Gustave Aimard
The Guide of the Desert

CHAPTER XVII
THE PEONS

A strange spectacle, and which he was certainly far from expecting, offered itself to his astonished eyes.

The platform, or rather the court situated before the rancho, was occupied by some twenty individuals, who were crying out and gesticulating with fury, and in the midst of whom was the painter, his head uncovered, his hair flying in the wind, his right foot placed on his gun, which had been thrown on the ground before him, and a pistol in each hand.

Behind the young man, five or six Indians, his servants, with their guns at their shoulders, ready to fire.

At the door of the shed the loaded mules and the saddled horses were held by two or three Indians armed with guns and sabres.

By the light of the torches, the red flames of which threw out a strange reflection, the scene assumed a fantastic appearance of a remarkable character, rudely contrasting with the profound darkness which reigned on the plain, and which the varying light of the torches illuminated at each gust of the night wind.

The old man, without seeking an explanation of this mournful drama, but instinctively understanding that something was passing in which he was personally interested, darted forward boldly to the side of his young companion.

"What is it?" he cried. "Are we attacked?"

"Yes," quickly answered the young man; "we are attacked, but by your peons (attendants)."

"By my attendants!" exclaimed M. Dubois.

"It would appear that these worthy gauchos have found your baggage suit them, and that the idea has occurred to them to seize upon it – that is all. It is very simple, you see. But let me act; they are not going to succeed as easily as they think."

"Perhaps, if I were to speak to them?" ventured the old man.

"Not a word, not a gesture; leave that to me. You are my guest; my duty is to defend you, and, God aiding me, so long as you shall be under my roof, I will defend you, come what may, against everything."

The old man did not attempt to insist; moreover, he had not the time for it. The attendants, for a moment taken aback by his unforeseen appearance, in the midst of them, recommenced their cries and their wild gestures, brandishing their arms with a threatening air, and narrowing every moment the circle in which M. Dubois and his few defenders were compactly standing.

The struggle, which had been on the point of commencement between the two parties, was most unequal, and in the proportion of about one to four; since, besides the two Frenchmen, only six Indians, of whom three were holding the horses and mules, were preparing to fight the twenty bandits or so who had so insolently revolted.

However, notwithstanding their small number, the Frenchmen and their servants resolved to face the danger boldly, and to maintain the combat to the last gasp, considering the conditions that these wretches thought proper to impose unworthy of their acceptance.

The painter coolly cocked his pistols, slung his gun by his shoulder belt, and, instead of waiting the attack of the attendants, boldly advanced towards them, after having rejoined his companions, by a gesture, to remain where they were, but be ready to defend him.

A bold action always has its effect on the masses.

The attendants, instead of continuing to march in advance, hesitated, stopped, and finished by retreating to the wall of the shed, against which they placed their backs.

They could not at all understand the strange rashness of this man, who thus dared to come alone to face them; and, spite of themselves, by an instinctive sentiment, they felt for him a respect mingled with fear. Moreover, the combat which had taken place some hours before between the young man and the Spanish captain, by proving the incontestable power and bravery of the stranger, had excited their admiration – a circumstance which had considerable weight with them at the moment – added to the respect which they had for him, and caused them still further to hesitate.

The artist had understood the situation at a glance. He felt that he could not escape from the awkward position in which he found himself, but by boldness and decision. His resolve was the work of a moment, and instead of waiting for the danger, he had bravely anticipated it, convinced that this was the only practicable way of saving his life and that of his companions, who for the moment appeared to be quite at sea, and rather to depend on chance than on the most skilful of plans.

"Come, let us make an end of this," said he, in a hard and firm voice, stopping at a couple of paces from the attendants, who were standing huddled against each other before him; "what do you want?"

To this question no answer was given.

"Will you answer yes or no?" pursued Émile. "What do you demand? No doubt you have no intention of appropriating to yourselves, purely and simply, the baggage of the person in whose service you are. That would be the deed of highway robbers, and, low as you may have become in my esteem, I do not believe you have arrived at so base a point as that."

"And that is just where you are wrong, Señor," said an attendant, taking a couple of steps in advance, swaying himself jauntily about, and laughing.

The painter did not hesitate. The moment was critical; he aimed at the attendant, and discharged a pistol full in his chest, saying —

"I do not speak to you; I address myself to these honourable caballeros, and not to a fellow of your sort."

The poor devil rolled on the ground without uttering a cry. He had been killed in an instant.

The effect produced by this daring action was electrical. The attendants, charmed not only at being treated as honourable caballeros, but also at coming out of the delicate position in which they had inconsiderately placed themselves, applauded with enthusiasm, and uttered mad cries of joy at this unwarrantable act.

"I was saying, then," pursued the painter, in a gentle voice, and coolly reloading his pistol, "that you are honest people – that is understood and agreed on between us. Now that we understand one another, explain to me the motives that have induced you to revolt in this way, and to push matters to such lengths that had I not arrived you would have left with the horses, mules, and baggage."

A unanimous protest was raised to this accusation.

"Well," continued the young man, "the mules and the horses have been saddled and loaded inadvertently, I admit. Without thinking of doing wrong you would have prepared to take them away with you, still, through a mistake which would be regretted, all that, strictly speaking, may be, if not logical, at least possible. But still, in revolting against a man who has paid you something in advance, and whom you have engaged to serve honourably for the term of the journey, you had certain motives. What are these motives is what I wish to know. What are they? Tell me."

A reaction had worked in the minds of all these uncultivated men. The bold and honest courage of the young man had carried them away in spite of themselves. Scarcely had he finished speaking than all protested energetically to their loyalty and devotion, pressing round him, and almost suffocating him as they closed in upon him.

But he, without losing any of his coolness, and wishing that the lesson should be complete, pushed them away gently with his hand, and making a sign for them to be quiet.

"One moment," said he to them, smiling; "it is not necessary for another mistake to come and embroil us anew at the moment when we are on the point of understanding one another. My friends, who are at some little distance from us, and who do not know what is passing, would suppose me in danger, and come up to my aid. Let me then prove to them that all is finished, and that I consider myself perfectly safe."

And taking his pistols by the barrels, he threw them over his head; unbuckled his sabre, and sent it the same way; and then crossed his arms carelessly on his breast.

"Now let us talk," said he.

This last action of unheard-of boldness literally staggered the mutineers. They acknowledged themselves conquered, and, without wishing to enter upon new explanations, they humbly bowed before the haughty young man, and kissed his hands, swearing devotion under all circumstances, and immediately withdrew with a rapidity which proved their repentance.

Some minutes afterwards the mules were unloaded, the horses unsaddled, and the attendants, enveloped in their ponchos, were sleeping, stretched before the watch fires.

Émile rejoined his companions – anxious and stationary at the place where he had left them – carelessly twirling a cigarette of maize straw between his nervous fingers.

But his countenance was pale, and his eyes had a sombre expression. On his road he found his arms, and again took possession of them.

"You have done wonders," said M. Dubois to him, grasping his hand with gratitude.

"No," answered he, with a sweet and calm smile; "only I remembered the word of Danton."

"What word?"

"Boldness. It is only with boldness we can tame wild beasts; and what are men if not savage beasts?"

"But you risked your life?"

"Have I not said that a long while ago I made that sacrifice? But do not attach, I beg you, more importance to this affair than it really deserves. Everything depended on a firm and prompt resolution. These men were prepared for theft – not for assassination. That is the secret of the matter."

"Do not seek to lower the value of an action of which I shall preserve an ever grateful memory."

"Bah! What I have done for you today you will do for me tomorrow, and then we shall be quits."

"I doubt it. I am not a man for battle. I have only social courage. In an émeute, I am afraid."

"Pardieu! So am I; only I do not allow it to be seen. But let us speak no more of this; we have to talk of more important matters – at least, if you would not prefer to resume your sleep, so awkwardly interrupted."

"It would be impossible for me to sleep now. I am entirely at your disposal."

"Since it is so, let us re-enter the rancho. The nights are cold, the dew frozen. It is of no use for us to be any longer in the open air. You see that our wild revolutionists have taken in good part their defeat, and sleep peaceably. Do not let any of them, who may perhaps be still watching, suppose that we still have any anxiety on their account. Come."

They re-entered the rancho, the door of which the painter scrupulously closed after him.

When they had sat down, the young man opened a bottle of rum, poured out a glass, and, after having tasted it, he gave two or three puffs of smoke, and then placing his glass on the table —

"The situation is grave," he said, throwing himself back in his chair; "do you wish that we should speak unreservedly?"

"I should like nothing better," answered the old man, casting at him a furtive look from beneath his half-closed eyelids.

"First and before all, let us understand one another thoroughly," pursued Émile, smiling; "here we do not talk diplomatically: is it not so?"

"Why should we?" said his companion, smiling.

"Why, the force of habit may lead you away, and, believe me, at this moment it would be a wrong to yourself to allow yourself thus to be led."

"Fear nothing. I shall be with you as frank as possible."

"Um!" said the young man, with a half-convinced air; "However, it matters not, I will risk it; so much the worse for you if you do not keep your promise, for I have no other interest but yours."

"I am convinced of it; speak, then, fearlessly."

"First, one question. You are going to Tucumán?"

"Have I not told you so?"

"Just so. A part of the men who accompany you are disguised soldiers that the government of Buenos Aires has given you to serve you for the escort."

"How do you know that?"

"In a way which it is difficult to guess. So you are charged with a political mission?"

"I!"

"Parbleu! That speaks for itself; only I wish you to observe that it is completely indifferent to me, and that I do not attach the least importance to it."

"But – "

"Allow me to continue. From what has passed tonight, it is evident to me that a part of your escort is traitorous, and intends to give you up to the Spaniards."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Matters are serious, then?"

"You have a mission?"

"Suppose what you please; but aid me in escaping from my embarrassment."

"Well, I understand; you need say no more. Now, you will never reach Tucumán!"

"Do you know your opinion is also mine?"

"Pardieu! I know it well. Now that these fellows are curbed, this is what I propose – "

"Well?"

"But, take particular notice that it is only in your interest."

"I am convinced of it."

"If it is agreeable to you, as these bandits profess a certain respect for me, I offer to accompany you as far as Tucumán."

"My dear compatriot, nothing can be more agreeable to me in every way than this proposition. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are literally saving my life."

"Pardon me – but on one condition."

"But what is that condition?" said the old man.

"It is simple; I believe that you will accept it with enthusiasm," answered the young man, laughing.

"Tell me, tell me; I am all attention."

"I must tell you that, without ever having been able to give myself a reason for it, I have always felt a profound disgust for politics."

"There is nothing wrong in that," said the old man, shaking his head with a pensive air.

"Is there not? So that, if I consent to escort you as far as Tucumán, and to conduct you there safe and sound, it is on the express condition that there shall never be a political discussion between us as long as we remain together. I have come to America to study art; let us each enjoy our specialty."

"I ask nothing better, and subscribe joyfully to that condition."

"And then – "

"Ah! There is something else."

"Consequent on the fear that I have previously expressed, I wish to leave you when we are in sight of Tucumán – that is to say, let us understand one another, before entering it; and if some day chance should bring us together again, you will never tell anyone whatever the service I shall have rendered you. Will that suit you?"

M. Dubois considered for a moment.

"My dear compatriot," at last said he, "I understand and I appreciate, believe me, all the delicacy of your procedure towards me. I engage, with all my heart, not to trouble your happy artist carelessness by coming to bore you with political questions that, happily for you, you cannot understand; but your last condition is too hard. However great may be the danger which threatens me at this moment, I will expose myself to it without hesitation rather than consent to forget the gratitude that I owe you, and to feign towards you an indifference against which my whole being revolts. We are both Frenchmen, cast far from our country, on a land where all is hostile to us; we are consequently brothers, that is to say, we are severally answerable for each other; and you so well enter into this, that all you have done since our meeting has been done under this impression. Do not defend yourself; I know you better, perhaps, than you know yourself, but permit me to tell you that your exquisite delicacy causes you just now to overshoot your mark. It is not for yourself, but for me alone that you fear all this; I cannot accept this sacrifice of self-denial. Although I am not a man of action, as you are, I nevertheless will in no circumstances consent to compromise my duties; and it is a duty for me – a sacred duty ever – not to forget what I owe you, and to acknowledge my deep obligations to you."

These words were pronounced with so much frankness and simplicity that the young man was moved; he held out his hand to the old man, whose pale and severe countenance had assumed, under the feelings which agitated it, an imposing expression. He answered in a voice which he vainly tried to render indifferent.

"Let it be so; since you demand it, Monsieur, I give way; to insist further would be ungracious. At break of day we will begin the journey, unless you would prefer to pass a day or two here."

"Urgent affairs call me to Tucumán. If it were not so, the revolt of tonight would induce me to hasten."

"It will not be renewed, I give you my word. These wild beasts are now muzzled, and changed into lambs. Better than you I know this mongrel race, for I have already lived several months in the midst of it. But we cannot use too much prudence. It is better, then, that you leave as soon as possible. There are already three hours of night; take advantage of it by getting a little sleep. I will wake you when the hour of departure has arrived. Good night."

The two men shook hands once more; the painter withdrew, and the old man remained alone.

"What a pity," murmured he to himself, installing himself as comfortably as possible in his mantle, and stretching himself on the table, "that a man of such ability, and with so brave a heart, should let his life become the sport of fancy, and not consent to devote himself to a serious career! There is in him, I am convinced, the stuff whereof to make a diplomatist."

While he was making these reflections he fell asleep. As to the young man, as, notwithstanding the assurance he affected, he inwardly had a vague misgiving, instead of lying down in the room which he usually occupied, he stretched himself in the open air on the esplanade, across the door of the rancho, and after having cast around him an inquiring look, to assure himself that all was really secure, he slept peacefully.

Scarcely had the stars commenced to pale in the sky, and the horizon to be irradiated with large opal band, than the painter was up and surveying the preparations for departure.

The attendants, who had completely resumed their duty, obeyed his orders with perfect docility, appearing to have quite forgotten the attempt at rebellion so happily frustrated.

When the mules were loaded and the horsemen in their saddles, the young man awakened his guest, and they proceeded on their journey.

From the house of Émile Gagnepain to the town of Tucumán the journey was rather long. It lasted four days, during which nothing occurred worth mentioning. They camped in the evening sometimes in some Guaranis rancho, abandoned by reason of the war, sometimes on the open field, and left a little before sunrise.

The attendants did not belie the good opinion that the young painter had formed of them; their conduct was exemplary, and during all the journey they did not manifest any tendency to revolt anew.

On the sixth day, at about ten o'clock in the morning, the white houses and the high towers of San Miguel de Tucumán – to restore to it the name which geographers confer upon it – arose upon the horizon.

The aspect of this city is enchanting; built on the confluence of the Río Dulce and the Río Tucumán, in such a situation as the Spaniards alone knew how to choose at the epoch of the conquest, the town is traversed by straight and broad streets, with pavements, and intersected here and there by beautiful squares, adorned with sumptuous buildings. The population of Tucumán is about 12,000 souls; it possesses a college, and a somewhat renowned university; while its commerce makes it one of the most important towns of the Banda Oriental.

At the time when we take the reader there that importance had further increased by the war. It had been fortified by means of a deep ditch, and by earth ramparts, sufficient to put it in a position to resist an attack.

For some time strong detachments of troops had been sent to the town on account of the events which had happened in Peru, and the approach of the Spanish troops.

These various corps were camped round the town, and their bivouacs offered the most singular aspect, especially to the eyes of a European, accustomed to that order, symmetry, and discipline which characterise the armies of the world.

In these camps all was pell-mell and disorder. The soldiers, lying or sitting on the ground, were playing, sleeping, smoking, or eating, while their wives – for in the entire Hispano-American army each soldier is always followed by his wife – led the horses to drink, prepared the meals, or cleaned the arms with that passive obedience which is the characteristic of Indian women, and which in some respects renders those unhappy creatures so interesting and worthy of pity.

The travellers, obliged to pass through the bivouacking parties, did not do so without some apprehension. However, contrary to their misgiving, they had not to submit to any insult, and entered without any obstacle San Miguel de Tucumán.

The town appeared en fête; the clocks of the convents and of the churches were ringing a full peal; the streets were full of men and women, dressed in their best and handsomest costumes.

"Have you decided on a spot where to stop?" said the painter to his companion.

"Yes," answered the latter, "I am going to the portals of the Plaza Mayor."

"But to which? All the square is furnished with portals."

"To those which front the cathedral. An apartment has been retained for me at the house No. 3."

"Good, I see that close-by."

The caravan was then threading an apparently inextricable labyrinth at streets, but in about a quarter of an hour it came out upon the Plaza Mayor.

"Here we are arrived," said the painter. "Permit me now to take leave of you."

"Not before you have consented to accept from me the hospitality I have received from you."

"Why not let me go?"

"Who knows; perhaps I may still want your assistance?"

"If it is to be so, I resist no longer, and I will follow you."

"Let us enter, then, for I believe here is the house."

They were, in fact, in front of No. 3.