The Adventurers

Don Tadeo was the only person who was attached to her; he had never abandoned her, but watched with the greatest care over her material well-being, smiled upon her, and ever gave her good and pleasant counsels: but Don Tadeo was much too serious a man to comprehend the thousand little cares which the education of a young girl requires. She could only entertain for him that profound, yet respectful friendship which forbids those ingenuous confidences which can only be made to a mother, or to a companion of the same age. The visits of Don Tadeo were surrounded by an incomprehensible mystery; sometimes, without apparent cause, he made her suddenly quit people to whom he had confided her, and took her away with him, after ordering her to change her name, upon long tours. It was thus she had been to France: then, he quite as unexpectedly brought her back to Chili, sometimes to one city, sometimes to another, without ever condescending to explain to her the reasons for her leading such a wandering life.

Constrained by her isolation to depend only upon herself, forced to reflect as soon as the first rays of reason enlightened her brain, the maiden, though so delicate and fragile in appearance, was endowed with an energy and firmness of character of which she was ignorant, but which supported her unconsciously; and if the hour of danger arrived, would be of infinite use to her. She had often, urged by the instinct of curiosity so natural to her age in the exceptional position in which she was placed, sought by adroit questions to seize the thread that might guide her in this labyrinth; but all had proved useless – Don Tadeo remained mute. One day only, after having for a long time contemplated her with an expression of sadness, he had pressed her to his heart, and said in a trembling voice, —

"Poor child! I will protect you against your enemies!"

Who could those formidable enemies be? Why were they so inveterate against a girl of sixteen, who knew nothing of the world, and had never injured a human being? These questions, which Doña Rosario was continually asking herself, always remained unanswered. She only caught a glimpse in her life, of one of those terrible mysteries which bring death to the imprudent who persist in endeavouring to discover them; her days, therefore, were passed in continual fears, engendered by her imagination.

One evening, when, sad and thoughtful as usual, and buried in the depths of an easy chair, in her bedchamber, she was turning over the leaves of a book which she was not reading, Don Tadeo entered the room. He saluted her, as he always did, by a kiss on her brow, took a seat, placed himself in front of her, and after looking at her for a moment with a melancholy smile, said quietly, —

"I wish to speak with you, Rosario."

"I am all attention, dear friend," she replied, endeavouring to smile.

But before we report this conversation, we must present our readers with a few necessary explanations. Like all the other countries of South America, Chili, for a long time depressed beneath the Spanish yoke, had conquered its independence, more through the weakness of its ancient master than by its own proper strength. The system followed by the Spanish authorities from the beginning had checked in the people of these countries the development of the philosophical ideas which give man a consciousness of his own value, render him one day apt to achieve liberty, and ripe to enjoy it within just limits. We have said, in a preceding work, that the Americans of the South have none of the virtues of their ancestors, but, to make up for it, they possess all their vices. Destitute of that early education without which it is impossible to do or even to conceive great things, the Chilian nation, free by an unexpected chance, found itself immediately the sport of a few intriguing men, who concealed beneath high-sounding words of patriotism a boundless ambition. The newly-freed country struggled in vain; the innate carelessness of its inhabitants, and the levity of their character, formed an invincible object to any amelioration.

At the epoch at which we have arrived, Chili was labouring under the oppression of General Bustamente. This man, not contented with being minister of a republic, dreamt of nothing less than causing himself to be proclaimed the chief of it, under the title of protector. The realization of this idea was not impossible. From its geographical position, Chili is almost independent of those troublesome neighbours who, in the states of the old world, keep watch over all the acts of a nation, and are, ready to put in their veto as soon as their own interest appears to be threatened. On one side separated from Upper Peru by the vast and almost impassable desert of Atacama, Bolivia alone might hazard some timid observations; but the General cherished secret hopes of including that republic itself in the new confederation; on the other side, immense solitudes and the Cordilleras separated it from Buenos Aires, which had neither the will nor the power to oppose his projects. One people alone could make a war with him, which he should dread, and they were the Araucanos; that little nation, driven like an iron wedge into Chili, disturbed the General's plans seriously. He resolved to treat with the Araucano Toqui, while determined, at the same time, when his projects should have succeeded, to unite all his forces to conquer that country which had so long resisted the Spanish power. In a word, General Bustamente dreamt of creating at the southern extremity of America, with Chili, Araucania, and Bolivia confederated, a rival nationality to the United States. Unfortunately for the General, there was not in him the stuff to make a great man; he was simply a parvenu, an ignorant and cruel soldier.

When America raised the standard of revolt against the mother country, numerous secret societies were formed at all points of the territory, the most redoubtable, beyond contradiction, being that of the Dark-Hearts. The men who placed themselves at the head of this society were all intelligent and well informed, mostly educated in Europe, who, having seen in the field of action the great principles of the French revolution, wished, by applying them in their own country, to regenerate the nation. After the proclamation of Chilian independence, the secret societies, having no longer an object, disappeared. One alone persisted in remaining permanent – that of the Dark-Hearts. This society was not willing that license should assume the mantle of liberty: it felt that it had a great and holy mission to fulfil, and that its task, so far from being terminated, was scarcely commenced. It was necessary to instruct the people, to render them worthy of taking their place among nations, and, above all, to deliver them from the tyrants who wished to enslave them. This mission the society of the Dark-Hearts laboured incessantly to carry out, struggling constantly against oppressive powers, which succeeded each other, and destroying them without mercy. Proteus-like and intangible, the members of this society escaped the most active researches: if by chance some few of them fell in the arena, they died with head erect, confident in the future, and leaving to their brethren the care of continuing their task.

The recovery of General Bustamente caused the Dark-Hearts a momentary stupor; but Don Tadeo, who had caused the news of the miraculous manner in which he had survived his execution to be spread universally, revived their spirits by placing himself again at their head. Not that either courage or hope had failed them. However great the skill of the machinations employed by the General to insure the success of his plans, the Loyal-Hearts, who had confederates everywhere, foresaw and defeated them. They watched all his movements with the greatest care, for they were quite aware that the moment was drawing near when their enemy would throw off the mask. They had heard of the departure of the convalescent General for Valdivia. For what reason, as his health was still so uncertain, and repose so necessary, had he gone to that remote province? That must be learnt at any price, and they must prepare against any eventuality.

In a meeting of the society, future measures were agreed upon; it was moreover resolved that the King of Darkness should at the same time repair to Valdivia, in order, if advisable, to take the initiative in resistance. But Don Tadeo could not think of leaving Doña Rosario behind him, exposed to the unprincipled attacks of the Linda. He alone could defend the young girl; was he not her only support? As soon, then, as the Dark-Hearts had dispersed, Don Tadeo returned to the chacra, and went straight to Doña Rosario's chamber.

"My dear child," he said, "I have sad news to inform you of."

"Speak, my kind friend," she replied.

"Urgent affairs require my presence as soon as possible in Valdivia."

"Oh!" she cried, with an expression of terror, "you will not leave me here, will you?"

"At first I intended to do so, this retreat appearing to me to unite all the guarantees for security; but cheer up, my child! I have changed my mind; I have fancied you would prefer accompanying me?"

"Oh, yes," she said, eagerly; "you are always kind. When do we set out?"

"Tomorrow, dear child, at sunrise."

"I shall be ready," she replied, holding up her pretty face towards him, that he might impress his customary kiss upon her brow.

Don Tadeo retired, and Rosario immediately set about the preparations for her journey. Of what consequence was it to her whether she were in one place or another, since she was doomed to suffer everywhere? And who can say whether the poor girl, without daring to avow it to herself, did not entertain the hope of again seeing him she loved? Love is a divine sunbeam that illumines the darkest nights.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CHINGANA

Valdivia, founded in 1551 by the Spanish conqueror Don Pedro de Valdivia, is a charming city, two leagues from the sea, upon the left bank of a river, which large vessels can easily ascend into the fertile valley of Guadallanguen. The aspect of the city, the advanced post of civilization in these remote countries, is most agreeable; the streets are large, uniformly built; the white houses, only one story high, on account of the frequency of earthquakes, are terrace-roofed. Here and there rise in the air the steeples of the numerous churches and convents, which occupy more than a third of the city. It is astonishing to what an extent convents are multiplied in South America. It might be supposed that the New World was the land of promise for monks; they appear to rise out of the earth at every step. Thanks to the extensive commerce which Valdivia carries on by means of its port, which is visited by the numerous whalers fishing in those seas, and ships which come there to refit, after doubling Cape Horn, or before passing it, – its streets have more animation than is generally to be met with in American cities.

Don Tadeo arrived in Valdivia, accompanied by Don Gregorio and Doña Rosario, on the evening of the sixteenth day after his departure from his friend's chacra. They had used all diligence, and for that country, where there are no other means of travelling but on horseback, it might be considered a quick journey. If the two gentlemen had thought proper to do so, they might have entered the city about three o'clock in the afternoon, but they deemed it advisable that no one in a place where so many people knew them should be made aware of their arrival: in the first place, because the causes which brought them there required the greatest secrecy; and, further, because Don Tadeo was forced to conceal himself, in order to avoid the police agents of the president of the republic, who had orders to arrest him wherever they might meet with him. Fortunately, in these countries the police never arrest anybody when not absolutely compelled, unless those whom they pursue come and deliver themselves up into their hands – an event, we may safely say, that rarely happens.

As during his sojourn at Valdivia, his manner of living must be regulated by the affairs which brought him there, he could not openly keep house or appear in public, Don Tadeo went straight to the convent of the Ursulines, and committed the young lady he had brought with him to the care of the abbess, who was not only his relation, but was a worthy person, in whom he had perfect confidence. Doña Rosario accepted without hesitation the asylum which was offered to her, and where she fancied she should be safe from the attacks of her invisible enemies. Don Tadeo took an affectionate leave of her and the venerable abbess, and hastened to a house of the calle San-Xavier, where Don Gregorio, who had left him on entering the city, to avoid observation, awaited his coming.

"Well?" asked Don Gregorio, as soon as he saw him.

"She is in safety; at least I suppose so," Don Tadeo replied, with a sigh.

"So much the better, for we must redouble our precautions."

"Why so?"

"After leaving you I made inquiries; I observed, I questioned people as I walked about and loitered at the port and the Almeda."

"Well, what have you learnt?"

"As we imagined, General Bustamente is here."

"Already?"

"He arrived three days ago."

"What reason could be so important as to bring him here?" said Don Tadeo, with an uneasy expression. "Oh, I will know!"

"Another thing: who do you think accompanies him?"

"The executioner, no doubt!" said Don Tadeo, with an ironical smile.

"Almost as bad," Don Gregorio replied.

"Whom do you mean, then?"

"The Linda!"

The chief of the Dark-Hearts turned deadly pale.

"Oh," he said, "that woman! for ever that woman! you must be mistaken, my friend; it is impossible!"

"I have seen her."

Don Tadeo walked about in great agitation for several minutes; then, stopping short in front of his friend, said, in a husky voice —

"Dear Don Gregorio, are you certain you have not been misled by a resemblance? Are you quite sure it was she?"

"You had just left me, and I was coming hither, when the sound of horses made me turn my head, and I saw, I repeat I saw, the Linda; she also appeared to have just arrived at Valdivia; two lancers escorted her, and an arriero led the baggage mules.

"Oh!" said Don Tadeo, "will the infernal malice of that demon ever pursue me?"

"My friend," Don Gregorio remarked, "in the path we have undertaken to tread, every obstacle must, unhesitatingly, be destroyed."

"What, kill a woman?" the gentleman said, with horror.

"I do not say that, but place her in such a position that she cannot possibly injure anyone. Remember, we are Dark-Hearts, and, as such, we ought to be without pity."

"Silence!" Don Tadeo murmured, as two low, quick taps were struck on the door.

"Come in!" cried Don Gregorio.

The door opened, and Don Pedro showed his polecat face. He did not recognize the two men whom, in the various meetings he had had with them, he had always seen masked.

"God preserve you, gentlemen!" he said, with a profound bow.

"What is your pleasure, sir?" Don Gregorio asked, in a coldly-polite tone, while returning his salutation.

"Sir," said Don Pedro, looking about for a seat which was not offered him, "I have just arrived from Santiago."

Don Gregorio bowed again.

"On my departure from that city, a banker in whose hands I had placed funds, gave me several bills; among others this, addressed to Don Gregorio Peratla, payable at sight."

"That is my name, sir; be so kind as to hand it to me."

"As you see, sir, the bill is for twenty-three ounces."

"Very well, sir," replied Don Gregorio, as he took it, "allow me to examine it."

Don Pedro bowed in his turn, whilst Don Gregorio, approaching a flambeau, looked attentively at the bill of exchange, put it into his pocket, and took some money from his purse.

"Here are the twenty-three ounces, sir," he said, giving them.

The spy took them, counted the gold pieces, examining them attentively, and then put them into his pocket.

"It is very singular, sir," he said, just as the two gentlemen thought they were about to be relieved of his presence.

"What is it, sir?" asked Don Gregorio; "do you not find the amount right?"

"Oh, pardon me, perfectly right; but," he added, with a slight hesitation, "I thought you had been a merchant?"

"And what leads you to think otherwise?"

"Because I see no desks."

"They are in another part of the house," Don Gregorio replied; "I am a private trader."

"Oh, very well, sir."

"And, if I had not thought you had pressing need of the money – "

"Very pressing!" the other interrupted.

"I should have begged you to call again tomorrow, for, at this late hour, my cashbox is closed."

And thereupon he waved his hand, rather haughtily, as dismissing him. Don Pedro retired, visibly disappointed.

"That is a double-faced fellow, I am sure," said Don Gregorio; "I should not wonder if he were a spy of the General."

"Oh, I know him!" Don Tadeo replied; "I have about me proofs of his treachery. He has been a necessary instrument; at present he may injure us. He must be crushed."

Don Gregorio drew from his pocket the bill which had been presented to him, and holding it to Don Tadeo —

"Look at this," he said.

This bill, payable at sight, appeared perfectly like others. It was drawn in the usual form: At sight, please pay, &c. &c.; but, in two or three places, the pen, too hard, no doubt, had spluttered and formed a certain number of little black spots, of which some were almost imperceptible. It appeared that these black spots had a meaning for the two men; for as soon as Don Tadeo had cast his eyes over the bill, he seized his cloak, and folded himself in it.

"It is Heaven that protects us!" he said; "we must go thither without delay."

"That is my opinion, likewise," Don Gregorio replied, holding the bill to the light, and burning it till there was not a particle of it left. The two men took each a long dagger and a brace of pistols, which they concealed under their clothes – the conspirators were too well acquainted with their country to neglect these precautions – they pulled the flaps of their hats over their faces, and wrapping themselves up to the very eyes, like two lovers or seekers of adventures, they descended into the street.

It was one of those splendid nights unknown in our foggy climates; the sky, of a dark blue, was thickly studded with an infinite number of stars, among which conspicuously shone the brilliant Southern Cross; the air was embalmed with a thousand odours, and a light sea breeze refreshed the atmosphere, which had been heated by the torrid sunbeams during the past day. The two men passed silently and rapidly through the joyous groups which traversed the streets in all directions. It is in the evening that the Americans leave their homes to take the air and enjoy the freshness.

The conspirators appeared to hear neither the enticing sounds of the vihuela which vibrated in their ears, nor the refrains of sambacuejas which flew in gusts from the chinganas, nor the bursts of fresh, silvery laughter of the black-eyed, rosy-lipped girls, who elbowed them on their way. They walked thus for a long time, turning round at intervals to ascertain if they were followed, plunging by degrees into the lowest quarters of the city, and at length stopped at a house of mean appearance, from which issued the loud but not very melodious strains of music eminently national.

This house was a chingana, a name which has no equivalent in French or English. A Chilian chingana presents so eccentrically droll an appearance, that it would defy the pencil of Callot, and is beyond all description. Let the reader figure to himself a low room, with smoky walls, the floor of which is but beaten earth, and rendered filthy by the detritus left by the feet of incessantly arriving and departing visitors. In the centre of this den, lighted only by a smoky lamp called a candil, by which it is impossible to distinguish more than the shadows of the customers, are seated four men upon stools. Two of them are twanging wretched guitars, which have lost most of their strings, with the backs of their hands; the third plays the tambourine with his thumbs upon a crippled table, striking it with all his might; whilst the fourth rolls between his hands a piece of bamboo six feet long, split into several strips, which yield the most discordant sound that can possibly be imagined. The four musicians, not content with the formidable clatter made by their instruments, shout, at the very top of their voices, songs which we can neither venture to repeat nor translate.

All this infernal noise is made to excite the dancers, who flutter about, assuming the most lascivious postures they can invent, amidst the hearty applause of the spectators, who writhe with delight, stamp their feet with pleasure, and sometimes, carried away by the harmony, thunder out all together, the burthen of the song, with the musicians and dancers. Amidst this disturbance, these cries and stampings, wind in and out the master of the establishment and his waiters, armed with couis of chicha, bottles of aguardiente, and even guarapo, to slake the thirst of the customers, who, to do them justice, the more they drink the more thirsty they become, and the more they wish to drink.

Twice or thrice in the course of an evening, it may happen that some of the guests, more heated than the rest, or seized by the demon of jealousy, take it into their heads to quarrel. Then knives are drawn from the polena, ponchos are rolled round the left arm to serve as bucklers, the music ceases, and a circle is formed round the combatants. The sanguinary contest begins, and when one of the combatants has fallen, he is carried into the street, the music is resumed, the dance recommences, and no more is thought of the poor wounded or dying man.

It was in front of one of these establishments that the chief of the Dark-Hearts and his friend had stopped; they did not hesitate. Pulling up the folds of their cloaks so as to completely conceal their faces, they entered the chingana: in spite of the pestilential atmosphere which nearly choked them, they passed unnoticed through the drinkers, and gained the further end of the room. The cellar door stood ajar; they opened it softly, and disappeared down the steps. After descending ten of these, they found themselves in a cellar, where a man, leaning over a barrel, which he appeared to be occupied in putting in its place, said to them, without interrupting his work —

"Would you like some aguardiente de pesco, some mescal, or some chica?"

"Neither the one nor the other," Don Tadeo replied; "we wish for some French wine."

The man sprang up as if moved by a spring. The two adventurers had put on their masks.

"Do you wish to have it white or red?" the man asked.

"Red – as red as blood," said Don Tadeo.

"Of what year?" the unknown rejoined.

"Of that vintaged on the 5th of April, 1817," said Don Tadeo.

"Then you must come this way, gentlemen," the man replied, with a respectful bow; "the wine you do me the honour to call for is extremely valuable; it is kept in a separate cellar."

"To be drunk at Martinmas," Don Tadeo remarked.

The man, who seemed only to wait for this last reply to his question, smiled with an air of intelligence, and laid his hand lightly on the wall. A stone turned slowly round upon itself, without the least noise, and opened a passage to the conspirators, which they immediately entered, and the stone instantly returned to its place.

In the chingana, the cries, the songs, and the music had acquired an intensity really formidable; the joy of the tipplers was at its height.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE TWO ULMENS

If we were writing a romance instead of a true history, there are certain scenes of the recital which we would pass over in silence. The one which follows would certainly be of this number; and yet, though of a rather hazardous puerility, it carries with it its lesson, by showing what is the influence of the early habits of a miserable life, even upon natures the best endowed, and how difficult it is, at a later period, to shake them off. We will add, to the praise of Valentine, the man of whom we are speaking, that his gaminism, if we may be allowed to employ such a term, was much more feigned than real, and that his aim, in allowing himself to be sometimes led away by it, was to bring a smile to the lips of his foster brother, and thus cheat the sorrow that was undermining his peace.