Let us now approach them while the "blood-red blossom of war"
blazes up from their torrid vegetation. Let us descend upon them at
night, here, at no great distance from the banks of the cayman-haunted
Apure, and we shall gaze upon a different scene. All around us, the
plain extends in the same desolate immensity that we noticed when we
looked upon it from the _hato_; still, as before, we see it covered with
a dense wilderness of reedy grasses that overtop the tallest trooper
in Morillo's army; as before, we notice the scattered palm-islands,
breaking here and there the uniformity of level; and hosts of cattle and
wild horses are still roaming over the plain.
Near a _mata_, or grove of palm-trees, there is a sound of merry voices
to-night. Fires are crackling here and there; huge strips of fresh beef
are roasting on wooden spits; the long grass has been trodden flat in
a wide circumference, and three or four rudely-constructed huts of
palm-branches close the scene on one side. Five hundred men are
collected here,--the elite of the liberators of Venezuela. Gathered
about their camp-fires, these troopers, who have ridden a hundred miles
since morning, are enjoying rest, refreshment, and recreation. But the
word trooper must not conjure up a vision of belted horsemen, rigid in
uniform, with clanking sabres, and helmets of brass. Of a far different
stamp are the figures reclining before us. These are improvised
warriors, _hateros_, cattle-farmers, who, grasping their lances and
lassos, have eagerly exchanged the monotony of pastoral life for the
wild excitement of the charge upon Spanish squadrons, and the ferocious
slaughter of fellow-men.
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