Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 1210
“To git help, an’ tell de noos about de mischif what’s a-brewin’,” said the negro abruptly, with a pointed stare at the guide, and an arrested potato on the end of his fork.
“You’ve learnt your lesson well, Quashy,” returned Pedro, with a good-humoured smile, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of meat; “these are the very words — to obtain help and spread the news about the mischief that’s brewing. Pass the salt, like a good fellow, and help Manuela to some more maize. You’re forgetting your manners, boy.”
The negro heaved a sigh of discomfiture, and did as he was bid.
Next morning at daybreak they left the cottage, and descended the intricate valley which led to it. Pedro seemed to have quite subdued his feelings — at least all outward manifestation of them — for he was sterner and more silent than usual as they resumed their journey. For some distance their route and that of Ignacio lay in the same direction, but towards the afternoon of the same day on which they left Mariquita Cottage the old hunter bade the party adieu, and, accompanied by his Gaucho lad and his dogs, entered a north-easterly defile of the hills, and disappeared.
“We shall soon get to more cultivated lands, Manuela,” said Pedro, in the Indian tongue, glancing back at Lawrence, who rode a few paces behind. “I doubt not you will be glad to see female faces again.”
To the surprise of the guide, Manuela said that she did not care!
“Indeed!” he rejoined; “I thought you would be getting tired by this time of such rough travelling, and frequent hard lodging and fare, as well as of the conversation of us men.”
“No, I am not tired. I delight in this wild, free life.”
“Surely not because it is new to you,” said Pedro, with a glance of amusement; “when you dwell with your kindred, your life must be wild enough — unless indeed the great chief, your father, deems it beneath the dignity of his daughter to join in the sports of her fellows.”
Manuela made no reply, but for a moment or two gave vent to that clear, short, merry laugh in which she sometimes indulged. Lawrence Armstrong, irresistibly charmed by the sound, rode up alongside.
“Manuela is merry,” he said to the guide; “will you not translate, that I may enjoy the joke?”
“It is not easy to translate,” replied Pedro. “In fact, I doubt if you will see the joke at all. It requires a little knowledge of Manuela’s past career to make understanding possible. She only said that she delighted in this wild, free life.”
“Not much jest in that, truly,” returned Lawrence, “being, I fear, dull of comprehension; nevertheless, I see an unintentional compliment to us in the remark, for it implies that we have not made Manuela’s journey tedious to her.”
“It may be so,” said Pedro, simply. “I was just telling her that we shall soon get to more inhabited parts of the land, where she will have a little female society now and then, and I was about to add that afterwards we shall descend into the lower grounds of Bolivia, where she will have wild life enough to her heart’s content — perchance too much of it.”
Soon afterwards the guide’s prophecy came true, for they passed from the rugged mountains into a wide and richly clothed table-land, where there were a few scattered farms, at which they were made heartily welcome whenever they chose to stop for the night or for a meal.
Passing thence into another range of comparatively low hills, they reached the town of San Ambrosio, where they found comfortable quarters in a new and commodious inn — at least it seemed commodious, after the recent experiences of our travellers.
Here Pedro said he would have to spend a day or two, as he had business to transact in the town, and that he would search out an old acquaintance with whose family he would place Manuela till their departure.
While Pedro was gone in quest of his friend, the Indian girl, probably feeling shy in the midst of such unwonted crowds, retired to the room provided for her, and Lawrence and Quashy found themselves left in the unusual condition of having nothing to do. Of course, in these circumstances, they resolved to go out and see the town.
While Lawrence was questioning the landlord, an American, as to how he should proceed, a very decided tremor passed through his frame. Quashy seemed to experience a similar sensation, for he said abruptly —
“Eart’quak’!”
“That’s nothing new here, sir,” said the landlord to Lawrence, as he lighted a cigarette; “we’re used to it, though some of the natives ain’t quite easy in their minds, for the shocks have been both frequent as well as violent lately.”
“Have they done any damage?” asked Lawrence.
“Nothin’ to speak of. Only shook down a house or two that was built to sell, I suppose, not to stand. You’ll find the market-place second turn to your left.”
Somewhat impressed by the landlord’s free-and-easy manner, as well as by his apparent contempt for earthquakes, the master and man went out together. With characteristic modesty the negro attempted to walk behind, but Lawrence would by no means permit this. He insisted on his walking beside him.
“Bery good, massa,” said Quashy, at last giving in, “if you will walk ‘longside ob a nigger, ‘s’not my fault. Don’t blame me.”
With this protest, solemnly uttered, the faithful negro accompanied our hero in his inspection of the town.
Chapter Nine.
Tells of a Tremendous Catastrophe.
San Ambrosio was, at the period of which we write, a small and thriving place — though what may be styled a mushroom town, which owed its prosperity to recently discovered silver-mines. All things considered, it was a town of unusual magnificence on a small scale.
Being built with straight streets, cutting each other at right angles, Lawrence and his man had no difficulty in finding the principal square, or market-place, which was crowded with people selling and buying vegetables, milk, eggs, fruit, etcetera, brought in from the surrounding districts. The people presented all the picturesque characteristics of the land in profusion — peons, with huge Spanish spurs, mounted on gaily caparisoned mules; Gauchos, on active horses of the Pampas; market-women, in varied costumes more or less becoming, and dark-eyed senhoras on balconies and verandas sporting the graceful mantilla and the indispensable fan.
The carts and donkeys, and dogs and fowls, and boys had the curious effect of reducing the babel of voices and discordant sounds to something like a grand harmony.
Besides these, there was a sprinkling of men of free-and-easy swagger, in long boots, with more or less of villainy in their faces — adventurers these, attracted by the hope of “something turning up” to their advantage, though afflicted, most of them, with an intense objection to take the trouble of turning up anything for themselves. Dangerous fellows, too, who would not scruple to appropriate the turnings up of other people when safe opportunity offered.
A clear fountain played in the centre of the square — its cool, refreshing splash sounding very sweet in the ears of Lawrence, whose recent sojourn in the cold regions of the higher Andes had rendered him sensitive to the oppressive heat of the town. Besides this, a clear rivulet ran along one side of the square, near to which was the governor’s house. A line of trees threw a grateful shade over the footpath here. On the opposite side stood the barracks, where a few ill-clad unsoldierly men lounged about with muskets in their hands. All the houses and church walls and spires, not only in the square, but in the town, bore evidence, in the form of cracked walls and twisted windows and doorways, of the prevalence of earthquakes; and there was a general appearance of dilapidation and dirt around, which was anything but agreeable to men who had just come from the free, grand, sweet-scented scenery of the mountains.
“They seem to have had some severe shakings here,” said Lawrence, pointing with his stick to a crack in the side of one of the houses which extended from the roof to the ground.
We may remark here that, on entering the town, our travellers had laid aside their arms as being useless encumbrances, though Lawrence still carried his oaken cudgel, not as a weapon but a walking-stick.
“Yes, massa,” replied Quashy, “got lots ob eart’ quaks in dem diggins. Ebery day, more or less, dey hab a few. Jest afore you come down dis mornin’ I hab some conv’sashin’ wid de landlord, an’ he say he don’ like de look ob t’ings.”
“Indeed, Quashy. Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s gittin’ too hot, he say, for de time ob year — sulfry, he called it.”
“Sultry, you mean?”
“Well, I’s not ‘zactly sure what I means, but he said sulfry. An’ dey’ve bin shook more dan ornar ob late. An’ dere’s a scienskrific gen’leman in our inn what’s bin a-profisyin’ as there’ll be a grand bust-up afore long.”
“I hope he’ll turn out to be a false prophet,” said Lawrence. “What is his name?”
“Dun’ know, massa. Look dar!” exclaimed Quashy, with a grin, pointing to a fat priest with a broad-brimmed white hat on a sleek mule, “he do look comf’rable.”
“More comfortable than the poor beast behind him,” returned Lawrence, with a laugh, as he observed three little children cantering along on one horse.
There was no lack of entertainment and variety in that town, for people generally seemed to a great extent to have cast off the trammels of social etiquette, both in habits and costume. Many of the horses that passed were made to carry double. Here would ride past a man with a woman behind him; there a couple of girls, or two elderly females. Elsewhere appeared a priest of tremendous length and thinness, with feet much too near the ground, and further on a boy, so small as to resemble a monkey, with behind him a woman so old as to suggest the idea he had taken his great-grandmother out for a ride, or — vice versa!
For some hours master and man wandered about enjoying themselves thoroughly in spite of the heat, commenting freely on all they saw and heard, until hunger reminded them of the flight of time. Returning to their hotel, Lawrence, to his surprise, found a note awaiting him. It was from Pedro, saying that he had found his friend in a village about three miles from San Ambrosio, describing the route to the place, and asking him to send Quashy out immediately, as he wanted his assistance that night for a few hours.
“I wonder what he wants with you?” said Lawrence.
“To help him wid de mischif!” replied the negro, in a half-sulky tone.
“Well, you’ll have to go, but you’d better eat something first.”
“No, massa; wid you’s leave I’ll go off at once. A hunk ob bread in de pocket an’ lots o’ fruit by de way — das ‘nuff for dis nigger.”
“Off with you, then, and tell Pedro that you left Manuela and me quite comfortable.”
“O Massa Lawrie!— ‘scuse me usin’ de ole name — it am so nice to hear you speak jolly like dat. ‘Minds me ob de ole times!”
“Get along with you,” said Lawrence, with a laugh, as the warm-hearted black left the hotel.
Thus these two parted. Little did they imagine what singular experiences they should encounter before meeting again.
Soon after Quashy’s departure Lawrence went to the door of Manuela’s room, and, tapping gently, said —
“Dinner is ready, Manuela.”
“I kom queek,” replied the girl, with a hearty laugh.
It had by that time become an established little touch of pleasantry between these two that Lawrence should teach the Indian girl English — at least to the extent of familiar phrases — while she should do the same for him with Spanish. There was one thing that the youth liked much in this, and it also surprised him a little, namely, that it seemed to draw the girl out of her Indian reticence and gravity, for she laughed with childlike delight at the amazing blunders she made in attempting English. Indeed, she laughed far more at herself than at him, although his attempts at Spanish were even more ridiculous.
A few minutes later Manuela entered the room, and, with a modest yet gracious smile, took a seat opposite her pupil-teacher.
“Dignity,” thought the latter— “native dignity and grace! Being the daughter of a great chief of the Incas — a princess, I suppose — she cannot help it. An ordinary Indian female, now, would have come into the room clumsily, looked sheepish, and sat down on the edge of her chair — perhaps on the floor!”
But as he gazed at her short, black, curly hair, her splendid black eyebrows, her pretty little high-bred mouth, beautiful white teeth, and horribly brown skin, he sighed, and only said —
“Ay, ay! Well, well! What a pity!”
“What ees dat?” inquired the girl, with a look of grave simplicity.
“Did I speak?” returned Lawrence, a little confused.
“Yes — you say, ‘Ay, ay. Well, well. What a pittie!’”
“Oh! — ah! — yes — I was only thinking, Manuela. What will you have?”
“Som muttin,” replied the girl, with a pursing of the little mouth that indicated a tendency to laugh.
“It is not mutton. It’s beef, I think.”
“Well, bee-eef very naice — an’ som’ gravvie too, plee-ese.”
She went off at this point into a rippling laugh, which, being infectious in its nature, also set her companion off, but the entrance of the landlord checked them both. He sat down at a small table near to them, and, being joined by a friend, called for a bottle of wine.
“Hotter than ever,” he remarked to Lawrence.
“Yes, very sultry indeed.”
“Shouldn’t wonder if we was to have a sharpish touch or two to-night.”
To which his friend, who was also an American if not an Englishman, and appeared to be sceptical in his nature, replied, “Gammon!”
This led to a conversation between the two which is not worthy of record, as it was chiefly speculative in regard to earthquakes in general, and tailed off into guesses as to social convulsions present, past or pending. One remark they made, however, which attracted the attention of our hero, and made him wish to hear more. It had reference to some desperate character whose name he failed to catch, but who was said to be in the neighbourhood again, “trying to raise men to join his band of robbers,” the landlord supposed, to which the landlord’s friend replied with emphasis that he had come to the right place, for, as far as his experience went, San Ambrosio was swarming with men that seemed fit for anything — from “pitch-and-toss to manslaughter.”
Not wishing, apparently, to hear anything more about such disagreeable characters and subjects, Manuela rose at the conclusion of the meal and retired to her apartment, while Lawrence continued to sip his coffee in a balcony which overlooked the vineyard behind the hotel.
It was evening, and, although unusually warm, the weather was very enjoyable, for a profound calm reigned around, and the hum of the multitudes in the distant square seemed hushed as the church bells rang the hour for evening prayers. As the twilight deepened, and the stars came faintly into sight in the dark-blue vault above, the thoughts of Lawrence became strangely saddened, and, gradually quitting the scene of peaceful beauty on which he gazed, sped over the Cordillera of the Andes to that home of his boyhood which now lay in ashes. The frame of mind thus induced naturally led him to dwell on past scenes in which his mother had taken a part, and he was still meditating, more than half asleep, on the joys which were never to return, when he was roused into sudden and thorough consciousness by something — he could not tell what — a sort of sensation — which caused him to leap from his chair.
At the same moment there arose from the streets a cry, or wail. Suddenly a rumbling noise was heard. Lawrence bounded towards the nearest door. Full well he knew what it meant. Before he could escape there was a tremendous upheaval of the solid earth, and in one instant, without further warning, the entire town fell with one mighty crash! Lawrence just saw the walls and roof collapsing — then all was dark, and consciousness forsook him.
Chapter Ten.
Recounts some Terrible and some Vigorous Deeds.
How long our hero lay in this state he could not tell, but on recovering his faculties he became conscious of the fact that he was in total darkness, lying on his back, with a tremendous weight pressing on his chest. For a few moments he remained still, quite unable to recollect what had occurred, or where he was.
Suddenly memory resumed its office — the earthquake! the fall of the hotel! — and, with a gush of horror, he realised the terrible truth that he was buried alive.
The reader must have been in the position we describe to understand fully the feelings of the poor youth at that moment. His first impulse was to make a violent effort to shake off the intolerable weight that almost suffocated him; but his efforts, strong though he was, proved in vain. It felt as if a mountain held him down. Then the thought of Manuela rushed in upon him, and he uttered a loud cry. The sound of his voice in the confined space was terrible. It seemed to rush in upon his brain with awful din. In his agony, a feeling of frantic despair came over him, and, with the strength of a giant, he struggled to be free, but still without success. Exhausted as much by his horror as by his efforts, he lay for some minutes quite still, his brain keenly alive and thirsting, as it were, for some sound that might convey hope. No sound was to be heard, save the intense beating of his own pulsations which seemed to throb into his ears, and down into his very extremities.
As he lay listening, it came strangely into his thoughts, with something like a feeling of regret, that it would be very hard for him to die! So much strong life as he possessed must, he thought, take long to destroy! But again, the memory of poor Manuela, perhaps in a similar condition, and certainly not far from him, banished the thoughts of self, and he listened once more intently.
All was still as the grave. The effort at self-control, however, calmed him a little, and, in a gentler mood, he tried to move his arms. The left arm was fixed as in a vice, and gave him so much pain, that he feared it had been broken. The right arm was also fast, but he felt that he could move his hand.
