Book 16 - The Wine-Dark Sea

by Patrick O'Brian

  'Well, sir, there are only two wild kinds, the vicuña, a little orange creature with a long silky fleece that lives high up, close to the snow, though sometimes we see a few above Hualpo, and the guanaco. We see some of them too—where would the puma be, were it not for the guanaco?—but they are more usual in Chile and right down to Patagonia. They are more easily tamed than the vicuña, and they are the ancestors of the llama and the alpaca, the llamas being bred for riding and carrying burdens, and the alpaca, smaller animals that we keep higher up, just for wool. Both give quite good meat, of course, though some say not nearly as good as mutton. In my opinion, mutton . . .' He coughed, blew his nose, and rolled another ball of coca-leaves; but to a reasonably attentive, sympathetic listener it was clear that the Inca—for Eduardo was of the pure blood—regarded sheep as an unwelcome Spanish introduction.

  This became more apparent later in the day, when they rode eastward across the plateau, and rounding a knoll studded with the tallest many-branched cactuses Stephen had yet seen, came upon a flock gathered in a sheltered hollow, grazing close together, all facing one way. For the last few miles Eduardo had been talking away with the greatest animation, telling Stephen of a white-muzzled bear he had once met in a coca-grove and pointing out a variety of small birds (this country, though bare, was very far from being the desert of the coastal plain), but his cheerful face changed on seeing the flock running away, all in the same direction. 'Sheep. Well may they be called sheep,' he said indignantly, and putting his fingers to his mouth he uttered a piercing whistle which set them running faster still. This brought the Indian shepherds out from behind the rocks and while one, with the dogs, brought the sheep to order, the others raced towards the horses, calling out in submissive tones. But Eduardo rode on, and it was some minutes before he recovered his gaiety, describing the lake of Chinchaycocha, no great way farther to the east, but something of a climb, being at thirteen thousand feet: it was surrounded by reed-beds and it had a wonderful population of water-fowl. 'But unhappily,' he said, 'I know their names only in Quichua, the language of my people: I have found no learned descriptions, with Latin names, genus and species. For example there is a splendid goose we call huachua which has dark green wings, merging to violet . . .'

  The plateau broke away in broad sloping terraces to a stream far below, and here the country was richer by far, with stretches of a crop called quinua, a species of chaenopodium, and fields of barley with dry-stone walls—stone in great plenty, lying in shattered heaps—and on the edge of one field a stray sheep. 'Sheep again,' said Eduardo with disapproval. Down the stream, far on the right hand, there was an Indian village, but he turned to the left, telling Stephen a little anxiously that although the lofty slope on the other side looked high it was not really very steep or far, that the llama-farm was only just over the top—really a little low for llamas—and this path would get them there much quicker.

  So it did, but only, as far as Stephen was concerned, at the cost of much gasping and great concentration as he led his horse up the cruel shaley track, keeping up with Eduardo's elastic step as well as he could but necessarily losing his explanation of several small birds and plants and a lizard. Beetles crossed the path unexamined, uncollected. As they climbed they were under the lee of the eastern wall: they could hear the wind high overhead but they felt no more than the occasional eddy; and in the still thin clear air the sun beat down. Whenever Eduardo found that he had drawn more than a few yards ahead he paused to cough or blow his nose; and this was the first time Stephen had ever known consideration for his age cause a young man to check his pace. He took another ball of coca-leaves, bent his head and watched his feet. Although his words to Gayongos had been perfectly sound, the wretched Dutourd would thrust his way up into some level of Stephen's mind just below full consciousness, an unreasonable haunting anxiety. Physical exertions helped; the coca-leaves had their usual charming effect; but it was not until a great gust struck him that he realized they were at the top and that the anxiety gave way to a lively interest in the present.

  'Here we are,' cried Eduardo. And there they were indeed: massy stone buildings on yet another high plateau, corrals, distant herds, an Indian girl mounted on a llama who threw herself off and came running to kiss Eduardo's knee.

  Stephen was led to a respectable barn, seated on a faggot covered with a herb related to lady's bedstraw, and handed a gourd of maté with a silver tube. The Indians were perfectly civil and obliging, but they had no smile for him: this had been the case with all the few Indians he had met: a gloomy nation by all appearances, unsocial, quite withdrawn. It was therefore with some amazement that he observed their delight in Eduardo's presence, their cheerfulness, and even, in spite of their profound respect, their laughter, which he had never heard before. Eduardo spoke to them only in Quichua, which came trippingly off his tongue: he had apologized to Stephen beforehand, saying that most of them did not know Spanish and that some of those who did preferred to conceal their knowledge.

  Now, however, turning to Stephen he said in that language, 'Sir, allow me to show you a guanaco in the field outside. He is the wild ancestor of the llama, as you will recall, but this one was caught young, and now he is quite tame.'

  'A fine animal,' said Stephen, looking at the slim elegant fawn-coloured white-bellied creature, which held its long neck high and returned his gaze quite fearlessly. 'About twelve hands, I believe.'

  'Twelve hands exactly, sir. And here, coming up the path, is our best llama: his name in Quichua means spotless snow.'

  'An even finer animal,' said Stephen, turning to watch the llama walk delicately up the path with an Indian boy, balancing its head delicately from side to side. He had barely fixed his attention upon the llama, estimating its height and weight, before the guanaco, gathering itself, bounded forward with both front knees bent and struck him a little below the shoulder-blades, sending him flat on his face.

  In the general outcry while Stephen was picked up and dusted and the guanaco led away by the ears, the llama stood unmoved, looking scornful.

  'Mother of God,' cried Eduardo, 'I am so sorry, so ashamed.'

  'It is nothing, nothing at all,' said Stephen. 'A childish tumble on the grass, no more. Let us ask the llama how he does.'

  The llama stood his ground as they approached, eyeing Stephen with much the same look as the guanaco, and when he was well within range, spat in his face. The aim was perfect, the saliva extraordinarily copious.

  Outcry and hullabaloo again, but only Eduardo seemed really deeply moved and as Stephen was being washed and wiped he saw two Indian children in the far background fairly twisting themselves double with delight.

  'What can I say?' asked Eduardo. 'I am desolated, desolated. It is true they sometimes do that to people who vex them, and sometimes to white men who do not. I should have thought of it . . . but after we had been talking for a while I forgot your colour.'

  'May I beg for some maté?' asked Stephen. 'That most refreshing drink.'

  'Instantly, instantly,' cried Eduardo, and coming back with the gourd he said, 'Just beyond that small sharp peak is where we keep the alpacas. From there one can sometimes see a band of vicuñas, and quite often too the small fluttering rock-creeper we call a pito; it is no great way, and I had hoped to carry you up there, but now I am afraid it is too late. And perhaps you have had enough of llamas and their kind.'

  'Not at all, not at all,' cried Stephen. 'But it is true that I must not be late at the convent.'

  Going down, Eduardo grew sadder as they lost height: his spirits declined with the slope of the path, and as they rested among the shattered boulders of another gigantic rock-fall, the result of the most recent earthquake and barely lichened yet, Stephen, to divert his mind, said, 'I was pleased to see your people so happy and gay. I had formed a false notion from my trifling experience in and about Lima, supposing them to be almost morose.'

  'A people that has had its ancient laws and customs taken from it, whose language and history
count for nothing, and whose temples have been sacked and thrown down is apt to be morose,' replied Eduardo: then, recollecting himself, 'I do not say that this is the state of affairs in Peru; and it would be the grossest heresy to deny the benefits of the true religion: I say only that this is what some of the more obstinate Indians, who may secretly practise the old sacrifices, believe; and—pray do not move,' he said in a low urgent voice, nodding towards the far side of the valley, there where the terraces and fields ran down to the stream. Against the mountain a band of condors were circling, rising, but to no great height; and as Stephen watched, three of them perched on convenient rocks.

  'If you train your little spyglass on the edge of the barley, halfway down,' said Eduardo in little more than a whisper, 'you will see the stray sheep, ha, ha.' Stephen rested the glass in a crack between two rocks, brought the edge of the field into focus, travelled down to a patch of white: but there was a tawny puma covering most of it, slowly eating mutton.

  'They often do that,' murmured Eduardo. 'The condors come quite soon after he has killed his prey—they seem to watch him as he travels—and wait until he is gorged. Then he creeps off into shelter and they come down; but he cannot bear seeing them at it—he rushes out—they rise—he eats a little more—retires—and they return. There. He is going off already.'

  'Our vultures are more circumspect,' said Stephen. 'They will wait for hours, whereas these are in directly. Lord, how they eat! I should not have missed this for the world. Thank you, my dear Eduardo, for showing me the puma, that noble beast.'

  Riding back they discussed the whole event in minute detail—the exact angle and splay of the condors' primaries as they settled on a crag, the movement of their tails, the dissatisfied look on the puma's face when it came back for the third time to nothing but a heap of the larger bones. Having talked themselves hoarse, almost shouting over the declining but still powerful wind, they reached the monastery in reasonable time. Here they supped with a numerous company in the main refectory and Stephen retired to his cell as soon as grace was said.

  He had not eaten much, he had drunk less, and now (another usual consequence of ingesting coca) he lay unsleeping, but not unhappy with it, his mind running over the day just past, regretting the untimely though surely unimportant Dutourd but taking much pleasure in the rest. At the same time he followed the chanting of the monks. This particular Benedictine house was unusually rigorous, separating mattins from lauds, singing the first at midnight, a very long service indeed with the full nocturn, lessons and Te Deum, and the second so that its middle psalm coincided with the rising of the sun.

  He was in a half sleep, thinking of Condorcet, a very, very much larger man than Dutourd but equally foolish in his regard for that silly villain Rousseau, when his ear caught a footstep in the passage and he was wide awake when Sam came in, holding a shaded candle.

  He was about to make some remark in Jack Aubrey's style, such as, 'Have you come up to the monastery, Sam?' when Sam's gravity quenched his smile. 'Forgive me for waking you, sir, but Father O'Higgins begs he might have a word.'

  'Certainly he may,' said Stephen. 'Pray pass me my breeches in the corner there. As you see I lie in my shirt.'

  'Doctor,' said the Vicar-General, rising and placing a chair, 'you know there is a clandestine French mission to the independentists here?' Stephen bowed. 'They have recently been joined or rather sought out by a noisy talkative enthusiast who has already thrown much discredit on them—I believe they will slip out of the country—and who has almost directly asserted that you are a British agent. It is true that the Holy Office has taken him up for some shocking blasphemies in the style of Condorcet uttered in public, but Castro has already seized upon the event to ingratiate himself with the Viceroy. "Heretical foreign gold" he cries: he has had one small mob bawling outside the British consulate and another has broken the windows of the house where the Frenchmen were staying. Until the Viceroy comes back he can do no more, and General Hurtado will probably knock him on the head tomorrow—I mean reduce him to silence. But the General is not to be found in Lima, nor is he at his brother's: he is much given to gallantry. We shall not see him until the conference at noon, and although I think it is weakness on my part I feel somewhat uneasy. A man of Castro's stamp is incapable of doing much good but he may do a great deal of harm, and I think we were unwise in rejecting him. I tell you these things, because if you share my weakness you may wish to take your measures, in the event of our being right.'

  Stephen made suitable acknowledgements and observed, 'As far as regretting the rejection of an unreliable man is concerned, I think you may be mistaken. He could never have been trusted, and he would have come into the possession of a great many names.'

  He returned to his cell carrying pens, ink and a quire of paper; and as he went he reflected on the unsoundness of his words. The rest of the night he spent writing. At sunrise, still not at all sleepy, he folded his papers, put them into his bosom, and walked into the chapel to hear the Benedictus.

  In the later part of the morning large numbers of people began to arrive at the two monasteries, many of them pilgrims coming early for the exposition, some of them members of the league, among whom there was a general tendency to silence and anxious looks. Messengers had been posted on the road to intercept General Hurtado with a letter telling him of Castro's activities so that he should be prepared to reassure the meeting and to take instant decisive measures.

  He did not come. In his place there appeared Gayongos, old, grey, his face destroyed: he told Stephen, the Vicar-General, Father Gomez and Sam that Hurtado, extremely moved, had declared that with these cries of foreign gold abroad, repeated on every hand, and in this atmosphere of corruption he could not, as a man of honour, consider any further action at this moment.

  They wasted no time in expostulation. Stephen asked whether Castro could possibly seize the ship. 'Certainly not,' said Father O'Higgins. 'Not until the Viceroy returns, and even then it is extremely improbable. But he may well risk a provisional arrest of your person on some pretext or other. You must go to Chile. I have prepared a letter to my kinsman Bernardino for you. He will take you to Valparaiso, where you can go on board your ship.'

  'Eduardo will show you the way,' said Father Gomez. 'You will be in no danger with him,' he added with a curious smile.

  Turning to Gayongos Stephen asked whether any of the actual treasure had been transferred. 'No,' said Gayongos. 'Apart from a few thousands, nothing but drafts on the provisional government. The gold was to have been distributed tomorrow afternoon.'

  'Then pray retain it in a readily movable form until you receive word,' said Stephen, and to Sam, 'Father Panda, here is the merest note for Captain Aubrey: he will be in quite soon I am sure and you will explain things far better than I could do.'

  They all shook hands, and in the doorway Gayongos said, 'I feel so much for your disappointment. Pray accept this parting gift.' Silent tears, utterly astonishing on that grey, dewlapped face, ran down as he handed Stephen an envelope.

  Chapter Nine

  Early on Wednesday the east wind, which had been dying all night, at last expired in a peaceful calm: no more whirling dust, no more banging shutters, falling tiles; a blessed quietness. By the time the sun had risen ten degrees or so the sea-breeze began to waft in and by mid-morning it was blowing a moderate gale from the south-west: the Surprise could have carried full topsails, but Tom Pullings, less given to cracking-on than his Captain, would have had a reef in them.

  It blew steadily all that day and the next and on Friday Tom pulled over to San Lorenzo once more, walked across the island and so up to a point below the beacon, from which he commanded an immense stretch of ocean bounded by a hard, unusually distinct horizon.

  He swept this clear line with his glass, and there indeed, due west, was what he had been looking for yesterday afternoon and evening, slowly drinking cold tea as he did so—a remote fleck of white in the sun between sea and sky. He climbed up to the beaco
n itself, sitting where a rock-fall gave him a firm rest for the telescope and focused with the utmost care. At this height she was already topsails up, with another ship behind her; and well before likelihood became certainty his heart was eased, filled with happiness. She was surely the Franklin, and she was bringing in a prize.

  Presently, when the sun was hot on the back of his head, she was hull up, and he was wholly satisfied, head and heart. He had commanded her, and now he could not be mistaken. He might go back to the Surprise with an easy mind and sit in peace, admiring her new rigging, all fresh-rove and set up, all blacked where blacking was called for; yards likewise. And he could tell Father Panda.

  For days now Tom had been growing more and more worried, with the Doctor away and the Reverend coming every night for news of the Captain, clearly anxious, clearly aware that something ugly was up, bringing the sick back, advising him to close with the men bargaining for the prizes, to get the barky out of the yard, watered, victualled and ready to weigh, all shore-leave stopped. And certainly there was something very odd about the town, with people running about and behaving strange. Some who had always been civil and more than civil had grown rather shy. The master of the rope-walk for example: all smiles and a glass of vino on Sunday, reserved, if not downright chuff, on Monday. The ship-chandlers and the dockyard people had become very eager for their money. On the other hand three considerable merchants had come to see him after dark (most visiting took place by night at present) and had asked him to carry treasure down to Valparaiso. Mr Adams, who spoke Spanish almost as well as the Doctor and who managed all business affairs, said that when the Viceroy came back there would be a fine old rumpus, all Hell to pay, with people copping it right and left. Quite why he could not tell, there being so many different rumours; but it seemed that the soldiers had been misbehaving, and perhaps some civilians too.