Генри Хаггард - Heart of the World

"I can promise for others, first, because I am their master, and, secondly, because nobody but myself knows anything of this matter, since, if I told them, I must also share your wealth with them, and that, friend, I mean to keep. Give it up to me, and you may go and plot against my successors and the Government of Mexico as much as pleases you, and take your wife with you for aught I care; for, friend, having earned so comfortable a competence, I propose to leave a land where, as this business proves, people in authority are too apt to have their throats cut. Now choose, and be so good as to stand quite still while you are thinking the matter over, or I may be forced to shoot you."

"How about my associates?" I asked.

"I believe that three or four of them have been carried off—by typhus—within the last day or two, the prisons here are so unhealthy; but I am sure that if the gold is forthcoming, no more will sicken."

Then I chose, for I thought to myself that I might get more gold, but I could never get another life, and if I died many must suffer with me and all my hopes for the future of the Indian race would come to naught. Also I knew this villain to be a man of his word, and that what he promised he would fulfil.

Within ten days he had the money, and I was free to begin my life again, nor did any of those who were doomed to perish in it, learn the tale of the plot that had threatened them.

I was free; but what a freedom was this, when I had lost everything save the breath that God placed in my nostrils, and, perhaps, my honour. The great house that I had builded was fallen to the ground, the moneys I had amassed were stolen, the chief of my companions were dead, my credit as a deliverer of the people was gone, and my cause had become hopeless. All these things had come upon me because of a woman, a traitress, whom I had nurtured in my bosom.

At first I was dazed, but when I came to understand I swore a great oath before Heaven that, for her false sake, I would hate and renounce her sex; that, whatever might be the temptation, never again would I look kindly upon women, or have to do with one of them in word, or thought, or deed. That oath, so far as lay in my power, I have kept to this day, and I hope to keep through all eternity.

It may be asked what became of my wife. I do not know. I lifted no hand against her who was flesh of my flesh, but she perished. The story was known. I was forced to tell it to clear myself. After I escaped from the prison I lay ill for many weeks, and when I recovered she was gone. Others had been betrayed besides myself, and doubtless some of them had wreaked fitting vengeance on her. What it was I never asked.

For many years—twenty perhaps—I became a wanderer. Now as before the Indians loved me, and, as Lord of the heart and their hereditary cacique , in a sense I still was great, although but the shadow of power dwelt with me: the substance had departed, as it departs ever from those who fail. From time to time I strove to rebuild the plot; but, now that I was friendless and without fortune, few would follow me thus far.

So it came about that at length I abandoned the endeavour, and lived as best I could. I fought in three wars, and gained honours therein, and took my share in many adventures, all of which left me as poor as I had entered on them. At times I remembered my desire to become a priest, but now it was over late to study; also my hands were too much soiled with the affairs of the world.

Wearying of the struggle, I went back to my village in the mountains and dwelt there awhile, but this also wearied me, having nothing to do, and I turned my attention to the management of mines.

It was while I was thus employed, as a middle–aged man, that I made the acquaintance of James Strickland, who was destined to accompany me to the city, Heart of the World.

Two–and–twenty years ago, I, Ignatio, visited a village in the State of Tamaulipas, named Cumarvo, a beautiful place, half–hidden in pine forests amongst the mountains. I came to this hamlet because a friend of mine, one of the brethren of the Order of the Heart, wrote to me saying that there was an Indian in the neighbourhood who had in his possession an ancient Aztec scroll, which, being in picture–writing, neither he nor anyone else could read.

This scroll had descended to the Indian through many generations, and with it a tradition that it told of a very rich gold mine in the mountains whereof the site was lost, which had been closed to save it from the grip of Cortes, by the order of Guatemoc, my forefather, whom the Spaniards murdered—may their souls be accursed!

Now, I had been taught the secret of the picture–writing by old Antonio, my father's friend, when first I was initiated into the mysteries of the Heart, though it must die with me, for I believe that at this hour there is no other man living who can read it.

This writing the Indian was willing to give up to me as Lord of the Heart, and accordingly, having nothing better to do, I journeyed to Cumarvo to study it. In this matter, as in many others, I was destined to meet with disappointment, however—at any rate for a while; for, on my arrival at the house of my friend, I heard that the Indian had died of a sudden sickness, and that his son could not discover where the scroll was hidden.

Another thing I learnt also, namely, that a white man, an Inglese , the first who ever visited these parts, had come to the village about six months before, and was engaged in working some old silver mines on behalf of a company, a task that he found difficult, for the Mexican owners of land in the neighbourhood, being jealous of him and angry because he paid his men a fair wage, were striving to prevent Indians from labouring in his mine.

Now the natives of this place, from Monday morning to Saturday night, were a gentle and industrious people, but they had this fault, that on the Saturday night many of them were accustomed to become drunk on mescal , the spirit that is distilled from the root of the aloe. Then their natures were changed, and fierce quarrels would spring up amongst them, for the most part about women, that ended often enough in bloodshed.

It chanced that such a fray arose on the night of my arrival at Cumarvo. On the morrow I saw the fruits of it as I walked down the little street which was bordered by white, flat–roofed houses and paved with cobble–stones, purposing to attend mass in the lime–washed church, where the bell rang night and day to scare evil spirits back to hell.

In the middle of the street, lying in the shade of a house, were two dead men. A handsome Indian girl, with a sullen and unmoved countenance, was engaged in winding a serape , or blanket, round one of the bodies; but the other lay untended, certain stains upon the clothing revealing the manner of its end. On a doorstep sat a third man, much wounded about the head and face, while the barber of the village, its only doctor, attempted to remove his hair with a pair of blunt scissors, so that he might dress the cuts.

The scene was dreadful, but no one took much notice of it, for Indian life is cheap, and in those days death by violence was even more common in Mexico than it is now. On the opposite side of the street an old woman chaffered with a passer–by about the price of her oranges, while some children with shouts and laughter strove to lasso and drag away a pig that haunted the place; and a girl on her way to mass stepped over the uncovered body which lay so quiet in the shade, and, recognising it as that of a friend, crossed herself as she hurried on.

"What is the cause of this, señor?" I asked of the barber.

"I think that I have the honour of addressing Don Ignatio," the little man answered, and, lifting his hands from their work, he made a sign showing that he also was a member of our Brotherhood, though a humble one.