The Young Llanero - A Story of War and Wild Life in Venezuela

William Henry Giles Kingston

Informations

• Publié par: vacih
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 41
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Llanero,
by W.H.G. Kingston
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no
cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg
License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Young Llanero
A Story of War and Wild Life in Venezuela
Author: W.H.G. Kingston
Release Date: May 16, 2007 [EBook #21506]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
THE YOUNG LLANERO ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, EnglandW.H.G. Kingston
"The Young Llanero"
Chapter One.
The home of my childhood in South America—My
father’s history—Sent to school in England—Life
at school—Summoned back to America—Voyage
with my uncle to Jamaica—Sail for Venezuela—
Chased by a Spanish man-of-war—Cross the bar
of the Magdalena River—Driven on shore by a
storm—Boat nearly wrecked—Our night
encampment—Repair boat—A deer shot—
Disturbed by Goahira indians—Flight—Pursued—
Reach the port of Cervanos—Meet Tim Molloy—
His delight at seeing us—Hospitably received by
the Commandant, but very inhospitably by the
mosquitoes.
I should like to draw a picture, though I may succeed
but imperfectly, of the grand scenery amid which I
passed my childhood’s days.
Far in the west rose upwards in the intense blue sky
the snow-capped peaks of the Cordilleras, or Andes,
of South America, with range beyond range of lofty
mountains intervening, the more distant rugged andbarren, the nearer clothed to their summits with trees,
glittering cascades leaping down their side? from rock
to rock; while here and there could be seen the
openings of deep glens, at the bottom of which
copious streams came rushing forth, forming the
headwaters of the mighty Orinoco. Palms and other
tropical trees surrounded our house, which stood on a
slightly elevated plateau, below which appeared a
shining lake of considerable dimensions fed by the
mountain-streams, its waters finding an outlet at one
end, and from whence they flowed in a more gentle
current towards the western branch of the great river.
Far to the east and north extended a vast plain, in
some parts covered with dense forests, in others
presenting an arid desert; while beyond were to be
found the wide-stretching llaños of Venezuela,
bordered on the south by the Orinoco.
The region I have described will be seen marked on
the map, in the more northern part of the South
American continent. It is, indeed, a grand country,
abounding in valuable trees of various descriptions,
and wild animals and game of all sorts—jaguars,
pumas, tapirs, and peccaries; reptiles innumerable—
alligators, anacondas, rattlesnakes; and birds of
various species, from the majestic condor and
towering eagle down to the diminutive humming-bird.
But as I shall have to describe all sorts of curious
adventures, in which they and other animals played
conspicuous parts, I will not further particularise them
at present.
As I was born in the country, it may be concluded that
my father and mother resided there. To my father,Barry Desmond, might have been applied those
touching lines of the poet Campbell:—
“There came to the beach a poor exile of
Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight
repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eyes’ sad
devotion,
For it rose o’er his own native isle of the
ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful
emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.”
When a very young man,—scarcely eighteen years of
age,—being a friend of Thomas Addis Emmett and
Lord Edward Fitzgerald (though his family were firm
Protestants), and carried away by mistaken patriotism,
he had been induced to take a part in the lamentable
Irish rebellion of 1798, which stained their beloved
country with blood, and left her in a far more
deplorable condition than she had previously been.
Young as he was, my father had been actively
engaged in the various skirmishes and battles which
occurred between the insurgent forces and the royal
troops. He was present at Arklow, Ross, and Vinegar-
hill, where he was wounded; and had it not been for
the resolute courage of a devoted follower, Tim
Molloy, he would have fallen into the hands of the
victors. Carried off the field of battle, he was
concealed for many weeks in a mud hut by the faithfulTim; who, when a price was set on his head, went
forth nightly to obtain provisions, and finally assisted
him to reach the coast. He there, accompanied by
Tim, embarked on board a vessel bound for the West
Indies; but unable to remain with safety in any of the
English islands, after long wanderings they landed on
the shores of Venezuela, then belonging to the
Spaniards. Tim, fearing that should his beloved master
remain at any of their ports the Spanish authorities
might deliver him up to the English Government, urged
him to push farther inland. At length they reached the
region I have described, where their wanderings were
over; for my father here found a fellow-exile, Mr Denis
Concannan, who had some years before arrived in the
country and married the daughter of a Spanish hidalgo
of considerable wealth. He was cordially received by
Mr Concannan and his wife, who had several sons and
daughters,—one of whom, in the course of time,
became my father’s wife and my mother.
His friends at home, to whom he at length divulged the
place of his retreat, might probably have obtained a
pardon for him on the plea of his youth, but, though
still entertaining a warm affection for his native land,
he had become much attached to the country of his
adoption, which my mother also was unwilling to leave.
My uncles, moreover, had been sent to England for
their education, where one of them continued to
reside; and my family thus kept up communication
with the old country.
When I was old enough to go to school, my father
determined to send me also to the care of my Uncle
Denis. As we had always spoken English in our family,I did not feel myself completely a stranger in a strange
land; and brought up among English boys, I imbibed
their ideas and assumed their manners, and was,
indeed, more of an Englishman than an Irishman, and
certainly more of either than of a Spaniard.
I need not mention any of the incidents of my school-
life. They were much like those other boys meet with,
—nothing extraordinary. I made a good many friends,
and fought two or three battles. One was on the
occasion of Tom Rudge, a big fellow, calling me an
Irish rebel, and saying that my father had been
hanged. I gave him the lie direct, and replied that if he
had been shot he would have died the death of a
gentleman, which was more than Rudge himself was;
but that he had neither been shot nor hanged, for he
was alive and well, and that I hoped to see him again
before many years were over. I thereon planted my
fist between Rudge’s eyes, which drew fire from them,
and left them both swollen and blackened. We then
set to, and I was getting the best of it, driving my
antagonist backwards, when one of the ushers
appeared, and seizing hold of me carried me up to the
doctor. I pleaded that I had been grossly insulted. He
replied that it was my duty to forgive insult, and asked
what Tom Rudge had said to me. I told him.
“I thought that you were an orphan,” he observed, “the
son of Mr Concannan’s sister, and that your father
was dead.”
“Mr Concannan is my uncle, sir,” I replied; “but my
father is alive and well, I hope, in South America.”The expression of surprise which passed over the
master’s countenance made me fear that I had said
something imprudent.
“If your father were dead, that would only have
aggravated Rudge’s fault,” he said. “I do not excuse
him; I will see what he has to say for himself.”
Rudge was sent for, and appeared with his two black
eyes. The doctor looked at him sternly, and
reprimanded him for the language he had made use
of. “He has been punished, I see,” he observed, “and I
will therefore remit the flogging he deserves, and
which you, Master Desmond, are liable to for fighting.
Now, shake hands, and remember that the next time
you take to your fists I shall be compelled to punish
you both.”
We shook hands as directed, and were sent back to
the playground; and neither did Rudge nor any one
else again make any reflection on my family. How he
had found out that my father had been engaged in the
Irish rebellion I could not discover. He after this, for
some time, fought very shy of me, though from that
day forth he gave up bullying, and we became very
good friends. Indeed, by the wise management of the
head-master, our school was really a very happy one,
though fights occasionally took pla