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The native troops organized by Lord Glenarvan consisted of three men and a boy. The captain of the muleteers was an Englishman. It was for them a lucky thing, because nobody understood when Paganel was speaking Spanish.
Glenarvan, an experienced traveler, who knew how to adapt himself to the customs of other countries, bought the Chilian costume for himself and his whole party.
The weather was splendid when they started, the sky was cloudless blue. They marched rapidly along the winding shore, in order to gain the extremity of the parallel, thirty miles south. No one spoke much the first day, for the smoke of the Duncan was still visible on the horizon. Paganel talked to himself in Spanish, asking and answering questions.
On the 17th the country became more diversified, and the rising ground indicated their approach to a mountainous district. Rivers were numerous. Paganel consulted his maps, and when he found any of those streams not marked, he would exclaim, with a charming air of vexation:
“A river which hasn’t a name is like having no civil standing. It has no existence in the eye of geographical law.”
He christened them forthwith, without the least hesitation, and marked them down on the map, qualifying them with the most beautiful adjectives he could find in the Spanish language.
“What a language!” he said. “How full and sonorous it is! It is like the metal church bells are made of.”
“But, I say, do you make any progress in it?” asked Glenarvan.
“Most certainly, my dear Lord. Ah, if it wasn’t the accent, that wretched accent!”
At five in the evening they stopped in a gorge, some miles above the little town of Loja, and encamped for the night at the foot of the great Cordilleras.
Nothing of importance had occurred hitherto in the passage through Chili. Glenarvan followed his guide step by step. He saw that his perplexity was increasing as the way became more difficult, but did not dare to interrogate him, perhaps, thinking that both mules and muleteers were very much governed by instinct, and it was best to trust to them.
For about an hour longer the guide kept wandering. At last he was stopped. They were in a narrow valley, one of gorges; a wall rose perpendicularly before them, and barred further passage.
The guide, after vain attempts at finding an opening, dismounted, crossed his arms, and waited. Glenarvan went up to him and asked if he had lost his way.
“No, your Lordship,” was the reply.
“You are sure you are not mistaken?”
“I am not mistaken. See! There are the remains of a fire left by the Indians, and there are the marks of the mares and the sheep.”
“They must have gone on then.”
“Yes, but the last earthquake has made the route impassable.”
“To mules,” said the Major, “but not to men.”
“Ah, that’s your concern; I have done all I could. My mules and myself are at your service to try the other passes of the Cordilleras.”
“And that would delay us?”
“Three days at least.”
Glenarvan listened silently. He saw the guide was right. His mules could not go farther. Glenarvan appealed to his companions and said:
“Will you go on in spite of all the difficulty?”
“We will follow your Lordship,” replied Tom Austin.
“And even precede you,” added Paganel. “What is the problem? We have only to cross the top of the mountain chain, and once over, nothing can be easier for descent than the slopes we shall find there. When we get below, we shall find Argentine shepherds, who will guide us through the Pampas. Let’s go forward then, I say, and without a moment’s hesitation.”
“Forward!” they all exclaimed.
“You will not go with us, then?” said Glenarvan to the guide.
“I am the muleteer,” was the reply.
“As you please,” said Glenarvan.
“We can do without him,” said Paganel. “I’m quite sure I’ll lead you to the foot of the mountain as straight as the best guide in the Cordilleras.”
So Glenarvan bade farewell to the guide and his peons and mules. The arms and instruments, and a small stock of provisions were divided among the seven travelers.
They were not far now from the highest peak of the Cordilleras, but there was not the slightest trace of any path. The entire region had been overturned by recent shocks of earthquake, and all they could do was to keep on climbing higher and higher. Fortunately the weather was calm and the sky clear.
The Major went as quick as was necessary, neither more nor less, climbing without the least apparent exertion. Perhaps he hardly knew, indeed, that he was climbing at all, or perhaps he fancied he was descending.
The whole aspect of the region had now completely changed. Huge blocks of glittering ice stood up on all sides, reflecting the early light. They had come now to the region of shrubs and bushes, which, higher still, gave place to grasses and cacti. At 11,000 feet all trace of vegetation had disappeared.
About two o’clock they came to an immense barren plain, without a sign of vegetation. The air was dry and the sky unclouded blue. At this elevation rain is unknown.
At three o’clock Glenarvan stopped and said:
“We must rest.”
He knew if he did not himself propose it, no one else would.
“Rest?” rejoined Paganel; “we have no place of shelter.”
“It is absolutely necessary, however, if it were only for Robert.”
“No, no,” said the courageous lad; “I can still walk; don’t stop.”
“You shall be carried, my boy; but we must get to the other side of the Cordilleras. There we may perhaps find some hut to cover us.”
“Are you all of the same opinion?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” was the unanimous reply: and Mulrady added, “I’ll carry the boy.”
They had a frightful height to climb. Drops of blood stood on the gums and lips, and respiration became hurried and difficult. Falls became frequent, and those who fell could not rise again, but dragged themselves along on their knees.
Suddenly the Major stopped and said, in a calm voice, “A hut!”
The hut was covered with snow, and scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding rocks; but Wilson and Mulrady succeeded in digging it out and clearing the opening after half an hour’s hard work, to the great joy of the whole party.
Its form was that of a cube, 12 feet on each side, and it stood on a block of basalt. A stone stair led up to the door, the only opening; and narrow as this door was, the hurricane, and snow, and hail found their way in.
Ten people could easily find room in it. Besides, there was a sort of fireplace in it, with a chimney of bricks, badly enough put together.
“This will shelter us, at any rate,” said Glenarvan, “even if it is not very comfortable. Providence has led us to it, and we can only be thankful.”
“Why, it is a perfect palace, I call it,” said Paganel; “we only want flunkeys and courtiers.”
“Especially when there is a good fire blazing on the hearth, for we are quite as cold as we are hungry.”
“Well, Tom, we’ll try and get some combustible or other,” said Paganel.
“Combustibles on the top of the Cordilleras!” exclaimed Mulrady, in a dubious tone.
“Since there is a chimney in the hut,” said the Major, “we shall find something to burn in it.”
“Our friend McNabbs is right,” said Glenarvan. “I’ll go out and become a woodcutter.”
“Wilson and I will go with you,” said Paganel.
“Do you want me?” asked Robert, getting up.
“No, my brave boy, rest yourself. You’ll be a man, when others are only children at your age,” replied Glenarvan.
Glenarvan and Paganel stopped to gaze about them and scan the horizon on all sides. They were now on the summit of the Cordilleras, and could see over an area of forty miles. The valley of the Colorado was already sunk in shadow, and night was fast drawing her mantle over the eastern slopes of the Andes.
Thy would have remained there, gazing at the sublime struggle between the fires of earth and heaven, if the more practical Wilson had not reminded them of the business on hand. There was no wood to be found, however the rocks were fortunately covered with lichen. This precious combustible was carried back to the hut. It was a difficult matter to kindle it, though, and still more to keep it alight.
Paganel couldn’t help saying:
“I tell you what, some grilled llama wouldn’t be bad, would it? They say that the llama is substitute for the ox and the sheep.”
“What!” replied the Major. “You’re not content with your supper, most learned Paganel.”
“Enchanted with it, my brave Major; still I must confess I should not say no to a dish of llama.”
“Alright. We’ll go to sleep.”
Each one, thereupon, wrapped himself up in his poncho, and the fire was made up for the night.
But Glenarvan could not sleep. Secret uneasiness kept him in a continual state of wakefulness. They could not be pursued by wild beasts, for at such an elevation there were almost none to be met with. Glenarvan felt approaching danger. He got up and went out to see.
The moon was rising. The atmosphere was pure and calm. Not a cloud visible either above or below. He looked at his watch and found the time was about two in the morning. As he had no certainty, however, of any immediate danger, he did not wake his companions, who were sleeping soundly after their fatigue, and after a little slept himself heavily for some hours.
All of a sudden a violent crash made him start to his feet. A deafening noise fell on his ear like the roar of artillery. He shouted to his companions, but they were already awake.
“An earthquake!” exclaimed Paganel. He was not mistaken. It was one of those cataclysms frequent in Chili.
The plateau to which the seven men were clinging, holding on by tufts of lichen, was rushing down the declivity with the swiftness of an express, at the rate of fifty miles an hour. Sometimes they went perfectly smoothly along without jolts or jerks, and sometimes on the contrary, the plateau would reel and roll like a ship in a storm.
How long this indescribable descent lasted, no one could calculate. None of the party knew whether the rest were still alive. Almost breathless, frozen with the cold air, which pierced them through, and blinded with the whirling snow, they gasped for breath, and became exhausted and nearly inanimate. Suddenly a tremendous shock sent them rolling to the very foot of the mountain. The plateau had stopped.
For some minutes no one stirred. At last one of the party stood on his feet, stunned by the shock, but still firm on his legs. This was the Major. He shook off the blinding snow and looked around him. His companions lay in a close circle like the shots from a gun.
The Major counted them. All were there except one—that one was Robert Grant.
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