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Mr. Fortescue: An Andean Romance

by William Westall · English · Gutenberg #14779 · 518,279 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mr. Fortescue: An Andean Romance

Author: William Westall


        
Release date: January 24, 2005 [eBook #14779]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. FORTESCUE: AN ANDEAN ROMANCE ***

MR. FORTESCUE

An Andean Romance

by

WILLIAM WESTALL







CHAPTER I.

MATCHING GREEN.


A quaint old Essex village of single-storied cottages, some ivy mantled,
with dormer windows, thatched roofs, and miniature gardens, strewed with
picturesque irregularity round as fine a green as you will find in the
county. Its normal condition is rustic peace and sleepy beatitude; and it
pursues the even tenor of its way undisturbed by anything more exciting
than a meeting of the vestry, the parish dinner, the advent of a new
curate, or the exit of one of the fathers of the hamlet.

But this morning the place is all agog, and so transformed that it hardly
knows itself. The entire population, from the oldest gaffer to the
last-born baby, is out-of-doors; the two inns are thronged with guests,
and the road is lined with all sorts and conditions of carriages, from the
four-in-hand of the wealthy swell to the donkey-cart of the local
coster-monger. From every point of the compass are trooping horsemen, some
resplendent in scarlet coats, their nether limbs clothed in immaculate
white breeches and shining top-boots, others in pan hats and brown
leggings; and all in high spirits and eager for the fray; for to-day,
according to old custom, the Essex Hunt hold the first regular meet of the
season on Matching's matchless Green.

The master is already to the fore, and now comes Tom Cuffe, the huntsman,
followed by his hounds, whose sleek skins and bright coats show that they
are "fit to go," and whose eager looks bode ill to the long-tailed
denizens of copse and covert.

It still wants a few minutes to eleven, and the interval is occupied in
the interchange of greetings between old companions of the chase, in
desultory talk about horses and hounds; and while some of the older
votaries of Diana fight their battles o'er again, and describe thrice-told
historic runs, which grow longer with every repetition, others discuss the
prospects of the coming season, and indulge in hopes of which, let us
hope, neither Jack Frost, bad scent, nor accident by flood or field will
mar the fruition.

Nearly all are talking, for there is a feeling of _camaraderie_ in the
hunting-field which dispenses with the formality of introductions, its
frequenters sometimes becoming familiar friends before they have learned
each other's names.

Yet there are exceptions; and one cavalier in particular appears to hold
himself aloof, neither speaking to his neighbors nor mixing in the throng.
As he does not look like a "sulky swell," rendered taciturn by an
overweening sense of his own importance, he is probably either a new
resident in the county or a "stranger from a distance"--which, none whom I
ask seems to know. There is something about this man that especially
attracts my attention; and not mine alone, for I perceive that he is being
curiously regarded by several of my neighbors. His get-up is faultless,
and he sits with the easy grace of a practiced horseman an animal of
exceptional symmetry and strength. His well-knit figure is slim and almost
youthful, and he holds himself as erect on his saddle as a dragoon on
parade. But his closely cropped hair is turning gray, and his face that of
a man far advanced in the fifties, if not past sixty. And a striking face
it is--long and oval, with a straight nose and fine nostrils, a broad
forehead, and a firm, resolute mouth. His complexion, though it bears
traces of age, is clear, healthy, and deeply bronzed. Save for a heavy
gray mustache, he is clean shaved; his dark, keenly observant eyes are
overshadowed by black and all but straight brows, terminating in two
little tufts, which give his countenance a strange and, as some might
think, an almost sardonic expression. Altogether, it strikes me as being
the face of a cynical yet not ill-natured or malicious Mephistopheles.

Behind him are two grooms in livery, nearly as well mounted as himself,
and, greatly to my surprise, he is presently joined by Jim Rawlings, who
last season held the post of first whipper-in.

What manner of man is this who brings out four horses on the same day, and
what does he want with them all? Such horses, too! There is not one of
them that has not the look of a two hundred-guinea hunter.

I was about to put the question to Keyworth, the hunt secretary, who had
just come within speaking distance, and was likely to know if anybody did,
when the master gave the signal for a move, and huntsman and hounds,
followed by the entire field, went off at a sharp trot.

We had a rather long ride to covert, but a quick find, a fox being viewed
away almost as soon as the hounds began to draw. It was a fast thing while
it lasted, but, unfortunately, it did not last long; for, after a twenty
minutes' gallop, the hounds threw up their heads, and cast as Cuffe might,
he was unable to recover the line.

The country we had gone over was difficult and dangerous, full of blind
fences and yawning ditches, deep enough and wide enough to swallow up any
horse and his rider who might fail to clear them. Fortunately, however, I
escaped disaster, and for the greater part of the run I was close to the
gentleman with the Mephistophelian face and Tom Rawlings, who acted as his
pilot. Tom rode well, of course--it was his business--but no better than
his master, whose horse, besides being a big jumper, was as clever as a
cat, flying the ditches like a bird, and clearing the blindest fences
without making a single mistake.

After the first run we drew two coverts blank, but eventually found a
second fox, which gave us a slow hunting run of about an hour, interrupted
by several checks, and saved his brush by taking refuge in an unstopped
earth.

By this time it was nearly three o'clock, and being a long way from home,
and thinking no more good would be done, I deemed it expedient to leave
off. I went away as Mephistopheles and his man were mounting their second
horses, which had just been brought up by the two grooms in livery.

My way lay by Matching Green, and as I stopped at the village inn to
refresh my horse with a pail of gruel and myself with a glass of ale, who
should come up but old Tawney, Tom Cuffe's second horseman! Besides being
an adept at his calling, familiar with every cross-road and almost every
field in the county, he knew nearly as well as a hunted fox himself which
way the creature meant to run. Tawney was a great gossip, and quite a mine
of curious information about things equine and human--especially about
things equine. Here was a chance not to be neglected of learning something
about Mephistopheles; so after warming Tawney's heart and opening his lips
with a glass of hot whiskey punch, I began:

"You've got a new first whip, I see."

"Yes, sir, name of Cobbe--Paul Cobbe. He comes from the Berkshire country,
he do, sir."

"But how is it that Rawlings has left? and who is that gentleman he was
with to-day?"

"What! haven't you heard!" exclaimed Tawney, as surprised at my ignorance
as if I had asked him the name of the reigning sovereign.

"I have not heard, which, seeing that I spent the greater part of the
summer at sea and returned only the other day, is perhaps not greatly to
be wondered at."

"Well, the gentleman as Rawlings has gone to and as he was with to-day is
Mr. Fortescue; him as has taken Kingscote."

Kingscote was a country-house of no extraordinary size, but with so large
a park and gardens, conservatories and stables so extensive as to render
its keeping up very costly; and the owner or mortgagee, I know not which,
had for several years been vainly trying to let it at a nominal rent.

"He must be rich, then. Kingscote will want a lot of keeping up."

"Rich is not the word, sir. He has more money than he knows what to do
with. Why, he has twenty horses now, and is building loose-boxes for ten
more, and he won't look at one under a hundred pounds. Rawlings has got a
fine place, he has that."

"I am surprised he should have left the kennels, though. He loses his
chance of ever becoming huntsman."

"He is as good as that now, sir. He had a present of fifty pounds to start
with, gets as many shillings a week and all found, and has the entire
management of the stables, and with a gentleman like Mr. Fortescue
there'll be some nice pickings."

"Very likely. But why does Mr. Fortescue want a pilot? He rides well, and
his horses seem to know their business."

"He won't have any as doesn't. Yes, he rides uncommon well for an aged
man, does Mr. Fortescue. I suppose he wants somebody to show him the way
and keep him from getting ridden over. It isn't nice to get ridden over
when you're getting into years."

"It isn't nice whether you are getting into years or not. But you cannot
call Mr. Fortescue an old man."

"You cannot call him a young 'un. He has a good many gray hairs, and them
puckers under his eyes hasn't come in a day. But he has a young heart, I
will say that for him. Did you see how he did that 'double' as pounded
half the field?"

"Yes, it was a very sporting jump. But who is Mr. Fortescue, and where
does he come from?"

"That is what nobody seems to know. Mr. Keyworth--he was at the kennels
only yesterday--asked me the very same question. He thought Jim Rawlings
might ha' told me something. But bless you, Jim knows no more than anybody
else. All as he can tell is as Mr. Fortescue sometimes goes to London,
that he is uncommon fond of hosses, and either rides or drives tandem
nearly every day, and has ordered a slap-up four-in-hand drag. And he has
got a 'boratory and no end o' chemicals and stuff, and electric machines,
and all sorts o' gimcracks."

"Is there a Mrs. Fortescue?"

"Not as I knows on. There is not a woman in the house, except servants."

"Who looks after things, then?"

"Well, there's a housekeeper. But the head bottle-washer is a chap they
call major-domo--a German he is. He looks after everything, and an
uncommon sharp domo he is, too, Jim says. Nobody can do him a penny piece.
And then there is Mr. Fortescue's body-servant; he's a dark man, with a
big scar on one cheek, and rings in his ears. They call him Rumun."

"Nonsense! There's no such name as Rumun."

"That's what I told Jim. He said it was a rum 'un, but his name was Rumun,
and no mistake."

"Dark, and rings in his ears! The man is probably a Spaniard. You mean
Ramon."

"No, I don't; I mean Rumun," returned Tawney, doggedly. "I thought it was
an uncommon rum name, and I asked Jim twice--he calls at the kennels
sometimes--I asked him twice, and he said he was cock sure it was Rumun."

"Rumun let it be then. Altogether, this Mr. Fortescue seems to be rather a
mysterious personage."

"You are right there, Mr. Bacon, he is. I only wish I was half as
mysterious. Why, he must be worth thousands upon thousands. And he spends
his money like a gentleman, he does--thinks less of a sovereign than you
think of a bob. He sent Mr. Keyworth a hundred pounds for his hunt
subscription, and said if they were any ways short at the end of the
season they had only to tell him and he would send as much more."

Having now got all the information out of Tawney he was able to give me, I
stood him another whiskey, and after lighting a cigar I mounted my horse
and jogged slowly homeward, thinking much about Mr. Fortescue, and
wondering who he could be. The study of physiognomy is one of my fads, and
his face had deeply impressed me; in great wealth, moreover, there is
always something that strikes the imagination, and this man was evidently
very rich, and the mystery that surrounded him piqued my curiosity.




CHAPTER II.

TICKLE-ME-QUICK.


Being naturally of a retiring disposition, and in no sense the hero of the
tale which I am about to tell, I shall say no more concerning myself than
is absolutely necessary. At the same time, it is essential to a right
comprehension of what follows that I say something about myself, and
better that I should say it now than interrupt the even flow of my
narrative later on.

My name is Geoffrey Bacon, and I have reason to believe that I was born at
a place in Essex called (appropriately enough) Dedham. My family is one of
the oldest in the county, and (of course) highly respectable; but as the
question is often put to me by friends, and will naturally suggest itself
to my readers, I may as well observe, once for all, that I am _not_ a
descendent of the Lord Keeper Bacon, albeit, if he had had any children, I
have no doubt I should have been.

My poor mother died in giving me birth; my father followed her when I was
ten years old, leaving me with his blessing (nothing else), to the care of
his aunt, Miss Ophelia Bacon, by whom I was brought up and educated. She
was very good to me, but though I was far from being intentionally
ungrateful, I fear that I did not repay her goodness as it deserved. The
dear old lady had made up her mind that I should be a doctor, and though I
would rather have been a farmer or a country gentleman (the latter for
choice), I made no objection; and so long as I remained at school she had
no reason to complain of my conduct. I satisfied my masters and passed my
preliminary examination creditably and without difficulty, to my aunt's
great delight. She protested that she was proud of me, and rewarded my
diligence and cleverness with a five-pound note. But after I became a
student at Guy's I gave her much trouble, and got myself into some sad
scrapes. I spent her present, and something more, in hiring mounts, for I
was passionately fond of riding, especially to hounds, and ran into debt
with a neighboring livery-stable keeper to the tune of twenty pounds. I
would sometimes borrow the greengrocer's pony, for I was not particular
what I rode, so long as it had four legs. When I could obtain a mount
neither for love nor on credit, I went after the harriers on foot. The
result, as touching my health and growth, was all that could be desired.
As touching my studies, however, it was less satisfactory. I was spun
twice, both in my anatomy and physiology. Miss Ophelia, though sorely
grieved, was very indulgent, and had she lived, I am afraid that I should
never have got my diploma. But when I was twenty-one and she seventy-five,
my dear aunt died, leaving me all her property (which made an income of
about four hundred a year), with the proviso that unless, within three
years of her death, I obtained the double qualification, the whole of her
estate was to pass to Guy's Hospital. In the mean time the trustees were
empowered to make me an allowance of two guineas a week and defray all my
hospital expenses.

On this, partly because I was loath to lose so goodly a heritage, partly,
I hope, from worthier motives, I buckled-to in real earnest, and before I
was four-and-twenty I could write after my name the much coveted capitals
M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P. All this while I had not once crossed a horse or looked
at a hound, yet the ruling passion was still strong, and being very much
of Mr. Jorrock's opinion that all time not spent in hunting is lost, I
resolved, before "settling down" or taking up any position which might be
incompatible with indulgence in my favorite amusement, to devote a few
years of my life to fox-hunting. At twenty-four a man does not give much
thought to the future--at any rate I did not.

The next question was how to hunt three or four days a week on four
hundred a year, for though I was quite willing to spend my income, I was
resolved not to touch my capital. To begin with, I sold my aunt's cottage
and furniture and took a couple of rooms for the winter at Red Chimneys, a
roomy farm-house in the neighborhood of Treydon. Then, acting on the great
principle of co-operation, I joined at horse-keeping with my good friend
and old school-fellow, Bertie Alston, a London solicitor. Being both of us
light-weights, we could mount ourselves cheaply; the average cost of our
stud of four horses did not exceed forty pounds apiece. Moreover, when
opportunities offered, we did not disdain to turn an honest penny by
buying an animal cheap and selling him dear, and as I looked after things
myself, bought my own forage, and saw that I had full measure, our stable
expenses were kept within moderate limits. Except when the weather was
bad, or a horse _hors de combat_, I generally contrived to get four days'
hunting a week--three with the fox-hounds and one with Mr. Vigne's
harriers--for, owing to his professional engagements, Alston could not go
out as often as I did. But as I took all the trouble and responsibility,
it was only fair that I should have the lion's share of the riding.

At the end of the season we either sold the horses off or turned them into
a straw-yard, and I went to sea as ship's surgeon. In this capacity I made
voyages to Australia, to the Cape, and to the West Indies; and the summer
before I first saw Mr. Fortescue I had been to the Arctic Ocean in a
whaler. True, the pay did not amount to much, but it found me in
pocket-money and clothes, and I saved my keep.

Having now, as I hope, done with digressions and placed myself _en
rapport_ with my readers, I will return to the principal personage of my
story.

The next time I met Mr. Fortescue was at Harlow Bush. He was quite as well
mounted as before, and accompanied, as usual, by Rawlings and two grooms
with their second horses. On this occasion Mr. Fortescue did not hold
himself nearly so much aloof as he had done at Matching Green, perhaps
because he was more noticed; and he was doubtless more noticed because the
fame of his wealth and the lavish use he made of it were becoming more
widely known. The master gave him a friendly nod and a gracious smile, and
expressed a hope that we should have good sport; the secretary engaged him
in a lively conversation; the hunt servants touched their caps to him with
profound respect, and he received greetings from most of the swells.

We drew Latton, found in a few minutes, and had a "real good thing," a
grand run of nearly two hours, with only one or two trifling checks,
which, as I am not writing a hunting story, I need not describe any
further than to remark that we had plenty of fencing, a good deal of hard
galloping, a kill in the open, and that of the sixty or seventy who were
present at the start only about a score were up at the finish. Among the
fortunate few were Mr. Fortescue and his pilot. During the latter part of
the run we rode side by side, and pulled up at the same instant, just as
the fox was rolled over.

"A very fine run," I took the liberty to observe, as I stepped from my
saddle and slackened my horse's girths. "It will be a long time before we
have a better."

"Two hours and two minutes," shouted the secretary, looking at his watch,
"and straight. We are in the heart of the Puckeridge country."

"Yes," said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, "it was a very enjoyable run. You like
hunting, I think?"

"Like it! I should rather think I do. I regard fox-hunting as the very
prince of sports. It is manly, health-giving, and exhilarating. There is
no sport in which so many participate and so heartily enjoy. We enjoy it,
the horses enjoy it, and the hounds enjoy it."

"How about the fox?"

"Oh, the fox! Well, the fox is allowed to exist on condition of being
occasionally hunted. If there were no hunting there would be no foxes. On
the whole, I regard him as a fortunate and rather pampered individual; and
I have even heard it said that he rather likes being hunted than
otherwise."

"As for the general question, I dare say you are right. But I don't think
the fox likes it much. It once happened to me to be hunted, and I know I
did not like it."

This was rather startling, and had Mr. Fortescue spoken less gravely and
not been so obviously in earnest, I should have thought he was joking.

"You don't mean--Was it a paper-chase?" I said, rather foolishly.

"No; it was not a paper-chase," he answered, grimly. "There were no
paper-chases in my time. I mean that I was once hunted, just as we have
been hunting that fox."

"With a pack of hounds?"

"Yes, with a pack of hounds."

I was about to ask what sort of a chase it was, and how and where he was
hunted, when Cuffe came up, and, on behalf of the master, offered Mr.
Fortescue the brush.

"Thank you," said Mr. Fortescue, taking the brush and handing it to
Rawlings. "Here is something for you"--tipping the huntsman a sovereign,
which he put in his pocket with a "Thank you kindly, sir," and a gratified
smile.

And then flasks were uncorked, sandwich-cases opened, cigars lighted, and
the conversation becoming general, I had no other opportunity--at that
time--of making further inquiry of Mr. Fortescue touching the singular
episode in his career which he had just mentioned. A few minutes later a
move was made for our own country, and as we were jogging along I found
myself near Jim Rawlings.

"That's a fresh hoss you've got, I think, sir," he said.

"Yes, I have ridden him two or three times with the harriers; but this is
the first time I have had him out with fox-hounds."

"He carried you very well in the run, sir."

"You are quite right; he did. Very well."

"Does he lay hold on you at all, Mr. Bacon?"

"Not a bit."

"Light in the mouth, a clever jumper, and a free goer."

"All three."

"Yes, he's the right sort, he is, sir; and if ever you feel disposed to
sell him, I could, may be, find you a customer."

Accepting this as a delicate intimation that Mr. Fortescue had taken a
fancy to the horse and would like to buy him, I told Jim that I was quite
willing to sell at a fair price.

"And what might you consider a fair price, if it is a fair question?"
asked the man.

"A hundred guineas," I answered; for, as I knew that Mr. Fortescue would
not "look at a horse," as Tawney put it, under that figure, it would have
been useless to ask less.

"Very well, sir. I will speak to my master, and let you know."

Ranger, as I called the horse, was a purchase of Alston's. Liking his
looks (though Bertie was really a very indifferent judge), he had bought
him out of a hansom-cab for forty pounds, and after a little "schooling,"
the creature took to jumping as naturally as a duck takes to water. Sixty
pounds may seem rather an unconscionable profit, but considering that
Ranger was quite sound and up to weight, I don't think a hundred guineas
was too much. A dealer would have asked a hundred and fifty.

At any rate, Mr. Fortescue did not think it too much, for Rawlings
presently brought me word that his master would take the horse at the
price I had named, if I could warrant him sound.

"In that case it is a bargain," I said, "for I can warrant him sound."

"All right, sir. I'll send one of the grooms over to your place for him
to-morrow."

Shortly afterward I fell in with Keyworth, and as a matter of course we
talked about Mr. Fortescue.

"Do you know anything about him?" I asked.

"Not much. I believe he is rich--and respectable."

"That is pretty evident, I think."

"I am not sure. A man who spends a good deal of money is presumably rich;
but it by no means follows that he is respectable. There are such people
in the world as successful rogues and wealthy swindlers. Not that I think
Mr. Fortescue is either one or the other. I learned, from the check he
sent me for his subscription, who his bankers are, and through a friend of
mine, who is intimate with one of the directors, I got a confidential
report about him. It does not amount to much; but it is satisfactory so
far as it goes. They say he is a man of large fortune, and, as they
believe, highly respectable."

"Is that all?"

"All there was in the report. But Tomlinson--that's my friend--has heard
that he has spent the greater part of his life abroad, and that he made
his money in South America."

The mention of South America interested me, for I had made voyages both to
Rio de Janeiro and several places on the Spanish Main.

"South America is rather vague," I observed. "You might almost as well say
'Southern Asia.' Have you any idea in what part of it?"

"Not the least. I have told you all I know. I should be glad to know more;
but for the present it is quite enough for my purpose. I intend to call
upon Mr. Fortescue."

It is hardly necessary to say that I had no such intention, for having
neither a "position in the county," as the phrase goes, a house of my own,
nor any official connection with the hunt, a call from me would probably
have been regarded, and rightly so, as a piece of presumption. As it
happened, however, I not only called on Mr. Fortescue before the
secretary, but became his guest, greatly to my surprise, and, I have no
doubt, to his, although he was the indirect cause; for had he not bought
Ranger, it is very unlikely that I should have become an inmate of his
house.

It came about in this way. Bertie was so pleased with the result of his
first speculation in horseflesh (though so far as he was concerned it was
a pure fluke) that he must needs make another. If he had picked up a
second cab-horse at thirty or forty pounds he could not have gone far
wrong; but instead of that he must needs go to Tattersall's and give
nearly fifty for a blood mare rejoicing in the name of "Tickle-me-Quick,"
described as being "the property of a gentleman," and said to have won
several country steeple-chases.

The moment I set eyes on the beast I saw she was a screw, "and vicious at
that," as an American would have said. But as she had been bought (without
warranty) and paid for, I had to make the best of her. Within an hour of
the mare's arrival at Red Chimneys, I was on her back, trying her paces.
She galloped well and jumped splendidly, but I feared from her ways that
she would be hot with hounds, and perhaps, kick in a crowd, one of the
worst faults that a hunter can possess.

On the next non-hunting day I took Tickle-me-Quick out for a long ride in
the country, to see how she shaped as a hack. I little thought, as we set
off, that it would prove to be her last journey, and one of the most
memorable events of my life.

For a while all went well. The mare wanted riding, yet she behaved no
worse than I expected, although from the way she laid her ears back and
the angry tossing of her head when I made her feel the bit, she was
clearly not in the best of tempers. But I kept her going; and an hour
after leaving Red Chimneys we turned into a narrow deep lane between high
banks, which led to Kingscote entering the road on the west side of the
park at right angles, and very near Mr. Fortescue's lodge-gates.

In the field to my right several colts were grazing, and when they caught
sight of Tickle-me-Quick trotting up the lane they took it into their
heads to have an impromptu race among themselves. Neighing loudly, they
set off at full gallop. Without asking my leave, Tickle-me-Quick followed
suit. I tried to stop her. I might as well have tried to stop an
avalanche. So, making a virtue of necessity, I let her go, thinking that
before she reached the top of the lane she would have had quite enough,
and I should be able to pull her up without difficulty.

The colts are soon left behind; but we can hear them galloping behind us,
and on goes the mare like the wind. I can now see the end of the lane, and
as the great park wall, twelve feet high, looms in sight, the horrible
thought flashes on my mind that unless I pull her up we shall both be
dashed to pieces; for to turn a sharp corner at the speed we are going is
quite out of the question.

I make another effort, sawing the mare's mouth till it bleeds, and
tightening the reins till they are fit to break.

All in vain; she puts her head down and gallops on, if possible more madly
than before. Still larger looms that terrible wall; death stares me in the
face, and for the first time in my life I undergo the intense agony of
mortal terror.

We are now at the end of the lane. There is one chance only, and that the
most desperate, of saving my life. I slip my feet from the stirrups, and
when Tickle-me-Quick is within two or three strides of the wall, I drop
the reins and throw myself from her back. Then all is darkness.




CHAPTER III.

MR. FORTESCUE'S PROPOSAL.


"Where am I?"

I feel as if I were in a strait-jacket. One of my arms is immovable, my
head is bandaged, and when I try to turn I suffer excruciating pain.

"Where am I?"

"Oh, you have wakened up!" says somebody with a foreign accent, and a dark
face bends over me. The light is dim and my sight weak, and but for his
grizzled mustache I might have taken the speaker for a woman, his ears
being adorned with large gold rings.

"Where are you? You are in the house of Señor Fortescue."

"And the mare?"

"The mare broke her wicked head against the park wall, and she has gone to
the kennels to be eaten by the dogs."

"Already? How long is it since?"

"It was the day before yesterday zat it happened."

"God bless me! I must have been insensible ever since. That means
concussion of the brain. Am I much damaged otherwise, do you know?"

"Pretty well. Your left shoulder is dislocated, one of your fingers and
two of your ribs broken, and one of your ankles severely contused. But it
might have been worse. If you had not thrown yourself from your horse, as
you did, you would just now be in a coffin instead of in this comfortable
bed."

"Somebody saw me, then?"

"Yes, the lodge-keeper. He thought you were dead, and came up and told us;
and we brought you here on a stretcher, and the Señor Coronel sent for a
doctor--"

"The Señor Coronel! Do you mean Mr. Fortescue?"

"Yes, sir, I mean Mr. Fortescue."

"Then you are Ramon?"

"_Hijo de Dios!_ You know my name."

"Yes, you are Mr. Fortescue's body-servant."

"Caramba! Somebody must have told you."

"You might have made a worse guess, Señor Ramon. Will you please tell Mr.
Fortescue that I thank him with all my heart for his great kindness, and
that I will not trespass on it more than I can possibly help. As soon as I
can be moved I shall go to my own place."

"That will not be for a long time, and I do not think the Señor Coronel
would like--But when he returns he will see you, and then you can tell him
yourself."

"He is away from home, then?"

"The Señor Coronel has gone to London. He will be back to-morrow."

"Well, if I cannot thank him to-day, I can thank you. You are my nurse,
are you not?"

"A little--Geist and I, and Mees Tomleenson, we relieve each other. But
those two don't know much about wounds."

"And you do, I suppose?"

"_Hijo de Dios!_ Do I know much about wounds? I have nursed men who have
been cut to pieces. I have been cut to pieces myself. Look!"

And with that Ramon pointed to his neck, which was seamed all the way down
with a tremendous scar; then to his left hand, which was minus two
fingers; next to one of his arms, which appeared to have been plowed from
wrist to elbow with a bullet; and lastly to his head, which was almost
covered with cicatrices, great and small.

"And I have many more marks in other parts of my body, which it would not
be convenient to show you just now," he said, quietly.

"You are an old soldier, then, Ramon?"

"Very. And now I will light myself a cigarette, and you will no more talk.
As an old soldier, I know that it is bad for a _caballero_ with a broken
head to talk so much as you are doing."

"As a surgeon, I know you are right, and I will talk no more for the
present."

And then, feeling rather drowsy, I composed myself to sleep. The last
thing I remembered before closing my eyes was the long, swarthy,
quixotic-looking face of my singular nurse, veiled in a blue cloud of
cigarette-smoke, which, as it rolled from the nostrils of his big,
aquiline nose, made those orifices look like the twin craters of an active
volcano, upside down.

When, after a short snooze, I woke a second time, my first sensation was
one of intense surprise, and being unable, without considerable
inconvenience, to rub my eyes, I winked several times in succession to
make sure that I was not dreaming; for while I slept the swart visage,
black eyes, and grizzled mustache of my nurse had, to all appearance, been
turned into a fair countenance, with blue eyes and a tawny head, while the
tiny cigarette had become a big meerschaum pipe.

"God bless me! You are surely not Ramon?" I exclaimed.

"No; I am Geist. It is my turn of duty as your nurse. Can I get you
anything?"

"Thank you very much; you are all very kind. I feel rather faint, and
perhaps if I had something to eat it might do me good."

"Certainly. There is some beef-tea ready. Here it is. Shall I feed you?"

"Thank you. My left arm is tied up, and this broken finger is very
painful. Bat I am giving you no end of trouble. I don't know how I shall
be able to repay you and Mr. Fortescue for all your kindness."

"_Ach Gott!_ Don't mention it, my dear sir. Mr. Fortescue said you were to
have every attention; and when a fellow-man has been broken all to pieces
it is our duty to do for him what we can. Who knows? Perhaps some time I
may be broken all to pieces myself. But I will not ride your fiery horses.
My weight is seventeen stone, and if I was to throw myself off a galloping
horse as you did, _ach Gott!_ I should be broken past mending."

Mr. Geist made an attentive and genial nurse, discoursing so pleasantly
and fluently that, greatly to my satisfaction (for I was very weak), my
part in the conversation was limited to an occasional monosyllable; but he
said nothing on the subject as to which I was most anxious for
information--Mr. Fortescue--and, as he clearly desired to avoid it, I
refrained from asking questions that might have put him in a difficulty
and exposed me to a rebuff.

I found out afterward that neither he nor Ramon ever discussed their
master, and though Mrs. Tomlinson, my third nurse (a buxom, healthy,
middle-aged widow, whose position seemed to be something between that of
housekeeper and upper servant), was less reticent, it was probably because
she had so little to tell.

I learned, among other things, that the habits of the household were
almost as regular as those of a regiment, and that the servants, albeit
kindly treated and well paid, were strictly ruled, even comparatively
slight breaches of discipline being punished with instant dismissal. At
half-past ten everybody was supposed to be in bed, and up at six; for at
seven Mr. Fortescue took his first breakfast of fruit and dry toast.
According to Mrs. Tomlinson (and this I confess rather surprised me) he
was an essentially busy man. His only idle time was that which he gave to
sleep. During his waking hours he was always either working in his study,
his laboratory, or his conservatories, riding and driving being his sole
recreations.

"He is the most active man I ever knew, young or old," said Mrs.
Tomlinson, "and a good master--I will say that for him. But I cannot make
him out at all. He seems to have neither kith nor kin, and yet--This is
quite between ourselves, Mr. Bacon--"

"Of course, Mrs. Tomlinson, quite."

"Well, there is a picture in his room as he keeps veiled and locked up in
a sort of shrine; but one day he forgot to turn the key, and I--I looked."

"Naturally. And what did you see?"

"The picture of a woman, dark, but, oh, so beautiful--as beautiful as an
angel.... I thought it was, may be, a sweetheart or something, but she is
too young for the likes of him."

"Portraits are always the same; that picture may have been painted ages
ago. Always veiled is it? That seems very mysterious, does it not?"

"It does; and I am just dying to know what the mystery is. If you should
happen to find out, and it's no secret, would you mind telling me?"

At this point Herr Geist appeared, whereupon Mrs. Tomlinson, with true
feminine tact, changed the subject without waiting for a reply.

During the time I was laid up Mr. Fortescue came into my room almost every
day, but never stayed more than a few minutes. When I expressed my sense
of his kindness and talked about going home, he would smile gravely, and
say:

"Patience! You must be my guest until you have the full use of your limbs
and are able to go about without help."

After this I protested no more, for there was an indescribable something
about Mr. Fortescue which would have made it difficult to contradict him,
even had I been disposed to take so ungrateful and ungracious a part.

At length, after a weary interval of inaction and pain, came a time when I
could get up and move about without discomfort, and one fine frosty day,
which seemed the brightest of my life, Geist and Ramon helped me
down-stairs and led me into a pretty little morning-room, opening into one
of the conservatories, where the plants and flowers had been so arranged
as to look like a sort of tropical forest, in the midst of which was an
aviary filled with parrots, cockatoos, and other birds of brilliant
plumage.

Geist brought me an easy-chair, Ramon a box of cigarettes and the "Times,"
and I was just settling down to a comfortable read and smoke, when Mr.
Fortescue entered from the conservatory. He wore a Norfolk jacket and a
broad-brimmed hat, and his step was so elastic, and his bearing so
upright, and he seemed so strong and vigorous withal, that I began to
think that in estimating his age at sixty I had made a mistake. He looked
more like fifty or fifty-five.

"I am glad to see you down-stairs," he said, helping himself to a
cigarette. "How do you feel?"

"Very much better, thank you, and to-morrow or the next day I must
really--"

"No, no, I cannot let you go yet. I shall keep you, at any rate, a few
days longer. And while this frost lasts you can do no hunting. How is the
shoulder?"

"Better. In a fortnight or so I shall be able to dispense with the sling,
but my ankle is the worst. The contusion was very severe. I fear that I
shall feel the effects of it for a long time."

"That is very likely, I think. I would any time rather have a clean flesh
wound than a severe contusion. I have had experience of both. At Salamanca
my shoulder was laid open with a sabre-stroke at the very moment my horse
was shot under me; and my leg, which was terribly bruised in the fall, was
much longer in getting better than my shoulder."

"At Salamanca! You surely don't mean the battle of Salamanca?"

"Yes, the battle of Salamanca."

"But, God bless me, that is ages ago! At the beginning of the
century--1810 or 1812, or something like that."

"The battle of Salamanca was fought on the 21st of July, 1812," said my
host, with a matter-of-fact air.

"But--why--how?" I stammered, staring at him in supreme surprise. "That is
sixty years since, and you don't look much more than fifty now."

"All the same I am nearly fourscore," said Mr. Fortescue, smiling as if
the compliment pleased him.

"Fourscore, and so hale and strong! I have known men half your age not
half so vigorous and alert. Why, you may live to be a hundred."

"I think I shall, probably longer. Of course barring accidents, and if I
continue to avoid a peril which has been hanging over me for half a
century or so, and from which I have several times escaped only by the
skin of my teeth."

"And what is the peril, Mr. Fortescue?"

"Assassination."

"Assassination!"

"Yes, assassination. I told you a short time ago that I was once hunted by
a pack of hounds. I am hunted now--have been hunted for two
generations--by a family of murderers."

The thought occurred to me--and not for the first time--that Mr. Fortescue
was either mad or a Munchausen, and I looked at him curiously; but neither
in that calm, powerful, self-possessed face, nor in the steady gaze of
those keen dark eyes, could I detect the least sign of incipient insanity
or a boastful spirit.

"You are quite mistaken," he said, with one of his enigmatic smiles. "I am
not mad; and I have lived too long either to cherish illusions or conjure
up imaginary dangers."

"I--I beg your pardon, Mr. Fortescue--I had no intention," I stammered,
quite taken aback by the accuracy with which he had read, or guessed, my
thoughts--"I had no intention to cast a doubt on what you said. But who
are these people that seek your life? and why don't you inform the
police?"

"The police! How could the police help me?" exclaimed Mr. Fortescue, with
a gesture of disdain, "Besides, life would not be worth having at the
price of being always under police protection, like an evicting Irish
landlord. But let us change the subject; we have talked quite enough about
myself. I want to talk about you."

A very few minutes sufficed to put Mr. Fortescue in possession of all the
information he desired. He already knew something about me, and as I had
nothing to conceal, I answered all his questions without reserve.

"Don't you think you are rather wasting your life?" he asked, after I had
answered the last of them.

"I am enjoying it."

"Very likely. People generally do enjoy life when they are young. Hunting
is all very well as an amusement, but to have no other object in life
seems--what shall we say?--just a little frivolous, don't you think?"

"Well, perhaps it does; but I mean, after a while, to buy a practice and
settle down."

"But in the mean time your medical knowledge must be growing rather rusty.
I have heard physicians say that it is only after they have obtained their
degree that they begin to learn their profession. And the practice you get
on board these ships cannot amount to much."

"You are quite right," I said, frankly, for my conscience was touched. "I
am, as you say, living too much for the present. I know less than I knew
when I left Guy's. I could not pass my 'final' over again to save my life.
You are quite right: I must turn over a new leaf."

"I am glad to hear you say so, the more especially as I have a proposal to
make; and as I make it quite as much in my own interest as in yours, you
will incur no obligation in accepting it. I want you to become an inmate
of my house, help me in my laboratory, and act as my secretary and
domestic physician, and when I am away from home, as my representative.
You will have free quarters, of course; my stable will be at your disposal
for hunting purposes, and you may go sometimes to London to attend
lectures and do practical work at your hospital. As for salary--you can
fix it yourself, when you have ascertained by actual experience the
character of your work. What do you say?"

Mr. Fortescue put this question as if he had no doubt about my answer, and
I fulfilled his expectation by answering promptly in the affirmative. The
proposal seemed in every way to my advantage, and was altogether to my
liking; and even had it been less so I should have accepted it, for what I
had just heard greatly whetted my curiosity, and made me more desirous
than ever to know the history of the extraordinary man with whom I had so
strangely come in contact, and ascertain the secret of his wealth.

The same day I wrote to Alston announcing the dissolution of our
partnership, and leaving him to deal with the horses at Red Chimneys as he
might think fit.




CHAPTER IV.

A RESCUE.


My curiosity was rather long in being gratified, and but for a very
strange occurrence, which I shall presently describe, probably never would
have been gratified. Even after I had been a member of Mr. Fortescue's
household for several months, I knew little more of his antecedents and
circumstances than on the day when he made me the proposal which I have
just mentioned. If I attempted to lead up to the subject, he would either
cleverly evade it or say bluntly that he preferred to talk about something
else. Save as to matters that did not particularly interest me, Ramon was
as reticent as his master; and as Geist had only been with Mr. Fortescue
during the latter's residence at Kingscote, his knowledge, or, rather, his
ignorance was on a par with my own.

Mr. Fortescue's character was as enigmatic as his history was obscure. He
seemed to be destitute both of kinsfolk and friends, never made any
allusion to his family, neither noticed women nor discussed them. Politics
and religion he equally ignored, and, so far as might appear, had neither
foibles nor fads. On the other hand, he had three passions--science,
horses, and horticulture, and his knowledge was almost encyclopædic. He
was a great reader, master of many languages, and seemed to have been
everywhere and seen all in the world that was worth seeing. His wealth
appeared to be unlimited, but how he made it or where he kept it I had no
idea. All I knew was that whenever money was wanted it was forthcoming,
and that he signed a check for ten pounds and ten thousand with equal
indifference. As he conducted his private correspondence himself, my
position as secretary gave me no insight into his affairs. My duties
consisted chiefly in corresponding with tradesmen, horse-dealers, and
nursery gardeners, and noting the results of chemical experiments.

Mr. Fortescue was very abstemious, and took great care of his health, and
if he was really verging on eighty (which I very much doubted), I thought
he might not improbably live to be a hundred and ten and even a hundred
and twenty. He drank nothing, whatever, neither tea, coffee, cocoa, nor
any other beverage, neither water nor wine, always quenching his thirst
with fruit, of which he ate largely. So far as I knew, the only liquid
that ever passed his lips was an occasional liquor-glass of a mysterious
decoction which he prepared himself and kept always under lock and key.
His breakfast, which he took every morning at seven, consisted of bread
and fruit.

He ate very little animal food, limiting himself for the most part to fish
and fowl, and invariably spent eight or nine hours of the twenty-four in
bed. We often discussed physiology, therapeutics, and kindred subjects, of
which his knowledge was so extensive as to make me suspect that some time
in his life he had belonged to the medical profession.

"The best physicians I ever met," he once observed, "are the Callavayas of
the Andes--if the preservation and prolongation of human life is the test
of medical skill. Among the Callavayas the period of youth is thirty
years; a man is not held to be a man until he reaches fifty, and he only
begins to be old at a hundred."

"Was it among the Callavayas that you learned the secret of long life, Mr.
Fortescue?" I asked.

"Perhaps," he answered, with one of his peculiar smiles; and then he
started me by saying that he would never be a "lean and slippered
pantaloon." When health and strength failed him he should cease to live.

"You surely don't mean that you will commit suicide?" I exclaimed, in
dismay.

"You may call it what you like. I shall do as the Fiji Islanders and some
tribes of Indians do, in similar circumstances--retire to a corner and
still the beatings of my heart by an effort of will."

"But is that possible?"

"I have seen it done, and I have done it myself--not, of course, to the
point of death, but so far as to simulate death. I once saved my life in
that way."

"Was that when you were hunted, Mr. Fortescue?"

"No, it was not. Let us go to the stables. I want to see you ride Regina
over the jumps."

Mr. Fortescue had caused to be arranged in the park a miniature
steeple-chase course about a mile round, on which newly-acquired hunters
were always tried, and the old ones regularly exercised. He generally made
a point of being present on these occasions, sometimes riding over the
course himself. If a horse, bought as a hunter, failed to justify its
character by its performance it was invariably returned.

Sometimes Ramon gave us an exhibition of his skill as a gaucho. One of the
wildest of the horses would be let loose in the park, and the old soldier,
armed with a lasso and mounted on an animal trained by himself, and
equipped with a South American saddle, would follow and try to "rope" the
runaway, Mr. Fortescue, Rawlings, and myself riding after him. It was
"good fun," but I fancy Mr. Fortescue regarded this sport, as he regarded
hunting, less as an amusement than as a means of keeping him in good
health and condition.

Regina (a recent purchase) was tried and, I think, found wanting. I recall
the instance merely because it is associated in my mind with an event
which, besides affecting a momentous change in my relations with Mr.
Fortescue and greatly influencing my own fortune, rendered possible the
writing of this book.

The trial over, Mr. Fortescue told me, somewhat abruptly, that he intended
to leave home in an hour, and should be away for several days. As he
walked toward the house, I inquired if there was anything he would like me
to look after during his absence, whereupon he mentioned several chemical
and electrical experiments, which he wished me to continue and note the
results. He requested me, further, to open all letters--save such as were
marked private or bore foreign postmarks--and answer so many of them as,
without his instructions, I might be able to do. For the rest, I was to
exercise a general supervision, especially over the stables and gardens.
As for purely domestic concerns, Geist was so excellent a manager that his
master trusted him without reserve.

When Mr. Fortescue came down-stairs, equipped for his journey, I inquired
when he expected to return, and on what day he would like the carriage to
meet him at the station. I thought he might tell me where he was going;
but he did not take the hint.

"If it rains I will telegraph," he said; "if fine, I shall probably walk;
it is only a couple of miles."

Mr. Fortescue, as he always did when he went outside his park (unless he
was mounted), took with him a sword-stick, a habit which I thought rather
ridiculous, for, though he was an essentially sane man, I had quite made
up my mind that his fear of assassination was either a fancy or a fad.

After my patron's departure I worked for a while in the laboratory; and an
hour before dinner I went for a stroll in the park, making, for no reason
in particular, toward the principal entrance. As I neared it I heard
voices in dispute, and on reaching the gates I found the lodge-keeper
engaged in a somewhat warm altercation with an Italian organ-grinder and
another fellow of the same kidney, who seemed to be his companion.

The lodge-keepers had strict orders to exclude from the park all beggars
without exception, and all and sundry who produced music by turning a
handle. Real musicians, however, were freely admitted, and often
generously rewarded.

The lodge-keeper in question (an old fellow with a wooden leg) had not
been able to make the two vagabonds in question understand this. They
insisted on coming in, and the lodge-keeper said that if I had not
appeared he verily believed they would have entered in spite of him. They
seemed to know very little English; but as I knew a little Italian, which
I eked out with a few significant gestures, I speedily enlightened them,
and they sheered off, looking daggers, and muttering what sounded like
curses.

The man who carried the organ was of the usual type--short, thick-set,
hairy, and unwashed. His companion, rather to my surprise, was just the
reverse--tall, shapely, well set up, and comparatively well clad; and with
his dark eyes, black mustache, broad-brimmed hat, and red tie loosely
knotted round his brawny throat, he looked decidedly picturesque.

On the following day, as I was going to the stables (which were a few
hundred yards below the house) I found my picturesque Italian in the back
garden, singing a barcarole to the accompaniment of a guitar. But as he
had complied with the condition of which I had informed him, I made no
objection. So far from that I gave him a shilling, and as the maids (who
were greatly taken with his appearance) got up a collection for him and
gave him a feed, he did not do badly.

A few days later, while out riding, I called at the station for an evening
paper, and there he was again, "touching his guitar," and singing
something that sounded very sentimental.

"That fellow is like a bad shilling," I said to one of the
porters--"always turning up."

"He is never away. I think he must have taken it into his head to live
here."

"What does he do?"

"Oh, he just hangs about, and watches the trains, as if he had never seen
any before. I suppose there are none in the country he comes from. Between
whiles he sometimes plays on his banjo and sings a bit for us. I cannot
quite make him out; but as he is very quiet and well-behaved, and never
interferes with nobody, it is no business of mine."

Neither was it any business of mine; so after buying my paper I dismissed
the subject from my mind and rode on to Kingscote.

As a rule, I found the morning papers quite as much as I could struggle
with; but at this time a poisoning case was being tried which interested
me so much that while it lasted I sent for or fetched an evening paper
every afternoon. The day after my conversation with the porter I adopted
the former course, the day after that I adopted the latter, and, contrary
to my usual practice, I walked.

There were two ways from Kingscote to the station; one by the road, the
other by a little-used footpath. I went by the road, and as I was buying
my paper at Smith's bookstall the station-master told me that Mr.
Fortescue had returned by a train which came in about ten minutes
previously.

"He must be walking home by the fields, then, or we should have met," I
said; and pocketing my paper, I set off with the intention of overtaking
him.

As I have already observed, the field way was little frequented, most
people preferring the high-road as being equally direct and, except in the
height of summer, both dryer and less lonesome.

After traversing two or three fields the foot-path ran through a thick
wood, once part of the great forest of Essex, then descending into a deep
hollow, it made a sudden bend and crossed a rambling old brook by a
dilapidated bridge.

As I reached the bend I heard a shout, and looking down I saw what at
first sight (the day being on the wane and the wood gloomy) I took to be
three men amusing themselves with a little cudgel-play. But a second
glance showed me that something much more like murder than cudgel-play was
going on; and shortening my Irish blackthorn, I rushed at breakneck speed
down the hollow.

I was just in time. Mr. Fortescue, with his back against the tree, was
defending himself with his sword-stick against the two Italians, each of
whom, armed with a long dagger, was doing his best to get at him without
falling foul of the sword.

The rascals were so intent on their murderous business that they neither
heard nor saw me, and, taking them in the rear, I fetched the
guitar-player a crack on his skull that stretched him senseless on the
ground, whereupon the other villain, without more ado, took to his heels.

"Thank you," said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, as he put up his weapon. "I
don't think I could have kept the brigands at bay much longer. A
sword-stick is no match for a pair of Corsican daggers. The next time I
take a walk I must have a revolver. Is that fellow dead, do you think? If
he is, I shall be still more in your debt."

I looked at the prostrate man's face, then at his head. "No," I said,
"there is no fracture. He is only stunned." My diagnosis was verified
almost as soon as it was spoken. The next moment the Italian opened his
eyes and sat up, and had I not threatened him with my blackthorn would
have sprung to his feet.

"You have to thank this gentleman for saving your life," said Mr.
Fortescue, in French.

"How?" asked the fellow in the same language.

"If you had killed me you would have been hanged. If I hand you over to
the police you will get twenty years at the hulks for attempted murder,
and unless you answer my questions truly I shall hand you over to the
police. You are a Griscelli."

"Yes, sir."

"Which of them?"

"I am Giuseppe, the son of Giuseppe."

"In that case you are _his_ grandson. How did you find me out?"

"You were at Paris last summer."

"But you did not see me there."

"No, but Giacomo did; and from your name and appearance we felt sure you
were the same."

"Who is Giacomo--your brother?"

"No, my cousin, the son of Luigi."

"What is he?"

"He belongs to the secret police."

"So Giacomo put you on the scent?"

"Yes, sir. He ascertained that you were living in England. The rest was
easy."

"Oh, it was, was it? You don't find yourself very much at ease just now, I
fancy. And now, my young friend, I am going to treat you better than you
deserve. I can afford to do so, for, as you see, and, as your grandfather
and your father discovered to their cost, I bear a charmed life. You
cannot kill me. You may go. And I advise you to return to France or
Corsica, or wherever may be your home, with all speed, for to-morrow I
shall denounce you to the police, and if you are caught you know what to
expect. Who is your accomplice--a kinsman?"

"No, only compatriot, whose acquaintance I made in London. He is a
coward."

"Evidently. One more question and I have done. Have you any brothers?"

"Yes, sir; two."

"And about a dozen cousins, I suppose, all of whom would be delighted to
murder me--if they could. Now, give that gentleman your dagger, and march,
_au pas gymnastique_."

With a very ill grace, Giuseppe Griscelli did as he was bid, and then,
rising to his feet, he marched, not, however, at the _pas gymnastique_,
but slowly and deliberately; and as he reached a bend in the path a few
yards farther on, he turned round and cast at Mr. Fortescue the most
diabolically ferocious glance I ever saw on a human countenance.




CHAPTER V.

THEREBY  HANGS  A  TALE.


"You believe now, I hope," said Mr. Fortescue, as we walked homeward.

"Believe what, sir?"

"That I have relentless enemies who seek my life. When I first told you of
this you did not believe me. You thought I was the victim of an
hallucination, else had I been more frank with you."

"I am really very sorry."

"Don't protest! I cannot blame you. It is hard for people who have led
uneventful lives and seen little of the seamy side of human nature to
believe that under the veneer of civilization and the mask of convention,
hatreds are still as fierce, men still as revengeful as ever they were in
olden times.... I hope I did not make a mistake in sparing young
Griscelli's life."

"Sparing his life! How?"

"He sought my life, and I had a perfect right to take his."

"That is not a very Christian sentiment, Mr. Fortescue."

"I did not say it was. Do you always repay good for evil and turn your
check to the smiter, Mr. Bacon?"

"If you put it in that way, I fear I don't."

"Do you know anybody who does?"

After a moment's reflection I was again compelled to answer in the
negative. I could not call to mind a single individual of my acquaintance
who acted on the principle of returning good for evil.

"Well, then, if I am no better than other people, I am no worse. Yet,
after all, I think I did well to let him go. Had I killed the brigand,
there would have been a coroner's inquest, and questions asked which might
have been troublesome to answer, and he has brothers and cousins. If I
could destroy the entire brood! Did you see the look he gave me as he went
away? It meant murder. We have not seen the last of Giuseppe Griscelli,
Mr. Bacon."

"I am afraid we have not. I never saw such an expression of intense hatred
in my life! Has he cause for it?"

"I dare say he thinks so. I killed his father and his grand-father."

This, uttered as indifferently as if it were a question of killing hares
and foxes, was more than I could stand. I am not strait-laced, but I draw
the line at murder.

"You did what?" I exclaimed, as, horror-struck and indignant, I stopped in
the path and looked him full in the face.

I thought I had never seen him so Mephistopheles-like. A sinister smile
parted his lips, showing his small white teeth gleaming under his gray
mustache, and he regarded me with a look of cynical amusement, in which
there was perhaps a slight touch of contempt.

"You are a young man, Mr. Bacon," he observed, gently, "and, like most
young men, and a great many old men, you make false deductions. Killing is
not always murder. If it were, we should consign our conquerors to
everlasting infamy, instead of crowning them with laurels and erecting
statues to their memory. I am no murderer, Mr. Bacon. At the same time I
do not cherish illusions. Unpremeditated murder is by no means the worst
of crimes. Taking a life is only anticipating the inevitable; and of all
murderers, Nature is the greatest and the cruellest. I have--if I could
only tell you--make you see what I have seen--Even now, O God! though half
a century has run its course--"

Here Mr. Fortescue's voice failed him; he turned deadly pale, and his
countenance took an expression of the keenest anguish. But the signs of
emotion passed away as quickly as they had appeared. Another moment and he
had fully regained his composure, and he added, in his usual
self-possessed manner:

"All this must seem very strange to you, Mr. Bacon. I suppose you consider
me somewhat of a mystery."

"Not somewhat, but very much."

Mr. Fortescue smiled (he never laughed) and reflected a moment.

"I am thinking," he said, "how strangely things come about, and, so to
speak, hang together. The greatest of all mysteries is fate. If that horse
had not run away with you, these rascals would almost certainly have made
away with me; and the incident of to-day is one of the consequences of
that which I mentioned at our first interview."

"When we had that good run from Latton. I remember it very well. You said
you had been hunted yourself."

"Yes."

"How was it, Mr. Fortescue?"

"Ah! Thereby hangs a tale."

"Tell it me, Mr. Fortescue," I said, eagerly.

"And a very long tale."

"So much the better; it is sure to be interesting."

"Ah, yes, I dare say you would find it interesting. My life has been
stirring and stormy enough, in all conscience--except for the ten years I
spent in heaven," said Mr. Fortescue, in a voice and with a look of
intense sadness.

"Ten years in heaven!" I exclaimed, as much astonished as I had just been
horrified. Was the man mad, after all, or did he speak in paradoxes? "Ten
years in heaven!"

Mr. Fortescue smiled again, and then it occurred to me that his ten years
of heaven might have some connection with the veiled portrait and the
shrine in his room up-stairs.

"You take me too literally," he said. "I spoke metaphorically. I did not
mean that, like Swedenborg and Mohammed, I have made excursions to
Paradise. I merely meant that I once spent ten years of such serene
happiness as it seldom falls to the lot of man to enjoy. But to return to
our subject. You would like to know more of my past; but as it would not
be satisfactory to tell you an incomplete history, and to tell you
all--Yet why not? I have done nothing that I am ashamed of; and it is well
you should know something of the man whose life you have saved once, and
may possibly save again. You are trustworthy, straightforward, and
vigilant, and albeit you are not overburdened with intelligence--"

Here Mr. Fortescue paused, as if to reflect; and, though the observation
was not very flattering--hardly civil, indeed--I was so anxious to hear
this story that I took it in good part, and waited patiently for his
decision.

"To relate it _viva voce_" he went on, thoughtfully, "would be troublesome
to both of us."

"I am sure I should find it anything but troublesome."

"Well, I should. It would take too much time, and I hate travelling over
old ground. But that is a difficulty which I think we can get over. For
many years I have made a record of the principal events of my life, in the
form of a personal narrative; and though I have sometimes let it run
behind for a while, I have always written it up."

"That is exactly the thing. As you say, telling a long story is
troublesome. I can read it."

"I am afraid not. It is written in a sort of stenographic cipher of my own
invention."

"That is very awkward," I said, despondently. "I know no more of shorthand
than of Sanskrit, and though I once tried to make out a cipher, the only
tangible result was a splitting headache."

"With the key, which I will give you, a little instruction and practice,
you should have no difficulty in making out my cipher. It will be an
exercise for your intelligence"--smiling. "Will you try?"

"My very best."

"And now for the conditions. In the first place, you must, in stenographic
phrase, 'extend' my notes, write out the narrative in a legible hand and
good English. If there be any blanks, I will fill them up; if you require
explanations, I will give them. Do you agree?"

"I agree."

"The second condition is that you neither make use of the narrative for
any purpose of your own, nor disclose the whole or any part of it to
anybody until and unless I give you leave. What say you?"

"I say yes."

"The third and last condition is, that you engage to stay with me in your
present capacity until it pleases me to give you your _congé_. Again what
say you?"

This was rather a "big order," and very one-sided. It bound me to remain
with Mr. Fortescue for an indefinite period, yet left him at liberty to
dismiss me at a moment's notice; and if he went on living, I might have to
stay at Kingscote till I was old and gray. All the same, the position was
a good one. I had four hundred a year (the price at which I had modestly
appraised my services), free quarters, a pleasant life, and lots of
hunting--all I could wish for, in fact; and what can a man have more? So
again I said, "Yes."

"We are agreed in all points, then. If you will come into my room "--we
were by this time arrived at the house--"you shall have your first lesson
in cryptography."

I assented with eagerness, for I was burning to begin, and, from what Mr.
Fortescue had said, I did not anticipate any great difficulty in making
out the cipher.

But when he produced a specimen page of his manuscript, my confidence,
like Bob Acre's courage, oozed out at my finger-ends, or rather, all over
me, for I broke out into a cold sweat.

The first few lines resembled a confused array of algebraic formula. (I
detest algebra.) Then came several lines that seemed to have been made by
the crawlings of tipsy flies with inky legs, followed by half a dozen or
so that looked like the ravings of a lunatic done into Welsh, while the
remainder consisted of Roman numerals and ordinary figures mixed up,
higgledy-piggledy.

"This is nothing less than appalling," I almost groaned. "It will take me
longer to learn than two or three languages."

"Oh, no! When you have got the clew, and learned the signs, you will read
the cipher with ease."

"Very likely; but when will that be?"

"Soon. The system is not nearly so complicated as it looks, and the
language being English--"

"English! It looks like a mixture of ancient Mexican and modern Chinese."

"The language being English, nothing could be easier for a man of ordinary
intelligence. If I had expected that my manuscript would fall into the
hands of a cryptographist, I should have contrived something much more
complicated and written it in several languages; and you have the key
ready to your hand. Come, let us begin."

After half an hour's instruction I began to see daylight, and to feel that
with patience and practice I should be able to write out the story in
legible English. The little I had read with Mr. Fortescue made me keen to
know more; but as the cryptographic narrative did not begin at the
beginning, he proposed that I should write this, as also any other missing
parts, to his dictation.

"Who knows that you may not make a book of it?" he said.

"Do you think I am intelligent enough?" I asked, resentfully; for his
uncomplimentary references to my mental capacity were still rankling in my
mind.

"I should hope so. Everybody writes in these days. Don't worry yourself on
that score, my dear Mr. Bacon. Even though you may write a book, nobody
will accuse you of being exceptionally intelligent."

"But I cannot make a book of your narrative without your leave," I
observed, with a painful sense of having gained nothing by my motion.

"And that leave may be sooner or later forthcoming, on conditions."

As the reader will find in the sequel, the leave has been given and the
conditions have been fulfilled, and Mr. Fortescue's personal
narrative--partly taken down from his own dictation, but for the most part
extended from his manuscript--begins with the following chapter.




CHAPTER VI.

THE TALE BEGINS.


The morning after the battle of Salamanca (through which I passed
unscathed) the regiment of dragoons to which I belonged (forming part of
Anson's brigade), together with Bock's Germans, was ordered to follow on
the traces of the flying French, who had retired across the River Tormes.
Though we started at daylight, we did not come up with their rear-guard
until noon. It consisted of a strong force of horse and foot, and made a
stand near La Serna; but the cavalry, who had received a severe lesson on
the previous day, bolted before we could cross swords with them. The
infantry, however, remained firm, and forming square, faced us like men.
The order was then given to charge; and when the two brigades broke into a
gallop and thundered down the slope, they raised so thick a cloud of dust
that all we could see of the enemy was the glitter of their bayonets and
the flash of their musket-fire. Saddles were emptied both to the right and
left of me, and one of the riderless horses, maddened by a wound in the
head, dashed wildly forward, and leaping among the bayonets and lashing
out furiously with his hind-legs, opened a way into the square. I was the
first man through the gap, and engaged the French colonel in a
hand-to-hand combat. At the very moment just as I gave him the point in
his throat he cut open my shoulder, my horse, mortally hurt by a bayonet
thrust, fell, half rolling over me and crushing my leg.

As I lay on the ground, faint with the loss of blood and unable to rise,
some of our fellows rode over me, and being hit on the head by one of
their horses, I lost consciousness. When I came to myself the skirmish was
over, nearly the whole of the French rear-guard had been taken prisoners
or cut to pieces, and a surgeon was dressing my wounds. This done, I was
removed in an ambulance to Salamanca.

The historic old city, with its steep, narrow streets, numerous convents,
and famous university, had been well-nigh ruined by the French, who had
pulled down half the convents and nearly all the colleges, and used the
stones for the building of forts, which, a few weeks previously,
Wellington had bombarded with red-hot shot.

The hospitals being crowded with sick and wounded, I was billeted in the
house of a certain Señor Don Alberto Zamorra, which (probably owing to the
fact of its having been the quarters of a French colonel) had not taken
much harm, either during the French occupation of the town or the
subsequent siege of the forts.

Don Alberto gave me a hearty, albeit a dignified welcome, and being a
Spanish gentleman of the old school, he naturally placed his house, and
all that it contained, at my disposal. I did not, of course, take this
assurance literally, and had I not been on the right side, I should
doubtless have met with a very different reception. All the same, he made
a very agreeable host, and before I had been his guest many days we became
fast friends.

Don Zamorra was old, nearly as old as I am now; and as I speedily
discovered, he had passed the greater part of his life in Spanish America,
where he had held high office under the crown. He could hardly talk about
anything else, in fact, and once he began to discourse about his former
greatness and the marvels of the Indies (as South and Central America were
then sometimes called) he never knew when to stop. He had crossed the
Andes and seen the Amazon, sailed down the Orinoco and visited the mines
of Potosi and Guanajuata, beheld the fiery summit of Cotopaxi, and peeped
down the smoky crater of Acatenango. He told of fights with Indians and
wild animals, of being lost in the forest, and of perilous expeditions in
search of gold and precious stones. When Zamorra spoke of gold his whole
attitude changed, the fires of his youth blazed up afresh, his face glowed
with excitement, and his eyes sparkled with greed. At these times I saw in
him a true type of the old Spanish Conquestadores, who would baptize a
cacique to save him from hell one day, and kill him and loot his treasure
the next.

Don Alberto had, moreover, a firm belief in the existence of the fabled El
Dorado, and of the city of Manoa, with its resplendent house of the sun,
its hoards of silver and gold, and its gilded king. Thousands of
adventurers had gone forth in search of these wonders, and thousands had
perished in the attempt to find them. Señor Zamorra had sought El Dorado
on the banks of the Orinoco and the Rio Negro; others, near the source of
the Rio Grande and the Marañon; others, again, among the volcanoes of
Salvador and the canons of the Cordilleras. Zamorra believed that it lay
either in the wilds of Guiana, or the unexplored confines of Peru and the
Brazils.

He had heard of and believed even greater wonders--of a stream on the
Pacific coast of Mexico, whose pebbles were silver, and whose sand was
gold; of a volcano in the Peruvian Cordillera, whose crater was lined with
the noblest of metals, and which once in every hundred years ejected, for
days together, diamonds, and rubies, and dust of gold.

"If that volcano could only be found," said the don, with a convulsive
clutching of his bony fingers, and a greedy glare in his aged eyes. "If
that volcano could only be found! Why, it must be made of gold, and
covered with precious stones! The man who found it would be the richest in
all the world--richer than all the people in the world put together!"

"Did you ever see it, Don Alberto?" I asked.

"Did I ever see it?" he cried, uplifting his withered hands. "If I had
seen that volcano you would never have seen me, but you would have heard
of me. I had it from an Indio whose father once saw it with his own eyes;
but I was too old, too old"--sighing--"to go on the quest. To undertake
such an enterprise a man should be in the prime of life and go alone. A
single companion, even though he were your own brother, might be fatal;
for what virtue could be proof against so great a temptation--millions of
diamonds and a mountain of gold?"

All this roused my curiosity and fired my imagination--not that I believed
it all, for Zamorra was evidently a visionary with a fixed idea, and as
touching his craze, credulous as a child; but in those days South America
had been very little written about and not half explored; for me it had
all the charm and fascination of the unknown--a land of romance and
adventure, abounding in grand scenery, peopled by strange races, and
containing the mightiest rivers, the greatest forests, and highest
mountains in the world.

When my host dismounted from his hobby he was an intelligent talker, and
told me much that was interesting about Mexico, Peru, Guatemala, and the
Spanish Main. He had several books on the subject which I greedily
devoured. The expedition of Piedro de Ursua and Lope de Aguirre in search
of El Dorado and Omagua; "History of the Conquest of Mexico," by Don
Antonio de Solis; Piedrolieta's "General History of the Conquest of the
New Kingdom of Grenada," and others; and before we parted I had resolved
that, so soon as the war was over, I would make a voyage to the land of
the setting sun, and see for myself the wonders of which I had heard.

"You are right," said Señor Zamorra, when I told him of my intention.
"America is the country of the future. Ah, if I were only fifty years
younger! You will, of course, visit Venezuela; and if you visit Venezuela
you are sure to go to Caracas. I will give you a letter of introduction to
a friend of mine there. He is a man in authority, and may be of use to
you. I should much like you to see him and greet him on my behalf."

I thanked my host, and promised to see his friend and present the letter.
It was addressed to Don Simon de Ulloa. Little did I think how much
trouble that letter would give me, and how near it would come to being my
death-warrant.

Zamorra then besought me, with tears in his eyes, to go in search of the
Golden Volcano.

"If you could give me a more definite idea of its whereabouts I might
possibly make the attempt," I answered, with intentional vagueness; for
though I no more believed in the objective existence of the Golden Volcano
than in Aladdin's lamp, I did not wish to hurt the old man's feelings by
an avowal of my skepticism.

"Ah, my dear sir," he said, with a gesture of despair, "if I knew the
whereabouts of the Golden Volcano, I should go thither myself, old as I
am. I should have gone long ago, and returned with a hoard of wealth that
would make me the master of Europe--wealth that would buy kingdoms. I can
tell you no more than that it is somewhere in the region of the Peruvian
Andes. It may be that by cautious inquiry you may light on an Indio who
will lead you to the very spot. It is worth the attempt, and if by the
help of St. Peter and the Holy Virgin you succeed, and I am still alive,
send me out of your abundance a few arrobas (twenty-five pounds) of gold
and a handful of diamonds. It is all I ask."

It was all he asked.

"When I find that volcano, Don Alberto," I said, "not a mere handful of
diamonds, but a bucketful."

This was almost our last talk, for the very same day news was brought that
Lord Wellington, having been forced to raise the siege of Burgos, was
retreating toward the Portuguese frontier, and that Salamanca would almost
inevitably be recaptured by the French. Orders were given for the removal
of the wounded to the Coa, where the army was to take up its winter
quarters, and Zamorra and I had to part. We parted with mutual expressions
of good-will, and in the hope, destined never to be realized, that we
might soon meet again. I had seen Don Alberto for the last time.

A few weeks later I was sufficiently recovered from my hurts to use my
bridle-arm, and before the opening of the next campaign I was fit for the
field and eager for the fray. It was the campaign of Vittoria, one of the
most brilliant episodes in the military history of England. Even now my
heart beats faster and the blood tingles in my veins when I think of that
time, so full of excitement, adventure, and glory--the forcing of the
Pyrenees, the invasion of France, the battles of Bayonne, Orthes, and
Toulouse, and the march to Paris.

But as I am not relating a history of the war, I shall mention only one
incident in which I was concerned at this period--an incident that brought
me in contact with a man who was destined to exercise a fateful influence
on my career.

It occurred after the battle of Vittoria. The French were making for the
Pyrenees, laden with the loot of a kingdom and encumbered with a motley
crowd of non-combatants--the wives and families of French officers, fair
señoritas flying with their lovers, and traitorous Spaniards, who, by
taking sides with the invaders, had exposed themselves to the vengeance of
the patriots. So overwhelming was the defeat of the French, that they were
forced to abandon nearly the whole of their plunder and the greater part
of their baggage, and leave the fugitives and camp-followers to their
fate.

Never was witnessed so strange a sight as the valley of Vittoria presented
at the close of that eventful day. The broken remains of the French army
hurrying toward the Pamplona road, eighty pieces of artillery, served with
frantic haste, covering their retreat; thousands of wagons and carriages
jammed together and unable to move; the red-coated infantry of England,
marching steadily across the plain; the boom of the cannon, the rattle of
musketry, the scream of women as the bullets whistled through the air and
shells burst over their heads--all this made up a scene, dramatic and
picturesque, it is true, yet full of dire confusion and Dantesque horror;
for death had reaped a rich harvest, and thousands of wounded lay writhing
on the blood-stained field.

Owing to the bursting of packages, the overturning of wagons, and the
havoc wrought by shot and shell, valuable effects, coin, gems, gold and
silver candlesticks and vessels, priceless paintings, the spoil of Spanish
churches and convents, were strewed over the ground. There was no need to
plunder; our men picked up money as they matched, and it was computed that
a sum equal to a million sterling found its way into their knapsacks and
pockets.

Our Spanish allies, officers as well as privates, were less scrupulous.
They robbed like highwaymen, and protested that they were only taking
their own.

While riding toward Vittoria to execute an order of the colonel's, I
passed a carriage which a moment or two previously had been overtaken by
several of Longa's dragoons, with the evident intention of overhauling it.
In the carriage were two ladies, one young and pretty the other
good-looking and mature; and, as I judged from their appearance, both
being well dressed, the daughter and wife of a French officer of rank.
They appealed to me for help.

"You are an English officer," said the elder in French; "all the world
knows that your nation is as chivalrous as it is brave. Protect us, I pray
you, from these ruffians."

I bowed, and turning to the Spaniards, one of whom was an officer, spoke
them fair; for my business was pressing, and I had no wish to be mixed up
in a quarrel.

"Caballeros," I said, "we do not make war on women. You will let these
ladies go."

"_Carambo!_ We shall do nothing of the sort," returned the officer,
insolently. "These ladies are our prisoners, and their carriage and all it
contains our prize."

"I beg your pardon, Señor Capitan, but you are, perhaps not aware that
Lord Wellington has given strict orders that private property is to be
respected; and no true caballero molests women."

"_Hijo de Dios!_ Dare you say that I am no true caballero? Begone this
instant, or--"

The Spaniard drew his sword; I drew mine; his men began to look to the
priming of their pistols, and had General Anson not chanced to come by
just in the nick of time, it might have gone ill with me. On learning what
had happened, he said I had acted very properly and told the Spaniards
that if they did not promptly depart he would hand them over to the
provost-marshal.

"We shall meet again, I hope, you and I," said the officer, defiantly, as
he gathered up his reins.

"So do I, if only that I may have an opportunity of chastising you for
your insolence," was my equally defiant answer.

"A thousand thanks, monsieur! You have done me and my daughter a great
service," said the elder of the ladies. "Do me the pleasure to accept this
ring as a slight souvenir of our gratitude, and I trust that in happier
times we may meet again."

I accepted the souvenir without looking at it; reciprocated the wish in my
best French, made my best bow, and rode off on my errand. By the same act
I had made one enemy and two friends; therefore, as I thought, the balance
was in my favor. But I was wrong, for a wider experience of the world than
I then possessed has taught me that it is better to miss making a hundred
ordinary friends than to make one inveterate enemy.




CHAPTER VII.

IN QUEST OF FORTUNE.


When the war came to an end my occupation was gone, for both circumstances
and my own will compelled me to leave the army. My allowance could no
longer be continued. At the best, the life of a lieutenant of dragoons in
peace time would have been little to my liking; with no other resource
than my pay, it would have been intolerable. So I sent in my papers, and
resolved to seek my fortune in South America. After the payment of my
debts (incurred partly in the purchase of my first commission) and the
provision of my outfit, the sum left at my disposal was comparatively
trifling. But I possessed a valuable asset in the ring given me by the
French lady on the field of Vittoria. It was heavy, of antique make,
curiously wrought, and set with a large sapphire of incomparable beauty. A
jeweler, to whom I showed it, said he had never seen a finer. I could have
sold it for a hundred guineas. But as the gem was property in a portable
shape and more convertible than a bill of exchange, I preferred to keep
it, taking, however, the precaution to have the sapphire covered with a
composition, in order that its value might not be too readily apparent to
covetous eyes.

At this time the Spanish colonies of Colombia (including the countries now
known as Venezuela, New Granada, and Ecuador, as also the present republic
of southern Central America) were in full revolt against the mother
country. The war had been going on for several years with varying
fortunes; but latterly the Spaniards had been getting decidedly the best
of it. Caracas and all the seaport towns were in their possession, and the
patriot cause was only maintained by a few bands of irregulars, who were
waging a desperate and almost hopeless contest in the forests and on the
llanos of the interior.

My sympathies were on the popular side, and I might have joined the
volunteer force which was being raised in England for service with the
insurgents. But this did not suit my purpose. If I accepted a commission
in the Legion I should have to go where I was ordered. I preferred to go
where I listed. I had no objection to fighting, but I wanted to do it in
my own way and at my own time, and rather in the ranks of the rebels
themselves than as officer in a foreign force.

This view of the case I represented to Señor Moreña, one of the "patriot"
agents in London, and asked his advice.

"Why not go to Caracas?" he said.

"What would be the use of that? Caracas is in the hands of the Spaniards."

"You could get from Caracas into the interior, and do the cause an
important service."

"How?"

Señor Moreña explained that the patriots of the capital, being sorely
oppressed by the Spaniards, were losing courage, and he wished greatly to
send them a message of hope and the assurance that help was at hand. It
was also most desirable that the insurgent leaders on the field should be
informed of the organization of a British liberating Legion, and of other
measures which were being taken to afford them relief and turn the tide of
victory in their favor.

But to communicate these tidings to the parties concerned was by no means
easy. The post was obviously quite out of the question, and no Spanish
creole could land at any port held by the Royalists without the almost
certainty of being promptly strangled or shot. "An Englishman,
however--especially an Englishman who had fought under Wellington in
Spain--might undertake the mission with comparative impunity," said Señor
Moreña.

"I understand perfectly," I answered. "I have to go in the character of an
ordinary travelling Englishman, and act as an emissary of the insurgent
junta. But if my true character is detected, what then?"

"That is not at all likely, Mr. Fortescue."

"Yet the unlikely happens sometimes--happens generally, in fact. Suppose
it does in the present instance?"

"In that case I am very much afraid that you would be shot."

"I have not a doubt of it. Nevertheless, your proposal pleases me, and I
shall do my best to carry out your wishes."

Whereupon Señor Moreña expressed his thanks in sonorous Castilian,
protested that my courage and devotion would earn me the eternal gratitude
of every patriot, and promised to have everything ready for me in the
course of the week, a promise which he faithfully kept.

Three days later Moreña brought me a packet of letters and a memorandum
containing minute instructions for my guidance. Nothing could be more
harmless looking than the letters. They contained merely a few items of
general news and the recommendation of the bearer to the good offices of
the recipient. But this was only a blind; the real letters were written in
cipher, with sympathetic ink. They were, moreover, addressed to secret
friends of the revolutionary cause, who, as Señor Moreña believed and
hoped, were, as yet, unsuspected by the Spanish authorities, and at large.

"To give you letters to known patriots would be simply to insure your
destruction," said the señor, "even if you were to find them alive and at
liberty."

I had also Don Alberto's letter, and as the old gentleman had once been
president of the _Audiencia Real_ (Royal Council), Moreña thought it would
be of great use to me, and serve to ward off suspicion, even though some
of the friends to whom he had himself written should have meanwhile got
into trouble.

But as if he had not complete confidence in the efficacy of these
elaborate precautions, Señor Moreña strongly advised me to stay no longer
in Caracas than I could possibly help.

"Spies more vigilant than those of the Inquisition are continually on the
lookout for victims," he said. "An inadvertent word, a look even, might
betray you; the only law is the will of the military and police, and they
make very short work of those whom they suspect. Yes, leave Caracas the
moment you have delivered your letters; our friends will smuggle you
through the Spanish line and lead you to one of the patriot camps."

This was not very encouraging; but I was at an adventurous age and in an
enterprising mood, and the creole's warnings had rather the effect of
increasing my desire to go forward with the undertaking in which I had
engaged than causing me to falter in my resolve. Like Napoleon, I believed
in my star, and I had faced death too often on the field of battle to fear
the rather remote dangers Moreña had foreshadowed, and in whose existence
I only half believed.

The die being cast, the next question was how I should reach my
destination. The Spaniards of that age kept the trade with their colonies
in their own hands, and it was seldom, indeed, that a ship sailed from the
Thames for La Guayra or any other port on the Main. I was, however, lucky
enough to find a vessel in the river taking in cargo for the island of
Curaçoa, which had just been ceded by England to the Dutch, from whom it
was captured in 1807, and for a reasonable consideration the master agreed
to fit me up a cabin and give me a passage.

The voyage was rather long--something like fifty days--yet not altogether
uneventful; for in the course of it we were chased by an American
privateer, overhauled by a Spanish cruiser, nearly caught by a pirate, and
almost swamped in a hurricane; but we fortunately escaped these and all
other dangers, and eventually reached our haven in safety.

I had brought with me letters of credit on a Dutch merchant at Curaçoa, of
the name of Van Voorst, from whom I obtained as much coin as I thought
would cover my expenses for a few months, and left the balance in his
hands on deposit. With the help of this gentleman, moreover, I chartered a
_falucha_ for the voyage to La Guayra. Also at his suggestion, moreover, I
stitched several gold pieces in the lining of my vest and the waistband of
my trousers, as a reserve in case of accident.

We made the run in twenty-four hours, and as the _falucha_ let go in the
roadstead I tore up my memorandum of instructions (which I had carefully
committed to memory) and threw the fragments into the sea.

A little later we were boarded by two revenue officers, who seemed more
surprised than pleased to see me; as, however, my papers were in perfect
order, and nothing either compromising or contraband was found in my
possession, they allowed me to land, and I thought that my troubles (for
the present) were over. But I had not been ashore many minutes when I was
met by a sergeant and a file of soldiers, who asked me politely, yet
firmly, to accompany them to the commandant of the garrison.

I complied, of course, and was conducted to the barracks, where I found
the gentleman in question lolling in a _chinchura_ (hammock) and smoking a
cigar. He eyed me with great suspicion, and after examining my passport,
demanded my business, and wanted to know why I had taken it into my head
to visit Colombia at a time when the country was being convulsed with
civil war.

Thinking it best to answer frankly (with one or two reservations), I said
that, having heard much of South America while campaigning in Spain, I had
made up my mind to voyage thither on the first opportunity.

"What! you have served in Spain, in the army of Lord Wellington!"
interposed the commandant with great vivacity.

"Yes; I joined shortly before the battle of Salamanca, where I was
wounded. I was also at Vittoria, and--"

"So was I. I commanded a regiment in Murillo's _corps d'armée_, and have
come out with him to Colombia. We are brothers in arms. We have both bled
in the sacred cause of Spanish independence. Let me embrace you."

Whereupon the commandant, springing from his hammock, put his arms round
my neck and his head on my shoulders, patted me on the back, and kissed me
on both cheeks, a salute which I thought it expedient to return, though
his face was not overclean and he smelled abominably of garlic and stale
tobacco.

"So you have come to see South America--only to see it!" he said. "But
perhaps you are scientific; you have the intention to explore the country
and write a book, like the illustrious Humboldt?"

The idea was useful. I modestly admitted that I did cultivate a little
science, and allowed my "brother-in-arms" to remain in the belief that I
proposed to follow in the footsteps of the author of "Cosmos"--at a
distance.

"I have an immense respect for science," continued the commandant, "and I
doubt not that you will write a book which will make you famous. My only
regret is, that in the present state of the country you may find going
about rather difficult. But it won't be for long. We have well-nigh got
this accursed rebellion under. A few weeks more, and there will not be a
rebel left alive between the Andes and the Atlantic. The Captain-General
of New Granada reports that he has either shot or hanged every known
patriot in the province. We are doing the same here in Venezuela. We give
no quarter; it is the only way with rebels. _Guerra a la muerte!_"

After this the commandant asked me to dinner, and insisted on my becoming
his guest until the morrow, when he would provide me with mules for myself
and my baggage, and give me an escort to Caracas, and letter of
introduction to one of his friends there. So great was his kindness,
indeed, that only the ferocious sentiments which he had avowed in respect
of the rebels reconciled me to the deception which I was compelled to
practise. I accepted his hospitality and his offer of mules and an escort,
and the next morning I set out on the first stage of my inland journey.
Before parting he expressed a hope--which I deemed it prudent to
reciprocate--that we should meet again.

Nothing can be finer than the ride to Caracas by the old Spanish road, or
more superb than its position in a magnificent valley, watered by four
rivers, surrounded by a rampart of lofty mountains, and enjoying, by
reason of its altitude, a climate of perpetual spring. But the city itself
wore an aspect of gloom and desolation. Four years previously the ground
on which it stood had been torn and rent by a succession of terrible
earthquakes in which hundreds of houses were levelled with the earth, and
thousands of its people bereft of their lives. Since that time two sieges,
and wholesale proscription and executions, first by one side and then by
the other, had well-nigh completed its destruction. Its principal
buildings were still in ruins, and half its population had either perished
or fled. Nearly every civilian whom I met in the streets was in mourning.
Even the Royalists (who were more numerous than I expected) looked
unhappy, for all had suffered either in person or in property, and none
knew what further woes the future might bring them.




CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE KING'S NAME.


I put up at the Posado de los Generales (recommended by the commandant),
and the day after my arrival I delivered the letters confided to me by
Señor Moreño. This done, I felt safe; for (as I thought) there was nothing
else in my possession by which I could possibly be compromised. I did not
deliver the letters separately. I gave the packet, just as I had received
it, to a certain Señor Carera, the secret chief of the patriot party in
Caracas. I also gave him a long verbal message from Moreño, and we
discussed at length the condition of the country and the prospects of the
insurrection. In the interior, he said, there raged a frightful guerilla
warfare, and Caracas was under a veritable reign of terror. Of the
half-dozen friends for whom I had brought letters, one had been garroted;
another was in prison, and would almost certainly meet the same fate. It
was only by posing as a loyalist and exercising the utmost circumspection
that he had so far succeeded in keeping a whole skin; and if he were not
convinced that he could do more for the cause where he was than elsewhere,
he would not remain in the city another hour. As for myself, he was quite
of Moreño's opinion, that the sooner I got away the better.

"I consider it my duty to watch over your safety," he said. "I should be
sorry indeed were any harm to befall an English caballero who has risked
his life to serve us and brought us such good news."

"What harm can befall me, now that I have got rid of that packet?" I
asked.

"In a city under martial law and full of spies, there is no telling what
may happen. Being, moreover, a stranger, you are a marked man. It is not
everybody who, like the commandant of La Guayra, will believe that you are
travelling for your own pleasure. What man in his senses would choose a
time like this for a scientific ramble in Venezuela?"

And then Señor Carera explained that he could arrange for me to leave
Caracas almost immediately, under excellent guidance. The _teniente_ of
Colonel Mejia, one of the guerilla leaders, was in the town on a secret
errand, and would set out on his return journey in three days. If I liked
I might go with him, and I could not have a better guide or a more
trustworthy companion.

It was a chance not to be lost. I told Señor Carera that I should only be
too glad to profit by the opportunity, and that on any day and at any hour
which he might name I would be ready.

"I will see the _teniente_, and let you know further in the course of
to-morrow," said Carera, after a moment's thought. "The affair will
require nice management. There are patrols on every road. You must be well
mounted, and I suppose you will want a mule for your baggage."

"No! I shall take no more than I can carry in my saddle-bags. We must not
be incumbered with pack-mules on an expedition of this sort. We may have
to ride for our lives."

"You are quite right, Señor Fortescue; so you may. I will see that you are
well mounted, and I shall be delighted to take charge of your belongings
until the patriots again, and for the last time, capture Caracas and drive
those thrice-accursed Spaniards into the sea."

Before we separated I invited Señor Carera to _almuerzo_ (the equivalent
to the Continental second breakfast) on the following day.

After a moment's reflection he accepted the invitation. "But we shall have
to be very cautious," he added. "The _posada_ is a Royalist house, and the
_posadero_ (innkeeper) is hand and glove with the police. If we speak of
the patriots at all, it must be only to abuse them.... But our turn will
come, and--_por Dios!_--then--"

The fierce light in Carera's eyes, the gesture by which his words were
emphasized, boded no good for the Royalists if the patriots should get the
upper hand. No wonder that a war in which men like him were engaged on the
one side, and men like el Commandant Castro on the other, should be
savage, merciless, and "to the death."

As I had decided to quit Caracas so soon, it did not seem worth while
presenting the letter to one of his brother officers which I had received
from Commandant Castro. I thought, too, that in existing circumstances the
less I had to do with officers the better. But I did not like the idea of
going away without fulfilling my promise to call on Zamorra's old friend,
Don Señor Ulloa.

So when I returned to the _posada_ I asked the _posadero_ (innkeeper), a
tall Biscayan, with an immensely long nose, a cringing manner, and an
insincere smile, if he would kindly direct me to Señor Ulloa's house.

"_Si, señor_," said the _posadero_, giving me a queer look, and exchanging
significant glances with two or three of his guests who were within
earshot. "_Si, señor_, I can direct you to the house of Señor Ulloa. You
mean Don Simon, of course?"

"Yes. I have a letter of introduction to him."

"Oh, you have a letter of introduction to Don Simon! if you will come into
the street I will show you the way."

Whereupon we went outside, and the _posadero_, pointing out the church of
San Ildefonso, told me that the large house over against the eastern door
was the house I sought.

"_Gracias, señor_," I said, as I started on my errand, taking the shady
side of the street and walking slowly, for the day was warm.

I walked slowly and thought deeply, trying to make out what could be the
meaning of the glances which the mention of Señor Ulloa's name had evoked,
and there was a nameless something in the _posadero's_ manner I did not
like. Besides being cringing, as usual, it was half mocking, half
menacing, as if I had said, or he had heard, something that placed me in
his power.

Yet what could he have heard? What could there be in the name of Ulloa to
either excite his enmity or rouse his suspicion? As a man in authority,
and the particular friend of an ex-president of the _Audiencia Real_, Don
Simon must needs be above reproach.

Should I turn back and ask the _posadero_ what he meant? No, that were
both weak and impolitic. He would either answer me with a lie, or refuse
to answer at all, _qui s'excuse s'accuse_. I resolved to go on, and see
what came of it. Don Simon would no doubt be able to enlighten me.

I found the place without difficulty. There could be no mistaking it--a
large house over against the eastern door of the church of San Ildefonso,
built round a _patio_, or courtyard, after the fashion of Spanish and
South American mansions. Like the church, it seemed to have been much
damaged by the earthquake; the outer walls were cracked, and the gateway
was encumbered with fallen stones.

This surprised me less than may be supposed. Creoles are not remarkable
for energy, and it was quite possible that Señor Ulloa's fortunes might
have suffered as severely from the war as his house had suffered from the
earthquake. But when I entered the _patio_ I was more than surprised. The
only visible signs of life were lizards, darting in and out of their
holes, and a huge rattlesnake sunning himself on the ledge of a broken
fountain. Grass was growing between the stones; rotten doors hung on rusty
hinges; there were great gaps in the roof and huge fissures in the walls,
and when I called no one answered.

"Surely," I thought, "I have made some mistake. This house is both
deserted and ruined."

I returned to the street and accosted a passer-by.

"Is this the house of Don Simon Ulloa?" I asked him.

"_Si, Señor_," he said; and then hurried on as if my question had
half-frightened him out of his wits.

I could not tell what to make of this; but my first idea was that Señor
Ulloa was dead, and the house had the reputation of being haunted. In any
case, the innkeeper had evidently played me a scurvy trick, and I went
back to the _posada_ with the full intention of having it out with him.

"Did you find the house of Don Simon, Señor Fortescue?" he asked when he
saw me.

"Yes, but I did not find him. The house is empty and deserted. What do you
mean by sending me on such a fool's errand?"

"I beg your pardon, señor. You asked me to direct you to Señor Ulloa's
house, and I did so. What could I do more?" And the fellow cringed and
smirked, as if it were all a capital joke, till I could hardly refrain
from pulling his long nose first and kicking him afterwards, but I
listened to the voice of prudence and resisted the impulse.

"You know quite well that I sought Señor Ulloa. Did I not tell you that I
had a letter for him? If you were a caballero instead of a wretched
_posadero_, I would chastise your trickery as it deserves. What has become
of Señor Ulloa, and how comes it that his house is deserted?"

"Señor Ulloa is dead. He was garroted."

"Garroted! What for?"

"Treason. There was discovered a compromising correspondence between him
and Bolivar. But why ask me? As a friend of Señor Ulloa, you surely know
all this?"

"I never was a friend of his--never even saw him! I had merely a letter to
him from a common friend. But how happened it that Señor Ulloa, who, I
believe, was a _correjidor_, entered into a correspondence with the
arch-traitor?"

"That made it all the worse. He richly deserved his fate. His eldest son,
who was privy to the affair, was strangled at the same time as his father;
his other children fled, and Señora Ulloa died of grief."

"Poor woman! No wonder the house is deserted. What a frightful state of
things!"

And then, feeling that I had said enough, and fearing that I might say
more, I turned on my heel, lighted a cigar, and, while I paced to and fro
in the _patio_, seriously considered my position, which, as I clearly
perceived, was beginning to be rather precarious.

As likely as not the innkeeper would denounce me, and then it would, of
course, be very absurd, for I was utterly ignorant, and Zamorra, a
Royalist to the bone, must have been equally ignorant that his friend
Ulloa had any hand in the rebellion. The mere fact of carrying a harmless
letter of introduction from a well-known loyalist to a friend whom he
believed to be still a loyalist, could surely not be construed as an
offense. At any rate it ought not to be. But when I recalled all I had
heard from Moreña, and the stories told me but an hour before by Carera, I
thought it extremely probable that it would be, and bitterly regretted
that I had not mentioned to the latter Ulloa's name. He would have put me
on my guard, and I should not have so fatally committed myself with the
_posadero_.

But regrets are useless and worse. They waste time and weaken resolve. The
question of the moment was, What should I do? How avoid the danger which I
felt sure was impending? There seemed only one way--immediate flight. I
would go to Carera, tell him all that had happened, and ask him to arrange
for my departure from Caracas that very night. I could steal away unseen
when all was quiet.

"At once," I said to myself--"at once. If I exaggerate, if the danger be
not so pressing as I fear, he is just the man to tell me; but, first of
all, I will go into my room and destroy this confounded letter. The
_posadero_ did not see it. All that he can say is--"

"In the king's name!" exclaimed a rough voice behind me; and a heavy hand
was laid on my arm.

Turning sharply round, I found myself confronted by an officer of police
and four alguazils, all armed to the teeth.

"I arrest you in the king's name," repeated the officer.

"On what charge?" I asked.

"Treason. Giving aid and comfort to the king's enemies, and acting as a
medium of communication between rebels against his authority."

"Very well; I am ready to accompany you," I said, seeing that, for the
moment at least, resistance and escape were equally out of the question;
"but the charge is false."

"That I have nothing to do with. The case is one for the military
tribunal. Before we go I must search your room."

He did so, and, except my passport, found nothing whatever of a
documentary, much less of a compromising character. He then searched me,
and took possession of Zamorra's unlucky letter to Ulloa and my
memorandum-book, in which, however, there were merely a few commonplace
notes and scientific jottings.

This done he placed two of his alguazils on either side of me, telling
them to run me through with their bayonets if I attempted to escape, and
then, drawing his sword and bringing up the rear, gave the order to march.

As we passed through the gateway I caught sight of the _posadero_,
laughing consumedly, and pointing at me the finger of scorn and triumph.
How sorry I felt that I had not kicked him when I was in the humor and had
the opportunity!




CHAPTER IX.

DOOMED  TO  DIE.


My captors conducted me to a dilapidated building near the Plaza Major,
which did duty as a temporary jail, the principal prison of Caracas having
been destroyed by the earthquake and left as it fell. Nevertheless, the
room to which I was taken seemed quite strong enough to hold anybody
unsupplied with housebreaking implements or less ingenious than Jack
Sheppard. The door was thick and well bolted, the window or grating (for
it was, of course, destitute of glass) high and heavily barred, yet not
too high to be reached with a little contrivance. Mounting the single
chair (beside a hammock the only furniture the room contained), I gripped
the bars with my hands, raised myself up, and looked out. Below me was a
narrow, and, as it might appear, a little-frequented street, at the end of
which a sentry was doing his monotonous spell of duty.

The place was evidently well guarded, and from the number of soldiers whom
I had seen about the gateway and in the _patio_, I concluded that, besides
serving as a jail, it was used also as a military post. Even though I
might get out, I should not find it very easy to get away. And what were
my chances of getting out? As yet they seemed exceedingly remote. The only
possible exits were the door and the window. The door was both locked and
bolted, and either to open or make an opening in it I should want a brace
and bit and a saw, and several hours freedom from intrusion. It would be
easier to cut the bars--if I possessed a file or a suitable saw. I had my
knife, and with time and patience I might possibly fashion a tool that
would answer the purpose.

But time was just what I might not be able to command. I had heard that
the sole merit of the military tribunal was its promptitude; it never kept
its victims long in suspense; they were either quickly released or as
quickly despatched--the latter being the alternative most generally
adopted. It was for this reason that, the moment I was arrested, I began
to think how I could escape. As neither opening the door nor breaking the
bars seemed immediately feasible, the idea of bribing the turnkey
naturally occurred to me. Thanks to the precaution suggested by Mr. Van
Voorst, I had several gold pieces in my belt. But though the fellow would
no doubt accept my money, what security had I that he would keep his word?
And how, even if he were to leave the door open, should I evade the
vigilance of the sentries and the soldiers who were always loitering in
the _patio_?

On the whole, I thought the best thing I could do was to wait quietly
until the morrow. The night is often fruitful in ideas. I might be
acquitted, after all, and if I attempted to bribe the turnkey before my
examination, and he should betray me to his superiors, my condemnation
would be a foregone conclusion. The mere attempt would be regarded as an
admission of guilt.

A while later, the zambo turnkey (half Indian, half negro) brought me my
evening meal--a loaf of bread and a small bottle of wine--and I studied
his countenance closely. It was both treacherous and truculent, and I felt
that if I trusted him he would be sure to play me false.

As it was near sunset I asked for a light, and tried to engage him in
conversation. But the attempt failed. He answered surlily, that a dark
room was quite good enough for a damned rebel, and left me to myself.

When it became too dark to walk about, I lay down in the hammock and was
soon in the land of dreams; for I was young and sanguine, and though I
could not help feeling somewhat anxious, it was not the sort of anxiety
which kills sleep. Only once in my life have I tasted the agony of
despair. That time was not yet.

When I awoke the clock of a neighboring church was striking three, and the
rays of a brilliant tropical moon were streaming through the barred window
of my room, making it hardly less light than day.

As the echo of the last stroke dies away, I fancy that I hear something
strike against the grating.

I rise up in my hammock, listening intently, and at the same instant a
small shower of pebbles, flung by an unseen hand, falls into the room.

A signal!

Yes, and a signal that demands an answer. In less time than it takes to
tell I slip from my hammock, gather up the pebbles, climb up to the
window, and drop them into the street. Then, looking out, I can just
discern, deep in the shadow of the building opposite, the figure of a man.
He raises his arm; something white flies over my head and falls on the
floor. Dropping hurriedly from the grating, I pick up the message-bearing
missile--a pebble to which is tied a piece of paper. I can see that the
paper contains writing, and climbing a second time up to the grating, I
make out by the light of the moonbeams the words:

"_If you are condemned, ask for a priest._"

My first feeling was one of bitter disappointment. Why should I ask for a
priest? I was not a Roman Catholic; I did not want to confess. If the
author of the missive was Carera--and who else could it be?--why had he
given himself so much trouble to make so unpleasantly suggestive a
recommendation? A priest, forsooth! A file and a cord would be much more
to the purpose.... But might not the words mean more than appeared? Could
it be that Carera desired to give me a friendly hint to prepare for the
worst?... Or was it possible that the ghostly man would bring me a further
message and help me in some way to escape? At any rate, it was a more
encouraging theory than the other, and I resolved to act on it. If the
priest did me no good, he could, at least, do me no harm.

After tearing up the bit of paper and chewing the fragments, I returned to
my hammock and lay awake--sleep being now out of the question--until the
turnkey brought me a cup of chocolate, of which, with the remains of the
loaf, I made my first breakfast. About the middle of the day he brought me
something more substantial. On both occasions I pressed him with questions
as to when I was to be examined, and what they were going to do with me,
to all of which he answered "_No se_" ("I don't know"), and, probably
enough, he told the truth. However, I was not kept long in suspense. Later
on in the afternoon the door opened for the third time, and the officer
who had arrested me, followed by his alguazils, appeared at the threshold
and announced that he had been ordered to escort me to the tribunal.

We went in the same order as before; and a walk of less than fifteen
minutes brought us to another tumble-down building, which appeared to have
been once a court-house. Only the lower rooms were habitable, and at a
door, on either side of which stood a sentry, my conductor respectfully
knocked.

"_Adelante!_" said a rough voice; and we entered accordingly.

Before a long table at the upper end of a large, barely-furnished room,
with rough walls and a cracked ceiling, sat three men in uniform. The one
who occupied the chief seat, and seemed to be the president, was old and
gray, with hard, suspicious eyes, and a long, typical Spanish face, in
every line of which I read cruelty and ruthless determination. His
colleagues, who called him "marquis," treated him with great deference,
and his breast was covered with orders.

It was evident that on this man would depend my fate. The others were
there merely to register his decrees.

After leading me to the table and saluting the tribunal, the officer of
police, whose sword was still drawn, placed himself in a convenient
position for running me through, in the event of my behaving
disrespectfully to the tribunal or attempting to escape.

The president, who had before him the letter to Señor Ulloa, my passport,
and a document that looked like a brief, demanded my name and quality.

I told him.

"What was your purpose in coming to Caracas?" he asked.

"Simply to see the country."

He laughed scornfully.

"To see the country! What nonsense is this? How can anybody see a country
which is ravaged by brigands and convulsed with civil war? And where is
your authority?"

"My passport."

"A passport such as this is only available in a time of peace. No stranger
unprovided with a safe conduct from the _capitan-general_ is allowed to
travel in the province of Caracas. It is useless trying to deceive us,
señor. Your purpose is to carry information to the rebels, probably to
join them, as is proved by your possession of a letter to so base a
traitor as Señor Ulloa."

On this I explained how I had obtained the letter, and pointed out that
the very fact of my asking the _posadero_ to direct me to Ulloa's house,
and going thither openly, was proof positive of my innocence. Had my
purpose been that which he imputed to me, I should have shown more
caution.

"That does not at all follow," rejoined the president. "You may have
intended to disarm suspicion by a pretence of ignorance. Moreover, you
expressed to the _señor posadero_ sentiments hostile to the Government of
his Majesty the King."

"It is untrue. I did nothing of the sort," I exclaimed, impetuously.

"Mind what you say, prisoner. Unless you treat the tribunal with due
respect you shall be sent back to the _carcel_ and tried in your absence."

"Do you call this a trial?" I exclaimed, indignantly. "I am a British
subject. I have committed no offence; but if I must be tried I demand the
right of being tried by a civil tribunal."

"British subjects who venture into a city under martial law must take the
consequences. We can show them no more consideration than we show Spanish
subjects. They deserve much less, indeed. At this moment a force is being
organized in England, with the sanction and encouragement of the British
Government, to serve against our troops in these colonies. This is an act
of war, and if the king, my master, were of my mind, he would declare war
against England. Better an open foe than a treacherous friend. Do you hold
a commission in the Legion, señor?"

"No."

"Know you anybody who does?"

"Yes; I believe that several men with whom I served in Spain have accepted
commissions. But you will surely not hold me responsible for the doings of
others?"

"Not at all. You have quite enough sins of your own to answer for. You may
not actually hold a commission in this force of filibusters, but you are
acquainted with people who do; and from your own admission and facts that
have come to our knowledge, we believe that you are acting as an
intermediary between the rebels in this country and their agents in
England. It is an insult to our understanding to tell us that you have
come here out of idle curiosity. You have come to spy out the nakedness of
the land, and being a soldier you know how spies are dealt with."

Here the president held a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then
he turned to me, and continued:

"We are of opinion that the charges against you have been fully made out,
and the sentence of the court is that you be strangled on the Plaza Major
to-morrow morning at seven by the clock."

"Strangled! Surely, señores, you will not commit so great an infamy? This
is a mere mockery of a trial. I have neither seen an indictment nor been
confronted by witnesses. Call this a sentence! I call it murder."

"If you do not moderate your language, prisoner, you will be strangled
to-night instead of to-morrow. Remove him, _capitan_"--to the officer of
police. "Let this be your warrant"--writing.

"Grant me at least one favor," I asked, smothering my indignation, and
trying to speak calmly. "I have fought and bled for Spain. Let me at least
die a soldier's death, and allow me before I die to see a priest."

"So you are a Christian!" returned the president, almost graciously. "I
thought all Englishmen were heretics. I think señores, we may grant Señor
Fortescue's request. Instead of being strangled, you shall be shot by a
firing party of the regiment of Cordova, and you may see a priest. We
would not have you die unshriven, and I will myself see that your body is
laid in consecrated ground. When would you like the priest to visit you?"

"This evening, señor president. There will not be much time to-morrow
morning."

"That is true. See to it, _capitan_. Tell them at the _carcel_ that Señor
Fortescue may see a priest in his own room this evening. _Adios señor!_"

And with that my three judges rose from their seats and bowed as politely
as if they were parting with an honored guest. Though this proceeding
struck me as being both ghastly and grotesque, I returned the greeting in
due form, and made my best bow. I learned afterward that I had really been
treated with exceptional consideration, and might esteem myself fortunate
in not being condemned without trial and strangled without notice.




CHAPTER X.

SALVADOR.


Now that I knew beyond a doubt what would be my fate unless I could escape
before morning, I became decidedly anxious as to the outcome of my
approaching interview with the ghostly comforter for whom I had asked. It
was my last chance. If it failed me, or the man turned out to be a priest
and nothing more, my hours were numbered. The time was too short to
arrange any other plan. Would he bring with him a file and a cord? Even if
he did, we could hardly hope to cut through the bars before daylight. And,
most important consideration of all, how would Carera contrive to send me
the right man?

The mystery was solved more quickly than I expected.

After leaving the tribunal, my escort took me back by the way we had come,
the police captain, who was showing himself much more friendly (probably
because he looked on me as a good "Christian" and a dying man), walking
beside instead of behind me; and when we were within a hundred yards or so
of the _carcel_ I observed a Franciscan friar pacing slowly toward us.

I felt intuitively that this was my man; and when he drew nearer a slight
movement of his eyebrows and a quick look of intelligence told me that I
was right.

"I have no acquaintance among the clergy of Caracas," I said to my
conductor. "This friar will serve my purpose as well as a regular priest."

"As you like, señor. Shall I ask him to see you?"

"_Gracias señor capitan_, if you please."

Whereupon the officer respectfully accosted the friar, and after telling
him that I had been condemned to die at sunrise on the morrow, asked if he
would receive my confession and give me such religious consolation as my
case required.

"_Con mucho gusto, capitan_," answered the friar. "When would the señor
like me to visit him?"

"At once, father. My hours are numbered, and I would fain spend the night
in meditation and prayer."

"Come with us, father," said the captain. "The señor has the permission of
the tribunal to see a priest in his own room."

So we entered the prison together, and the captain, having given the
necessary instructions to the turnkey, we were conducted to my room.

"When you have done," he said, "knock at the door, and I will come and let
you out."

"Good! But you need not wait. I shall not be ready for half an hour or
more."

As the key turned in the lock, the _soi-disant_ friar threw back his cowl.
"Now, Señor Fortescue," he said, with a laugh, "I am ready to hear your
confession."

"I confess that I feel as if I were in purgatory already, and I shall be
uncommonly glad if you can get me out of it."

"Well, purgatory is not the pleasantest of places by all accounts, and I
am quite willing to do whatever I can for you. By way of beginning, take
this ointment and smear your face and hands therewith."

"Why?"

"To make you look swart and ugly, like the zambo."

"And then?"

"And then? When the turnkey comes back we shall overpower, bind, and gag
him--if he resists, strangle him. Then you will put on his clothes and don
his sombrero, and as the moon rises late, and the prison is badly lighted,
I have no doubt we shall run the gauntlet of the guard without
difficulty.... That is a splendid ointment. You are almost as dark as a
negro. Now for your feet."

"My feet! I see! I must go out barefoot."

"Of course. Who ever heard of a zambo turnkey wearing shoes? I will hide
yours under my habit, and you can put them on afterward."

"You are a friend of Carera's, of course?"

"Yes; I am Salvador Carmen, the _teniente_ of Colonel Mejia, at your
service."

"Salvador Carmen! A name of good omen. You are saving me."

"I will either save you or perish with you. Take this dagger. Better to
die fighting than be strangled on the plaza."

"Is this your plan or Carera's?" I asked, as I put the dagger in my belt.

"Partly his and partly mine, I think. When he heard of your arrest, he
said that it concerned our honor to effect your rescue. The idea of
throwing a stone through the window was Carera's; that of personating a
priest was mine."

"But how did Carera find out where I was? and what assurance had you that
when I asked for a priest they would bring you?"

"That was easy enough. This is a small military post as well as an
occasional prison, some of the soldiers are always drinking at the
_pulperia_ round the corner, and they talk in their cups. I even know the
countersign for to-night. It is 'Baylen.' I saw them take you to the
tribunal, and as I knew that when you asked for a priest they would call
in the first whom they saw, just to save themselves the trouble of going
farther, I took care to be hereabout in this guise as you returned. I was
fortunate enough to meet you face to face, and you were sharp enough to
detect my true character at a glance."

"I am greatly indebted to you and Señor Carera--more than I can say. You
are risking your lives to save mine."

"That is nothing, my dear sir. I often risk my life twenty times in a day.
And what matters it? We are all under sentence of death. A few years and
there will be an end of us."

Salvador Carmen may have been twenty-six or twenty-eight years old. He was
of middle height and athletic build, yet wiry withal, in splendid
condition, and as hard as nails. Though darker than the average Spaniard,
his short, wavy hair and powerful, clear-cut features showed that his
blood was free from negro or Indian taint. His face bespoke a strange
mixture of gentleness and resolution, melancholy and ferocity, as if an
originally fine nature had been annealed by fiery trials, and perhaps
perverted by some terrible wrong.

"Yes, señor, we carry our lives in our hands in this most unhappy
country," he continued, after a short pause. "Three years ago I was one of
a family of eight, and no happier family could be found in the whole
_capitanio-general_ of Caracas.... Of those eight, seven are gone; I am
the only one left. Four were killed in the great earthquake. Then my
father took part in the revolutionary movement, and to save his life had
to leave his home. One night he returned in disguise to see my mother. I
happened to be away at the time; but my brother Tomas was there, and the
police getting wind of my father's arrival, arrested both them and him. My
father was condemned as a rebel; my mother and brother were condemned for
harboring him, and all were strangled together on the plaza there."

"Good heaven! Can such things be?" I said, as much moved by his grief as
by his tale of horror.

"I saw them die. Oh, my God! I saw them die, and yet I live to tell the
tale!" exclaimed Carmen, in a tone of intense sadness. "But"--fiercely--"I
have taken a terrible revenge. With my own hand have I slain more than a
hundred European Spaniards, and I have sworn to slay as many as there were
hairs on my mother's head.... But enough of this! The night is upon us. It
is time to make ready. When the zambo comes in, I shall seize him by the
throat and threaten him with my dagger. While I hold him you must stuff
this cloth into his mouth, take off his shirt and trousers--he has no
other garments--and put them on over your own. That done, we will bind him
with this cord, and lock him in with his own key. Are you ready?"

"I am ready."

Carmen knocked loudly at the door.

Two minutes later the door opens, and as the zambo closes it behind him,
Carmen seizes him by the throat and pushes him against the wall.

"A word, a whisper, and you are a dead man!" he hisses, sternly, at the
same time drawing his dagger. "Open your mouth, or, _per Dios_--The cloth,
señor. Now, off with your shirt and trousers."

The turnkey obeys without the least attempt at resistance. The shaking of
his limbs as I help him to undress shows that he is half frightened to
death.

Then Carmen, still gripping the man's throat and threatening him with his
dagger, makes him lie down, and I bind his arms with the cord.

That done, I slip the man's trousers and shirt over my own, don his
sombrero, and take his key.

"So far, well," says Carmen, "if we only get safely through the _patio_
and pass the guard! Put the sombrero over your face, imitate the zambo's
shuffling gait, and walk carelessly by my side, as if you were conducting
me to the gate and a short way down the street. Have you your dagger!
Good! Open the door and let us go forth. One word more! If it comes to a
fight, back to back. Try to grasp the muskets with your left and stab with
your right--upward!"




CHAPTER XI.

OUT OF THE LION'S MOUTH.


As the short sunset of the tropics had now merged into complete darkness,
we crossed the _patio_ without being noticed; but near the gateway several
soldiers of the guard were seated round a small table, playing at cards by
the light of a flickering lamp.

"Hello! Who goes there?" said one of them, looking up. "Pablo, the
turnkey, and a friar! Won't you take a hand, Pablo? You won a _real_ from
me last night; I want my revenge."

"He is going with me as far as the plaza. It is dark, and I am very
near-sighted," put in Carmen, with ready presence of mind. "He will be
back in a few minutes, and then he will give you your revenge, won't you,
Pablo?"

"_Si, padre, con mucho gusto_," I answered, mimicking the deep guttural of
the zambo.

"Good! I shall expect you in a few minutes," said the soldier. "_Buene
noche, padre!_"

"Good-night, my son."

"Now for the sentry," murmured Carmen; "luckily we have the password,
otherwise it might be awkward."

"We must try to slip past him."

But it was not to be. As we step through the gateway into the street, the
man turns right about face and we are seen.

"_Halte! Quien vive?_" he cried.

"Friends."

"Advance, friends, and give the countersign."

"As you see, I am a friar. I have been shriving a condemned prisoner. You
surely do not expect me to give the countersign!" said Carmen, going close
up to him.

"Certainly not, _padre_. But who is that with you?"

"Pablo, the turnkey."

"Advance and give the countersign, Pablo."

"Baylen."

"Wrong; it has been changed within the last ten minutes. You must go back
and get it, friend Pablo."

"It is not worth the trouble. He is only seeing me to the end of the
street," pleaded Carmen.

"I shall not let him go another step without the countersign," returned
the sentry, doggedly. "I am not sure that I ought to let you go either,
father. He has only to ask--"

A sudden movement of Carmen's arm, a gleam of steel in the darkness, the
soldier's musket falls from his grasp, and with a deep groan he sinks
heavily on the ground.

"Quick, señor, or we shall be taken! Round the corner! We must not run;
that would attract attention. A sharp walk. Good! Keep close to the wall.
Two minutes more and we shall be safe. A narrow escape! If the sentry had
made you go back or called the guard, all would have been lost."

"How was it? Did you stab him?"

"To the heart. He has mounted guard for the last time. So much the better.
It is an enemy and a Spaniard the less."

"All the same, Señor Carmen, I would rather kill my enemies in fair fight
than in cold blood."

"I also; but there are occasions. As likely as not this soldier would have
been in the firing party told off to shoot you to-morrow morning. There
would not have been much fair fight in that. And had I not killed him, we
should both have been tried by drum-head court-martial, and shot or
strangled to-night. This way. Now, I defy them to catch us."

As he spoke, Carmen plunged into a heap of ruins by the wayside, with the
intricacies of which, despite the darkness, he appeared to be quite
familiar.

"Nobody will disturb us here," he said at length, pausing under the shadow
of a broken wall. "These are the ruins of the Church of Alta Gracia,
which, in its fall during the great earthquake, killed several hundred
worshippers. People say they are haunted; after dark nobody will come near
them. But we must not stay many minutes. Take off the zambo's shirt and
trousers, and put on your shoes and stockings--there they are--and I shall
doff my cloak of religion."

"What next?"

"We must make off with all speed and by devious ways--though I think we
have quite thrown our pursuers off the scent--to a house in the outskirts
belonging to a friend of the cause, where we shall find horses, and start
for the llanos before the moon rises, and the hue and cry can be raised."

"What is the journey?"

"That depends on circumstances. Four or five days, perhaps. _Vamanos!_
Time presses."

We left the ruins at the side opposite to that at which we had entered
them, and after traversing several by-streets and narrow lanes reached the
open country, and walked on rapidly till we came to a lonesome house in a
large garden.

Carmen went up to the door, whistled softly, and knocked thrice.

"Who is there?" asked a voice from within.

"Salvador."

On this the gate of the _patio_, wide enough to admit a man on horseback,
was thrown open, and the next moment I was in the arms of Señor Carera.

"Out of the lion's mouth!" he exclaimed, as he kissed me on both cheeks.
"I was dying of anxiety. But, thank Heaven and the Holy Virgin, you are
safe."

"I have also to thank you and Señor Carmen; and I do thank you with all my
heart."

"Say no more. We could not have done less. You were our guest. You
rendered us a great service. Had we let you perish without an effort to
save you, we should have been eternally disgraced. But come in and refresh
yourselves. Your stay here must be brief, and we can talk while we eat."

As we sat at table, Carmen told the story of my rescue.

"It was well done," said our host, thoughtfully, "very well done. Yet I
regret you had to kill the sentry. But for that you might have had a
little sleep, and started after midnight. As it is, you must set off
forthwith and get well on the road before the news of the escape gets
noised abroad. And everything is ready. All your things are here, Señor
Fortescue. You can select what you want for the journey and leave the rest
in my charge."

"All my things here! How did you manage that, Señor Carera?"

"By sending a man, whom I could trust, in the character of a messenger
from the prison with a note to the _posadero_, as from you, asking him to
deliver your baggage and receipt your bill."

"That was very good of you, Señor Carera. A thousand thanks. How much--"

"How much! That is my affair. You are my guest, remember. Your baggage is
in the next room, and while you make your preparations, I will see to the
saddling of the horses."

A very few minutes sufficed to put on my riding boots, get my pistols, and
make up my scanty kit. When I went outside, the horses were waiting in the
_patio_, each of them held by a black groom. Everything was in order. A
_cobija_ was strapped behind either saddle, both of which were furnished
with holsters and bags.

"I have had some _tasajo_ (dried beef) put in the saddle-bags, as much as
will keep you going three or four days," said Señor Carera. "You won't
find many hotels on the road. And you will want a sword, Mr. Fortescue. Do
me the favor to accept this as a souvenir of our friendship. It is a fine
Toledo blade, with a history. An ancestor of mine wore it at the battle of
Lepanto. It may bend but will never break, and has an edge like a razor. I
give it to you to be used against my country's enemies, and I am sure you
will never draw it without cause, nor sheathe it without honor."

I thanked my host warmly for his timely gift, and, as I buckled the
historic weapon to my side, glanced at the horse which he had placed at my
disposal. It was a beautiful flea-bitten gray, with a small, fiery head,
arched neck, sloping shoulders, deep chest, powerful quarters, well-bent
hocks, and "clean" shapely legs--a very model of a horse, and as it
seemed, in perfect condition.

"Ah, you may look at Pizarro as long as you like, Señor Fortescue, and he
is well worth looking at; but you will never tire him," said Carera. "What
will you do if you meet the patrol, Salvador?"

"Evade them if we can, charge them if we cannot."

"By all means the former, if possible, and then you may not be pursued.
And now, Señor, I trust you will not hold me wanting in hospitality if I
urge you to mount; but your lives are in jeopardy, and there may be death
in delay. Put out the lights, men, and open the gates. _Adios_, Señor
Fortescue! _Adios_, my dear Salvador. We shall meet again in happier
times. God guard you, and bring you safe to your journey's end."

And then we rode forth into the night.

"We had better take to the open country at once, and strike the road about
a few miles farther on. It is rather risky, for we shall have to get over
several rifts made by the earthquake and cross a stream with high banks.
But if we take to the road straightway, we are almost sure to meet a
patrol. We may meet one in any case; but the farther from the city the
encounter takes place, the greater will be our chance of getting through."

"You know best. Lead on, and I will follow. Are these rifts you speak of
wide?"

"They are easily jumpable by daylight; but how we shall do them in the
dark, I don't know. However, these horses are as nimble as cats, and
almost as keen-sighted. I think, if we leave it to them, they will carry
us safely over. The sky is a little clearer, too, and that will count in
our favor. This way!"

We sped on as swiftly and silently as the spectre horseman of the story,
for Venezuelan horses being unshod and their favorite pace a gliding run
(much less fatiguing for horse and rider than the high trot of Europe)
they move as noiselessly over grass as a man in slippers.

"Look out!" cried Carmen, reining in his horse. "We are not far from the
first grip. Don't you see something like a black streak running across the
grass? That is it."

"How wide, do you suppose?"

"Eight or ten feet. Don't try to guide your horse. He won't refuse. Let
him have his head and take it in his own way. Go first; my horse likes a
lead."

Pizarro went to the edge of the rift, stretched out his head as if to
measure the distance, and then, springing over as lightly as a deer,
landed safely on the other side. The next moment Carmen was with me. After
two or three more grips (all of unknown depth, and one smelling strongly
of sulphur) had been surmounted in the same way, we came to the stream.
The bank was so steep and slippery that the horses had to slide down it on
their haunches (after the manner of South American horses). But having got
in, we had to get out. This proved no easy task, and it was only after we
had floundered in the brook for twenty minutes or more, that Carmen found
a place where he thought it might be possible to make our exit. And such a
place! We were forced to dismount, climb up almost on our hands and knees,
and let the horses scramble after us as they best could.

"That is the last of our difficulties," said Carmen, as we got into our
saddles. "In ten minutes we strike the road, and then we shall have a free
course for several hours."

"How about the patrols? Do you think we have given them the slip?"

"I do. They don't often come as far as this."

We reached the road at a point where it was level with the fields; and a
few miles farther on entered a defile, bounded on the left by a deep
ravine, on the right by a rocky height.

And then there occurred a startling phenomenon. As the moon rose above the
Silla of Caracas, the entire savanna below us seemed to take fire, streams
as of lava began to run up (not down) the sides of the hills, throwing a
lurid glare over the sleeping city, and bringing into strong relief the
rugged mountains which walled in the plain.

"Good heavens, what is that!" I exclaimed.

"It is the time of drought, and the peons are firing the grass to improve
the land," said Carmen. "I wish they had not done it just now, though.
However, it is, perhaps, quite as well. If the light makes us more visible
to others, it also makes others more visible to us. Hark! What is that?
Did you not hear something?"

"I did. The neighing of a horse. Halt! Let us listen."

"The neighing of a horse and something more."

"Men's voices and the rattle of accoutrements. The patrol, after all. What
shall we do? To turn back would be fatal. The ravine is too deep to
descend. Climbing those rocks is out of the question. There is but one
alternative--we must charge right through them."

"How many men does a patrol generally consist of?"

"Sometimes two, sometimes four."

"May it not be a squadron on the march?"

"It may. No matter. We must charge them, all the same. Better die sword in
hand than be garroted on the plaza. We have one great advantage. We shall
take these fellows by surprise. Let us wait here in the shade, and the
moment they round that corner, go at them, full gallop."

The words were scarcely spoken, when two dragoons came in sight, then two
more.

"Four!" murmured Carmen. "The odds are not too great. We shall do it. Are
you ready? Now!"

The dragoons, surprised by our sudden appearance, pulled up and stood
stock-still, as if doubtful whether our intentions were hostile or
friendly; and we were at them almost before they had drawn their swords.

As I charged the foremost Spaniard, his horse swerved from the road, and
rolled with his rider into the ravine. The second, profiting by his
comrade's disaster, gave us the slip and galloped toward Caracas. This
left us face to face with the other two, and in little more than as many
minutes I had run my man through, and Carmen had hurled his to the ground
with a cleft skull.

"I thought we should do it," he said as he sheathed his sword. "But before
we ride on let us see who the fellows are, for, 'pon my soul, they have
not the looks of a patrol from Caracas."

As he spoke, Carmen dismounted and closely examined the prostrate men's
facings.

"_Caramba!_ They belong to the regiment of Irun."

"I remember them. They were in Murillo's _corp d'armée_ at Vittoria."

"I wish they were at Vittoria now. Their headquarters are at La Victoria!
Worse luck!"

"Why?"

"Because there may be more of them. You suggested just now the possibility
of a squadron. How if we meet a regiment?"

"We should be in rather a bad scrape."

"We are in a bad scrape, _amigo mio_. Unless, I am greatly mistaken the
regiment of Irun, or, at any rate, a squadron of it is on the march
hitherward. If they started at sunrise and rested during the heat of the
day, this is about the time the advance-guard would be here. Having no
enemy to fear in these parts, they would naturally break up into small
detachments; there has been no rain for weeks, and the dust raised by a
large body of horsemen is simply stifling. However, we may as well go
forward to certain death as go back to it. Besides, I hate going back in
any circumstances. And we have just one chance. We must hurry on and ride
for our lives."

"I don't quite see that. We shall meet them all the sooner."

Carmen made some reply which I failed to catch, and as the way was rough
and Pizarro required all my attention, I did not repeat the question.

We passed rapidly up the brow, and when we reached more even ground, put
our horses to the gallop and went on, up hill and down dale, until Carmen,
uttering an exclamation, pulled his horse into a walk.

"I think we can get down here," he said.

We had reached a place where, although the mountain to our right was still
precipitous, the ravine seemed narrower and the sides less steep.

"I think we can," repeated Carmen. "At any rate, we must try."

And with that he dismounted, and leading his horse to the brink of the
ravine, incontinently disappeared.

"Come on! It will do!" he cried, dragging his horse after him.

I followed with Pizarro, who missing his footing landed on his head. As
for myself, I rolled from top to bottom, the descent being much steeper
than I had expected.




CHAPTER XII.

BETWEEN TWO FIRES.


The ravine was filled with shrubs and trees, through which we partly
forced, partly threaded our way, until we reached a spot where we were
invisible from the road.

"Now off with your _cobija_ and throw it over your horse's head," said
Carmen. "If they don't hear they won't neigh, and a single neigh might be
our ruin."

"You mean to stay here until the troops have gone past?"

"Exactly, I knew there was a good hiding-place hereabout, and that if we
reached it before the troops came up we should be safe. If there be any
more of them they will pass us in a few minutes. Now, if you will hitch
Pizarro to that tree--oh, you have done so already. Good! Well, let us
return to the road and watch. We can hide in the grass, or behind the
bushes."

We returned accordingly, and choosing a place where we could see without
being seen, we lay down and listened, exchanging now and then a whispered
remark.

"Hist!" said Carmen, presently, putting his ear to the ground. He had been
so long on the war-path and lived so much in the open air, that his senses
were almost as acute as those of a wild animal.

"They are coming!"

Soon the hum of voices, the neighing of steeds, and the clang of steel
fell on my ear, and peering between the branches I could see a group of
shadows moving toward us. Then the shadows, taking form and substance,
became six horsemen. They passed within a few feet of our hiding-place. We
heard their talk, saw their faces in the moonlight, and Carmen whispered
that he could distinguish the facings of their uniforms.

"It is as I feared," he muttered, "the entire regiment of Irun, shifting
their quarters to Caracas. We are prisoners here for an hour or two. Well,
it is perhaps better to have them behind than before us."

"What will happen when they find the bodies of the two troopers?"

"That is precisely the question I am asking myself. But not having met us
they will naturally conclude that we have gone on toward Caracas."

"Unless they are differently informed by the man who escaped us."

"I don't think he would be in any hurry to turn back. He went off at a
devil of a pace."

"He might turn back for all that, when he recovered from his scare. He
could not help seeing that we were only two, and if he informs the others
they will know of a surety that we are hiding in the ravine."

"And then there would be a hunt. However, at the speed they are riding it
will take them an hour or more to reach the scene of our skirmish, and
then there is coming back. Everything depends on how soon the last of them
go by. If we have only a few minutes start they will never overtake us,
and once on the other side of Los Teycos we shall be safe both from
discovery and pursuit. European cavalry are of no use in a Venezuelan
forest; and I don't think these Irun fellows have any blood-hounds."

"Blood-hounds! You surely don't mean to say that the Spaniards use
blood-hounds?"

"I mean nothing else. General Griscelli, who holds the chief command in
the district of San Felipe, keeps a pack of blood-hounds, which he got
from Cuba. But, though a Spanish general, Griscelli is not a Spaniard
born. He is either a Corsican or an Italian. I believe he was originally
in the French army, and when Dupont surrendered at Baylen he went over to
the other side, and accepted a commission from the King of Spain."

"Not a very good record, that."

"And he is not a good man. He outvies even the Spaniards in cruelty. A
very able general, though. He has given us a deal of trouble. Down with
your head! Here comes some more."

A whole troop this time. They pass in a cloud of dust. After a short
interval another detachment sweeps by; then another and another.

"_Gracias a Dios!_ they are putting on more speed. At this rate we shall
soon be at liberty. But, _caramba_, how they might have been trapped,
Señor Fortescue! A few men on that height hurling down rocks, the defile
lined with sharp-shooters, half a hundred of Mejia's _llaneros_ to cut off
their retreat, and the regiment of Irun could be destroyed to a man."

"Or taken prisoners."

"I don't think there would be many prisoners," said Carmen, grimly. "These
must almost be the last, I think--they are. See! Here come the tag-rag and
bobtail."

The tag-rag and bob-tail consisted of a string of loaded mules with their
_arrieros_, a dozen women riding mules, and as many men on foot.

"Let us get out of this hole while we may, and before any of them come
back. Once on the road and mounted, we shall at least be able to fight;
but down here--"

"All the same, this hole has served our turn well. However, I quite agree
with you that the best thing we can do is to get out of it quickly."

This was more easily said than done. It was like climbing up a precipice.
Pizarro slipped back three times. Carmen's mare did no better. In the end
we had to dismount, fasten two lariats to each saddle, and haul while the
horses scrambled. A little help goes a long way in such circumstances.

All this both made noise and caused delay, and it was with a decided sense
of relief that we found ourselves once more in the saddle and _en route_.

"We have lost more time than I reckoned on," said Carmen, as we galloped
through the pass. "If any of the dragoons had turned back--However, they
did not, and, as our horses are both fresher than theirs and carry less
weight, they will have no chance of overtaking us if they do; and, as the
whole of the regiment has gone on, there is no chance of meeting any more
of them--_Caramba!_ Halt!"

"What is it?" I asked, pulling up short.

"I spoke too soon. More are coming. Don't you hear them?"

"Yes; and I see shadows in the distance."

"The shadows are soldiers, and we shall have to charge them whether they
be few or many, _amigo mio_; so say your prayers and draw your Toledo. But
first let us shake hands, we may never--"

"I am quite ready to charge by your side, Carmen; but would it not be
better, think you, to try what a little strategy will do?"

"With all my heart, if you can suggest anything feasible. I like a fight
immensely--when the odds are not too great--and I hope to die fighting.
All the same, I have no very strong desire to die at this particular
moment."

"Neither have I. So let us go on like peaceable travellers, and the
chances are that these men, taking for granted that the others have let us
pass, will not meddle with us. If they do, we must make the best fight we
can."

"A happy thought! Let us act on it. If they ask any questions I will
answer. Your English accent might excite suspicion."

The party before us consisted of nine horsemen, several of whom appeared
to be officers.

"_Buene noche, señores_," said Carmen, so soon as we were within speaking
distance.

"_Buene noche, señores_. You have met the troops, of course. How far are
they ahead?" asked one of the officers.

"The main body are quite a league ahead by this time. The pack-mules and
_arrieros_ passed us about fifteen minutes ago."

"_Gracias!_ Who are you, and whither may you be wending, señores?"

"I am Sancho Mencar, at your service, _señor coronel_, a Government
messenger, carrying despatches to General Salazar, at La Victoria. My
companion is Señor Tesco, a merchant, who is journeying to the same place
on business."

"Good! you can go on. You will meet two troopers who are bringing on a
prisoner. Do me the favor to tell them to make haste."

"Certainly, _señor coronel. Adios, señores_."

"_Adio señores._"

And with that we rode on our respective ways.

"Two troopers and prisoner," said Carmen, thoughtfully.

"So there are more of them, after all! How many, I wonder? If this
prisoner be a patriot we must rescue him, señor Fortescue."

"With all my heart--if we can."

"Only two troopers! You and I are a match for six."

"Possibly. But we don't know that the two are not followed by a score!
There seems to be no end of them."

"I don't think so. If there were the colonel would have asked us to tell
them also to hurry up. But we shall soon find out. When we meet the
fellows we will speak them fair and ask a few questions."

Ten minutes later we met them.

"_Buene noche, señores!_" said Carmen, riding forward. "We bring a message
from the colonel. He bids you make haste."

"All very fine. But how can we make haste when we are hampered by this
rascal? I should like to blow his brains out."

"This rascal" was the prisoner, a big powerful fellow who seemed to be
either a zambo or a negro. His arms were bound to his side, and he walked
between the troopers, to whose saddles he was fastened by two stout cords.

"Why don't you blow his brains out?"

"Because we should get into trouble. He is the colonel's slave, and
therefore valuable property. We have tried dragging him along; but the
villain throws himself down, and might get a limb broken, so all we can do
is prod him occasionally with the points of our sabres; but he does not
seem to mind us in the least. We have tried swearing; we might as well
whistle. Make haste, indeed!"

"A very hard case, I am sure. I sympathize with you, señores. Is the man a
runaway that you have to take such care of him?"

"That is just it. He ran away and rambled for months in the forest; and if
he had not stolen back to La Victoria and been betrayed by a woman, he
would never have been caught. After that, the colonel would not trust him
at large; but he thinks that at Caracas he will have him safe. And now,
señores, with your leave we must go on."

"Ah! You are the last, I suppose?"

"We are; curse it! The main body must be a league ahead by this time, and
we shall not reach Caracas for hours. _Adios!_"

"Let us rescue the poor devil!" I whispered to Carmen.

"By all means. One moment, señores; I beg your pardon--now, Fortescue!"

And with that we placed our horses across the road, whipped out our
pistols and pointed them at the troopers' heads, to their owners'
unutterable surprise.

"We are sorry to inconvenience you, señores," said my companion, politely;
"but we are going to release this slave, and we have need of your horses.
Unbuckle your swords, throw them on the ground, and dismount. No
hesitation, or you are dead men! Shall we treat them as they proposed to
treat the slave, Señor Fortescue? Blow out their brains? It will be safer,
and save us a deal of trouble."

"No! That would be murder. Let them go. They can do no harm. It is
impossible for them to overtake the others on foot."

Meanwhile the soldiers, having the fear of being shot before them, had
dismounted and laid down their weapons.

"Go!" said Carmen, pointing northward, and they went.

"Your name?" (to the prisoner whose bonds I was cutting with my sword).

"Here they call me José. In my own country I was called Gahra--"

"Let it be Gahra, then. It is less common than José. Every other peon in
the country is called José. You are a native of Africa?"

"_Si, señor._"

"How came you hither?"

"I was taken to Cuba in a slave-ship, brought to this country by General
Salazar, and sold by him to Colonel Canimo."

"You have no great love for the Spaniards, I suppose?"

Gahra pointed to his arms which had been chafed by the rope till they were
raw, and showed us his back which bore the marks of recent stripes.

"Can you fight?"

"Against the Spaniards? Only give me the chance, and you shall see,"
answered the negro in a voice of intense hate.

"Come with us, and you shall have many chances. Mount one of those horses
and lead the other."

Gahra mounted, and we moved on.

We were now at the beginning of a stiff ascent. The road, which though
undulating had risen almost continuously since we left Caracas, was
bordered with richly colored flowers and shrubs, and bounded on either
side by deep forests. Night was made glorious by the great tropical moon,
which shone resplendent under a purple sky gilding the tree-tops and
lighting us on our way. Owing to the nature of the ground we could not see
far before us, but the backward view, with its wood-crowned heights, deep
ravines, and sombre mountains looming in the distance, was fairy-like and
fantastic, and the higher we rose the more extensive it became.

"Is this a long hill?" I asked Carmen.

"Very. An affair of half an hour, at least, at this speed; and we cannot
go faster," he answered, as he turned half round in his saddle.

"Why are you looking backward?"

"To see whether we are followed. We lost much time in the _quebrado_, and
we have lost more since. Have you good eyes, Gahara? Born Africans
generally have."

"Yes, sir. My name, Gahra Dahra, signifies Dahra, the keen sighted!"

"I am glad to hear it. Be good enough to look round occasionally, and if
you see anything let us know."

We had nearly reached the summit of the rise when the negro uttered an
exclamation and turned his horse completely round.

"What is it?" asked Carmen and myself, following his example.

"I see figures on the brow of yonder hill."

"You see more than I can, and I have not bad eyes," said Carmen, looking
intently. "What are they like, those figures?"

"That I cannot make out yet. They are many; they move; and every minute
they grow bigger! That is all I can tell."

"It is quite enough. The bodies of the two troopers have been found, the
alarm has been given, and we are pursued. But they won't overtake us. They
have that hill to descend, this to mount; and our horses are better than
theirs."

"Are you going far, señor?" inquired Gahra.

"To the llanos."

"By Los Teycos?"

"Yes. We shall easily steal through Los Teycos, and I know of a place in
the forest beyond, where we can hide during the day."

"Pardon me for venturing to contradict you, señor; but I fear you will not
find it very easy to steal through Los Teycos. For three days it has been
held by a company of infantry and all the outlets are strictly guarded. No
civilian unfurnished with a safe conduct from the captain-general is
allowed to pass."

"_Caramba!_ We are between two fires, it seems. Well, we must make a dash
for it. The sentries cannot stop us, and we can gallop through before they
turn out the guard."

"The horses will be very tired by that time, señor, and the troopers can
get fresh mounts at Los Teycos. But I know a way--"

"The Indian trail! Do you know the Indian trail?"

"Yes, sir. I know the Indian trail, and I can take you to a place in the
forest where there is grass and water and game, and we shall be safe from
pursuit as long as we like to stay."

"How far off?"

"About two leagues."

"Good. Lead on in heaven's name. You are a treasure, Gahra Dahra. In
rescuing you from those ruffianly Spaniards we did ourselves, as well as
you, a good turn."

Our pursuers, who numbered a full score, could now be distinctly seen, but
in a few minutes we lost sight of them. After a sharp ride of half an
hour, the negro called a halt.

"This is the place. Here we turn off," he said.

"Here! I see nothing but the almost dry bed of a torrent."

"So much the better. We shall make no footmarks," said Carmen. "Go on,
Gahra. But first of all turn that led horse adrift. Are you sure this
place you speak of is unknown to the Spaniards?"

"Quite. It is known only to a few wandering Indians and fugitive slaves.
We can stay here till sunrise. It is impossible to follow the Indian trail
by night, even with such a moon as this."

After we had partly ridden, partly walked (for we were several times
compelled to dismount) about a mile along the bed of the stream, which was
hemmed in between impenetrable walls of tall trees and dense undergrowth,
Gahra, who was leading, called out: "This way!" and vanished into what
looked like a hole, but proved to be a cleft in the bank so overhung by
vegetation as to be well-nigh invisible.

It was the entrance to a passage barely wide enough to admit a horse and
his rider, yet as light as a star-gemmed mid-night, for the leafy vault
above us was radiant with fireflies, gleaming like diamonds in the dark
hair of a fair woman.

But even with this help it was extremely difficult to force our way
through the tangled undergrowth, which we had several times to attack,
sword in hand, and none of us were sorry when Gahra announced that we had
reached the end.

"_Por todos los santos!_ But this is fairyland!" exclaimed Carmen, who was
just before me. "I never saw anything so beautiful."

He might well say so. We were on the shore of a mountain-tarn, into whose
clear depths the crescent moon, looking calmly down, saw its image
reflected as in a silver mirror. Lilies floated on its waters, ferns and
flowering shrubs bent over them, the air was fragrant with sweet smells,
and all around uprose giant trees with stems as round and smooth as the
granite columns of a great cathedral; and, as it seemed in that dim
religious light, high enough to support the dome of heaven.

I was so lost in admiration of this marvellous scene that my companions
had unsaddled and were leading their horses down to the water before I
thought of dismounting from mine.

Apart from the beauty of the spot, we could have found none more suitable
for a bivouac! We were in safety and our horses in clover, and, tethering
them with the lariats, we left them to graze. Gahra gathered leaves and
twigs and kindled a fire, for the air at that height was fresh, and we
were lightly clad. We cooked our _tasajo_ on the embers, and after smoking
the calumet of peace, rolled ourselves in our _cobijas_, laid our heads on
our saddles, and slept the sleep of the just.




CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE LLANOS.


Only a moment ago the land had been folded in the mantle of darkness. Now,
a flaming eye rises from the ground at some immeasurable distance, like an
outburst of volcanic fire. It grows apace, chasing away the night and
casting a ruddy glow on, as it seems, a vast and waveless sea, as still as
the painted ocean of the poem, as silent as death, a sea without ships and
without life, mournful and illimitable, and as awe-inspiring and
impressive as the Andes or the Alps.

So complete is the illusion that did I not know we were on the verge of
the llanos I should be tempted to believe that supernatural agency had
transported us while we slept to the coasts of the Caribbean Sea or the
yet more distant shores of the Pacific Ocean.

Six days are gone by since we left our bivouac by the mountain-tarn: three
we have wandered in the woods under the guidance of Gahra, three sought
Mejia and his guerillas, who, being always on the move, are hard to find.
Last night we reached the range of hills which form, as it were, the
northern coast-line of the vast series of savannas which stretch from the
tropics to the Straits of Magellan; and it is now a question whether we
shall descend to the llanos or continue our search in the sierra.

"It was there I left him," said Carmen, pointing to a _quebrada_ some ten
miles away.

"Where we were yesterday?"

"Yes; and he said he would be either there or hereabout when I returned,
and I am quite up to time. But Mejia takes sudden resolves sometimes. He
may have gone to beat up Griselli's quarters at San Felipe, or be making a
dash across the llanos in the hope of surprising the fortified post of
Tres Cruces."

"What shall we do then; wait here until he comes back?"

"Or ride out on the llanos in the direction of Tres Cruces. If we don't
meet Mejia and his people we may hear something of them."

"I am for the llanos."

"Very well. We will go thither. But we shall have to be very circumspect.
There are loyalist as well as patriot guerillas roaming about. They say
that Morales has collected a force of three or four thousand, mostly
Indios, and they are all so much alike that unless you get pretty close it
is impossible to distinguish patriots from loyalists."

"Well, there is room to run if we cannot fight."

"Oh, plenty of room," laughed Carmen. "But as for fighting--loyalist
guerillas are not quite the bravest of the brave, yet I don't think we
three are quite a match for fifty of them, and we are not likely to meet
fewer, if we meet any. But let us adventure by all means. Our horses are
fresh, and we can either return to the sierra or spend the night on the
llanos, as may be most expedient."

Ten minutes later we were mounted, and an hour's easy riding brought us to
the plain. It was as pathless as the ocean, yet Carmen, guided by the sun,
went on as confidently as if he had been following a beaten track. The
grass was brown and the soil yellow; particles of yellow dust floated in
the air; the few trees we passed were covered with it, and we and our
horses were soon in a like condition. Nothing altered as we advanced; sky
and earth were ever the same; the only thing that moved was a cloud,
sailing slowly between us and the sun, and when Carmen called a halt on
the bank of a nearly dried-up stream, it required an effort to realize
that since we left our bivouac in the hills we had ridden twenty miles in
a direct line. Hard by was a deserted _hatto_, or cattle-keeper's hut,
where we rested while our horses grazed.

"No sign of Mejia yet," observed Carmen, as he lighted his cigar with a
burning-glass. "Shall we go on toward Tres Cruces, or return to our old
camping-ground in the hills?"

"I am for going on."

"So am I. But we must keep a sharp lookout. We shall be on dangerous
ground after we have crossed the Tio."

"Where is the Tio?"

"There!" (pointing to the attenuated stream near us).

"That! I thought the Tio was a river."

"So it is, and a big one in the rainy season, as you may have an
opportunity of seeing. I wish we could hear something of Mejia. But there
is nobody of whom we can inquire. The country is deserted; the herdsmen
have all gone south, to keep out of the way of guerillas and brigands, all
of whom look on cattle as common property."

"Somebody comes!" said Gahra, who was always on the lookout.

"How many?" exclaimed Carmen, springing to his feet.

"Only one."

"Keep out of sight till he draws near, else he may sheer off; and I should
like to have a speech of him. He may be able to tell us something."

The stranger came unconcernedly on, and as he stopped in the middle of the
river to let his horse drink, we had a good look at him. He was well
mounted, carried a long spear and a _macheto_ (a broad, sword-like knife,
equally useful for slitting windpipes and felling trees), and wore a
broad-brimmed hat, shirt, trousers, and a pair of spurs (strapped to his
naked feet).

As he resumed his journey across the river, we all stepped out of the
_hatto_ and gave him the traditional greeting, "_Buenas dias, señor._"

The man, looking up in alarm, showed a decided disposition to make off,
but Carmen spoke him kindly, offered him a cigar, and said that all we
wanted was a little information. We were peaceful travellers, and would
much like to know whether the country beyond the Tio was free from
guerillas.

The stranger eyed us suspiciously, and then, after a moment's hesitation,
said that he had heard that Mejia was "on the war-path."

"Where?" asked Carmen.

"They say he was at Tres Cruces three days ago; and there has been
fighting."

"And are any of Morale's people also on the war-path?"

"That is more than I can tell you, señores. It is very likely; but as you
are peaceful travellers, I am sure no one will molest you. _Adoiso,
señores._"

And with that the man gave his horse a sudden dig with his spurs, and went
off at a gallop.

"What a discourteous beggar he is!" exclaimed Carmen, angrily. "If it
would not take too much out of my mare I would ride after him and give him
a lesson in politeness."

"I don't think he was intentionally uncivil. He seemed afraid."

"Evidently. He did not know what we were, and feared to commit himself.
However, we have learned something. We are on Mejia's track. He was at
Tres Cruces three days since, and if we push on we may fall in with him
before sunset, or, at any rate, to-morrow morning."

"Is it not possible that this man may have been purposely deceiving us, or
be himself misinformed?" I asked.

"Quite. But as we had already decided to go on it does not matter a great
deal whether he is right or wrong. I think, though, he knew more about
the others than he cared to tell. All the more reason for keeping a sharp
lookout and riding slowly."

"So as to save our horses?"

"Exactly. We may have to ride for our lives before the sun goes down. And
now let us mount and march."

Our course was almost due west, and the sun being now a little past the
zenith, its ardent rays--which shone right in our faces--together with the
reverberations from the ground, made the heat almost insupportable. The
stirrup-irons burned our feet; speech became an effort; we sat in our
saddles, perspiring and silent; our horses, drooping their heads, settled
into a listless and languid walk. The glare was so trying that I closed my
eyes and let Pizarro go as he would. Open them when I might, the outlook
was always the same, the same yellow earth and blue sky, the same
lifeless, interminable plain, the same solitary sombrero palms dotting the
distant horizon.

This went on for an hour or two, and I think I must have fallen into a
doze, for when, roused by a shout from Gahra, I once more opened my eyes
the sun was lower and the heat less intense.

"What is it," asked Carmen, who, like myself, had been half asleep. "I see
nothing."

"A cloud of dust that moves--there!" (pointing).

"So it is," shading his eyes and looking again. "Coming this way, too.
Behind that cloud is a body of horsemen. Be they friends or enemies--Mejia
and his people or loyalist guerillas?"

"That is more than I can say, señor. Mejia, I hope."

"I also. But hope is not certainty, and until we can make sure we had
better hedge away toward the north, so as to be nearer the hills in case
we have to run for it."

"You think we had better make for the hills in that case?" I asked.

"Decidedly. Mejia is sure to return thither, and Morale's men are much
less likely to follow us far in that direction than south or east."

So, still riding leisurely, we diverged a little to the right, keeping the
cloud-veiled horsemen to our left. By this measure we should (if they
proved to be enemies) prevent them from getting between us and the hills,
and thereby cutting off our best line of retreat.

Meanwhile the cloud grew bigger. Before long we could distinguish those
whom it had hidden, without, however, being able to decide whether they
were friends or foes.

Carmen thought they numbered at least two hundred, and there might be more
behind. But who they were he could, as yet, form no idea.

The nearer we approached them the greater became our excitement and
surprise. A few minutes and we should either be riding for our lives or
surrounded by friends. We looked to the priming of our pistols, tightened
our belts and our horses' girths, wiped the sweat and dust from our faces,
and, while hoping for the best, prepared for the worst.

"They see us!" exclaimed Carmen. "I cannot quite make them out, though. I
fear.... But let us ride quietly on. The secret will soon be revealed."

A dozen horsemen had detached themselves from the main body with the
intention, as might appear, of intercepting our retreat in every
direction. Four went south, four north, and four moved slowly round to our
rear.

"Had we not better push on?" I asked. "This looks very like a hostile
demonstration."

"So it does. But we must find out--And there is no hurry. We shall only
have the four who are coming this way to deal with, the others are out of
the running. All the same, we may as well draw a little farther to the
right, so as to give them a longer gallop and get them as far from the
main body as may be."

The four were presently near enough to be distinctly seen.

"Enemies! _Vamonos!_" cried Carmen, after he had scanned their faces. "But
not too fast. If they think we are afraid and our horses tired they will
follow us without waiting for the others, and perhaps give us an
opportunity of teaching them better manners. Your horse is the fleetest,
señor Fortescue. You had better, perhaps, ride last."

On this hint I acted; and when the four guerillas saw that I was lagging
behind they redoubled their efforts to overtake me, but whenever they drew
nearer than I liked, I let Pizarro out, thereby keeping their horses,
which were none too fresh, continually on the stretch. The others were too
far in the rear to cause us concern. We had tested the speed of their
horses and knew that we could leave them whenever we liked.

After we had gone thus about a couple of miles Carmen slackened speed so
as to let me come up with him and Gahra.

"We have five minutes to spare," he said. "Shall we stop them?"

I nodded assent, whereupon we checked our horses, and wheeling around,
looked our pursuers in the face. This brought them up short, and I thought
they were going to turn tail, but after a moment's hesitation they lowered
their lances and came on albeit at no great speed, receiving as they did
so a point-blank volley from our pistols, which emptied one of their
saddles. Then we drew our swords and charged, but before we could get to
close quarters the three men sheered off to the right and left, leaving
their wounded comrade to his fate. It did not suit our purpose to follow
them, and we were about to go on, when we noticed that the other
guerillas, who a few minutes previously were riding hotly after us, had
ceased their pursuit, and were looking round in seeming perplexity. The
main body had, moreover, come to a halt, and were closing up and facing
the other way. Something had happened. What could it be?

"Another cloud of dust," said Gahra, pointing to the north-west.

So there was, and moving rapidly. Had our attention been less taken up
with the guerillas this new portent would not so long have escaped us.

"Mejia! I'll wager ten thousand piasters that behind that cloud are Mejia
and his braves," exclaimed Carmen, excitedly. _Hijo de Dios!_ Won't they
make mince-meat of the Spaniard? How I wish I were with them! Shall we go
back Señor Fortescue?"

"If you think--"

"Think! I am sure. I can see the gleam of their spears through the dust.
By all means, let us join them. The Spaniards have too much on their hands
just now to heed us. But I must have a spear."

And with that Carmen slipped from his horse and picked up the lance of the
fallen guerilla.

"Do you prefer a spear to a sword?" I asked, as we rode on.

"I like both, but in a charge on the llanos I prefer a spear decidedly.
Yet I dare say you will do better with the weapon to which you have been
most accustomed. If you ward off or evade the first thrust and get to your
opponent's left rear you will have him at your mercy. Our _llaneros_ are
indifferent swordsmen; but once turn your back and you are doomed. Hurrah!
There is Mejia, leading his fellows on. Don't you see him? The tall man on
the big horse. Forward, señors! We may be in time for the encounter even
yet."




CHAPTER XIV.

CAUGHT.


A smart gallop of a few minutes brought us near enough to see what was
going on, though as we had to make a considerable _détour_ in order to
avoid the Spaniards, we were just too late for the charge, greatly to
Carmen's disappointment.

In numbers the two sides were pretty equal, the strength of each being
about a thousand men. Their tactics were rather those of Indian braves
than regular troops. The patriots were, however, both better led and
better disciplined than their opponents, and fought with a courage and a
resolution that on their native plains would have made them formidable
foes for the "crackest" of European cavalry.

The encounter took place when we were within a few hundred yards of
Mejia's left flank. It was really a charge in line, albeit a very broken
line, every man riding as hard as he could and fighting for his own land.
All were armed with spears, the longest, as I afterward learned, being
wielded by Colombian _gauchos_. These portentous weapons, fully fourteen
feet long, were held in both hands, the reins being meanwhile placed on
the knees, and the horses guided by voice and spur. The Spaniards seemed
terribly afraid of them, as well they might be, for the Colombian spears
did dire execution. Few missed their mark, and I saw more than one trooper
literally spitted and lifted clean out of his saddle.

Mejia, distinguishable by his tall stature, was in the thick of the fray.
After the first shock he threw away his spear, and drawing a long
two-handed sword, which he carried at his back, laid about like a
_coeur-de-lion_. The combat lasted only a few minutes, and though we were
too late to contribute to the victory we were in time to take part in the
pursuit.

It was a scene of wild confusion and excitement; the Spaniards galloping
off in all directions, singly and in groups, making no attempt to rally,
yet when overtaken, fighting to the last, Mejia's men following them with
lowered lances and wild cries, managing their fiery little horses with
consummate ease, and _making no prisoners_.

"Here is a chance for us; let us charge these fellows!" shouted Carmen, as
eight or nine of the enemy rode past us in full retreat; and without
pausing for a reply he went off at a gallop, followed by Gahra and myself;
for although I had no particular desire to attack men who were flying for
their lives and to whom I knew no quarter would be given, it was
impossible to hold back when my comrades were rushing into danger. Had the
Spaniards been less intent on getting away it would have fared ill with
us. As it was, we were all wounded. Gahra got a thrust through the arm,
Carmen a gash in the thigh; and as I gave one fellow the point in his
throat his spear pierced my hat and cut my head. If some of the patriots
had not come to the rescue our lives would have paid the forfeit of our
rashness.

The incident was witnessed by Mejia himself, who, when he recognized
Carmen, rode forward, greeted us warmly and remarked that we were just in
time.

"To be too late," answered Carmen, discontentedly, as he twisted a
handkerchief round his wounded thigh.

"Not much; and you have done your share. That was a bold charge you made.
And your friends? I don't think I have the pleasure of knowing them."

Carmen introduced us, and told him who I was.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, señor," he said, graciously,
"and I will give you of my best; but I can offer you only rough fare and
plenty of fighting. Will that content you?"

I bowed, and answered that I desired nothing better. The guerilla leader
was a man of striking appearance, tall, spare, and long limbed. The
contour of his face was Indian; he had the deep-set eyes, square jaws, and
lank hair of the abonguil race. But his eyes were blue, his hair was
flaxen, and his skin as fair as that of a pure-blooded Teuton. Mejia, as I
subsequently heard, was the son of a German father and a mestizma mother,
and prouder of his Indian than his European ancestry. It was probably for
this reason that he preferred being called Mejia rather than Morgenstern y
Mejia, his original appellation. His hereditary hatred of the Spaniards,
inflamed by a sense of personal wrong, was his ruling passion. He spared
none of the race (being enemies) who fell into his hands. Natives of the
country, especially those with Indian blood in their veins, he treated
more mercifully--when his men would let him, for they liked killing even
more than they liked fighting, and had an unpleasant way of answering a
remonstrance from their officers with a thrust from their spears.

Mejia owed his ascendancy over them quite as much to his good fortune in
war as to his personal prowess and resolute character.

"If I were to lose a battle they would probably take my life, and I should
certainly have to resign my command," he observed, when we were talking
the matter over after the pursuit (which, night being near, was soon
abandoned); "and a _llanero_ leader must lead--no playing the general or
watching operations from the rear--or it will be the worse for him."

"I understand; he must be first or nowhere."

"Yes, first or nowhere; and they will brook no punishment save death. If a
man disobeys me I either let it pass or shoot him out of hand, according
to circumstances. If I were to strike a man or order him under arrest, the
entire force would either mutiny or disband. _Si señor_, my _llaneros_ are
wild fellows."

They looked it. Most of them wore only a ragged shirt over equally ragged
trousers. Their naked feet were thrust into rusty stirrups. Some rode
bare-backed, and there were among them men of every breed which the
country produced; mestizoes, mulattoes, zambos, quadroons, negroes, and
Indios, but all born _gauchos_ and _llaneros_, hardy and in high
condition, and well skilled in the use of lasso and spear. They were
volunteers, too, and if their chief failed to provide them with a
sufficiency of fighting and plunder, they had no hesitation in taking
themselves off without asking for leave of absence.

When Mejia heard that a British force was being raised for service against
the Spaniards, he was greatly delighted, and offered me on the spot a
command in his "army," or, alternatively, the position of his principal
aide-de-camp. I preferred the latter.

"You have decided wisely, and I thank you, _señor coronel_. The advice and
assistance of a soldier who has seen so much of war as you have will be
very valuable and highly esteemed."

I reminded the chief that, in the British army, I had held no higher rank
than that of lieutenant.

"What matters that? I have made myself a general, and I make you a
colonel. Who is there to say me nay?" he demanded, proudly.

Though much amused by this summary fashion of conferring military rank, I
kept a serious countenance, and, after congratulating General Mejia on his
promotion and thanking him for mine, I said that I should do my best to
justify his confidence.

We bivouacked on the banks of a stream some ten miles from the scene of
our encounter with the loyalists. On our way thither, Mejia told us that
he had taken and destroyed Tres Cruces, and was now contemplating an
attack on General Griscelli at San Felipe, as to which he asked my
opinion.

I answered that, as I knew nothing either of the defense of San Felipe or
of the strength and character of the force commanded by General Griscelli,
I could give none. On this, Mejia informed me that the place was a large
village and military post, defended by earthworks and block-houses, and
that the force commanded by Griscelli consisted of about twenty-five
hundred men, of whom about half were regulars, half native auxiliaries.

"Has he any artillery?" I asked.

"About ten pieces of position, but no field-guns."

"And you?"

"I have none whatever."

"Nor any infantry?"

"Not here. But my colleague, General Estero, is at present organizing a
force which I dare say will exceed two thousand men, and he promises to
join me in the course of a week or two."

"That is better, certainly. Nevertheless, I fear that with one thousand
horse and two thousand foot, and without artillery, you will not find it
easy to capture a strong place, armed with ten guns and held by
twenty-five hundred men, of whom half are regulars. If I were you I would
let San Felipe alone."

Mejia frowned. My advice was evidently not to his liking.

"Let me tell you, _señor coronel_" he said, arrogantly, "our patriot
soldiers are equal to any in the world, regular or irregular. And, don't
you see that the very audacity of the enterprise counts in our favor? The
last thing Griscelli expects is an attack. We shall find him unprepared
and take him by surprise. That man has done us a great deal of harm. He
hangs every patriot who falls into his hands, and I have made up my mind
to hang him!"

After this there was nothing more to be said, and I held my peace. I soon
found, moreover, that albeit Mejia often made a show of consulting me he
had no intention of accepting my advice, and that all his officers (except
Carmen) and most of his men regarded me as a _gringo_ (foreign interloper)
and were envious of my promotion, and jealous of my supposed influence
with the general.

We bivouacked in a valley on the verge of the llanos, and the next few
days were spent in raiding cattle and preparing _tasajo_. We had also
another successful encounter with a party of Morale's guerillas. This
raised Mejia's spirits to the highest point, and made him more resolute
than ever to attack San Felipe. But when I saw General Estero's infantry
my misgivings as to the outcome of the adventure were confirmed. His men,
albeit strong and sturdy and full of fight, were badly disciplined and
indifferently armed, their officers extremely ignorant and absurdly
boastful and confident. Estero himself, though like Mejia, a splendid
patriotic leader, was no general, and I felt sure that unless we caught
Griscelli asleep we should find San Felipe an uncommonly hard nut to
crack. I need hardly say, however, that I kept this opinion religiously to
myself. Everybody was so confident and cock-sure, that the mere suggestion
of a doubt would have been regarded as treason and probably exposed me to
danger.

A march of four days partly across the llanos, partly among the wooded
hills by which they were bounded, brought us one morning to a suitable
camping-ground, within a few miles of San Felipe, and Mejia, who had
assumed the supreme command, decided that the attack should take place on
the following night.

"You will surely reconnoitre first, General Mejia," I ventured to say.

"What would be the use? Estero and I know the place. However, if you and
Carmen like to go and have a look you may."

Carmen was nothing loath, and two hours before sunset we saddled our
horses and set out. I could speak more freely to him than to any of the
others, and as we rode on I remarked how carelessly the camp was guarded.
There were no proper outposts, and instead of being kept out of sight in
the _quebrado_, the men were allowed to come and go as they liked. Nothing
would be easier than for a treacherous soldier to desert and give
information to the enemy which might not only ruin the expedition but
bring destruction on the army.

"No, no, Fortescue, I cannot agree to that. There are no traitors among
us," said my companion, warmly.

"I hope not. Yet how can you guarantee that among two or three thousand
men there is not a single rascal! In war, you should leave nothing to
chance. And even though none of the fellows desert it is possible that
some of them may wander too far away and get taken prisoners, which would
be quite as bad."

"You mean it would give Griscelli warning?"

"Exactly, and if he is an enterprising general he would not wait to be
attacked. Instead of letting us surprise him he would surprise us."

"_Caramba!_ So he would. And Griscelli is an enterprising general. We must
mention this to Mejia when we get back, _amigo mio_."

"You may, if you like. I am tired of giving advice which is never heeded,"
I said, rather bitterly.

"I will, certainly, and then whatever befalls I shall have a clear
conscience. Mejia is one of the bravest men I know. It is a pity he is so
self-opinionated."

"Yes, and to make a general a man must have something more than bravery.
He must have brains."

Carmen knew the country we were in thoroughly, and at his suggestion we
went a roundabout way through the woods in order to avoid coming in
contact with any of Griscelli's people. On reaching a hill overlooking San
Felipe we tethered our horses in a grove of trees where they were well
hidden, and completed the ascent on foot. Then, lying down, and using a
field-glass lent us by Mejia, we made a careful survey of the place and
its surroundings.

San Felipe, a picturesque village of white houses with thatched roofs, lay
in a wide well-cultivated valley, looking south, and watered by a shallow
stream which in the rainy season was probably a wide river. At each corner
of the village, well away from the houses, was a large block-house, no
doubt pierced for musketry. From one block-house to another ran an earthen
parapet with a ditch, and on each parapet were mounted three guns.

"Well, what think you of San Felipe, and our chances of taking it?" asked
Carmen, after a while.

"I don't think its defences are very formidable. A single mortar on that
height to the east would make the place untenable in an hour; set it on
fire in a dozen places. It is all wood. But to attempt its capture with a
force of infantry numerically inferior to the garrison will be a very
hazardous enterprise indeed, and barring miraculously good luck on the one
side or miraculously ill luck on the other cannot possibly succeed, I
should say. No, Carmen, I don't think we shall be in San Felipe to-morrow
night, or any night, just yet."

"But how if a part of the garrison be absent? Hist! Did not you hear
something?"

"Only the crackling of a branch. Some wild animal, probably. I wonder
whether there are any jaguars hereabout--"

"Oh, if the garrison be weak and the sentries sleep it is quite possible
we may take the place by a rush. But, on the other hand, it is equally
possible that Griscelli may have got wind of our intention, and--"

"There it is again! Something more than a wild animal this time,
Fortescue," exclaims Carmen, springing to his feet.

I follow his example; but the same instant a dozen men spring from the
bushes, and before we can offer any resistance, or even draw our swords,
we are borne to the ground and despite our struggles, our arms pinioned to
our sides.




CHAPTER XV.

AN OLD ENEMY.


Our captors were Spanish soldiers.

"Be good enough to rise and accompany us to San Felipe, señores," said the
non-commissioned officer in command of the detachment, "and if you attempt
to escape I shall blow your brains out."

"_Dios mio!_ It serves us right for not keeping a better lookout," said
Carmen, with a laugh which I thought sounded rather hollow. "We shall be
in San Felipe sooner than we expected, that is all. Lead on, sergeant; we
have a dozen good reasons for not trying to escape, to say nothing of our
strait waistcoats."

Whereupon we were marched down the hill and taken to San Felipe, two men
following with our horses, from which and other circumstances I inferred
that we had been under observation ever since our arrival in the
neighborhood. The others were doubtless under observation also; and at the
moment I thought less of our own predicament (in view of the hanging
propensities of General Griscelli, a decidedly unpleasant one) than of the
terrible surprise which awaited Mejia and his army, for, as I quickly
perceived, the Spaniards were quite on the alert, and fully prepared for
whatever might befall. The place swarmed with soldiers; sentries were
pacing to and fro on the parapets, gunners furbishing up their pieces, and
squads of native auxiliaries being drilled on a broad savanna outside the
walls.

Many of the houses were mere huts--roofs on stilts; others, "wattle and
dab;" a few, brown-stone. To the most imposing of these we were conducted
by our escort. Above the doorway, on either side of which stood a sentry,
was an inscription: "Headquarters: General Griscelli."

The sergeant asked one of the sentries if the general was in, and
receiving an answer in the affirmative he entered, leaving us outside.
Presently he returned.

"The general will see you," he said; "be good enough to come in."

We went in, and after traversing a wide corridor were ushered into a large
room, where an officer in undress uniform sat writing at a big table.
Several other officers were lounging in easy-chairs, and smoking big
cigars.

"Here are the prisoners, general," announced our conductor.

The man at the table, looking up, glanced first at Carmen, then at me.

"_Caramba!_" he exclaimed, with a stare of surprise, "you and I have met
before, I think."

I returned the stare with interest, for though I recognized him I could
hardly believe my own eyes.

"On the field of Salamanca?"

"Of course. You are the English officer who behaved so insolently and got
me reprimanded." (This in French.)

"I did no more than my duty. It was you that behaved insolently."

"Take care what you say, señor, or _por Dios_--There is no English general
to whom you can appeal for protection now. What are you doing here?"

"Not much good, I fear. Your men brought me: I had not the least desire to
come, I assure you."

"You were caught on the hill yonder, surveying the town through a glass,
and Sergeant Prim overheard part of a conversation which leaves no doubt
that you are officers in Mejia's army. Besides, you were seen coming from
the quarter where he encamped this morning. Is this so?"

Carmen and I exchanged glances. My worst fears were confirmed--we had been
betrayed.

"Is this so? I repeat."

"It is."

"And have you, an English officer who has fought for Spain, actually sunk
so low as to serve with a herd of ruffianly rebels?"

"At any rate, General Griscelli, I never deserted to the enemy."

The taunt stung him to the quick. Livid with rage he sprung from his chair
and placed his hand on his sword.

"Do you know that you are in my power?" he exclaimed. "Had you uttered
this insult in Spanish instead of in French, I would have strung you up
without more ado."

"You insulted me first. If you are a true caballero give me the
satisfaction which I have a right to demand."

"No, señor; I don't meet rebels on the field of honor. If they are common
folk I hang them; if they are gentlemen I behead them."

"Which is in store for us, may I ask?"

"_Por Dios!_ you take it very coolly. Perhaps neither."

"You will let me go, then?"

"Let you go! Let you go! Yes, I _will_ let you go," laughing like a man
who has made a telling joke, or conceived a brilliant idea.

"When?"

"Don't be impatient, señor; I should like to have the pleasure of your
company for a day or two before we part. Perhaps after--What is the
strength of Mejia's army?"

"I decline to say."

"I think I could make you say, though, if it were worth the trouble. As it
happens, I know already. He has about two thousand infantry and one
thousand cavalry. What has he come here for? Does the fool actually
suppose that with a force like that he can capture San Felipe? Such
presumption deserves punishment, and I shall give him a lesson he will not
easily forget--if he lives to remember it. Your name and quality, señor"
(to Carmen).

"Salvador Carmen, _teniente_ in the patriot army."

"I suppose you have heard how I treat patriots?"

"Yes, general, and I should like to treat you in the same way."

"You mean you would like to hang me. In that case you cannot complain if I
hang you. However I won't hang you--to-day. I will either send you to the
next world in the company of your general, or let you go with--"

"Señor Fortescue?"

"Thank you--with Señor Fortescue. That is all, I think. Take him to the
guard-house, sergeant--Stay! If you will give me your parole not to
leave the town without my permission, or make any attempt to escape, you
may remain at large, Señor Fortescue."

"For how long?"

"Two days."

As the escape in the circumstances seemed quite out of the question, I
gave my parole without hesitation, and asked the same favor for my
companion.

"No" (sternly). "I could not believe a rebel Creole on his oath. Take him
away, sergeant, and see that he is well guarded. If you let him escape I
will hang you in his stead."

Despite our bonds Carmen and I contrived to shake hands, or rather, touch
fingers, for it was little more.

"We shall meet again." I whispered. "If I had known that he would not take
your parole I would not have given mine. Let courage be our watchword.
_Hasta mañana!_"

"Pray take a seat, Señor Fortescue, and we will have a talk about old
times in Spain. Allow me to offer you a cigar--I beg your pardon, I was
forgetting that my fellows had tied you up. Captain Guzman (to one of the
loungers), will you kindly loose Mr. Fortescue? _Gracias!_ Now you can
take a cigar, and here is a chair for you."

I was by no means sure that this sudden display of urbanity boded me good,
but being a prisoner, and at Griscelli's mercy, I thought it as well to
humor him, so accepted the cigar and seated myself by his side.

After a talk about the late war in Spain, in the course of which Griscelli
told some wonderful stories of the feats he had performed there (for the
man was egregiously vain) he led the conversation to the present war in
South America, and tried to worm out of me where I had been and what I had
done since my arrival in the country. I answered him courteously and
diplomatically, taking good care to tell him nothing that I did not want
to be known.

"I see," he said, "it was a love of adventure that brought you here--you
English are always running after adventures. A caballero like you can have
no sympathy with these rascally rebels."

"I beg your pardon; I do sympathize with the rebels; not, I confess, as
warmly as I did at first, and if I had known as much as I know now, I
think I should have hesitated to join them."

"How so?"

"They kill prisoners in cold blood, and conduct war more like savages than
Christians."

"You are right, they do. Yes, killing prisoners in cold blood is a brutal
practice! I am obliged to be severe sometimes, much to my regret. But
there is only one way of dealing with a rebellion--you must stamp it out;
civil war is not as other wars. Why not join us, Señor Fortescue? I will
give you a command."

"That is quite out of the question, General Griscelli; I am not a mere
soldier of fortune. I have eaten these people's salt, and though I don't
like some of their ways, I wish well to their cause."

"Think better of it, señor. The alternative might not be agreeable."

"Whatever the alternative may be, my decision is irrevocable. And you said
just now you would let me go."

"Oh, yes, I will let you go, since you insist on it

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