The Purple Land: Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Day had just dawned when I rose to join Mariano at the fire he had
already kindled to heat the water for his early _mat�_. I did not
like the idea of lying there concealed amongst the trees like some
hunted animal for an indefinite time; moreover, I had been advised by
Santa Coloma to proceed directly to the Lomas de Rocha, on the south
coast, in the event of a defeat, and this now seemed to me the best
thing to do. It had been very pleasant lying there "under the greenwood
tree," while those veracious stories of hags, lampalaguas, and
apparitions had proved highly entertaining; but a long spell, a whole
month perhaps, of that kind of life was not to be thought of; and if
I did not get to Rocha now, before the rural police were set to catch
runaway rebels, it would perhaps be impossible to do so later on. I
determined, therefore, to go my own way, and, after drinking bitter
_mat�_, I caught and saddled the dun horse. I really had not
deserved the severe censure Lechuza had passed on me the previous
evening in reference to horse-stealing, for I had taken the dun with
very little more compunction than one is accustomed to feel in England
when "borrowing" an umbrella on a rainy day. To all people in all parts
of the world, a time comes when to appropriate their neighbour's goods
is held not only justifiable, but even meritorious; to Israelites in
Egypt, Englishmen under a cloud in their own moist island, and to
Orientals running away after a fight. By keeping the dun over thirty
hours in my possession I had acquired a kind of prescriptive right to
it, and now began to look on it as my very own; subsequent experience
of his endurance and other good qualities enables me to endorse the
Oriental saying that a "stolen horse carries you well."

Bidding farewell to my companions in defeat, who had certainly not
been frightened out of their imaginations, I rode forth just when it
was beginning to grow light. Roads and houses I studiously avoided,
travelling on at an easy gallop, which took me about ten miles an hour,
till noon; then I rested at a small _rancho_, where I fed and watered my
horse and recruited my own energies with roast beef and bitter _mat�_. On
again till dark; by that time I had covered about forty miles, and began
to feel both hungry and tired. I had passed several _ranchos_ and
_estancia_ houses, but was shy of seeking entertainment at any of them,
and so went farther, only to fare worse. When the brief twilight was
darkening to night I came upon a broad cart-track, leading, I suppose, to
Montevideo from the eastern part of the country, and, seeing a long, low
_rancho_ near it, which I recognized as a _pulperia_, or store, by the
flagstaff planted before it, I resolved to purchase some refreshment for
myself, then to ride on a mile or two and spend the night under the
stars--a safe roof if an airy one. Tying my horse to the gate, I went
into the porch-like projection at the end of the _rancho_, which I found
divided from the interior by the counter, with its usual grating of
thick iron bars to protect the treasures of gin, rum, and comestibles
from drunken or quarrelsome customers. As soon as I came into the porch
I began to regret having alighted at the place, for there, standing
at the counter, smoking and drinking, were about a dozen very
rough-looking men. Unfortunately for me, they had tied their horses
under the shadow of a clump of trees some distance from the gate, so
that I had missed seeing them on my arrival. Once amongst them, however,
my only plan was to disguise my uneasiness, be very polite, get my
refreshments, then make my escape as speedily as possible. They stared
rather hard at me, but returned my salutation courteously; then going
to a disengaged corner of the counter, I rested my left elbow on it
and called for bread, a box of sardines, and a tumbler of wine.

"If you will join me, se�ores, the table is spread," said I; but they
all declined my invitation with thanks, and I began to eat my bread
and sardines.

They appeared to be all persons living in the immediate neighbourhood,
for they addressed each other familiarly and were conversing about
love matters. One of them, however, soon dropped out of the
conversation, and, edging away from the others, stood a little space
apart, leaning against the wall on the side of the porch farthest from
me. I began to notice this man very particularly, for it was plain to
see that I had excited his interest in an extraordinary manner, and
I did not like his scrutiny. He was, without exception, the most
murderous-looking villain I have ever had the misfortune to meet: that
was the deliberate opinion I came to before I formed a closer
acquaintance with him. He was a broad-chested, powerful-looking man
of medium height; his hands he kept concealed under the large cloth
_poncho_ he wore, and he had on a slouch hat that just allowed
his eyes to be seen under the rim. They were truculent, yellowish-green
eyes, that seemed to grow fiery and dim and fiery again by turns, yet
never for a single instant were they averted from my face. His black
hair hung to his shoulders, and he also had a bristly moustache, which
did not conceal his brutal mouth, nor was there any beard to hide his
broad, swarthy jowl. His jaws were the only part of him that had any
motion, while he stood there, still as a bronze statue, watching me.
At intervals he ground his teeth, after which he would slap his lips
together two or three times, while a slimy froth, most sickening to
see, gathered at the corners of his mouth.

"Gandara, you are not drinking," said one of the gauchos, turning to
him. He shook his head slightly without speaking or taking his eyes
off my face; whereupon the man who had spoken smiled and resumed his
conversation with the others.

The long, intense, soul-trying scrutiny this brutal wretch had subjected
me to came to a very sudden end. Quick as lightning a long, broad knife
flashed out from its concealment under his _poncho_, and with one
cat-like bound he was before me, the point of his horrid weapon touching
my _poncho_ just over the pit of my stomach.

"Do not move, rebel," he said in a husky voice. "If you move one hair's
breadth, that moment you die."

The other men all ceased talking and looked on with some interest, but
did not offer to interfere or make any remark.

For one moment I felt as if an electric shock had gone through me, and
then instantly I was calm--never, in fact, have I felt more calm and
collected than at that terrible moment. 'Tis a blessed instinct of
self-preservation which nature has provided us with; feeble, timid men
possess it in common with the strong and brave, as weak, persecuted
wild animals have it as well as those that are fierce and bloodthirsty.
It is the calm which comes without call when death suddenly and
unexpectedly rises up to stare us in the face; it tells us that there
is one faint chance which a premature attempt to escape or even a
slight agitation will destroy.

"I have no wish to move, friend," I said, "but I am curious to know
why you attack me?"

"Because you are a rebel. I have seen you before, you are one of Santa
Coloma's officers. Here you shall stand with this knife touching you
till you are arrested, or else with this knife in you here you shall
die."

"You are making a mistake," I said.

"Neighbours," said he, speaking to the others, but without taking his
eyes from my face, "will you tie this man hand and foot while I stand
before him to prevent him from drawing any weapon he may have concealed
under his _poncho_?"

"We have not come here to arrest travellers," returned one of the men.
"If he is a rebel it is no concern of ours. Perhaps you are mistaken,
Gandara."

"No, no, I am not mistaken," he returned. "He shall not escape. I saw
him at San Paulo with these eyes--when did they ever deceive me? If
you refuse to assist me, then go one of you to the Alcalde's house and
tell him to come without delay, while I keep guard here."

After a little discussion one of the men offered to go and inform the
Alcalde. When he had left, I said, "My friend, may I finish my meal?
I am hungry, and had just begun to eat when you drew your knife against
me."

"Yes; eat," he said; "only keep your hands well up so that I can see
them. Perhaps you have a weapon at your waist."

"I have not," I said, "for I am an inoffensive person and do not require
weapons."

"Tongues were made to lie," he returned, truly enough. "If I see you
drop your hand lower than the counter I shall rip you up. We shall
then be able to see whether you digest your food or not."

I began to eat and sip my wine, still with those brutal eyes on my
face and the keen knife-point touching my _poncho_. There was now
a ghastly look of horrible excitement on his face, while his
teeth-grinding performances became more frequent and the slimy froth
dropped continually from the corners of his mouth on to his bosom. I
dared not look at the knife, because a terrible impulse to wrest it
out of his hands kept rising in me. It was almost too strong to be
overcome, yet I knew that even the slightest attempt to escape would
be fatal to me; for the fellow was evidently thirsty for my blood and
only wanted an excuse to run me through. But what, I thought, if he
were to grow tired of waiting, and, carried away by his murderous
instincts, to plunge his weapon into me? In that case I should die
like a dog, without having availed myself of my one chance of escape
through over-caution. These thoughts were maddening, still through it
all I laboured to observe an outwardly calm demeanour.

My supper was done. I began to feel strangely weak and nervous. My
lips grew dry; I was intensely thirsty and longed for more wine, yet
dared not take it for fear that in my excited state even a very moderate
amount of alcohol might cloud my brain.

"How long will it take your friend to return with the Alcalde?" I asked
at length.

Gandara made no reply. "A long time," said one of the other men. "I,
for one, cannot wait till he comes," and after that he took his
departure. One by one they now began to drop away, till only two men
besides Gandara remained in the porch. Still that murderous wretch
kept before me like a tiger watching its prey, or rather like a wild
boar, gnashing and foaming, and ready to rip up its adversary with
horrid tusk.

At length I made an appeal to him, for I began to despair of the Alcalde
coming to deliver me. "Friend," I said, "if you will allow me to speak,
I can convince you that you are mistaken. I am a foreigner, and know
nothing about Santa Coloma."

"No, no," he interrupted, pressing the knife-point warningly against
my stomach, then suddenly withdrawing it as if about to plunge it intome.
"I know you are a rebel. If I thought the Alcalde were not coming
I would run you through at once and cut your throat afterwards. It is
a virtue to kill a Blanco traitor, and if you do not go bound hand and
foot from here then here you must die. What, do you dare to say that
I did not see you at San Paulo--that you are not an officer of Santa
Coloma? Look, rebel, I will swear on this cross that I saw you there."

Suiting the action to the word, he raised the hilt of the weapon to
his lips to kiss the guard, which with the handle formed a cross. That
pious action was the first slip he had made, and gave the first
opportunity that had come to me during all that terrible interview.
Before he had ceased speaking, the conviction that my time had come
flashed like lightning through my brain. Just as his slimy lips kissed
the hilt, my right hand dropped to my side and grasped the handle of
my revolver under my _poncho_. He saw the movement, and very
quickly recovered the handle of his knife. In another second of time
he would have driven the blade through me; but that second was all I
now required. Straight from my waist, and from under my _poncho_,
I fired. His knife fell ringing on to the floor; he swerved, then fell
back, coming to the ground with a heavy thud. Over his falling body
I leaped, and almost before he had touched the ground was several yards
away, then, wheeling round, I found the other two men rushing out after
me.

"Back!" I shouted, covering the foremost of the two with my revolver.

They instantly stood still.

"We are not following you, friend," said one, "but only wish to get
out of the place."

"Back, or I fire!" I repeated, and then they retreated into the porch.
They had stood by unconcerned while their cut-throat comrade Gandara
was threatening my life, so that I naturally felt angry with them.

I sprang upon my horse, but, instead of riding away at once, stood for
some minutes by the gate watching the two men. They were kneeling by
Gandara, one opening his clothes to look for the wound, the other
holding a flaring candle over his ashen, corpse-like face.

"Is he dead?" I asked.

One of the men looked up and answered, "It appears so."

"Then," I returned, "I make you a present of his carcass."

After that, digging my spurs into my horse, I galloped away.

Some readers might imagine, after what I had related, that my sojourn
in the Purple Land had quite brutalised me; I am happy to inform them
that it was not so. Whatever a man's individual character may happen
to be, he has always a strong inclination in him to reply to an attack
in the spirit in which it is made. He does not call the person who
playfully ridicules his foibles a whitened sepulchre or an unspeakable
scoundrel, and the same principle holds good when it comes to actual
physical fighting. If a French gentleman were to call me out, I daresay
I should go to the encounter twirling my moustache, bowing down to the
ground, all smiles and compliments; and that I should select my rapier
with a pleasant kind of feeling, like that experienced by the satirist
about to write a brilliant article while picking out a pen with a
suitable nib. On the other hand, if a murderous brute with truculent
eyes and gnashing teeth attempts to disembowel me with a butcher's
knife, the instinct of self-preservation comes out in all its old
original ferocity, inspiring the heart with such implacable fury that
after spilling his blood I could spurn his loathsome carcass with my
foot. I do not wonder at myself for speaking those savage words. That
he was past recall seemed certain, yet not a shade of regret did I
feel at his death. Joy at the terrible retribution I had been able to
inflict on the murderous wretch was the only emotion I experienced
when galloping away into the darkness--such joy that I could have sung
and shouted aloud had it not seemed imprudent to indulge in such
expression of feeling.

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