There were several places on the railway that I became very interested in during the time I was working on it, and one was a little above Turco. Here the mountains form a kind of amphitheatre with the River Rimac running through the centre. On all sides are the peaks covered with snow, rising to about two-thousand feet above your head. Here you see a remarkable feature of the terraced cultivation of the old Incas’ days, before Pizarro and his crew robbed them of their glory and power. Up the steep mountain side, from base to summit, is a perfect network of small embankments or terraces, running this way and that way, until the mountain looks like one great chessboard. This, in itself, is a standing testimony to the industry of the ancient Inca Indians, and proves their good common-sense and forethought in choosing the rich warm soil, in some places the bed of an ancient river, with all its rich deposits, for their gardens and habitations. At certain places you see gigantic figures cut into the mountain side, so large are they that you can only see them from the opposite side of the valley. The figure of the llama in particular is often seen, and the lines and dimensions are wonderfully exact. The llama is about the size of a sheep, but much hardier, and away among the upper districts of the Andes it is used as a beast of burden, the weight it carries is a quintal, or about one hundred pounds. At other places you will see, standing out against the sky, the typical road-side cross of Peru, not the ordinary crucifix, but a cross, draped and adorned with the well-known emblems of the gospel story. The simple-minded Indians, full of superstition, think the outstretched shadows of the cross will not only bring a blessing to then-crops but defend them from the mountain storms.
I saw many an Indian village hidden away, almost out of sight, in the mountain valleys. They are always on the banks of the river, with a church and a graveyard, and green corrals full of lucerne, with flocks of goats and donkeys. Both men and women are of pronounced Indian type, the women with their large, soft, brown eyes and long hair hanging down in two plaits, are very good to, and very fond of their shy brown babies.
I found that the labourers who were working with us were Sambeta Indians, and had been working for many years on the line; several of them could speak broken English, and their old chief, Lu Alpa, with whom I became very friendly, and in whom I was greatly interested, could speak fairly good English. I found that they were sun worshippers, and when our daily work was done, he and I would get together and spend hours asking each other questions. He would want to know about the white man’s land, and I about Peru. It was from his lips that I learnt most of the wonderful and ancient history of his people. They had no books, he said, but the history of his unfortunate country was handed down from father to son, a sacred legacy—learnt off by heart. I spoke to him about his creed, and asked him why his people worshipped the sun, did they not know about God? The old man looked up into my face and smiled a strange mystical smile, after a while he said:
“You white men have a God, but you do not worship Him. You tell other men they must worship your God, but you do not worship Him yourself. You white men call on your God if you want anything, but you only worship this,” and he held up an old gin bottle. “You send men to tell us about your God, and you send men with this too. This is a very bad god,” he said, and shaking his head, he flung the bottle as far away as he could.
I could not answer him, for I felt that there was a great amount of truth in what he said.
The place where we were stationed was about three miles above the highest point the engine could then go to. Our work was to repair all breakdowns of trucks, trolleys and barrows, and to throw light bridges over the gulleys for the navvies to cross. We were now about seventeen thousand feet above the sea. Far below us were the lower strata of the clouds, the peaks above us were covered with pure glistening snow, while here and there, beautiful cascades of falling water from the snow above could be seen dancing and quivering in the sunlight. Here also the ferns, flowers and mountain shrubs offer a world of interest to the botanist. Great bushes of heliotrope laden with sweet-scented bloom, bunches of calceolaria, and the prickly tree cactus. From where our hut stood, over a dozen tunnels could be seen at various points down the side of the mountain, and the track seemed like a huge snake twisting and twirling up the face of it.
One morning about two o’clock, Tu Alpa, the old Indian chief, who had apparently taken a liking to me, came to our hut and roused me out. He said he wanted to take me to see the sun rise from the top of the eastern peak. I got up at once, for we had about two miles to go to the eastern face of the Cordilleras.
It was a cold, damp, murky morning. The grass lay flat on the ground, the trees and bushes were all drooping, heavy with dew, not a bird, beast, or creeping thing was to be seen, the old chief and I seemed to be the only living creatures about. The valley beneath was shut out by the heavy clouds that covered everything about a thousand feet below us, a light mist was hanging like a veil to the sides of the mountains, but overhead the sky was quite clear. We reached our destination about three o’clock. From the position we were in the vast expanse of the prairie opened out before us, around us the mountains reared their proud heads heavenwards, perfect silence reigned as I stood spellbound by the grandeur of the scene around me. In silence the old chief touched my arm and pointed to the east. The sun was just nearing the horizon its refraction casting various and curious aspects over the distant scene. What a glorious sight was unfolded before our eyes. No pen, or tongue could describe that splendid sunrising. Far away, over the distant prairie, a long thin streak of bright orange and gold marked the division between the earth and sky. Soon it began to assume all sorts of fantastic shapes. First it looked like a long gun, mounted on a hill, then, in an instant, it was changed into a tall-spired church in the midst of a field of ripe, golden corn; then, like a giant army set in battle array, and many other wonderful forms did it assume before it got clear of the refraction. Then, like a flash, the distant rays were drawn in, and the round glorious sun itself sprang, as it were, into view. It was indeed a splendid sight, one that I have never forgotten.
After the sun had risen a few degrees, I got up to return to our hut, but the old chief said, “wait a bit.” Then, about half-past four, when the sun’s rays began to be felt on the mountain side, I noticed that the grass and shrubs, which during the night had lain flat and drooping, with their leaves and blades to the west, now began to raise themselves and gradually turn to the east, to the warmth of the risen sun. Insects, and all the creeping things, began to show themselves, all making for the sun’s rays on the grass. The birds in the trees began to twitter, and soon burst forth into sweet songs of praise to the brightness and glory, and the power and warmth of the sun. Then the llamas and other beasts stood out of the shadows and basked in the warm rays, receiving new life, power and strength.
The old Indian got up, and looking me full in the face said:
“Now Shorge (George) you see, aye you savee, why we worship de sun him god.” I returned his gaze for a moment, and then in a flash saw the old man’s meaning. He had brought me there that the sun itself and nature should give me the explanation that he, in his simplicity and ignorance, was unable to find words for. To him the sun, with its warmth, brightness and power, gave life, strength and health to all, both man and beast, birds and all creeping things, trees and flowers, to everything that had life, therefore, as the greatest power for good, he and all nature, animate and inanimate, worshipped it.
Just below where we were stationed was the romantic Infiernello bridge, or the bridge of hell, though not so lofty as the Verrugas, on which I was at that time working. This bridge, with its unprotected sides and slender construction, is, for situation, the most remarkable bridge on the line, for it simply connects two tunnels in the opposite walls of rock; here the Rimac has pierced a course for itself between two perpendicular peaks, and a trestle bridge has been built across it, the roaring waters rushing madly down hundreds of feet below. The train dashes out of a tunnel on to the bridge, and from the bridge into a tunnel in the opposite rock. How that bridge was put up there on that precipitous mountain side, with no foothold to work on, is a marvel. From this bridge can be seen several sections of the line extending thousands of feet below, while nearer the summit are large silver mines tunnelled upwards of a mile into the very heart of the mountain.
After I had been working with the gangers for a month, I was promoted to be a superintendent, or foreman over a gang of Chinese coolies, of which there were eight thousand at work on the line. These are engaged in North China, they sign an agreement to serve eight years, at eight dollars per month, with board, and at the expiration of their contract to be taken back to China. But I never heard of one going back or even wanting to go back. As a rule they are a well-built, sturdy lot of men, but, at the same time, a very treacherous lot to have anything to do with, and require constant surveillance.
They lived in large compounds provided by the railway contractors, and were allowed very little freedom. They were locked up in their compounds every night and a sentry placed over them, and they were only allowed out when at work. What these compounds were like I will not attempt to describe; they were the most horrible, filthy places I ever saw or had anything to do with.
The coolies were formed into gangs of fifties, with a European foreman in charge of them. The foremen were well armed, and did not hesitate to shoot on the first sign of insubordination.
The coolies were engaged for cutting the track in the mountain side, and all other navvy work. Very often they would be working on the edge of a precipice, without the slightest protection to save them from falling, or being knocked over, and in many places the fall was two thousand feet to the rushing waters of the Rimac below.
Many an old grudge, smouldering in the breast, was wiped out here, and no one but God and the culprit was any the wiser, and many a man, both European and coolie, went over that precipice without a moment’s notice or warning, and his murderer was never even suspected.
Dead men tell no tales, and there was no love lost between these European foremen and the Chinese slaves, for that is really what they were. It was a wild spot to be in, every man carried his life in his own hands. There were no police at the upper part of the track, and the only law recognised was “might is right,” and the man who got in the first shot was considered to be on the right side of the argument. The consequence was that many of the coolies committed suicide, and many died from accidents and sickness. Their mode of burying their dead was very strange, but it shewed that in some things at least they still clung to the manner and custom of their country. When one of them died, his mates would get a pound of candles, a parcel of rice, and any money that the dead man may have possessed, these were all put with the body, which was then wrapped in a blanket, and buried about three feet below the surface of the ground.
I have known Europeans, to their shame be it said, who, when under the influence of liquor, and after the Chinese were locked up for the night, go to the grave, dig up the body, steal the money that had been buried with it and re-bury the body again.
One Sunday morning, a few of us foremen were sitting outside our huts talking and smoking. Above us towered the lofty peaks of the Cordilleras, covered with a spotless white mantle of snow, and here and there could be seen the sparkling waterfalls, as the melted snow rushed in cascades down the mountain side. Away a thousand feet below, lay a heavy bank of clouds, whilst above us, the sky was a clear soft blue, and the sun shone with a silver radiance on the snow-capped mountain peaks.
For some time we sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts, all of us glad of the day’s relaxation from our work. Presently the silence was broken by this one and that one, each remark shewing where their thoughts lay. The youngest of the group, and the latest addition to our number, with more of the artistic temperament in him than his older companions, drew a breath of absolute pleasure, and whispered almost to himself, as he gazed on the magnificent grandeur of the scene before him, “Could anything on earth be more beautiful?”
Old Jock McKenzie, chuckled to himself and exclaimed:
“Beauty be blowed! I see no beauty in them mountains with the snaw alus on their heids; beauty is aye in tha een that sees it. I ken an auld cottage and a wee bit kirk in Fifeshire that has more beauty to me een than awe the mountain peaks in Peru.”
“How long is it since you left home, Jock?” I asked.
“Thirty long years, lad,” he answered, “and every year since then I have made up my mind to go back to the hameland and here I am yet. But I’ll see the dear auld place again before another year is out, I’ll warrant yu.”
For a few minutes there was silence, as each man puffed away at his pipe, when suddenly it was broken by old Jack Scrobbie, a rough specimen of humanity, who remarked:
“It’s all very well for some of you youngsters talking about beauty and scenery and such like, but a fellow can’t drink scenery and mountain peaks, and it’s damned dry work sitting here and smoking like a petrified smoke stack. I must have drink, if I go to the divel for it. Who’s for Chicha?”
Old Jock McKenzie, and two others joined him, and going over the gulley to the tool shed, got one of the light hand trolleys out and put it on the rails. Chicha camp and station was about three and a half miles below where we were stationed, and was at that time the highest point to which the engine was able to go. Here there were a number of drinking shanties, with all their attendant evils, and the whole place had a bad character.
Now to reach this place the trolley had to go round a very sharp and dangerous curve. The cutting itself was only about sixteen feet into the face of the mountain, and the outer rail was laid within four feet of the edge of a sheer precipice of two thousand feet. The trolley used was the common four-wheeled flat trolley, without sides, having four holes in the body, one in front of each wheel. Through these holes were put wood handspikes, which were pressed against the wheels to act as brakes when going downhill.
Just as they were about to start, one of the men sitting near me called out:
“Look out for the curve, Jack, or you’ll go to the devil flying.”
“Aye, aye, lad,” he replied in a bantering tone. “We’ll have a chat with your father, it we do.”
We sat and watched them go steadily down the line until they drew near the curve, then from some unaccountable cause, we saw Jack Scrobbie fall backwards off the trolley and roll over the edge of the precipice. The others seemed at once to lose control of the trolley, for it bounded forward. We saw them straining at the brakes, but we sat spellbound for an instant.
“Good God! Look! They’re over!”
And to our horror we saw the trolley jump the rails at the curve, bound into space and disappear into that terrible abyss below. The words so lightly spoken but a few minutes before came to our minds, as each man sprang to his feet and ran towards the path that led down to the foot of the precipice. We searched the neighbourhood all that day, but no traces of men or trolley were ever seen again.