to whom I showed it, said he had never seen a finer. I could have
sold it for a hundred guineas. But as the gem was property in a portable
shape and more convertible than a bill of exchange, I preferred to keep
it, taking, however, the precaution to have the sapphire covered with a
composition, in order that its value might not be too readily apparent to
covetous eyes.

At this time the Spanish colonies of Colombia (including the countries now
known as Venezuela, New Granada, and Ecuador, as also the present republic
of southern Central America) were in full revolt against the mother
country. The war had been going on for several years with varying
fortunes; but latterly the Spaniards had been getting decidedly the best
of it. Caracas and all the seaport towns were in their possession, and the
patriot cause was only maintained by a few bands of irregulars, who were
waging a desperate and almost hopeless contest in the forests and on the
llanos of the interior.

My sympathies were on the popular side, and I might have joined the
volunteer force which was being raised in England for service with the
insurgents. But this did not suit my purpose. If I accepted a commission
in the Legion I should have to go where I was ordered. I preferred to go
where I listed. I had no objection to fighting, but I wanted to do it in
my own way and at my own time, and rather in the ranks of the rebels
themselves than as officer in a foreign force.

This view of the case I represented to Senor Morena, one of the "patriot"
agents in London, and asked his advice.

"Why not go to Caracas?" he said.

"What would be the use of that? Caracas is in the hands of the Spaniards."

"You could get from Caracas into the interior, and do the cause an
important service."

"How?"

Senor Morena explained that the patriots of the capital, being sorely
oppressed by the Spaniards, were losing courage, and he wished greatly to
send them a message of hope and the assurance that help was at hand. It
was also most desirable that the insurgent leaders on the field should be
informed of the organization of a British liberating Legion, and of other
measures which were being taken to afford them relief and turn the tide of
victory in their favor.

But to communicate these tidings to the parties concerned was by no means
easy. The post was obviously quite out of the question, and no Spanish
creole could land at any port held by the Royalists without the almost
certainty of being promptly strangled or shot. "An Englishman,
however--especially an Englishman who had fought under Wellington in
Spain--might undertake the mission with comparative impunity," said Senor
Morena.

"I understand perfectly," I answered. "I have to go in the character of an
ordinary travelling Englishman, and act as an emissary of the insurgent
junta. But if my true character is detected, what then?"

"That is not at all likely, Mr. Fortescue."

"Yet the unlikely happens sometimes--happens generally, in fact. Suppose
it does in the present instance?"

"In that case I am very much afraid that you would be shot."

"I have not a doubt of it. Nevertheless, your proposal pleases me, and I
shall do my best to carry out your wishes."

Whereupon Senor Morena expressed his thanks in sonorous Castilian,
protested that my courage and devotion would earn me the eternal gratitude
of every patriot, and promised to have everything ready for me in the
course of the week, a promise which he faithfully kept.

Three days later Morena brought me a packet of letters and a memorandum
containing minute instructions for my guidance. Nothing could be more
harmless looking than the letters. They contained merely a few items of
general news and the recommendation of the bearer to the good offices of
the recipient. But this was only a blind; the real letters were written in
cipher, with sympathetic ink. They were, moreover, addressed to secret
friends of the revolutionary cause, who, as Senor Morena believed and
hoped, were, as yet, unsuspected by the Spanish authorities, and at large.

"To give you letters to known patriots would be simply to insure your
destruction," said the senor, "even if you were to find them alive and at
liberty."

I had also Don Alberto's letter, and as the old gentleman had once been
president of the _Audiencia Real_ (Royal Council), Morena thought it would
be of great use to me, and serve to ward off suspicion, even though some
of the friends to whom he had himself written should have meanwhile got
into trouble.

But as if he had not complete confidence in the efficacy of these
elaborate precautions, Senor Morena strongly advised me to stay no longer
in Caracas than I could possibly help.

"Spies more vigilant than those of the Inquisition are continually on the
lookout for victims," he said. "An inadvertent word, a look even, might
betray you; the only law is the will of the military and police, and they
make very short work of those whom they suspect. Yes, leave Caracas the
moment you have delivered your letters; our friends will smuggle you
through the Spanish line and lead you to one of the patriot camps."

This was not very encouraging; but I was at an adventurous age and in an
enterprising mood, and the creole's warnings had rather the effect of
increasing my desire to go forward with the undertaking in which I had
engaged than causing me to falter in my resolve. Like Napoleon, I believed
in my star, and I had faced death too often on the field of battle to fear
the rather remote dangers Morena had foreshadowed, and in whose existence
I only half believed.

The die being cast, the next question was how I should reach my
destination. The Spaniards of that age kept the trade with their colonies
in their own hands, and it was seldom, indeed, that a ship sailed from the
Thames for La Guayra or any other port on the Main. I was, however, lucky
enough to find a vessel in the river taking in cargo for the island of
Curacoa, which had just been ceded by England to the Dutch, from whom it
was captured in 1807, and for a reasonable consideration the master agreed
to fit me up a cabin and give me a passage.

The voyage was rather long--something like fifty days--yet not altogether
uneventful; for in the course of it we were chased by an American
privateer, overhauled by a Spanish cruiser, nearly caught by a pirate, and
almost swamped in a hurricane; but we fortunately escaped these and all
other dangers, and eventually reached our haven in safety.

I had brought with me letters of credit on a Dutch merchant at Curacoa, of
the name of Van Voorst, from whom I obtained as much coin as I thought
would cover my expenses for a few months, and left the balance in his
hands on deposit. With the help of this gentleman, moreover, I chartered a
_falucha_ for the voyage to La Guayra. Also at his suggestion, moreover, I
stitched several gold pieces in the lining of my vest and the waistband of
my trousers, as a reserve in case of accident.

We made the run in twenty-four hours, and as the _falucha_ let go in the
roadstead I tore up my memorandum of instructions (which I had carefully
committed to memory) and threw the fragments into the sea.

A little later we were boarded by two revenue officers, who seemed more
surprised than pleased to see me; as, however, my papers were in perfect
order, and nothing either compromising or contraband was found in my
possession, they allowed me to land, and I thought that my troubles (for
the present) were over. But I had not been ashore many minutes when I was
met by a sergeant and a file of soldiers, who asked me politely, yet
firmly, to accompany them to the commandant of the garrison.

I complied, of course, and was conducted to the barracks, where I found
the gentleman in question lolling in a _chinchura_ (hammock) and smoking a
cigar. He eyed me with great suspicion, and after examining my passport,
demanded my business, and wanted to know why I had taken it into my head
to visit Colombia at a time when the country was being convulsed with
civil war.

Thinking it best to answer frankly (with one or two reservations), I said
that, having heard much of South America while campaigning in Spain, I had
made up my mind to voyage thither on the first opportunity.

"What! you have served in Spain, in the army of Lord Wellington!"
interposed the commandant with great vivacity.

"Yes; I joined shortly before the battle of Salamanca, where I was
wounded. I was also at Vittoria, and--"

"So was I. I commanded a regiment in Murillo's _corps d'armee_, and have
come out with him to Colombia. We are brothers in arms. We have both bled
in the sacred cause of Spanish independence. Let me embrace you."

Whereupon the commandant, springing from his hammock, put his arms round
my neck and his head on my shoulders, patted me on the back, and kissed me
on both cheeks, a salute which I thought it expedient to return, though
his face was not overclean and he smelled abominably of garlic and stale
tobacco.

"So you have come to see South America--only to see it!" he said. "But
perhaps you are scientific; you have the intention to explore the country
and write a book, like the illustrious Humboldt?"

The idea was useful. I modestly admitted that I did cultivate a little
science, and allowed my "brother-in-arms" to remain in the belief that I
proposed to follow in the footsteps of the author of "Cosmos"--at a
distance.

"I have an immense respect for science," continued the commandant, "and I
doubt not that you will write a book which will make you famous. My only
regret is, that in the present state of the country you may find going
about rather difficult. But it won't be for long. We have well-nigh got
this accursed rebellion under. A few weeks more, and there will not be a
rebel left alive between the Andes and the Atlantic. The Captain-General
of New Granada reports that he has either shot or hanged every known
patriot in the province. We are doing the same here in Venezuela. We give
no quarter; it is the only way with rebels. _Guerra a la muerte!_"

After this the commandant asked me to dinner, and insisted on my becoming
his guest until the morrow, when he would provide me with mules for myself
and my baggage, and give me an escort to Caracas, and letter of
introduction to one of his friends there. So great was his kindness,
indeed, that only the ferocious sentiments which he had avowed in respect
of the rebels reconciled me to the deception which I was compelled to
practise. I accepted his hospitality and his offer of mules and an escort,
and the next morning I set out on the first stage of my inland journey.
Before parting he expressed a hope--which I deemed it prudent to
reciprocate--that we should meet again.

Nothing can be finer than the ride to Caracas by the old Spanish road, or
more superb than its position in a magnificent valley, watered by four
rivers, surrounded by a rampart of lofty mountains, and enjoying, by
reason of its altitude, a climate of perpetual spring. But the city itself
wore an aspect of gloom and desolation. Four years previously the ground
on which it stood had been torn and rent by a succession of terrible
earthquakes in which hundreds of houses were levelled with the earth, and
thousands of its people bereft of their lives. Since that time two sieges,
and wholesale proscription and executions, first by one side and then by
the other, had well-nigh completed its destruction. Its principal
buildings were still in ruins, and half its population had either perished
or fled. Nearly every civilian whom I met in the streets was in mourning.
Even the Royalists (who were more numerous than I expected) looked
unhappy, for all had suffered either in person or in property, and none
knew what further woes the future might bring them.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE KING'S NAME.

I put up at the Posado de los Generales (recommended by the commandant),
and the day after my arrival I delivered the letters confided to me by
Senor Moreno. This done, I felt safe; for (as I thought) there was nothing
else in my possession by which I could possibly be compromised. I did not
deliver the letters separately. I gave the packet, just as I had received
it, to a certain Senor Carera, the secret chief of the patriot party in
Caracas. I also gave him a long verbal message from Moreno, and we
discussed at length the condition of the country and the prospects of the
insurrection. In the interior, he said, there raged a frightful guerilla
warfare, and Caracas was under a veritable reign of terror. Of the
half-dozen friends for whom I had brought letters, one had been garroted;
another was in prison, and would almost certainly meet the same fate. It
was only by posing as a loyalist and exercising the utmost circumspection
that he had so far succeeded in keeping a whole skin; and if he were not
convinced that he could do more for the cause where he was than elsewhere,
he would not remain in the city another hour. As for myself, he was quite
of Moreno's opinion, that the sooner I got away the better.

"I consider it my duty to watch over your safety," he said. "I should be
sorry indeed were any harm to befall an English caballero who has risked
his life to serve us and brought us such good news."

"What harm can befall me, now that I have got rid of that packet?" I
asked.

"In a city under martial law and full of spies, there is no telling what
may happen. Being, moreover, a stranger, you are a marked man. It is not
everybody who, like the commandant of La Guayra, will believe that you are
travelling for your own pleasure. What man in his senses would choose a
time like this for a scientific ramble in Venezuela?"

And then Senor Carera explained that he could arrange for me to leave
Caracas almost immediately, under excellent guidance. The _teniente_ of
Colonel Mejia, one of the guerilla leaders, was in the town on a secret
errand, and would set out on his return journey in three days. If I liked
I might go with him, and I could not have a better guide or a more
trustworthy companion.

It was a chance not to be lost. I told Senor Carera that I should only be
too glad to profit by the opportunity, and that on any day and at any hour
which he might name I would be ready.

"I will see the _teniente_, and let you know further in the course of
to-morrow," said Carera, after a moment's thought. "The affair will
require nice management. There are patrols on every road. You must be well
mounted, and I suppose you will want a mule for your baggage."

"No! I shall take no more than I can carry in my saddle-bags. We must not
be incumbered with pack-mules on an expedition of this sort. We may have
to ride for our lives."

"You are quite right, Senor Fortescue; so you may. I will see that you are
well mounted, and I shall be delighted to take charge of your belongings
until the patriots again, and for the last time, capture Caracas and drive
those thrice-accursed Spaniards into the sea."

Before we separated I invited Senor Carera to _almuerzo_ (the equivalent
to the Continental second breakfast) on the following day.

After a moment's reflection he accepted the invitation. "But we shall have
to be very cautious," he added. "The _posada_ is a Royalist house, and the
_posadero_ (innkeeper) is hand and glove with the police. If we speak of
the patriots at all, it must be only to abuse them.... But our turn will
come, and--_por Dios!_--then--"

The fierce light in Carera's eyes, the gesture by which his words were
emphasized, boded no good for the Royalists if the patriots should get the
upper hand. No wonder that a war in which men like him were engaged on the
one side, and men like el Commandant Castro on the other, should be
savage, merciless, and "to the death."

As I had decided to quit Caracas so soon, it did not seem worth while
presenting the letter to one of his brother officers which I had received
from Commandant Castro. I thought, too, that in existing circumstances the
less I had to do with officers the better. But I did not like the idea of
going away without fulfilling my promise to call on Zamorra's old friend,
Don Senor Ulloa.

So when I returned to the _posada_ I asked the _posadero_ (innkeeper), a
tall Biscayan, with an immensely long nose, a cringing manner, and an
insincere smile, if he would kindly direct me to Senor Ulloa's house.

"_Si, senor_," said the _posadero_, giving me a queer look, and exchanging
significant glances with two or three of his guests who were within
earshot. "_Si, senor_, I can direct you to the house of Senor Ulloa. You
mean Don Simon, of course?"

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