Carmen Ariza Part 19

The eastern sky was blushing at the approach of the amorous sun when Jose left his hammock and prepared to endure another day on the river.

To the south the deep blue vault of heaven was dotted with downy clouds. Behind the laboring steamer the river glittered through a dazzling white haze. Ahead, its course was traceable for miles by the thin vapor always rising from it. The jungle on either side was brilliant with color and resonant with the songs of forest lyrists. In the lofty fronds of venerable palms and cedars noisy macaws gossiped and squabbled, and excited monkeys discussed the pa.s.sing boat and commented volubly on its character. In the shallow water at the margin of the river blue herons and spindle-legged cranes were searching out their morning meal. Crocodiles lay dozing on the _playas_, with mouths opened invitingly to the stupid birds which were sure to yield to the mesmerism. Far in the distance up-stream a young deer was drinking at the water's edge.

The charm of the rare scene held the priest spellbound. As he gazed upon it a king vulture--called by the natives the Vulture Papa, or Pope Vulture--suddenly swooped down from the depths of heaven and, lighting upon the carca.s.s of a monster crocodile floating down the river, began to feast upon the choicest morsels, while the buzzards which had been circling about the carrion and feeding at will respectfully withdrew until the royal appet.i.te should be satiated.

"Holy graft, eh, Padre?" commented Don Jorge, coming up. "Those brainless buzzards, if they only knew it and had sense enough to unite, could strip every feather off that swaggering vulture and send him packing. Fools! And we poor Colombians, if we had the courage, could as easily throw the Church into the sea, holy candles, holy oils, holy incense and all! _Diablo!_ But we are fleeced like sheep!"

To Jose it did not seem strange that this man should speak so frankly to him, a priest. He felt that Don Jorge was not so much lacking in courtesy and delicate respect for the feelings and opinions of others as he was ruggedly honest and fearlessly sincere in his hatred of the dissimulation and graft practiced upon the ignorant and unsuspecting.

For the rest of the day Don Jorge was busy with his maps and papers, and Jose was left to himself.

The character of the landscape had altered with the narrowing of the stream, and the river-plain now lay in a great volcanic basin flanked by distant verdure-clad hills. Far to the southwest Jose could see the faint outlines of the lofty _Cordilleras_. Somewhere in that direction lay Simiti. And back of it lay the ancient treasure house of Spain, where countless thousands of sweating slaves had worn out their straining bodies under the goad and lash, that the monarchs of Castile might carry on their foolish religious wars and attempt their vain projects of self-aggrandizement.

The day wore on without interest, and darkness closed in quickly when the sun dropped behind the _Sierras_. It was to be Jose's last night on the Magdalena, for the captain had told him that, barring disaster, the next afternoon should find them at Badillo. After the evening meal the priest took his chair to the bow of the steamer and gave himself over to the gentle influences of the rare and soothing environment.

The churning of the boat was softly echoed by the sleeping forest. The late moon shimmered through clouds of murky vapor, and cast ghostly reflections along the broad river. The balmy air, trembling with the radiating heat, was impregnated with sweetest odors from the myriad buds and balsamic plants of the dark jungle wilderness on either hand, where impervious walls rose in majestic, deterrant, awesome silence from the low sh.o.r.e line, and tangled shrubs and bushes, rioting in wild profusion, jealously hung to the water's edge that they might hide every trace of the muddy banks. What shapes and forms the black depths of that untrodden bush hid from his eyes, Jose might only imagine. But he felt their presence--crawling, creeping things that lay in patient ambush for their unwitting prey--slimy lizards, gorgeously caparisoned--dank, twisting serpents--elephantine tapirs--dull-witted sloths--sleek, wary jaguars--fierce formicidae, poisonous and carnivorous. He might not see them, but he felt that he was the cynosure of hundreds of keen eyes that followed him as the boat glided close to the sh.o.r.e and silently crept through the shadows which lay thick upon the river's edge. And the matted jungle, with its colossal vegetation, he felt was peopled with other things--influences intangible, and perhaps still unreal, but mightily potent with the symbolized presence of the great Unknown, which stands back of all phenomena and eagerly watches the movements of its children. These influences had already cast their spell upon him. He was yielding, slowly, to the "lure of the tropics," which few who come under its attachment ever find the strength to dispel.

No habitations were visible on the dark sh.o.r.es. Only here and there in the yellow glow of the boat's lanterns appeared the customary piles of wood which the natives sell to the pa.s.sing steamers for boiler fuel, and which are found at frequent intervals along the river. At one of these the Honda halted to replenish its supply. The usual bickering between the negro owner and the boat captain resulted in a bargain, and the half-naked stevedores began to transfer the wood to the vessel, carrying it on their shoulders in the most primitive manner, held in a strip of burlap. The rising moon had at last thrown off its veil of murky clouds, and was shining in undimmed splendor in a starry sky. Jose went ash.o.r.e with the pa.s.sengers; for the boat might remain there for hours while her crew labored leisurely, with much bantering and singing, and no anxious thought for the morrow.

The strumming of a _tiple_ in the distance attracted him. Following it, he found a small settlement of bamboo huts hidden away in a beautiful grove of moriche palms, through which the moonbeams filtered in silvery stringers. Little gardens lay back of the dwellings, and the usual number of goats and pigs were dozing in the heavy shadows of the scarcely stirring trees. Reserved matrons and shy _doncellas_ appeared in the doorways; and curious children, naked and chubby, hid in their mothers' scant skirts and peeped cautiously out at the newcomers. The tranquil night was sweet with delicate odors wafted from numberless plants and blossoms in the adjacent forest, and with the fragrance breathed from the roses, gardenias and dahlias with which these unpretentious dwellings were fairly embowered. A spirit of calm and peaceful contentment hovered over the spot, and the round, white moon smiled down in holy benediction upon the gentle folk who pa.s.sed their simple lives in this bower of delight, free from the goad of human ambition, untrammeled by the false sense of wealth and its entailments, and unspoiled by the artificialities of civilization.

One of the pa.s.sengers suggested a dance, while waiting for the boat to take on its fuel. The owner of the wood, apparently the chief authority of the little settlement, immediately procured a _tom-tom_, and gave orders for the _baile_. At his direction men, women and children gathered in the moonlit clearing on the river bank and, while the musician beat a monotonous tattoo on the crude drum, circled about in the stately and dignified movements of their native dance.

It was a picture that Jose would not forget. The balmy air, soft as velvet, and laden with delicious fragrance; the vast solitude, stretching in trackless wilderness to unknown reaches on either hand; the magic stillness of the tropic night; the figures of the dancers weirdly silhouetted in the gorgeous moonlight; with the low, unvaried beat of the _tom-tom_ rising dully through the warm air--all merged into a scene of exquisite beauty and delight, which made an indelible impression upon the priest's receptive mind.

And when the sounds of simple happiness had again died into silence, and he lay in his hammock, listening to the spirit of the jungle sighing through the night-blown palms, as the boat glided gently through the lights and shadows of the quiet river, his soul voiced a nameless yearning, a vague, unformed longing for an approach to the life of simple content and child-like happiness of the kind and gentle folk with whom he had been privileged to make this brief sojourn.

The crimson flush of the dawn-sky heralded another day of implacable heat. The emerald coronals of palms and towering _caobas_ burned in the early beams of the torrid sun. Light fogs rose reluctantly from the river's bosom and dispersed in delicate vapors of opal and violet.

The tangled banks of dripping bush shone freshly green in the misty light. The wilderness, grim and trenchant, reigned in unchallenged despotism. Solitude, soul-oppressing, unbroken but for the calls of feathered life, brooded over the birth of Jose's last day on the Magdalena. About midday the steamer touched at the little village of Bodega Central; but the iron-covered warehouse and the whitewashed mud hovels glittered garishly in the fierce heat and stifled all desire to go ash.o.r.e. The call was brief, and the boat soon resumed its course through the solitude and heat of the mighty river.

Immediately after leaving Bodega Central, Don Jorge approached Jose and beckoned him to an unoccupied corner of the boat.

"_Amigo_," he began, after a.s.suring himself that his words would not carry to the other pa.s.sengers, "the captain tells me the next stop is Badillo, where you leave us. If all goes well you will be in Simiti to-night. No doubt a report of our meeting with Padre Diego has already reached Don Wenceslas, who, you may be sure, has no thought of forgetting you. I have no reason to tell you this other than the fact that I think, as Padre Diego put it, you are being jobbed--not by the Church, but by Wenceslas. I want to warn you, that is all. I hate priests! They got me early--got my wife and girl, too! I hate the Church, and the whole ghastly farce which it puts over on the ignorant people of this country! But--," eying him sharply, "I would hardly cla.s.s you as a _real_ priest. There, never mind!" as Jose was about to interrupt. "I think I understand. You simply went wrong. You meant well, but something happened--as always does when one means well in this world. But now to the point."

Shifting his chair closer to Jose, the man resumed earnestly.

"Your grandfather, Don Ignacio, was a very rich man. The war stripped him. He got just what he deserved. His _fincas_ and herds and mines melted away from him like grease from a holy candle. And n.o.body cared--any more than the Lord cares about candle grease. Most of his property fell into the hands of his former slaves--and he had hundreds of them hereabouts. But his most valuable possession, the great mine of La Libertad, disappeared as completely as if blotted from the face of the earth.

"That mine--no, not a mine, but a mountain of free gold--was located somewhere in the Guamoco district. After the war this whole country slipped back into the jungle, and had to be rediscovered. The Guamoco region is to-day as unknown as it was before the Spaniards came.

Somewhere in the district, but covered deep beneath brush and forest growth, is that mine, the richest in Colombia.

"Now, as you know, Don Ignacio left this country in considerable of a hurry. But I think he always intended to come back again. Death killed that ambition. I don't know about his sons. But the fact remains that La Libertad has never been rediscovered since Don Ignacio's day. The old records in Cartagena show the existence of such a mine in Spanish times, and give a more or less accurate statement of its production.

_Diablo_! I hesitate to say how much! The old fellow had _arrastras_, mills, and so on, in which slaves crushed the ore. The bullion was melted into bars and brought down the trail to Simiti, where he had agents and warehouses and a store or two. From there it was shipped down the river to Cartagena. But the war lasted thirteen years. And during that time everything was in a state of terrible confusion. The existence of mines was forgotten. The plantations were left unworked.

The male population was all but killed off. And the country sank back into wilderness.

"_Bueno_; so much for history. Now to your friends on the coast--and elsewhere. Don Wenceslas is quietly searching for that mine--has been for years. He put his agent, Padre Diego, in Simiti to learn what he might there. But the fool priest was run out after he had ruined a woman or two. However, Padre Diego is still in close touch with the town, and is on the keen search for La Libertad. Wenceslas thinks there may be descendants of some of Don Ignacio's old slaves still living in Simiti, or near there, and that they know the location of the lost mine. And, if I mistake not, he figures that you will learn the secret from them in some way, and that the mine will again come to light. Now, if you get wind of that mine and attempt to locate it, or purchase it from the natives, you will be beaten out of it in a hurry.

And you may be sure Don Wenceslas will be the one who will eventually have it, for there is no craftier, smoother, brighter rascal in Colombia than he. And so, take it from me, if you ever get wind of the location of that famous property--which by rights is yours, having belonged to your grandfather--_keep the information strictly to yourself_!

"I do not know Simiti. But I shall be working in the Guamoco district for many months to come, hunting Indian graves. I shall have my runners up and down the Simiti trail frequently, and may get in touch with you. It may be that you will need a friend. There! The boat is whistling for Badillo. A last word: Keep out of the way of both Wenceslas and Diego--cultivate the people of Simiti--and keep your mouth closed."

A few minutes later Jose stood on the river bank beside his little haircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw away and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it disappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise above the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had waved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of welcome on the sh.o.r.e. He was a stranger among strangers.

He turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a typical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a half dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives, with their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions--this was Badillo.

"_Senor Padre._" A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white cotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kindly tone. "Where do you go?"

"To Simiti," replied the priest, turning eagerly to the man. "But," in bewilderment, "where is it?"

"Over there," answered the native, pointing to the jungle on the far side of the river. "Many leagues."

The wearied priest sat down on his trunk and buried his face in his hands. Faintness and nausea seized him. It was the after-effect of his long and difficult river experience. Or, perhaps, the deadly malaria was beginning its insidious poisoning. The man approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Padre, why do you go to Simiti?"

Jose raised his head and looked more closely at his interlocutor. The native was a man of perhaps sixty years. His figure was that of an athlete. He stood well over six feet high, with ma.s.sive shoulders, and a waist as slender as a woman's. His face was almost black in color, and mottled with patches of white, so common to the natives of the hot inlands. But there was that in its expression, a something that looked out through those kindly black eyes, that a.s.sured Jose and bespoke his confidence.

The man gravely repeated his question.

"I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have charge of the parish," Jose replied.

The man slowly shook his finely shaped head.

"We want no priest in Simiti," he said with quiet firmness. His manner of speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious.

"But--do you live there?" inquired Jose anxiously.

"Yes, Padre."

"Then you must know a man--Rosendo, I think his name--"

"I am Rosendo Ariza."

Jose looked eagerly at the man. Then he wearily stretched out a hand.

"Rosendo--I am sick--I think. And--I have--no friends--"

Rosendo quickly grasped his hand and slipped an arm about his shoulders.

"I am your friend, Padre--" He stopped and appeared to reflect for a moment. Then he added quickly, "My canoe is ready; and we must hurry, or night will overtake us."

The priest essayed to rise, but stumbled. Then, as if he had been a child, the man Rosendo picked him up and carried him down the bank to a rude canoe, where he deposited him on a pile of empty bags in the keel.

"Escolastico!" he called back to a young man who seemed to be the chief character of the village. "Sell the _panela_ and yuccas _a buen precio_; and remind Captain Julio not to forget on the next trip to bring the little Carmen a doll from Barranquilla. I will be over again next month. And Juan," addressing the st.u.r.dy youth who was preparing to accompany him, "set in the Padre's baggage; and do you take the paddle, and I will pole. _Conque, adioscito!_" waving his battered straw hat to the natives congregated on the bank, while Juan pushed the canoe from the sh.o.r.e and paddled vigorously out into the river.

"_Adioscito! adioscito! Don Rosendo y Juan!_" The hearty farewells of the natives followed the canoe far out into the broad stream.

Across the open river in the livid heat of the early afternoon the canoe slowly made its way. The sun from a cloudless sky viciously poured down its glowing rays like molten metal. The boat burned; the river steamed; the water was hot to his touch, when the priest feebly dipped his hands into it and bathed his throbbing brow. Badillo faded from view as they rounded a densely wooded island and entered a long lagoon. Here they lost the slight breeze which they had had on the main stream. In this narrow channel, hemmed in between lofty forest walls of closely woven vines and foliage, it seemed to Jose that they had entered a flaming inferno. The two boatmen sat silent and inscrutable, plying their paddles without speaking.

Down the long lagoon the canoe drifted, keeping within what scant shade the banks afforded, for the sun stood now directly overhead. The heat was everywhere, insistent, unpitying. It burned, scalded, warped.