CHAPTER V.

HUARI, AND THE STORY OF THE BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS.

“B-r-r-r-r!” came a voice.

“What on earth has happened?” asked Ferguson, in amazement, bending over a large hole that had suddenly yawned at their feet.

“B-r-r-r! Help me out, fellows! I’m stifling!”

They threw themselves face down at the edge of the cavity, and reached their hands below, but could not feel anything.

“Quick, Harvey! Give me the pick! Catch that, old man!” he called, pushing the iron arms into the opening. A pressure was felt and a hoarse voice replied:—

“That’ll help. I can crawl up the side that slopes.”

The next minute Hope-Jones was with them again, blowing dirt from his mouth and saying unpleasant things about the animal that had dug the hole at the path side. His ears were filled with loam, black earth had sifted back of his shirt collar, and such hair as projected beneath his cap was tangled with the soil. As for his clothing, it was streaked. Fortunately, his shot-gun, knapsack, and pick remained fastened to his back, and although dirty, he was none the loser because of his drop below the surface. Ferguson and Harvey brushed him off as best they could, then the three resumed their way up the hill.

“I didn’t see any hole,” remarked the Englishman, a few minutes later.

“It was at the side of the path; most of it in the jungle, and leaves had fallen over the edge,” Ferguson replied.

“Mr. Hope-Jones?”

“Yes, Harvey.”

“Will you cry quits on the puma cub?”

“Certainly, my lad.”

“Hope-Jones!”

“Yes, Ferguson, I know what you are about to say. Boa, puma cub, and holes are barred subjects evermore.”

And they shook hands in a chain.

The path ascended rapidly and the vegetation became less tangled as the travellers proceeded; so too the atmosphere grew somewhat more bracing, for the heavy odor of the valley did not mount to any height. With the setting of the sun the new moon shone for several hours above the horizon, and the silvery rays from the crescent, together with the starlight, illumined their way so they were able to make rapid progress until about ten o’clock, when the ground becoming quite dry—for the rain of the valley had not extended this far—they pitched the shelter-tent and built a rousing fire, near which they placed their damp clothing. Toward midnight they turned in “tired to the bone,” as Harvey expressed it, and none awakened until the sun was two hours’ high. Then, looking down into the valley, they saw a billowy mist, which completely hid even the tallest trees.

“There’s miasma for you!” exclaimed Ferguson, pointing to the vapor. “As we passed through it, perhaps we should take some more quinine.”

They acted on the suggestion, then, after a hurried breakfast, set off on the road again, for they were anxious to reach Huari that day, and the morning start had been late. The road was up grade until the noon hour, then became level again, and the vegetation was the same as on the other side of the valley, before they had plunged into the riot of undergrowth. Toward three o’clock they saw smoke rising lazily ahead and concluded they must be nearing a town. A half hour later they came upon a number of huts on the outskirts. Fields of maize and cotton were under cultivation, and brown men, half naked, were at work in them with primitive tools—ploughs that were but sharpened boughs of the ironwood tree, trimmed wedge-shaped, and drawn by small oxen; shovels made from the same wood; and other agricultural implements with which they were strangers, fashioned from stones that had been worn to sharp edges. All the men wore beards, some quite long.

The huts became more numerous, and naked little children, standing in the doorways or running about in the narrow streets, stared at the travellers, while the older boys and girls, who wore loin cloths or skins of animals fastened as tunics, called in the Indian tongue to persons who were within the dwellings. They met few men and fewer women; the better class of the former wore trousers and a poncho (a blanket with a hole cut in the middle, through which the head is thrust, and which falls over the shoulders); whereas the poorer class were content with the upper dress that came to the ankles: but the women wore gowns of gorgeous color, though they were ill-shapen and no attempt was made to fit the figure.

The travellers neared the centre of the town before they met a “white man,” or one who did not belong to the Indian race. His features were proof that he or his ancestors had come from a foreign land, being in marked contrast with the thick, stubby nose, narrow forehead, and broad lips of the Ayulis. Hope-Jones doffed his cap and addressed him in Spanish.

The Peruvian, who had been staring at them since they had come in sight, at once joined them, and not only shook hands, but placed his right arm around the shoulders of each in turn, patting him on the back, meanwhile speaking rapidly, with much sibilation of the s’s and rolling of the r’s, conveying in the most flowery language his delight at their visit.

So they had journeyed all the way from Lima! How tired they must be! But what matter? He had comfortable beds at his house and they must rest for a week, or a month if necessary, and be his guest the while. What, could only remain one night? Surely, they would be courting illness by thus hurrying along. No matter, he would speak of that later. They must accompany him now.

He placed his hand in Hope-Jones’s arm, and gathering his poncho, which was quite long, much as a woman would her skirts, he turned in the direction from which he had come and led the way, explaining as they walked that there were few white men in Huari, “and,” he added, “some of them you would not wish to meet.”

At the word “bed” Harvey had become very much interested, so, for that matter, had Ferguson and Hope-Jones, and they were not at all loath to accept the invitation which had been so insistently given.

After travelling five minutes and entering what was evidently the better section of the Montaña town, they stopped before a one-story building, bordered by verandas, that was spread out over much ground and was surrounded by fruit trees. It was the most imposing structure they had yet seen in the village, though, like others, it was built of adobe, reënforced with bamboo.

The host and his companions were met by an Indian woman, who appeared to be of better class than those the travellers had seen on the streets, and she was presented to them as Señora Cisneros. Her greeting was spoken in excellent Spanish, and although not quite as demonstrative as her husband’s, it was none the less sincere. The travellers were led to two connecting rooms, and after discarding their burdens and returning to the cool veranda, they were asked if they would not like to drink some cold coffee.

“We have learned the art of coffee-making from the Brazilians,” said Señor Cisneros, “and, believe me, the beverage is better cold than hot. Would you like to observe our arrangement? But perhaps you are tired?”

Hope-Jones confessed that he was tired, but Ferguson and Harvey manifested interest in the Brazilians’ teachings; so while the Englishman remained on the veranda, chatting with the señora, the two young Americans accompanied the host to the rear of the house and into an arbor that was covered with trailing vines. It was a cool spot, far enough from buildings to be affected by all breezes, and in the centre stood an immense earthen vessel, the height of a man and at least four feet in circumference. A foot and a half from the bottom was a spigot.

“This jar is made of porous clay,” said the señor, tapping the vessel, “and as a slight amount of the liquid filters through, evaporation cools its contents. Once every three months we boil coffee by the barrel. It is poured in here, permitted to settle for a week, and all sediment goes to the bottom. You will notice that I draw the liquid from some distance above,” and he placed a pitcher beneath the spigot, turning which, a dark, clear liquid flowed.

“Taste it?” and he filled a small cup, then another. “Is it not cold?” he added.

Ferguson and Harvey found the beverage delicious, and expressed wonder that it could be coffee.

“Wait until some sugar is added,” said the Peruvian, as pitcher in hand he led the way back to the house.

For a half hour they rested on the veranda, sipping cold coffee sweetened with brown sugar, and eating paltas, which Señora Cisneros had placed on a little table. They related their adventures to host and hostess, and, without revealing their reason for visiting the interior, told that they were in search of gold.

Señor Cisneros shook his head. “Perhaps there is gold,” he said, “but I have found no trace of any.”

Then he told that for years he had been engaged in silver-mining, and that his llama trains passed over the road which they had travelled.

“When the railroad pierces the interior,” he continued, “there will be much profit made by those who extract metals from the ground, but with the present method of transportation one does well to gain a livelihood.”

The señora was very anxious to hear about Lima. She had been there once, but only for a few days, soon after her marriage.

After a time the host ordered hammocks swung on the veranda, and in these Hope-Jones, Ferguson, and Harvey rested until a few minutes before dinner. It seemed good to sit down in chairs, at a table, and to taste other food than the game and fruits of the woods, to say nothing of having crockery dishes to eat from instead of the tin plates. They were early in bed, and after a refreshing night’s sleep between sheets, which, though coarse, were cool and clean, they awoke with renewed determination to continue their journey.

But while they were enjoying more of the señor’s delicious coffee—heated this time—rain commenced to fall; huge drops came in sheets and leaden clouds hung low; so they were nothing loath to accept an urgent invitation to remain another day and night. Señora Cisneros, learning of the scant stock of clothing they had taken with them, insisted upon overhauling their knapsacks, and she passed several hours of the morning with needle and thread, darning and mending. In the afternoon she packed them some food from her well-stocked larder, sufficient to last and add variation to their mountain bill of fare for several days.

The next morning dawned warm and bright, and the adventurers started early, after thanking host and hostess time and again; and they promised themselves the pleasure of a longer visit on their return. They were passing from the town and were waving their caps to Señor Cisneros, who had accompanied them to the outskirts, when Ferguson said:—

“He’s a splendid fellow. I wish he were going with us.”

“So do I,” said Hope-Jones. “He would be a jolly companion.”

Harvey came suddenly to a halt.

“What’s the matter,” the young men asked.

“I happened to think of something. Cisneros is a miner.”

“Yes.”

“And he knows this country.”

“Yes.”

“He’s honest.”

“He has every appearance of being so. What are you driving at?”

“And he told us that his silver mines were not paying very well,” persisted the boy.

“Yes.”

“If we find gold we’re going to find a great deal, are we not?”

“So old Huayno said. But why are you wasting time standing here and asking all these questions?”

“Because I move we turn back.”

“Turn back! Why?”

“And ask Señor Cisneros to join us.”

“Tell him the secret?”

“Yes, and take him in on shares. One quarter for each.”

Ferguson slapped his hand on his thigh. “Bully for you, Harvey! That’s a splendid idea. I wonder it never came to me.”

“It never entered my mind until the last time he waved his hat,” said the boy, looking pleased at the approval he had been given, for Hope-Jones had spoken as warmly in favor of the project as had the American; and the three at once commenced to retrace their footsteps. They found their erstwhile host on the veranda of his home, bidding adieu to his wife, for he had planned a trip to a neighboring village.

“Take him one side and explain, Ferguson,” whispered Hope-Jones.

“I am delighted that you are returning,” he called out when they appeared. “Thought you would rest a little longer?”

“No, señor; thank you. We wished to consult with you regarding a certain matter. Will you go for a short walk with me?” asked the elder American.

“With pleasure,” and he led the way back of the house, to the arbor, while Hope-Jones and Harvey remained on the veranda with the señora, who looked at them curiously, wondering of course what it meant, but she politely refrained from asking questions.

The two were absent about a half hour, and when they came in sight again Ferguson nodded his head, as if to say, “He will go,” and the señor grasped each of them by a hand.

“Pardon me, but I must immediately tell my wife of this extraordinary news,” said he. “You need have no fear. My secrets are safe with her,” and the two passed into the house.

“So he’ll go?”

“I should say so. You should have seen his eyes glisten. He believes that every word old Huayno uttered is true; says he’s heard legends of this sort, but no one was ever able to locate the mine. All stories agree, however, that it is beyond the cinchona trees.”

“It was a capital thought, that of Harvey’s! I wonder how long it will be before he can accompany us?”

The señor answered the question in person, reappearing just then and saying, “I shall be able to leave in an hour, if you wish to start that soon.”

“In an hour?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “I am accustomed to long journeys and am always ready for departure. The señora is even now placing my things in order.”

So it happened that at nine o’clock they again departed from Huari, but this time they were four in number, instead of three. When beyond the confines of the village the travellers from the coast were surprised at being addressed by their new friend in the English tongue.

“I did not know you could speak our language,” exclaimed Ferguson.

“It has been long since I have used it,” was the reply, “or I should have a better accent and vocabulary. For ten years, until I was seventeen, I lived in New York City; but that was thirty-five years ago, and since then I have only met Englishmen and Americans occasionally.”

“Why didn’t you let us know before that you could speak English?”

“Because you are excellent Spanish scholars; and as my wife has not enjoyed the same advantages that I have, I prefer to converse in the tongue with which she is familiar. Now that we are away from Huari, however, and by ourselves, I should be very glad to use only the English and learn from you that which I have forgotten.”

They found the señor a most pleasant companion and also a valuable addition to the party. On the trip from Chicla to Huari, after the edibles which were stored in their knapsacks had been exhausted, they were compelled to live on game, and the diet became monotonous. But Señor Cisneros added to the daily bill of fare materially by his knowledge of the Peruvian vegetable world. He cut tender shoots from a certain palm tree, which, when boiled, tasted something like the northern cauliflower; from a vine that grew in and out the long grass, he made an excellent substitute for spinach: before he joined them they had feared to eat berries, not knowing which were poisonous; now they were able to enjoy a dessert of fruit after every meal. Their cooking utensils had also been added to at Huari, a pot among other articles, and in this the novel vegetables were cooked.

In lieu of a knapsack the Peruvian was provided with two commodious bags made of llama skins, which were fastened together by a broad strip of hide by which they depended from his shoulders. He carried a rifle of the muzzle-loading description, an old-time powder horn and bullet-pouch. He proved himself as good a shot as Ferguson, and a pleasant rivalry soon sprang up between the two.

Old Huayno had told them to push ahead for three days from Huari, to the forest of cinchona trees, and find the head waters of the Marañon, one of the rivers that are tributary to the Amazon.

At its source this stream is very small, and the travellers from Callao had wondered how they might recognize it from others, and had regarded this stage of the journey with some apprehension, lest they might fail in reaching the river on which the great white rock was located. But Señor Cisneros knew exactly the course to take, and without aid of compass he directed their steps.

“We shall be longer than three days on this journey,” he said. “Your Indian friend reckoned the distance as it was covered by those of his tribe who were able to move much more swiftly than we can with our numerous burdens. We shall be five days, rather than three.”

“Then from the river’s source to the great white rock it will perhaps be two weeks’ journey?”

“Yes; I should think it probable.”

He was correct concerning the distance from Huari; it was evening of the fifth day when they pitched the shelter-tent on the edge of a dense, dark forest.

“My, but there’s sufficient quinine in there to cure a world of giants!” exclaimed Harvey.

“Those are not cinchona trees, my son,” said the Peruvian.

“No? But I thought this was the forest of cinchona trees.”

“So it is; for the reason that the valuable growth appears frequently in these woods. We will doubtless see many specimens during our journey, but none is in sight from here.”

“What does the tree look like, señor?”

“It resembles the beech, with the flowing branches of the lilac, and has smooth wood, susceptible of a high polish. The leaves resemble those of the coffee plant.”

“Are you versed in the method of preparing quinine from the bark, señor?”

“It happens that I have made the subject quite a study,” he replied. “Several years ago a representative of the British government was my guest in Huari. He had been sent to Peru for the purpose of deciding whether it would be possible to transplant young cinchona trees from these forests to India and other tropical countries. With him I made several expeditions.”

“What was the result, señor?”

“He recommended that transplanting be attempted. It was done, and I understand that cinchona groves are thriving in many places.”

“Is that possible!” said Ferguson. “I was of the opinion that Peruvian bark only grew in Peru. But as I think of it, I really am very ignorant on the subject. Perhaps you will tell us more concerning the enemy of chills and fever.”

“I will be glad to, but suppose we have supper first.”

To this all agreed. They had made the tent ready for the night while thus conversing, and had gathered fuel for the evening fire, so that soon the pot was surrounded by a bright blaze.

“The water in which our food is cooking should have a peculiar charm for us all,” said the señor.

“Why so?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Because it comes from the Marañon, which flows past the white rock and the gold mine.”

“Do you mean to say that the little stream from which I fetched water is the Marañon, señor?” Harvey asked.

“Yes, or one of the small branches that form the head. A day’s journey from here it broadens considerably. How it is beyond I do not know, for I have never gone further.”

After supper, when they had drawn up logs for seats near the fire, because the night was chill and a damp breeze came from out the forest, Señor Cisneros commenced his promised narrative of the white powder that occupies such a prominent place in the medical world.

“Once upon a time, in fact in the year 1638, there lived in Cuzco a most beautiful woman who was loved by all who knew her.”

“Why, you are starting out as if telling a fairy story!” said Harvey, laughing.

“The facts are something like one of those charming tales,” replied the señor, who resumed:—

“This woman, renowned for her beauty and her grace of manner, was the wife of the ruler of Peru. One day she became grievously ill, and the doctors of that time were unable to remedy her condition. Her flesh burned with great heat, her cheeks were flushed with red, her eyes were unusually bright, and the blood pulsed rapidly through her veins. She soon became delirious, failed to recognize her husband and children, and all those in the palace were in despair.

“At that time a most learned man was the corregidor, or chief magistrate, of Loxa. He was not only versed in the study of the law, but he had familiarized himself more than any other man with the vegetable life of Peru; he was a botanist, self-taught. This man learned that the countess was at death’s door; and hastening to the palace he asked permission to see her. It was granted, and after looking for a few minutes upon the woman, who was tossing about on the silken couch, he abruptly left the apartment, saying that he would soon return.

“Within the half hour he was back, carrying a shallow dish, in which were pieces of bark steeped in water. He gave the countess some of the liquid to drink and urged that the dose be repeated at intervals during two days. His instructions were followed; she became restful, slept sweetly, and the fever left her body. In a week she was up and about, and in a fortnight was out in the palace grounds.”

“And that story is true?” asked Harvey.

“Yes, true in every detail. It is vouched for in the public records of Peru.”

“Of course the drug he gave her was the essence of Peruvian bark.”

“Yes, extracted in a primitive form.”

“What was her name?” asked Hope-Jones.

“The Countess of Chinchon.”

“That is why the tree is called cinchona?”

“It is, and to be more correct one should spell it ‘chinchona’ instead of ‘cinchona.’”

“How did the term quinine originate?”

“From the Indian compound word ‘Quina-Quina,’ meaning ‘bark of barks.’”

“You say the trees are isolated, señor?”

“Yes. They seldom grow in clumps, and the task of finding them is often great; the native searchers, or cascarilleros, undergo great hardships in penetrating the jungle-like forests.”

“How is the white powder prepared?”

“There are several processes, the most popular, I believe, being that of mixing pulverized bark thoroughly with milk of lime, then treating the substance to the action of certain chemicals, and ultimately the sulphate of quinine is produced. Different manufacturers have different processes; many of them are kept a secret. The object is to extract the maximum amount of quinine from the bark and leave as little of other ingredients in the powder as possible.”

From the subject of Peruvian bark they changed to that of the journey on the morrow, and a half hour later, with knapsacks and bags as pillows, they went to sleep in the shelter-tent. Harvey, as he closed his eyes, thought of the beautiful Countess of Chinchon, and wondered if she could have been as pretty as Señorita Bella Caceras, a girl in Callao whom he had met under most peculiar circumstances while adrift one night in the bay of that name.