EIGHT HUNDRED LEAGUES ON THE AMAZON
By Jules Verne
PART I. THE GIANT RAFT
CHAPTER I. A CAPTAIN OF THE WOODS
-“P h y j s l y d d q f d z x g a s g z z q q e h x g k f n d r x u j u
g I o c y t d x v k s b x h h u y p o h d v y r y m h u h p u y d k j o
x p h e t o z l s l e t n p m v f f o v p d p a j x h y y n o j y g g a
y m e q y n f u q l n m v l y f g s u z m q I z t l b q q y u g s q e u
b v n r c r e d g r u z b l r m x y u h q h p z d r r g c r o h e p q x
u f I v v r p l p h o n t h v d d q f h q s n t z h h h n f e p m q k y
u u e x k t o g z g k y u u m f v I j d q d p z j q s y k r p l x h x q
r y m v k l o h h h o t o z v d k s p p s u v j h d.”-
THE MAN who held in his hand the document of which this strange
assemblage of letters formed the concluding paragraph remained for some
moments lost in thought.
It contained about a hundred of these lines, with the letters at even
distances, and undivided into words. It seemed to have been written many
years before, and time had already laid his tawny finger on the sheet of
good stout paper which was covered with the hieroglyphics.
On what principle had these letters been arranged? He who held the paper
was alone able to tell. With such cipher language it is as with the
locks of some of our iron safes--in either case the protection is the
same. The combinations which they lead to can be counted by millions,
and no calculator’s life would suffice to express them. Some particular
“word” has to be known before the lock of the safe will act, and some
“cipher” is necessary before that cryptogram can be read.
He who had just reperused the document was but a simple “captain of the
woods.” Under the name of -“Capitaes do Mato”- are known in Brazil those
individuals who are engaged in the recapture of fugitive slaves. The
institution dates from 1722. At that period anti-slavery ideas had
entered the minds of a few philanthropists, and more than a century had
to elapse before the mass of the people grasped and applied them. That
freedom was a right, that the very first of the natural rights of
man was to be free and to belong only to himself, would seem to be
self-evident, and yet thousands of years had to pass before the glorious
thought was generally accepted, and the nations of the earth had the
courage to proclaim it.
In 1852, the year in which our story opens, there were still slaves in
Brazil, and as a natural consequence, captains of the woods to pursue
them. For certain reasons of political economy the hour of general
emancipation had been delayed, but the black had at this date the right
to ransom himself, the children which were born to him were born free.
The day was not far distant when the magnificent country, into which
could be put three-quarters of the continent of Europe, would no longer
count a single slave among its ten millions of inhabitants.
The occupation of the captains of the woods was doomed, and at the
period we speak of the advantages obtainable from the capture of
fugitives were rapidly diminishing. While, however, the calling
continued sufficiently profitable, the captains of the woods formed
a peculiar class of adventurers, principally composed of freedmen and
deserters--of not very enviable reputation. The slave hunters in fact
belonged to the dregs of society, and we shall not be far wrong in
assuming that the man with the cryptogram was a fitting comrade for his
fellow -“capitaes do mato.”- Torres--for that was his name--unlike the
majority of his companions, was neither half-breed, Indian, nor negro.
He was a white of Brazilian origin, and had received a better education
than befitted his present condition. One of those unclassed men who are
found so frequently in the distant countries of the New World, at a
time when the Brazilian law still excluded mulattoes and others of mixed
blood from certain employments, it was evident that if such exclusion
had affected him, it had done so on account of his worthless character,
and not because of his birth.
Torres at the present moment was not, however, in Brazil. He had just
passed the frontier, and was wandering in the forests of Peru, from
which issue the waters of the Upper Amazon.
He was a man of about thirty years of age, on whom the fatigues of a
precarious existence seemed, thanks to an exceptional temperament and
an iron constitution, to have had no effect. Of middle height, broad
shoulders, regular features, and decided gait, his face was tanned with
the scorching air of the tropics. He had a thick black beard, and eyes
lost under contracting eyebrows, giving that swift but hard glance
so characteristic of insolent natures. Clothed as backwoodsmen are
generally clothed, not over elaborately, his garments bore witness to
long and roughish wear. On his head, stuck jauntily on one side, was
a leather hat with a large brim. Trousers he had of coarse wool, which
were tucked into the tops of the thick, heavy boots which formed the
most substantial part of his attire, and over all, and hiding all, was a
faded yellowish poncho.
But if Torres was a captain of the woods it was evident that he was not
now employed in that capacity, his means of attack and defense being
obviously insufficient for any one engaged in the pursuit of the blacks.
No firearms--neither gun nor revolver. In his belt only one of those
weapons, more sword than hunting-knife, called a -“manchetta,”- and
in addition he had an -“enchada,”- which is a sort of hoe, specially
employed in the pursuit of the tatous and agoutis which abound in the
forests of the Upper Amazon, where there is generally little to fear
from wild beasts.
On the 4th of May, 1852, it happened, then, that our adventurer was
deeply absorbed in the reading of the document on which his eyes
were fixed, and, accustomed as he was to live in the forests of South
America, he was perfectly indifferent to their splendors. Nothing could
distract his attention; neither the constant cry of the howling monkeys,
which St. Hillaire has graphically compared to the ax of the woodman as
he strikes the branches of the trees, nor the sharp jingle of the rings
of the rattlesnake (not an aggressive reptile, it is true, but one of
the most venomous); neither the bawling voice of the horned toad, the
most hideous of its kind, nor even the solemn and sonorous croak of
the bellowing frog, which, though it cannot equal the bull in size, can
surpass him in noise.
Torres heard nothing of all these sounds, which form, as it were, the
complex voice of the forests of the New World. Reclining at the foot
of a magnificent tree, he did not even admire the lofty boughs of that
-“pao ferro,”- or iron wood, with its somber bark, hard as the metal
which it replaces in the weapon and utensil of the Indian savage. No.
Lost in thought, the captain of the woods turned the curious paper again
and again between his fingers. With the cipher, of which he had the
secret, he assigned to each letter its true value. He read, he verified
the sense of those lines, unintelligible to all but him, and then he
smiled--and a most unpleasant smile it was.
Then he murmured some phrases in an undertone which none in the solitude
of the Peruvian forests could hear, and which no one, had he been
anywhere else, would have heard.
“Yes,” said he, at length, “here are a hundred lines very neatly
written, which, for some one that I know, have an importance that is
undoubted. That somebody is rich. It is a question of life or death
for him, and looked at in every way it will cost him something.” And,
scrutinizing the paper with greedy eyes, “At a conto (1) only for each
word of this last sentence it will amount to a considerable sum, and it
is this sentence which fixes the price. It sums up the entire document.
It gives their true names to true personages; but before trying to
understand it I ought to begin by counting the number of words it
contains, and even when this is done its true meaning may be missed.”
In saying this Torres began to count mentally.
“There are fifty-eight words, and that makes fifty-eight contos. With
nothing but that one could live in Brazil, in America, wherever one
wished, and even live without doing anything! And what would it be,
then, if all the words of this document were paid for at the same price?
It would be necessary to count by hundreds of contos. Ah! there is quite
a fortune here for me to realize if I am not the greatest of duffers!”
It seemed as though the hands of Torres felt the enormous sum, and
were already closing over the rolls of gold. Suddenly his thoughts took
another turn.
“At length,” he cried, “I see land; and I do not regret the voyage which
has led me from the coast of the Atlantic to the Upper Amazon. But this
man may quit America and go beyond the seas, and then how can I touch
him? But no! he is there, and if I climb to the top of this tree I can
see the roof under which he lives with his family!” Then seizing the
paper and shaking it with terrible meaning: “Before to-morrow I will be
in his presence; before to-morrow he will know that his honor and his
life are contained in these lines. And when he wishes to see the cipher
which permits him to read them, he--well, he will pay for it. He will
pay, if I wish it, with all his fortune, as he ought to pay with all his
blood! Ah! My worthy comrade, who gave me this cipher, who told me where
I could find his old colleague, and the name under which he has been
hiding himself for so many years, hardly suspects that he has made my
fortune!”
For the last time Torres glanced over the yellow paper, and then, after
carefully folding it, put it away into a little copper box which he used
for a purse. This box was about as big as a cigar case, and if what was
in it was all Torres possessed he would nowhere have been considered
a wealthy man. He had a few of all the coins of the neighboring
States--ten double-condors in gold of the United States of Colombia,
worth about a hundred francs; Brazilian reis, worth about as much;
golden sols of Peru, worth, say, double; some Chilian escudos, worth
fifty francs or more, and some smaller coins; but the lot would not
amount to more than five hundred francs, and Torres would have been
somewhat embarrassed had he been asked how or where he had got them. One
thing was certain, that for some months, after having suddenly abandoned
the trade of the slave hunter, which he carried on in the province of
Para, Torres had ascended the basin of the Amazon, crossed the
Brazilian frontier, and come into Peruvian territory. To such a man the
necessaries of life were but few; expenses he had none--nothing for his
lodging, nothing for his clothes. The forest provided his food, which in
the backwoods cost him naught. A few reis were enough for his tobacco,
which he bought at the mission stations or in the villages, and for a
trifle more he filled his flask with liquor. With little he could go
far.
When he had pushed the paper into the metal box, of which the lid shut
tightly with a snap, Torres, instead of putting it into the pocket of
his under-vest, thought to be extra careful, and placed it near him in
a hollow of a root of the tree beneath which he was sitting. This
proceeding, as it turned out, might have cost him dear.
It was very warm; the air was oppressive. If the church of the nearest
village had possessed a clock, the clock would have struck two, and,
coming with the wind, Torres would have heard it, for it was not more
than a couple of miles off. But he cared not as to time. Accustomed to
regulate his proceedings by the height of the sun, calculated with more
or less accuracy, he could scarcely be supposed to conduct himself with
military precision. He breakfasted or dined when he pleased or when he
could; he slept when and where sleep overtook him. If his table was not
always spread, his bed was always ready at the foot of some tree in the
open forest. And in other respects Torres was not difficult to please.
He had traveled during most of the morning, and having already eaten a
little, he began to feel the want of a snooze. Two or three hours’ rest
would, he thought, put him in a state to continue his road, and so he
laid himself down on the grass as comfortably as he could, and waited
for sleep beneath the ironwood-tree.
Torres was not one of those people who drop off to sleep without certain
preliminaries. HE was in the habit of drinking a drop or two of strong
liquor, and of then smoking a pipe; the spirits, he said, overexcited
the brain, and the tobacco smoke agreeably mingled with the general
haziness of his reverie.
Torres commenced, then, by applying to his lips a flask which he carried
at his side; it contained the liquor generally known under the name of
-“chica”- in Peru, and more particularly under that of -“caysuma”- in
the Upper Amazon, to which fermented distillation of the root of the
sweet manioc the captain had added a good dose of -“tafia”- or native
rum.
When Torres had drunk a little of this mixture he shook the flask, and
discovered, not without regret, that it was nearly empty.
“Must get some more,” he said very quietly.
Then taking out a short wooden pipe, he filled it with the coarse
and bitter tobacco of Brazil, of which the leaves belong to that
old -“petun”- introduced into France by Nicot, to whom we owe the
popularization of the most productive and widespread of the solanaceae.
This native tobacco had little in common with the fine qualities of our
present manufacturers; but Torres was not more difficult to please in
this matter than in others, and so, having filled his pipe, he struck a
match and applied the flame to a piece of that stick substance which
is the secretion of certain of the hymenoptera, and is known as “ants’
amadou.” With the amadou he lighted up, and after about a dozen whiffs
his eyes closed, his pipe escaped from his fingers, and he fell asleep.
(1) One thousand reis are equal to three francs, and a conto
of reis is worth three thousand francs.
CHAPTER II. ROBBER AND ROBBED
TORRES SLEPT for about half an hour, and then there was a noise among
the trees--a sound of light footsteps, as though some visitor was
walking with naked feet, and taking all the precaution he could lest
he should be heard. To have put himself on guard against any suspicious
approach would have been the first care of our adventurer had his eyes
been open at the time. But he had not then awoke, and what advanced
was able to arrive in his presence, at ten paces from the tree, without
being perceived.
It was not a man at all, it was a “guariba.”
Of all the prehensile-tailed monkeys which haunt the forests of the
Upper Amazon--graceful sahuis, horned sapajous, gray-coated monos,
sagouins which seem to wear a mask on their grimacing faces--the guariba
is without doubt the most eccentric. Of sociable disposition, and not
very savage, differing therein very greatly from the mucura, who is as
ferocious as he is foul, he delights in company, and generally travels
in troops. It was he whose presence had been signaled from afar by the
monotonous concert of voices, so like the psalm-singing of some church
choir. But if nature has not made him vicious, it is none the less
necessary to attack him with caution, and under any circumstances a
sleeping traveler ought not to leave himself exposed, lest a guariba
should surprise him when he is not in a position to defend himself.
This monkey, which is also known in Brazil as the “barbado,” was of
large size. The suppleness and stoutness of his limbs proclaimed him a
powerful creature, as fit to fight on the ground as to leap from branch
to branch at the tops of the giants of the forest.
He advanced then cautiously, and with short steps. He glanced to
the right and to the left, and rapidly swung his tail. To these
representatives of the monkey tribe nature has not been content to give
four hands--she has shown herself more generous, and added a fifth, for
the extremity of their caudal appendage possesses a perfect power of
prehension.
The guariba noiselessly approached, brandishing a study cudgel, which,
wielded by his muscular arm, would have proved a formidable weapon.
For some minutes he had seen the man at the foot of the tree, but the
sleeper did not move, and this doubtless induced him to come and look at
him a little nearer. He came forward then, not without hesitation, and
stopped at last about three paces off.
On his bearded face was pictured a grin, which showed his sharp-edged
teeth, white as ivory, and the cudgel began to move about in a way that
was not very reassuring for the captain of the woods.
Unmistakably the sight of Torres did not inspire the guariba with
friendly thoughts. Had he then particular reasons for wishing evil to
this defenseless specimen of the human race which chance had delivered
over to him? Perhaps! We know how certain animals retain the memory of
the bad treatment they have received, and it is possible that against
backwoodsmen in general he bore some special grudge.
In fact Indians especially make more fuss about the monkey than any
other kind of game, and, no matter to what species it belongs, follow
its chase with the ardor of Nimrods, not only for the pleasure of
hunting it, but for the pleasure of eating it.
Whatever it was, the guariba did not seen disinclined to change
characters this time, and if he did not quite forget that nature had
made him but a simple herbivore, and longed to devour the captain of the
woods, he seemed at least to have made up his mind to get rid of one of
his natural enemies.
After looking at him for some minutes the guariba began to move round
the tree. He stepped slowly, holding his breath, and getting nearer and
nearer. His attitude was threatening, his countenance ferocious. Nothing
could have seemed easier to him than to have crushed this motionless man
at a single blow, and assuredly at that moment the life of Torres hung
by a thread.
In truth, the guariba stopped a second time close up to the tree, placed
himself at the side, so as to command the head of the sleeper, and
lifted his stick to give the blow.
But if Torres had been imprudent in putting near him in the crevice of
the root the little case which contained his document and his fortune,
it was this imprudence which saved his life.
A sunbeam shooting between the branches just glinted on the case, the
polished metal of which lighted up like a looking-glass. The monkey,
with the frivolity peculiar to his species, instantly had his attention
distracted. His ideas, if such an animal could have ideas, took another
direction. He stopped, caught hold of the case, jumped back a pace or
two, and, raising it to the level of his eyes, looked at it not without
surprise as he moved it about and used it like a mirror. He was if
anything still more astonished when he heard the rattle of the gold
pieces it contained. The music enchanted him. It was like a rattle in
the hands of a child. He carried it to his mouth, and his teeth grated
against the metal, but made no impression on it.
Doubtless the guariba thought he had found some fruit of a new kind, a
sort of huge almost brilliant all over, and with a kernel playing freely
in its shell. But if he soon discovered his mistake he did not consider
it a reason for throwing the case away; on the contrary, he grasped it
more tightly in his left hand, and dropped the cudgel, which broke off a
dry twig in its fall.
At this noise Torres woke, and with the quickness of those who are
always on the watch, with whom there is no transition from the sleeping
to the waking state, was immediately on his legs.
In an instant Torres had recognized with whom he had to deal.
“A guariba!” he cried.
And his hand seizing his manchetta, he put himself into a posture of
defense.
The monkey, alarmed, jumped back at once, and not so brave before a
waking man as a sleeping one, performed a rapid caper, and glided under
the trees.
“It was time!” said Torres; “the rogue would have settled me without any
ceremony!”
Of a sudden, between the hands of the monkey, who had stopped at about
twenty paces, and was watching him with violent grimaces, as if he would
like to snap his fingers at him, he caught sight of his precious case.
“The beggar!” he said. “If he has not killed me, he has done what is
almost as bad. He has robbed me!”
The thought that the case held his money was not however, what then
concerned him. But that which made him jump was the recollection that it
contained the precious document, the loss of which was irreparable, as
it carried with it that of all his hopes.
“Botheration!” said he.
And at the moment, cost what it might to recapture his case, Torres
threw himself in pursuit of the guariba.
He knew that to reach such an active animal was not easy. On the ground
he could get away too fast, in the branches he could get away too far. A
well-aimed gunshot could alone stop him as he ran or climbed, but Torres
possessed no firearm. His sword-knife and hoe were useless unless he
could get near enough to hit him.
It soon became evident that the monkey could not be reached unless by
surprise. Hence Torres found it necessary to employ cunning in dealing
with the mischievous animal. To stop, to hide himself behind some tree
trunk, to disappear under a bush, might induce the guariba to pull up
and retrace his steps, and there was nothing else for Torres to try.
This was what he did, and the pursuit commenced under these conditions;
but when the captain of the woods disappeared, the monkey patiently
waited until he came into sight again, and at this game Torres fatigued
himself without result.
“Confound the guariba!” he shouted at length. “There will be no end to
this, and he will lead me back to the Brazilian frontier. If only he
would let go of my case! But no! The jingling of the money amuses him.
Oh, you thief! If I could only get hold of you!”
And Torres recommenced the pursuit, and the monkey scuttled off with
renewed vigor.
An hour passed in this way without any result. Torres showed a
persistency which was quite natural. How without this document could he
get his money?
And then anger seized him. He swore, he stamped, he threatened the
guariba. That annoying animal only responded by a chuckling which was
enough to put him beside himself.
And then Torres gave himself up to the chase. He ran at top speed,
entangling himself in the high undergrowth, among those thick brambles
and interlacing creepers, across which the guariba passed like a
steeplechaser. Big roots hidden beneath the grass lay often in the way.
He stumbled over them and again started in pursuit. At length, to his
astonishment, he found himself shouting:
“Come here! come here! you robber!” as if he could make him understand
him.
His strength gave out, breath failed him, and he was obliged to stop.
“Confound it!” said he, “when I am after runaway slaves across the
jungle they never give me such trouble as this! But I will have you, you
wretched monkey! I will go, yes, I will go as far as my legs will carry
me, and we shall see!”
The guariba had remained motionless when he saw that the adventurer had
ceased to pursue him. He rested also, for he had nearly reached that
degree of exhaustion which had forbidden all movement on the part of
Torres.
He remained like this during ten minutes, nibbling away at two or three
roots, which he picked off the ground, and from time to time he rattled
the case at his ear.
Torres, driven to distraction, picked up the stones within his reach,
and threw them at him, but did no harm at such a distance.
But he hesitated to make a fresh start. On one hand, to keep on in chase
of the monkey with so little chance of reaching him was madness. On the
other, to accept as definite this accidental interruption to all his
plans, to be not only conquered, but cheated and hoaxed by a dumb
animal, was maddening. And in the meantime Torres had begun to think
that when the night came the robber would disappear without trouble, and
he, the robbed one, would find a difficulty in retracing his way through
the dense forest. In fact, the pursuit had taken him many miles from the
bank of the river, and he would even now find it difficult to return to
it.
Torres hesitated; he tried to resume his thoughts with coolness, and
finally, after giving vent to a last imprecation, he was about to
abandon all idea of regaining possession of his case, when once more, in
spite of himself, there flashed across him the thought of his document,
the remembrance of all that scaffolding on which his future hopes
depended, on which he had counted so much; and he resolved to make
another effort.
Then he got up.
The guariba got up too.
He made several steps in advance.
The monkey made as many in the rear, but this time, instead of plunging
more deeply into the forest, he stopped at the foot of an enormous
ficus--the tree of which the different kinds are so numerous all over
the Upper Amazon basin.
To seize the trunk with his four hands, to climb with the agility of a
clown who is acting the monkey, to hook on with his prehensile tail to
the first branches, which stretched away horizontally at forty feet from
the ground, and to hoist himself to the top of the tree, to the point
where the higher branches just bent beneath its weight, was only sport
to the active guariba, and the work of but a few seconds.
Up there, installed at his ease, he resumed his interrupted repast, and
gathered the fruits which were within his reach. Torres, like him, was
much in want of something to eat and drink, but it was impossible! His
pouch was flat, his flask was empty.
However, instead of retracing his steps he directed them toward the
tree, although the position taken up by the monkey was still more
unfavorable for him. He could not dream for one instant of climbing the
ficus, which the thief would have quickly abandoned for another.
And all the time the miserable case rattled at his ear.
Then in his fury, in his folly, Torres apostrophized the guariba. It
would be impossible for us to tell the series of invectives in which he
indulged. Not only did he call him a half-breed, which is the
greatest of insults in the mouth of a Brazilian of white descent, but
-“curiboca”---that is to say, half-breed negro and Indian, and of all
the insults that one man can hurl at another in this equatorial latitude
-“curiboca”- is the cruelest.
But the monkey, who was only a humble quadruman, was simply amused at
what would have revolted a representative of humanity.
Then Torres began to throw stones at him again, and bits of roots and
everything he could get hold of that would do for a missile. Had he the
hope to seriously hurt the monkey? No! he no longer knew what he was
about. To tell the truth, anger at his powerlessness had deprived him
of his wits. Perhaps he hoped that in one of the movements which the
guariba would make in passing from branch to branch the case might
escape him, perhaps he thought that if he continued to worry the monkey
he might throw it at his head. But no! the monkey did not part with the
case, and, holding it with one hand, he had still three left with which
to move.
Torres, in despair, was just about to abandon the chase for good, and
to return toward the Amazon, when he heard the sound of voices. Yes! the
sound of human voices.
Those were speaking at about twenty paces to the right of him.
The first care of Torres was to hide himself in a dense thicket. Like
a prudent man, he did not wish to show himself without at least knowing
with whom he might have to deal. Panting, puzzled, his ears on the
stretch, he waited, when suddenly the sharp report of a gun rang through
the woods.
A cry followed, and the monkey, mortally wounded, fell heavily on the
ground, still holding Torres’ case.
“By Jove!” he muttered, “that bullet came at the right time!”
And then, without fearing to be seen, he came out of the thicket, and
two young gentlemen appeared from under the trees.
They were Brazilians clothed as hunters, with leather boots, light
palm-leaf hats, waistcoats, or rather tunics, buckled in at the waist,
and more convenient than the national poncho. By their features and
their complexion they were at once recognizable as of Portuguese
descent.
Each of them was armed with one of those long guns of Spanish make which
slightly remind us of the arms of the Arabs, guns of long range and
considerable precision, which the dwellers in the forest of the upper
Amazon handle with success.
What had just happened was a proof of this. At an angular distance of
more than eighty paces the quadruman had been shot full in the head.
The two young men carried in addition, in their belts, a sort of
dagger-knife, which is known in Brazil as a -“foca,”- and which hunters
do not hesitate to use when attacking the ounce and other wild animals
which, if not very formidable, are pretty numerous in these forests.
Torres had obviously little to fear from this meeting, and so he went on
running toward the monkey’s corpse.
But the young men, who were taking the same direction, had less ground
to cover, and coming forward a few paces, found themselves face to face
with Torres.
The latter had recovered his presence of mind.
“Many thanks, gentlemen,” said he gayly, as he raised the brim of his
hat; “in killing this wretched animal you have just done me a great
service!”
The hunters looked at him inquiringly, not knowing what value to attach
to his thanks.
Torres explained matters in a few words.
“You thought you had killed a monkey,” said he, “but as it happens you
have killed a thief!”
“If we have been of use to you,” said the youngest of the two, “it was
by accident, but we are none the less pleased to find that we have done
some good.”
And taking several steps to the rear, he bent over the guariba, and, not
without an effort, withdrew the case from his stiffened hand.
“Doubtless that, sir, is what belongs to you?”
“The very thing,” said Torres briskly, catching hold of the case and
failing to repress a huge sigh of relief.
“Whom ought I to thank, gentlemen,” said he, “for the service you have
rendered me?”
“My friend, Manoel, assistant surgeon, Brazilian army,” replied the
young man.
“If it was I who shot the monkey, Benito,” said Manoel, “it was you that
pointed him out to me.”
“In that case, sirs,” replied Torres, “I am under an obligation to you
both, as well to you, Mr. Manoel, as to you, Mr. ----”
“Benito Garral,” replied Manoel.
The captain of the woods required great command over himself to avoid
giving a jump when he heard this name, and more especially when the
young man obligingly continued:
“My father, Joam Garral, has his farm about three miles from here. If
you would like, Mr. ----”
“Torres,” replied the adventurer.
“If you would like to accompany us there, Mr. Torres, you will be
hospitably received.”
“I do not know that I can,” said Torres, who, surprised by this
unexpected meeting, hesitated to make a start. “I fear in truth that I
am not able to accept your offer. The occurrence I have just related to
you has caused me to lose time. It is necessary for me to return at once
to the Amazon--as I purpose descending thence to Para.”
“Very well, Mr. Torres,” replied Benito, “it is not unlikely that we
shall see you again in our travels, for before a month has passed my
father and all his family will have taken the same road as you.”
“Ah!” said Torres sharply, “your father is thinking of recrossing the
Brazilian frontier?”
“Yes, for a voyage of some months,” replied Benito. “At least we hope to
make him decide so. Don’t we, Manoel?”
Manoel nodded affirmatively.
“Well, gentlemen,” replied Torres, “it is very probable that we shall
meet again on the road. But I cannot, much to my regret, accept your
offer now. I thank you, nevertheless, and I consider myself as twice
your debtor.”
And having said so, Torres saluted the young men, who in turn saluted
him, and set out on their way to the farm.
As for Torres he looked after them as they got further and further away,
and when he had lost sight of them--
“Ah! he is about to recross the frontier!” said he, with a deep voice.
“Let him recross it! and he will be still more at my mercy! Pleasant
journey to you, Joam Garral!”
And having uttered these words the captain of the woods, making for the
south so as to regain the left bank of the river by the shortest road,
disappeared into the dense forest.
CHAPTER III. THE GARRAL FAMILY
THE VILLAGE of Iquitos is situated on the left bank of the Amazon, near
the seventy-fourth meridian, on that portion of the great river which
still bears the name of the Marânon, and of which the bed separates Peru
from the republic of Ecuador. It is about fifty-five leagues to the west
of the Brazilian frontier.
Iquitos, like every other collection of huts, hamlet, or village met
with in the basin of the Upper Amazon, was founded by the missionaries.
Up to the seventeenth year of the century the Iquito Indians, who
then formed the entire population, were settled in the interior of the
province at some distance from the river. But one day the springs in
their territory all dried up under the influence of a volcanic eruption,
and they were obliged to come and take up their abode on the left of the
Marânon. The race soon altered through the alliances which were entered
into with the riverine Indians, Ticunas, or Omaguas, mixed descent with
a few Spaniards, and to-day Iquitos has a population of two or three
families of half-breeds.
The village is most picturesquely grouped on a kind of esplanade, and
runs along at about sixty feet from the river. It consists of some forty
miserable huts, whose thatched roofs only just render them worthy of the
name of cottages. A stairway made of crossed trunks of trees leads up to
the village, which lies hidden from the traveler’s eyes until the steps
have been ascended. Once at the top he finds himself before an inclosure
admitting of slight defense, and consisting of many different shrubs and
arborescent plants, attached to each other by festoons of lianas, which
here and there have made their way abgove the summits of the graceful
palms and banana-trees.
At the time we speak of the Indians of Iquitos went about in almost a
state of nudity. The Spaniards and half-breeds alone were clothed,
and much as they scorned their indigenous fellow-citizens, wore only
a simple shirt, light cotton trousers, and a straw hat. All lived
cheerlessly enough in the village, mixing little together, and if they
did meet occasionally, it was only at such times as the bell of the
mission called them to the dilapidated cottage which served them for a
church.
But if existence in the village of Iquitos, as in most of the hamlets
of the Upper Amazon, was almost in a rudimentary stage, it was only
necessary to journey a league further down the river to find on the same
bank a wealthy settlement, with all the elements of comfortable life.
This was the farm of Joam Garral, toward which our two young friends
returned after their meeting with the captain of the woods.
There, on a bend of the stream, at the junction of the River Nanay,
which is here about five hundred feet across, there had been established
for many years this farm, homestead, or, to use the expression of the
country, -“fazenda,”- then in the height of its prosperity. The Nanay
with its left bank bounded it to the north for about a mile, and for
nearly the same distance to the east it ran along the bank of the larger
river. To the west some small rivulets, tributaries of the Nanay, and
some lagoons of small extent, separated it from the savannah and the
fields devoted to the pasturage of the cattle.
It was here that Joam Garral, in 1826, twenty-six years before the date
when our story opens, was received by the proprietor of the fazenda.
This Portuguese, whose name was Magalhaës, followed the trade of
timber-felling, and his settlement, then recently formed, extended for
about half a mile along the bank of the river.
There, hospitable as he was, like all the Portuguese of the old race,
Magalhaës lived with his daughter Yaquita, who after the death of her
mother had taken charge of his household. Magalhaës was an excellent
worker, inured to fatigue, but lacking education. If he understood the
management of the few slaves whom he owned, and the dozen Indians
whom he hired, he showed himself much less apt in the various external
requirements of his trade. In truth, the establishment at Iquitos was
not prospering, and the affairs of the Portuguese were getting somewhat
embarrassed.
It was under these circumstances that Joam Garral, then twenty-two years
old, found himself one day in the presence of Magalhaës. He had arrived
in the country at the limit both of his strength and his resources.
Magalhaës had found him half-dead with hunger and fatigue in the
neighboring forest. The Portuguese had an excellent heart; he did not
ask the unknown where he came from, but what he wanted. The noble,
high-spirited look which Joam Garral bore in spite of his exhaustion
had touched him. He received him, restored him, and, for several days to
begin with, offered him a hospitality which lasted for his life.
Under such conditions it was that Joam Garral was introduced to the farm
at Iquitos.
Brazilian by birth, Joam Garral was without family or fortune. Trouble,
he said, had obliged him to quit his country and abandon all thoughts
of return. He asked his host to excuse his entering on his past
misfortunes--misfortunes as serious as they were unmerited. What he
sought, and what he wished, was a new life, a life of labor. He had
started on his travels with some slight thought of entering a fazenda
in the interior. He was educated, intelligent. He had in all his bearing
that inexpressible something which tells you that the man is genuine and
of frank and upright character. Magalhaës, quite taken with him, asked
him to remain at the farm, where he would, in a measure, supply that
which was wanting in the worthy farmer.
Joam Garral accepted the offer without hesitation. His intention had
been to join a -“seringal,”- or caoutchouc concern, in which in those
days a good workman could earn from five to six piastres a day, and
could hope to become a master if he had any luck; but Magalhaës very
truly observed that if the pay was good, work was only found in the
seringals at harvest time--that is to say, during only a few months of
the year--and this would not constitute the permanent position that a
young man ought to wish for.
The Portuguese was right. Joam Garral saw it, and entered resolutely
into the service of the fazenda, deciding to devote to it all his
powers.
Magalhaës had no cause to regret his generous action. His business
recovered. His wood trade, which extended by means of the Amazon up to
Para, was soon considerably extended under the impulse of Joam Garral.
The fazenda began to grow in proportion, and to spread out along the
bank of the river up to its junction with the Nanay. A delightful
residence was made of the house; it was raised a story, surrounded by a
veranda, and half hidden under beautiful trees--mimosas, fig-sycamores,
bauhinias, and paullinias, whose trunks were invisible beneath a network
of scarlet-flowered bromelias and passion-flowers.
At a distance, behind huge bushes and a dense mass of arborescent
plants, were concealed the buildings in which the staff of the fazenda
were accommodated--the servants’ offices, the cabins of the blacks, and
the huts of the Indians. From the bank of the river, bordered with reeds
and aquatic plants, the tree-encircled house was alone visible.
A vast meadow, laboriously cleared along the lagoons, offered excellent
pasturage. Cattle abounded--a new source of profit in these fertile
countries, where a herd doubles in four years, and where ten per cent.
interest is earned by nothing more than the skins and the hides of
the animals killed for the consumption of those who raise them! A few
-“sitios,”- or manioc and coffee plantations, were started in parts of
the woods which were cleared. Fields of sugar-canes soon required the
construction of a mill to crush the sacchariferous stalks destined to be
used hereafter in the manufacture of molasses, tafia, and rum. In short,
ten years after the arrival of Joam Garral at the farm at Iquitos
the fazenda had become one of the richest establishments on the Upper
Amazon. Thanks to the good management exercised by the young clerk
over the works at home and the business abroad, its prosperity daily
increased.
The Portuguese did not wait so long to acknowledge what he owed to Joam
Garral. In order to recompense him in proportion to his merits he had
from the first given him an interest in the profits of his business,
and four years after his arrival he had made him a partner on the same
footing as himself, and with equal shares.
But there was more that he had in store for him. Yaquita, his daughter,
had, in this silent young man, so gentle to others, so stern to himself,
recognized the sterling qualities which her father had done. She was in
love with him, but though on his side Joam had not remained insensible
to the merits and the beauty of this excellent girl, he was too proud
and reserved to dream of asking her to marry him.
A serious incident hastened the solution.
Magalhaës was one day superintending a clearance and was mortally
wounded by the fall of a tree. Carried home helpless to the farm, and
feeling himself lost, he raised up Yaquita, who was weeping by his side,
took her hand, and put it into that of Joam Garral, making him swear to
take her for his wife.
“You have made my fortune,” he said, “and I shall not die in peace
unless by this union I know that the fortune of my daughter is assured.”
“I can continue her devoted servant, her brother, her protector, without
being her husband,” Joam Garral had at first replied. “I owe you all,
Magalhaës. I will never forget it, but the price you would pay for my
endeavors is out of all proportion to what they are worth.”
The old man insisted. Death would not allow him to wait; he demanded the
promise, and it was made to him.
Yaquita was then twenty-two years old, Joam was twenty-six. They
loved each other and they were married some hours before the death of
Magalhaës, who had just strength left to bless their union.
It was under these circumstances that in 1830 Joam Garral became the
new fazender of Iquitos, to the immense satisfaction of all those who
composed the staff of the farm.
The prosperity of the settlement could not do otherwise than grow when
these two minds were thus united.
A year after her marriage Yaquita presented her husband with a son, and,
two years after, a daughter. Benito and Minha, the grandchildren of the
old Portuguese, became worthy of their grandfather, children worthy of
Joam and Yaquita.
The daughter grew to be one of the most charming of girls. She never
left the fazenda. Brought up in pure and healthy surroundings, in the
midst of the beauteous nature of the tropics, the education given to her
by her mother, and the instruction received by her from her father, were
ample. What more could she have learned in a convent at Manaos or Belem?
Where would she have found better examples of the domestic virtues?
Would her mind and feelings have been more delicately formed away from
her home? If it was ordained that she was not to succeed her mother in
the management of the fazenda, she was equal to any other position to
which she might be called.
With Benito it was another thing. His father very wisely wished him to
receive as solid and complete an education as could then be obtained
in the large towns of Brazil. There was nothing which the rich fazender
refused his son. Benito was possessed of a cheerful disposition, an
active mind, a lively intelligence, and qualities of heart equal to
those of his head. At the age of twelve he was sent into Para, to Belem,
and there, under the direction of excellent professors, he acquired
the elements of an education which could not but eventually make him a
distinguished man. Nothing in literature, in the sciences, in the arts,
was a stranger to him. He studied as if the fortune of his father would
not allow him to remain idle. He was not among such as imagine that
riches exempt men from work--he was one of those noble characters,
resolute and just, who believe that nothing should diminish our natural
obligation in this respect if we wish to be worthy of the name of men.
During the first years of his residence at Belem, Benito had made the
acquaintance of Manoel Valdez. This young man, the son of a merchant in
Para, was pursuing his studies in the same institution as Benito. The
conformity of their characters and their tastes proved no barrier to
their uniting in the closest of friendships, and they became inseparable
companions.
Manoel, born in 1832, was one year older than Benito. He had only a
mother, and she lived on the modest fortune which her husband had left
her. When Manoel’s preliminary studies were finished, he had taken
up the subject of medicine. He had a passionate taste for that noble
profession, and his intention was to enter the army, toward which he
felt himself attracted.
At the time that we saw him with his friend Benito, Manoel Valdez had
already obtained his first step, and he had come away on leave for some
months to the fazenda, where he was accustomed to pass his holidays.
Well-built, and of distinguished bearing, with a certain native pride
which became him well, the young man was treated by Joam and Yaquita as
another son. But if this quality of son made him the brother of Benito,
the title was scarcely appreciated by him when Minha was concerned, for
he soon became attached to the young girl by a bond more intimate than
could exist between brother and sister.
In the year 1852--of which four months had already passed before
the commencement of this history--Joam Garral attained the age of
forty-eight years. In that sultry climate, which wears men away so
quickly, he had known how, by sobriety, self-denial, suitable living,
and constant work, to remain untouched where others had prematurely
succumbed. His hair, which he wore short, and his beard, which was
full, had already grown gray, and gave him the look of a Puritan. The
proverbial honesty of the Brazilian merchants and fazenders showed
itself in his features, of which straightforwardness was the leading
characteristic. His calm temperament seemed to indicate an interior
fire, kept well under control. The fearlessness of his look denoted a
deep-rooted strength, to which, when danger threatened, he could never
appeal in vain.
But, notwithstanding one could not help remarking about this quiet man
of vigorous health, with whom all things had succeeded in life, a depth
of sadness which even the tenderness of Yaquita had not been able to
subdue.
Respected by all, placed in all the conditions that would seem necessary
to happiness, why was not this just man more cheerful and less reserved?
Why did he seem to be happy for others and not for himself? Was this
disposition attributable to some secret grief? Herein was a constant
source of anxiety to his wife.
Yaquita was now forty-four. In that tropical country where women are
already old at thirty she had learned the secret of resisting the
climate’s destructive influences, and her features, a little sharpened
but still beautiful, retained the haughty outline of the Portuguese
type, in which nobility of face unites so naturally with dignity of
mind.
Benito and Minha responded with an affection unbounded and unceasing for
the love which their parents bore them.
Benito was now aged twenty-one, and quick, brave, and sympathetic,
contrasted outwardly with his friend Manoel, who was more serious and
reflective. It was a great treat for Benito, after quite a year passed
at Belem, so far from the fazenda, to return with his young friend to
his home to see once more his father, his mother, his sister, and to
find himself, enthusiastic hunter as he was, in the midst of these
superb forests of the Upper Amazon, some of whose secrets remained after
so many centuries still unsolved by man.
Minha was twenty years old. A lovely girl, brunette, and with large blue
eyes, eyes which seemed to open into her very soul; of middle height,
good figure, and winning grace, in every way the very image of Yaquita.
A little more serious than her brother, affable, good-natured, and
charitable, she was beloved by all. On this subject you could fearlessly
interrogate the humblest servants of the fazenda. It was unnecessary to
ask her brother’s friend, Manoel Valdez, what he thought of her. He was
too much interested in the question to have replied without a certain
amount of partiality.
This sketch of the Garral family would not be complete, and would lack
some of its features, were we not to mention the numerous staff of the
fazenda.
In the first place, then, it behooves us to name an old negress, of some
sixty years, called Cybele, free through the will of her master, a slave
through her affection for him and his, and who had been the nurse
of Yaquita. She was one of the family. She thee-ed and thou-ed both
daughter and mother. The whole of this good creature’s life was passed
in these fields, in the middle of these forests, on that bank of the
river which bounded the horizon of the farm. Coming as a child to
Iquitos in the slave-trading times, she had never quitted the village;
she was married there, and early a widow, had lost her only son, and
remained in the service of Magalhaës. Of the Amazon she knew no more
than what flowed before her eyes.
With her, and more specially attached to the service of Minha, was a
pretty, laughing mulatto, of the same age as her mistress, to whom
she was completely devoted. She was called Lina. One of those gentle
creatures, a little spoiled, perhaps, to whom a good deal of familiarity
is allowed, but who in return adore their mistresses. Quick, restless,
coaxing, and lazy, she could do what she pleased in the house.
As for servants they were of two kinds--Indians, of whom there were
about a hundred, employed always for the works of the fazenda, and
blacks to about double the number, who were not yet free, but whose
children were not born slaves. Joam Garral had herein preceded the
Brazilian government. In this country, moreover, the negroes coming
from Benguela, the Congo, or the Gold Coast were always treated with
kindness, and it was not at the fazenda of Iquitos that one would look
for those sad examples of cruelty which were so frequent on foreign
plantations.
CHAPTER IV. HESITATION
MANOEL WAS in love with the sister of his friend Benito, and she was
in love with him. Each was sensible of the other’s worth, and each was
worthy of the other.
When he was no longer able to mistake the state of his feelings toward
Minha, Manoel had opened his heart to Benito.
“Manoel, my friend,” had immediately answered the enthusiastic young
fellow, “you could not do better than wish to marry my sister. Leave
it to me! I will commence by speaking to the mother, and I think I can
promise that you will not have to wait long for her consent.”
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