Carmen Ariza Part 17

"Good G.o.d!" cried Jose, recoiling. "A leper!"

Turning swiftly from the hideous object, his brain awhirl with the horrible nightmare, the priest fled blindly from the scene. Nauseated, quivering with horror, with the obscene ravings of the leper still ringing in his ears, he stumbled about the town until daybreak, when the boat's shrieking whistle summoned him to embark.

The second day on the river seemed to Jose intolerable, as he s.h.i.+fted about the creaking, straining tub to avoid the sun's piercing rays and the heat which, drifting back from the hot stack forward, enveloped the entire craft. There were but few pa.s.sengers, some half dozen men and two slatternly attired women. Whither they were bound, he knew not, nor cared; and, though they saluted him courteously, he studiously avoided being drawn into their conversations. The emotional appeal of the great river and its forest-lined banks did not at first affect him. Yet he sought forgetfulness of self by concentrating his thought upon them.

The ma.s.sed foliage const.i.tuted an impenetrable wall on either side.

Everywhere his eyes met a maze of _lianas_, creeping plants, begonias, and bizarre vegetable forms, shapes and hues of which he had never before had any adequate conception. Often he caught the glint of great, rare b.u.t.terflies hovering in the early sunlight which filtered through the interlaced fronds and branches. Often when the boat hugged the bank he saw indescribable buds and blossoms, and multicolored orchids clinging to the drooping _bejucos_ which festooned the enormous trees. As the afternoon waned and the sun hung low, the magic stillness of the solitude began to cast its spell about him, and he could imagine that he was penetrating a fairy-land. The vast stream, winding, broadening, ramifying round wooded islets, throwing out long, dusky lagoons and swampy arms, incessantly plying its numberless activities, at length held him enraptured. As he brooded over it all, his thought wandered back to the exploits of the intrepid Quesada and his stalwart band who, centuries before, had forced their perilous way along this same river, amid showers of poisoned arrows from hostile natives, amid the a.s.saults of tropical storms and malarial fevers, to the plateau of Cundinamarca, the home of the primitive Muiscas; and there gathering fresh strength and inspiration, had pushed on to the site of Santa Fe de Bogota.

A cry suddenly rang through the boat. "Man overboard!"

The clang of the pilot's bell stopped the clumsy craft; but not before the ragged little negro boy who had served at Jose's table as steward had been swept far away by the rapid current.

The utmost confusion immediately prevailed. Every one of the rabble rout of stokers, stewards, and stevedores lost his wits and set up a frenzied yell. Some who remembered that there was such a thing, tore at the ropes which held the single lifeboat. But the boat had been put on for appearance's sake, not for service, and successfully resisted all efforts at removal. No one dared risk his life in attempted rescue, for the river swarmed with crocodiles. There was vain racing, counseling and gesticulating; but at length, the first wave of excitement over, pa.s.sengers and crew settled down to watch the outcome of the boy's struggle for life, while the pilot endeavored to turn the unwieldy steamer about.

"Now is the time to put up a prayer for the youngster, Padre," said a voice behind Jose.

The priest turned. The speaker was evidently a native Colombian. Jose had noticed him on the boat when he embarked at Calamar, and surmised that he had probably come up from Barranquilla.

"An excellent opportunity to try the merits of a prayer to the Virgin, no? If she can fish us out of purgatory she ought to pull this boy out of the river, eh?" continued the speaker with a cynical smile.

"I would rather trust to a canoe and a pair of stout arms than a prayer at present," returned Jose with candor.

"_Corriente!_" replied the man; "my way of thinking, exactly! But if I had a good rifle now I'd put that little fellow out of his misery, for he's going down, sure!"

It was not unkindly said; and Jose appreciated the man's rude sentiment. Minutes pa.s.sed in strained silence.

"_Hombre!_" cried the man. "He's going!"

The lad was evidently weakening. The rapid, swirling current continually frustrated his efforts to reach the sh.o.r.e. Again the head went under.

"_Dios!_" Jose exclaimed. "Is there no help?"

Jesus had walked the waves. Yet here his earthly representative, trained in all the learning and culture of Holy Church to be an _Alter Christus_, stood helplessly by and watched a child drown! G.o.d above!

what avail religious creed and churchly dogma? How impotent the beliefs of men in such an hour! Could the Holy Father himself, with all his a.s.sumptions, spiritual and temporal--with all his power to loose from sin and from the imaginary torments of purgatory--save this drowning boy?

Jose turned away in bitterness of heart. As he did so a murmur of awe arose from the spectators. The priest looked again down the river.

Impelled from below, the body of the boy was hurled out of the water.

Then, as it fell, it disappeared.

"_Cayman!_" gasped the horrified crew.

Jose stood spellbound, as the ghastly truth dawned upon him. A crocodile, gliding beneath the struggling lad, had tossed him upward, and caught him in its loathsome jaws when he fell. Then it had dragged him beneath the yellow waters, where he was seen no more.

Life is held cheaply by the Magdalena negro--excepting his own.

s.h.i.+ftless and improvident child of the tropics, his animal wants are readily satisfied by the fruits and fish which nature provides for him so bountifully. Spiritual wants he has none--until calamity touches him and he thinks he is about to die. Then witchcraft, charm, incantation, the priest--anything that promises help is hurriedly pressed into requisition to prolong his useless existence. If he recovers, he forgets it all as hurriedly. The tragedy which had just been enacted before the Honda's crew produced a ripple of excitement--a momentary stirring of emotion--and was then speedily forgotten, while the boat turned and drove its way up-stream against the muddy waters.

But Jose could not forget. Nature had endowed him with a memory which recorded as minutely and as lastingly as the phonographic cylinder.

The violent death of the boy haunted him, and mingled with the recurrent memories of the sad pa.s.sing of the little Maria, and his own bitter life experience. Oh, the mystery of it all! The tragedy of life! The sudden blighting of hopes! The ruthless crus.h.i.+ng of hearts!

What did it mean? Did this infinite variety of good and evil which we call life unite to manifest an infinite Creator? Nay, for then were G.o.d more wicked than the lowest sinner! Was evil as real as good, and more powerful? Yes. Did love and the soul's desire to be and do good count for nothing in the end? No; for the end is death--always death!

And after that--who knows?

"We are coming to Banco, Padre," said the man who had addressed Jose before, rousing him from his doleful meditations and pointing to the lights of the distant town, now s.h.i.+mmering through the gathering dusk.

As the boat with shrilly shrieking whistle drew near the landing, a crowd hurriedly gathered on the bank to receive it. Venders of guava jelly, rude pottery, and straw mats hastily spread out their merchandise on the muddy ground and began to dilate loudly on their merits. A scantily clad man held aloft a rare leopard skin, which he vigorously offered for two _pesos_ gold. Slatternly women, peddling queer delectables of uncertain composition, waved their thin, bare arms and shrilly advertised their wares. Black, naked children bobbed excitedly about; and gaunt dogs and shrieking pigs scampered recklessly through the crowd and added to the general confusion. Here and there Jose could see dignified looking men, dressed in white cotton, and wearing straw--_jipij.a.pa_--hats. These were merchants, patiently awaiting consignments which they had perhaps ordered months before. Crazy, ramshackle dwellings, perched unsteadily upon long, slender stilts, rose from the water's edge; but substantial brick buildings of fair size, with red-tile roofs and whitewashed walls, mingled at intervals with the thatched mud huts and rude hovels farther within the town. In a distant doorway he descried a woman nursing a babe at one breast and a suckling pig at the other.

Convention is rigid in these Colombian river towns; but it is widely inclusive.

"Come ash.o.r.e with me, Padre, and forget what is worrying you," said Jose's new acquaintance, taking him by the arm. "I have friends here--_Hola!_ Padre Diego Guillermo!" he suddenly called, catching sight of a black-frocked priest standing in the crowd on the sh.o.r.e.

The priest addressed, a short, stout, coa.r.s.e-featured man of perhaps forty, waved back a vigorous salutation.

"_Hombre!_" the man e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, holding Jose's arm and starting down the gangplank. "What new deviltry is the rogue up to now!"

The man and the priest addressed as Diego embraced warmly.

"Padre Diego Guillermo Polo, I have the extreme honor to present my friend, the eminent Padre--" ceremoniously waving a hand toward Jose.

"Jose de Rincon," supplied the latter, bowing.

"Rincon!" murmured the priest Diego. Then, abruptly, "Of Cartagena?"

"Yes," returned Jose, with awakened interest.

"Not of Don Ignacio--?"

"My grandfather," Jose replied promptly, and with a touch of pride.

"Ha! he owned much property--many _fincas_--about here; and farther west, in the Guamoco country, many mines, eh, Don Jorge?" exchanging a significant look with the latter.

"But," he added, glancing at the perspiring Honda, "this old tub is going to hang up here for the night. So do me the honor, senores, to visit my little cell, and we will fight the cursed mosquitoes over a sip of red rum. I have some of very excellent quality."

Jose and Don Jorge bowed their acquiescence and followed him up the muddy road. The cell referred to consisted of a suite of several rooms, commodiously furnished, and looking out from the second story of one of the better colonial houses of the town upon a richly blooming interior _patio_. As the visitors entered, a comely young woman who had just lighted an oil-burning "student" lamp and placed it upon the center table, disappeared into one of the more remote rooms.

"My niece," said the priest Diego, winking at Don Jorge as he set out cigars and a _garrafon_ of Jamaica rum. "I have ordered a case of American beer," he continued, lighting a cigar. "But that was two months ago, and it hasn't arrived yet. _Diablo!_ but the good _medico_ tells me I drink too much rum for this very Christian climate."

Don Jorge swept the place with an appraising glance. "H'm," he commented, as he poured himself a liberal libation from the _garrafon_. "The Lord surely provides for His faithful children."

"Yes, the Lord, that's right," laughed Padre Diego; "still I am daily rendering no small thanks to His Grace, Don Wenceslas, future Bishop of Cartagena."

"And eminent services into the bargain, I'll venture," added Don Jorge.

Padre Diego's eyes twinkled merrily. Jose started. Then even in this remote town the artful Wenceslas maintained his agent!

"But our friend is neither drinking nor smoking," said Padre Diego, turning inquiringly to Jose, who had left his gla.s.s untouched.

"With your permission," replied the latter; "I do not use liquor or tobacco."

"Nor women either, eh?" laughed Padre Diego. "_Por Dios!_ what is it the Dutchman says?

'Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang, Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.'