PAGANEL, after giving his companions a brief account of the village of Tandil, added that they could not fail to obtain information there; moreover, the fort was always garrisoned by a detachment of national troops. Glenarvan, accordingly, put the horses into the stable of a “fonda;” and Paganel, the major, Robert, and he, under the guidance of Thalcave, proceeded towards Fort Independence.
After ascending the ridges of the mountains for a short time, they arrived at the postern, rather carelessly guarded by a native sentinel. They passed without difficulty, and inferred either great negligence or extreme security. A few soldiers were exercising on the parade-ground of the fort, the oldest of whom was not more than twenty and the youngest scarcely ten. In fact, they were a dozen young children and boys who were drilling very nicely. Their uniform consisted of a striped shirt confined at the waist by a leathern girdle. The mildness of the climate justified this light costume. Each of these young soldiers carried a gun and a sword, which were too long and heavy for the little fellows. All had a certain family resemblance, and the corporal who commanded resembled them too: they were twelve brothers, who were parading under the orders of the thirteenth.
Paganel was not astonished. He remembered his Argentine statistics, and knew that in this country the average number of children in a family exceeds nine. But what surprised him exceedingly was to see these little soldiers practicing the French tactics, and to hear the orders of the corporal given in his own native language.
“This is singular,” said he.
But Glenarvan had not come to see boys drill, still less to occupy himself with their nationality or relationship. He did not, therefore, give Paganel time to express further astonishment, but besought him to ask for the commander of the fortress. Paganel did so, and one of the soldiers proceeded towards a small building which served as the barracks.
A few moments after, the commander appeared in person. He was a man of fifty, robust, with a military air, thick whiskers, prominent cheek-bones, gray hair, and commanding look, so far as one could judge through the clouds of smoke that issued from his short pipe.
Thalcave, addressing him, introduced Lord Glenarvan and his companions. While he spoke, the commander kept scrutinizing Paganel with quite embarrassing persistence. The geographer did not know what the trooper meant, and was about to ask him, when the latter unceremoniously seized his hand, and said, in a joyous tone, in his own language,—
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes, a Frenchman,” replied Paganel.
“Ah, I am delighted! Welcome, welcome! I am almost a Frenchman,” cried the commander, shaking the geographer’s arm with rather painful violence.
“One of your friends?” asked the major of Paganel.
“Yes,” replied he, with national pride; “we have friends in all parts of the world!”
He then entered into conversation with the commander. Glenarvan would gladly have put in a word in regard to his affairs, but the soldier was telling his story, and was not in the mood to be interrupted. This honest man had left France a long time before; and the native language was no longer perfectly familiar to him: he had forgotten, if not words, at least the manner of combining them. As his visitors soon learned, he had been a sergeant in the French army. Since the foundation of the fort he had not left it, and commanded it by appointment from the Argentine government. He was by parentage a Basque, and his name was Manuel Ipharaguerre. A year after his arrival in the country, Sergeant Manuel was naturalized, joined the Argentine army, and married an honest Indian woman, who had twins,—boys, to be sure, for the sergeant’s worthy consort would never present him with daughters. Manuel did not think of any other calling than that of the soldier, and hoped, in time, with the help of God, to offer to the republic a whole battalion of young soldiers.
“You have seen them?” said he. “Charming fellows! Good soldiers! José! Juan! Miguel! Pepe! Pepe is only seven years old, and is already biting his cartridge!”
Pepe, hearing himself complimented, joined his two little feet, and presented arms with perfect precision.
“He will do!” added the sergeant. “He will be a major—or brigadier-general one day!”
This story lasted a quarter of an hour, to Thalcave’s great astonishment. The Indian could not understand how so many words could come from a single throat. No one interrupted the commander; and even a French sergeant had to conclude at last, though not without forcing his guests to accompany him to his dwelling. Here they were introduced to Madame Ipharaguerre, who appeared to be “a good-looking person,” if this expression may be employed in regard to an Indian.
When he had exhausted himself, the sergeant asked his guests to what he owed the honor of their visit. And now it was their turn to explain.
Paganel, opening the conversation in French, told him of their journey across the Pampas, and ended by asking why the Indians had abandoned the country.
“War!” replied the sergeant.
“War?”
“Yes, civil war.”
“Civil war?” rejoined Paganel.
“Yes, war between Paraguay and Buenos Ayres,” answered the sergeant.
“Well?”
“Why, all the Indians of the north are in the rear of General Flores, and those of the plains are plundering.”
“But the caziques?”
“The caziques with them.”
This answer was reported to Thalcave, who shook his head. Indeed, he either did not know, or had forgotten, that a civil war, which was afterwards to involve Brazil, was decimating two-thirds of the republic. The Indians had everything to gain in these internal struggles, and could not neglect such fine opportunities for plunder. The sergeant, therefore, was not mistaken in attributing this desertion of the Pampas to the civil war that was being waged in the northern part of the Argentine Provinces.
But this event disconcerted Glenarvan’s hopes. If Captain Grant was a prisoner of the caziques, he must have been carried by them to the northern frontiers. Yet how and where to find him? Must they attempt a perilous and almost useless search to the northern limits of the Pampas? It was a serious matter, which was to be earnestly considered.
However, one important question was still to be asked of the sergeant, and the major thought of this, while his companions were looking at each other in silence.
“Have you heard of any Europeans being retained as prisoners by the caziques of the Pampas?”
Manuel reflected for a few moments, like a man who recalls events to recollection.
“Yes,” said he, at length.
“Ah!” cried Glenarvan, conceiving a new hope.
Paganel, MacNabb, Robert, and he now surrounded the sergeant.
“Speak, speak!” cried they, gazing at him with eagerness even in their looks.
“Several years ago,” replied Manuel, “yes,—that is it,—European prisoners—but have never seen them.”
“Several years ago?” said Glenarvan. “You are mistaken. The date of the shipwreck is definite. The Britannia was lost in June, 1862, less than two years ago.”
“Oh, more than that, my lord!”
“Impossible!” cried Paganel.
“Not at all. It was when Pepe was born. There were two men.”
“No, three!” said Glenarvan.
“Two,” replied the sergeant, in a positive tone.
“Two?” exclaimed Glenarvan, very much chagrined. “Two Englishmen?”
“No,” continued the sergeant. “Who speaks of Englishmen? It was a Frenchman and an Italian.”
“An Italian who was massacred by the Indians?” cried Paganel.
“Yes, and I learned afterwards—Frenchman saved.”
“Saved!” exclaimed Robert, whose very life seemed to hang on the sergeant’s lips.
“Yes, saved from the hands of the Indians,” replied Manuel.
Each looked to the geographer, who beat his brow in despair.
“Ah! I understand,” said he, at last. “All is clear, all is explained.”
“But what is to be done?” asked Glenarvan, with as much anxiety as impatience.
“My friends,” answered Paganel, taking Robert’s hands, “we must submit to a severe misfortune. We have followed a false trail! The captive in question is not the captain, but one of my countrymen (whose companion, Marco Vazello, was actually assassinated by the Indians), a Frenchman who often accompanied these cruel savages to the banks of the Colorado, and who, after fortunately escaping from their hands, returned to France. While thinking that we were on the track of Captain Grant, we have fallen upon that of young Guinnard.”
A profound silence followed this declaration. The mistake was palpable. The sergeant’s story, the nationality of the prisoner, the murder of his companion, and his escape from the hands of the Indians, all accorded with the evident facts. Glenarvan gazed at Thalcave with a bewildered air. The Indian then resumed the conversation.
“Have you never heard of three English captives?” he asked the sergeant.
“Never,” replied Manuel. “It would have been known at Tandil. I should have heard of it. No, it cannot be.”
Glenarvan, after this formal response, had nothing more to do at Fort Independence. He and his friends, therefore, departed, not without thanking the sergeant and shaking hands with him.
Glenarvan was in despair at this complete overthrow of his hopes. Robert walked beside him in silence, with tearful eyes, while his protector could not find a single word to console him. Paganel gesticulated and talked to himself. The major did not open his lips. As for Thalcave, his Indian pride seemed humbled at having gone astray on a false trail. No one, however, thought of reproaching him for so excusable an error.
They returned to the encampment, saddened indeed. Still, not one of the courageous and devoted men regretted so many hardships uselessly endured, so many dangers vainly incurred. But each saw all hope of success annihilated in an instant. Could they find Captain Grant between Tandil and the sea? No. If any prisoner had fallen into the hands of the Indians on the Atlantic coast, Sergeant Manuel would certainly have been informed. An event of such a nature could not have escaped the natives who trade from Tandil to Carmen. Among the traders of the Argentine Plains everything is known and reported. There was therefore but one course now to take,—to join, without delay, the Duncan at Cape Medano, the appointed rendezvous.
In the meantime, Paganel had asked Glenarvan for the document, by relying on which their search had resulted so unfortunately. He read it again with unconcealed vexation, seeking to discover a new interpretation.
“This document is, at all events, clear,” said Glenarvan. “It explains in the most definite manner the shipwreck of the captain and the place of his captivity.”
“No,” replied the geographer, stamping with his foot, “a hundred times no! Since Captain Grant is not on the Pampas, he is not in America. This document ought to tell where he is; and it shall, my friends, or I am no longer Jacques Paganel.”