Till the beginning of the nineteenth century, the Guaranian Indians (with the Abipons and other sub-tribes) were in possession of a great part of Southern Brazil, Paraguay, and Eastern Argentina. They were one of the strongest of the Indian peoples, unusually tall and athletic, and, so long as they had reliable leaders, well able to hold their own against the Portuguese. But owing to internal dissensions, intermarriages with Europeans, and more especially to the crushing defeat by the colonists, in 1820, of their great chief Andresito Artegas, they had become, by the middle of the century, a negligible quantity.

Much of their trouble with the Portuguese was of their own seeking; for, not content with beating off their attacks, they were perpetually making unprovoked raids upon peaceful farmsteads, carrying off not only cattle, but European boys and girls, of whom they not infrequently made slaves. A typical instance of this sort of thing came under the notice of Mr. Peter Campbell, better known as Don Pedro, Commandante de Marinos, or Admiral of the Fleet, who from 1819 onwards was in the employ of the Argentine Government.

Two Portuguese girls, with their little brother, were returning on horseback to their father’s farm near Cordoba, when a series of frantic yells behind them warned them that savages were in pursuit. A single glance back was sufficient to show how futile all attempts at flight would probably be; the redskins were well mounted and used to riding at breakneck pace, while the girls’ horses, not too spirited at the best of times, were jaded with a long, hot journey.

The cries—rendered more savage and blood-curdling by the Indian practice of simultaneously clapping the lips with the palm of the hand—grew louder and more bewildering. The boy lost control of his horse—the youngest and fastest of the three—and was soon well ahead of his sisters, the younger of whom, Ascencion by name, had the presence of mind to scream to him to ride straight on to Cordoba, if possible, and warn the military authorities there. The words were hardly out of her mouth when a shriek came from her sister, who was a dozen yards behind.

“I am taken. Do not desert me.”

Ascencion turned her head, only to see the chief himself, a splendid-looking elderly man, riding straight for her own bridle.

In another minute both girls were prisoners. Each was dragged from her saddle and lifted to that of her captor; their two horses were handed to some young Indians who rode in the rear, and then they found themselves being whirled away in the direction of the Parana River, which lay some hundred and seventy miles distant. The cavalcade made no halt till long after dark, when it arrived at a tolderia or native 46 encampment. Here the girls were handed over to the womenfolk, who, after robbing them of all their finery, took them to separate tents and told them what would be their future duties.

Worn out with grief and excitement, Ascencion threw herself on the ground in her wigwam (toldos) and, refusing food, sobbed herself to sleep. When she awoke, it was day; she was alone in the tent, and now had leisure to examine it and its contents. This was soon done. The miserable abode was a pyramidal hut, each side about nine feet long and consisting merely of a few tall slender sticks, across which a rough matting of straw, like a collection of old bottle cases, was laid. Through the matting sufficient daylight struggled to show that the only furniture of the toldos consisted of half a dozen bows of great length, and a few gourds, fashioned into drinking-cups.

She was creeping to the entry in the hope of finding out her sister’s whereabouts, when agitated shouts resounded through the camp.

“Flee, flee! The Cordoban soldiers are coming.”

Those shouts were the sweetest music she had ever heard. Heedless of the danger she might incur, she rushed into the open, calling loudly for her sister.

What followed was very like a nightmare. Redskinned, half-naked figures flitted backwards and forwards, screaming incoherently, in her tongue and their own. Then all of a sudden the tents round about seemed to rise up of themselves and collapse. A lengthy, rumbling chorus of shouts came from a hundred yards away, followed by a carbine volley whose bullets knocked up the dust all round her, and 47 one of which laid a young Indian dead, almost within a yard of her. Then she caught sight of her sister being lifted into a saddle, and while she endeavoured to attract her attention, a hand was pressed over her own mouth and strong arms swung her on to a horse which seemed to come from nowhere. She knew nothing more till she found herself being borne at a tearing speed across the plain, lashed inextricably to the cacique’s body.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. Less than half a mile away she could see, through a cloud of dust, a string of straggling mounted figures, half a dozen riding ahead, and seven or eight more trying in vain to keep up with them; and from the flash of the sun-rays on their scabbards and metal horse-furniture, she knew them to be white men. But would they overtake her captors? The distance increased, then lessened considerably, then began slowly to increase again. She heard a few shots fired by the pursuers, but these took no effect. The space between them grew greater than ever, for even while the Cordobans’ horses slackened their speed and flagged, those of the Indians seemed only to gain fresh strength; and at last she looked away, again losing all heart. For the soldiers had come to a dead stop, and in a few minutes she would be carried out of all sight of them. A howl of triumph and derision rose from the Abipons; nevertheless, they did not draw bridle till they came in sight of another tolderia, whose occupants would form such a reinforcement as would enable them to defy any but a very strong company of white men.

Ascencion had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours 48 and had held no communication with her sister since their separation. She was now handed over to the care of a motherly old body who was a relative of the cacique, and presumably a person of some importance in the tribe. Not only did she at once supply the girl with food and drink, but she promised to make interest for her sister to be placed with her.

This promise was fulfilled, and for the next week or two the girls shared the old woman’s hut together at night, being kept by day in attendance on the cacique’s wife, who, if she made them work hard at cooking, corn-grinding, and rough weaving, was at least not unkind to them. But this is not to say that these Indians were not cruel by nature and habit. One day after a foraging party had returned, the cacique approached the two prisoners, and addressing them in Portuguese, said roughly:

“Come with me. Come and see what is in store for any of your friends who attempt to rescue you.”

They followed him tremblingly to the centre of the camp, and there found a young Spaniard, bound hand and foot to pegs that were driven into the ground. He had been caught wandering in the forest, and, being unarmed, was an easy capture.

At a word from the chief, a dozen men stepped back from the prostrate lad, and drawing their bows, each sent an arrow straight at him. Every arrow but one transfixed the body; that one was ceremoniously burnt and its ashes buried; it was in disgrace for having missed its mark.

This murder was the only exhibition of cruelty which Ascencion witnessed at that camp, though 49 almost every day the cacique threatened her and her sister with death if they made any attempt to escape. As far as they could gather, they were to be kept till the next general meeting of the tribe, and then sold or bartered as wives to the two highest bidders.

When they had been in captivity a little over a fortnight some young men of the tribe rode hastily into the camp one evening and called excitedly for the cacique. They had, said they, been pursued by a strong party of Macabi Indians (one of the Peruvian sub-tribes) who had never altogether lost sight of them, and were even now making a descent on the camp.

Instantly the whole tribe turned out, with bows, spears, hatchets, and some few even with muskets. The alarm was no false one. The Macabis, about eighty in number, badly mounted, but far better armed than were the Abipons, were in sight, and would soon endeavour to surround the tolderia, the inhabitants of which, so far from showing any sign of unreadiness to do battle, or anxiety as to the issue thereof, were quickly and joyously disposing themselves to the best advantage. Indeed, they were the first to open fire; but the harmless volley from the half-dozen ramshackle old muskets was answered by a deadly shower of well-aimed bullets from at least forty guns.

The two slave girls, crouching with some other women in one of the huts, could catch glimpses of the fight through the chinks in the matting. To an outsider it might seem that Ascencion would care little as to the result of the conflict, but the Peruvians were a fierce tribe, far more uncivilised than their enemies—who were, for the most part, Christians—and 50 to fall into their hands would probably involve far worse treatment than she had undergone at the hands of her original captors.

Presently, as the darkness began to fall, she saw a score of the young men separate themselves from the rest of the defenders, and begin to untether some of the horses. Then one of them hastened into her tent and bade her and those with her hurry out to the horses. The Macabis were steadily gaining the upper hand, and all the women were to be escorted by as many of the tribe as could be spared, towards a small and semi-permanent camp on the river, between Chamorra and Goya. No time was lost in obeying, and Ascencion had already been lifted up behind the cacique’s wife, when her sister, who was waiting to be mounted on the next horse, threw up her arms and fell without a cry. One of the enemy’s bullets had pierced her breast and the poor girl lay dead.

From that time Ascencion knew little or nothing of what happened; she had an indistinct recollection of an all-night ride, then of resting, once in green woods, and once on a burning, sandy plain; then of a second long march in the dark; but that was all. For she was in a fever which did not leave her till some days after their arrival at the river tolderia; and, when next she left her hut, the first thing she saw was the remainder of the tribe returning from the long battle. They had been beaten, but nevertheless had inflicted such a blow on the victors as crippled all attempts at pursuit of them.

Then began again the same wearisome life as before, only more intolerable now that Ascencion had lost her 51 sister. But one afternoon, when most of the men were away hunting, the cacique came up to her as she was preparing for her daily task of fetching water from the river, and showing his knife threateningly, observed:

“There is a boat’s crew of white men making for the shore. Stay here till they are gone. If you speak to one of them you shall die.”

The caution seemed needless enough, for by this time the poor girl had become so cowed and destitute of hope, that she had little heart to attempt escape. Moreover, it was quite possible that men of her own race might be no more desirable neighbours than the Indians. And so she sat down where she was, under a tree, feeling but little interest in the coming of the sailors. Looking listlessly towards the row of trees that hid the river from her view, she presently caught sight of the cacique ushering two white men towards his toldos, and evidently bearing himself with great obsequiousness towards them. The taller of the two entered, but the other began idly to walk about the camp, exchanging cheery words with the women at work there. Very soon he was standing by Ascencion’s side. She was hesitating whether to answer a civil greeting of his, when he said quickly:

“But you are not an Indian girl, surely?”

Then she forgot all caution and all indifference to her condition. She had heard her own language spoken by one of her own people!

“No; I am Portuguese. I am a prisoner,” she whispered eagerly.

“Why not escape then?”

“Alas; they would kill me. No one will help me.”

“I’ll find someone who will,” said the young man, who wore a naval commander’s uniform; and he ran to the cacique’s tent, Ascencion following him more slowly. In another minute both strangers reappeared, talking earnestly in a language which the girl could only suppose to be English, as the second sailor was very tall and of fair complexion. When they had almost reached her, the Portuguese officer suddenly touched his cap and set off running full speed back towards the river. The other beckoning to her, and addressing her gently in tolerable Portuguese, said:

“Is it true that you are a prisoner, my poor lass?”

The girl hesitated, for the cacique, who had guessed something of the import of the white men’s conversation, was laying his hand on the haft of his knife. But the Englishman noticed the action, and immediately began to finger his sword-hilt.

“Speak up,” he said; “there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Then, interrupted every now and then by indignant remonstrance or denial from the chief, Ascencion told her story.

“Very well,” said the sailor at length. “Come on board my ship; I shall take you up the river to Corrientes, and leave you with some English ladies till your friends can be communicated with.”

“Not so fast, SeÑor,” said the cacique, assuming a more bullying tone. “Of course you can take her—if you like to pay the price I——”

The officer whipped out his sword. “This is the only price I pay,” he said curtly.

The cacique laughed contemptuously, and with a 53 single shout summoned the couple of dozen men who happened to be within hearing, and who surrounded the Englishman and the shrinking girl in an instant, swinging their war-hatchets, and yelling one against the other.

“Oh, stop that din, do,” said the officer with good-humoured impatience. “Listen to me, my lads. I am Commandante Don Pedro—or plain Peter Campbell, if you like that better. I’ve got a cutter and twenty men a few yards away, to say nothing of a ten-gun brig with sixty hands aboard of her, in the stream. Now, are you going to stand clear?”

Brigs and cutters were meaningless to the Indians; but what they did understand was the sudden appearance from among the trees of Don Edwardo, the Portuguese captain, followed by a dozen sturdy seamen—English, Yankee, and Portuguese, armed with muskets and cutlasses.

The cacique re-echoed his war-cry and threatened Campbell with his hatchet; but a touch of the Englishman’s sword-point at his throat made him reconsider his designs. Another Indian made at the “admiral” with a knife—only to receive such a blow across the ear with the flat of the sword as knocked him to the ground. The tramp of the seamen stopped, and, at the command, muskets were slung and cutlasses drawn.

The cacique bade his men drop their arms—almost a needless recommendation.

“Take her,” he said sullenly.

Campbell pointed to the man whom he had knocked down. “Take away his knife,” he said, addressing his 54 boatswain, a burly Yankee. “Now—you have attempted to kill an Englishman, and you shall die.” Don Pedro felt the edge of the knife and gave it a final “strop” on his palm. “I’m going to cut his head off, as a warning to the rest of you,” he said, so sternly that the Indians and even the cacique uttered little cries of terror.

Ascencion began to think that Englishmen were no more merciful than other people; for, as the Indian crouched whimpering at Don Pedro’s feet, he stooped and brandished the knife with all the coolness of a butcher. But, to her amazement, when he stood up again, the head was still in its normal position, while, in his left hand, Campbell held the braided pigtail of hair, full five feet long, which had proudly adorned the head of the would-be assassin; and he, still doubting his good fortune in having got off so cheaply, sprang up and made headlong for the woods.

This is but one of the scores of anecdotes told of the celebrated soldier of fortune, Peter Campbell, who, whatever may have been his faults, was never known to show fear, to be disloyal to his employers or unjust to the Indians; indeed, by his unfailing good nature and sense of fairness and fun, he succeeded in adjusting many a tribal or political grievance which in the hands of most men, however well-meaning, would probably have ended in bloodshed.

The Portuguese girl was taken up the river, and when she returned to her parents she was accompanied by a husband, for she married an Irish settler in Corrientes.