It was a sad scene. The tents torn and flapping in the morning breeze, some of them down; broken spears and guns and daggers lying here and there; dead and dying horses; dead and dying men, the anguish of the women, the wailing of the children.
I took all this in at a glance. Then my eyes were riveted on a group at some little distance, and I hastened thither, to find Castizo kneeling beside the tall n.o.ble form of the prostrate Prince Jeeka.
He holds out his right hand as I approach; Castizo gives place to me, and I kneel where he had knelt. At his other side crouches Nadi. She is bewildered and silent, grief and anguish depicted in every line of her poor drawn, pinched face.
"Jeeka, Jeeka, are you much hurt? Who has done this?"
"Hurt? Yes. Ya shank, ya shank." (I am tired and sleepy). "So, so."
He closed his eyes for a moment. I thought he was gone, but he slowly opened them again, and looked at me.
"Poor Nadi!" he said. "It--was--her brother. So, so."
This, then, was the key to the awful night"s work. Revenge. Verily these Patagonian Indians are men of like pa.s.sions with ourselves.
"The Great Good Spirit is come. Jeeka goes--home. Tell me--the story of the--world. So, so."
These were the last words poor Prince Jeeka ever spoke on earth. He had gone to learn the story of the world, in a better world than ours.
We all came away and left Nadi with her dear husband. Her face had fallen forward on his big broad chest, and she appeared convulsed with grief.
"Leave her a little," Castizo said. "It is ever better thus."
In about half an hour, or it might have been less, Peter and I returned.
Nadi had never moved from her position.
"Nadi, my poor woman," said Peter. "Nadi, Nadi."
She was still.
Peter touched her shoulder, then turned quickly round to me.
"She does not need our consolation, Jack," he said, solemnly.
"What," I cried, "is Nadi dead?"
"Nadi is dead!"
If I have any consolation at all in looking back to the events of that morning, it is to think that Jill and I had told to these poor heathens the sad, sweet story of this world.
Jeeka and his wife are buried side by side on the banks of the river that rolls through the forest, close to the spot where our old log-house stood.
"Amidst the forests of the West, By a dark stream they"re laid; The Indian knows their place of rest Far in the cedar shade."
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
ON THE GOOD YACHT "MAGDALENA"--"THE VERY SEAS USED TO SING TO US"--THE HOME-COMING--THE END.
At sea once more.
At sea in one of the smartest yachts that ever walked the waters like a thing of life.
At sea, and homeward bound. Ah! that was what sent the joyful flush to our cheeks and the glad glitter to our eyes, whenever we chose to think of the fact, and try to realise it.
The _Magdalena_ in which we were sailing was no racer, but a splendid sea craft, and one that, as Ritchie said, could have shown a pair of clean heels to the best tea-ship in the merchant service. And that was saying a deal. She was broad in the beam for a yacht, but consequently safe and comfortable. Her masts were tall, but they were also strong, and she carried such a cloud of canvas that, seen from a distance, she must have looked a perfect albatross.
To say that her decks were as white as snow would be to talk figuratively, but literally they were as white as cocoanut husk and holystone could make them. The sails were really like snow in the sunshine, and there was not a bit of polished wood about her decks, whether in binnacle or capstan, that did not look as if varnished; nor a morsel of bra.s.s or copper that did not shine.
There was an awning over the quarter-deck by day, for we were in the tropics, and the sun blazed down with a heat sufficient to soften the pitch, if it did not absolutely make it boil.
Yonder, under the awning, sits Castizo, in a light coat and straw hat, quietly reading a book. Jill and I are walking rapidly up and down the deck, and Dulzura is standing beside Peter. Both are gazing down at the bubbling green water, that goes eddying along the good ship"s sides.
Yet I do not think that either Dulzura or he is thinking very much about it.
But why, it may be reasonably asked, are we homeward bound, instead of bearing up for Castizo"s place at Valparaiso? Ah! thereby hangs a tale.
And I will endeavour to tell it as it was told to us, on the very last night we spent on the Pampa.
We were barely one day"s journey from the port of Santa Cruz, and were bivouacked in a green canon under the lee of the west barranca. Not far off were the toldos of our faithful Indians. Alas! we sadly missed Jeeka and poor Nadi, though. Not far off, the horses quietly grazed by the water"s edge.
We sat beside the fire of roots on our guanaco skins for the night was not warm.
There had been silence for a brief s.p.a.ce. We were waiting for our _mate_. Presently it came in steaming bowls.
"Ah! thank you, Pedro. What should we do without you?" said Castizo.
"What, indeed?" "What, indeed?" said Jill and I.
"How anxious your daughter will be," said Peter. "She has had quite a long time to wait for us."
Castizo smiled.
"My daughter," he replied, "will not be idle. She will have gone cruising. She is like me and like her poor mother--she hates inactivity."
"You have only once before mentioned Miss Castizo"s mother in our hearing," said Peter.
"True, Peter. But now that we are so soon to part--for you will meet a steamer at Puentas Arenas to take you back to your own country, and we may never meet again--I may as well give you a very brief outline of my life."
We are all silent, and presently Castizo continued:
"It must be brief indeed; I am but a poor storyteller. Besides, I have but little to tell, and there is a tinge of sorrow over it all.
"I was born of a n.o.ble Spanish family, and found myself fatherless and wealthy at a very early age. I was always fond of wild sport and of a nomadic life, and before I had reached the age of twenty-five had visited most parts of the world in my own yacht, and been a soldier to boot. At a ball one night in Madrid I fell deeply in love with a beautiful young lady. She was quite of my own way of thinking as regards a wandering life. I will not dwell upon the happiness of my married life. Suffice it to say that Magdalena became the one bright star in my mental firmament. I do not think any one could have loved each other more than we did. Zenona, whom you, Peter, call Dulzura, was the first pledge of that love. About two years after her birth I accepted a post of great honour in Monte Video, and thither we went to settle down. We even sold our yacht, so content were we with the climate. Then Silvana was born.
"It was about a year after this that I noticed a marked change in my poor wife. She began to look ill. I wish now I had thrown up my post of honour. What did I need with honour, when I had riches and the whole love of such a wife as Magdalena?
"She must have a change. She must go home. I would follow in the course of a year. Ah! my dear friends, it is here the sorrow comes in.