Chapter XIII: The Dying Ayah Tells of Bernard

Daylight dawned at last, and heavy rain began to fall, and soon even smoke itself had ceased to rise from the blackened woods and ruins of the village.

That the enemy still lay in ambush was evident, for now and then dusky forms could be seen moving about among the dark tree-trunks. Towards noon they came near enough to shoot darts at the fort from their blow-guns, and Tom found it necessary to fire once more.

The wounded ayah had remained insensible all night long, but at daybreak revived and beckoned Tom to her side.

“I am going,” she said. “I will be with my dear mistress soon, and if Bernard is dead I will be with him. I am glad.”

“But you do not think Bernard is dead?”

“I fear--nay, I hope he is. He will be at peace.”

Tom spoke not. He feared to say anything to confuse the dying woman. He tried even to control his feelings as he listened to the ayah’s terrible story of her slavery, and that of the poor boy, among the Indians. She spoke with difficulty, pausing often, sometimes even fainting away entirely. But Tom’s patience was rewarded at last.

The mutineers of the good ship _Southern Hope_ had taken Bernard and the ayah into the interior, as far as Riobamba, and there they were both sold. The poor ayah would have been happy even then had they both been bought by the same master, or even by the same tribe. But this was not so; for, while Bernard was first taken to the Jivaro country, and sold thence to one of the wildest tribes of the far interior, she had remained all along with the Zaparo Indians. They had not been altogether unkind to her, though the lord and master who had claimed her made her drudge and toil at household duties, like the slaves that the wives of the Indians there ever are. She had to prepare and cook his food with her own hands, see to his arms and clothing, make and dye the very material of which his garments were composed, and, while wandering from place to place and sleeping in the woods, she had even at night to lie down in the place most open to the attacks of the jaguar or puma, or more likely to be traversed by some deadly snake. For all these toils and acts of kindness her reward was nothing save the bite and the blow. Finally she had fled, and after adventures innumerable she had found her boy. Though it was many years since he had seen her, and he had grown up into a tall skin-clad young savage, he knew his second mother, and gladly ran away with her. Both had been captured by the Zaparos, and brought to the very village from which the ayah had fled. Here she was condemned to die, and her “injured” lord and master was to be the executioner.

As she lay in her grass hut on the night before her intended execution she heard some movement near her, and next minute a tiny dagger was put into her hands. Then she knew that her would-be deliverer was Bernard. She could have cut the cords that bound her now, and once more sought safety in flight, but she would not leave her boy. Dead or alive she would be with him.

The morning came, and she was led out to die. The Indians were there in their thousands to see the grand spectacle of a foreign woman being massacred by their chief. She was led to the stake; for death by torture was her intended doom. Bernard was placed close to her that he might witness her sufferings.

And now her master approached with stern, set brow to begin the torture.

Suddenly with her own hand her cords were severed, and with a yell like that of a panther she sprang upon the chief, and cast him on the ground stabbed to the heart.

For a moment the tribe was silent, paralysed as it were, and the ayah herself broke the spell.

Advancing to where Bernard stood she cut the

thongs that bound his hands, placed the spear of the dead chief in his hand, and waving her hands in the air above him:

“Behold your chief!” she cried. “The White Chief of the Zaparo Indians, sent by the Great Spirit to rule over them--and I am his mother!”

Then wild exclamations rent the air, as the Indians crowded round their new king and threw themselves on the ground before him.

All had been peace for years after this in the camping ground of the Zaparos. They became less nomadic in their tendencies, and built themselves better villages by the river. And whenever they were insulted by other tribes Bernard led them on the war-path; and they never failed to gain the victory, and to return home rejoicing, laden with spoil and many scalps.

The Zaparos are very warlike when roused; but prefer hunting to fishing, and are the most expert woodsmen probably in the world, and this is saying a great deal. The spear and the blow-gun are their weapons _par excellence_, and they are experts with either.

Bernard made a noble young chief. He had all the wisdom of the white race, combined with the cunning and training of the savages he had dwelt so long amongst. He had no fear, either when hunting or fighting. From hunting his party would return laden with skins and meat. He tackled single-handed either the jaguar or puma, and many a sturdy tapir fell beneath his spear. From a raid on the foe Bernard’s warriors came back with joy and song, and for weeks thereafter the sound of the war-drum was heard in all the villages by the river’s bank.

But Bernard was not wholly a savage; and it had come to pass that he was seized with an irresistible longing to see the ocean once more, and find out if possible if his mother still lived. So he chose from among his warriors fifty of the bravest and most trustworthy, and bidding the ayah adieu, amidst the tears of his people he departed on his dangerous journey.

Then fell the curtain over his life-drama. The dying ayah knew no more. He had never returned; but rumours reached the tribe that their white chief had been captured far beyond the rocky Andes, and that all his followers were killed by the hands of hostile Spaniards.

The poor ayah! She held Tom’s hand as her life was ebbing away. But she evidently was not afraid to die. The religion that had been instilled into her mind on board the _Southern Hope_ had been all through her weary life a guiding star to her, and let us hope that when daylight streamed through the fence, and fell on her pale dead face, the soul had gone to a land where there is no more sorrow.

They buried her there deep down in the sand; and that same evening the boats were loaded up, and in the hour of darkness, ’twixt sunset and moonrise, they dropped silently down stream, and succeeded in eluding their dangerous foes, who, no doubt, lay in wait near the sand-spit ready to renew their attack whenever opportunity offered.

As soon as the moon began to glimmer over the distant mountains they paddled towards the shore, and hid under the thick foliage till morning. Then after a hurried breakfast, principally of fruit, they once more embarked and went gliding down the river.

It was no part of Tom’s intention, however, to keep to the stream. It would have led him on to the great Marañon, or even into the wilds of Brazil. So the very next morning, being now safe from pursuit, they once more took to the woods, and the long and toilsome march was commenced towards the distant shores of the Pacific, and Guayaquil.

All speed, however, was made on the backward journey. There was no more dallying to collect beautiful butterflies, or to seek for more skins of bird or beast. If Tom could but succeed in saving the splendid collection he had already made he felt he should be more than happy. The party still depended on their guns for their living, however, and killed each day just sufficient food to carry them on.

Their adventures were of the usual sort already described, and many a hair-breadth escape both Tom and his companions had by flood and field.

While nearing Guayaquil, however, the fatigues on this terribly-forced march began to tell on Tom’s excellent constitution, and he fell sick.

A few days’ rest became imperative now.

“Just a few days, Samaro,” Tom said, “and I shall be well, and able to go on again.”

That night he was in a burning fever, and for three long weeks he hovered betwixt life and death.

But his youth claimed victory at last; and Samaro had been a most faithful nurse. It would have been difficult to say which of the two--Samaro or Black Tom--showed the greatest exuberance of delight when the master became quiet and sensible once more. About the first food that Tom ate was a tenderly-cooked cavy that this strange puss had caught and brought in. Indeed, Samaro said that all through Tom’s terrible illness hardly a day passed that the cat did not bring either a cavy or dead bird in, and he invariably jumped into his master’s hammock with the offering, laid it by his cheek, and then sat down to watch his face.

So now that Tom was apparently out of danger, both Samaro and the faithful cat went about singing--each in his own way--from morning till night.

One day as Tom lay in his hammock, with the end of the tent thrown up to let him breathe the fresh, pure mountain air, and feast his eyes on the wild and beautiful scenery all around the camp, he heard strange voices, and in another minute, lo! there stood before him a tall and somewhat ungainly Quaker-looking Yankee.

That he was a Yankee Tom could tell at a glance, and the first words he spoke confirmed it.

“My name’s Barnaby Blunt,” he said, throwing his rifle on the grass; “and I’m mighty sorry to see a young Britisher in such a plight as you are, sirr. But precious glad I’ll be if I can do you a service.”

Tom smiled feebly, and thanked him; but he was far too languid to talk much.

That did not matter much, for this Yankee could talk for two, or even for half a dozen at a push. And he had not squatted beside Tom’s hammock much over ten minutes before his listener had his whole history, and that of his wife and wife’s family.

But Barnaby Blunt proved himself a true friend indeed, and to his disinterested kindness Tom no doubt owed his life.

“I’m only hunting about here,” he told Tom, “and it ain’t a deal o’ matter where I goes; but out o’ this camp I don’t budge for a week, and by that time I’ll have you taut and trim enough to come along. Trust Barnaby Blunt to do the right thing for a stranger, and all the more if that stranger be a Britisher.”

Tom smiled, and feebly thanked him.

“My wife’s a Britisher; but for all that ye won’t find a longer-headed old gal about anywhere’s than ’Liza Ann. ’Liza Ann is my wife’s name, and ’_Liza Ann_ is the name o’ my ship; and now you see what kind o’ water you’re in.” “But,” he added, after a brief pause, “I’m not going to bother you now. I’ll come again. My camp’s only just over here.”

Barnaby did come again--that very evening, too. And he did not come empty-handed either. Before he sat down on a package--which was the only thing by way of a chair the tent contained--he began to empty his pockets, and Tom could not help smiling at the magnitude and diversity of their contents. Pots of jelly, parcels of Iceland moss, boxes of marvellous tonic pills, bags of arrow-root, and bottles of wine. He handed the things one by one to Samaro, and then he sat down.

“Now, young fellow,” he said, “you haven’t got anything else in this world to do or to think about but getting well. And as to that, why, your worthy servant and myself will shore you up in a brace of shakes. No, you mustn’t talk. You must listen, and I guess I’ll amuse you. See here, you’ve been in the wilds for about a year, haven’t you?”

Tom nodded.

“That’s right,” continued the Yankee. “Nod your head for ‘Yes;’ shut your eyes for ‘No.’ Give yourself no earthly trouble about anything, and we’ll get on like a boundless prairie on fire. You’ve been out o’ the world, I’ve been in it, and every night I’ll tell you or read you some news.”

Barnaby was as good as his word. He came regularly every forenoon and every evening, and read or talked to Tom; and no woman could have been more kind or more considerate. It is not wonderful then that, in less than a fortnight, the patient was able to sit once more by the camp fire, and could give information as well as receive it. He told Barnaby all his adventures, and those of his uncle and Bernard as well. The Yankee marvelled very much at all he heard.

“Of course you have a collection of curios, haven’t you?”

“Rather,” said Tom proudly.

“Then I guess we can deal.”

“I guess we can’t.” And Tom laughed.

“Will you sell the cat? Why, there’s a small fortune in that animile.”

But Tom refused to sell his favourite.

“And now,” said the Yankee one evening, “I’m going to sea for three months, and as you’ve nothing particular to do, why, come along. It’ll set you up for life. What say?”

“I accept your hospitality,” said Tom “and thank you very much.”

“Don’t you dare thank me. By thunder, sir, if you thank me I’ll throw you overboard. Barnaby Blunt wants no reward, not even a wordy one. But you’ll come?”

“Like a shot.”

“Spoken like a man and a Britisher. Tip us your flipper. Now, good-night; I’ll go and get ready for the march.”

“Good-night, and may God himself reward you.”

“Amen,” said Barnaby, and next minute he was out of sight.

A week after this Tom was back in Guayaquil, and had bidden his faithful servants a long farewell.

The boy Rooph was disconsolate in the extreme, and shed tears abundantly.

To comfort him in some measure Tom gave him his photograph.

“Ah,” said the lad, “you leave wid me, then, your soul! O, I shall ever love it, and I shall weep when I look at it when you are far from poor Rooph!”

Samaro was affected also, though he shed no tears.

“Perhaps,” he said somewhat sadly, “we shall meet again. I will live in hope, señor.”