There is something very delightful and exhilarating in the first start
on a hunting expedition into a wild and almost unknown region. After
one gets into the thick of it the thoughts are usually too busy and too
much in earnest with the actual realities in hand to permit of much
rambling into the regions of romance--we say _much_ because there is
always _some_ rambling of this sort--but, during the first day, before
the actual work has well begun, while the adventures are as yet only
anticipated, and the mind is free to revel in imaginings of what is
possible and probable, there is a wild exultation which swells the heart
and induces an irresistible tendency to shout. Indeed, on the present
occasion, some of the party did shout lustily in order to vent their
feelings; and Larry O'Hale, in particular, caused the jungle to echo so
loudly with the sounds of his enthusiasm that the affrighted apes and
jaguars must have trembled in their skins if they were possessed of
ordinary feelings.
The scenery, with its accompaniments, was most beautiful and
interesting. The river, a narrow one, flowed through a dense and
continuous forest; rich and lofty trees over-arched it, affording
agreeable shade, and on the branches were to be seen great numbers of
kingfishers, parrots, and other birds of rich plumage, which filled the
air at least with sound, if not with melody. The concert was further
swelled by the constant cries of wild beasts--such as the howl of a
tiger or the scream of a monkey. But there is no pleasure without some
alloy. On this river mosquitoes were the alloy! These tormenting
creatures persecuted the hunters by night as well as by day, for they
are amongst the few insects which indulge in the pernicious habit of
never going to bed. We cannot indeed say, authoritatively, that
mosquitoes never sleep, but we can and do say that they torment human
beings, and rob them of _their_ sleep, if possible, without
intermission. Larry O'Hale being of a fiery nature, was at first driven
nearly to distraction, and, as he said himself, he did little else than
slap his own face day and night in trying to kill "the little varmints."
Muggins bore up stoically, and all of them became callous in course of
time. Fish of many kinds were seen in the clear water, and their first
success in the sporting way was the spearing of two fine mullet. Soon
after this incident, a herd of brown deer were seen to rush out of the
jungle and dash down an open glade, with noses up and antlers resting
back on their necks. A shot from Bunco's gun alarmed but did not hit
them, for Bunco had been taken by surprise, and was in an unstable
canoe. Before the deer had disappeared, two or three loud roars were
heard.
"Quick! go ashore," whispered Bunco, running his canoe in among the
overhanging bushes, and jumping out.
Three tigers bounded at that moment from the jungle in pursuit of the
deer. Bunco took rapid aim, but his old flint gun missed fire.
Luckily, Will Osten, having followed his example, was ready. He fired,
and one of the tigers fell, mortally wounded. Before he could wriggle
into the jungle Bunco ran up and put a bullet into his brain.
This was a splendid beginning, and the hunters were loud in their
congratulations of each other, while Bunco skinned the tiger. But the
reader must not suppose that we intend to chronicle every incident of
this kind. We record this as a specimen of their work during the
following three weeks. They did not indeed shoot a tiger daily, but
they bagged several within that period, besides a number of deer and
other game. We must hasten, however, to tell of an event which put a
sudden stop to our hero's hunting at that time, and resulted in the
breaking-up of that hitherto united and harmonious party.
One evening, a little before sunset, they came upon a small clearing, in
the midst of which was a little house erected, in the usual way, upon
wooden legs. The hunters found, to their surprise, that it was
inhabited by an Englishman named Gordon, who received them with great
hospitality and evident pleasure. He lived almost alone, having only
one negro man-servant, whose old mother performed the duties of
housekeeper. Here they passed the night in pleasant intercourse with a
man, who, besides being a countryman--and therefore full of interest
about England, from which he heard regularly but at long intervals--was
remarkably intelligent, and had travelled in almost every quarter of the
globe. As to his motive for secluding himself in such a wild spot, they
did not presume to inquire, and never found it out.
Next day they bade their host adieu, promising to make a point of
spending another night in his house on their return. Our hunters had
not gone far when a growl in one of the bushes induced them to land and
search for the growler. They found him in the person of a large tiger,
which Will Osten caught a glimpse of sneaking away with the lithe
motions of a gigantic cat. A hurried shot wounded the beast, which,
instead of flying, turned round suddenly, and, with a bound, alighted on
our hero's shoulders. The shock hurled him violently to the ground.
During the momentary but terrific struggle for life that followed, Will
had presence of mind to draw his hunting-knife, and plunge it, twice,
deep into the tiger's side, but the active claws of the creature tore
his thighs and arms; several large blood-vessels were injured; the light
faded from the eyes of Wandering Will; his strong arm lost its cunning,
and, in the midst of a loud report, mingled with a roar like thunder in
his ears, he fainted away.
When Will recovered his senses he found himself stretched on his back on
a low couch in a hut, with a man kneeling over him, and his comrades
gazing into his face with expressions of deep anxiety. Will attempted
to speak, but could not; then he tried to move, and, in doing so,
fainted. On recovering consciousness, he observed that no one was near
him except Larry O'Hale, who lay extended at his side, looking through
the open doorway of the hut, while a series of the most seraphic smiles
played on his expressive countenance!
It would have been an interesting study to have watched the Irishman on
that occasion. Just before Will Osten opened his eyes, he was looking
into his pale face with an expression that was ludicrously woe-begone.
The instant he observed the slightest motion in his patient, however, he
became suddenly abstracted, and gazed, as we have said, with a seraphic
expression through the doorway. Poor Larry acted thus, in order to
avoid alarming his patient by his looks, but, in spite of his utmost
caution, Will caught him in the transition state, which so tickled his
risible faculties that he burst into a laugh, which only got the length
of a sigh, however, and nearly produced another fainting fit.
"Ah, then, darlin'!" whispered Larry, with the tenderness of a woman,
"_don't_ do it now. Sure ye'll go off again av ye do. Kape quiet,
dear. 'Tis all right ye'll be in a day or two. Bad luck to the baist
that did it!"
This latter remark brought the scene of the tiger-hunt suddenly to
Will's remembrance, and he whispered, for he had not strength to speak
aloud--
"Was he killed? Who saved me?"
"Kilt!" cried Larry, forgetting his caution in his excitement; "faix he
was, an' Bunco did it, too--blissin's on his dirty face--putt the ball
betune his two eyes an' took the laist bit of skin off yer own nose, but
the blood was spoutin' from ye like wather, an' if it hadn't bin that
the cliver feller knowed all about tyin' up an'--there, honey, I wint
an' forgot--don't mind me--och! sure, he's off again!"
This was true. Our hero had lost almost the last drop of blood that he
could spare with the slightest chance of recovery, and the mere exertion
of listening was too much for him.
For many weeks he lay in the hut of that hospitable Englishman, slowly
but gradually returning from the brink of the grave, and during this
period he found his host to be a friend in need, not only to his torn
and weak body, but also to his soul.
Day after day Gordon sat beside his couch with unwearied kindness,
chatting to him about the "old country," telling him anecdotes of his
former life, and gradually leading him to raise his thoughts from the
consideration of time to eternity.
Will Osten, like every unconverted man, rebelled at this at first; but
Gordon was not a man to be easily repulsed. He did not _force_
religious thoughts on Will, but his own thoughts were so saturated, if
we may say so, with religion, that he could not avoid the subject, and
his spirit and manner were so winning that our hero was at last pleased
to listen. Will's recovery was slow and tedious. Before he was able to
leave Gordon's cottage his "independent" spirit was subdued by the
Spirit of God, and he was enabled to exchange slavery to Self, for
freedom in the service of Jesus Christ. For many a day after that did
Will Osten lie helpless on his couch, perusing with deep interest the
Testament given to him by his mother when he left home.
During this period his companions did not forsake him, but spent their
time in hunting and conveying the proceeds to Tacames, where they
disposed of them profitably. On one of these occasions they found that
an English ship had touched at the port in passing, and, among other
things, Larry brought a number of old newspapers to the invalid. Among
the first that he opened Will read the announcement of the sudden death
of his own father! No information was given beyond the usual and formal
statement, with the simple addition of the words "deeply regretted."
We need not say that this was a terrible shock to the poor wanderer--a
shock which was rendered all the more severe when he reflected that he
had parted from his father in anger. In his weak condition, Will could
not bear up under the blow, and, for some days, he lay in such a
depressed state of mind and body that his comrades began to fear for his
life. But after that he rallied, and a sudden improvement took place in
his health.