The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook pc reader .TXT) 📕
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“After that,” said Lawrence, “I have no doubt whatever that he will soon find the troops.”
“Neither have I,” returned Pedro; “but Pizarro, and men like him, can do much more than I have told you. By a flight of birds they can tell of an approaching band of men before they are in sight, and by the cloud of dust they make when they appear they can form a close estimate of their numbers. When the Indian hordes are about to make a raid, Gauchos are warned of it by the ostriches and llamas and other timid beasts of the Pampas all travelling in one direction, and in many other ways that seem little short of miraculous they act the part of wilderness-detectives.”
While continuing their journey next day, Lawrence resolved to have a chat with the Gaucho youth. Riding up alongside, he saluted him, and received a reply and a graceful bow that would have done credit to a Spanish grandee. He discovered ere long that the young man’s mind, like his body, had been cast in a noble mould, and that, although ignorant of almost everything beyond his own wild plains, he was deeply imbued with reverence for Truth and Justice in all the relations of life. Indeed, his sense of these attributes of God was so strong that the constant violation of them by those around him roused in him occasional bursts of hot indignation, as Lawrence very soon found when he touched on a recent revolution which had taken place in the province of San Juan.
“Are the troops we search for sent out to aid the government of Mendoza?” demanded Pizarro, turning an earnest and frowning glance on his companion.
“I believe not,” answered Lawrence; “at least I have not heard the colonel talk of such an object; but I am not in his confidence, and know nothing of his plans.”
Pizarro made no rejoinder, and Lawrence, seeing by the continued frown that the youth’s spirit was somewhat stirred, sought for further information by asking about Mendoza.
“Do you not know,” said the Gaucho, with increased vehemence, and a good deal of fine action, “that the people of San Juan have deposed their governor, because he is a bad man?”
“I had not heard of it,” said Lawrence, “but what has that to do with Mendoza?”
“You shall hear, senhor. The governor of San Juan is dishonest. He is bad in every way, and in league with the priests to rob the people. His insolence became so great lately that, as I have said, the people arose, asserted their rights, and deposed him. Then the government of Mendoza sent troops to reinstate the governor of San Juan; but they have not yet succeeded! What right,” continued the youth, with grand indignation,—“What right has the government of Mendoza to interfere? Is not the province of San Juan as free to elect its own governor as the province of Mendoza? Have its men not brains enough to work out their own affairs?—ay, and they have arms strong enough to defend their rights, as the troops shall find when they try to force on the people a governor of whom they do not approve.”
Lawrence felt at once that he was in the presence of one of those strong, untameable spirits, of which the world has all too few, whose love of truth and fair-play becomes, as it were, a master-passion, and around whom cluster not only many of the world’s good men, but—unfortunately for the success of the good cause—also multitudes of the lower dregs of the world’s wickedness, not because these dregs sympathise with truth and justice, but simply because truth-lovers are sometimes unavoidably arrayed against “the powers that be.”
“I don’t know the merits of the case to which you refer,” said Lawrence, “but I have the strongest sympathy with those who fight or suffer in the cause of fair-play—for those who wish to ‘do to others as they would have others do to them.’ Do the people of San Luis sympathise with those of San Juan?”
“I know not, senhor, I have never been to San Luis.”
As the town referred to lay at a comparatively short distance from the other, Lawrence was much surprised by this reply, but his surprise was still further increased when he found that the handsome Gaucho had never seen any of the towns in regard to which his sense of justice had been so strongly stirred!
“Where were you born, Pizarro?” he asked.
“In the hut where you found me, senhor.”
“And you have never been to Mendoza or San Juan?”
“No, senhor, I have never seen a town or a village—never gone beyond the plains where we now ride.”
“How old are you, Pizarro?”
“I do not know, senhor.”
As the youth said this with a slightly confused look, Lawrence forbore to put any more personal questions, and confined his conversation to general topics; but he could not help wondering at this specimen of grand and apparently noble manhood, who could neither read nor write, who knew next to nothing of the great world beyond his own Pampas, and who had not even seen a collection of huts sufficiently large to merit the name of village. He could, however, admirably discern the signs of the wilderness around him, as he showed by suddenly pointing to the sky and exclaiming—
“See! there is a lion!”
“Lions have not wings, Pizarro,” said Lawrence, with a smile, as he looked upward; “but I see, very high in the air, a flock of vultures.”
“Just so, senhor, and you observe that they do not move, but are hovering over one spot?”
“Yes, I see that; what then?”
“A lion is there, senhor, devouring the carcass from which he has driven the vultures away.”
In a short time the correctness of the youth’s observation was proved by the party coming upon, and driving away, a puma which had previously disturbed the vultures at their banquet on the carcass of an unfortunate ox.
The next morning Pizarro’s capacity for tracking the wilderness was proved by the party coming on the broad trail of the troops. Soon afterwards they discovered the men themselves taking their midday siesta.
Not long after that the united party came within scent of the Atlantic, and on the afternoon of the same day galloped into the town of Buenos Ayres.
Descriptions, however graphic or faithful, are for the most part misleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, and found it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously painted on his imagination by description?
For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to other books.
Our business at present is with Quashy and “Sooz’n.”
That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble colonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the street in which men and women of many nations—French, Italian, Spanish, English, and other—are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.
This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost new idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and amazement.
“Hi!” exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, “look, look dar, Sooz’n—das funny.”
He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse’s back, was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either side of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.
“O Quash!” exclaimed the bride, “dar’s pumpkins for you. Look!”
They were indeed notable pumpkins—so large that five of them completely filled a wagon drawn by two oxen.
“But come, Sooz’n, da’ling,” said Quashy, starting as if he had just recollected something, “you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as would make my hair stan’ on end. It’ll be awrful strong if it doos dat, for my wool am stiff, an’ de curls pritty tight.”
“Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you,” replied the bride, “an’ to ax your ’pinion. But let’s go ober to dat seat in de sun. I not like de shade.”
“Come along, den, Sooz’n. It’s all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an’ suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl.”
“Git along wid your rubbish!” retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse.
“Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art’,” said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. “To be here a-frizzlin’ in de sunshine wid Sooz’n a-smilin’ at me like a black angel. D’you know, Sooz’n,” he added, with a serious look, “it gibs me a good deal o’ trouble to beliebe it.”
“Yes, it am awrful nice,” responded Susan, gravely, “but we’s not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol’ your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you what I heared.”
She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice—
“You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder’s fortin.”
“Yes, I knows dat, Sooz’n,” replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe.
“Well, den—”
“No, Sooz’n, it’s ill den.”
“Quashy!” (remonstratively.)
“Yes?” (interrogatively.)
“Hol’ your tongue.”
“Yes, da’ling.”
“Well, den,” began Susan again, with serious emphasis, “don’ ’trupt me agin, or I’ll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn’t deceive nobody—not even a skeeter.”
“I knows dat, Sooz’n, not even a nigger.”
“Ob course not,” continued Susan; “so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an’ he says, says he, ‘Kurnel, you’s a beggar.’”
“No, Sooz’n, he di’n’t say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don’ beliebe it.”
“Right, Quashy. You’s allers right,” returned the bride, with a beaming smile. “I made a ’stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, ‘Kurnel Muchbunks,’ says he, ‘I’s a beggar.’”
“Dat was a lie, Sooz’n,” said Quashy, in some surprise.
“I’s afeard it was,” assented Susan, gravely.
“Well, an’ what says de kurnel to dat?” asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.
“Oh! he beliebed it, an’ he says, says he, ‘I’s griebed to hear it, Mis’r Amstrung, an’ ob course you cannot ’spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin’ a beggar!’ O Quash, w’en I hears dat—I—bu’sted a’most! I do beliebe if I’d bin ’longside o’ dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face.”
“De skownril!” muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. “But what happen arter dat, Sooz’n?”
“Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an’ says, says he, ‘Kurnel, I’s come to say farewell. I would not t’ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don’ know ’zactly what dat is, but dat’s what he called it)—wid a kumpitincy, you’ll not forbid me payin’ my ’dresses to your darter.’ What he wants to pay her dresses for, an’ why he calls dem his dresses,
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