gestures.
As it was, fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before he could get any
answer from Thalcave to tell Robert in reply to his inquiry.
“What does he say?”
“He says that at any price we must hold out till daybreak. The AGUARA
only prowls about at night, and goes back to his lair with the first
streak of dawn. It is a cowardly beast, that loves the darkness and
dreads the light--an owl on four feet.”
“Very well, let us defend ourselves, then, till morning.”
“Yes, my boy, and with knife-thrusts, when gun and shots fail.”
Already Thalcave had set the example, for whenever a wolf came too near
the burning pile, the long arm of the Patagonian dashed through the
flames and came out again reddened with blood.
But very soon this means of defense would be at an end. About two
o’clock, Thalcave flung his last armful of combustibles into the fire,
and barely enough powder remained to load a gun five times.
Glenarvan threw a sorrowful glance round him. He thought of the lad
standing there, and of his companions and those left behind, whom he
loved so dearly.
Robert was silent. Perhaps the danger seemed less imminent to his
imagination. But Glenarvan thought for him, and pictured to himself the
horrible fate that seemed to await him inevitably. Quite overcome by his
emotion, he took the child in his arms, and straining him convulsively
to his heart, pressed his lips on his forehead, while tears he could not
restrain streamed down his cheeks.
Robert looked up into his face with a smile, and said, “I am not
frightened.”
“No, my child, no! and you are right. In two hours daybreak will come,
and we shall be saved. Bravo, Thalcave! my brave Patagonian! Bravo!”
he added as the Indian that moment leveled two enormous beasts who
endeavored to leap across the barrier of flames.
But the fire was fast dying out, and the DENOUEMENT of the terrible
drama was approaching. The flames got lower and lower. Once more the
shadows of night fell on the prairie, and the glaring eyes of the wolves
glowed like phosphorescent balls in the darkness. A few minutes longer,
and the whole pack would be in the inclosure.
Thalcave loaded his carbine for the last time, killed one more enormous
monster, and then folded his arms. His head sank on his chest, and
he appeared buried in deep thought. Was he planning some daring,
impossible, mad attempt to repulse the infuriated horde? Glenarvan did
not venture to ask.
At this very moment the wolves began to change their tactics. The
deafening howls suddenly ceased: they seemed to be going away. Gloomy
silence spread over the prairie, and made Robert exclaim:
“They’re gone!”
But Thalcave, guessing his meaning, shook his head. He knew they would
never relinquish their sure prey till daybreak made them hasten back to
their dens.
Still, their plan of attack had evidently been altered. They no longer
attempted to force the entrance, but their new maneuvers only heightened
the danger.
They had gone round the RAMADA, as by common consent, and were trying to
get in on the opposite side.
The next minute they heard their claws attacking the moldering wood,
and already formidable paws and hungry, savage jaws had found their way
through the palings. The terrified horses broke loose from their halters
and ran about the inclosure, mad with fear.
Glenarvan put his arms round the young lad, and resolved to defend him
as long as his life held out. Possibly he might have made a useless
attempt at flight when his eye fell on Thalcave.
The Indian had been stalking about the RAMADA like a stag, when he
suddenly stopped short, and going up to his horse, who was trembling
with impatience, began to saddle him with the most scrupulous care,
without forgetting a single strap or buckle. He seemed no longer to
disturb himself in the least about the wolves outside, though their
yells had redoubled in intensity. A dark suspicion crossed Glenarvan’s
mind as he watched him.
“He is going to desert us,” he exclaimed at last, as he saw him seize
the reins, as if preparing to mount.
“He! never!” replied Robert. Instead of deserting them, the truth was
that the Indian was going to try and save his friends by sacrificing
himself.
Thaouka was ready, and stood champing his bit. He reared up, and his
splendid eyes flashed fire; he understood his master.
But just as the Patagonian caught hold of the horse’s mane, Glenarvan
seized his arm with a convulsive grip, and said, pointing to the open
prairie.
“You are going away?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian, understanding his gesture. Then he said a few
words in Spanish, which meant: “-Thaouka; good horse; quick; will draw
all the wolves away after him-.”
“Oh, Thalcave,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Quick, quick!” replied the Indian, while Glenarvan said, in a broken,
agitated voice to Robert:
“Robert, my child, do you hear him? He wants to sacrifice himself for
us. He wants to rush away over the Pampas, and turn off the wolves from
us by attracting them to himself.”
“Friend Thalcave,” returned Robert, throwing himself at the feet of the
Patagonian, “friend Thalcave, don’t leave us!”
“No,” said Glenarvan, “he shall not leave us.”
And turning toward the Indian, he said, pointing to the frightened
horses, “Let us go together.”
“No,” replied Thalcave, catching his meaning. “Bad beasts; frightened;
Thaouka, good horse.”
“Be it so then!” returned Glenarvan. “Thalcave will not leave you,
Robert. He teaches me what I must do. It is for me to go, and for him to
stay by you.”
Then seizing Thaouka’s bridle, he said, “I am going, Thalcave, not you.”
“No,” replied the Patagonian quietly.
“I am,” exclaimed Glenarvan, snatching the bridle out of his hands. “I,
myself! Save this boy, Thalcave! I commit him to you.”
Glenarvan was so excited that he mixed up English words with his
Spanish. But what mattered the language at such a terrible moment. A
gesture was enough. The two men understood each other.
However, Thalcave would not give in, and though every instant’s delay
but increased the danger, the discussion continued.
Neither Glenarvan nor Thalcave appeared inclined to yield. The Indian
had dragged his companion towards the entrance of the RAMADA, and showed
him the prairie, making him understand that now was the time when it was
clear from the wolves; but that not a moment was to be lost, for should
this maneuver not succeed, it would only render the situation of those
left behind more desperate, and that he knew his horse well enough to
be able to trust his wonderful lightness and swiftness to save them
all. But Glenarvan was blind and obstinate, and determined to sacrifice
himself at all hazards, when suddenly he felt himself violently pushed
back. Thaouka pranced up, and reared himself bolt upright on his hind
legs, and made a bound over the barrier of fire, while a clear, young
voice called out:
“God save you, my lord.”
But before either Thalcave or Glenarvan could get more than a glimpse of
the boy, holding on fast by Thaouka’s mane, he was out of sight.
“Robert! oh you unfortunate boy,” cried Glenarvan.
But even Thalcave did not catch the words, for his voice was drowned
in the frightful uproar made by the wolves, who had dashed off at a
tremendous speed on the track of the horse.
Thalcave and Glenarvan rushed out of the RAMADA. Already the plain had
recovered its tranquillity, and all that could be seen of the red wolves
was a moving line far away in the distant darkness.
Glenarvan sank prostrate on the ground, and clasped his hands
despairingly. He looked at Thalcave, who smiled with his accustomed
calmness, and said:
“Thaouka, good horse. Brave boy. He will save himself!”
“And suppose he falls?” said Glenarvan.
“He’ll not fall.”
But notwithstanding Thalcave’s assurances, poor Glenarvan spent the rest
of the night in torturing anxiety. He seemed quite insensible now to the
danger they had escaped through the departure of the wolves, and would
have hastened immediately after Robert if the Indian had not kept
him back by making him understand the impossibility of their horses
overtaking Thaouka; and also that boy and horse had outdistanced the
wolves long since, and that it would be useless going to look for them
till daylight.
At four o’clock morning began to dawn. A pale glimmer appeared in the
horizon, and pearly drops of dew lay thick on the plain and on the tall
grass, already stirred by the breath of day.
The time for starting had arrived.
“Now!” cried Thalcave, “come.”
Glenarvan made no reply, but took Robert’s horse and sprung into the
saddle. Next minute both men were galloping at full speed toward the
west, in the line in which their companions ought to be advancing. They
dashed along at a prodigious rate for a full hour, dreading every minute
to come across the mangled corpse of Robert. Glenarvan had torn the
flanks of his horse with his spurs in his mad haste, when at last
gun-shots were heard in the distance at regular intervals, as if fired
as a signal.
“There they are!” exclaimed Glenarvan; and both he and the Indian urged
on their steeds to a still quicker pace, till in a few minutes more they
came up to the little detachment conducted by Paganel. A cry broke from
Glenarvan’s lips, for Robert was there, alive and well, still mounted on
the superb Thaouka, who neighed loudly with delight at the sight of his
master.
“Oh, my child, my child!” cried Glenarvan, with indescribable tenderness
in his tone.
Both he and Robert leaped to the ground, and flung themselves into each
other’s arms. Then the Indian hugged the brave boy in his arms.
“He is alive, he is alive,” repeated Glenarvan again and again.
“Yes,” replied Robert; “and thanks to Thaouka.”
This great recognition of his favorite’s services was wholly unexpected
by the Indian, who was talking to him that minute, caressing and
speaking to him, as if human blood flowed in the veins of the proud
creature. Then turning to Paganel, he pointed to Robert, and said, “A
brave!” and employing the Indian metaphor, he added, “his spurs did not
tremble!”
But Glenarvan put his arms round the boy and said, “Why wouldn’t you let
me or Thalcave run the risk of this last chance of deliverance, my son?”
“My lord,” replied the boy in tones of gratitude, “wasn’t it my place
to do it? Thalcave has saved my life already, and you--you are going to
save my father.”
CHAPTER XX STRANGE SIGNS
AFTER the first joy of the meeting was over, Paganel and his party,
except perhaps the Major, were only conscious of one feeling--they were
dying of thirst. Most fortunately for them, the Guamini ran not far off,
and about seven in the morning the little troop reached the inclosure on
its banks. The precincts were strewed with the dead wolves, and judging
from their numbers, it was evident how violent the attack must have
been, and how desperate the resistance.
As soon as the travelers had drunk their fill, they began to demolish
the breakfast prepared in the RAMADA, and did ample justice to the
extraordinary viands. The NANDOU fillets were pronounced first-rate, and
the armadillo was delicious.
“To eat moderately,” said Paganel, “would be positive ingratitude to
Providence. We must eat immoderately.”
And so they did, but were none the worse for it. The water of the
Guamini greatly aided digestion apparently.
Glenarvan, however, was not going to imitate Hannibal at Capua, and
at ten o’clock next morning gave the signal for starting. The leathern
bottles were filled with water, and the day’s march commenced. The
horses were so well rested that they were quite fresh again, and kept up
a canter almost constantly. The country was not so parched up now, and
consequently less sterile, but still a desert. No incident occurred of
any importance during the 2d and 3d of November, and in the evening
they reached the boundary of the Pampas, and camped for the night on the
frontiers of the province of Buenos Ayres. Two-thirds of their journey
was now accomplished. It was twenty-two days since they left the Bay of
Talcahuano, and they had gone 450 miles.
Next morning they crossed the conventional line which separates the
Argentine plains from the region of the Pampas. It was here that
Thalcave hoped to meet the Caciques, in whose hands, he had no doubt,
Harry Grant and his men were prisoners.
From the time of leaving the Guamini, there was marked change in the
temperature, to the great relief of the travelers. It was much cooler,
thanks to the violent and cold winds from Patagonia, which constantly
agitate the atmospheric waves. Horses and men were glad enough of this,
after what they had suffered from the heat and drought, and they felt
animated with fresh ardor and confidence. But contrary to what Thalcave
had said, the whole district appeared uninhabited, or rather abandoned.
Their route often led past or went right through small lagoons,
sometimes of fresh water, sometimes of brackish. On the banks and bushes
about these, king-wrens were hopping about and larks singing joyously in
concert with the tangaras, the rivals in color of the brilliant humming
birds. On the thorny bushes the nests of the ANNUBIS swung to and fro
in the breeze like an Indian hammock; and on the shore magnificent
flamingos stalked in regular order like soldiers marching, and spread
out their flaming red wings. Their nests were seen in groups of
thousands, forming a complete town, about a foot high, and resembling a
truncated cone in shape. The flamingos did not disturb themselves in the
least at the approach of the travelers, but this did not suit Paganel.
“I have been very desirous a long time,” he said to the Major, “to see a
flamingo flying.”
“All right,” replied McNabbs.
“Now while I have the opportunity, I should like to make the most of
it,” continued Paganel.
“Very well; do it, Paganel.”
“Come with me, then, Major, and you too Robert. I want witnesses.”
And all three went off towards the flamingos, leaving the others to go
on in advance.
As soon as they were near enough, Paganel fired, only loading his gun,
however, with powder, for he would not shed even the blood of a bird
uselessly. The shot made the whole assemblage fly away -en masse-, while
Paganel watched them attentively through his spectacles.
“Well, did you see them fly?” he asked the Major.
“Certainly I did,” was the reply. “I could not help seeing them, unless
I had been blind.”
“Well and did you think they resembled feathered arrows when they were
flying?”
“Not in the least.”
“Not a bit,” added Robert.
“I was sure of it,” said the geographer, with a satisfied air; “and
yet the very proudest of modest men, my illustrious countryman,
Chateaubriand, made the inaccurate comparison. Oh, Robert, comparison is
the most dangerous figure in rhetoric that I know. Mind you avoid it all
your life, and only employ it in a last extremity.”
“Are you satisfied with your experiment?” asked McNabbs.
“Delighted.”
“And so am I. But we had better push on now, for your illustrious
Chateaubriand has put us more than a mile behind.”
On rejoining their companions, they found Glenarvan busily engaged
in conversation with the Indian, though apparently unable to make him
understand. Thalcave’s gaze was fixed intently on the horizon, and his
face wore a puzzled expression.
The moment Paganel came in sight, Glenarvan called out:
“Come along, friend Paganel. Thalcave and I can’t understand each other
at all.”
After a few minute’s talk with the Patagonian, the interpreter turned to
Glenarvan and said:
“Thalcave is quite astonished at the fact, and certainly it is very
strange that there are no Indians, nor even traces of any to be seen
in these plains, for they are generally thick with companies of them,
either driving along cattle stolen from the ESTANCIAS, or going to the
Andes to sell their zorillo cloths and plaited leather whips.”
“And what does Thalcave think is the reason?”
“He does not know; he is amazed and that’s all.”
“But what description of Indians did he reckon on meeting in this part
of the Pampas?”
“Just the very ones who had the foreign prisoners in their hands,
the natives under the rule of the Caciques Calfoucoura, Catriel, or
Yanchetruz.”
“Who are these Caciques?”
“Chiefs that were all powerful thirty years ago, before they were driven
beyond the sierras. Since then they have been reduced to subjection as
much as Indians can be, and they scour the plains of the Pampas and
the province of Buenos Ayres. I quite share Thalcave’s surprise at not
discovering any traces of them in regions which they usually infest as
SALTEADORES, or bandits.”
“And what must we do then?”
“I’ll go and ask him,” replied Paganel.
After a brief colloquy he returned and said:
“This is his advice, and very sensible it is, I think. He says we had
better continue our route to the east as far as Fort Independence, and
if we don’t get news of Captain Grant there we shall hear, at any rate,
what has become of the Indians of the Argentine plains.”
“Is Fort Independence far away?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, it is in the Sierra Tandil, a distance of about sixty miles.”
“And when shall we arrive?”
“The day after to-morrow, in the evening.”
Glenarvan was considerably disconcerted by this circumstance. Not to
find an Indian where in general there were only too many, was so unusual
that there must be some grave cause for it; but worse still if Harry
Grant were a prisoner in the hands of any of those tribes, had he been
dragged away with them to the north or south? Glenarvan felt that, cost
what it might, they must not lose his track, and therefore decided to
follow the advice of Thalcave, and go to the village of Tandil. They
would find some one there to speak to, at all events.
About four o’clock in the evening a hill, which seemed a mountain in so
flat a country, was sighted in the distance. This was Sierra Tapalquem,
at the foot of which the travelers camped that night.
The passage in the morning over this sierra, was accomplished without
the slightest difficulty; after having crossed the Cordillera of the
Andes, it was easy work to ascend the gentle heights of such a sierra as
this. The horses scarcely slackened their speed. At noon they passed the
deserted fort of Tapalquem, the first of the chain of forts which defend
the southern frontiers from Indian marauders. But to the increasing
surprise of Thalcave, they did not come across even the shadow of an
Indian. About the middle of the day, however, three flying horsemen,
well mounted and well armed came in sight, gazed at them for an instant,
and then sped away with inconceivable rapidity. Glenarvan was furious.
“Gauchos,” said the Patagonian, designating them by the name which had
caused such a fiery discussion between the Major and Paganel.
“Ah! the Gauchos,” replied McNabbs. “Well, Paganel, the north wind is
not blowing to-day. What do you think of those fellows yonder?”
“I think they look like regular bandits.”
“And how far is it from looking to being, my good geographer?”
“Only just a step, my dear Major.”
Paganel’s admission was received with a general laugh, which did not in
the least disconcert him. He went on talking about the Indians however,
and made this curious observation:
“I have read somewhere,” he said, “that about the Arabs there is a
peculiar expression of ferocity in the mouth, while the eyes have a
kindly look. Now, in these American savages it is quite the reverse, for
the eye has a particularly villainous aspect.”
No physiognomist by profession could have better characterized the
Indian race.
But desolate as the country appeared, Thalcave was on his guard against
surprises, and gave orders to his party to form themselves in a close
platoon. It was a useless precaution, however; for that same evening,
they camped for the night in an immense TOLDERIA, which they not only
found perfectly empty, but which the Patagonian declared, after he had
examined it all round, must have been uninhabited for a long time.
Next day, the first ESTANCIAS of the Sierra Tandil came in sight. The
ESTANCIAS are large cattle stations for breeding cattle; but Thalcave
resolved not to stop at any of them, but to go straight on to Fort
Independence. They passed several farms fortified by battlements and
surrounded by a deep moat, the principal building being encircled by a
terrace, from which the inhabitants could fire down on the marauders in
the plain. Glenarvan might, perhaps, have got some information at these
houses, but it was the surest plan to go straight on to the village of
Tandil. Accordingly they went on without stopping, fording the RIO of
Los Huasos and also the Chapaleofu, a few miles further on. Soon they
were treading the grassy slopes of the first ridges of the Sierra
Tandil, and an hour afterward the village appeared in the depths of
a narrow gorge, and above it towered the lofty battlements of Fort
Independence.
CHAPTER XXI A FALSE TRAIL
THE Sierra Tandil rises a thousand feet above the level of the sea.
It is a primordial chain--that is to say, anterior to all organic and
metamorphic creation. It is formed of a semi-circular ridge of gneiss
hills, covered with fine short grass. The district of Tandil, to which
it has given its name, includes all the south of the Province of Buenos
Ayres, and terminates in a river which conveys north all the RIOS that
take their rise on its slopes.
After making a short ascent up the sierra, they reached the postern
gate, so carelessly guarded by an Argentine sentinel, that they passed
through without difficulty, a circumstance which betokened extreme
negligence or extreme security.
A few minutes afterward the Commandant appeared in person. He was a
vigorous man about fifty years of age, of military aspect, with grayish
hair, and an imperious eye, as far as one could see through the clouds
of tobacco smoke which escaped from his short pipe. His walk reminded
Paganel instantly of the old subalterns in his own country.
Thalcave was spokesman, and addressing the officer, presented Lord
Glenarvan and his companions. While he was speaking, the Commandant
kept staring fixedly at Paganel in rather an embarrassing manner. The
geographer could not understand what he meant by it, and was just about
to interrogate him, when the Commandant came forward, and seizing both
his hands in the most free-and-easy fashion, said in a joyous voice, in
the mother tongue of the geographer:
“A Frenchman!”
“Yes, a Frenchman,” replied Paganel.
“Ah! delightful! Welcome, welcome. I am a Frenchman too,” he added,
shaking Paganel’s hand with such vigor as to be almost alarming.
“Is he a friend of yours, Paganel?” asked the Major.
“Yes,” said Paganel, somewhat proudly. “One has friends in every
division of the globe.”
After he had succeeded in disengaging his hand, though not without
difficulty, from the living vise in which it was held, a lively
conversation ensued. Glenarvan would fain have put in a word about the
business on hand, but the Commandant related his entire history, and was
not in a mood to stop till he had done. It was evident that the worthy
man must have left his native country many years back, for his mother
tongue had grown unfamiliar, and if he had not forgotten the words he
certainly did not remember how to put them together. He spoke more like
a negro belonging to a French colony.
The fact was that the Governor of Fort Independence was a French
sergeant, an old comrade of Parachapee. He had never left the fort since
it had been built in 1828; and, strange to say, he commanded it with the
consent of the Argentine Government. He was a man about fifty years of
age, a Basque by birth, and his name was Manuel Ipharaguerre, so that
he was almost a Spaniard. A year after his arrival in the country he was
naturalized, took service in the Argentine army, and married an Indian
girl, who was then nursing twin babies six months old--two boys, be it
understood, for the good wife of the Commandant would have never thought
of presenting her husband with girls. Manuel could not conceive of any
state but a military one, and he hoped in due time, with the help of
God, to offer the republic a whole company of young soldiers.
“You saw them. Charming! good soldiers are Jose, Juan, and Miquele!
Pepe, seven year old; Pepe can handle a gun.”
Pepe, hearing himself complimented, brought his two little feet
together, and presented arms with perfect grace.
“He’ll get on!” added the sergeant. “He’ll be colonel-major or
brigadier-general some day.”
Sergeant Manuel seemed so enchanted that it would have been useless
to express a contrary opinion, either to the profession of arms or
the probable future of his children. He was happy, and as Goethe says,
“Nothing that makes us happy is an illusion.”
All this talk took up a quarter of an hour, to the great astonishment of
Thalcave. The Indian could not understand how so many words could come
out of one throat. No one interrupted the Sergeant, but all things
come to an end, and at last he was silent, but not till he had made
his guests enter his dwelling, and be presented to Madame Ipharaguerre.
Then, and not till then, did he ask his guests what had procured him
the honor of their visit. Now or never was the moment to explain, and
Paganel, seizing the chance at once, began an account of their journey
across the Pampas, and ended by inquiring the reason of the Indians
having deserted the country.
“Ah! there was no one!” replied the Sergeant, shrugging his
shoulders--“really no one, and us, too, our arms crossed! Nothing to
do!”
“But why?”
“War.”
“War?”
“Yes, civil war between the Paraguayans and Buenos Ayriens,” replied the
Sergeant.
“Well?”
“Well, Indians all in the north, in the rear of General Flores. Indian
pillagers find pillage there.”
“But where are the Caciques?”
“Caciques are with them.”
“What! Catriel?”
“There is no Catriel.”
“And Calfoucoura?”
“There is no Calfoucoura.”
“And is there no Yanchetruz?”
“No; no Yanchetruz.”
The reply was interpreted by Thalcave, who shook his head and gave an
approving look. The Patagonian was either unaware of, or had forgotten
that civil war was decimating the two parts of the republic--a war
which ultimately required the intervention of Brazil. The Indians have
everything to gain by these intestine strifes, and can not lose such
fine opportunities of plunder. There was no doubt the Sergeant was right
in assigning war then as the cause of the forsaken appearance of the
plains.
But this circumstance upset all Glenarvan’s projects, for if Harry Grant
was a prisoner in the hands of the Caciques, he must have been dragged
north with them. How and where should they ever find him if that were
the case? Should they attempt a perilous and almost useless journey to
the northern border of the Pampas? It was a serious question which would
need to be well talked over.
However, there was one inquiry more to make to the Sergeant; and it was
the Major who thought of it, for all the others looked at each other in
silence.
“Had the Sergeant heard whether any Europeans were prisoners in the
hands of the Caciques?”
Manuel looked thoughtful for a few minutes, like a man trying to ransack
his memory. At last he said:
“Yes.”
“Ah!” said Glenarvan, catching at the fresh hope.
They all eagerly crowded round the Sergeant, exclaiming,
“Tell us, tell us.”
“It was some years ago,” replied Manuel. “Yes; all I heard was that some
Europeans were prisoners, but I never saw them.”
“You are making a mistake,” said Glenarvan. “It can’t be some years ago;
the date of the shipwreck is explicitly given. The BRITANNIA was wrecked
in June, 1862. It is scarcely two years ago.”
“Oh, more than that, my Lord.”
“Impossible!” said Paganel.
“Oh, but it must be. It was when Pepe was born. There were two
prisoners.”
“No, three!” said Glenarvan.
“Two!” replied the Sergeant, in a positive tone.
“Two?” echoed Glenarvan, much surprised. “Two Englishmen?”
“No, no. Who is talking of Englishmen? No; a Frenchman and an Italian.”
“An Italian who was massacred by the Poyuches?” exclaimed Paganel.
“Yes; and I heard afterward that the Frenchman was saved.”
“Saved!” exclaimed young Robert, his very life hanging on the lips of
the Sergeant.
“Yes; delivered out of the hands of the Indians.”
Paganel struck his forehead with an air of desperation, and said at
last,
“Ah! I understand. It is all clear now; everything is explained.”
“But what is it?” asked Glenarvan, with as much impatience.
“My friends,” replied Paganel, taking both Robert’s hands in his own,
“we must resign ourselves to a sad disaster. We have been on a wrong
track. The prisoner mentioned is not the captain at all, but one of my
own countrymen; and his companion, who was assassinated by the Poyuches,
was Marco Vazello. The Frenchman was dragged along by the cruel Indians
several times as far as the shores of the Colorado, but managed at
length to make his escape, and return to Colorado. Instead of following
the track of Harry Grant, we have fallen on that of young Guinnard.”
This announcement was heard with profound silence. The mistake was
palpable. The details given by the Sergeant, the nationality of the
prisoner, the murder of his companions, his escape from the hands of
the Indians, all evidenced the fact. Glenarvan looked at Thalcave with a
crestfallen face, and the Indian, turning to the Sergeant, asked whether
he had never heard of three English captives.
“Never,” replied Manuel. “They would have known of them at Tandil, I am
sure. No, it cannot be.”
After this, there was nothing further to do at Fort Independence but to
shake hands with the Commandant, and thank him and take leave.
Glenarvan was in despair at this complete overthrow of his hopes,
and Robert walked silently beside him, with his eyes full of tears.
Glenarvan could not find a word of comfort to say to him. Paganel
gesticulated and talked away to himself. The Major never opened his
mouth, nor Thalcave, whose -amour propre-, as an Indian, seemed quite
wounded by having allowed himself to go on a wrong scent. No one,
however, would have thought of reproaching him for an error so
pardonable.
They went back to the FONDA, and had supper; but it was a gloomy party
that surrounded the table. It was not that any one of them regretted the
fatigue they had so heedlessly endured or the dangers they had run, but
they felt their hope of success was gone, for there was no chance of
coming across Captain Grant between the Sierra Tandil and the sea, as
Sergeant Manuel must have heard if any prisoners had fallen into the
hands of the Indians on the coast of the Atlantic. Any event of this
nature would have attracted the notice of the Indian traders who traffic
between Tandil and Carmen, at the mouth of the Rio Negro. The best thing
to do now was to get to the DUNCAN as quick as possible at the appointed
rendezvous.
Paganel asked Glenarvan, however, to let him have the document again, on
the faith of which they had set out on so bootless a search. He read it
over and over, as if trying to extract some new meaning out of it.
“Yet nothing can be clearer,” said Glenarvan; “it gives the date of the
shipwreck, and the manner, and the place of the captivity in the most
categorical manner.”
“That it does not--no, it does not!” exclaimed Paganel, striking the
table with his fist. “Since Harry Grant is not in the Pampas, he is not
in America; but where he is the document must say, and it shall say, my
friends, or my name is not Jacques Paganel any longer.”
CHAPTER XXII THE FLOOD
A DISTANCE of 150 miles separates Fort Independence from the shores of
the Atlantic. Unless unexpected and certainly improbable delays should
occur, in four days Glenarvan would rejoin the DUNCAN. But to return on
board without Captain Grant, and after having so completely failed in
his search, was what he could not bring himself to do. Consequently,
when next day came, he gave no orders for departure; the Major took
it upon himself to have the horses saddled, and make all preparations.
Thanks to his activity, next morning at eight o’clock the little troop
was descending the grassy slopes of the Sierra.
Glenarvan, with Robert at his side, galloped along without saying a
word. His bold, determined nature made it impossible to take failure
quietly. His heart throbbed as if it would burst, and his head was
burning. Paganel, excited by the difficulty, was turning over and over
the words of the document, and trying to discover some new meaning.
Thalcave was perfectly silent, and left Thaouka to lead the way. The
Major, always confident, remained firm at his post, like a man on whom
discouragement takes no hold. Tom Austin and his two sailors shared the
dejection of their master. A timid rabbit happened to run across their
path, and the superstitious men looked at each other in dismay.
“A bad omen,” said Wilson.
“Yes, in the Highlands,” repeated Mulrady.
“What’s bad in the Highlands is not better here,” returned Wilson
sententiously.
Toward noon they had crossed the Sierra, and descended into the
undulating plains which extend to the sea. Limpid RIOS intersected these
plains, and lost themselves among the tall grasses. The ground had once
more become a dead level, the last mountains of the Pampas were passed,
and a long carpet of verdure unrolled itself over the monotonous prairie
beneath the horses’ tread.
Hitherto the weather had been fine, but to-day the sky presented
anything but a reassuring appearance. The heavy vapors, generated by the
high temperature of the preceding days, hung in thick clouds, which ere
long would empty themselves in torrents of rain. Moreover, the vicinity
of the Atlantic, and the prevailing west wind, made the climate of
this district particularly damp. This was evident by the fertility
and abundance of the pasture and its dark color. However, the clouds
remained unbroken for the present, and in the evening, after a brisk
gallop of forty miles, the horses stopped on the brink of deep CANADAS,
immense natural trenches filled with water. No shelter was near, and
ponchos had to serve both for tents and coverlets as each man lay down
and fell asleep beneath the threatening sky.
Next day the presence of water became still more sensibly felt; it
seemed to exude from every pore of the ground. Soon large ponds, some
just beginning to form, and some already deep, lay across the route to
the east. As long as they had only to deal with lagoons, circumscribed
pieces of water unencumbered with aquatic plants, the horses could get
through well enough, but when they encountered moving sloughs called
PENTANOS, it was harder work. Tall grass blocked them up, and they were
involved in the peril before they were aware.
These bogs had already proved fatal to more than one living thing, for
Robert, who had got a good bit ahead of the party, came rushing back at
full gallop, calling out:
“Monsieur Paganel, Monsieur Paganel, a forest of horns.”
“What!” exclaimed the geographer; “you have found a forest of horns?”
“Yes, yes, or at any rate a coppice.”
“A coppice!” replied Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. “My boy, you are
dreaming.”
“I am not dreaming, and you will see for yourself. Well, this is a
strange country. They sow horns, and they sprout up like wheat. I wish I
could get some of the seed.”
“The boy is really speaking seriously,” said the Major.
“Yes, Mr. Major, and you will soon see I am right.”
The boy had not been mistaken, for presently they found themselves in
front of an immense field of horns, regularly planted and stretching
far out of sight. It was a complete copse, low and close packed, but a
strange sort.
“Well,” said Robert.
“This is peculiar certainly,” said Paganel, and he turned round to
question Thalcave on the subject.
“The horns come out of the ground,” replied the Indian, “but the oxen
are down below.”
“What!” exclaimed Paganel; “do you mean to say that a whole herd was
caught in that mud and buried alive?”
“Yes,” said the Patagonian.
And so it was. An immense herd had been suffocated side by side in this
enormous bog, and this was not the first occurrence of the kind which
had taken place in the Argentine plains.
An hour afterward and the field of horns lay two miles behind.
Thalcave was somewhat anxiously observing a state of things which
appeared to him unusual. He frequently stopped and raised himself on his
stirrups and looked around. His great height gave him a commanding view
of the whole horizon; but after a keen rapid survey, he quickly resumed
his seat and went on. About a mile further he stopped again, and leaving
the straight route, made a circuit of some miles north and south, and
then returned and fell back in his place at the head of the troop,
without saying a syllable as to what he hoped or feared. This strange
behavior, several times repeated, made Glenarvan very uneasy, and quite
puzzled Paganel. At last, at Glenarvan’s request, he asked the Indian
about it.
Thalcave replied that he was astonished to see the plains so saturated
with water. Never, to his knowledge, since he had followed the calling
of guide, had he found the ground in this soaking condition. Even in the
rainy season, the Argentine plains had always been passable.
“But what is the cause of this increasing humidity?” said Paganel.
“I do not know, and what if I did?”
“Could it be owing to the RIOS of the Sierra being swollen to
overflowing by the heavy rains?”
“Sometimes they are.”
“And is it the case now?”
“Perhaps.”
Paganel was obliged to be content with this unsatisfactory reply, and
went back to Glenarvan to report the result of his conversation.
“And what does Thalcave advise us to do?” said Glenarvan.
Paganel went back to the guide and asked him.
“Go on fast,” was the reply.
This was easier said than done. The horses soon tired of treading over
ground that gave way at every step. It sank each moment more and more,
till it seemed half under water.
They quickened their pace, but could not go fast enough to escape the
water, which rolled in great sheets at their feet. Before two hours
the cataracts of the sky opened and deluged the plain in true tropical
torrents of rain. Never was there a finer occasion for displaying
philosophic equanimity. There was no shelter, and nothing for it but
to bear it stolidly. The ponchos were streaming like the overflowing
gutter-spouts on the roof of a house, and the unfortunate horsemen had
to submit to a double bath, for their horses dashed up the water to
their waists at every step.
In this drenching, shivering state, and worn out with fatigue, they came
toward evening to a miserable RANCHO, which could only have been called
a shelter by people not very fastidious, and certainly only travelers in
extremity would even have entered it; but Glenarvan and his companions
had no choice, and were glad enough to burrow in this wretched hovel,
though it would have been despised by even a poor Indian of the Pampas.
A miserable fire of grass was kindled, which gave out more smoke than
heat, and was very difficult to keep alight, as the torrents of rain
which dashed against the ruined cabin outside found their way within and
fell down in large drops from the roof. Twenty times over the fire would
have been extinguished if Mulrady and Wilson had not kept off the water.
The supper was a dull meal, and neither appetizing nor reviving. Only
the Major seemed to eat with any relish. The impassive McNabbs was
superior to all circumstances. Paganel, Frenchman as he was, tried to
joke, but the attempt was a failure.
“My jests are damp,” he said, “they miss fire.”
The only consolation in such circumstances was to sleep, and accordingly
each one lay down and endeavored to find in slumber a temporary
forgetfulness of his discomforts and his fatigues. The night was stormy,
and the planks of the rancho cracked before the blast as if every
instant they would give way. The poor horses outside, exposed to all the
inclemency of the weather, were making piteous moans, and their masters
were suffering quite as much inside the ruined RANCHO. However, sleep
overpowered them at length. Robert was the first to close his eyes and
lean his head against Glenarvan’s shoulder, and soon all the rest were
soundly sleeping too under the guardian eye of Heaven.
The night passed safely, and no one stirred till Thaouka woke them by
tapping vigorously against the RANCHO with his hoof. He knew it was time
to start, and at a push could give the signal as well as his master.
They owed the faithful creature too much to disobey him, and set off
immediately.
The rain had abated, but floods of water still covered the ground.
Paganel, on consulting his map, came to the conclusion that the RIOS
Grande and Vivarota, into which the water from the plains generally
runs, must have been united in one large bed several miles in extent.
Extreme haste was imperative, for all their lives depended on it. Should
the inundation increase, where could they find refuge? Not a single
elevated point was visible on the whole circle of the horizon, and on
such level plains water would sweep along with fearful rapidity.
The horses were spurred on to the utmost, and Thaouka led the way,
bounding over the water as if it had been his natural element. Certainly
he might justly have been called a sea-horse--better than many of the
amphibious animals who bear that name.
All of a sudden, about ten in the morning, Thaouka betrayed symptoms
of violent agitation. He kept turning round toward the south, neighing
continually, and snorting with wide open nostrils. He reared violently,
and Thalcave had some difficulty in keeping his seat. The foam from his
mouth was tinged with blood from the action of the bit, pulled tightly
by his master’s strong hand, and yet the fiery animal would not be
still. Had he been free, his master knew he would have fled away to the
north as fast as his legs would have carried him.
“What is the matter with Thaouka?” asked Paganel. “Is he bitten by the
leeches? They are very voracious in the Argentine streams.”
“No,” replied the Indian.
“Is he frightened at something, then?”
“Yes, he scents danger.”
“What danger?”
“I don’t know.”
But, though no danger was apparent to the eye, the ear could catch the
sound of a murmuring noise beyond the limits of the horizon, like the
coming in of the tide. Soon a confused sound was heard of bellowing
and neighing and bleating, and about a mile to the south immense flocks
appeared, rushing and tumbling over each other in the greatest disorder,
as they hurried pell-mell along with inconceivable rapidity. They raised
such a whirlwind of water in their course that it was impossible to
distinguish them clearly. A hundred whales of the largest size could
hardly have dashed up the ocean waves more violently.
“-Anda, anda!-” (quick, quick), shouted Thalcave, in a voice like
thunder.
“What is it, then?” asked Paganel.
“The rising,” replied Thalcave.
“He means an inundation,” exclaimed Paganel, flying with the others
after Thalcave, who had spurred on his horse toward the north.
It was high time, for about five miles south an immense towering wave
was seen advancing over the plain, and changing the whole country into
an ocean. The tall grass disappeared before it as if cut down by a
scythe, and clumps of mimosas were torn up and drifted about like
floating islands.
The wave was speeding on with the rapidity of a racehorse, and the
travelers fled before it like a cloud before a storm-wind. They looked
in vain for some harbor of refuge, and the terrified horses galloped so
wildly along that the riders could hardly keep their saddles.
“-Anda, anda!-” shouted Thalcave, and again they spurred on the poor
animals till the blood ran from their lacerated sides. They stumbled
every now and then over great cracks in the ground, or got entangled in
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