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

CHAPTER XV THALCAVE

ROBERT had no soon­er es­caped one ter­ri­ble dan­ger than he ran the risk of an­oth­er scarce­ly less formidable. He was al­most torn to pieces by his friends, for the brave fel­lows were so over­joyed at the sight of him, that in spite of his weak state, none of them would be sat­is­fied with­out

V. IV Verne giv­ing him a hug. How­ev­er, it seemed as if good rough hug­ging did not hurt sick peo­ple; at any rate it did not hurt Robert, but quite the con­trary.

But the first joy of de­liv­er­ance over, the next thought was who was the de­liv­er­er? Of course it was the Ma­jor who sug­gest­ed look­ing for him, and he was not far off, for about fifty paces from the RIO a man of very tall stature was seen stand­ing mo­tion­less on the low­est crags at the foot of the moun­tain. A long gun was ly­ing at his feet.

He had broad shoul­ders, and long hair bound to­geth­er with leather thongs. He was over six feet in height. His bronzed face was red be­tween the eyes and mouth, black by the low­er eye­lids, and white on the fore­head. He wore the cos­tume of the Patag­oni­ans on the fron­tiers, con­sist­ing of a splen­did cloak, or­na­ment­ed with scar­let arabesques, made of the skins of the gua­na­co, sewed to­geth­er with os­trich ten­dons, and with the silky wool turned up on the edge. Un­der this man­tle was a gar­ment of fox-​skin, fas­tened round the waist, and com­ing down to a point in front. A lit­tle bag hung from his belt, con­tain­ing col­ors for paint­ing his face. His boots were pieces of ox hide, fas­tened round the an­kles by straps, across.

This Patag­oni­an had a splen­did face, in­di­cat­ing re­al in­tel­li­gence, notwith­stand­ing the med­ley of col­ors by which it was dis­fig­ured. His wait­ing at­ti­tude was full of dig­ni­ty; in­deed, to see him stand­ing grave and mo­tion­less on his pedestal of rocks, one might have tak­en him for a stat­ue of _sang-​froid_.

As soon as the Ma­jor per­ceived him, he point­ed him out to Gle­nar­van, who ran to­ward him im­me­di­ate­ly. The Patag­oni­an came two steps for­ward to meet him, and Gle­nar­van caught hold of his hand and pressed it in his own. It was im­pos­si­ble to mis­take the mean­ing of the ac­tion, for the no­ble face of the Scotch lord so beamed with grat­itude that no words were need­ed. The stranger bowed slight­ly in re­turn, and said a few words that nei­ther Gle­nar­van nor the Ma­jor could un­der­stand.

The Patag­oni­an sur­veyed them at­ten­tive­ly for a few min­utes, and spoke again in an­oth­er lan­guage. But this sec­ond id­iom was no more in­tel­li­gi­ble than the first. Cer­tain words, how­ev­er, caught Gle­nar­van’s ear as sound­ing like Span­ish, a few sen­tences of which he could speak.

ES­PANOL?” he asked.

The Patag­oni­an nod­ded in re­ply, a move­ment of the head which has an af­fir­ma­tive sig­nif­icance among all na­tions.

“That’s good!” said the Ma­jor. “Our friend Pa­ganel will be the very man for him. It is lucky for us that he took it in­to his head to learn Span­ish.”

Pa­ganel was called forth­with. He came at once, and salut­ed the stranger with all the grace of a French­man. But his com­pli­ments were lost on the Patag­oni­an, for he did not un­der­stand a sin­gle syl­la­ble.

How­ev­er, on be­ing told how things stood, he be­gan in Span­ish, and open­ing his mouth as wide as he could, the bet­ter to ar­tic­ulate, said:

“_Vos sois um homen de bem_.” (You are a brave man.)

The na­tive lis­tened, but made no re­ply.

“He doesn’t un­der­stand,” said the ge­og­ra­pher.

“Per­haps you haven’t the right ac­cent,” sug­gest­ed the Ma­jor.

“That’s just it! Con­found the ac­cent!”

Once more Pa­ganel re­peat­ed his com­pli­ment, but with no bet­ter suc­cess.

“I’ll change the phrase,” he said; and in slow, de­lib­er­ate tones he went on, “_Sam du­vi­da um Pata­gao_” (A Patag­oni­an, un­doubt­ed­ly).

No re­sponse still.

“DIZEIME!” said Pa­ganel (An­swer me).

But no an­swer came.

“_Vos com­prien­deis?_” (Do you un­der­stand?) shout­ed Pa­ganel, at the very top of his voice, as if he would burst his throat.

Ev­ident­ly the In­di­an did not un­der­stand, for he replied in Span­ish,

“_No com­pren­do_” (I do not un­der­stand).

It was Pa­ganel’s turn now to be amazed. He pushed his spec­ta­cles right down over his nose, as if great­ly ir­ri­tat­ed, and said,

“I’ll be hanged if I can make out one word of his in­fer­nal pa­tois. It is Arau­ca­ni­an, that’s cer­tain!”

“Not a bit of it!” said Gle­nar­van. “It was Span­ish he spoke.”

And ad­dress­ing the Patag­oni­an, he re­peat­ed the word, “ES­PANOL?” (Span­ish?).

“_Si, si_” (yes, yes) replied the In­di­an.

Pa­ganel’s sur­prise be­came ab­so­lute stu­pe­fac­tion. The Ma­jor and his cousin ex­changed sly glances, and Mc­Nabbs said, mis­chievous­ly, with a look of fun on his face, “Ah, ah, my wor­thy friend; is this an­oth­er of your mis­ad­ven­tures? You seem to have quite a monopoly of them.”

“What!” said Pa­ganel, prick­ing up his ear.

“Yes, it’s clear enough the man speaks Span­ish.”

“He!”

“Yes, he cer­tain­ly speaks Span­ish. Per­haps it is some oth­er lan­guage you have been study­ing all this time in­stead of–“

But Pa­ganel would not al­low him to pro­ceed. He shrugged his shoul­ders, and said stiffly,

“You go a lit­tle too far, Ma­jor.”

“Well, how is it that you don’t un­der­stand him then?”

“Why, of course, be­cause the man speaks bad­ly,” replied the learned ge­og­ra­pher, get­ting im­pa­tient.

“He speaks bad­ly; that is to say, be­cause you can’t un­der­stand him,” re­turned the Ma­jor cool­ly.

“Come, come, Mc­Nabbs,” put in Gle­nar­van, “your sup­po­si­tion is quite in­ad­miss­able. How­ev­er DIS­TRAIT our friend Pa­ganel is, it is hard­ly like­ly he would study one lan­guage for an­oth­er.”

“Well, Ed­ward–or rather you, my good Pa­ganel–ex­plain it then.”

“I ex­plain noth­ing. I give proof. Here is the book I use dai­ly, to prac­tice my­self in the dif­fi­cul­ties of the Span­ish lan­guage. Ex­am­ine it for your­self, Ma­jor,” he said, hand­ing him a vol­ume in a very ragged con­di­tion, which he had brought up, af­ter a long rum­mage, from the depths of one of his nu­mer­ous pock­ets. “Now you can see whether I am im­pos­ing on you,” he con­tin­ued, in­dig­nant­ly.

“And what’s the name of this book?” asked the Ma­jor, as he took it from his hand.

“The LU­SI­ADES, an ad­mirable epic, which–“

“The LU­SI­ADES!” ex­claimed Gle­nar­van.

“Yes, my friend, the LU­SI­ADES of the great Camoens, nei­ther more nor less.”

“Camoens!” re­peat­ed Gle­nar­van; “but Pa­ganel, my un­for­tu­nate fel­low, Camoens was a Por­tuguese! It is Por­tuguese you have been learn­ing for the last six weeks!”

“Camoens! LUISADES! Por­tuguese!” Pa­ganel could not say more. He looked vexed, while his com­pan­ions, who had all gath­ered round, broke out in a fu­ri­ous burst of laugh­ter.

The In­di­an nev­er moved a mus­cle of his face. He qui­et­ly await­ed the ex­pla­na­tion of this in­com­pre­hen­si­ble mirth.

“Fool, id­iot, that I am!” at last ut­tered Pa­ganel. “Is it re­al­ly a fact? You are not jok­ing with me? It is what I have ac­tu­al­ly been do­ing? Why, it is a sec­ond con­fu­sion of tongues, like Ba­bel. Ah me! alack-​a-​day! my friends, what is to be­come of me? To start for In­dia and ar­rive at Chili! To learn Span­ish and talk Por­tuguese! Why, if I go on like this, some day I shall be throw­ing my­self out of the win­dow in­stead of my cigar!”

To hear Pa­ganel be­moan his mis­ad­ven­tures and see his com­ical dis­com­fi­ture, would have up­set any­one’s grav­ity. Be­sides, he set the ex­am­ple him­self, and said:

“Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you can’t laugh at me half as much as I laugh at my­self!”

“But, I say,” said the Ma­jor, af­ter a minute, “this doesn’t al­ter the fact that we have no in­ter­preter.”

“Oh, don’t dis­tress your­self about that,” replied Pa­ganel, “Por­tuguese and Span­ish are so much alike that I made a mis­take; but this very re­sem­blance will be a great help to­ward rec­ti­fy­ing it. In a very short time I shall be able to thank the Patag­oni­an in the lan­guage he speaks so well.”

Pa­ganel was right. He soon man­aged to ex­change a few words with the stranger, and found out even that his name was Thal­cave, a word that sig­ni­fied in Arau­ca­ni­an, “The Thun­der­er.” This sur­name had, no doubt, come from his skill in han­dling fire-​arms.

But what re­joiced Gle­nar­van most was to learn that he was a guide by oc­cu­pa­tion, and, more­over, a guide across the Pam­pas. To his mind, the meet­ing with him was so prov­iden­tial, that he could not doubt now of the suc­cess of their en­ter­prise. The de­liv­er­ance of Cap­tain Grant seemed an ac­com­plished fact.

When the par­ty went back to Robert, the boy held out his arms to the Patag­oni­an, who silent­ly laid his hand on his head, and pro­ceed­ed to ex­am­ine him with the great­est care, gen­tly feel­ing each of his aching limbs. Then he went down to the RIO, and gath­ered a few hand­fuls of wild cel­ery, which grew on the banks, with which he rubbed the child’s body all over. He han­dled him with the most exquisite del­ica­cy, and his treat­ment so re­vived the lad’s strength, that it was soon ev­ident that a few hours’ rest would set him all right.

It was ac­cord­ing­ly de­cid­ed that they should en­camp for the rest of the day and the en­su­ing night. Two grave ques­tions, more­over, had to be set­tled: where to get food, and means of trans­port. Pro­vi­sions and mules were both lack­ing. Hap­pi­ly, they had Thal­cave, how­ev­er, a prac­tised guide, and one of the most in­tel­li­gent of his class. He un­der­took to find all that was need­ed, and of­fered to take him to a TOLDE­RIA of In­di­ans, not fur­ther than four miles off at most, where he could get sup­plies of all he want­ed. This propo­si­tion was part­ly made by ges­tures, and part­ly by a few Span­ish words which Pa­ganel man­aged to make out. His of­fer was ac­cept­ed, and Gle­nar­van and his learned friend start­ed off with him at once.

They walked at a good pace for an hour and a half, and had to make great strides to keep up with the gi­ant Thal­cave. The road lay through a beau­ti­ful fer­tile re­gion, abound­ing in rich pas­turages; where a hun­dred thou­sand cat­tle might have fed com­fort­ably. Large ponds, con­nect­ed by an in­ex­tri­ca­ble labyrinth of RIOS, am­ply wa­tered these plains and pro­duced their green­ness. Swans with black heads were dis­port­ing in the wa­ter, dis­put­ing pos­ses­sion with the nu­mer­ous in­trud­ers which gam­boled over the LLANOS. The feath­ered tribes were of most bril­liant plumage, and of mar­velous va­ri­ety and deaf­en­ing noise. The isacus, a grace­ful sort of dove with gray feath­ers streaked with white, and the yel­low car­di­nals, were flit­ting about in the trees like mov­ing flow­ers; while over­head pi­geons, spar­rows, chin­go­los, bulgueros, and mon­gi­tas, were fly­ing swift­ly along, rend­ing the air with their pierc­ing cries.

Pa­ganel’s ad­mi­ra­tion in­creased with ev­ery step, and he had near­ly ex­haust­ed his vo­cab­ulary of ad­jec­tives by his loud ex­cla­ma­tions, to the as­ton­ish­ment of the Patag­oni­an, to whom the birds, and the swans, and the prairies were ev­ery day things. The learned ge­og­ra­pher was so lost in de­light, that he seemed hard­ly to have start­ed be­fore they came in sight of the In­di­an camp, or TOLDE­RIA, sit­uat­ed in the heart of a val­ley.

About thir­ty no­madic In­di­ans were liv­ing there in rude cab­ins made of branch­es, pas­tur­ing im­mense herds of milch cows, sheep, ox­en, and hors­es. They went from one prairie to an­oth­er, al­ways find­ing a well-​spread ta­ble for their four-​foot­ed guests.

These no­mads were a hy­brid type of Arau­cans, Pe­hu-​ench­es, and Au­cas. They were An­do-​Pe­ru­vians, of an olive tint, of medi­um stature and mas­sive form, with a low fore­head, al­most cir­cu­lar face, thin lips, high cheek­bones, ef­fem­inate fea­tures, and cold ex­pres­sion. As a whole, they are about the least in­ter­est­ing of the In­di­ans. How­ev­er, it was their herds Gle­nar­van want­ed, not them­selves. As long as he could get beef and hors­es, he cared for noth­ing else.

Thal­cave did the bar­gain­ing. It did not take long. In ex­change for sev­en ready sad­dled hors­es of the Ar­gen­tine breed, 100 pounds of CHAR­QUI, or dried meat, sev­er­al mea­sures of rice, and leather bot­tles for wa­ter, the In­di­ans agreed to take twen­ty ounces of gold as they could not get wine or rum, which they would have pre­ferred, though they were per­fect­ly ac­quaint­ed with the val­ue of gold. Gle­nar­van wished to pur­chase an eighth horse for the Patag­oni­an, but he gave him to un­der­stand that it would be use­less.

They got back to the camp in less than half an hour, and were hailed with ac­cla­ma­tions by the whole par­ty or rather the pro­vi­sions and hors­es were. They were all hun­gry, and ate hearti­ly of the wel­come viands. Robert took a lit­tle food with the rest. He was fast re­cov­er­ing strength. The close of the day was spent in com­plete re­pose and pleas­ant talk about the dear ab­sent ones.

Pa­ganel nev­er quit­ted the In­di­an’s side. It was not that he was so glad to see a re­al Patag­oni­an, by whom he looked a per­fect pigmy– a Patag­oni­an who might have al­most ri­valed the Em­per­or Max­imii, and that Con­go ne­gro seen by the learned Van der Brock, both eight feet high; but he caught up Span­ish phras­es from the In­di­an and stud­ied the lan­guage with­out a book this time, ges­tic­ulat­ing at a great rate all the grand sonorous words that fell on his ear.

“If I don’t catch the ac­cent,” he said to the Ma­jor, “it won’t be my fault; but who would have said to me that it was a Patag­oni­an who would teach me Span­ish one day?”