The Adventurers

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.