MONSIEUR VIOLET (FISCLE PART-IV) by FREDERICK MARRYAT (novel books to read txt) 📖

Side Of The River; For We Were To Fall

Upon The Enemy During Their Surprise, Occasioned by Such An Unusual

Display. All Happened as Was Intended. At The First Rocket, The

Bonnaxes, Callapoos, And Umbiquas Were On The Alert; But Astonishment

And Admiration Very Soon Succeeded their Fear Of Surprise, Which They

Knew Could Not Be Attempted from Their Opponents In front. The Bombs

Burst, The Wheels Threw Their Large Circles Of Coloured sparks, And The

Savages Gazed in silent Admiration. But Their Astonishment Was Followed

By Fear Of Supernatural Agency; Confusion Spread Among Them, And Their

Silence Was At Last Broken By Hundreds Of Loud Voices! The Moment Had

Now Come; The Two Shoshone War-Parties Rushed upon Their Terrified

Victims, And An Hour Afterwards, When The Moon Rose And Shone Above The

Prairie, Its Mild Beams Were Cast Upon Four Hundred corpses. The Whole

Of The Bonnax And Umbiqua Party Were Entirely Destroyed. The Callapoos

Suffered but Little, Having Dispersed, And Run Towards The Sea-Shore At

The Beginning Of The Affray.

 

 

 

Thus Ended the Great League Against The Shoshones, Which Tradition Will

Speak Of In ages Yet To Come. But These Stirring Events Were Followed by

A Severe Loss To Me. My Father, Aged as He Was, Had Shown A Great Deal

Of Activity During The Last Assault, And He Had Undergone Much Privation

And Fatigue: His High Spirit Sustained him To The Very Last Of The

Struggle; But When All Was Over, And The Reports Of The Rifles No

Longer Whizzed to His Ears, His Strength Gave Way, And, Ten Days After

The Last Conflict, He Died of Old Age, Fatigue, And Grief. On The

Borders Of The Pacific Ocean, A Few Miles Inland, I Have Raised his

Grave. The Wild Flowers That Grow Upon It Are Fed by The Clear Waters Of

The Nu Eleje Sha Wako, And The Whole Tribe Of The Shoshones Will Long

Watch Over The Tomb Of The Pale-Face From A Distant Land, Who Was Once

Their Instructor And Their Friend.

 

 

 

As For My Two Friends, Gabriel And Roche, They Had Been Both Seriously

Wounded, And It Was A Long Time Before They Were Recovered.

 

 

 

We Passed the Remainder Of The Summer In building Castles In the Air For

The Future, And At Last Agreed to Go To Monterey To Pass The Winter.

Fate, However, Ordered otherwise, And A Succession Of Adventures, The

Current Of Which I Could Not Oppose, Forced me Through Many Wild Scenes

And Countries, Which I Have Yet To Describe.

Chapter XI

At The Beginning Of The Fall, A Few Months After My Father'S Death, I

And My Two Comrades, Gabriel And Roche, Were Hunting In the Rolling

Prairies Of The South, On The Eastern Shores Of The Buona Ventura. One

Evening We Were In high Spirits, Having Had Good Sport. My Two Friends

Had Entered upon A Theme Which They Could Never Exhaust, One Pleasantly

Narrating The Wonders And Sights Of Paris, The Other Describing With His

True Native Eloquence The Beauties Of His Country, And Repeating The Old

Local Irish Legends, Which Appeared to Me Quaint And Highly Poetical.

 

 

 

Of A Sudden We Were Surrounded by A Party Of Sixty Arrapahoes; Of

Course, Resistance Or Flight Was Useless. Our Captors, However, Treated

Us With Honour, Contenting Themselves With Watching Us Closely And

Preventing Our Escape. They Knew Who We Were, And Though My Horse,

Saddle, And Rifle Were In themselves A Booty For Any Chief, Nothing Was

Taken On Us. I Addressed the Chief, Whom I Knew:

 

 

 

"What Have I Done To The Morning Star Of The Arrapahoes, That I Should

Be Taken And Watched like A Sheep Of The Watchinangoes?"

 

 

 

The Chief Smiled and Put His Hand Upon My Shoulders. "The Arrapahoes,"

Said He, "Love The Young Owato Wanisha And His Pale-Faced brothers, For

They Are Great Warriors, And Can Beat Their Enemies With Beautiful Blue

Fires From The Heavens. The Arrapahoes Know All; They Are A Wise People.

They Will Take Owato Wanisha To Their Own Tribe That He May Show His

Skill To Them, And Make Them Warriors. He Shall Be Fed with The Fattest

And Sweetest Dogs. He Will Become A Great Warrior Among The Arrapahoes.

So Wish Our Prophets. I Obey The Will Of The Prophets And Of

The Nation."

 

 

 

"But," Answered i, "My Manitou Will Not Hear Me If I Am A Slave. The

Pale-Face Manitou Has Ears Only For Free Warriors. He Will Not Lend Me

His Fires Unless Space And Time Be My Own."

 

 

 

The Chief Interrupted me:--"Owato Wanisha Is Not A Slave, Nor Can He Be

One. He Is With His Good Friends, Who Will Watch Over Him, Light His

Fire, Spread Their Finest Blankets In his Tent, And Fill It With The

Best Game Of The Prairie. His Friends Love The Young Chief, But He Must

Not Escape From Them, Else The Evil Spirit Would Make The Young

Arrapahoes Drunk As A Beastly Crow, And Excite Them In their Folly To

Kill The Pale-Faces."

 

 

 

As Nothing Could Be Attempted for The Present, We Submitted to Our Fate,

And Were Conducted by A Long And Dreary Journey To The Eastern Shores Of

The Rio Colorado Of The West, Until At Last We Arrived at One Of The

Numerous And Beautiful Villages Of The Arrapahoes. There We Passed the

Winter In a Kind Of Honourable Captivity. An Attempt To Escape Would

Have Been The Signal Of Our Death, Or, At Least, Of A Harsh Captivity.

We Were Surrounded by Vast Sandy Deserts, Inhabited, By The Clubs

(Piuses), A Cruel Race Of People, Some Of Them Cannibals. Indeed, I May

As Well Here Observe That Most Of The Tribes Inhabiting The Colorado Are

Men-Eaters, Even Including The Arrapahoes, On Certain Occasions. Once We

Fell In with A Deserted camp Of Clubmen, And There We Found The Remains

Of About Twenty Bodies, The Bones Of Which Had Been Picked with

Apparently As Much Relish As The Wings Of A Pheasant Would Have Been By

A European Epicure. This Winter Passed gloomily Enough, And No Wonder.

Except A Few Beautiful Groves, Found Here And There, Like The Oases In

The Sands Of The Sahara, The Whole Country Is Horribly Broken And

Barren. Forty Miles Above The Gulf Of California, The Colorado Ceases To

Be Navigable, And Presents From Its Sources, For Seven Hundred miles,

Nothing But An Uninterrupted series Of Noisy And Tremendous Cataracts,

Bordered on Each Side By A Chain Of Perpendicular Rocks, Five Or Six

Hundred feet High, While The Country All Around Seems To Have Been

Shaken To Its Very Centre By Violent Volcanic Eruptions.

 

 

 

Winter At Length Passed away, And With The First Weeks Of Spring Were

Renovated our Hopes Of Escape. The Arrapahoes, Relenting In their

Vigilance, Went So Far As To Offer Us To Accompany Them In an Expedition

Eastward. To This, Of Course, We Agreed, And Entered very Willingly Upon

The Beautiful Prairies Of North Sonora. Fortune Favoured us; One Day,

The Arrapahoes, Having Followed a Trail Of Apaches And Mexicans, With An

Intent To Surprise And Destroy Them, Fell Themselves Into A Snare, In

Which They Were Routed, And Many Perished.

 

 

 

We Made No Scruples Of Deserting Our Late Masters, And, Spurring Our

Gallant Steeds, We Soon Found That Our Unconscious Liberators Were A

Party Of Officers Bound From Monterey To Santa Fe, Escorted by

Two-And-Twenty Apaches And Some Twelve Or Fifteen Families Of Ciboleros.

I Knew The Officers, And Was Very Glad To Have Intelligence From

California. Isabella Was As Bright As Ever, But Not Quite So

Light-Hearted. Padre Marini, The Missionary, Had Embarked for Peru, And

The Whole City Of Monterey Was Still Laughing, Dancing, Singing, And

Love-Making, Just As I Had Left Them.

 

 

 

The Officers Easily Persuaded me To Accompany Them To Santa Fe, From

Whence I Could Readily Return To Monterey With The Next Caravan.

 

 

 

A Word Concerning The Ciboleros May Not Be Uninteresting. Every Year,

Large Parties Of Mexicans, Some With Mules, Others With Ox-Carts, Drive

Out Into These Prairies To Procure For Their Families A Season'S Supply

Of Buffalo Beef. They Hunt Chiefly On Horseback, With Bow And Arrow, Or

Lance, And Sometimes The Fusil, Whereby They Soon Load Their Carts And

Mules. They Find No Difficulty In curing Their Meat Even In midsummer,

By Slicing It Thin, And Spreading Or Suspending It In the Sun; Or, If In

Haste, It Is Slightly Barbecued. During The Curing Operation, They Often

Follow The Indian Practice Of Beating The Slices Of Meat With Their

Feet, Which They Say Contributes To Its Preservation.

 

 

 

Here The Extraordinary Purity Of The Atmosphere Of These Regions Is

Remarkably Exemplified. A Line Is Stretched from Corner To Corner Along

The Side Of The Waggon Body, And Strung With Slices Of Beef, Which

Remain From Day To Day Till They Are Sufficiently Cured to Be Packed up.

This Is Done Without Salt, And Yet The Meat Rarely Putrefies.

 

 

 

The Optic Deception Of The Rarefied and Transparent Atmosphere Of These

Elevated plains Is Truly Remarkable. One Might Almost Fancy Oneself

Looking Through A Spy-Glass; For Objects Often Appear At Scarce

One-Fourth Of Their Real Distance--Frequently Much Magnified, And More

Especially Much Elevated. I Have Often Seen Flocks Of Antelopes Mistaken

For Droves Of Elks Or Wild Horses, And When At A Great Distance, Even

For Horsemen; Whereby Frequent Alarms Are Occasioned. A Herd Of

Buffaloes Upon A Distant Plain Often Appear So Elevated in height, That

They Would Be Mistaken By The Inexperienced for A Large Grove Of Trees.

 

 

 

But The Most Curious, And At The Same Time The Most Tormenting

Phenomenon Occasioned by Optical Deception, Is The "Mirage," Or, As

Commonly Called by The Mexican Travellers, "The Lying Waters." Even The

Experienced prairie Hunter Is Often Deceived by These, Upon The Arid

Plains, Where The Pool Of Water Is In such Request. The Thirsty

Wayfarer, After Jogging For Hours Under A Burning Sky, At Length Espies

A Pond--Yes, It Must Be Water--It Looks Too Natural For Him To Be

Mistaken. He Quickens His Pace, Enjoying In anticipation The Pleasures

Of A Refreshing Draught; But, As He Approaches, It Recedes Or Entirely

Disappears; And Standing Upon Its Apparent Site, He Is Ready To Doubt

His Own Vision, When He Finds But A Parched sand Under His Feet. It Is

Not Until He Has Been Thus A Dozen Times Deceived, That He Is Willing To

Relinquish The Pursuit, And Then, Perhaps, When He Really Does See A

Pond, He Will Pass It Unexamined, From Fear Of Another Disappointment.

 

 

 

The Philosophy Of These False Ponds I Have Never Seen Satisfactorily

Explained. They Have Usually Been Attributed to A Refraction, By Which A

Section Of The Bordering Sky Is Thrown Below The Horizon; But I Am

Convinced that They Are The Effect Of Reflection. It Seems That A Gas

(Emanating Probably From The Heated earth And Its Vegetable Matter)

Floats Upon The Elevated flats, And Is Of Sufficient Density, When

Viewed obliquely, To Reflect The Objects Beyond It; Thus The Opposing

Sky Being Reflected in the Pond Of Gas, Gives The Appearance Of Water.

 

 

 

As A Proof That It Is The Effect Of Reflection, I Have Often Observed

The Distant Knolls And Trees Which Were Situated near The Horizon Beyond

The Mirage, Distinctly Inverted in the "Pond." Now, Were The Mirage The

Result Of Refraction, These Would Appear On It Erect, Only Cast Below

The Surface. Many Are The Singular Atmospheric Phenomena Observable Upon

The Plains, And They Would Afford A Field Of Interesting Researches For

The Curious Natural Philosopher.

 

 

 

We Had A Pleasant Journey, Although Sometimes Pressed pretty Hard By

Hunger. However, Gabriel, Roche, And I Were Too Happy To Complain. We

Had Just Escaped from A Bitter And Long Slavery, Besides Which, We Were

Heartily Tired of The Lean And Tough Dogs Of The Arrapahoes, Which Are

The Only Food Of That Tribe During The Winter. The Apaches, Who Had

Heard Of Our Exploits, Showed us Great Respect; But What Still More

Captivated their Good Graces, Was The Irishman'S Skill In playing The

Fiddle. It So Happened that A Mexican Officer Having, During The Last

Fall, Been Recalled from Monterey To Santa Fe, Had Left His Violin. It

Was A Very Fine Instrument, An Old Italian Piece Of