Гастон Леру
The Bride of the Sun
V
Dick was pale, but the Marquis was livid. So they appeared to Natividad; as to Uncle Francis, he had not his glasses on, and noticed nothing disquieting in their appearance.
“Those scoundrels have both my children now,” groaned Don Christobal in answer to Natividad’s eager questions, and told what had happened.
Badly mounted for mountain roads, the Marquis had found great difficulty in following. Several times he had been on the point of abandoning his horse, but, thinking it might be valuable later on, had kept to it. Once or twice he had been obliged to dismount and drag the unwilling beast behind him. At dawn, he reached the Indians’ camp, which he searched in vain for some personal sign of his daughter. She was evidently too well guarded. Finally he found the llama’s body, but being convinced that Dick was with little Christobal, had not worried overmuch. Then, a little further on, he found Dick, but alone.
Dick, powerless to interfere, had seen little Christobal carried off by the same Indians who already held Maria-Teresa. When they started on their wild ride, and as soon as the road became steeper, the llama had rapidly outpaced Dick’s horse. Little Christobal, riding it hard, would not stop, and soon vanished ahead. Two hours later, Dick had lost his horse in a ravine, throwing himself from the saddle only just in time, and narrowly saving his own life by clinging to a projecting rock. He continued his pursuit on foot, and finally came in sight of the boy, just as the llama, exhausted, burst a blood-vessel and fell. He had called to little Christobal, but the boy, unheeding, had run on, crying, “Maria-Teresa! Maria-Teresa!”
They were right on the Indians then, and Dick could see them far above him on the zig-zagging mountain-path. They had checked their horses, waiting for the boy to catch up to them. Then one of the Red Ponchos bent down, lifted him up to his saddle-bow, and hurried on with his new captive. Dick was too far away to open fire, and the Indians had at once spurred on, soon leaving him far behind. The Marquis had come up a short time after.
“You must not despair, Don Christobal,” urged Natividad. “Your news is not all bad. They are only just ahead, and cannot escape us. They must pass through Huancavelica, and there we have troops to help us.”
Natividad ordered one of the soldiers to dismount and give his mule to Dick. The man was indignant, and continued protesting in a weird jargon as he trotted afoot behind the cavalcade. In this manner they reached a point where the road forked, one branch going on up into the hills, the other stretching down toward the coast. They had all turned up the former when the dismounted soldier turned—he would go no further, but would descend to the coast; and once there he would report to the powers the manner in which he had been treated by a mere civilian. Natividad wished him an ironical good-by, and he started, but only to reappear a moment later, waving a soft felt hat in his hand.
“That belongs to Christobal!” exclaimed the Marquis.
They turned their mounts, grateful for the chance-found sign which had saved them from a grievous mistake. Natividad alone hesitated, wondering whether this was not an Indian ruse. They advanced slowly therefore, until the mud and sand on the banks of a torrent just below showed beyond doubt that a large number of mounted men had passed that way and restored Natividad’s serene belief in the ultimate success of their search.
“So they’re doubling back to the costa. They must have been warned that the passes were guarded… all they have gained by the detour is avoiding Chorillos.... Perhaps they are making for Canete.... Well, they must stop somewhere, and then we have them!”
After an hour’s rest, they hurried on again at top speed, one of the soldiers giving his dismounted comrade a lift behind.
“Did you, then, ever think that we might not catch them?” asked Uncle Francis of Natividad, with an enigmatical smile.
“Why not, señor?… Between you and me, it is about time we did catch them.... I for one shall not feel happy if señorita de la Torre and the boy are still in their hands on the last day of the Interaymi.”
“Do you mean that the boy is in danger?”
“Speak lower, señor, speak lower.... Nothing is too young, too beautiful or too innocent for the Sun. Do you understand?”
“More or less. More or less.”
“You people do not know what horrors they are capable of.... They still have their priests.... You might blink at facts if it were only the ordinary Red Ponchos, but there are also those three monsters.... You always find them together in the old burial-grounds.... When one dies, the other two are put to death.... Or when a king died, they sacrificed themselves on his tomb.... They still exist, those monsters, those high-priests of the sacred slaughters.... They exist, señor.”
“Do they?”
“You, señor, are a savant, and know about the Temple of Death. But do you know how many dead were found buried with the mummy of Huayna Capac? Four thousand, señor! Four thousand human lives sacrificed to honor the dead—some by suicide, others strangled, knifed or suffocated.... And the House of the Serpent.... But I prefer not to tell you what happened there.”
“Tell me some other day.... You make an admirable guide. When we return, I will tell the supremo gobierno how grateful I am to them for having made the most erudite of police officers my cicerone.”
“I beg your pardon, señor?”
Natividad, completely taken aback, could only stare at his interlocutor.
“Nothing, nothing! I am only joking!” Scandalized at such levity, Natividad turned away with an indignant snort, while Uncle Francis chuckled. That worthy gentleman had now quite made up his mind that there was a plot afoot against him, and sternly refused to be “taken in.” The joke was rather tiring physically, but he would not cry for mercy. As to all these hair-raising stories, he would take them for what they were worth. Let them play their pranks till they tired of them.
The more he thought of it, the more he became convinced of the truth of his deductions. His antiquarian’s eye rested lovingly on the traces of that long-dead Inca civilization which they met. Here, aqueducts that would have made the Romans wonder; there, remains of the great road which ran from end to end of South America. They were all dead, those Incas. Yet these people wished to make him believe that those vanished warriors and priests had carried off a boy and girl of to-day to offer them as a sacrifice to equally-forgotten gods!
They had now left the arid ranges and dusty wind behind them, and reached a little village nestling in green fields at the foot of the mountain. A babbling stream, tumbling down from the Cordilleras, had transformed this corner into an oasis of verdure, in which Uncle Francis would willingly have passed a few hours. But now that they were in flat country again, Dick, the Marquis and Natividad increased the pace feverishly. Uncle Francis, still determined not to show that he had fathomed their plot, was careful not to protest.
Once or twice, they stopped to ask questions, but it was difficult to obtain information. Hamlets were rare, and the Interaymi festivals had drawn away nearly the whole population. The few Indians they met received their questions with evident suspicion, and even hostility. Nor would money loosen their tongues.
Fortunately, there were half-breeds more ready to talk, and they learned that Huascar and his companions were riding hard. Nobody had seen Red Ponchos; presumably the priests had concealed the ceremonial raiment imposed by their ritual for the reception of the Bride of the Sun. They were traveling so fast that nobody had had time to notice whether they had a captive boy or young woman with them. At the questions on this score all their informants began to grow uneasy, and turned away with evasive sentences.
Huascar and his men had about two hours’ start, but it soon became evident that they were gaining ground steadily. Natividad could not fathom the meaning of the Indians sudden turn toward the sea, this riding into a town where, normally, everything must be against them if the alarm was given.
They reached Canete at nightfall, Dick still leading. There was a big fête on, with torchlight processions and the deafening noise of fireworks set off by delirious roisterers. Half the native population was under the influence of drink, and Natividad, trained to understand the populace, at once saw that the town was in a state of dangerous effervescence.
Of all the towns in Peru, Canete is perhaps the one which shows most markedly that strange admixture of the new and old. Factory chimneys tower to the sky side by side with Inca aqueducts which to this day bring the water of the Rio Canete to the surrounding plantations. Just above the town are still the remains of the huge native fortress demolished some two hundred years ago by the then viceroy of Mañdelova when he needed materials for the defenses of Callao.
Natividad’s first visit was to the corregidor, who told him that the town was celebrating Garcia’s victories. It was now certain that the rebels had captured Cuzco, and routed the Federal forces. Natividad then told him of the plight of the Marquis de la Torre’s children. The Mayor was skeptical, and showed it. Indians committing such a crime, he said, would never have dared pass through a town.
“They could not stop in the Sierra,” said Natividad, “and had to make for somewhere. Perhaps they intend taking boat, and reaching Arequipa by sea. They could get up into the Cuzco that way.”
“That is more than possible,” replied the corregidor, anxious to rid himself of the troublesome visitor. “A troop of strange Indians has, in fact, passed through the town. They bought provisions, and then hurried on to Pisco. They might have a boat ready there.... Personally, I can do nothing for you. I haven’t a single soldier or policeman to dispose of. They have all gone to fight Garcia.”
At this moment, an extraordinary procession passed under the corregidor’s windows. A dancing, singing procession, at the head of which Natividad recognized his four troopers. He opened the window and shouted menaces, but they passed unheeding.
In a sad mood Natividad rejoined his companions. Without any explanation, he told them they must follow to Pisco, and they started again. Natividad, in a brown study meanwhile, would answer no questions.
Don Christobal, hearing that the Indians were making for Pisco, grew hopeful. He was known in the town, having a branch business there, with big guano dépôts, stores in the harbor, and a considerable coolie station on the Chincha Islands, which are just off the town. There he could speak with authority, and make the corregidor listen.
They reached Pisco dog-tired, on mounts that could hardly stand. Uncle Francis alone displayed a calm and unconcern which would have convinced the others he was mad, had they had time to notice him. The news of Garcia’s victory had just reached Pisco, and the mob was even more delirious than that of Canete.
The Marquis, taking the leadership, led the way to his dépôt and stores, only to find them completely deserted. There was not a single employee there to answer his questions.
“To the corregidor’s, then,” he ordered.
The four travelers had entered the main and only street of the town, and were riding toward the sandy central square when a thundering feu de joie made them pull up. The Indians were burning the sacred maize-leaf in honor of Garcia, to the grave danger of the little blue-and-white houses around. The inhabitants of these, well-to-do half-breeds, had locked themselves in, or taken to flight.
The madness of alcohol and the madness of fire crackers had taken firm hold of all that was visible of the population. The mob had pillaged a pisco distillery, and was enjoying itself thoroughly with that virulent spirit, which is made from a kind of Malaga grape, and takes its name from the town.
Natividad, casting round for a guide, found a half-breed sadly huddled under a doorway. He doubtless was one of those who had something to lose by the rioting; a house to be burned, or a cellar to be plundered.
“Follow me,” he said, when asked where the corregidor could be found.
He led them along a plank pavement which was just beginning to burn, until they reached the corner of the arena, opposite the church. Four skinny palms adorned the center of the square, and at the foot of one of these a mob was dancing round a fire. Above, something was hanging from a branch. The half-breed pointed to that thing.
“There is the corregidor,” he said.
Natividad, Dick and the Marquis stopped short, mute with horror. The half-breed whispered a few rapid words to Natividad, who turned to run.
“Come on! Come on!” he almost screamed.
“Why this hurry?” demanded Uncle Francis, phlegmatically.
“Why? Why?… Because they are going to eat him!”
“Not really?” drawled the scientist with mediocre interest. “Right away?”
But Natividad did not notice his tone. He was really running away, for he had not forgotten a scene in Lima, when the Guttierg brothers were torn from the presidency they had usurped by the same mob which had placed them there. Massacred, then hanged over the cathedral gates, they were finally roasted and devoured by the populace.
So fast did Natividad flee, that Dick and the Marquis could hardly keep up with him. Uncle Francis, bringing up the rear, was muttering to himself:
“Damn nonsense, sir, damn nonsense. They’re not going to frighten me.”
BOOK IV—THE DICTATOR
I
Arequipa was en fête; the entire population of the city and its campina (suburbs) was packed in the main square and the adjacent streets to witness the triumphal return of the victor of the Cuzco—brave General Garcia, who had already been christened “the good Dictator,” and who had promised his partizans that within a fortnight he would sweep out of the country President Veintemilla, the two Chambers, and the whole parliamentary system which, he declared, had ruined Peru.
This was language the Arequipinos loved and understood. Politics had always flourished in that part of the country, and all revolutions began there. And the turbulent inhabitants of Arequipa felt that it was a terribly long time since they had had a “savior” to cheer.
Now they had one; a particularly picturesque one, who was to appear on horseback. So they had all donned their Sunday clothes, and the women had flowers in their hair and more flowers in their arms to scatter before the hero.
The Indian population, having sold its hens and vegetables in the market-place, joined the throng.
The square, for the occasion, seemed to have straightened out its tumble-down arcades, badly shaken by the last earthquake. The illusion was aided by brilliant-hued carpets, flags, banners and festoons which blazed in all directions and gave new life to the dilapidated walls. The cracked old towers of the church, the carved wooden balconies, flower-adorned galleries, and decorated windows were black with people. Above the city rose the Misti, one of the world’s highest volcanoes, wearing a fresh cap, glistening with the snows of the night.
Bells chimed and cannons roared out. Then came silence, broken again by the sound of bugles and the roar of a thousand voices. The procession of the troops had begun. Contrary to European custom, it commenced with all the impedimenta of the camp. It was like a rout:—Indians leading mules loaded down with baggage, provisions, and kitchen utensils; then a regiment of women bent under the weight of knapsacks, babies, and sacks of food.
The crowd cheered everything wildly, from the llamas loaded with captured Federal arms to the women, the rabonas, as they are called out there. These rabonas are a precious institution from the point of view of the Peruvian soldier; each man has his own, and she carries his baggage, buys all his food, and prepares his meals.
Then came the troops, Garcia, leading. Mounted on a splendid horse, wearing a brilliant uniform, he appeared like a star of the first magnitude in the constellation of his staff. A tall man, he showed head and shoulders above the generals and colonels prancing around him. His tri-color plumes waved splendidly in the wind, and the deafening rant of bugles accompanied him. Handsome, radiant, happy was he, nonchalantly curling his black mustache and smiling on all with brilliant white teeth.
Garcia smiled to the ladies as he passed under their balconies, and the ladies, showering down rose-leaves over horse and rider, called him by his Christian name, Pedro. In this triumphal fashion, he slowly rode round the square twice, and then came to a halt in the middle of it, between two guns, his staff behind him and, before him, two Indians bearing a standard, a quaint patch-work quilt of a flag, which was the token of submission of all the tribes to the new government. These men wore hats covered with variegated plumes, and had over their shoulders surplice-like tunics.
Five hundred infantrymen and two hundred horse had formed round the square. Young girls, clad in floating tunics and wearing Garcia’s colors, advanced toward the general, their hands heavy with floral crowns. One of them made a little speech, while Garcia continued curling his mustache and showing his teeth. The speech over, he gallantly bent down and took all the crowns, passing them over his arm. Then he lifted a hand to command silence.
“Long live Liberty!” he shouted. A hurricane of cheers arose. Again he lifted up the crown-charged arm, and again there was silence.
He told them the program of the new Government meant “Liberty for all, except for evil-doers! With such a program, is there any need for parliaments?”
“No! No! No!” roared the crowd deliriously. “Long live Garcia! Death to, Veintemilla! Muera! Muera! Muera el larron de salitre! (Death to the saltpetre thief! ),” for Veintemilla was popularly supposed to have largely profited by some recent concessions.
Garcia was an orator, and, wishing to show it once again, told in a few words the history of the campaign that had ended in the rout of the “saltpetre thieves” on the Cuzco plains. To be seen and heard by all, he stood erect in his stirrups.
Then an incredible thing happened. The powers above actually dared spoil this splendid fête—it began to rain! There was a general rush for shelter in the crowd. Even the infantrymen lining the square broke their ranks, while the cavalrymen dismounted, took off their saddles and loaded them on their heads in guise of umbrellas. As to those soldierly ladies, the rabonas, they calmly threw their bell-shaped petticoats over their heads.
Garcia alone did not move. Furious at this spoiling of his triumph, he threatened his officers with immediate death if they dared leave his side. He did not even fall back into his saddle, but stood erect there, his crown-charged arm menacing the heavens.
Then the Chief of Staff approached the Dictator, saluted thrice, and said:
“Excellency, it is not the fault of the sky. The sky would not have dared! The roar of your guns compelled the clouds, Excellency.”
“You are right,” replied Garcia. “And since the guns did the harm, let them repair it.”
With which, a battery was rolled out into the square, and opened fire on the clouds. They thundered on until the short tropical storm had passed. Then Garcia, triumphant, shouted: “I have had the last word with the heavens!” The review was over.
II
Watching the proceedings from a window at the “Jockey Club Hotel” were the Marquis de la Torre and Natividad, both wild with impatience, for their only hope now lay in Garcia.
At Pisco, they had ended by discovering that the Bride of the Sun’s escort had embarked in the very steam-tug used to tow the Marquis’ own barges from the Chincha Islands to Callao. This once again proved that the scheme had been well thought out and prepared long in advance, the Indians about Maria-Teresa being in the plot.
Securing a boat in their turn, the pursuers followed to Mollendo. There they took the train, and reached Arequipa only a few hours after the Red Ponchos—Uncle Francis still supernaturally calm, and Natividad beginning to despair of everything.
Chance favored them when they landed in this city of mad people, who would not even trouble to answer questions. Dick recognized Huascar strolling through the streets, and tracked him to the house where Maria-Teresa and her brother were kept prisoners. This was a low adobe building on the edge of the suburbs, and quite close to the Rio de Chili. It was openly guarded by a dozen armed Indians in red ponchos. Dick and the Marquis soon found, however, that they could not even get as near as that line of guards. Fifty yards away from the house, Civil Guards stopped them, and ordered them back. Garcia’s own troops were guarding the Virgin of the Sun!
“Of course, Garcia cannot know,” said the Marquis. “I know him, and though he has faults, he is not a savage. He once wanted to marry Maria-Teresa. Let us go and find him.”
But Dick refused to lose sight of the adobe house. Had they listened to him, they would have forced their way to it at once. It was only after long arguing that Natividad convinced him such a step would be absurd. Lives are cheap during revolutions, and two or three corpses more or less in the Rio de Chili would not make it overflow its banks. Nor would they contribute greatly to the freeing of Maria-Teresa and little Christobal.
He promised to be reasonable, but would not go with them when they returned to the inn for a meal; instead, he took up his post in a boat on the river, and thence watched his fiancée’s prison and the armed men walking up and down before.
The Marquis and Natividad therefore, witnessed Garcia’s triumph alone. Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in the crowd somewhere, taking notes.
Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.
“I never thought he was that kind of man,” he commented, “though I always suspected he had negro blood in his veins.”
“Drunk with success,” replied Natividad drily.
After the review, they followed the Dictator and his staff only to find their way barred by troops at the road leading down to the headquarters. Here the Marquis ordered the men out of the way with such insolence, and spoke with such assurance of “his friend Garcia,” that he was allowed to pass, Natividad clinging to his sleeve.
The subaltern in command at the guard-room took the Marquis’ card, and a moment later they were ushered upstairs. There were soldiers everywhere, some of them fast asleep on the staircase, their guns between their knees, so that the visitors had to pick their way upstairs over prostrate bodies.
Finally, their guide pushed open a door and ushered them into a bedroom, where Garcia was presiding over a meeting of the Cabinet he had appointed the previous day. Some of these high functionaries were seated on the Dictator’s bed, others on the table, and one on a bundle of soiled linen.
They were received more than courteously. Garcia, who was in his shirt-sleeves, and shaving, ran toward the Marquis with both hands outstretched, scattering white flakes from his shaving-brush as he came.
“Forgive me, señor,” he said. “Antique simplicity! Antique simplicity!… I receive you as I would a friend… for I trust you come as a friend, as a friend of the new Government. Let me introduce you.”
He began with the Minister of War, who was astride the bolster, and finished up with the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs, a hideous half-breed chewing cocoa-nut leaves.
“No fuss, you see,” babbled on Garcia. “Antique simplicity. Cato, and all that sort of thing.... Nothing like antiquity, sir, to make men.... The good padres taught us that, and I took the lesson to heart.” He laughed. “All that show is for outside… the crowds like it. You must amuse the crowd!… Did you see my review? Splendid, wasn’t it?… Magnificent soldiers.... And the rain., Did you see what I did? Effective, eh?”
Daring all this verbiage, Garcia was thinking hard, and watching the new-comers’ faces. He was far from being a fool. Were they, or were they not, ambassadors from Veintemilla? Would he accept a compromise, if they came to offer it? In a moment his mind was made up; he would refuse, and risk everything on the result of this rising, his large fortune and his life included.
At last the Marquis was able to speak.
“I have come to ask the assistance of the master of Peru.”
At these words the Dictator, who was washing the soap from his face, looked up in surprise over a towel. He knew that the Marquis was a personal friend of Veintemilla. Natividad looked away uneasily, for he was compromising himself horribly.
“The master of Peru,” repeated the Marquis, “whose motto is ‘Liberty for all.’ I want him to restore to me my two children, who have been stolen.”
“Stolen! What do you mean, señor? Those who have done this thing shall be punished. I swear it by my ancestor, Pedro de la Vega, who gave his life for the True Faith, and was killed by the infidels in the year of grace 1537 at the Battle of Xauxa, in which he received seventeen wounds while fighting at the side of the illustrious Christobal de la Torre!”
The Marquis had always said that Garcia was in no way descended from Pedro de la Vega, and Garcia knew it.
“Those same infidels have now carried off my daughter, Excellency.”
“The beautiful señorita! But what do you mean by infidels? What infidels?”
“She has been kidnaped from Callao by the Quichuas… as a sacrifice to their gods during the Interaymi.”
“Sacrifice!… Interaymi… but that cannot be, señor.”
“I am sure of what I say, Excellency, and she has certainly been carried off. Let me introduce señor Perez, the inspector superior of the police of Callao. Like myself, he is devoted to your cause. He will tell you the same thing. Speak, Natividad.”
Horrified at the form of the Marquis’ introduction, Natividad stammered a corroboration. If Garcia did not win now, all that was left for him to do was to cross the Bolivian frontier.
The change in Garcia’s manner was immediate. He did not want trouble with the Quichuas, his partisans and allies.
“But I can do nothing for you, señor. All this happened in Callao. Veintemilla is still master there, and you must go to him.”
“They are now in this very city, imprisoned in a house which is guarded by your own troops.”
“That is not possible. I should have known it. But if by some extraordinary fact this is so, you have not done wrong in coming to me.”
“I knew I would not appeal to you in vain. As long as I live, I shall not forget this service. I have friends in Lima, señor! And this gentleman also,” he pointed to Natividad. “The police of Callao is yours.... Only accompany us to the gates of the city, and set my children free, and my life and my fortune are yours.”
“I am afraid I cannot come myself, for I am expecting the British Consul. But I will send my Minister for War with you. You will find him just as useful.” Garcia turned and whistled for the dignitary in question, who seemed in no hurry to move. “Go and see what is happening,” he ordered, “and let me know.... I believe you are in error, gentlemen, but I will do what I can for you.”
Don Christobal and Natividad went out, followed by the Minister, whose enormous spurs made the hall and staircase echo. Garcia closed the door.
“I wonder what it all means,” he mused aloud, evidently much put out. “Ten to one, Oviedo Runtu is in it. If he really has carried off señorita de la Torre, the outlook for us at Lima is bad.”
The door opened, and an officer announced the British Consul. This official was a big tradesman of the town, who had secured the commissariat contracts to Garcia’s army by promising him the support of Great Britain.
Garcia began to speak of his soldiers, and the consul put in that the worth of an army resided more in the general who commanded it than in the men themselves. His compliment provoked a self-satisfied bow from Garcia, but he made the mistake of trying to improve it, and added:
“For, between you and me, Excellency, those troops of yours are not worth much, and if you had not been there to…”
“Not worth much! What the devil do you mean! Do you know what kind of fighting they have been doing in the mountains? Not worth much, indeed! Did you see a single laggard…”
“No, but the guard are all sound asleep now.”
“Asleep!” Garcia swore, and ran to the door.
