The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook pc reader .TXT) 📕

completely covered with the upper and under shells of turtles. These had evidently been cut asunder violently with hatchets, and reddish-brown furrows in the sands told where streams of blood had flowed during the massacre.

“What wanton slaughter!” exclaimed Lawrence, as he and his friends stood looking at the scene.

“And it is not long since it was done,” said Pedro, “for the flesh—at least what’s left of it—is still fresh.”

“Ugh, you brutes!” exclaimed Quashy, referring to a number of urubu vultures which stood on the shells, all more or less gorged, some still tearing sleepily at the meat, others standing in apoplectic apathy, quite unable to fly.

They counted upwards of three hundred dead turtles, and this carnage, it was afterwards ascertained, had been the work of only a dozen or so of Indians—not for food, but for the sake of the fine yellow fat covering the intestines, which formed an article of commerce at the time between the red men and the white.

That night after supper time the party busied themselves in making mosquito-curtains out of a small quantity of green muslin obtained from Spotted Tiger’s father-in-law, who had received it from the missionaries. The supply being quite insufficient to make curtains for them all, Quashy had set his fertile brain to work and devised a species of net which, having never been seen in that country before, deserves special notice. It may serve as a hint to other mortals similarly situated and tormented.

“You mus’ know,” remarked Quashy to his friends, who watched him while he fabricated the first of these curtains, “dat my gran’fadder was a injineer, an’ some ob his geenus comed down to me. Dat’s why I’s so clebber wid my hands. Has you got dem hoops tied, massa?”

“All right, Quashy, I’m just finishing the last one. There—are these the right sizes?”

“Das right, massa. Biggest two one futt six in dameter; oder two leetle ones, one futt. Now, you looks here, ladies an’ gen’lemen. See, I’s made a bag ob dis muzzlin ’bout two futt six long an’ ’bout two futt wide. Well, one end ob de bag is close up—as you see. ’Tother end am open—as you b’hold. Vwalla! as de Frenchman says. Now, I puts into de closed end one small hoop—so. Den de two large hoops—so—’bout six inches apart. Den de leetle hoop—so. Which makes my bag into what you may call a gauze-barrel, wid de hoops inside ’stead ob outside. Nixt, I puts it ober my head, lets de bottom hoop rest on my shoulders, shoves de slack ob de veil—I calls it a veil, not a curtin,—down my neck under my poncho, so’s nuffin can git inside, an’ dere you are. No skeeters git at me now!”

“But, Quash,” said Lawrence, who had watched the making of this ingenious device, as well as lent assistance, “there are mosquitoes inside it even now; and with such swarms as are about us, how will you keep them out while putting the thing on.”

“Don’ call it a ‘t’ing,’ massa,” said Quashy, with a dignified look, “call it a ‘veil.’ Dere’s nuflin easier. See here.”

He rose, took off the veil, and flattened the hoops down on each other, so as to drive out all that might be inside. Then he stepped to leeward of the fire, held his breath for a few seconds while in the smoke, quickly adjusted his novel head-piece, and stood up fully armed against the “skeeters.”

“But,” still objected Lawrence, “how can you lay your head on your pillow with such a thing—beg pardon, such a veil on?”

“Nuffin easier, massa.”

He illustrated his point by rolling over into one of the nearest hammocks—which had already been hung—and laying his head down, when, of course, the machine bulged away from his black face, and the discomfited millions kept thrusting their probosces—and, doubtless, making faces at him—ineffectually.

“But how if you should want to roll about in your sleep?” asked Pedro.

“Don’t want to roll about in your sleep!” replied the negro, curtly.

It is right to say that, in spite of the advice thus firmly given, Quashy did roll in his sleep that night, with the result that his nose at last got close to the veil and pressed against it. No malignant foe ever took advantage of an enemy’s weak point more promptly than did the “skeeters” of Quashy’s nocturnal trumpet. They settled on its point with a species of triumphant hum. They warred with each other in their bloodthirsty desire to seize on the delicate but limited morsel. It was “cut and come again”—at least it was “cut away and let others come on”—as long as the chance lasted. And the consequence was that Quashy rose next morning with two noses! His natural nose being a mere lump of fat and the lump raised on it being much the same in form and size with the original, we feel justified in saying that he had two noses—nearly.

Notwithstanding, it is but fair to add that the veils were afterwards pronounced a great success.

But to return.

That night, after the veils in question had been made and put on by all except Tiger, who was skeeto-proof, and the happy wearers were steeped in blissful repose, a tremendous hurricane burst upon them, with thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind came in furious gusts which tore away some of the veils, overturned the hammocks, scattered the bedding, extinguished the fire, drenched them to the skin, and otherwise rendered them supremely miserable.

Retiring to a thicker part of the jungle, they cut down branches and made a temporary erection which they covered with ponchos and blankets; but as everything had to be done in the dark, it was a wretched affair, and, at the best, only a partial protection. Into the furthest extremity of this hut poor Manuela crept. The others followed, and there they all sat or reclined, shivering, till morning.

About daybreak Lawrence heard Pedro and the Indian girl conversing in the Indian language and in unusually earnest tones, which were interrupted once or twice by slight laughter. He wondered much what they found to laugh at, but having become by that time accustomed to the guide’s little touches of mystery, and being very sleepy, he did not trouble himself about it long.

The storm happily was short-lived, and when the sun appeared, enabling them to dry their garments, and a good breakfast had been eaten, the discomforts of the past night were forgotten, and Quashy even ceased to growl at the “skeeters” and lament his double nose.

Hitherto they had met with few Indians, and these few were friendly, being acquainted either personally or by report with Spotted Tiger, for the man’s reputation as a jaguar and puma slayer had extended far beyond his own tribe. That day, however, several native canoes were passed, and in the evening they found that the place on which Tiger had made up his mind to encamp was in possession of Indians.

“Friendly?” asked Pedro, as they approached the shore.

“Yes, friendly,” replied Tiger.

“Would it not be better to go a little further and encamp away from them?” asked Lawrence, who retained unpleasant memories of the dirtiness of Indian encampments.

“Tiger wishes to speak to them,” said Pedro, as the canoe was run on shore.

It was found that the party consisted of several families of Indians who were out on a turtle-hunting expedition, for the season had arrived when turtles lay their eggs.

This laying season of the turtle sets the whole population of those regions, civilised and savage, in motion, searching in the sands for eggs, and capturing or killing the animals. The Indians now met with were on the latter business. Upon the weather depends the commencement of this season of unwonted activity among the turtles and wild excitement among the river-side Indians, for the snows must cease to fall on the summits of the Andes, and the rivers must decrease in volume so as to lay bare vast spaces of sand, before the eggs can be laid.

No alderman in London city ever equalled—much less excelled—a South American savage of that region in his love of turtle, or in his capacity for devouring it. But the savage goes immeasurably further than the alderman! He occupies altogether a higher and more noble position in regard to the turtle, for he not only studies, with prolonged care and deep interest, its habits and manners, but follows it, watches it, catches it, kills it, and, finally, cooks it with his own hands, before arriving at the alderman’s comparatively simple and undignified act of eating it.

So exact are these Indians in their observations and knowledge of the turtle question, that they can tell almost to a day when and where their unsuspecting victims will land and lay. There was an extensive stretch of flat sand close to the spot where our voyageurs put ashore, on which the Indians had observed numerous claw-marked furrows, which had been traced by the turtles. Here, therefore, they had called a halt, built a number of ajoupas, or leafy sheds, about two hundred yards from the edge of the river, under the shelter of which to sit at night and watch for their prey.

The turtles, it was found, were expected to land that night. Meanwhile, the savages were regaling themselves with a splendid dish, or rather jar, containing hundreds of turtles’ eggs, mixed with bananas.

These they hospitably shared with their visitors. The mess was very palatable, though “heavy,” and our travellers did justice to it—especially the negro, whose gastronomic powers were equal to all emergencies.

“How do they know,” asked Lawrence, as he and Pedro busied themselves in tying up the hammocks in a suitable part of the jungle, “when to expect the turtles?”

“Who can tell?” said Pedro. “Instinct, I suppose.”

“But dey not stink at all,” objected Quashy, “anyhow, not till arter dey’s dead, so’t can’t be dat.”

“It’s not that kind of stink I mean, Quashy; quite another sort,” said Pedro, who felt unequal to the task of explanation. “But look sharp; we must lend the Indians a helping hand to-night.”

“But I don’t know nuffin about it,” said Quashy, “an’ a man what don’t know what to do is on’y in de way ob oder peepil.”

“You take a just view of things, boy,” returned Pedro, “but you won’t find it difficult to learn. Five minutes looking at what the Indians do will suffice, for they only turn the turtles.”

“How you mean? Turn ’im upside-down, or outside in—w’ich?”

“You’d find it hard to do the last, Quashy. No, you’ve only to turn them over on their backs, and let them lie; that’s all.”

While the negro was thus gathering useful knowledge, the Indians amused themselves in various ways until darkness should call them forth to the business of the hour. Some, with that amazing tendency to improve their personal appearance, which is common alike to civilised and savage, plucked out the little beard with which nature had endowed them by means of tweezers, deeming it no doubt wiser on the whole to pluck up the beard by the roots than to cut it off close thereto, as indeed it was, seeing that the former process did not need regular repetition. Others were still busy with the turtle-egg ragout, unable, apparently to decide whether or not appetite was satisfied. Two somewhat elderly but deeply interested savages whiled away the time with a game of cup-and-ball, turn and turn about, with imperturbable gravity.

This game was different from that of Europe to the extent of being played on precisely opposite principles. It was not he who caught the ball on the point of the sharp stick that won, but he who failed to catch it, for failure was more difficult to achieve than success! The explanation is simple. The handle was a piece of pointed wood, about the thickness of a ramrod, and a yard or so in length. To this, by a piece of string made from fibres of the palm, was attached the ball, which was formed of the skull of a turtle, carefully scraped.