Chapter IX: A Gleam of Hope

As soon as the party had disappeared, I turned to the major and said with a smile,--

"Now, my dear Santiago, let us attend to the needs of these poor fellows."

I was now standing full in the firelight, and he glanced at my face with a puzzled expression. Then a half gleam of recognition shone in his eyes, and he exclaimed doubtfully--

"Surely you can't be the boy Crawford who vanished so mysteriously from the fort?"

"I am, though!" said I, laughing at his amazement. "But we shall have time for a talk presently; let us do what we can for these poor fellows first. Is there any water in the cave?"

"Yes; there is a spring at the far end. I will fetch some. Put some more 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 our best for all the sufferers, gave them water to drink, arranged them comfortably on beds of straw, and bathed and bandaged their wounds. Then I washed the cut in my cheek, and Santiago smeared it with a native ointment, which he said possessed wonderful healing properties.

"Now," said he, "I judge you are ready for late supper or early breakfast, whichever you may prefer to call it. The provisions are homely, and I am an indifferent cook, but I can at least give you enough to eat. Those brigands of yours have stored sufficient food here for an army."

Carrying a torch, I accompanied him round the cavern, gazing in wonder at the piles of Indian corn, the heaps of potatoes, and the strings of charqui, 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 will require the least attention."

"And they are not bad if you are downright hungry, as I was when we crept in here after the affair at Mirabe. There's a smart soldier leading your men, Crawford."

"Yes; he is an Englishman named Miller, and a very fine fellow. But how come you to be here?"

"We'll talk over these things presently. Meanwhile, let us cook the potatoes. Bring another handful; I daresay two of the men will be able to eat a little breakfast."

"If it is breakfast!"

"It must be for us, because we had our supper before you paid us so unceremonious a visit. Of course we were betrayed."

"Well, as to that," I replied, "you must ask the colonel; I only acted under orders."

"Just so. Well, I am very pleased to see you, though I dislike the way in which you introduced yourself. Cut this piece of beef up finely while 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 grateful for the food we took them. Then we returned to the fire, piled up some sacks to serve as seats, and began our meal.

It was all most strange to me and very delightful; it might have been a chapter lifted bodily from one of my favourite story-books. There seemed to be a piratical flavour about the whole business.

"Perhaps it is as well that I gave my parole," exclaimed the major thoughtfully, taking off another potato.

"Why?" I asked.

"I might have felt tempted to escape," he replied, looking at the coil of rope.

"You forget your jailer carries a pistol," I remarked, laughing.

"An empty one," he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. "No, no, my boy; 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 Mariano is 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 to brigands should be held to."

I did not at all like this turn in the conversation, the more especially as my pistol was really empty. I had not dreamed of taking any precautions, trusting wholly in the Spanish officer's honour.

I looked up at him, and felt reassured; there could be no treachery hidden 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 food untouched. As for me, I helped myself to some more beef, though I must confess the major's wild talk nearly destroyed my appetite. His manner had changed so suddenly and abruptly that I knew not what to make of it. I might perhaps have reloaded my pistol without his knowledge, but this would be a confession that I had lost faith in him.

"Come," said I jocularly, pointing to his food, "you pay your cooking a poor 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 you before 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 to thwart me; I should be sorry if you got hurt. Sit still, my boy; don't stir a finger, or I will kill you!"

I looked at him in amazement. His face was flushed, his eyes shone wildly; he spoke with a rapid and angry vehemence.

"By St. Philip," he cried, "I should be a cur to place honour before loyalty! My duty is to my king, do you hear? Shall I help a parcel of bandits to set the king at naught? Shall I bring disgrace on a family that has stood by the throne for untold centuries? My father died on the battlefield with the king's banner above his head, as did his father 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, and when they were done he leaped to his feet with an angry cry. I sat in my place looking at him steadily, but making no movement.

"I tell you it is monstrous!" he continued. "I care nothing for myself, but I cannot desert the king!"

"His Majesty must be greatly in need of friends," I remarked dryly, "to accept the aid of a perjured soldier."

It was strong language. I knew it would hurt him cruelly; but a desperate disease requires a desperate remedy. I thought at first he would kill me. His eyes blazed fiercely, and he sprang forward with uplifted hands. Suddenly he paused, and returned abruptly to his seat.

Thinking it best not to disturb him, I rose and made the round of the wounded men. I felt awfully sorry for the young major, and almost wished he had not passed his word to José. Having done so, he must, of course, abide by it, unless he cared to live with tarnished honour.

Presently, returning to the fire, I threw some more fuel on, and sat down again on my heap of sacks. Santiago had covered his face with his hands, and was rocking himself gently to and fro, like a child in pain. Evidently the wild fit had passed, and he had overcome the temptation which had tried him so sorely.

For nearly an hour we sat there, speaking no word, then looking me straight in the face, he said suddenly,--

"Crawford, I have acted like a madman, but there is nothing to be feared now."

"Nor before," I answered cheerfully. "You would not have gone a hundred yards. Come, let us now dismiss the subject. After all, it was no more than a bad dream."

"By St. Philip," he exclaimed, "it was a very ugly one. However, I am in my right mind now, and as soon as we arrive at Moquegua I will withdraw my parole. Then if a chance to escape comes, I can avail myself of it with an easy conscience. You have not reloaded your pistol?"

"No. Why should I? there is no need of it."

"Not now," he said. "I am master of myself now," and he actually smiled.

"You were going to tell me some news," I observed, after a pause. "Now that you have roused my curiosity, I hope you will satisfy it."

I spoke half jestingly, and more for the sake of keeping up the conversation than in the expectation of hearing any particular information. It was unlikely, I considered, that Santiago could tell me anything of real interest. In this I was much mistaken, as you will find.

"I don't know," said he thoughtfully, "that it will be doing you any real kindness, yet it is only right that you should know. Of course, you will understand that your escape occasioned some little stir among the garrison of the fort."

"I am quite ready to believe it," I replied, chuckling at the remembrance. "I have often laughed to think of your astonishment in the morning."

"It was no laughing matter to us, I can assure you. The commandant was furious, and went about vowing vengeance against everybody. Search-parties scoured the neighbourhood in all directions, but with no result, and we at last concluded that by some means you had been taken off by ship."

"Quite a wrong conclusion," I interposed.

"We could think of no other. However, to get on with the story. In the 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, the commandant 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," laughed Santiago.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, affecting to feel disappointed, "that alters the case. 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 the matter, but it seems to be something in this way. When we have crushed this rebellion, the estates of those who have borne arms against the king 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 can gather, Barejo thought that by preventing you from joining the rebels something might be saved from the wreck."

"That was very kind of the general," I remarked. "I had no idea that he took any interest in my affairs. But isn't it possible, major, that you are going a trifle too fast? Suppose, for instance, that the rebels, 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 possible likelihood, your father will keep his property."

At first I thought he had forgotten, but something in his face held my attention, 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. I can only tell you he was not slain that day in the mountains. He was dangerously wounded, but was still living when the soldiers carried him away."

"Where did they take him?"

"That I do not know; neither, I think, does Barejo. Perhaps, and in my opinion most likely, to the forts at Callao."

The major's news, as you may imagine, filled me with the liveliest astonishment and excitement. My father alive! I could hardly credit the statement. What would my mother say? How would she receive the startling information? I rose from my seat and walked about the cavern, trying to think it over coolly.

Then it dawned upon me why Santiago had said he would not be doing me any real kindness in talking of the discovery. After all, his information only reopened the old wounds. More than two years had passed since my father's disappearance, and many things had happened in that time. Not every one who entered the casemates of Callao came out alive.

"But," said I aloud, "some one must know the truth. A man can't be shut up without authority, even in Peru."

"I wish I could help you," replied the major. "As soon as I escape from Moquegua I will make inquiries."

"Thank you; but I fear it will be a long time to wait," I answered gloomily.

"Not at all! La Hera will return in a week or two, and your Miller will be too busy running away to look after prisoners. Imitate me, my boy, and make Hope your best friend."

In trying to cheer me he forgot his own distress. The light returned to his eyes, the smile to his face, and he seemed to have banished all memory of his recent despair.

"Come," said he cheerfully, "put your doubts and fears aside for the present. Our wounded want attention; we must not neglect them."

I tried hard to act upon his advice, but all the time continued to wonder whether my father was alive or dead. That was the one question that racked my brain, and to it I could give no answer.

We had just made our patients comfortable, with the exception of one who was dying fast, when a shrill whistle sounded outside.

"The surgeon!" I exclaimed, running to the entrance. "Yes, there he is with the guide and two soldiers."

"Two bandits!" said Santiago banteringly. "Give the men their proper name."

"Soldiers or bandits, they know how to fight. Help me to uncoil the rope, will you?"

"That's almost as bad as asking a man to make the noose he is to hang in. 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 worth paying for," he exclaimed.

"Hardly that," I replied; "but, as Barejo said, it keeps one out of mischief."

We lowered the rope, the guide attached the surgeon's instruments, and at a signal we hauled up. Then the rope went down again, the two soldiers climbed to the cave, and the doctor followed unsteadily. It was evident that this novel method of visiting patients found no favour in his eyes; he was obviously nervous, and twice during the ascent I quite expected to see him go headlong.

He was a citizen of Moquegua, very young, and utterly unsuited for his present errand. So great was his agitation that when he had planted his feet firmly on the floor of the cave his hands still clung like grim death to the rope.

"You're all right now," I said, leading him away from the mouth of the cave. "Rather a queer way of getting into a house, isn't it?"

"The saints preserve me!" he exclaimed, while his teeth chattered like castanets, "this is horrible. A dozen times, coming up that rope, I wished I'd never been born. But it's the last time I'll practise doctoring outside Moquegua."

"You did very creditably, I assure you, doctor," observed Santiago, whose eyes gleamed with fun; "such grace, such agility, is given to few. I should have thought your life had been spent in scaling mountains."

The doctor looked from Santiago to me, hardly knowing what to make of such flattery.

"Faith," exclaimed he at last, "I hope there is an easier way of getting down than of coming up."

"There is," said the major, "and much more expeditious. You have but to 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 this place 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 must tear ourselves from your side."

"Do your best with these poor fellows," I said. "The one in the corner yonder will not trouble you long; the others are getting on nicely. You will find this cavern quite a comfortable dwelling-place. There is plenty of food, a spring of clear water, and enough fuel to keep a fire going for weeks."

"Meanwhile," observed Santiago, "we will ask the good folks of Moquegua to 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 major prepared to descend.

"He will be killed," said he dolefully. "It is a clear case of suicide. Look, he has missed his foothold, and will be dashed to pieces!"

"Nonsense," I said, with a laugh; "there is no danger if you don't think about it. See, it is nothing but going down a flight of steps backwards." 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't worry about coming down; you'll find it an easy matter enough."

"Good-bye," answered he gloomily; "I shall never see you or any one else again. I shall die up here for certain."

The fellow was so genuinely frightened that I assured him we would devise some plan to rescue him; on which he brightened up considerably, and I began the descent. I asked the guide where he had left the horses.

"At the village, señor," he replied, "on the other side of the mountain."

In answer to a further question, he told us that the doctor would not cross the narrow track, and that they had, in consequence, been compelled 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 out pitilessly clear, and every chasm yawning wide, the place was enough to daunt the spirit of the bravest.

Familiarity had rendered the guide indifferent to the danger, but I felt as nervous as when crossing the previous evening. However, I could not make a parade of my anxiety, so I set foot on the narrow path with a jaunty air but quaking heart. Santiago smiled too, but I fancy he was by no means sorry when we gained the farther side without accident. Then we jested about the past danger, talking lightly and as if it were an affair of no moment. Nevertheless, I was thankful the heat of the sun provided an excuse for the perspiration that streamed down my face.