The Bride of the Sun

He led them along a plank pavement which was just beginning to burn, until they reached the corner of the arena, opposite the church. Four skinny palms adorned the center of the square, and at the foot of one of these a mob was dancing round a fire. Above, something was hanging from a branch. The half-breed pointed to that thing.

“There is the corregidor,” he said.

Natividad, Dick and the Marquis stopped short, mute with horror. The half-breed whispered a few rapid words to Natividad, who turned to run.

“Come on! Come on!” he almost screamed.

“Why this hurry?” demanded Uncle Francis, phlegmatically.

“Why? Why?… Because they are going to eat him!”

“Not really?” drawled the scientist with mediocre interest. “Right away?”

But Natividad did not notice his tone. He was really running away, for he had not forgotten a scene in Lima, when the Guttierg brothers were torn from the presidency they had usurped by the same mob which had placed them there. Massacred, then hanged over the cathedral gates, they were finally roasted and devoured by the populace.

So fast did Natividad flee, that Dick and the Marquis could hardly keep up with him. Uncle Francis, bringing up the rear, was muttering to himself:

“Damn nonsense, sir, damn nonsense. They’re not going to frighten me.”

BOOK IV—THE DICTATOR

I

Arequipa was en fête; the entire population of the city and its campina (suburbs) was packed in the main square and the adjacent streets to witness the triumphal return of the victor of the Cuzco—brave General Garcia, who had already been christened “the good Dictator,” and who had promised his partizans that within a fortnight he would sweep out of the country President Veintemilla, the two Chambers, and the whole parliamentary system which, he declared, had ruined Peru.

This was language the Arequipinos loved and understood. Politics had always flourished in that part of the country, and all revolutions began there. And the turbulent inhabitants of Arequipa felt that it was a terribly long time since they had had a “savior” to cheer.

Now they had one; a particularly picturesque one, who was to appear on horseback. So they had all donned their Sunday clothes, and the women had flowers in their hair and more flowers in their arms to scatter before the hero.

The Indian population, having sold its hens and vegetables in the market-place, joined the throng.

The square, for the occasion, seemed to have straightened out its tumble-down arcades, badly shaken by the last earthquake. The illusion was aided by brilliant-hued carpets, flags, banners and festoons which blazed in all directions and gave new life to the dilapidated walls. The cracked old towers of the church, the carved wooden balconies, flower-adorned galleries, and decorated windows were black with people. Above the city rose the Misti, one of the world’s highest volcanoes, wearing a fresh cap, glistening with the snows of the night.

Bells chimed and cannons roared out. Then came silence, broken again by the sound of bugles and the roar of a thousand voices. The procession of the troops had begun. Contrary to European custom, it commenced with all the impedimenta of the camp. It was like a rout:—Indians leading mules loaded down with baggage, provisions, and kitchen utensils; then a regiment of women bent under the weight of knapsacks, babies, and sacks of food.

The crowd cheered everything wildly, from the llamas loaded with captured Federal arms to the women, the rabonas, as they are called out there. These rabonas are a precious institution from the point of view of the Peruvian soldier; each man has his own, and she carries his baggage, buys all his food, and prepares his meals.

Then came the troops, Garcia, leading. Mounted on a splendid horse, wearing a brilliant uniform, he appeared like a star of the first magnitude in the constellation of his staff. A tall man, he showed head and shoulders above the generals and colonels prancing around him. His tri-color plumes waved splendidly in the wind, and the deafening rant of bugles accompanied him. Handsome, radiant, happy was he, nonchalantly curling his black mustache and smiling on all with brilliant white teeth.

Garcia smiled to the ladies as he passed under their balconies, and the ladies, showering down rose-leaves over horse and rider, called him by his Christian name, Pedro. In this triumphal fashion, he slowly rode round the square twice, and then came to a halt in the middle of it, between two guns, his staff behind him and, before him, two Indians bearing a standard, a quaint patch-work quilt of a flag, which was the token of submission of all the tribes to the new government. These men wore hats covered with variegated plumes, and had over their shoulders surplice-like tunics.

Five hundred infantrymen and two hundred horse had formed round the square. Young girls, clad in floating tunics and wearing Garcia’s colors, advanced toward the general, their hands heavy with floral crowns. One of them made a little speech, while Garcia continued curling his mustache and showing his teeth. The speech over, he gallantly bent down and took all the crowns, passing them over his arm. Then he lifted a hand to command silence.

“Long live Liberty!” he shouted. A hurricane of cheers arose. Again he lifted up the crown-charged arm, and again there was silence.

He told them the program of the new Government meant “Liberty for all, except for evil-doers! With such a program, is there any need for parliaments?”

“No! No! No!” roared the crowd deliriously. “Long live Garcia! Death to, Veintemilla! Muera! Muera! Muera el larron de salitre! (Death to the saltpetre thief! ),” for Veintemilla was popularly supposed to have largely profited by some recent concessions.

Garcia was an orator, and, wishing to show it once again, told in a few words the history of the campaign that had ended in the rout of the “saltpetre thieves” on the Cuzco plains. To be seen and heard by all, he stood erect in his stirrups.

Then an incredible thing happened. The powers above actually dared spoil this splendid fête—it began to rain! There was a general rush for shelter in the crowd. Even the infantrymen lining the square broke their ranks, while the cavalrymen dismounted, took off their saddles and loaded them on their heads in guise of umbrellas. As to those soldierly ladies, the rabonas, they calmly threw their bell-shaped petticoats over their heads.

Garcia alone did not move. Furious at this spoiling of his triumph, he threatened his officers with immediate death if they dared leave his side. He did not even fall back into his saddle, but stood erect there, his crown-charged arm menacing the heavens.

Then the Chief of Staff approached the Dictator, saluted thrice, and said:

“Excellency, it is not the fault of the sky. The sky would not have dared! The roar of your guns compelled the clouds, Excellency.”

“You are right,” replied Garcia. “And since the guns did the harm, let them repair it.”

With which, a battery was rolled out into the square, and opened fire on the clouds. They thundered on until the short tropical storm had passed. Then Garcia, triumphant, shouted: “I have had the last word with the heavens!” The review was over.

II

Watching the proceedings from a window at the “Jockey Club Hotel” were the Marquis de la Torre and Natividad, both wild with impatience, for their only hope now lay in Garcia.

At Pisco, they had ended by discovering that the Bride of the Sun’s escort had embarked in the very steam-tug used to tow the Marquis’ own barges from the Chincha Islands to Callao. This once again proved that the scheme had been well thought out and prepared long in advance, the Indians about Maria-Teresa being in the plot.

Securing a boat in their turn, the pursuers followed to Mollendo. There they took the train, and reached Arequipa only a few hours after the Red Ponchos—Uncle Francis still supernaturally calm, and Natividad beginning to despair of everything.

Chance favored them when they landed in this city of mad people, who would not even trouble to answer questions. Dick recognized Huascar strolling through the streets, and tracked him to the house where Maria-Teresa and her brother were kept prisoners. This was a low adobe building on the edge of the suburbs, and quite close to the Rio de Chili. It was openly guarded by a dozen armed Indians in red ponchos. Dick and the Marquis soon found, however, that they could not even get as near as that line of guards. Fifty yards away from the house, Civil Guards stopped them, and ordered them back. Garcia’s own troops were guarding the Virgin of the Sun!

“Of course, Garcia cannot know,” said the Marquis. “I know him, and though he has faults, he is not a savage. He once wanted to marry Maria-Teresa. Let us go and find him.”

But Dick refused to lose sight of the adobe house. Had they listened to him, they would have forced their way to it at once. It was only after long arguing that Natividad convinced him such a step would be absurd. Lives are cheap during revolutions, and two or three corpses more or less in the Rio de Chili would not make it overflow its banks. Nor would they contribute greatly to the freeing of Maria-Teresa and little Christobal.

He promised to be reasonable, but would not go with them when they returned to the inn for a meal; instead, he took up his post in a boat on the river, and thence watched his fiancée’s prison and the armed men walking up and down before.

The Marquis and Natividad therefore, witnessed Garcia’s triumph alone. Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in the crowd somewhere, taking notes.

Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.

“I never thought he was that kind of man,” he commented, “though I always suspected he had negro blood in his veins.”

“Drunk with success,” replied Natividad drily.

After the review, they followed the Dictator and his staff only to find their way barred by troops at the road leading down to the headquarters. Here the Marquis ordered the men out of the way with such insolence, and spoke with such assurance of “his friend Garcia,” that he was allowed to pass, Natividad clinging to his sleeve.

The subaltern in command at the guard-room took the Marquis’ card, and a moment later they were ushered upstairs. There were soldiers everywhere, some of them fast asleep on the staircase, their guns between their knees, so that the visitors had to pick their way upstairs over prostrate bodies.

Finally, their guide pushed open a door and ushered them into a bedroom, where Garcia was presiding over a meeting of the Cabinet he had appointed the previous day. Some of these high functionaries were seated on the Dictator’s bed, others on the table, and one on a bundle of soiled linen.

They were received more than courteously. Garcia, who was in his shirt-sleeves, and shaving, ran toward the Marquis with both hands outstretched, scattering white flakes from his shaving-brush as he came.

“Forgive me, señor,” he said. “Antique simplicity! Antique simplicity!… I receive you as I would a friend… for I trust you come as a friend, as a friend of the new Government. Let me introduce you.”

He began with the Minister of War, who was astride the bolster, and finished up with the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs, a hideous half-breed chewing cocoa-nut leaves.