The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America, R. M. Ballantyne [world of reading .txt] 📗

There can be no doubt, however, that the desire of Lawrence to join in such a praiseworthy adventure was not a little stimulated by the fact that Manuela was to accompany her father, at least a part of the way, and he naturally hoped to have some opportunities of speaking to her—perhaps of riding beside her, as he had so often done when he imagined her to be a daughter of the Incas.

But alas! the course of his love being true and deep—remarkably deep—was doomed to run in its proverbially rugged course.

Colonel Marchbanks, when leading his men to “glory”—or otherwise—like a true soldier, as he was, invariably moved with an advance and rear-guard. Like a cautious father, he placed Lawrence in the rear-guard, and arranged that there should be a considerable distance between it and the main body.

We may remark in passing that when the first burst of the old gentleman’s anger with Lawrence was over he had generously resolved, in consideration of what the young man had done for his daughter, to make no further allusion to the ballroom scene, but merely to hold the presumptuous youth politely at arm’s-length, and take especial care that the two young people should not again have an opportunity of meeting alone. He laid no command on either of them, but simply trusted to his own wisdom and watchfulness.

Being as it were a freelance, Lawrence, he knew, would naturally ride in the force very much where he pleased. He had therefore cleverly provided against the evil consequences that might flow from such freedom by making a little arrangement at a brief and final interview the evening before they set out.

“Now, young senhor,” he said, in his usual abrupt way, “although a volunteer in this expedition, and not versed in military matters, you must of course put yourself under my orders, and consider yourself one of my troopers.”

Oh! of course, of course, Lawrence had not the slightest objection to do so. He was quite ready to do whatever was required of him, if only he might assist in the rescue of hapless captives; and although he knew nothing of military matters, still, in the event of an engagement, he might prove himself useful as a surgeon.

“Humph! We don’t deal much in surgeons in this country. It is usually do or die with us,” replied the colonel, with a grim smile. “However, we shall see. Meanwhile, I have appointed you to the charge of some of the baggage-mules. Your late experience must have made you somewhat expert in such matters, and your duty will be with the rear-guard. One of my officers will show you your position in the morning. Good-night.”

Lawrence left with a quiet “Good-night, colonel,” and with a very unquiet feeling that somehow things might not turn out precisely as he had hoped.

Later that night Manuela appeared before her stern father dressed in the old familiar costume of an Indian girl, and with her fair skin stained dark brown. Usually the old soldier met his child with a beaming smile, that lit up his rugged visage with tenderness, as a gleam of sunshine sometimes illumines the rugged peaks of the Andes, but on this occasion he received her with a frown compounded of love and annoyance.

“How now, child? This is an unseasonable time for such foolery.”

“I want to travel in my old dress, father,” she replied, with a winning smile that almost tore the old man’s heart in twain;—and there are such smiles, reader, let us assure you, though you may not have had the good fortune to see them yet!

“You certainly shall do nothing of the sort, my dear,” returned the stern old man, as if he were laying down one of the Medo-Persic laws—for he was very tough, you know, and had great power of control over his feelings, especially the softer ones.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t like it!” said the Inca princess, with a little look of humble disappointment which was infinitely more heartrending than the smile; “but do you know, father, I have ridden so long in this costume, and in the gentleman fashion, that I feel quite sure—at least, I think—I should be utterly knocked up the first day if I were to begin a long hard journey in the ladies’ position. Then, you know, I could not dare to ride so in ordinary female dress and with a white face; the thing would look ridiculous—wouldn’t it? And, of course, everybody knows that Pedro arrived here with an Indian girl in his band, so the thing will seem quite natural, and nobody will notice me, especially if I keep near to Pedro; and the soldiers will just think—if they think at all—that you have left your daughter behind.”

“Ah, well, that alters the case, Manuela,” said the colonel, with most un-Medo-Persic hesitancy, and still frowning a little at his ink-bottle—not at his daughter. “Of course, if it had been merely one of your whims, nothing would have induced me to let you go in such guise, but there is truth in what you say, and—yes—a good thought, you shall travel near Pedro. Good-night. Go to bed, love. You will need all the rest you can obtain between now and morning.”

“Good-night, darling father. I would kiss you if I had not just put on the stain.”

She retired, and soon after laid her pretty brown cheek on her pillow in placid contentment, while her grim father arranged his war plans so that Pedro should travel with the advance-guard.

There was a soft, fresh, exhilarating breeze blowing from the Pampas as the troop issued from the little town at a gallop, when the first streak of dawn became visible.

There was order, doubtless, in all the arrangements, but all seemed utter confusion to Lawrence as he assisted the young officer under whose special command he was placed to look after the mules. Some faint evidence of order, however, began to reveal itself to his uneducated mind when he observed that the confusion abated on the main body moving off and leaving him with a small band behind. His perception of order might have been still further though unpleasantly increased had he known that the advance-guard, with Manuela in its train, had started a considerable time previously. But he had not much time to think, for the command was almost immediately given to mount and ride.

Quashy was beside him, for, being his servant, Colonel Marchbanks had said he might do with him as he pleased. But Quashy was silent, for his spirit was chafed. His master observed the fact after the first half-hour’s gallop.

“What ails you, Quash?”

“I can’t abide peepil,” growled the negro, “what says ‘aw!’”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Aw’s agwine wid us.”

“What—the sportsman—eh?”

“Yes, massa. On’y I don’t b’lieve he ever sported nuffin but a swagger, and—and—‘aw!’ W’en I git up dis mornin’ I heerd ’im say to his friend: ‘I say, Jack, wouldn’t it—aw—be dooced good fun to go and—aw—hab a slap at de Injins?’ If de Injins send a spear troo his libber—aw—he’ll not t’ink it sitch fun!”

“That’s true, Quash, but the same may be said of ourselves.”

“Not so, massa, ’cause we nebber said it would be ‘dooced good fun.’”

“There’s something in that, Quash, but you shouldn’t let feelings of ill-will to any one get the mastery of you. Men of his stamp are often very good fellows at bottom, though they do ‘aw’ in a most ridiculous and unaccountable manner. Besides, he has done you no harm.”

“Done me no harm!” repeated the negro, indignantly, “didn’t he say you was mad or drunk?”

“Well, well,” said Lawrence, laughing, “that was a very innocent remark. It did no harm to either of us.”

“You’s wrong, massa,” returned Quashy in a magnificently hurt tone. “It dood no harm to you, but it hurt my feelin’s, an’ dat’s wuss dan hurtin’ my body.”

At this point in the conversation the troop passed over the brow of an eminence, and beheld the wide rolling sea of the illimitable South American Pampas, or plains, stretching away on all sides to the horizon. During the whole morning they had been galloping through the region of the Monte, or bush, that border-land which connects the treeless plains with the tropical forests of the north, where thorny shrubs covered the ground in more or less dense patches, where groves of the algaroba—a noble tree of the mimosa species,—and trees laden with a peach-like but poisonous fruit, as well as other trees and shrubs, diversified the landscape, and where the ground was carpeted with beautiful flowering plants, among which were the variegated blossoms of verbena, polyanthus, and others.

But now, all was changed. It seemed as if the party had reached the shores of a great, level, grassy sea, with only here and there a seeming islet, where a thicket grew, to break the sky-line of the horizon. For a few minutes the rear-guard drew up to collect the straggling baggage-mules, and then away they went with a wild shout, as if they were moved by the same glad feeling of freedom that affects the petrel when it swoops over the billows of the mighty ocean.

The scene and the sensations were absolutely new to Lawrence and Quashy. Both were mounted on very good horses, which seemed to sympathise with their riders, for they required no spur to urge them over the grassy plain. The sun was bright, and Lawrence had been too long accustomed to the leaden skies of old England to quarrel with the sunshine, however hot it might be; besides, he rather enjoyed heat, and as for Quashy, heat was his native element. A pleasant air was blowing, too. In short, everything looked beautiful, especially to our hero, who knew—at least supposed—that a certain princess of the Incas was in the band immediately in front of him. He was not aware, you see, that she was with the advance-guard!

“Das am mug-nifercent!” exclaimed Quashy, as his horse put his foot into a biscacho-hole, and only escaped a fall by making a splendid bound, where by its haunch, striking the negro’s back, sent him plunging on to its neck.

“Oh! I does like to be shook like dat, massa.”

“If you get shook much worse than that,” cried Lawrence, “I’ll have to stop to pick you up.”

“No fear, massa. Howebber much I wobbles I nebber comes off.”

An islet of bushes at this point necessitated a slight détour. On the other side of it they found that the main body of the troop had halted for rest and food.

Right glad was Lawrence to find that Colonel Marchbanks’s humour was entirely changed, that the asperity of the previous night had passed away, and that the natural urbanity of his nature had returned.

“A pleasant gallop, was it not, Senhor Armstrong?” he said, as our hero joined the group of officers around him.

“Delightful, and quite new to me,” said Lawrence. “I have often read of but never seen the Pampas till now.”

He looked furtively about as he spoke. The colonel marked the look, and with a somewhat grim smile observed that they should see more than enough of the Pampas for some days to come.

“The sea of long yellow-brown grass and thistles,” he added, “gets to be rather monotonous at last; but I never weary of the feeling of immensity and freedom which it inspires. Come, dine with us, senhor.”

Lawrence gladly accepted the invitation.

“We make but a brief halt,” said the colonel, “for time presses and distances are great. Our next shall be at the Estancia Algaroba, where we shall spend the night. Your friend Pedro will make arrangements for us. He is with the advance-guard.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Lawrence; then, feeling that he ought to say something more, “I suppose his newly-found daughter is with him?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, curtly, as he shot a suspicious glance at the youth from under his shaggy brows.

After dining, Lawrence returned to the baggage-mules with an unaccountable depression of spirits upon him, and deeply absorbed with