Last of the Incas: A Romance of the Pampas

"¡Sangre de Dios!" the colonel exclaimed, "There is a traitor among the villains; never before have they waged war in this way."

"Hum!" the major muttered, biting his moustache; "if Buenos Aires does not send succour, we are lost."

"Yes, my friend, we shall leave our skins here."

"How many are they, colonel? – twenty thousand; thirty thousand?"

"And those who are still coming up, and who blacken the distant plains? – But what means the sound of that bugle?"

Four Ulmens, preceded by an Indian, who carried a white flag, had halted within half gunshot of the first barriers of Población del Sur.

"They seem," the colonel said, "to be desiring a parley. Do they fancy me fool enough to venture into that trap? Major, just fire a round of canister into that group to teach them not to treat us as fools."

"We should be wrong, colonel; let us learn what they want."

"But where shall we find a man fool enough to risk his carcase among those pagans, who have neither faith nor law?"

"I will go, with your permission," the major said simply.

"You?" Don Antonio exclaimed in amazement.

"Yes, I. Unfortunate persons have been confided to our guard and our honour. I am but a man; my life is of but little consequence for the defence of the town. I am old, colonel, and will try to save the inhabitants of Carmen."

The governor suppressed a sigh, and affectionately shook his old friend's hand.

"Go," he said with considerable emotion, "and may Heaven protect you!"

"Thanks," Major Bloomfield answered.

CHAPTER XV.

A BRAVE RESOLVE

On leaving Carmen, Pedrito felt a recollection of his sister aroused in his mind, and in order to warn Don Valentine Cardoso of the invasion of the Indians, he started at a gallop for the estancia, which, thanks to the speed of the fresh horse the governor had given him, he reached without a check. All was quiet at San Julian, and the sentry watching in the mirador had perceived nothing alarming in the distance.

Patito, in the capitaz' absence, was on guard at the battery, like a faithful watchdog.

"Where is Don Blas?" the bombero asked.

"At Carmen, with Don Sylvio d'Arenal," the gaucho answered.

"What, have they not returned yet?"

"No."

"Lead me to Don Valentine."

The estanciero heartily welcomed the bombero, and sent for his sister, who arrived with Doña Concha.

"What brings you here in such a hurry, Pedrito?"

"A very serious matter, Don Valentine," he answered, after embracing Mercedes several times; "but only look, Excellency, how pretty she is in her new dress! Kiss me again, little sister."

"Have you only come to devour the girl with caresses?" Don Valentine asked with a smile; "If so, go on to your heart's content."

"That is almost enough," Pedrito replied, his eyes filled with tears. "Alas! Our family is diminishing daily. Still," he added, changing his accent, "however great the love I bear my sister, it is not for her sake alone that I am here. But stay, Excellency, that is not true; it is for her sake, her sake alone, though apparently for yours. I have just come from Carmen."

"From Carmen?" Doña Concha said, involuntarily.

"Yes, señorita," the bombero answered, as if reading the young lady's secret thoughts, "and I saw Don Sylvio d'Arenal there."

Doña Concha turned red as a cherry, and was silent.

"And what have you been doing in Carmen?" Don Valentine asked.

"I went to warn his Excellency Colonel Don Antonio Valverde, that the Indians have entered the country of the Republic, plundering and burning everything on their road."

"An invasion!" Don Valentine said, with an internal tremor.

"O heavens!" the two girls exclaimed, clasping their hands with a movement of terror.

"Yes, Excellency, an inconceivable and terrible invasion. When I had warned the governor, I remembered my sister, and came here."

"You are a worthy fellow, Pedrito," the estanciero said, as he offered him his hand. "You are not a brother to Mercedes, but a father. But do not be frightened! the estancia is safer than Carmen."

"I saw that so soon as I arrived, Excellency, and that removed a heavy weight which oppressed my heart. I shall now go, with almost gladness, to join my two brothers. Juan died on the field – the same fate awaits us. But Mercedes is happy, and I can die in peace."

"Oh, my kind Pedrito," Mercedes exclaimed, as she burst into tears, and threw herself into his arms; "must you not live for one who loves you?"

"Come, do not cry, little girl, but say good-bye; I must return to the plain."

He tenderly embraced his sister who was still weeping, left the room, mounted his horse again, and started at a gallop.

"Father," Doña Concha said eagerly, "are we going to remain at the estancia during the invasion of the Indians?"

"My child, it is the safest plan." "But, Don Sylvio?" she added, with a delicious pout.

"He will come and join us."

"Oh, no," she said hurriedly; "you forget, father, that the roads are impracticable, and infested with Indians; I do not wish him to fall into an ambuscade of the Pagans."

"What is to be done?"

"Send him a messenger ordering him, from me, to remain at Carmen, or, if he absolutely insists on returning, to take a boat; the Indians will not dare attack him on the river. Write to him, father; I will add a few lines to your letter, and he will not like to displease his wife."

"His wife?" her father repeated with a smile.

"Or nearly so, as I am going to marry him in two days. You will write at once, will you not, dear father?"

"I have no will but your caprices," he added, with an air of resignation.

He sat down at a mahogany desk and wrote; Concha, leaning smilingly over his chair, read over his shoulder. So soon as Don Valentine had concluded, he turned to his beloved daughter.

"Well, are you satisfied, little Mrs. Bluebeard?" he asked her.

"Oh, my kind father," she replied, taking his head in both her hands, and kissing him on the forehead. Then, with a movement full of loving grace, she took the pen from her father's fingers, and was writing a few lines at the foot of the letter, when a great noise, mingled with shrieks, was heard outside.

"O Heavens!" she exclaimed, as if struck to the heart, and turning deadly pale.

She rushed to the steps, and perceived Patito and Pedrito, carrying a man wrapped up in a cloak; other persons were collected round Doña Salazar, who seemed on the point of fainting.

"Whose is that body?" Doña Concha asked in a sharp, imperative voice.

"It is my son's!" the heart-broken mother cried.

"Don Blas Salazar," Pedrito answered.

"And Don Sylvio?" the maiden continued,

"Has disappeared," Pedrito said.

She fell back, half dead; her father caught her in his arms, and carried her back to the drawing room.

This is what had happened. Pedrito, when he had got a short distance from the estancia, was all but unsaddled, by his horse suddenly shying. Aroused from his reverie by the animal's terror, the horseman looked around, to discover the cause of it. Judge of his surprise! At a spot which appeared to have been the scene of a desperate struggle, the damp earth retained the marks of several horses' hoofs; weapons had been thrown away there, and seven corpses lay pell-mell in pools of blood and muddy water.

"What!" Pedrito thought, "Have the Indians come this way already?" and he added, "Why is it they have not stripped their victims?"

He dismounted, and walked to the bodies, which he examined attentively, and felt and raised one after the other.

"Something that is not natural has taken place here," the bombero said; "two Negroes! Oh! he said, on coming to the gauchos, Who are these men wearing masks? Oh! Oh! Has it been a crime instead of an ambuscade, and a bit of Spanish vengeance, instead of an Indian attack? I will have a look at them."

He tore from the faces of the four gauchos the strips of wool they had employed to conceal themselves.

"On my word, I do not know them; who can these scoundrels be?"

At the same moment, his eyes rested on another corpse, hidden by a thickly growing bush, beneath which it lay stretched out.

"This man is not dressed in the same manner, so he must be one of the caballeros attacked by these villains; I will have a look at him, and perhaps he will give me the clue to this adventure."

He uttered a cry on recognizing Don Blas Salazar, the capataz of the Estancia de San Julian. He bent over him, raised him softly in his arms, and deposited him gently in the road, with his back leaning against a rock.

"Poor capataz! So brave and kind! But if I am not mistaken, I can feel a little warmth. ¡Viva Dios! I should be glad if he was not dead."

The bombero then opened his clothes, and saw three insignificant wounds on his chest; he hastened to bandage them carefully, and found that the flesh was scarcely cut. Pedrito rubbed his hands with a satisfied air, until he discovered on the skull a fourth wound, on which the hair had clotted and stopped the flow of blood. He washed the wound, cut away the hair round it with his knife, saturated a handkerchief with water, and bound it tightly over the wound. The capataz gave a faint sigh, and moved slightly.

"¡Caray!" Pedrito exclaimed in delight, "He is saved; wounds on the skull, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a week."

By degrees the wounded man seemed to return to life, and at length opened his eyes, which gazed absently around.

"Ah, my good fellow, do you feel better? caray, do you know that you have had a narrow escape?"

The capataz gave a gentle nod.

"Wait a minute," Pedrito continued; and he thrust into his mouth the neck of the bota of aguardiente, which the bomberos always carry on their saddlebow. Don Blas made a grimace, but soon resigning himself, he drank the liquor his physician forced down his throat; in a few minutes, his eyes sparkled with their accustomed brilliancy, and a slight flush tinged his cheeks.

"Thanks," he said, thrusting away the bota with his hand.

"You speak, therefore you are alive, capataz. Can you talk?"

"Yes."

"Without danger to yourself, señor?"

"Yes."

"In the first place, do you recognize me?"

"You are Pedrito, the bombero," the wounded man said, with a smile.

"I am a friend."

"Yes."

"Who put you in this charming condition?"

"I do not know."

"Hum! How many were they?"

"I am ignorant."

"Eh! And why did they serve you out in this way?"

"I do not know."

"I do not know; I am ignorant; all that is not very clear; and if you never say any more, I doubt whether the assassins will be detected. Where have you come from? From Carmen?"

"We left Carmen this morning, to – "

"One moment, if you please. You said we, I think?"

"Yes, we."

"Who are we?"

"Don Sylvio d'Arenal, myself, and two Negroes."

"Good. Where did you separate from Don Sylvio?"

"I did not leave Don Sylvio at all."

"Oh, nonsense!"

"We were together, when masked bandits suddenly came out of this wood, and attacked us. Our Negroes were killed at the first discharge, but Don Sylvio and I got our backs against a tree behind our horses; I fought – and I can tell you no more."

"This blow on the head settled you; it was, by Heaven, enough to fell an ox; but you have a hard head, and lucky for you, for you will recover. So you were unable to recognize your assassins?"

"Yes."

"Just come and have a look at them with me. Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Try."

And Don Blas Salazar got up, and tottered a few steps with extreme difficulty.

"Take my arm," Pedrito said.

The capataz, supported by the bombero, examined the faces of the gauchos.

"I recognize this man," he said, pointing to a corpse; "it is Corrocho. Now I know the originator of the snare."

"¡Caray! All the better; but Don Sylvio's body is not here."

"Heaven be praised!" the capataz exclaimed,

"He will have escaped, and we shall find him at the estancia."

"No!" Pedrito said.

"What do you mean by no?"

"I have just come from there, and should have seen him."

"Where is he?"

"That's the very point; I may say, like you, I do not know, or, if you prefer it, I am ignorant."

"Don Pedro, let us go to San Julian."

"I will carry you, then, at a walking pace; your head has not closed again yet, and a rapid ride would envenom the wound."

"No matter; I must go there with the speed of the wind."

"Then you want to kill yourself?"

"I do not care. I think you love Don Valentine Cardoso and his daughter."

"Caray! If I love them! I would lay down my life for them."

"The happiness, perhaps the life, of Doña Concha is at stake; you can see that mine is of no consequence."

"That is true," the bombero said, with an air of conviction.

"Then you consent?"

"I do."

"Thank you! One word more. If I die on the road, you will tell Doña Concha that the assassin – "

"That the assassin – " Pedrito repeated, finding the other hesitate.

"But, no," the capataz continued, "it is unnecessary. God will not permit me to die before I have seen her."

"As you please. Let us be off."

"At full speed; you promise that?"

"Like lightning."

He remounted, placed before him the capataz, who had no horse, and who, besides, was too weak to sit one, then relaxing the bridle, and digging in his spurs, he flew along with the velocity of the phantom horse in the German ballad.

Pedrito's horse, when it reached the gates of the estancia, slipped with all four feet at once, and fell dead. But the bombero, who had foreseen this accident, came down on his feet, and holding in his arms his friend the capataz, whom the shocks of this infernal ride had caused to faint for the second time.

Patito helped the bombero to carry poor Don Blas as far as the house.

Doña Concha, who had regained her senses, insisted, in spite of her father's entreaties, on remaining by the side of the wounded man. She lavished attentions on him, poured into his month a few drops of a powerful cordial, and awaited his return to life.

"Forgive me, señorita, forgive me," he said, as soon as he opened his eyes again and perceived her, "I could not save him; my strength deserted me."

"I have nothing to forgive you, Don Blas," the young lady answered, who had learnt the facts from Pedrito; "on the contrary, my friend, I thank you for your devotion. One word, however, when you fell was Don Sylvio still fighting by your side?"

"Yes, señorita."

"Then it was only after your fall that he succumbed to the numbers?"

"No; Don Sylvio is not dead."

"What makes you suppose that?"

"A very simple thing: had he been killed, his body would have been found lying by my side. What interest could the assassins have in concealing a corpse, when they left seven lying in the middle of the road? If they wished to hide their crimes, a hole is soon dug in the sand."

"That is true," Doña Concha murmured, "he still lives; but do you know the author of the crime?"

"Yes, señorita."

"And – "

The capataz looked at the persons who crowded the room. Doña Concha understood him, and dismissed them. Pedrito was about to follow with the rest.

"Remain," she said to him, "you can speak before Don Pedro, his sister, and my father. Who is the man that attacked you?"

"Permit me, señorita, I do not positively say that he was among the assassins, for I did not see him; but it is certainly he who let the cowards loose upon us, and directed them from a distance."

"Yes, Don Blas; he was the head, and these ten or twelve bandits were only the arms."

"The very thing. Among the dead I found the corpse of one of his confidants, the gaucho Corrocho, whom I surprised the other day conspiring with him against you."

A bitter smile for a moment curled the young lady's blanched lips.

"Will you tell me his name or no?" she exclaimed, stamping her foot passionately.

"Don Torribio Carvajal!"

"I knew it!" she said, with an accent of superb disdain. "Oh, Don Torribio, Don Torribio! Where is the man to be found at this hour; where is he? Oh, I would give my fortune, my life, to be face to face with him. Is it in order to assassinate his rivals with impunity that this mysterious man – "

She could not complete the sentence; she burst into tears, and fell into Don Valentine's arms, exclaiming with broken sobs —

"Father, father! who will avenge me?"

"Señorita," said Pedrito, "the man you refer to is difficult to reach."

"Do you know him, Don Pedro?" she asked with a start.

"Yes, señorita," he replied. "But do you know who he is?"

"He is said to be a rich Spaniard."

"It is a mistake."

"Have you penetrated the mystery that surrounds him?"

"Yes."

All drew close to Pedrito.

"Well, Don Pedro?"

"The name of the man you call Don Torribio Carvajal is really Nocobotha, and he is one of the principal chiefs of the Aucas Indians."

"An Indian!" the young lady exclaimed in stupor.

"Yes; but one of those white-skinned Indians, who are descended from the Incas, and call themselves children of the sun."

"Take care, Conchita," Mercedes said, "Nocobotha is a terrible man."

"Then, all that is left me is to die," said the poor affianced, girl, as she fell into a chair.

Mercedes regarded her for a moment with a blended look of sorrow, compassion, and tenderness, then walked up to her and gently laid her hand on her shoulder. At this unexpected touch, Doña Concha started and turned round.

"What do you want of me, poor child?" she asked sadly.

"To save Don Sylvio, if he is alive," Mercedes answered in a calm, firm voice.

"You?"

"Yes, I! When I was shelterless, did you not open to me your home and your heart? You are suffering, and, in my turn, I have come to say 'here I am!'"

"But what can you do, my friend?"

"That is my secret. I know the Indians and the way of behaving with them, and speak their language. The only condition I make is, that you promise not to leave the estancia for three days, and not make any attempt to discover what has become of your betrothed."

Doña Concha gazed at Mercedes, whose eye sparkled with a clear and bright fire, her features breathed a species of masculine grace, and so soft and calm a smile played round her rosy lips, that Conchita felt herself subjugated, and, in spite of herself, hope re-entered her heart.

"I swear it to you," she said, as she embraced the girl warmly.

"Thanks," Mercedes replied. "Good-bye, Conchita! in three days you will have news of your betrothed, or I shall be dead."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE INVASION

Let us now give some explanations about the Indian expedition, and the preparations and arrangements made by Nocobotha, at the moment of attempting the siege of Carmen.

"If you succeed in this affair," Don Torribio had said to the two gauchos, after giving them orders to carry off Don Sylvio d'Arenal, "you will receive fifty ounces more. But forget nothing, and be careful."

Panchito and Corrocho, when left alone, shared the ounces between them with transports of joy.

Don Torribio mounted his horse again and proceeded to Carmen, where he spent several days in his house, though no one was aware of the fact. During his stay he had two interviews, under different disguises, with Pincheira, at the Pulquería del Sur, the usual meeting place of the gauchos. Each night, three or four mules, laden with bales, left the city, under the escort of Indians, and proceeded in the direction of the Andes.

At length, one night, after a long conference with Pincheira, Don Torribio left El Carmen in his turn, his presence in the town having not even been suspected. At six leagues from Carmen he found Panchito and Corrocho, whom he sharply upbraided for their sloth in executing his orders, and he recommended them to act as promptly as possible.

On the morrow, the day of the ñandu hunt, Corrocho presented himself at the gate of the estancia, which Patito had refused to open.

On leaving the two bandits, Don Torribio proceeded to the natural grotto, where we have seen him change his clothes once before. There he put on his Indian trappings, and following the banks of the Rio Negro, galloped towards the island of Ghole-Isechel, where he had appointed to meet all the war detachments of the combined Patagonian and Araucano tribes.

The night was one of the most delicious ever enjoyed in America. The fresh air, odorous with the penetrating perfumes of the flowers that grew in masses on the river banks, disposed the mind to reverie. The sky, of a dark black blue, was embroidered with stars, in the midst of which sparkled the dazzling Southern Cross, which the Indians call Paron-Chayke. The moon poured its soft light on the sand, played on the foliage of the trees and designed fantastic forms on the sandbanks. The wind blew softly through the branches, in which the blue jay at intervals uttered the melodious notes of its plaintive song. Here and there, in the distance, could be heard the hoarse roar of the cougars, the sharp whine of the panther, and the snapping bark of the red wolf.

Nocobotha, intoxicated by this lovely autumn night, checked his horse's speed, and allowed his thoughts to wander. The descendant of Manco-Capai and Manco-Oello, the first Incas of Peru, saw pass and repass before his mind the splendours of his race, which had been extinct since the death of Athahualpa, the last Peruvian emperor, whom Pizarro's soldiers assassinated. His heart swelled with pride and joy when he thought that he was about to reconstitute the empire of his ancestors. The soil he trod was his; the air he breathed was the air of his country!

He went on thus for a long time, travelling in the land of dreams. The stars began to grow pale in the sky; the dawn was already tracing a white line, which gradually became tinged with yellow and red streaks, and, at the approach of day, the breeze freshened. Nocobotha, suddenly roused by the icy dew of the Pampa, threw his cloak across his shoulder, with a shudder, and started again at a gallop, after looking up to heaven and muttering —

"Either death or a life of liberty!"

A sublime remark in the mouth of this man! Young, rich, and handsome, he might have remained in Paris, where he had studied, lived there like a nobleman, and enjoyed abundantly all the pleasures of this world. But, no! Free from all ambitious thoughts, and without calculating on human gratitude, he resolved to deliver his country.

At about eight in the morning, Nocobotha halted before an immense toldería, facing the island of Ghole-Isechel. At this spot the Rio Negro attains its greatest width, and each of the arms formed by the island is about two miles and a half across. The island, that rises in the middle of the water, four leagues long and two wide, is one vast bouquet, whence the most delicious fragrance is exhaled, and in which innumerable birds sing. Illumined on this day by the beams of a splendid sun, the island seemed to have been laid on the river like a basket of flowers for the pleasure of the eyes and the delight of the fancy.

As far as the eye reached along the banks of the river, thousands of toldos and chozas could be seen erected close together, and their strange colours flashing in the sun. Numerous canoes, made of horse hides sown together, and generally round, or hollowed out of the trunks of trees, crossed the river in every direction.

Nocobotha entrusted his horse to an Indian woman, and walked among the toldos. In front of their openings the ostrich-plumed pennons of the chiefs floated in the breeze.

He was recognized so soon as he arrived. The warriors drew up in line as he passed, or bowed respectfully before him. The veneration the southern nations have ever felt for the descendants of the Incas seemed changed into a species of adoration. The bejewelled coronet that adorned his brow appeared to arouse the most lively joy in all hearts.

When he reached the riverbank, a fishing canoe conveyed him across to the island, where a toldo had been prepared for him. Lucaney, warned by the sentries who watched for his arrival, presented himself before Nocobotha the moment he landed.