In Search of the Castaways; or the Children of Captain Grant

CHAPTER XIV PROVIDENTIALLY RESCUED

THE east­ern side of the Cordilleras of the An­des con­sists of a suc­ces­sion of length­ened de­cliv­ities, which slope down al­most in­sen­si­bly to the plain. The soil is car­pet­ed with rich herbage, and adorned with mag­nif­icent trees, among which, in great num­bers, were ap­ple-​trees, plant­ed at the time of the con­quest, and gold­en with fruit. There were lit­er­al­ly, per­fect forests of these. This dis­trict was, in fact, just a cor­ner of fer­tile Nor­mandy.

The sud­den tran­si­tion from a desert to an oa­sis, from snowy peaks to ver­dant plains, from Win­ter to Sum­mer, can not fail to strike the trav­el­er’s eye.

The ground, more­over, had re­cov­ered its im­mo­bil­ity. The trem­bling had ceased, though there was lit­tle doubt the forces be­low the sur­face were car­ry­ing on their dev­as­tat­ing work fur­ther on, for shocks of earth­quake are al­ways oc­cur­ring in some part or oth­er of the An­des. This time the shock had been one of ex­treme vi­olence. The out­line of the moun­tains was whol­ly al­tered, and the Pam­pas guides would have sought vain­ly for the ac­cus­tomed land­marks.

A mag­nif­icent day had dawned. The sun was just ris­ing from his ocean bed, and his bright rays streamed al­ready over the Ar­gen­tine plains, and ran across to the At­lantic. It was about eight o’clock.

Lord Gle­nar­van and his com­pan­ions were grad­ual­ly re­stored to an­ima­tion by the Ma­jor’s ef­forts. They had been com­plete­ly stunned, but had sus­tained no in­jury what­ev­er. The de­scent of the Cordilleras was ac­com­plished; and as Dame Na­ture had con­veyed them at her own ex­pense, they could on­ly have praised her method of lo­co­mo­tion if one of their num­ber, and that one the fee­blest and youngest, the child of the par­ty, had not been miss­ing at the roll call.

The brave boy was beloved by ev­ery­body. Pa­ganel was par­tic­ular­ly at­tached to him, and so was the Ma­jor, with all his ap­par­ent cold­ness. As for Gle­nar­van, he was in ab­so­lute de­spair when he heard of his dis­ap­pear­ance, and pic­tured to him­self the child ly­ing in some deep abyss, wild­ly cry­ing for suc­cor.

“We must go and look for him, and look till we find him,” he ex­claimed, al­most un­able to keep back his tears. “We can­not leave him to his fate. Ev­ery val­ley and precipice and abyss must be searched through and through. I will have a rope fas­tened round my waist, and go down my­self. I in­sist up­on it; you un­der­stand; I in­sist up­on it. Heav­en grant Robert may be still alive! If we lose the boy, how could we ev­er dare to meet the fa­ther? What right have we to save the cap­tain at the cost of his son’s life?”

Gle­nar­van’s com­pan­ions heard him in si­lence. He sought to read hope in their eyes, but they did not ven­ture to meet his gaze.

At last he said,

“Well, you hear what I say, but you make no re­sponse. Do you mean to tell me that you have no hope–not the slight­est?”

Again there was si­lence, till Mc­Nabbs asked:

“Which of you can rec­ol­lect when Robert dis­ap­peared?”

No one could say.

“Well, then,” re­sumed the Ma­jor, “you know this at any rate. Who was the child be­side dur­ing our de­scent of the Cordilleras?”

“Be­side me,” replied Wil­son.

“Very well. Up to what mo­ment did you see him be­side you? Try if you can re­mem­ber.”

“All that I can rec­ol­lect is that Robert Grant was still by my side, hold­ing fast by a tuft of lichen, less than two min­utes be­fore the shock which fin­ished our de­scent.”

“Less than two min­utes? Mind what you are say­ing; I dare say a minute seemed a very long time to you. Are you sure you are not mak­ing a mis­take?”

“I don’t think I am. No; it was just about two min­utes, as I tell you.”

“Very well, then; and was Robert on your right or left?”

“On my left. I re­mem­ber that his pon­cho brushed past my face.”

“And with re­gard to us, how were you placed?”

“On the left al­so.”

“Then Robert must have dis­ap­peared on this side,” said the Ma­jor, turn­ing to­ward the moun­tain and point­ing to­ward the right: “and I should judge,” he added, “con­sid­er­ing the time that has elapsed, that the spot where he fell is about two miles up. Be­tween that height and the ground is where we must search, di­vid­ing the dif­fer­ent zones among us, and it is there we shall find him.”

Not an­oth­er word was spo­ken. The six men com­menced their ex­plo­rations, keep­ing con­stant­ly to the line they had made in their de­scent, ex­am­in­ing close­ly ev­ery fis­sure, and go­ing in­to the very depths of the abysses, choked up though they part­ly were with frag­ments of the plateau; and more than one came out again with gar­ments torn to rags, and feet and hands bleed­ing. For many long hours these brave fel­lows con­tin­ued their search with­out dream­ing of tak­ing rest. But all in vain. The child had not on­ly met his death on the moun­tain, but found a grave which some enor­mous rock had sealed for­ev­er.

About one o’clock, Gle­nar­van and his com­pan­ions met again in the val­ley. Gle­nar­van was com­plete­ly crushed with grief. He scarce­ly spoke. The on­ly words that es­caped his lips amid his sighs were,

“I shall not go away! I shall not go away!”

No one of the par­ty but could en­ter in­to his feel­ing, and re­spect it.

“Let us wait,” said Pa­ganel to the Ma­jor and Tom Austin. “We will take a lit­tle rest, and re­cruit our strength. We need it any­way, ei­ther to pro­long our search or con­tin­ue our route.”

“Yes; and, as Ed­ward wish­es it, we will rest. He has still hope, but what is it he hopes?”

“Who knows!” said Tom Austin.

“Poor Robert!” replied Pa­ganel, brush­ing away a tear.

The val­ley was thick­ly wood­ed, and the Ma­jor had no dif­fi­cul­ty in find­ing a suit­able place of en­camp­ment. He chose a clump of tall carob trees, un­der which they ar­ranged their few be­long­ings–few in­deed, for all they had were sundry wraps and fire-​arms, and a lit­tle dried meat and rice. Not far off there was a RIO, which sup­plied them with wa­ter, though it was still some­what mud­dy af­ter the dis­tur­bance of the avalanche. Mul­rady soon had a fire light­ed on the grass, and a warm re­fresh­ing bev­er­age to of­fer his mas­ter. But Gle­nar­van re­fused to touch it, and lay stretched on his pon­cho in a state of ab­so­lute pros­tra­tion.

So the day passed, and night came on, calm and peace­ful as the pre­ced­ing had been. While his com­pan­ions were ly­ing mo­tion­less, though wide awake, Gle­nar­van be­took him­self once more to the slopes of the Cordilleras, lis­ten­ing in­tent­ly in hope that some cry for help would fall up­on his ear. He ven­tured far up in spite of his be­ing alone, strain­ing his ear with painful ea­ger­ness to catch the faintest sound, and call­ing aloud in an agony of de­spair.

But he heard noth­ing save the beat­ings of his own heart, though he wan­dered all night on the moun­tain. Some­times the Ma­jor fol­lowed him, and some­times Pa­ganel, ready to lend a help­ing hand among the slip­pery peaks and dan­ger­ous precipices among which he was dragged by his rash and use­less im­pru­dence. All his ef­forts were in vain, how­ev­er, and to his re­peat­ed cries of “Robert, Robert!” echo was the on­ly re­sponse.

Day dawned, and it now be­came a mat­ter of ne­ces­si­ty to go and bring back the poor Lord from the dis­tant plateau, even against his will. His de­spair was ter­ri­ble. Who could dare to speak of quit­ting this fa­tal val­ley? Yet pro­vi­sions were done, and Ar­gen­tine guides and hors­es were not far off to lead them to the Pam­pas. To go back would be more dif­fi­cult than to go for­ward. Be­sides, the At­lantic Ocean was the ap­point­ed meet­ing place with the DUN­CAN. These were strong rea­sons against any long de­lay; in­deed it was best for all par­ties to con­tin­ue the route as soon as pos­si­ble.

Mc­Nabbs un­der­took the task of rous­ing Lord Gle­nar­van from his grief. For a long time his cousin seemed not to hear him. At last he shook his head, and said, al­most in-​au­di­bly:

“Did you say we must start?”

“Yes, we must start.”

“Wait one hour longer.”

“Yes, we’ll wait an­oth­er,” replied the Ma­jor.

The hour slipped away, and again Gle­nar­van begged for longer grace. To hear his im­plor­ing tones, one might have thought him a crim­inal beg­ging a respite. So the day passed on till it was al­most noon. Mc­Nabbs hes­itat­ed now no longer, but, act­ing on the ad­vice of the rest, told his cousin that start they must, for all their lives de­pend­ed on prompt ac­tion.

“Yes, yes!” replied Gle­nar­van. “Let us start, let us start!”

But he spoke with­out look­ing at Mc­Nabbs. His gaze was fixed in­tent­ly on a cer­tain dark speck in the heav­ens. Sud­den­ly he ex­claimed, ex­tend­ing his arm, and keep­ing it mo­tion­less, as if pet­ri­fied:

“There! there! Look! look!”

All eyes turned im­me­di­ate­ly in the di­rec­tion in­di­cat­ed so im­pe­ri­ous­ly. The dark speck was in­creas­ing vis­ibly. It was ev­ident­ly some bird hov­er­ing above them.

“A con­dor,” said Pa­ganel.

“Yes, a con­dor,” replied Gle­nar­van. “Who knows? He is com­ing down– he is grad­ual­ly get­ting low­er! Let us wait.”

Pa­ganel was not mis­tak­en, it was as­sured­ly a con­dor. This mag­nif­icent bird is the king of the South­ern An­des, and was for­mer­ly wor­shiped by the In­cas. It at­tains an ex­traor­di­nary de­vel­op­ment in those re­gions. Its strength is prodi­gious. It has fre­quent­ly driv­en ox­en over the edge of precipices down in­to the depths of abysses. It seizes sheep, and kids, and young calves, brows­ing on the plains, and car­ries them off to in­ac­ces­si­ble heights. It hov­ers in the air far be­yond the ut­most lim­its of hu­man sight, and its pow­ers of vi­sion are so great that it can dis­cern the small­est ob­jects on the earth be­neath.

What had this con­dor dis­cov­ered then? Could it be the corpse of Robert Grant? “Who knows?” re­peat­ed Gle­nar­van, keep­ing his eye im­mov­ably fixed on the bird. The enor­mous crea­ture was fast ap­proach­ing, some­times hov­er­ing for awhile with out­spread wings, and some­times falling with the swift­ness of in­ert bod­ies in space. Present­ly he be­gan to wheel round in wide cir­cles. They could see him dis­tinct­ly. He mea­sured more than fif­teen feet, and his pow­er­ful wings bore him along with scarce­ly the slight­est ef­fort, for it is the pre­rog­ative of large birds to fly with calm majesty, while in­sects have to beat their wings a thou­sand times a sec­ond.

The Ma­jor and Wil­son had seized their car­bines, but Gle­nar­van stopped them by a ges­ture. The con­dor was en­cir­cling in his flight a sort of in­ac­ces­si­ble plateau about a quar­ter of a mile up the side of the moun­tain. He wheeled round and round with daz­zling ra­pid­ity, open­ing and shut­ting his formidable claws, and shak­ing his car­ti­lagi­nous car­bun­cle, or comb.

“It is there, there!” ex­claimed Gle­nar­van.

A sud­den thought flashed across his mind, and with a ter­ri­ble cry, he called out, “Fire! fire! Oh, sup­pose Robert were still alive! That bird.”

But it was too late. The con­dor had dropped out of sight be­hind the crags. On­ly a sec­ond passed, a sec­ond that seemed an age, and the enor­mous bird reap­peared, car­ry­ing a heavy load and fly­ing at a slow rate.

A cry of hor­ror rose on all sides. It was a hu­man body the con­dor had in his claws, dan­gling in the air, and ap­par­ent­ly life­less– it was Robert Grant. The bird had seized him by his clothes, and had him hang­ing al­ready at least one hun­dred and fifty feet in the air. He had caught sight of the trav­el­ers, and was flap­ping his wings vi­olent­ly, en­deav­or­ing to es­cape with his heavy prey.

“Oh! would that Robert were dashed to pieces against the rocks, rather than be a–“

He did not fin­ish his sen­tence, but seiz­ing Wil­son’s car­bine, took aim at the con­dor. His arm was too trem­bling, how­ev­er, to keep the weapon steady.

“Let me do it,” said the Ma­jor. And with a calm eye, and sure hands and mo­tion­less body, he aimed at the bird, now three hun­dred feet above him in the air.

But be­fore he had pulled the trig­ger the re­port of a gun re­sound­ed from the bot­tom of the val­ley. A white smoke rose from be­tween two mass­es of basalt, and the con­dor, shot in the head, grad­ual­ly turned over and be­gan to fall, sup­port­ed by his great wings spread out like a parachute. He had not let go his prey, but gen­tly sank down with it on the ground, about ten paces from the stream.

“We’ve got him, we’ve got him,” shout­ed Gle­nar­van; and with­out wait­ing to see where the shot so prov­iden­tial­ly came from, he rushed to­ward the con­dor, fol­lowed by his com­pan­ions.

When they reached the spot the bird was dead, and the body of Robert was quite con­cealed be­neath his mighty wings. Gle­nar­van flung him­self on the corpse, and drag­ging it from the con­dor’s grasp, placed it flat on the grass, and knelt down and put his ear to the heart.

But a wilder cry of joy nev­er broke from hu­man lips, than Gle­nar­van ut­tered the next mo­ment, as he start­ed to his feet and ex­claimed:

“He is alive! He is still alive!”

The boy’s clothes were stripped off in an in­stant, and his face bathed with cold wa­ter. He moved slight­ly, opened his eyes, looked round and mur­mured, “Oh, my Lord! Is it you!” he said; “my fa­ther!”

Gle­nar­van could not re­ply. He was speech­less with emo­tion, and kneel­ing down by the side of the child so mirac­ulous­ly saved, burst in­to tears.