CHAPTER III.
Excursion up a River.—Vengeance overtakes Campos, the Murderer.
In a little creek, overshadowed by some gigantic willows, we found the pilot engaged in putting the oars on board a small boat that was moored to the bank. I was rather averse to a march through the woods, and it was with a feeling of pleasure that, instead of a pedestrian excursion, I saw we were to be conveyed to our place of destination in a boat. I communicated my satisfaction to the pilot.
"Here," said he, "we only travel in two ways, on horseback or in a 'dingy.' We leave to the newly-landed Galicians the resource of striding a path.[1] You can row, of course?" addressing himself to Calros.
He answered in the affirmative, and we took our places in the skiff. As I was only a passenger, I stretched myself on my cloak at the bottom of the boat to shelter myself from the wind. Though we were at a considerable distance from the mouth of the stream, the river was swollen with the tide, and the water lapped the sides of the boat with great fury. We set out, and, impelled by two pairs of strong arms, soon began to glide rapidly along the surface of the dark water. The usual imposing stillness of American forests was on the banks. At a distance you heard the dull, heavy roar of the wind raging among the trees. The banks of the river were very undulating. Sometimes its bed widened considerably, and we then kept in the centre of the stream. At other times the water flowed between high, precipitous rocks, under a thick canopy of mahogany and cedar trees, from whose branches long-trailing parasitical plants hung over our heads. Charmed with the beauty of the river, I forgot completely the object of our journey. I was soon reminded of it, however, by the pilot.
"Every one," said he, "in this world has his enemies. For my part, I know more than one individual, and Campos among others, who would be very glad to know that at this late hour of the night, in the midst of these solitudes, which alcalde has never visited, they could meet Sinforoso Ventura unarmed and defenseless."
"Have we-no arms?" Calros inquired. "Are the pistols of my friend here, my machete, and your musket, to be reckoned as nothing?"
"In an open country such arms would be of the greatest service; here they are of no use. A person hidden in any of the trees which overhang the stream could pick out any of the three he chose, and send a ball through his head; or, by throwing the trunk of a tree across the river, might capsize our boat, if he did not smash it to pieces. What do you think of that?"
"I dare say you're right," answered Calros. " Luckily, nobody is to know that you are to be pulling up the river to-night."
"I am not so sure of that," said the pilot; "there are spies and traitors every where. If any of the marauders we put to flight this evening has the slightest inkling of our plans, be sure that his comrades will be apprised of it time enough to meet us at a part of the river I know. We have already rowed two hours," he added, shaking his head, "and the place is not far off. You now know what we have to fear. Consider, therefore, whether we shall push on, or land, and wait till daylight."
"I can not lose a minute," returned the Jarocho, coldly. "If we pull well, we shall reach the village where Campos lives in an hour."
"It is quite the same to me," Ventura replied. "Let us proceed."
A dead silence succeeded these words. Knowing now the dangers we had to run, I went and seated myself in the bow, to try to make out, if it were possible, the ambuscades that threatened us; but the darkness was so great that I could discover nothing. The leafy vault under which we moved threw a thick shadow over the bed of the river; at times, however, a gust of wind shook into the water, like a shower of golden rain, large cucuyos, which fell from the trees above us. Not a single star was to be seen through the interstices of the foliage. A quarter of an hour had now elapsed without in the least justifying the suspicions of the pilot. The Jarocho lay on his oars to take breath, and the boat, moved by the current, turned broadside on to the stream.
"Keep her head to the stream," cried the pilot, sharply. "Even supposing that we have no ambuscades to fear, the wind may, perhaps, have uprooted some dead tree, and should it happen to hit the side of our boat, it would cant over to a dead certainty; but if we are struck on the bow, it may do us no harm. The tide runs up as far as this, and sharks not uncommonly come up with it."
This last observation disclosed another danger which I had not suspected; and, in the presence of the increasing perils of this nocturnal expedition, I thought, with some bitterness, on the comfortable farniente and refreshing sleep I should have enjoyed had I been in my hotel at Vera Cruz.
Calros did not require a second warning, but resumed his oar with new vigor. We soon arrived at a place where a high rock on each side of the stream approached each other, narrowing very considerably the bed of the river. About a dozen paces farther up, the passage became so contracted that both oars could not be worked, and it was only by the assistance of a boathook that the pilot, by fixing it among the lianas, could pull us up against the force of the current. The river widened considerably at the head of this narrow pass, and allowed us again to ply our oars; but as the stream grew broader, the banks rose in proportion. On the right and left, high rocks curved gently in ward, and then ran sheer down into the water, like the arch of a bridge broken at the key-stone. Under this vault every stroke produced an echo. We advanced by chance, and the darkness was so intense that we did not know but what every pull would send us up against the wall of rock on either side.
"One would need to have the eyes of a tiger-cat to see in this place," cried the pilot.
"Have we far to go now?" asked Calros."A few vigorous strokes will send us there," answered Ventura; "but the most embarrassing thing is to discover the entrance to the narrow reach that runs up from this basin. This reach is as narrow as the one we have just left."
"Put out the boat-hook to feel if we are not running against the rocks."
I did what he ordered me. The boat was still in the middle of the stream. The boat-hook, though stretched out as far as I could reach, struck against nothing.
"All right," I cried. "I can touch the rocks on neither side."
The rowers again plied their oars, and the light skiff flew up the river. All at once the boat-hook, which I was holding at right angles to the boat, hit against a rock, and bounced out of my hands. The shock over set me completely. A cracking of broken branches was heard. The skiff suddenly stopped.
"What's this?" cried the pilot, who had run to the bow, and was fumbling with his hands among a tangled mass of lianas and branches. "Demonic! the rascals have pitched a dead tree into the river higher up, and the current has carried it down here. We can advance no farther. How shall we get out of this mess? One or two large stones, hurled from the top of these rocks, might crush us to pieces before we could clear the passage."
This took us completely aback, and not another word was said. The only plan seemed to be to return to the reach we had just left; but the boat was so strongly fixed among the branches of the fallen tree that it could not be disengaged. Some moments passed in a fruitless endeavor to overcome this obstacle. Suddenly a voice called out right above us, "Who is there?"
"Gente de paz," I replied, prompted by the pilot.
"That's not enough. There are three of you, and I must hear three voices."
"Caramba! well," cried the Jarocho. "Tell Campos that I am here—I, Calros Romero, of Manantial."
"And ask him also," added the pilot, haughtily, "if he remembers the name of Sinforoso Ventura, of Bocca del Rio."
A shrill whistle was heard in the woods. It was repeated behind us, showing that both banks were guarded. Two or three seconds elapsed, that seemed as long as so many years. Shadowy forms appeared on the rocks above our heads, threatening cries were heard, and quivering lights danced upon the water. The pilot was not long in firing upon the scoundrels; but they had the advantage in point of position, and wielded arms more terrible than ours. The flash of the gun lighted up all surrounding objects. Mean while an enormous stone, which they had succeeded in moving to the edge of the rocks, fell close to the boat, and splashed us with water from head to foot. The pilot cried out as if he had been hurt. We felt the boat lurch under us heavily, and then, torn from the rude embrace of the branches, drift rapidly down the stream. When I opened my eyes, for we had been both blinded by the spray, Ventura had disappeared. I called aloud several times. There was no reply.
"Tis all over with him!" cried Calros. "He is at the bottom of the river. We must see to ourselves now."
A speedy retreat was the only chance of safety left us. The Jarocho seized the oars and began rowing vigorously. Not a sound was heard but the dip of the oar in the water. Had our enemies retreated, or were they waiting for us at the narrow reach we must unavoidably pass? We could not escape the fate that seemed to be awaiting us. We were soon in the dangerous pass. The trunk of a guaiacum or cedar hanging over the water the noise of the wind in their branches—an iguana leaving its bed of dry leaves—a squirrel frightened by the working of the oars—the slightest sound, or the least object that we saw, all kept our minds on the rack, and our hands on our arms. We stopped at short intervals, after which Calros resumed his oars with new ardor.
We reached at last a spot where the vegetation was not so abundant, and one of the banks was destitute of wood. We landed there. A rapid survey convinced us that this was not the place for an ambuscade. We decided to remain a short time to rest our selves, and we should afterward consider whether to continue our journey by land or water. The sun was just beginning to make his appearance. What was our surprise, when, as we were about to throw our selves upon the ground, we heard a voice calling to us! The voice was that of our late companion Ventura. We thought at first that we were laboring under a hallucination; but in a short time we could no longer doubt about the resurrection of our brave friend, who appeared on the opposite bank, waving his hand to invite us to carry him across. To cross the stream was with Calros the work of an instant.
"And by what miracle are you still in this world?" I asked of Ventura. "The cry of agony you uttered still rings in my ears.""That cry saved my life. As soon as I felt that we ran the risk of getting crushed to pieces without being able to defend ourselves, I jumped among the branches that stopped our passage, and, on seeing the immense stone which they had pushed into the river, I raised a great shriek. The rascals, fancying from the cry that I was mortally wounded, decamped as quickly as they could. Once out of the water, I followed the course of the river, knowing that you could not be far off. I was right, as you see. We shall now resume our journey. As for you, Señor Calros, who are so impatient to revenge yourself upon Campos, I have hit on a more expeditious plan than the one we are now following. I have some friends in the village in which Campos lives. We shall go and visit them; and in two hours all your wishes shall be fully satisfied."
The arrival of the pilot had brought back to Calros's mind al that boiling impatience which his exhaustion of body had alone kept under. He would not listen to a halt. A short discussion then arose as to whether we should continue our journey by land or water. Ventura was of opinion that we ought still to make use of the boat and reascend the river, as we should probably fall in with no more enemies, and the force of the current had very likely removed all obstacles to our passage. We therefore took our places in the skiff without loss of time, Calros and Ventura pulling, and I between the two rowers, glad at finding that, from my inexperience in rowing, I should not be expected to give any assistance, and would be at full liberty to admire the glorious landscape that unfolded itself before our eyes, bathed in the first light of dawn.
The river, so dark and sombre the night before, seemed now to smile in the sunlight. Light vapors arose from the surface of the water, drawn up by the heat, which had taken the place of the coolness of the evening before. Numerous aquatic plants covered its surface, and the furrow which our boat cut in passing through them soon closed up again, leaving not a trace of our presence. No sound was heard save the working of the oars in the row-locks, and a green wood pecker tapping with long, regular strokes the trunk of a dead tree.
My companions were quite indifferent to the glorious beauty of this solitude. I must confess, however, that I allowed myself to be distracted from the contemplation of these charms to listen to the conversation of the two men, which was becoming more and more animated. Besides relating the grievances which he had endured from Campos, the pilot, in the course of his narrative, caused a chord to vibrate in the heart of the chivalrous lover of Doña Sacramenta. Calros was painfully surprised on learning that Julian, his antagonist in the fandango at Manantial, was his rival. Julian, being the pilot's friend, had no secrets from him. His passion for Sacramenta dated from the time when the parents of the young girl lived in another village called Medellin, before they had come to reside at Manantial. After the departure of Sacramenta for Manantial, Julian had not lost all hope of seeing her again, and of winning her affections. Old Josefa, the woman whose son Campos had killed, and who was seeking every where an avenger for her son's murder, had been often invited from Manantial to Medellin for the purpose of exercising the black art, in which she was considered an adept. It was through her that Julian received news of Sacramenta, and the old crone had even promised to exert her influence with the girl in his favor, if he succeeded in putting her on the traces of her son's murderer. This condition Julian had been able to fulfill through the friendship of the pilot, as the latter, by his ancient relations with Campos, was well aware of all this wretch's crimes. Julian had thus informed her that Campos was her son's murderer, and that the pilot Ventura would lend her a hand in securing him. Josefa had, on her side, kept her word. She had used all her influence with Sacramenta in Julian's favor, "and was successful," said the pilot, with an arch smile, "since the amorous Jarocho had been invited to attend the fête of Manantial by the young girl herself, to challenge, in her honor, the bravest champion in the village." The pilot did not know that the old crone Josefa, in her eagerness to have her son avenged, had likewise excited the passion of Calros, in order that she might make him more eager in the search after Campos. Calros and I could alone complete the revelations of Ventura. I did not say a single word, however, because I feared to excite the Jarocho's jealousy still more by untimely consolation, and because I knew that his soul was torn by violent and contending emotions. The pilot, seeing us both sunk in thought, turned to Calros and said,
"Now, when I think of it, it was you that challenged my friend Julian. It was you that was victor in the combat held in honor of the fair Sacramenta. Well, shall I tell you? Julian confessed to me that, even after his defeat, he had not entirely lost hope; so much so that he is talking about quitting Medellin, and you will perhaps see him some of these days quietly settled in Manantial."
"Are you sure of what you say?" asked Calros, in an altered tone."Has my good friend Julian ever deceived me?" answered the pilot. "Trust me, he is not a man that is under the influence of illusions. If he never come to Manaritial, it is because he will have the best of reasons for staying away."
This was rather much, and Calros asked him no more questions. With eyes fixed mechanically on the water around him, the poor fellow plied his oar with a kind of feverish energy. His body was with us, but his mind had fled away to the woods of Manantial.
We had now gone as far as we could on the river, which had now dribbled down to a mere streamlet, flowing between low banks. Upon one side fields of green sugar-cane, waving in the wind, stretched to the foot of a chain of hills which rose at a short distance from the stream.
"We must land here," cried the pilot; "the village is behind these hills."
- ↑ Ensillar la vereda.