Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

Having kindled a fire – not for cooking purposes, but to dry their ponchos, and other apparel saturated in the crossing of the stream – they first spread everything out; hanging them on improvised clothes-horses, constructed of caña brava– a brake of which skirts the adjacent stream. Then, overcome with fatigue, and still suffering from the effects of the animal electricity, they stretch themselves alongside the fire, trusting to time for their recovery.

Nor trust they in vain. For, sooner than expected, the volatile fluid – or whatever it may be – passes out of their veins, and their nervous strength returns; even Ludwig saying he is himself again, though he is not quite so yet.

And their animals also undergo a like rapid recovery, from browsing on the leaves and bean-pods of the algarobias; a provender relished by all pampas horses, as horned cattle, and nourishing to both. More than this, the fruit of this valuable tree when ripe, is fit food for man himself, and so used in several of the Argentine States.

This fact suggesting itself to Gaspar – as he lies watching the horses plucking off the long siliques, and greedily devouring them – he says: —

“We can make a meal on the algarobia beans, if nothing better’s to be had. And for me, it wouldn’t be the first time by scores. In some parts where I’ve travelled, they grind them like maize, and bake a very fair sort of bread out of their meal.”

“Why, Gaspar!” exclaims Ludwig, recalling some facts of which he had heard his father speak, “you talk as if you had travelled in the Holy Land, and in New Testament times! These very trees, or others of a similar genus, are the ones whose fruit was eaten by Saint John the Baptist. You remember that passage, where it is said: ‘his meat was locusts and wild honey.’ Some think the locusts he ate were the insects of that name; and it may be so, since they are also eaten by Arabs, and certain other tribes of Asiatic and African people. But, for my part, I believe the beans of the ‘locust tree’ are meant; which, like this, is a species of acacia that the Arabs call carob; evidently the root from which we take our word algarobia.”

Gaspar listens, both patiently and pleased, to this learned dissertation. For he is rejoiced to perceive, that the thoughts of his young companion are beginning to find some abstraction and forgetfulness, of that upon which they have been so long sadly dwelling. Cypriano, too, appears to take an interest in the subject of discourse; and to encourage it the gaucho rejoins, in gleeful tones:

“Well, Señor Ludwig; I don’t know much about those far-away countries you speak of, for I’ve not had any great deal of schooling. But I do know, that algarobia beans are not such bad eating; that is if properly prepared for it. In the States of Santiago and Tucuman, which are the places I spoke of having travelled through, the people almost live on them; rich and poor, man as well as beast. And we may be glad to make breakfast on them, if not supper; though I still trust something more dainty may drop upon us. I’m not so hopeful as to expect manna, like that which rained down upon Moses; but there’s many an eatable thing to be had in this Chaco wilderness, too – for those who know how to look for it. Ay Dios!” he adds, after a pause, with his eyes turned towards the ford, “those long-legged gentry don’t seem to care about coming back there. No doubt, the screams of that fellow I throttled have frightened them off for good. So I suppose we must give the birds up, for this night anyhow. Just possible, in the morning they’ll be as hungry as ourselves, and pay their fishing-ground a very early visit.”

Saying this, the gaucho relapses into silence, the others also ceasing to converse. They all feel a certain lethargy, which calls for repose; and for a while all three lie without speaking a word, their heads resting on their recados– the only sound heard being the “crump-crump” of their horses’ teeth grinding the algarobia pods into pulp.

Chapter Thirty Six.

A Chat about Electric Eels

The silence of the camp is not of long continuance; Gaspar being the first to break it. For the gaucho, having a stronger stomach, and consequently a quicker digestion than the others, feels some incipient sensations of hunger.

“I only wish,” he says, “we could get hold of one of the brutes that battered us so in the stream. If we could, it would furnish us with a supper fit for a king.”

“What!” exclaims Ludwig, raising his head in surprise, “one of the electric eels? Is it that you’re speaking of, Gaspar?”

“Ay, señorito; just that.”

“Surely you wouldn’t eat it, would you?”

“Wouldn’t I? If I had one here now, you’d soon see.”

“But are they really good to eat?”

“Good to eat! I should think they are; and if you could but taste them yourself, señorito, you’d say so. A lightning eel’s about the daintiest morsel I ever stuck teeth into; though they do have their dwelling-place in mud, and as some say, feed upon it. Before cooking them, however, something needs being done. You must cut away a portion of their flesh; the spongy part, which it’s said gives them power to make their lightning play. In that lies the dangerous stuff, whatever sort of thing it is.”

“But what are they like, Gaspar? I’ve never seen one.”

It is Ludwig who still interrogates; but to his last question Cypriano, not Gaspar, gives the answer, saying:

“Oh, cousin! Do you mean to say you’ve never seen an electric eel?”

“Indeed do I. I’ve heard father speak of them often, and I know them by their scientific name, gymnotus. I believe there are plenty of them in the rivers of Paraguay; but, as it chances, I never came across one, either dead or alive.”

“I have,” says Cypriano, “come across more than one, and many times. But once I well remember; for an awkward circumstance it was to myself.”

“How so, sobrino?”

“Ah! that’s a tale I never told you, Ludwig; but I’ll tell it now, if you wish.”

“Oh I do wish it.”

“Well, near the little village where, as you know, I was born, and went to school before coming to live with uncle at Assuncion, there was a pond full of these fish. We boys used to amuse ourselves with them; sending in dogs and pigs, whenever we had the chance, to see the scare they would get, and how they scampered out soon as they found what queer company they’d got into. Cruel sport it was, I admit. But one day we did what was even worse than frightening either dogs or pigs; we drove an old cow in, with a long rope round her horns, the two ends of which we fastened to trees on the opposite sides of the pond, so that she had only a little bit of slack to dance about upon. And dance about she did, as the eels electrified her on every side; till at last she dropped down exhausted, and, I suppose, dead; since she went right under the water, and didn’t come up again. I shall never forget her pitiful, ay, reproachful look, as she stood up to the neck, with her head craned out, as if making an appeal to us to save her, while we only laughed the louder. Poor thing! I can now better understand the torture she must have endured.”

“But is that the awkward circumstance you’ve spoken of?”

“Oh, no. It was altogether another affair; and for me, as all the others, a more serious one. I hadn’t come to the end of the adventure – the unpleasant part of it – which was the chastisement we all got, by way of reward for our wickedness.”

“Chastisement! Who gave it to you?”

“Our worthy schoolmaster. It so chanced the old cow was his; the only one he had at the time giving milk. And he gave us such a thrashing! Ah! I may well say, I’ve a lively recollection of it; so lively, I might truly think the punishment then received was enough, without the additional retribution the eels have this day inflicted on me.”

Cypriano’s narration ended, his cousin, after a pause, again appeals to Gaspar to give him a description of the creatures forming the topic of their conversation. To which the gaucho responds, saying: —

“Well, Señor Ludwig, if you want to know what a lightning eel is like, take one of the common kind – which of course you’ve seen – a full-sized one; make that about ten times as thick as it is, without adding much to its length, and you’ll have the thing, near as I can think it. So much for the reptile’s bulk; though there are some both bigger round, and longer from head to tail. As for its colour, over the back it’s a sort of olive green – just like yerba leaves when they’ve been let stand a day or two after plucking. On the throat, and under the belly, it’s paler, with here and there some blotches of red. I may tell you, however, that the lightning-eels change colour same as some of the lizards; partly according to their age, but as much from the sort of water they’re found in – whether it be a clear running stream, or a muddy stagnant pond, such as the one Señor Cypriano has spoken of. Besides, there are several kinds of them, as we gauchos know; though, I believe, the naturalutas are not aware of the fact. The most dangerous sort, and no doubt the same that’s just attacked us, have broad heads, and wide gaping mouths full of sharp teeth, with flat tails and a pair of fins close to the nape of the neck. Carramba! they’re ugly devils to look at, and still uglier to have dealings with; that is, when one’s in the water alongside them – as we ourselves know. Still they don’t always behave so bad, as these did to-day. When I crossed this stream before, with the dueño, neither he nor I felt the slightest shock to tell of eels being in it. I suppose it’s the tormenta that’s set them a stirring. Like enough, there’s some connection between their lightning and that of the sky. If so, that’s what has quickened the brutes, and made them so mad. Well,” he adds, as if drawing his account to a conclusion, “mad as they are, I’d like to have one frizzling over this fire.”

“But who eats them, Gaspar?” interrogates Ludwig, still incredulous on the question of their being a fit article of diet. “I’ve never heard of their being eaten, nor brought to market like other fish.”

“Hundreds, thousands of people eat them, hijo mio. They’re in great request in some places; ay, all over the country. Both whites and Indians relish them; but more especially the redskins. Some tribes prefer them to any other food, be it fish, flesh, or fowl; and make a regular business of catching them.”

“Ah! how are they caught?”

“There are various ways; but the usual one is by spearing them. Sometimes the slippery fellows glide out of their mud beds and come to the surface of the water, as it were to amuse themselves by having a look round. Then the fisherman gets a chance at them, without any searching, or trouble. He is armed with a long pole of caña brava, one end having an iron point barbed like a spear. This, he launches at them, just as I’ve heard say whalers do their harpoons. For, if he kept the shaft in his hands, he’d catch it from their lightning, and get strokes that would stagger him. Still, he doesn’t let go altogether; as there’s a cord attached to the spear, and with that he can haul in the fish, if he has struck it. But he must have a care to keep his cord out of the water; if it gets wetted he’ll have a fit of the trembles upon him, sure. For it’s a fact – and a curious one you’ll say, señoritos– that a dry cord won’t conduct the eel’s lightning, while a wet one will.”

“It is a fact,” says Ludwig, endorsing the statement. “I’ve heard father speak of it.”

“Very singular,” observes Cypriano.

“And I can tell you of another fact,” pursues the gaucho, “that you’ll say is still more singular. Would you believe, that from one of these fish a man may strike sparks, just as by a flint and steel – ay, and kindle a fire with them? I know it’s an old story, about fish having what’s called phosphorus in them; but it isn’t everybody who knows that real fire can be got out of the lightning-eels.”

“But can that be done, Gaspar?” asks Ludwig.

“Certainly it can. I’ve seen it done. And he who did it was your own dear father, Señor Ludwig. It was one day when we were out on a ramble, and caught one of the eels in a pool, where it had got penned up by the water having dried around it. The dueño took out a piece of wire, and with one end tickled the eel; the other end being stuck into some gunpowder, which was wrapped loosely in a piece of paper. The powder flashed and set the paper ablaze, as also some leaves and dry sticks we’d laid around it. Soon we had a fire; and on that same fire we broiled the eel itself, and ate it. Por dios! I only wish we had one broiling over this fire. I’d want no better thing for supper.”

So ended the chat about electric eels, the subject seeming exhausted. Then the conversation changing to other and less interesting topics, was soon after brought to a close. For the darkness was now down, and as their ponchos, and other softer goods had become thoroughly dry, there was no reason why they should not go to rest for the night. But since the soldier-cranes had declined coming back – by this time no doubt roosted in some far-off “cranery” – and no other source of food supply offering, they must needs go to bed supperless, as they did. Their appetites were not yet sufficiently sharp, to have an inordinate craving for meat.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Nothing for Breakfast

Under the shadow of the algarobias the trackers sleep undisturbed. Ludwig, however, has troubled dreams, in which gymnoti play a conspicuous part. He imagines himself still floundering amidst these monsters, assailed from all sides by their galvanic batteries, and that they have dragged him down into the mud, where he is fast getting asphyxiated. When in his last gasp, as it were, he is relieved, by awaking from his uneasy slumbers; which he does suddenly, and with a terrified cry.

Finding it has been all a dream, and glad to think it so, he says nothing; and the others not having heard his half-stifled cry, soon again falls asleep. This time his slumber is lighter, as also more profound; and, on the whole, he has a tolerable night’s rest; in the morning feeling fairly refreshed, as likewise do Cypriano and Gaspar.

All three are astir a good half-hour before there is any sign of day; and their camp-fire is rekindled. This not for culinary purposes – since they have nothing to be cooked – but rather because the air is chilly cold, as it often is in the tropics, and they need to warm themselves before setting about aught else.

When warmed, however, they begin to think of breakfast, as also to talk about it. What is it to be, or of what consist, are the questions which interest them without being easily answered. There are the algarobia beans; but their skillet has been lost along with the kettle, and there is left them no utensil in which these legumes might be boiled. True, they can roast them in the ashes; but Gaspar still clings to the hope that something more toothful may turn up. As the early dawn is the best time to find wild animals abroad, both birds and quadrupeds – the best also for approaching them – the gaucho feels pretty confident either one or other will stray within reach of their guns, bolas, or lazos.

In the end it proves that his confidence has not been misplaced. Just as the first red rays of the Aurora are reflected from the tops of the trees around their camp, more faintly lighting up the lower level of the pampa beyond, Gaspar, peering through a break between the branches of the algarobias, sees a brace of large birds moving about over the plain. Not soldier-cranes, though creatures with necks and legs quite as long; for they are rheas.

“Gracios a Dios!” is the gaucho’s gratified exclamation at sight of them; continuing in low tone and speaking over his shoulder, “A couple of avestruz!”

The others, gliding up to him, and looking through the leaves, also behold the birds, seeing them from head to foot. For they are out upon the open ground, striding to and fro, now and then pausing to pick up some morsel of food, or it may be but a pebble to aid in the digestion of what they have already eaten. While thus engaged, they are gradually drawing nearer to the bank of the riacho, as also the edge of the algarobia grove in which the trackers are encamped. Their proximity to the latter most interests those in the camp, and all three instantly lay hold of their guns, which luckily have been reloaded, two of them with ball. Gaspar, foremost of the trio, has got his barrel through the branches, and, seeing that the rheas are now within bullet-range, is about to blaze away at the one nearest, which chances to be the cock bird, when the latter, suddenly elevating its head, and uttering a loud hiss succeeded by a snort, as from a badly-blown trumpet, turns tail and makes off over the plain; its mate turning simultaneously, and legging it alongside. All this to the surprise of the gaucho; who knows that he has not exposed his person and sees that neither have the others, nor yet made any noise to account for the behaviour of the birds.

“What can have frightened them?” is the question he would ask, when casting his eyes upward he perceives what has done it – their smoke of their camp-fire! The blue stream ascending over the tops of the trees, as if out of a chimney, had just then, for the first time, been caught sight of by the ostriches, sending them off in quick scare. Nor strange it should, being a spectacle to which the wild denizens of the Chaco are not accustomed, or only familiar with as denoting an enemy near – their greatest enemy, man.

“Maldita sea!” exclaims the gaucho, as the birds show their backs to him, an exclamation morally the reverse of that he uttered on seeing them with heads turned the opposite way. “That confounded fire! what a pity we kindled it! the thing’s done us out of our breakfast. Stay! no.”

The negative ejaculation comes from his perceiving that the ostriches, instead of rushing onwards in long rapid strides, as they had started, are gradually shortening step and slackening the pace. And while he continues looking after them, they again come to a stop, and stand gazing back at the dark blue pillar of smoke rising spirally against the lighter blue background of sky. But now they appear to regard it less with alarm than curiosity; and even this after a time wearing off, they once more lower their beaks, and return to browsing, just as a couple of common geese, or rather a goose and gander. For all, they do not yet seem quite tranquillised, every now and then their heads going up with a suddenness, which tells that their former feeling of security is not restored; instead, replaced by uneasy suspicions that things are not as they ought to be.

“Our guns will be of no use now,” says Gaspar, laying his own aside. “I know the nature of avestruz well enough to say for certain, that, after the scare they’ve had they’ll stay shy for several hours, and ’twill be impossible to approach them; that is, near enough for the longest-range gun we’ve got. And to run them down with our horses would be to lose a day’s journey at least. We can’t afford that, for the sake of a bit of breakfast. No, ’twould never do. We’ll have to go without, or else, after all, break our fast upon these beans.”

Saying which, he glances up to the algarobias, from which the long siliques droop down in profusion, more plentiful than tempting to him.

“Caspita!” he resumes, after a pause, once more bending his eyes covetously upon the birds, and as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him, “I think I know of a way by which we may circumvent these two tall stalkers.”

“How?” eagerly asks Cypriano.

“By going at them —garzoneando.”

“Garzoneando!” exclaims Ludwig in echo. “Good Gaspar, whatever do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see, young master, soon as I’ve made things ready for it. And your cousin here, he’s the fittest for the part to be played. I’d undertake it myself, but I’m a bit too bulky to counterfeit a creature of such slender proportions as the garzon soldado; while Señor Cypriano’s figure will just suit to a nicety.”

Neither of the two youths has the slightest idea of what the gaucho designs doing; but, accustomed to his quaint, queer ways, and knowing that whatever he intends is pretty sure to be something of service to them – as likely to have a successful issue – they await his action with patience and in silence.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

A Counterfeit Crane

Gaspar allows no time to be lost, but instantly commences taking measures for the garzoneando– whatever that may be. As yet neither of his young companions has been told what it is, though they soon begin to have a guess.

While they stand watching, they see him once more plunge his hand into those capacious saddle-bags, where for a time it rummages about. When drawn out again, it is seen to grasp a folded bundle of soft goods, which, on being shaken open, shows to be a shirt. No common cotton thing, however, but an affair of the finest linen, snow-white, with an embroidered bosom and ruffles; in short, his gala shirt, such as are worn by gauchos when they appear at fiestas and fandangoes.

“A pity to use my best camisa for such a purpose,” he observes, while in the act of unfolding it. “Still it won’t likely get much damage; and a wash, with a bit of starch, will set it all right again.”

Then turning to Cypriano, he adds, “Now, señorito; be good enough to strip off everything, and draw this over your shoulders.”

Without a word of protest, or objection, the young Paraguayan does as requested, and is soon inside the holiday shirt; his own having been laid aside, as also his jaqueta, calzoneras, and every other article of dress worn by him.

Meanwhile, Gaspar has been engaged getting ready several other things for the change of costume intended; one of these being a silk handkerchief of a bright scarlet colour, also taken out of the inexhaustible alparejas. This he ties about Cypriano’s neck, not as an ordinary cravat, but loosely folded, so as to expose a breadth of several inches all round.

The gaucho’s next move is to snatch from off the fire one of the faggots still only half consumed; from which with his knife he scrapes the red coal, leaving the surface black, at the same time paring the stick to a sharp point. With some wet gunpowder he further blackens it; then placing the thick end against Cypriano’s forehead, he binds it fast with a piece of raw-hide thong, the last carried around and firmly knotted at the back of the neck.

A few more touches and the toilet is complete; transforming Cypriano into what, at a distance, might be supposed a soldier-crane! At all events, the ostriches will so suppose him, as Gaspar knows; for he is but copying a scheme often practised by South American Indians for the capture of these shy birds.

“Muy bien!” he exclaims, as he stands contemplating his finished task. “By my word, muchacho mio, you look the character to perfection. And if you act it cleverly, as I know you can and will, we’ll make breakfast on something better than beans. Now, señorito; you’re in costume to go garzoneando.”

Long ere this, Cypriano has come to comprehend what is required of him, and is quite eager to have a try at the ruse so cunningly contrived. Declaring himself ready to start out, it but remains to be decided what weapon he ought to take with him. For they have the three kinds – gun, bolas, and lazo; and in the use of the two last he is almost as skilled as the gaucho himself.

“The gun might be the readiest and surest,” remarks Gaspar; “and it will be as well to have one with you, in case of your not getting a good chance to cast either of the others. But just now the less noise that’s made the better. Who knows, but that some of these traitorous redskins may be still straggling about? Hearing shots they’d be sure to come up to us; which we don’t want, though ever so much wishing to come up with them. Therefore, I say, use either the balls or the rope.”

“All the same to me,” observes the young Paraguayan. “Which do you think the better?”