Introductory.

Daybreak in the Incas’ realm on the far western shores, known to our fathers as the great wonderland—the great country discovered by adventurous mariners, and thought of, dreamed of, seen through a golden mist raised by the imagination—a mist which gave to everything its own peculiar hue; and hence the far-off land was whispered of as “El Dorado,” the gilded, “the Golden Americas,” and the country whose rivers ran over golden sand, whose rocks were veined with the coveted ore; and nations vied with each other in seeking to humble the haughty Spaniard, whose enterprise had gained him the strongest footing in the coveted region.

Daybreak at Tehutlan, the Incas’ city, in the year 1533, and the peaks of the mighty mountains that appeared to pierce the bright blue sky, appearing to bear out the fabulous belief of the eastern lands, for their icy summits glowed, and flushed, and sparkled in the rays of the sun, which gilded every pinnacle and turned each glacier into a river of gold, seeming to flow slowly downwards towards the vales and plains of the Andes, as yet flooded with the darkness of the night.

But soon the purple flood of darkness began to give place to golden light, as, still streaming down, as it were, from the mountain tops, the sunshine leaped in bright cataracts from point to point, rushing up this dark gully, that vast fissure, turning gloom into glowing landscape, and at last filling the vast vales with gladness and life, as the glowing picture burst into full beauty.

Here, at the foot of the mountains, flowed the mighty rivers of South America, bordered by the vast, eternal tropic forest, with its dank, steaming moisture—the home of the fierce beast, the loathsome reptile, and insect plagues innumerable. Far up the mountains was the land of ice and snow, fierce biting wind, and sleety tempest, with here and there patches of verdure, the pastoral land of the vicuña and llama flocks; but in the intermediate space, balanced, as it were, between the tropical heat and the wintry frosts, on the table-lands half-way up the mountains, was the stronghold of the Peruvian civilisation. So near to the equator that intolerable heat might have been expected, an expectation, though, not fulfilled, for the elevation gave to the Peruvians a glorious climate, with all the brightness but none of the enervation of equatorial land.

Cottage, house, and palace, of no mean construction, were scattered here and there, the homes of peasant and Peruvian noble. But it was upon the temple crowning a near elevation that the eye would rest, in rapt astonishment at its magnificence and grandeur. The description may sound like a scrap from some eastern fable, but none the less it is a fact culled from the pages of history.

For as that bright morning sun peered at length above the shoulder of an eastern hill, it was to shine full upon the Temple of the Sun and its glorious gardens.

Gold—gold everywhere—gold and precious stones. Fronting the great entrance, and ready to receive its first beams, was a golden representation of the sun itself—a vast golden face surrounded by rays stretching out in every direction—vast, massive, and glowing effulgently, reflecting back the sun’s rays, and lighting the interior of the gold-decked temple.

For there was no paltry gilding here, but massive golden cornice, frieze, plate, stud, and boss ornamenting the massive walls—glistening, sparkling, and flashing back the sun’s light, while, as if these were not sufficient, emeralds and other precious stones were lavishly spread in further ornamentation, adding their lustrous sheen to the warm glow already diffused through the magnificent building. Flash, sparkle—glistening streams of golden light, dancing like golden water upon the gorgeous walls, gilding even those who entered, so that face and garments were bathed and dyed in the glorious radiance, till the eye of the beholder ached, and the darkened intellects of the simple Peruvians might well believe that they were in the presence of the sun-god himself.

But not only was gold lavished upon the stone building, even to adorning its outer walls with a broad belt of the precious metal—solid, massive, and magnificently wrought; but the implements and vessels of the temple were of the yellow treasure. Huge vases stood upon the floor filled with the produce of their land—offerings to the sun; perfume-censers, water-cruses, cistern-pipes, reservoirs, all were of the rich, ruddy metal.

The Peruvians called the ore in their language of imagery “the tears wept by the sun;” and these tears they toiled to gather, and their artificers worked them up with a cunning skill under the direction of the priests; and, as if to complete the wonders of the temple, and to give it adornments that should never lose their lustre, never fade, it was surrounded by an Aladdin-like garden whose plants were gold—golden of leaf, silver of stem, and with flowers sparkling in combinations of the two metals. Fountains of gold cast up golden water to fall back in golden basins—a mimic spray; and even then fresh objects of the goldsmith’s skill were seen in the golden-fleeced llamas grouped around.

But the glory of the Incas was passing. After a long period of prosperity the evil days were at hand, the wondrous barbaric civilisation was about to be swept away; for the adventurous Spaniard, moved by his thirst for the gold, of whose existence rumour had from time to time told him, was now in the land. The simple people, coasting along in their light balsas or rafts, had seen the coming of what to them were then wondrous ships, cock-boats, though, as compared even to our collier brigs. War and rapine were in the land; the arms of the Spaniards—the thunder and lightning they bore with them in their guns—were everywhere victorious, and the riches of the temples were seized; gloriously wrought vessels were hastily molten down into ingots, along with plate, shield, and wonderfully-worked flowers; rapacity was triumphant, and upon one occasion the value of the treasure collected and melted down into bars was computed at three millions and a half pounds sterling of our money.

The temples and their adornments were many and held sacred by the people, a sanctity they had ventured to hope would be observed by the conquerors; but the delusion was of short duration. The coming of a body of Spaniards was the signal for the stripping of each gorgeous building. Sacred vessel and ornament were seized upon and borne off; but the news was spread from temple to temple, from priest to priest, through the length and breadth of the land by means of swift-footed couriers, not by written letter, neither by word of mouth, but by means of a fringe of cords tied in knots, each knot and its place having its particular signification.

The alarm spread, and the day of evil being upon them—their sun-gods giving no sign of crushing the profane intruders—the priests looked upon it as a sign of wrath and punishment; and sooner than their treasure should fall into the hands of the fierce, remorseless conquerors, eagerly stripped their temples themselves, and in remote hiding-places, with many a mysterious rite, re-committed the gold to its parent earth, binding all who beheld by the most fearful bonds never to reveal the treasure-places to the conquerors, but to wait for the great day when the ancient glory of Peru should be revived, when the Incas should reign once more, and their religion flourish, ere the sacred treasures were disinterred.

But that day came not. European civilisation began to take the place of that of the Incas, a new form of religion flourished, and from being monarchs in the country the Peruvians became the slaves, the hewers of wood and drawers of water of a new race. Generations came and generations died out, and the years still rolled on till ages passed away; but though poor and degraded, the priestly caste existed still amongst the Indians, and from father to son was the great secret handed down in village after village, the idea of appropriating to their own use the buried treasures never once being dreamed of; but, with the wealth of princes scattered here and there throughout the country, the Indians watched over the treasures still, and handed down the secret to their children.

Some were discovered by stratagem, others by treachery, others, again, by accident; and while the exact bearings of the places were mostly well remembered, others died out of the memory of those to whose trust they had been committed, or in some cases died with them. But to this day it is believed that vast stores of the precious metal still lie waiting the hand of the discoverer, the barbaric relics of a fierce and bloody religion, the creed of an idolatrous people; and many an explorer unrewarded has wasted his days amidst the traces of the ruined temples and tokens of a grand civilisation, scattered here and there amidst the forests and mountain fastnesses of the mighty Andes.

Chapter Two.

After three Ages.

Perhaps it was with reading Robinson Crusoe and Sindbad the Sailor—I don’t know, but I always did have a hankering after going abroad.

Twopence was generally the extent of my supply of hard cash, so I used to get dreaming about gold, and to think that I had only to be wrecked upon some rocky shore to find the remains of a Spanish galleon freighted with gold in doubloons, and bars, and ingots, a prize to which I could lay claim, and be rich for ever after.

Now, with such ideas as these in my head, I ask anybody, was it likely that I could take to soap-boiling?

That was my father’s business, and he was very proud of his best and second quality yellow, and his prime hard mottled. He had made a comfortable living out of it, as his father and grandfather had before him, helping to cleanse no end of people in their time; but I thought then, as I think now, that it was a nasty unpleasant business, whose odour is in my nostrils to the present day.

“You’re no good, Harry,” said my father, “not a bit, and unless you sink that tin-pot pride of yours, and leave off wandering about and wearing out your boots, and take off your coat and go to work, you’ll never get a living. You’ve always got your nose stuck in a book—such trash! Do you ever see me over a book unless it’s a daybook or ledger, eh?”

My father had no sooner done speaking than my mother shook her head at me, and I went and stood out in the yard, leaning my back up against one of the great tallow hogsheads, and thought.

It only took me five minutes to make up my mind, for the simple reason that it was already seven-eighths on the way, this not being the first time by many a score that my father had given me his opinion respecting my future prospects in life; and as I neared twenty such opinions used to seem to grit in amongst my mental works, while the longer I lived the more I thought that I should never get my livelihood by soap-boiling.

Well, my mind was made up most stubbornly that I would go out to Uncle Reuben.

Just then, as I stood moodily there, I heard the sound of a scuffle and a sharp smack, and directly after, one of our lads, a young fellow of my own age Tom Bulk by name, came hurriedly out of the kitchen door, rubbing the side of his red face, but only to drop his hand the moment he caught sight of me leaning against the tallow-tub.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” I said, though I knew well enough that Tom was in hot water.

“Got a flea in my ear, Mas’r Harry,” he said, with a grin of vexation. “I caught it in the kitchen.”

“So have I, Tom,” I said bitterly; “but I caught mine in the parlour.”

“Mas’r been rowing you agen, sir?”

“Yes, Tom,” I said drearily, “and it’s for the last time. If I’m no good I may as well be off. I can’t take to our business.”

“Well, tain’t so sweet as it used to be, sir; and it don’t seem right that, to make other folks clean, we should allers be in a greasy mess. But what are you going to do, Mas’r Harry?” he said anxiously.

“Going abroad, Tom.”

“So am I, Mas’r Harry.”

“You, Tom?”

“Sure I am, Mas’r Harry, if you are,” said Tom; and then and there he pulled off his great, greasy leather apron and soapy white slop, and fetched his shiny jacket out of the boiling-house. “I’m ready, Mas’r Harry,” he exclaimed, as he fought hard to get one arm properly into his sleeve, but had to try again and again, because the button was off the wristband of his shirt, and the sleeve kept slipping up to his shoulder, necessitating a fresh attempt.

I burst out laughing at him, as I saw the earnest way in which he took my announcement; but the more I laughed the more solid Tom became, as he worked his body into his old coat, and then proceeded to button it right up to the chin, slapping himself several times upon the chest to settle a wrinkle here and there, and ending by spitting in his hands, and looking at me as much as to say, “Where’s boxes, Mas’r Harry? Let’s be off.”

“Watcher larfin’ at, Mas’r Harry?” he said at last.

“At you, Tom,” I replied.

“All right, Mas’r Harry,” he replied in the most philosophical way, “larfin’ don’t cost nothing, and it’s very pleasant, and it don’t matter when it’s them as you know; but when it comes to somebody you don’t know, why then it riles.”

I turned serious on the instant.

“Do you know what you are talking about, Tom?” I said.

“Sure I do, Mas’r Harry. Talkin’ ’bout going abroad.”

“But where?”

“I d’know, Mas’r Harry; only it’s along o’ you.”

“But, my good fellow,” I said, “perhaps I’m about to do very wrong in going.”

“Then, p’r’aps I am, Mas’r Harry,” he replied, “and that don’t matter.”

“But it might be the ruin of your prospects, Tom.”

“Ruin o’ my prospecks!” cried Tom. “Hark at him!” and he seemed to be addressing a pile of chests. “Don’t see as there’s much prospeck in looking down into a taller tub. I could do that anywheres.”

“But you don’t understand me, Tom,” I cried.

“Don’t want to, Mas’r Harry,” he said. “I know as I’m allers gettin’ my face slapped when I go into the kitchen; that I always get the smell o’ the tallow in my nose and can’t get it out; and that I hate soap to such an extent that I wouldn’t care if I never touched a bit again.”

“Oh, but you’ll get on here, Tom, in time, and perhaps rise to be foreman.”

“No, I sha’n’t, Mas’r Harry, ’cause I’m coming along with you.”

“But don’t you see that I am going to a place where it would not be suitable for you.”

“What’s sootable for you, Mas’r Harry, would be just as sootable for me, and I’d work like one of the niggers out there, only harder.”

“Niggers out where, Tom?”

“Where we’re going, Mas’r Harry.”

“How do you know there are any niggers where we are going, sir?”

“Oh, there’s sure to be, Mas’r Harry. There’s niggers everywheres, I’ve heerd tell.”

“Oh, but really, Tom,” I said, “it is all nonsense. Look here, I’m going out to join my uncle in South America.”

“South America, Mas’r Harry!” said Tom eagerly. “Why, that’s just the very place I want to go to.”

“I don’t believe it, Tom,” I said sharply. “If I had told you I was going to South Australia, you would have said just the same.”

“Dessay I should, Mas’r Harry,” he replied grinning.

“Well now, look here, Tom,” I continued very seriously, “I am going out to join my uncle, and if I get on, and can see that there is a good chance for you out there, why, I’ll send you word, and you can join me.”

“No, you won’t, Mas’r Harry,” he said quietly.

“But I promise you that I will.”

“No, you won’t, Mas’r Harry.”

“Don’t you believe my word, Tom?”

“I believe that you believe you mean me to believe, Mas’r Harry,” he said; “but I don’t mean you to go without me, and so I tell you. There wouldn’t be no getting on without me alongside o’ you, that there wouldn’t, and I’m going along with you.”

“What are you two quarrelling about?” said my father, coming up just then.

“We were not quarrelling, father,” I replied, snatching at the opportunity to lay bare my plans now that I was a little excited, for I had been rather nervous about how my proposals would be taken.

“Mas’r Harry’s going out foreign abroad,” said Tom sturdily; “and he said I warn’t to go with him, and I said I would, sir—that’s all.”

“Oh, he’s going abroad, is he?” said my father.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “I have made up mind to go and see if Uncle Reuben can find me anything to do.”

“I hope you don’t think that you are going to lead a life of idleness out there, sir?”

“Oh no, sir,” I replied, “I mean to work.”

“Then why don’t you work here?” said my father.

“Because I hate the trade so, sir.”

“Nice clean business too,” said my father; “makes clean money, and keeps people clean. I suppose you know it’s horribly hot out there?”

“Not so hot as in our boiling-house, sir,” I replied.

“Humph!” said my father; and then, without another word, he walked back into the house.

“I am glad,” cried Tom, rubbing his hands together softly. “What a time of it we shall have, Mas’r Harry!”

It was my turn now to be silent, and I stood watching Tom, and thinking as I struggled with myself that it would, after all, be very pleasant to have a sturdy trustworthy fellow like Tom always at my back when I was in a strange land. For I had read that the descendants of the old Spaniards in South America were courtly noble-looking gentlemen enough, but were bitter and revengeful, and not always disposed to look with favour upon Englishmen. How did I know but in my fortune-seeking adventures—for truly enough I meant to go out to seek my fortune—I might make enemies, and be sometime or another in danger. Then how good it would be to have such a henchman as Tom at my side.

My thoughts were very visionary, of course, for I could not foresee the strange adventures through which I should have to go; and for the moment I was about to turn sharp round on Tom, and shake hands and say, “That’s right, Tom, we will go out and carve our fortunes together.” But I checked myself directly, as I thought of my position.

For how was I to take out with me what to all intents and purposes would be a servant, when the probabilities were that I should hardly have the money to pay my own passage to the far-off land?

I was interrupted in my thoughts by Tom, who turned to me and said, “Give me your knife, Mas’r Harry, and I’ll give it a good sharp up along o’ mine. There’s nothing like having a good keen knife in your pocket when you’re going travelling, so they say.”

“Very true, Tom,” I cried laughing; “are you really in earnest over this?”

“Really in earnest, Mas’r Harry? Why, I never felt so earnest before in my life. To be sure I am, I want to see a bit o’ the world.”

“Very well then, Tom,” I replied; “you will have a hard lot to share with me, but share it you shall if you like.”

“I don’t want to share or anything of the kind,” said Tom gruffly. “You’re young master, and I’m only lad. I know what I am and what I’m fit for well enough, Mas’r Harry, so don’t you get talking no more about sharing danger, because it won’t do.”

“Oh, very well, Tom, we won’t quarrel about that.”

“That’s right then, Mas’r Harry; so now give us hold of your knife.”

I gave him my knife, in a thoughtful way, and he took it, opened it, and examined its edge.

“Blunt as a butter knife, Mas’r Harry,” he cried. “And now, when do we start?”

“Start, Tom?” I cried laughing. “Oh, it is not like going to London, we must make a great many preparations first, for it’s a long journey.”