CHAPTER IX.
A GLEAM OF HOPE.
As soon as the party had disappeared, I turned to the major and saidwith a smile,--
"Now, my dear Santiago, let us attend to the needs of these poorfellows."
I was now standing full in the firelight, and he glanced at my facewith a puzzled expression. Then a half gleam of recognition shone inhis eyes, and he exclaimed doubtfully--
"Surely you can't be the boy Crawford who vanished so mysteriously fromthe fort?"
"I am, though!" said I, laughing at his amazement. "But we shall havetime for a talk presently; let us do what we can for these poor fellowsfirst. Is there any water in the cave?"
"Yes; there is a spring at the far end. I will fetch some. Put somemore wood on the fire; it smokes if allowed to go down."
Of the three wounded men only one was seriously hurt, and he, I feared,was beyond the aid of the most skilled surgeon. However, we did ourbest for all the sufferers, gave them water to drink, arranged themcomfortably on beds of straw, and bathed and bandaged their wounds.Then I washed the cut in my cheek, and Santiago smeared it with anative ointment, which he said possessed wonderful healing properties.
"Now," said he, "I judge you are ready for late supper or earlybreakfast, whichever you may prefer to call it. The provisions arehomely, and I am an indifferent cook, but I can at least give youenough to eat. Those brigands of yours have stored sufficient foodhere for an army."
Carrying a torch, I accompanied him round the cavern, gazing in wonderat the piles of Indian corn, the heaps of potatoes, and the strings ofcharqui, the last suspended from the walls.
"Come," said I, "there is no need to starve in the midst of plenty.What shall we have? Roast potatoes and jerked beef? The potatoes willrequire the least attention."
"And they are not bad if you are downright hungry, as I was when wecrept in here after the affair at Mirabe. There's a smart soldierleading your men, Crawford."
"Yes; he is an Englishman named Miller, and a very fine fellow. Buthow come you to be here?"
"We'll talk over these things presently. Meanwhile, let us cook thepotatoes. Bring another handful; I daresay two of the men will be ableto eat a little breakfast."
"If it is breakfast!"
"It must be for us, because we had our supper before you paid us sounceremonious a visit. Of course we were betrayed."
"Well, as to that," I replied, "you must ask the colonel; I only actedunder orders."
"Just so. Well, I am very pleased to see you, though I dislike the wayin which you introduced yourself. Cut this piece of beef up finelywhile I fetch some salt."
"Have you any?" I asked, in some surprise.
"Oh yes. Your amiable brigands know how to stock a larder."
Two of the wounded men were able to eat, and they were very gratefulfor the food we took them. Then we returned to the fire, piled up somesacks to serve as seats, and began our meal.
It was all most strange to me and very delightful; it might have been achapter lifted bodily from one of my favourite story-books. Thereseemed to be a piratical flavour about the whole business.
"Perhaps it is as well that I gave my parole," exclaimed the majorthoughtfully, taking off another potato.
"Why?" I asked.
"I might have felt tempted to escape," he replied, looking at the coilof rope.
"You forget your jailer carries a pistol," I remarked, laughing.
"An empty one," he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. "No, no, myboy; my parole is your only safeguard."
"It is a sufficient one, at any rate."
"Yes," said he, rather dreamily, I thought. "The honour of a Marianois sacred; my father taught me that. And yet--and yet, do you know,Crawford," he added, in a sharper tone, "I doubt if a parole given tobrigands should be held to."
I did not at all like this turn in the conversation, the moreespecially as my pistol was really empty. I had not dreamed of takingany precautions, trusting wholly in the Spanish officer's honour.
I looked up at him, and felt reassured; there could be no treacheryhidden behind that frank, open countenance.
"It seems to me you are talking nonsense, Santiago," I said cheerfully."A man's word is his bond in any case--that is, if he be a man."
He took no notice of my remark, but sat musing, leaving half his fooduntouched. As for me, I helped myself to some more beef, though I mustconfess the major's wild talk nearly destroyed my appetite. His mannerhad changed so suddenly and abruptly that I knew not what to make ofit. I might perhaps have reloaded my pistol without his knowledge, butthis would be a confession that I had lost faith in him.
"Come," said I jocularly, pointing to his food, "you pay your cooking apoor compliment."
To this he made no reply, but looking up after a time exclaimed,--
"I have news for you. I had almost forgotten, but I must tell youbefore going."
"Going?" I cried; "we cannot go before the doctor arrives."
"You cannot, but I can, and must. My mind is made up. Do not try tothwart me; I should be sorry if you got hurt. Sit still, my boy; don'tstir a finger, or I will kill you!"
I looked at him in amazement. His face was flushed, his eyes shonewildly; he spoke with a rapid and angry vehemence.
"By St. Philip," he cried, "I should be a cur to place honour beforeloyalty! My duty is to my king, do you hear? Shall I help a parcel ofbandits to set the king at naught? Shall I bring disgrace on a familythat has stood by the throne for untold centuries? My father died onthe battlefield with the king's banner above his head, as did hisfather before him. And I am to stay in a cage when the door is open!I am to let these upstarts trample on the king's rights!"
The words swept from his lips in a sweeping, tempestuous torrent, andwhen they were done he leaped to his feet with an angry cry. I sat inmy place looking at him steadily, but making no movement.
"I tell you it is monstrous!" he continued. "I care nothing formyself, but I cannot desert the king!"
"His Majesty must be greatly in need of friends," I remarked dryly, "toaccept the aid of a perjured soldier."
It was strong language. I knew it would hurt him cruelly; but adesperate disease requires a desperate remedy. I thought at first hewould kill me. His eyes blazed fiercely, and he sprang forward withuplifted hands. Suddenly he paused, and returned abruptly to his seat.
Thinking it best not to disturb him, I rose and made the round of thewounded men. I felt awfully sorry for the young major, and almostwished he had not passed his word to Jose. Having done so, he must, ofcourse, abide by it, unless he cared to live with tarnished honour.
Presently, returning to the fire, I threw some more fuel on, and satdown again on my heap of sacks. Santiago had covered his face with hishands, and was rocking himself gently to and fro, like a child in pain.Evidently the wild fit had passed, and he had overcome the temptationwhich had tried him so sorely.
For nearly an hour we sat there, speaking no word, then looking mestraight in the face, he said suddenly,--
"Crawford, I have acted like a madman, but there is nothing to befeared now."
"Nor before," I answered cheerfully. "You would not have gone ahundred yards. Come, let us now dismiss the subject. After all, itwas no more than a bad dream."
"By St. Philip," he exclaimed, "it was a very ugly one. However, I amin my right mind now, and as soon as we arrive at Moquegua I willwithdraw my parole. Then if a chance to escape comes, I can availmyself of it with an easy conscience. You have not reloaded yourpistol?"
"No. Why should I? there is no need of it."
"Not now," he said. "I am master of myself now," and he actuallysmiled.
"You were going to tell me some news," I observed, after a pause. "Nowthat you have roused my curiosity, I hope you will satisfy it."
I spoke half jestingly, and more for the sake of keeping up theconversation than in the expectation of hearing any particularinformation. It was unlikely, I
considered, that Santiago could tellme anything of real interest. In this I was much mistaken, as you willfind.
"I don't know," said he thoughtfully, "that it will be doing you anyreal kindness, yet it is only right that you should know. Of course,you will understand that your escape occasioned some little stir amongthe garrison of the fort."
"I am quite ready to believe it," I replied, chuckling at theremembrance. "I have often laughed to think of your astonishment inthe morning."
"It was no laughing matter to us, I can assure you. The commandant wasfurious, and went about vowing vengeance against everybody.Search-parties scoured the neighbourhood in all directions, but with noresult, and we at last concluded that by some means you had been takenoff by ship."
"Quite a wrong conclusion," I interposed.
"We could think of no other. However, to get on with the story. Inthe midst of the confusion Barejo turned up on his way back to Lima.He was simply furious, and threatened to put us all in irons, thecommandant included; which, by the way, was absurd."
"It was paying me a very high compliment."
"Don't be puffed up, or imagine the general was afraid of you," laughedSantiago.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, affecting to feel disappointed, "that alters thecase. But why should he be angry at my escape?"
"Because he really wished to keep you out of mischief."
"Then I have sadly misjudged him."
"I think you have. Of course, I don't profess to understand thematter, but it seems to be something in this way. When we have crushedthis rebellion, the estates of those who have borne arms against theking will be confiscated."
"Spoils to the victors!" I laughed; "an old-fashioned principle."
"And, of course," continued Santiago, not heeding the interruption,"your father's estates will be among them. Now, as far as I cangather, Barejo thought that by preventing you from joining the rebelssomething might be saved from the wreck."
"That was very kind of the general," I remarked. "I had no idea thathe took any interest in my affairs. But isn't it possible, major, thatyou are going a trifle too fast? Suppose, for instance, that therebels, as you call us, should win?"
The major tossed his head scornfully.
"That is utterly impossible!" he answered, with a short, quick snap.
"But let us suppose it, just for argument," I urged.
"Well in that case," said he, "of which there is no possiblelikelihood, your father will keep his property."
At first I thought he had forgotten, but something in his face held myattention, and brought the blood to my head with a rush.
"Do you mean-- What is it? Tell me quickly! Is my father--"
"Alive! That is my news; but you must not build on it too greatly. Ican only tell you he was not slain that day in the mountains. He wasdangerously wounded, but was still living when the soldiers carried himaway."
"Where did they take him?"
"That I do not know; neither, I think, does Barejo. Perhaps, and in myopinion most likely, to the forts at Callao."
The major's news, as you may imagine, filled me with the liveliestastonishment and excitement. My father alive! I could hardly creditthe statement. What would my mother say? How would she receive thestartling information? I rose from my seat and walked about thecavern, trying to think it over coolly.
Then it dawned upon me why Santiago had said he would not be doing meany real kindness in talking of the discovery. After all, hisinformation only reopened the old wounds. More than two years hadpassed since my father's disappearance, and many things had happened inthat time. Not every one who entered the casemates of Callao came outalive.
"But," said I aloud, "some one must know the truth. A man can't beshut up without authority, even in Peru."
"I wish I could help you," replied the major. "As soon as I escapefrom Moquegua I will make inquiries."
"Thank you; but I fear it will be a long time to wait," I answeredgloomily.
"Not at all! La Hera will return in a week or two, and your Millerwill be too busy running away to look after prisoners. Imitate me, myboy, and make Hope your best friend."
In trying to cheer me he forgot his own distress. The light returnedto his eyes, the smile to his face, and he seemed to have banished allmemory of his recent despair.
"Come," said he cheerfully, "put your doubts and fears aside for thepresent. Our wounded want attention; we must not neglect them."
I tried hard to act upon his advice, but all the time continued towonder whether my father was alive or dead. That was the one questionthat racked my brain, and to it I could give no answer.
We had just made our patients comfortable, with the exception of onewho was dying fast, when a shrill whistle sounded outside.
"The surgeon!" I exclaimed, running to the entrance. "Yes, there he iswith the guide and two soldiers."
"Two bandits!" said Santiago banteringly. "Give the men their propername."
"Soldiers or bandits, they know how to fight. Help me to uncoil therope, will you?"
"That's almost as bad as asking a man to make the noose he is to hangin. You forget that on leaving here I shall go straight to prison."
"I had forgotten, major, and sorry enough I am to remember it. Still,as La Hera returns so soon, it will be only a temporary inconvenience,and I'm sure Colonel Miller will treat you well."
Santiago laughed.
"You will make me fancy soon that imprisonment is a privilege worthpaying for," he exclaimed.
"Hardly that," I replied; "but, as Barejo said, it keeps one out ofmischief."
We lowered the rope, the guide attached the surgeon's instruments, andat a signal we hauled up. Then the rope went down again, the twosoldiers climbed to the cave, and the doctor followed unsteadily. Itwas evident that this novel method of visiting patients found no favourin his eyes; he was obviously nervous, and twice during the ascent Iquite expected to see him go headlong.
He was a citizen of Moquegua, very young, and utterly unsuited for hispresent errand. So great was his agitation that when he had plantedhis feet firmly on the floor of the cave his hands still clung likegrim death to the rope.
"You're all right now," I said, leading him away from the mouth of thecave. "Rather a queer way of getting into a house, isn't it?"
"The saints preserve me!" he exclaimed, while his teeth chattered likecastanets, "this is horrible. A dozen times, coming up that rope, Iwished I'd never been born. But it's the last time I'll practisedoctoring outside Moquegua."
"You did very creditably, I assure you, doctor," observed Santiago,whose eyes gleamed with fun; "such grace, such agility, is given tofew. I should have thought your life had been spent in scalingmountains."
The doctor looked from Santiago to me, hardly knowing what to make ofsuch flattery.
"Faith," exclaimed he at last, "I hope there is an easier way ofgetting down than of coming up."
"There is," said the major, "and much more expeditious. You have butto step outside the cave, and there you are. Most people, however,prefer to go down by the rope."
The doctor groaned.
"I shall never do it," said he, "never! I shall be shut up in thisplace for the rest of my life."
"There will be one advantage in that," remarked Santiago pleasantly:"your patients will always be able to find you. Now I fear we musttear ourselves from your side."
"Do your best with these poor fellows," I said. "The one in the corneryonder will not trouble you long; the others are getting on nicely.You will find this cavern quite a comfortable dwelling-place. There isplenty of food, a spring of clear water, and enough fuel to keep a firegoing for weeks."
"Meanwhile," observed Santiago, "we will ask the good folks of Moqueguato make a nice long ladder, so that you can get down without trouble."
It was really very laughable to watch the doctor's face as the majorprepared to descend.
"He will be killed," said he dolefully. "It is a clear case o
fsuicide. Look, he has missed his foothold, and will be dashed topieces!"
"Nonsense," I said, with a laugh; "there is no danger if you don'tthink about it. See, it is nothing but going down a flight of stepsbackwards." But he covered his face with his hands and shuddered.
When the major had reached the ground, I grasped the rope, saying,--
"Farewell, doctor; I hope you will have a comfortable time. And don'tworry about coming down; you'll find it an easy matter enough."
"Good-bye," answered he gloomily; "I shall never see you or any oneelse again. I shall die up here for certain."
The fellow was so genuinely frightened that I assured him we woulddevise some plan to rescue him; on which he brightened up considerably,and I began the descent. I asked the guide where he had left thehorses.
"At the village, senor," he replied, "on the other side of themountain."
In answer to a further question, he told us that the doctor would notcross the narrow track, and that they had, in consequence, beencompelled to travel many miles out of their way.
"I think he was right," exclaimed Santiago, when we reached the spot."This is a far worse venture than climbing to the cavern by the rope."
And indeed, seen in broad daylight, with every rock standing outpitilessly clear, and every chasm yawning wide, the place was enough todaunt the spirit of the bravest.
Familiarity had rendered the guide indifferent to the danger, but Ifelt as nervous as when crossing the previous evening. However, Icould not make a parade of my anxiety, so I set foot on the narrow pathwith a jaunty air but quaking heart. Santiago smiled too, but I fancyhe was by no means sorry when we gained the farther side withoutaccident. Then we jested about the past danger, talking lightly and asif it were an affair of no moment. Nevertheless, I was thankful theheat of the sun provided an excuse for the perspiration that streameddown my face.