Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

“We be, I’m thinking, sir. I noticed the Indians covering the front of their huts. I think everything is done, and, before I came in, sir, I slewed the funnel round against the breeze; that’s the way the fire burns so cheerily.”

“Thanks, Ritchie; I’m sure I don’t know what we would do without so genuine a sailor to keep us straight. Ah! here comes Pedro with steaming bowls of maté. Now, boys all, I call this the acme of comfort.”

“So do we all,” cried Peter, jovially. “Oh, here’s to the Queen, God bless her!”

“God bless her,” said Ritchie. “I wonders now if ever she drank a basin o’ maté in all her born days. Strikes me, as a sailor like, sir, it’s better nor tea and beer, and better nor all the rum in the universe.”

Our talk was now of home. This soon gave place to yarns of our various adventures, Ritchie being in excellent form to-night, and, between the whiffs he took of his Indian pipe, he related to us some marvellous experiences. Though his English was not of the best, he managed to make it graphic, and every picture he drew, we seemed to see before us. I suppose Castizo saw those pictures in the fire. He kept gazing steadily into it, at all events, and was more silent than usual.

Perhaps his thoughts were not in Ritchie’s stories at all. I felt now, as I sat near him, that Castizo had a story to tell of his own life, if he only would, and I felt, too, the story was a sad one.

Presently he seemed to awaken from a reverie; he pulled himself together, as it were, lit a fresh cigar, and smiled round on us.

“I’ve been dreaming, boys,” he said.

“Dreaming with them black eyes o’ yours open, sir?” said Ritchie.

“Ay, Ritchie, ay; I often dream with my eyes open. But, Peter, where is your pipe?”

Peter got his pipe out, and very delightful music he discoursed.

But in every lull of the conversation we could hear the wail of the snow-wind.

Many a time and oft, while wintering under the Norland lights, in the long drear Arctic night, have I thought of the months we spent in that wild woodland glen close by the forests of the Cordilleras.

I have thought of them, and of my pleasant companions, when my ship was snowed up for weeks, during which never a star was visible, nor even the Aurora itself, when the darkness was filled with ice dust, borne along all over the snow-fields by whirlwinds that ever and anon collided, creating a chaos in which no creature ever born could live for half a minute. I have thought of them when wandering over the Alaskan plains, or sharing his hut with the humble but friendly native of Kamschatka. I have thought of them, and never without a certain degree of retrospective pleasure not unmingled with sadness. For many of my companions in that lonesome glen have since gone to the Land o’ the Leal. Ah! that Land o’ the Leal, what a happy place it must be, if only from the fact that we shall meet there the dear ones we lost on earth, and – there will be no more sad “good-byes!”

When we awoke the next morning after we had listened to the moaning of the snow-wind through the forest, through the harsh-leaved forest, there was an unusual silence. There was no wind now, and the cold was intense. It was dark, too, but soon the drift was dragged from our window, and a cheerful face peeped in at us. It was Ritchie’s.

“Are ye all alive and kicking, lads?”

“All alive, Ritchie, thank you. The kicking has all to come.”

“Well, bear a hand, and rig up; the breakfast is ready to serve.”

And such a breakfast when we did leave our room! The fish and the eggs were enough in themselves to make a hungry man’s mouth water; but then, besides, there was a grill, the very odour of which I wonder did not bring all the wild beasts in the forest around us.

Castizo’s bed was in this room, but it had been made up long ago. And there was Castizo waiting for us. He had been out, too, for his potro boots lay near the door, and his feet were encased in cosy slippers.

“This is perfectly jolly,” said Peter.

“It is delightful!”

“It is delightful!” from Jill and me.

“I’ve been sitting here reading a little book,” said our cacique, “and now and then comparing our present life with that of the poor people who have to winter in London or New York. The cold, damp wind out of doors, the slush and the snow, the rattle and roar of wheels, the vulgar shouting in the streets, the questionable viands, and, worse than all, the people one meets at breakfast and dinner. Here we have chosen our companions – we have chosen each other; we like each other, and will help one another.”

“That we will,” said Ritchie.

“A good cook, a capital sailor-man, the broad, brave shoulders of a Lawlor, the best of Indians, and three young men of the world. Should we not be happy and thankful? Peter, help me to a little more of Pedro’s mush. And, Pedro, bring the teapot. Thank you. Place it near the fire again.”

“Yes,” I said, “independence is a truly delightful thing.”

“The world is uncharitable – I mean the civilised world: in towns and cities you hardly know how to look and live to please people. If you seem independent, they hate you; if you are obsequious, they despise you. Jill, here is a tit-bit – ostrich gizzard, my boy! Pedro, have you seen to the dogs?”

“But,” I said, “even in cities you find wheat among the chaff.”

Castizo laughed lightly.

“Yes,” he said, “an ounce of wheat to a hundredweight of chaff. My dear boy, I know life; and I advance that if you put the souls of city folks through a sieve, you might find a good big honest one in a thousand. No more, I assure you.”

Snow was the order of the winter in our present home. But this did not keep us within doors. On the contrary, I think it added to our pleasures. We had splendid riding. Even Peter enjoyed it, and although he had many a tumble, much to the delight of Nadi, falling among soft snow, he said, was not half so disagreeable as tumbling among the rocks. The snow gave the bumps a chance.

Two things we might have done, but could not. Skating on the frozen lake would have been delightful, only we had no skates. Sleighing would have been pleasant, too, but we had not the tools to make a sledge.

We had a rude species of tobogganing, however, and in fine weather this was a constant pleasure to us. The Indians had never seen anything of the kind before, and entered into the fun heart and soul. Even Nadi liked it.

Sometimes Peter condescended to descend the toboggan slide with her as her knight. But as she always would insist on taking “that blessed baby” – as Peter called it – with her, it was at times a little awkward, particularly when they disappeared all three in a snow-drift, or when they flew off the board half-way down the hill, and rolled the rest of the way. “Baby’s a brick, though,” Peter said; “the little rascal never cries, just squeezes the snow out of its eyes with its knuckles, winks to me, and laughs.”

Yes, tobogganing is great fun. It was the beavers, by the way, who first taught the Indians of the Rocky Mountains the game. Then the Indians taught the whites; and I think it is far from fair not to erect a monument to the beaver in some public thoroughfare in Montreal or New York.

Peter and I, with the assistance of others, established a kind of circus. This was also great fun. The feats of horsemanship performed in our circle before the log-hut doors, I have never seen surpassed at any hippodrome at home or in Paris.

We had old men riders, bare-back, standing and sitting.

We had young boy riders.

We had girl riders. We had infant riders.

We had lasso performances and bolas play. Before the winter drew to a close, I verily believe that our company was good enough to make our fortune in any large city of Europe.

Peter once undertook to ride a Pampas pony, or rather a dwarf horse.

“It seems simple,” said Peter, “and I won’t have far to fall.”

Well, if Peter had studied for a month how best to amuse these Indians, he could not have fallen upon a better plan. “Fallen” did I say? Yes; and it seemed all falling, for Peter was no sooner on than he was off again; and the variety of different methods that pony adopted in spilling him proved it to be a little horse of the rarest versatility. No wonder Nadi clapped her hands as she shouted with laughter, crying —

“O, O, Angleese! Angleese!” Had this been an intentional display of Peter’s powers, it really would have been exceedingly clever; but tumbling off a horse came natural to Peter, so that instead of trying to fall off in a great many different ways, as the Indians all thought he was, he was all the while doing his very best to keep on top, as he called it.

Peter’s performance brought down the house, but it brought up his bumps again.

If tobogganing, hunting in the plains and forest, and fishing in the rivers, with circus riding, were our outdoor games, at night innocent games of cards, story-telling, singing, and dancing, helped to pass away the time till ten o’clock, after which all was silence in and around the camp and huts, except the doleful chant of the sentries.

The Indians by day, however, were certainly not always playing. They were often enough busy manufacturing various articles from silver, iron, copper, and wood, to say nothing of pipes. All these would barter well when spring came round and they met once more the white men of Santa Cruz, or even of Sandy Point itself. All this was men’s work; meanwhile the women were busy sewing skins.

Peter had already been presented with his little skunk-skin poncho or capa, and very proud he was thereof.

“Aren’t you fellows jealous!” he said, as he went marching up and down to show it off. “Just wait till you get a little poncho; there will be no holding you for pride.”

So one way or another the winter wore away far more quickly than would be imagined. Of course, Jill and I often thought of home and mother and Mattie. Sometimes our hearts would give an uneasy thud, as we remembered how long a time it was since we had seen them, or even heard from them.

What if our darling mother were dead! This would indeed be the greatest grief that could befall us. We could only hope for the best, and pray.

Every Sunday all through the winter we had reading and prayers in the log hut. Jeeka and his wife were constant in their attendance, and if Nadi did not understand all that was said, let us hope she learned enough for her soul’s salvation.

Grief had not yet visited our little settlement, but, alas! it was to come.

August was nearly at a close, and we were beginning to look forward to the coming of spring, when a more bitter snowstorm came on than any we had yet known. The snow was not so very deep, but the wind was very high and keen.

Early on the second morning of the second day of the storm, Nadi came running to our log-house, and, wringing her hands as if in terrible grief, asked for Peter.

“Nadi, what is it?” cried Peter, in great concern to see her tears. “What has happened?”

Nadi spoke English now. That showed how great and real was her anguish.

“Oh, come, come!” she cried; “come you, quick, plenty quick. De leetle coqueet, he die. Oh, come!”

Peter never stayed even to put his cap on, but hurried away through the snow with Nadi towards the Indian toldos.

It was too true. The poor baby was in extremis. Peter bent over it as he sat down. It knew him, and smiled in his face.

Peter gave it his forefinger, as he was wont to do, and this the poor little thing clutched with its soft hand, and held until it died. Child though it was, holding Peter’s finger seemed to give it confidence. It was as if some one was leading it safely through the dark valley.

I had never seen tears in Peter’s eyes till that morning.

Let us hope poor baby soon saw the Light.

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Dreaded River-Lion – Adventure on the Plains – Lost in a Snowstorm – “To Sleep were Death.”

The grief of Jeeka and his wife Nadi for the death of their infant was positively painful to witness. Every one in the camp seemed also to partake in it. There was a kind of wake held the night before the funeral, and the wailing was greater than anything I have heard in Ireland on a like occasion.

At the grave, the horse on which Nadi and baby had travelled all across the Pampa was thrown and strangled, and all the child’s trinkets and playthings and even clothes were burned. The body was rolled in a guanaco robe and laid to rest, the clods were heaped in, and snow put over these. Then we all came silently back.

Next day everything was in statu quo except that baby was not there. We could trace signs of deep grief and a sleepless night in Jeeka’s and Nadi’s faces but they made no reference of any kind to their dead and gone darling.

One calm cold day, Ritchie and Jill returned from the river to say that they had seen a most wondrous sight. A huge animal with terrible teeth and eyes, shaped somewhat like a tiger, had rushed up out of one of the deepest, darkest pots or pools and attacked a native dog which was standing near.

The fight had been sharp and fierce, but before assistance could be rendered, the beast, whatever it was, had conquered the dog and dragged him down under water.

“Gol de Rio. Gol de Rio,” said Jeeka, who had heard the account. “Not go near. He all same as one Gualichu. Bad man! So, so.”

“Bad man here, or bad man there,” said Ritchie, “I mean to have a shot at him.”

We backed Ritchie in his wish, but as there was evidently no chance of getting Jeeka to come with us, we determined to set out ourselves next day.

We did, and waited four hours in ambush. But all in vain. The Gol de Rio, or water-lion, never showed face.

“He is gorging on the poor dog,” said Ritchie. “Let us give him a rest for a day or two.”

“I’ve a plan,” said Jill. “Let us tether the guanaco lamb to the bank, and stand by with our guns.”

The lamb was a poor forsaken little beast we had found half-dead beneath a tree, and taken home and tried to rear.

The plan was feasible. We went very early next morning and tied the wee thing up to a bush near the bank. It seemed to know there was danger as if by instinct, for it struggled and cried most plaintively and pitifully.

Meanwhile we hid behind a rock, with our guns in position.

We had not long to wait. First there was a ripple on the pool, then a monster brownish-yellow head was protruded, with paws near it paddling lightly as if for support. The face was whiskered, and the eyes looked extremely fierce. The beast looked cautiously round first, then it eyed the shivering lamb, and at once made for the bank.

When near its intended victim, it stopped as if about to spring, moving its long moustache rapidly fore and aft, as a cat does.

Three rifles rang out sharp and clear in the wintry air. Next moment the huge beast had turned on its back, and its death struggle was a brief one.

This was Jeeka’s Gol de Rio. He certainly merited the title; a more repulsive specimen of river otter I have never seen, before nor since.

We dragged him home with a lasso, and the Indian women and children ran screaming to their toldos when they saw him.

I was told afterwards that this river-lion had more than once seized children who were playing on the banks of the stream, and I can easily believe it.

Do horses, I have often wondered, possess any instinct to warn them of coming danger? The following adventure would seem to prove that they do.

One bright clear morning, Jill and I made up our minds to ride over to the lake in the plains and bring home, if possible, some birds. We took with us Ossian and Bruce. There was not a cloud in the sky when we set out, and all the surface of the ground was covered with hard dry snow. Unlike Patagonian Indians, white men cannot go very long without food; so Jill and I took a good solid luncheon in our bags, quite enough for ourselves and the dogs also. We had a snack behind our saddles also, so that I might say no huntsmen ever started in quest of sport under happier auspices.

“Good-bye, Peter, if you won’t come,” “Good-bye, Peter, if you won’t come,” we cried.

“My bumps!” shouted Peter.

So we waved him a laughing “Adieu!” and went cantering off.

“As the frost is so hard and the day so fine,” I said to Jill, “I think we’re sure to find some feathers on the lake, for it seldom if ever freezes.”

“We’re sure to, Jack. And won’t we look fine, clattering into camp to-night with the ducks and the geese all dangling to our saddles.”

“Peter will be jealous.”

“Poor Peter! it’s a pity he can’t ride better.”

So on we trotted, talking and laughing right merrily. Presently Jill said —

“Sing, Jack; I can give you a bit of a bass.”

I did sing, a rattling old saddle-song that I had learned at the Cape. Jill joined in, the horses’ feet kept excellent time, and the very dogs barked with glee as they went galloping on in front.

“Could anything be more jolly?” said Jill.

“Nothing in the world, Jill. I feel as happy as a village maid on her marriage morning.”

“Yes, and happiness and hunger go together. I think I could pick a bit already.”

“Jill, Jill! you’re just the same now as when a boy. Put anything in your pocket, and there never was any keeping your hands from it.”

At long last the black water of the lake appeared, and our happiness came to a crisis when we noticed numerous flocks of birds on it, grey, black, and white.

We would have a good bag.

We trotted round the water’s edge and finally dismounted.

All the forenoon we walked about, and had many a good shot. Bruce duly retrieved everything, and Ossian sat on the bank and looked on.

Then we went back to our horses, fed them and had our own luncheon; resting a good hour afterwards on the snow. The sun was shining so brightly that we did not feel the cold.

It was by this time pretty far on in the afternoon, but we had not yet made up the splendid bag we had promised ourselves; so we determined to continue the sport, although we already felt somewhat tired, the ground being rather rough.

This time we took the precaution to tie our horses to the calipaté or barberry bushes, with lassoes.

The day drew so quickly to a close – apparently, I mean, for time does slip fast away when one is enjoying himself.

When the sun sank at last, we found ourselves two good miles at least from our homes. We could not do the distance on such ground, and carrying so much game, under an hour.

“Never mind, Jill,” I said; “there will be a moon, you know.”

“Half a moon, but that’ll be enough. I believe I shall quite enjoy the canter home under the stars.”

“What is that yonder, Jill?” As I spoke, I pointed to a long white ridge that was slowly rising over the wooded hills and sierras.

“That is cloud!”

“I hope we are not going to have a change of weather.”

“Never mind, we’ll soon get home. An hour and a half will do it. Hurry up.”

We had been looking for a few minutes more at the ground beneath our feet than at anything else. When I glanced along the lake edge again, I could not believe my eyes, for a moment or two.

Jill gazed in the same direction.

“Our horses were gone!”

Far away on the plain we could descry two black moving spots. These were our steeds, but miles beyond our power of recall.

Night had quite fallen before we left the lake side, for we had to go right back to the places from which our horses had stampeded for our guanaco mantles.

The stars were shining brightly, and high in the heavens was Jill’s half-moon; so that for a time we had light enough. We gave many an anxious glance towards the west, however. We naturally wondered whether our horses had gone straight home. If so, assistance would speedily come. It was unlikely, however, for, excited with having obtained their freedom, the animals would be more apt to make for the forest, there to play truant for a time and crop the twiglets – already breaking into bud and burgeon – from their favourite bushes and trees.

By the time we had walked about three miles we felt very tired indeed, and agreed to abandon our game. We put them, therefore, in a heap on the plain, and continued our journey. But for that ominous cloud bank which was rising higher and higher, we should have taken the journey more easy, and perhaps have rested a while.

On we walked, almost dragging our weary limbs now. The night still continued fine, the moon seemed to change into molten silver, the stars literally sparkled and shone like diamonds in their background of dark ethereal blue.

There was something almost appalling, however, in the gradual approach of that great sheet of cloud, rising grim and dark on the western horizon. It came on and up more swiftly every minute, and soon covered one whole third of the heavens.

On and up, on and upwards, swallowing star after star, constellation after constellation, and now it has reached the moon itself, and for a moment only its outer edge is a rim of golden light; then the moon too disappears, is buried in the black advancing mass. Almost at the same time the wind comes moaning over the plain, accompanied with driving snow. It increases every minute, and soon it is nearly impossible to walk against it.

It is almost a hurricane now; it moans no longer, it roars, shrieks, howls around us, and the snow freezes into cakes upon our garments, into ice on our faces, into icicles on our hair.

Sometimes we turn round and walk with our backs to the terrible blast. Often we fall, but we help each other up, for we are hand in hand as brothers ever should be.

Jill whispers – it seems but a whisper though he is shouting – in my ear at last.

“I can do no more, brother. I am sinking.”

I feel glad – glad of the excuse to sink down among the snow and rest a little. Only a little. We creep close together, with our backs to the storm, pulling up our mantles round our heads and drawing in our legs for warmth. Oh, those good guanaco mantles, what a blessing they are now!

I keep talking to Jill and he to me, though we each have to shout into the other’s ear.

I remember calling —

“Jill, we must not sleep. Are you drowsy?”

“No, not very.”

“To sleep were death.”

After a few moments, in an agony of desperation, thinking and fearing more for my brother than myself, I spring up, and again we try to wrestle on. The dogs keep close to our heels, though we hardly can see them, so covered are they with snow and ice.

In vain, in vain. We can go no farther, and once more take shelter beneath our robes of skin. Ossian and Bruce creep partly between us.

We talk no more now, but determinedly try to keep awake.

A whole hour must have passed in this way. I am not on the plain now, it seems to me. I am wandering with my brother over the moorland at home, where when boys we met the convict. But the moor is strangely changed; it is all a-glimmer with radiant light. Every bush, branch, twig, and twiglet seem formed of coloured light or flame; the scene is gorgeous, enchanting.

Suddenly, all is dark. My brother is wrenched away from my grasp, and – I awake shrieking. I awake to find myself lying on the log-house floor on a couch of guanaco skins.

My brother is safe, and even the dogs.

In an hour’s time we are both well enough to get up and refresh ourselves with a cup of Pedro’s yerba maté.

But our escape had been little short of miraculous. We had wandered a long distance out of the track, for the wind had gone round, and were entirely buried when found, only faithful Ossian and Bruce’s voices had been heard high above the roaring storm.

We owed our lives to them.

Chapter Twenty Nine

The Fight ’twixt Winter and Spring – A Never-to-be-Forgotten Evening – Attacked by Northern indians – The Fire

Would Springtime never come again?

We had expected it weeks ago. The birds and beasts in the forest had expected it too. The former had commenced to sing, the latter had grown unusually active; guanacos had been in search of tender herbage, pumas had been in search of the guanacos. Hungry, lank, dismal-eyed foxes had come down to stare at the toldos when the dogs were eating; and even the armadillos had unrolled themselves from cosy caves and corners, and crawled at night towards the encampment.