Дети капитана Гранта / The Children of Captain Grant

“He doesn’t understand,” said the geographer.

“Perhaps you haven’t the right accent,” suggested the Major.

Once more Paganel repeated his compliment, but with no better success.

“I’ll change the phrase,” he said; and in slow, deliberate tones he went on: “Sem duvida um Patagão[65].”

No response still.

“Dizeime![66]” said Paganel.

But no answer came.

“Vos compriendeis?[67]” shouted Paganel, at the very top of his voice.

Evidently the Indian did not understand, for he replied in Spanish: “No comprendo[68].”

Addressing the Patagonian, Glenarvan repeated the word: “Español?”

“Sí, sí[69],” replied the Indian.

Paganel’s surprise became absolute stupefaction.

“It’s clear enough the man speaks Spanish.”

“Yes, he certainly speaks Spanish. Perhaps it is some other language you have been studying all this time instead of—”

But Paganel would not allow him to proceed. He shrugged his shoulders, and said stiffly: “You go a little too far, Major.”

“Well, how is it that you don’t understand him then?”

“Why, of course, because the man speaks badly,” replied the learned geographer, getting impatient.

“He speaks badly; that is to say, because you can’t understand him,” returned the Major coolly.

“Come, come, McNabbs,” put in Glenarvan, “your supposition is quite inadmissable. My good Paganel—explain it then.”

“I explain nothing. I give proof. Here is the book I use daily, to practice myself in the difficulties of the Spanish language. Examine it for yourself, Major,” he said, handing him a volume, from the depths of one of his numerous pockets.

“And what’s the name of this book?” asked the Major, as he took it from his hand.

“The ‘Lusiades’[70], an admirable epic, which—”

“The ‘Lusiades’!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Yes, my friend, the ‘Lusiades’ of the great Camoens, neither more nor less.”[71]

“Camoens!” repeated Glenarvan; “but Paganel, my unfortunate fellow, Camoens was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been learning for the last six weeks!”

“Camoens! ‘Lusiades’! Portuguese!” Paganel could not say more. He looked vexed, while his companions broke out in a furious burst of laughter.

The Indian never moved a muscle of his face. He quietly awaited the explanation.

“Fool, idiot, that I am!” at last uttered Paganel. “Is it really a fact? You are not joking with me? It is what I have actually been doing? Ah me! My friends, what is to become of me? To start for India and arrive at Chili! To learn Spanish and talk Portuguese! Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you can’t laugh at me half as much as I laugh at myself!”

“But, I say,” said the Major, after a minute, “this doesn’t alter the fact that we have no interpreter.”

“Oh, don’t distress yourself about that,” replied Paganel, “Portuguese and Spanish are much alike. In a very short time I shall be able to thank the Patagonian in the language he speaks so well.”

Paganel was right. He soon managed to exchange a few words with the stranger, and found out even that his name was Thalcave[72], a word that signified “The Thunderer.”

But what rejoiced Glenarvan most was to learn that he was a guide by occupation, and, moreover, a guide across the Pampas.

When the party went back to Robert, the Patagonian silently laid his hand on his head, and proceeded to examine him with the greatest care, gently feeling each of his aching limbs. Then he gathered a few handfuls of wild celery, which grew on the banks, with which he rubbed the child’s body all over. He handled him with the most exquisite delicacy, and his treatment revived the lad’s strength.

Happily, Thalcave was a practiced guide, and one of the most intelligent of his class. He undertook to find all that was needed, and offered to take them to Indians, where he could get supplies. This proposition was partly made by gestures, and partly by a few Spanish words which Paganel managed to understand. His offer was accepted, and Glenarvan and his learned friend started off with him at once.

Thalcave did the bargaining. It did not take long. In exchange for seven ready saddled horses, 100 pounds of dried meat, several measures of rice, and leather bottles for water, the Indians agreed to take twenty ounces of gold.

Chapter XVI. The News of the Lost Captain

Next day, the 22nd of October, at eight o’clock in the morning, Thalcave gave the signal for departure. The travelers made good progress and about four o’clock the Cordilleras lay full forty miles behind them. They were all somewhat fatigued with the journey, and glad enough to halt for the night on the banks of the Neuquem[73].

No incident of any importance occurred that night or the following day. They rode well and fast, finding the ground firm, and the temperature bearable.

It was the 20th of October, and the tenth day since they had left Talcahuano. They were still ninety miles from the point where the Rio Colorado crosses the thirty-seventh parallel, that is to say, about two days’ journey. Glenarvan kept a sharp lookout for the appearance of any Indians, intending to question them, through Thalcave, about Captain Grant, as Paganel could not speak to him well enough for this.

In the evening the Patagonian stopped Paganel by a gesture, and asked:

“You are in search of a prisoner?”

“Yes,” replied Paganel.

Glenarvan requested him to ask the Patagonian if he had heard of any foreigners who had fallen into the hands of the Indians of the Pampas.

Paganel did so, and waited an answer.

“Perhaps I have.”

The reply was no sooner translated than the Patagonian found himself surrounded by the seven men questioning him with eager glances. Paganel was so excited, he could hardly find words, and he gazed at the grave Indian as if he could read the reply on his lips.

Each word spoken by Thalcave was instantly translated.

“And what about the prisoner?” asked Paganel.

“He was a foreigner.”

“You have seen him?”

“No; but I have heard the Indian speak of him. He is brave; he has the heart of a bull.”

“The heart of a bull!” said Paganel. “Ah, this magnificent Patagonian language. You understand him, my friends, he means a courageous man.”

“My father!” exclaimed Robert Grant, and, turning to Paganel, he asked what the Spanish was for, “Is it my father.”

“Es mio padre,” replied the geographer.

Immediately taking Thalcave’s hands in his own, the boy said, in a soft tone: “Es mio padre.”

“Suo padre,” replied the Patagonian.

He took the child in his arms, lifted him up on his horse, and gazed at him with peculiar sympathy.

“This prisoner, who was he? What was he doing? When had Thalcave heard of him?” asked Paganel.

He had not long to wait for an answer, and learned that the European was a slave in one of the tribes that roamed the country between the Colorado and the Rio Negro.

“But where was the last place he was in?”

“With the Cacique Calfoucoura[74].”

“And who is this Cacique?”

“The chief of the Poyuches Indians[75], a man with two tongues and two hearts.”

“That’s to say false in speech and false in action,” said Paganel. “And when did you last hear of him?”

“A long while ago; the sun has brought two summers since then to the Pampas.”

The joy of Glenarvan can not be described. This reply agreed perfectly with the date of the document. But one question still remained for him to put to Thalcave.

“You spoke of a prisoner,” he said; “but were there not three?”

“I don’t know,” said Thalcave.

“And you know nothing of his present situation?”

“Nothing.”

This ended the conversation.

Chapter XVII. A Serious Necessity

The Argentine Pampas extend from the thirty-fourth to the fortieth degree of southern latitude. The word “pampa” signifies “grass plain[76]”, and justly applies to the whole region. The mimosas growing on the western part, and the substantial herbage on the eastern, give those plains a peculiar appearance. The soil is composed of sand and red or yellow clay, and this is covered by a layer of earth.

The horses went on at a good pace through the thick grass of the Pampas, so high and thick that the Indians find shelter in it from storms. Thalcave went first to beat the bushes and frighten away the dangerous snakes, the bite of which kills an ox in less than an hour.

For two days they plodded steadily across this arid and deserted plain. The dry heat became severe.

When the Argentines travel in the Pampas they generally dig wells, and find water a few feet below the surface. But the travelers could not fall back on this resource, not having the necessary implements. They were therefore obliged to use the small provision of water they had still left.

Their slumbers were invaded by a swarm of mosquitoes, which allowed them no peace. Their presence indicated a change of wind which shifted to the north.

There was a brief interruption this day to the monotony of the journey. Mulrady, who was in front of the others, rode hastily back to report the approach of a troop of Indians. The news was received with very different feelings by Glenarvan and Thalcave. The Scotchman was glad of the chance of gleaning some information about his shipwrecked countryman, while the Patagonian hardly cared to encounter the Indians of the prairie, knowing their bandit propensities. He wanted to avoid them, and gave orders to his party to have their arms in readiness for any trouble.

Presently the Indians came in sight, they were only ten in number. They came within a hundred yards of them, and stopped. They were dressed in skins, and carried lances twenty feet long, knives, slings, and lassos.

Glenarvan determined to go up to them; but he had no sooner moved forward than the whole band wheeled round, and disappeared with incredible speed.

“The cowards!” exclaimed Paganel. “Who are these Indians, Thalcave?”

“Gauchos[77].”

“The Gauchos!” cried Paganel, and, turning to his companions, added: “There was nothing to fear.”

“How is that?” asked McNabbs.

“Because the Gauchos are inoffensive peasants.”

“You believe that, Paganel?”

“Certainly I do. They took us for robbers, and fled in terror.”

“I rather think they did not dare to attack us,” replied Glenarvan.

“That’s my opinion too,” said the Major, “for if I am not mistaken, instead of being harmless, the Gauchos are formidable bandits. I believe you are wrong, Paganel.”

“Wrong?” replied Paganel.

“Yes. Thalcave took them for robbers, and he knows what he is talking about.”

“Well, Thalcave was mistaken this time,” retorted Paganel. “The Gauchos are agriculturists and shepherds, and nothing else.”

Chapter XVIII. In Search of Water

The streams of fresh water were all dried up; the burning sun had drunk up every thing liquid. Some action must be taken immediately, however; for what little water still remained was almost bad, and could not quench thirst. Hunger and fatigue were forgotten in the face of this imperious necessity.

Paganel asked Thalcave what he thought was best to be done. A rapid conversation followed, a few words of which were intelligible to Glenarvan. Thalcave spoke calmly, but the lively Frenchman gesticulated enough for both. After a little, Thalcave sat silent and folded his arms.

“What does he say?” asked Glenarvan. “I fancied he was advising us to separate.”

“Yes, into two parties. Those of us whose horses are done out with fatigue and thirst are to continue the route as they best can, while the others, whose steeds are fresher, are to push on in advance toward the river. If there should be water enough in the river, they are to wait on the banks till their companions reach them; but should it be dried up, they will hasten back.”

“And what will we do then?” asked Austin.

“Then we shall have to go seventy-two miles south, where rivers abound.”

“It is wise counsel. I shall accompany Thalcave.”