Gustave Aimard - The Adventurers

With the publication of the present and the ensuing volume, "The Pearl of the Andes," I am enabled to perfect the most important series of Aimard's Tales of Indian Life and Adventure. To preserve uniformity, the volumes of this series should be arranged in the following order on the book-shelf; —

Gustave Aimard has a precedent in Fenimore Cooper for introducing the same hero in a long range of volumes, and, like his great predecessor, he has so arranged, that each work should be complete in itself, and not necessitate the purchase of another. But Aimard has one marked advantage over Cooper; for while "Leather-Stocking" is but a creation of the fancy, or, at the most, the type of the Backwoodsman, the Count Louis who figures as the hero of Aimard's series, is a real man. Count de Raousset Boulbon, had he succeeded in his daring attempt of founding an independent kingdom in Mexico, would in all probability have become the Napoleon of the West. A gallant adventurer and thorough gentleman, he staked his life upon the issue, and ended his career the victim of unparalleled treachery, as Aimard has faithfully recorded. Hence Aimard's romances have the great merit of being founded on an historic basis, and but little fiction was required to heighten the startling interest of the narrative.

Valentine Guillois, there is very little doubt, is intended for the Author himself, with all his qualities and defects. When he first reached the New World, he was the true, reckless Parisian; but constant intercourse with nature rendered him a generous and thoughtful friend of humanity. So soon as he returned to civilization, he began recording the history of his past life; not so much as a livelihood, as for the pleasure he felt in living once again the life of excitement and adventure which he had known among the Indians. Hence his books are written without an effort; they flow spontaneously from his pen; and the absence of artistic effect is the best guarantee of their truthfulness.

It is not surprising, consequently, that M. Aimard's books have met with such extensive popularity. They have been translated into nearly every modern language, and the Author is now generally recognised as the French Cooper. The reception given to his stories in this country has been most flattering, and each day heightens their popularity. Hence it is not too much to assume that they will become standard works, especially with young readers, for whom they are especially adapted; because M. Aimard has never yet written a line which could prove offensive to the most delicate mind.

During my last sojourn in America, chance, or rather my good star, led me to form an acquaintance with one of those hunters, or wood rangers, the type of whom has been immortalized by Cooper, in his poetical personage, Leather-Stockings .

The strange circumstance by which we were brought together was as follows. Towards the end of July, 1855, I had left Galveston, terrified at the fevers prevalent there, which are so fatal to Europeans, with the intention of visiting the north-west portion of Texas, a country I was then unacquainted with.

A Spanish proverb somewhere says, "It is better to go alone than in bad company;" and, like all other proverbs, this possesses a certain foundation of truth, particularly in America, where the traveller is exposed at each instant to the chance of meeting rogues of every hue, who, thanks to their seducing exterior, charm him, win his confidence, and take advantage of the first occasion to remorselessly plunder and assassinate him.

I had profited by the proverb, and, like a shrewd old traveller of the prairies, as I knew no one who inspired me with sufficient sympathy to lead me to make him my travelling companion, I had bravely set out alone, clothed in the picturesque dress of the inhabitants of the country, armed to the teeth, and mounted upon an excellent half wild horse, which had cost me twenty-five piastres – an enormous sum in those countries, where horses are considered as worth little or nothing.

I carelessly wandered here and there, living that nomadic life which is so full of attractions; at times stopping at a toldería , at others encamping in the desert, hunting wild animals, and plunging deeper and deeper into unknown regions. I had, in this fashion, passed through, without any untoward accident, Fredericksburgh, the Llana Braunfels, and had just left Castroville, on my way to Quichi. Like all Spanish-American villages, Castroville is nothing but a miserable agglomeration of ruined cabins, cut at right angles by streets choked with weeds, growing undisturbed, and concealing multitudes of ants, reptiles, and even rabbits of a very small breed, which spring up beneath the feet of the few passengers. The pueblo is bounded on the west by the Medina, a slender thread of water, almost dry in the great heat seasons; and on the east by thickly-wooded hills, the dark green of which forms a pleasing contrast with the pale blue of the sky.

At Galveston I had undertaken to deliver a letter to an inhabitant of Castroville. The worthy man lived in this village like La Fontaine's rat in the depths of its Dutch cheese. Charmed by the arrival of a stranger, who, no doubt, brought him news for which he had been long anxious, he received me in the most cordial manner, and thought of every expedient to detain me. Unfortunately, the little I had seen of Castroville had sufficed to completely disgust me with it, and my only wish was to get out of it as quickly as possible. My host, in despair at seeing all his advances repulsed, at length consented to allow me to continue my journey.

"Adieu, then," he said, warmly pressing my hand, with a sigh of regret; "since you are determined to go, may God protect you! You are wrong in setting out so late; the road you have to travel is dangerous; the Indios bravos are up; they assassinate without mercy all the whites who fall into their hands – beware!"

I smiled at this warning, which I took for a last effort of the worthy man to detain me.

"Bah!" I replied gaily; "the Indians and I are too old acquaintances for me to fear anything on their account."

My host shook his head sorrowfully, and retreated into his hut, making me a last farewell greeting. I again set forward. I soon began to reflect that it was full late, and pressed my horse, in order to pass, before nightfall, a chaparral , or large thicket of underwood, of at least two miles in length, against which my host had particularly warned me. This ill-famed spot had a very sinister aspect. The mezquite, the acacia, and the cactus constituted its sole vegetation, while here and there, whitened bones and planted crosses plainly designated places where murders had been committed. Beyond that extended a vast plain, called the Leona, peopled by animals of every description. This plain, covered by grass at least two feet in height, was dotted at intervals with thickets of trees, upon which warbled thousands of golden-throated starlings, cardinals, and bluebirds. I was anxious to reach the Leona, which I saw in the distance; but ere I did so, I had to cross the chaparral. After examining my weapons, and looking carefully in all directions, as I could perceive nothing positively suspicious, I resolutely spurred my horse forward, determined, if attacked, to sell my life as dearly as possible.