Chapter 9. The Indian's Hut...

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_ CHAPTER NINE. THE INDIAN'S HUT--ALARMING NEWS

When consciousness at length returned, a very different scene met my sight. I had an idea that something dreadful had occurred, but what it was I could not tell. My belief was, that I had been dreaming that I had witnessed a battle, that I had fallen from my horse and hurt myself, and that I had been lifted up and carried along on men's shoulders to some distant place. I had an indistinct recollection of a face full of tenderness often bending over me; but whether it were white or red I could not tell, the expression only had made any impression on me. There was, however, so great a want of clearness and reality in what I have described, that when I once more began to collect my thoughts, I was unable to determine whether or not I had been dreaming all the time, and was still half asleep.

At length I opened my eyes, and discovered that I was lying under the shade of a small hut or wigwam, composed of the boughs of trees, and thatched carefully over with straw. My couch was on the ground; but it was a very soft one, for the bed was stuffed with a quantity of the fine wool of the vicunas, and covered with a delicately woven woollen stuff.

The hut stood in an open space amid a forest of gigantic trees, such as a tropical clime can alone produce. Beyond were dark and frowning rocks, above which rose ridges of lofty mountains, one overtopping the other, till the more distant, covered with a mantle of everlasting snow, seemed lost in the clouds. The sky overhead was of intense blue; and through it sailed, with outstretched wings, a mighty condor, carrying in his talons a kid he had snatched from the valley below to his eyrie on the summit of the rugged cliffs in the distance. I watched the majestic bird as it sailed along, forgetful of my own condition, and wondering whether any one would be able to rescue the poor animal from its impending fate. On it went, growing smaller and smaller, till it became a mere speck in the sky, and then disappeared altogether.

This trifling circumstance served to arouse me, and I began to look about me with some attention. I discovered, at length, that the forest glade was not tenantless, for the part farthest removed from me was crowded with dense masses of Indians, who were collected round one who, by his height, his rich dress, and noble bearing, I conjectured to be a chief, though I never recollected to have seen him before. Other Indians kept arriving from all sides through the forest. He stood elevated above the rest on a mound of earth under a canopy of cloth of many colours; and I observed that the _borla_, the red fringe worn only in ancient days by the proud Incas, bound his brow. From this sign I could have no doubt that he was the well-known chieftain, Tupac Amaru, the lineal descendant of the Incas, and the elder uncle of my friend Manco. By the Indians he had been known usually by the name of Condorcanqui, and by the Spanish as Don Jose Gabriel, Marquis de Alcalises, a title which had been given to one of his ancestors by the King of Spain.

He was addressing the multitude in a harangue which, from the distance he was from me, I could not hear. The people listened with deep earnestness and silence, till some expression aroused their passions, when brandishing their weapons, their bows, their clubs and spears, they uttered shouts of approval, or wild cries of defiance and hatred to their foe.

I had no doubt that I was in one of the strongholds of the Indians, among the mountains on the eastern side of the Andes. The Inca, for so I may call him, continued speaking for an hour or more, when I again fell off into a sleep or stupor. I had discovered that I was wounded both in the head and side; and I felt dreadfully weak and ill. The sun was just gliding behind the mountains when I again opened my eyes. By my side sat a young and very beautiful woman, her large black eyes and the tinge of copper in her complexion showing that she was of Indian birth.

In front of the hut stood a man whose figure I thought I knew. An exclamation of surprise escaped my lips. He turned his head at the sound of my voice, and I recognised, to my joy, the chief Manco. He knelt down by my side.

"Ah! my young friend, I rejoice to hear you speak once again," he said. "My wife and I have watched over you anxiously, for we thought with sorrow that you would never recover."

I did not before know that Manco had a wife. "You have been very good to me; and had it not been for her care, I must have died," I replied. "I dare say I shall now soon get well; but can you tell me anything of my parents and my brothers and sisters? Is Ithulpo with you?"

"I can give you no tidings of them," he replied, turning away his head. "Ithulpo has not come back to us, and I know not where he is."

"My poor father and mother! they will think I have been killed," I ejaculated. "It will make them grieve very much."

"They will trust in God and hope for the best, as you must, my friend," he observed. "But I must not let you talk, or it will bring back the fever which has been on you. Nita will watch over you, for I have matters which call me away." As he spoke, his young wife handed me a cup filled with a cooling draught distilled from herbs, which I drank eagerly off. "That will do you good," he remarked. "To-morrow, if you are stronger, I will answer the questions I see you are eager to put. Now, farewell!" He shook his head when he saw that I was about again to speak, and went off across the glade.

I next tried to interrogate Nita, speaking in the Quichua language, supposing she did not understand Spanish; but with a smile she signed to me not to talk.

"Sleep, stranger, sleep," she said in a sweet musical voice in her native tongue; "it will strengthen you to undergo the toils which are in store for you. My husband has promised to tell you more to-morrow. I must quit you if you persist in talking."

Seeing that she was determined not to answer any of the questions I longed to ask, I felt that it would be ungrateful not to do as she desired me, and I once more resigned myself to sleep.

The next day I felt better and stronger, and my wounds were healing rapidly; but Manco did not return, and Nita told me that he was engaged in mustering and arming his followers. She would, however, give me no other information. I felt very sad and solitary, notwithstanding her kindness; for, whenever I could collect my thoughts, I could not help fearing that some misfortune had befallen those I best loved on earth. Fortunately I slept or dozed away the greater part of the day, and this, I suspect, contributed to the rapidity of my recovery, aided by my good constitution and the pure air I breathed. At night Nita sent an old woman to sit by me, who was relieved by a young lad of my own age. I expected to gain some information from the latter, for he looked very intelligent; but when I spoke to him he shook his head, and I afterwards discovered that the poor fellow was deaf and dumb. There were several huts near mine, one of which I found was occupied by Nita and her husband.

Three days passed away, and at last, to my great joy, Manco came back. He seemed in high spirits when he spoke of the prospects of his people. He told me that the Indians throughout the whole of the mountain districts of Peru were up in arms, and that whenever they had encountered the Spaniards the latter had been defeated; though he confessed, with regret, that many atrocities had been committed by the enraged natives, and that the white inhabitants of whole villages and districts, including women and children, had been cruelly massacred, as had also the negroes and those with any white blood in their veins.

I may as well here pause in my personal narrative to give a short account of the cause of the disastrous revolt of the Indians of Peru, from which so many thousand lives were sacrificed. I have already spoken of the systematic cruelty practised by the Spaniards from their first occupation of the country, and of the dreadful effects of the _mita_ (as the parcelling out of the people among the conquerors as slaves was called, under the pretence of enabling them to learn trades and to become domestic servants, as also to make them work in the mines); but another injustice was the immediate cause of the outbreak. This was the _repartimiento_. It was a law originally made by the Spanish Government, authorising the _corregidores_ to distribute among the natives goods imported from Europe at fixed prices, and which they were compelled to purchase whether they required them or not. Consequently, all sorts of things damaged and useless were sent out from Spain to Peru, where they were certain of realising a profit to be obtained nowhere else. Among them might be found silk stockings, satins, and velvets--razors for men who never shaved, and spectacles for those whose eyesight was excellent. I remember especially a consignment of spectacles arriving to a merchant at Lima. He could nowhere dispose of them, till he bethought himself of applying to a _corregidor_ of a neighbouring district, who was his friend, to help him. The latter threw no difficulty in the way.

"Your goods shall be sold immediately, my friend," he replied; and forthwith he issued an order that no Indian should appear at church or at festivals unless adorned with a pair of spectacles, intimating the place where they were to be sold. The poor people had to come and buy the spectacles, and to pay a very high price for them into the bargain.

The Spanish Government, when they framed the law, had doubtless no idea that it would be thus abused; their intention being to civilise the people by the introduction of European clothing and luxuries, and in that manner to create a good market for the product of the industry of the mother country. It is one of the many examples of the folly of attempting to force the interests of commerce by unjust laws. For a time a few merchants sold their goods; but the ultimate result, independent of the bloodshed which it caused, was that the Indians took a dislike to Spanish manufactures, and the Peruvian market was ultimately lost for ever to Spain.

The _repartimiento_ had lately been put in force by the _corregidores_ with even more than the usual injustice. The _corregidores_ were, I must explain, Spanish municipal officers, who had very great authority in the districts they governed; and as they were the receivers of all taxes, tributes, and customs, they were able to ensure it with unsparing rapacity, which they did not fail to do in most instances.

At length, after years of suffering, the Indian population were thoroughly aroused, and determined to throw off the hated yoke of the tyrants. Condorcanqui placed himself at their head; and before the Spaniards were aware of the storm which was gathering, he had collected a large but undisciplined army. He had two sons, called Andres and Mariano, and a brother named Diogo, all of whom assumed the title of Tupac Amaru, which means in the Quichua language, _the highly endowed_. Several others of his relations also assumed the same title, and took command of the patriots' forces in other parts of the country. The Spaniards, despising the Indians, and regardless of any warnings they might have received, were completely taken by surprise, and defeated in all directions. The villages in whole districts were totally destroyed, and several large towns were besieged, many of which were captured and the inhabitants put to the sword.

Of their first victory I had been a witness. Condorcanqui had been _cacique_ of the province of Tungasuca, the _corregidor_ of which was among the most exacting and rapacious of his class. For a long time the Indian chief had brooded over the sufferings of his countrymen, till he resolved to avenge them. He confided his plans to a few other _caciques_ only, and to his own relatives. They prepared the people by means of faithful emissaries throughout the country; and arms and munitions of war were collected with the greatest secrecy and expedition. At an appointed day the signal of revolt was given; and the _corregidores_ in many of the provinces, whom they looked upon as their principal oppressors, were seized and executed.

The _corregidor_ of Tungasuca had been entertaining a party of friends and some travellers at his house. The feast was over; they had taken their _siesta_; and other guests had assembled to pass the evening with music and dancing. His wife and daughters were there, and several ladies young and lovely. The gay guitar was sounding in the hall, and happy hearts and light feet were keeping time to the music. The _corregidor_ was standing apart from the rest in earnest conversation with a stranger.

"This is my farewell assembly," he observed. "I have now, thank Providence, amassed a fortune sufficient for my wants; and in a few weeks' time I shall sail for my beloved Spain. This country is a good one for making money, but for nothing else."

"It is a fine country, though; and history tells us was once a perfect paradise," remarked the stranger.

"A paradise it might have been when the fields were better cultivated and more mines were worked; but the people have chosen to die off, and those who remain are idle and lazy, and will not work," answered the _corregidor_, with a scornful laugh.

"They have lately taken to care very little for religion either," observed Padre Diogo, the family chaplain, who now joined the speakers. "When we go among them with the saints to collect offerings, our boxes come back not a quarter full."

Just then a servant, pale with terror, rushed up to his master.

"What is the matter?" asked the _corregidor_. "Speak, fool, speak!" for the man could only utter some unintelligible sounds.

"The Indians! the Indians!" cried the man, at length finding his voice. "The house is surrounded by thousands of them!"

"Impossible!" exclaimed the _corregidor_. "The slaves would not dare--"

Just then an unearthly cry rent the air. The music ceased, and the strangers hurried to go--the ladies clasping their partners' arms, and the children clinging to their mothers. Some of the men went to the windows. What the servant had reported was too true. On each side were seen, by the beams of the pale moon, dense masses of armed savages, forming an impenetrable barrier round the house; while others kept arriving from every direction.

"What means all this?" exclaimed the _corregidor_. "I will go out and order the slaves to disperse."

"O stay, stay!" cried his wife, clinging to him with an air of despair, which showed her too true forebodings of evil. "They are exasperated against you, and may do you harm. Let Padre Diogo go; he has influence with the people, and may persuade them to depart."

The _corregidor_ was easily persuaded to follow his wife's counsel, for his conscience told him that the Indians had just cause to hate him. One of the strangers suggested that efforts should instantly be made to barricade the house, and prepare for defending it, should the Indians be assembled with any hostile intention. The _corregidor_ was about to give orders to that effect, when another loud unearthly shriek paralysed the nerves of all the inmates.

"Oh, go, Senor Padre, go! save my husband and children!" cried the terrified wife.

"Save us! save us!" cried the guests, now fully aware of the horrible danger that threatened them.

Thus urged, Padre Diogo prepared, with many misgivings, to go forth and appeal to the people. He looked round with a sad countenance on those he had lately seen so full of life and gaiety.

"May Heaven and the saints protect you, my children," he said solemnly.

Then taking in his hand a crucifix which hung in a little oratory near the hall, he opened the front door of the house and stepped out among the crowd. He held the sacred symbol of his faith aloft in his hand. It served as his safeguard. No one attempted to injure him; but before he could utter a word, he was surrounded and hurried away from the house. No one would listen to his prayers and entreaties.

"Mercy, mercy, for the unfortunates in yonder mansion!" he cried.

"Mercy, mercy, Senor Padre! did they ever show mercy to us?" exclaimed a voice from the crowd.

He looked back; the Indians were pouring into the house. Loud agonised shrieks of women and children reached his ears. A few shots were heard, followed by the triumphant shouts of the Indians. Flames were seen bursting forth from the house. They burned up bright and clear in the night air. By their light he observed a man dragged along among a crowd of Indians. They stopped and appeared to be busily at work. In a short time a gibbet was erected near the burning building.

"You are required to shrive a dying man, Senor Padre," said an Indian who approached him.

He was led towards the engine of death. There, beneath it, he found, pale with terror, and trembling in every limb, the _corregidor_, his patron.

"They tell me, my son, that I am to perform the last offices of religion for the dying," said Padre Diogo.

"For me, Padre, for me!" exclaimed the _corregidor_ in a voice of agony. "Alas! it is cruel mockery. They have murdered my wife and children, my guests and servants--all, all are dead! and now they will murder me."

"I will plead for you; I will try to save your life," said the padre. "But they cannot have been so cruel--they cannot have murdered those innocents!"

"Alas! I speak true. Before my eyes they slew all I love on earth, and they only preserved me to make me endure longer suffering," said the wretched man.

"You are delaying to perform your duty," cried a voice from among the crowd of Indians.

"Mercy, mercy, for him, my children!" ejaculated the padre.

"He showed us none," answered a hundred voices in return. "Proceed, proceed, or he must die without shrift."

The padre felt there was no hope; but he attempted to make another appeal. He was answered in the same strain.

"My son, you must prepare your soul for another world," he whispered into the ear of the _corregidor_.

The unhappy man saw that indeed there was no hope for him, but still he clung to life. He dared not die. At that moment all his deeds of cruelty, all his tyranny, came crowding to his memory in a light they had never before worn. Of what use now was to him the wealth he had thus unjustly acquired? Oh! if men would at all times and seasons remember that they must one day die, and give an account of their deeds on earth, would it not restrain them from committing acts of injustice and wrong? The _corregidor_ attempted to enumerate his misdeeds. They were too many for him to recollect.

"I have offended--I have miserably offended!" he exclaimed in his agony.

"God is full of mercy. He rejoices in pardoning the repentant sinner," answered the padre.

But his words brought no hope to a doubting mind. He felt that his crimes were too great for pardon; though till that moment he had not considered them as crimes.

The priest then proceeded to administer to him the last sacrament of the Roman Catholic Church. He had scarcely concluded, when the Indians, who had stood around in reverential silence, raised a loud clamour for the instant execution of the culprit; but Padre Diogo was a brave man.

"My children," he cried, "you have already committed a great sin in murdering the innocents who this night have fallen by your hands. Their blood will cry to Heaven for vengeance. Preserve this man's life, repent, and pray for mercy."

A _cacique_ now stepped forward from among the crowd.

"Senor Padre," he said, "we listen to your words with reverence, for you are a priest, and have ever proved our friend; but this man was placed in authority over us, and most cruelly did he abuse that authority. He has been tried and found guilty. As his ancestors murdered our last Inca, the great Atahualpa, so he must die. He has but one minute more to live. We have already shown him more mercy than he deserves."

The tone, as much as the words of the speaker, convinced the padre that his penitent must die. To the last he stood by his side, whispering such words of consolation as he could offer. Several Indians, appointed as executioners, advanced; and in an instant the miserable man was hurried into eternity.

"For this man's death, the vengeance of his countrymen will fall terribly on your heads, my children," exclaimed the padre; for the proud spirit of the Spaniard was aroused within his bosom, and he did not fear what they might do to him. Too truly were his words afterwards verified. No one seemed to heed what he said; and he was led away from the spot by a party of Indians, in whose charge he was given by the chief Tupac Amaru. To his horror, he found that every man, woman, and child among the white inhabitants of the village had fallen victims to the exasperated fury of the Indians.

This account was given me some time afterwards by Padre Diogo himself; though I thought the present a proper opportunity of introducing it.

I will now return to my own narrative. I rapidly recovered my strength, and in a few more days was able to leave the hut and walk about without assistance; but my anxiety for the fate of my family was in no way relieved; and though Manco made all the inquiries in his power, he could afford me no consolation. I was sitting one evening in front of the hut, meditating what course to pursue, when Manco came and threw himself on the ground by my side. He took my hand and looked kindly in my face; but I saw that his countenance wore an expression of deep melancholy. With a trembling voice I asked him what news he had to communicate.

"Bad news, bad news, my young friend," he said; and then stopped, as if afraid of proceeding.

"Of my parents?" I inquired, for I could not bear the agony of suspense. "Speak, Manco; has Ithulpo not arrived?"

"Alas! no," he answered, sorrowfully shaking his head. "I have too certain evidence of Ithulpo's death; and, faithful as he was, he would never have deserted your parents. His body has been discovered near a village which has been attacked and burned by my countrymen. There can be no doubt that they had taken refuge within it. Alas that I should say it, who have received such benefits from them! The Indians put to the sword every inhabitant they found there, and among them your parents must have perished."

At first I was stunned with what he said, though I could not bring myself to believe the horrid tale.

"I will go in search of them," I at length exclaimed. "I will find them if they are alive; or I must see their bodies, if, as you say, they have been murdered, before I can believe you. The Indians, whom they always loved and pitied, could not have been guilty of such barbarity. If your countrymen have murdered their benefactors, I tell you that they are miserable worthless wretches; and the Spaniards will be justified in sweeping them from the face of the earth."

As I gave utterance to these exclamations, I felt my spirit maddening within me. I cared not what I said; I felt no fear for the consequences. At first, after I had spoken, a cloud came over Manco's brow; but it quickly cleared away, and he regarded me with looks of deep commiseration.

"Should I not feel as he does, if all those I loved best on earth had been slaughtered?" he muttered to himself. "I feel for you, my friend, and most deeply grieve," he said aloud, taking my hand, which I had withdrawn, and watering it with his tears. "Yet you are unjust in thus speaking of my people. They did not kill your parents knowingly. The sin rests with the Spaniards, whom they desired to punish; and the innocent have perished with the guilty. Sure I am that not an Indian would have injured them; and had they been able to come into our camp, they would have been received with honour and reverence."

I hung down my head, and my bursting heart at length found relief in tears. I was still very weak, or I believe that my feelings would have assumed a fiercer character.

"I have been unjust to you, Manco," I said, when I could once more give utterance to my thoughts. "I will try not to blame your countrymen for your sake; but I must leave you, to discover whether your dreadful report is true or false."

He took my hand again, and pressed it within his own. It was night before I was tolerably composed; and as I threw myself on my couch within the hut, I wept bitterly as a child, till sleep came to relieve my misery. I must not dwell on the anguish I felt on waking--the utter wretchedness of the next day. I was too ill to move, though I prayed for strength to enable me to prosecute my search. Strength and health came again at last; and in four days after I had heard the account given by Manco, I insisted that I was able to undergo the fatigue to which I must be exposed. Nothing that Manco or his wife could say had power to deter me.

"You will be taken by the cruel Spaniards, and executed as a spy," said Nita, the tears dropping from her eyes as she spoke.

"No Indian on whom you can rely will be able to accompany you, and you cannot find your way alone," observed Manco. "Besides, in these unhappy times robbers and desperadoes of every sort are ranging through the country; and if you escape other dangers, they will murder you."

"My kind friends," I answered, taking both their hands, "I feel your regard for me; but I fear neither Spaniards nor Indians, nor robbers nor wild beasts, nor deserts nor storms, nor heat nor cold, nor hunger nor thirst. I have a holy duty to perform, and I should be unworthy of the name I bear if I shrunk from encountering the danger which may be before me."

"If go you must, and I see that there is no use in attempting to dissuade you, I will give you every assistance in my power," said Manco.

And thus it was arranged that I was to set out on my perilous undertaking the next day but one, by which time he would be able to accompany me to the foot of the mountains, though he would not be absent long from his important duty in the patriots' army. _

Read next: Chapter 10. My Wanderings With Manco...

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