As the canoe rushed forward, Max Harden recognized himself for lost; he
realized there was no hope. Resolved to meet his fate with all the
fortitude he could command, he was yet sufficiently unnerved to stand
upright in the canoe, which so rocked and swayed that he balanced
himself with difficulty.
It was then that he looked down upon what seemed certain death. The
river ended abruptly, as a cliff falls sheer to the sea. The walls of
the ravine were folded back to the east and to the west, and between,
the water went over the cataract in one long, unbroken wave.
Far below, extending to the north, was a broad plain, dotted here and
there with trees which, in the haze of the tropic heat, appeared
indistinct and restless, like weeds and pebbles at the bottom of deep,
discoloured water. Beyond that were the broad, gleaming waters of the
Kasai, rolling north-westward to the Congo.
Max looked up to the wide, burning sky. In that mad, headlong moment he
offered up a prayer. The roar of the waters thundered in his ears. The
canoe over-shot the crest of the cataract, as a swallow dips upon the
wing. Max was conscious of a bursting in his head. There was a noise
in his ears as if all chaos were rushing in upon him; it was as if he
were an atom in the midst of an upheaval of the worlds. And then he
remembered no more.
————
Now that the Hidden Valley has been explored, and is even shown upon
some of the large scale maps that have recently been issued by the Royal
Geographical Society, those whose pleasure it is to study such matters
are well acquainted with the formation of the country.
The river finds its source in the unknown mountains to the south of
Makanda; thence it flows due north towards the Kasai. South of the
waterfall the basin consists of a hard, impervious rock. In the region
of the jungle, this rock is covered by about ten feet of fertile
subsoil: in some places a black, glutinous mud; in others, a red, loamy
clay, containing a super-abundance of plant food. At the Long Ravine
the rock rises to the surface, in what geologists call an "out-crop."
North of the cataract lies a great plain of mud.
This phenomenon is merely what is found in every waterfall in the world.
The river at the top of the falls flows over hard, impermeable rock; at
the foot is found a softer stratum--such as chalk or clay--which is
easily washed away. Originally, far back in the centuries, there was no
waterfall at all. The river flowed on an even course from Makanda to
the Kasai. Very soon, however, the current swept away vast tracts of
mud to the north of the waterfall. This mud was carried by the Kasai to
the Congo, and thence to the sea. In consequence, a tract of country,
many square miles in area, gradually descended lower and lower. On the
other hand, in the hard rock of the ravine, the river worked more
slowly, so that, at last, the cataract was formed.
At the foot of the falls is a great pool in which the water is
exceedingly deep, and round which the current spends its fury in many
whirlpools, such as may be seen in a mill-pond when the flood-gates are
opened to their full extent.
Having thus briefly explained the conformation of the country in the
lower valley of the Hidden River, it is now necessary to return to
Captain Crouch. The effort made by the little wizened sea-captain upon
that eventful morning is worthy to rank with anything that was ever told
by the poets of classic days. Had it not been for his indomitable will,
he could never have accomplished a feat that was almost superhuman.
Edward Harden had said that he believed that he was the only person whom
Crouch cared for in the world. That might have been true at the time,
but certain it is that the captain thought well of Max, else he had
never accomplished what he did.
He was already wounded; even he himself had owned he was in pain. And
yet, mile upon mile, he broke his way through the jungle, fighting
onward amid the profusion of the forest, like one who was raving mad.
Often he sank to his waist in marsh. His clothes were torn to shreds by
thorns. His face and hands were red with blood which had mingled with
the perspiration that streamed from every pore. When he came forth from
the forest, at the head of the ravine, he looked hardly human--the most
desperate being it were possible to picture.
For all that he dashed on, across the bare rocks, in the blazing heat of
the sun. There was nothing now to impede him, and he raced upon his
way, never pausing for breath. He was half-naked; he had left the
greater part of his clothes upon the thorn-trees in the jungle. His
pith helmet was askew, and battered and out of shape. He had used his
Remington rifle as a club to beat his way through the thickets, had
broken it off at the small of the butt, and now held the barrel in his
hand. His legs were bare to the knee, like those of an urchin, and so
clotted with blood that he looked like a savage who had dyed his skin.
Sometimes he stumbled, and seemed in danger of falling; but each time he
braced himself up, struck himself upon the chest, and went on even
faster than before.
When he came to the end of the ravine he turned to the west, and there
found a place where he could climb down to the low-lying flats. It was
then approaching sunset. The heat of the day was past.
At about half-way down the incline he paused, and lifted the palm of his
hand to screen his only eye. For some minutes he scanned the plain, and
then on a sudden he gave vent to a loud cry of exultation, and bounded
down the hill. Far in the distance, high and dry upon a mud-bank, he
had caught sight of a small speck, which he knew for a human being.
It took him more than half an hour to reach this place. By then it was
nearly dusk. Bending down over the drenched, motionless form, he
thought at first that Max was dead. He could feel no beating of the
heart.
Still, Crouch was not the man to despair. Moreover, in the days when he
had sailed the seas, he had had experience in the resuscitation of the
drowned.
Without delay he set to work. He lifted the body so that the water
poured from the mouth of the unconscious man. He then seated himself
upon the ground at Max’s head, and worked both arms like the handles of
a pump.
The sun set and a full moon arose, which traced a silvery pathway across
the great wasteland that extended both to the east and to the west, as
far as the eye could reach. Here and there lonely, stunted trees showed
like sentinels upon the plain. The only sound that disturbed the
stillness of the night was the dull, continuous roar of the cataract to
the south. Here was no sign of animal life. In the daytime the
marshland was thronged with birds, but these now were silent. It would
be impossible to imagine a place more desolate and weird. It seemed not
of the world, or, if it were, of some forgotten country, buried for ever
beyond the reach of progress and the influence of man.
Hour after hour Crouch held to his task. The sweat poured from his
forehead, the blood still issued from his wounds, but never for a moment
did he cease.
At last he stopped, and placed an ear to Max’s chest. Thereupon, he
went on again, more feverishly than ever.
Soon after that, a quick cry escaped his lips. He had looked into Max’s
face, and seen the eyelids flicker; and presently, two eyes were staring
in his face. And at that the little man just toppled forward in a
faint, and lay upon his face across the body which his efforts had
brought back to life.
Without doubt, the mind is master of the body, and the will is king of
the mind. One had but to glance into the face of Captain Crouch to see
that he was possessed of a will of iron. The strong brows, the firm
mouth, the great hatchet chin--these had not been given him for naught.
He may have had the strength of Hercules; yet he had never accomplished
his journey down the river, had it not been for the indomitable strength
of his mind. And now that he realized that the victory was his, that
his efforts had been crowned with success, the will, on a sudden,
relinquished its task, as a helmsman gives way to his successor at the
wheel--and Crouch fell forward in a faint.
At dawn, the sun found them lying together on the mud, and by the warmth
of its rays set the blood coursing more freely in their veins.
Max was the first to revive. He tried to lift himself, but found that
he was not able to do so, because of the weight of Crouch’s body on his
chest. He fell back again, and lay for some time with opened eyes,
staring upward at the sky.
He saw the colours change in the heavens. He heard the cries of the
birds upon the marsh. Then, once again, he struggled to an elbow.
With difficulty he lifted Crouch; and then, looking into the captain’s
face, he wondered where he was, and how it had come about that they two
were stranded, side by side, in the midst of surroundings with which he
was wholly unfamiliar.
Then he remembered, by degrees. The struggle with the Arab in the
back-water--his headlong rush throughout the length of the rapids--the
vision he had had of Crouch, frantic on the bank. And then--the ravine,
and at the end, the cataract--the thunder of the water--the rushing in
his ears.
The truth was not difficult to guess; indeed, there was no other
explanation. He tried to rise to his feet, but could not do so. At
that, he lay back again, to rest, and gave silent thanks in his heart to
Divine Providence by means of which he had been saved as by a miracle.
He had undergone the sensations of death, and yet he lived.
He had lain quite still and motionless, it may have been for an hour,
when Crouch sat up and looked about him. And when he had taken in the
scene, he let fall the following irrelevant remark--
"I’ve lost my pipe," said he.
He then got to his feet, and walking to the water’s edge--which was but
a few feet distant--he knelt down, scooped the water in his hands, and
drank.
Then he returned to Max, and seated himself by his side.
"Feeling queer?" he asked.
Max answered that he was very weak.
"Your strength ’ll return," said Crouch; "but you must have some cover
for your head."
He took off his coat, which was nothing but a bundle of tatters, and
rolling this into a kind of turban, he placed it upon Max’s forehead to
protect him from the heat of the sun. Then he went back to the water’s
edge, washed the blood from his face and hands, and bathed the back of
his neck. As he returned, he found the barrel of his broken rifle, and
stooped and picked it up.
"Look at that!" said he. "That was once the best rifle in this forsaken
continent. Not worth its weight as scrap-iron!"
"I suppose," said Max, "you’ll be offended if I try to thank you?"
"You suppose right," said Crouch. "Do you feel able to walk?"
"I think so."
"You don’t," said the captain. "There’s no hurry." Then he began to
think aloud. "If we work up-stream," said he, "we’ll be on the wrong
side of the river. By now Cæsar will have found our canoe. We’re not
armed; we have no food. There are precisely three ways in which we
might die: first, starvation; second, Cæsar; third, a buffalo. The
first’s a certainty. Both of us are too weak to swim the river at Hippo
Pool--to say nothing of crocodiles. On the other hand, if we go
down-stream, walking will be easy till we get to the mangrove swamp.
Have you got a knife?"
Max felt in his pockets, and produced the article in question. Crouch
looked at it.
"That’ll do," said he. "With this we should be able to dig out a canoe,
and make a couple of paddles. If we don’t die at the job, we ought to
work our way up to Date Palm Island. As soon as you’re ready, we’ll
start."
"I’m ready now," said Max.
"Then come along," said Crouch.
The mud lay in ridges, which had been baked hard by the sun. Between
these the water lay in long pools which, as they progressed farther to
the north, became more and more still, less disturbed by the current
that issued from the falls. Crouch patted his clothes as he limped
along.
"I’ve lost every blamed thing," said he; "pipe, pouch and baccy,
compass, knife and ammunition."
Max answered nothing. He thought it would not be wise to sympathize.
Crouch was a peculiar man in many ways.
Soon after midday they came to the mangrove swamp; and the crossing of a
mangrove swamp is a thing that most African explorers have accomplished.
The roots of the short, stunted trees stand out upon the surface of the
water. It is necessary to pass by way of these, stepping from one root
to another; and some knowledge of the art of balancing is utterly
essential. If you lose your foothold, you fall into the swamp, and
there you are set upon by leeches. Some of these are large--sometimes
as large as snails--but the kind generally met with is an animal so
small that it can work its way through the eye-holes of your boots.
Once this creature has laid hold upon your skin, and begun to suck your
blood, it begins to swell until it has attained the size of a cherry.
At the edge of the mangrove swamp Crouch and Max took off their boots,
and hung these across their shoulders. With bare feet they could get a
better footing upon the twisted roots of the trees.
For three hours they journeyed through the swamp, which was buried in
semi-darkness. It was far darker than the jungle. It is in these
swamps that the mosquitoes swarm in myriads, and all the deadly diseases
of the country are engendered. To pitch a standing camp in the vicinity
of a mangrove swamp, is to court a certain death from malaria or
typhoid.
They were weary, faint, and aching in their bones when they came upon
the banks of the Kasai. No wonder this had been named the "Hidden
River." It joined the great tributary of the Congo in a thousand little
streams, all flowing silently through darkness beneath the close-packed
trees.
Crouch turned to the right. He had been bearing to the east throughout,
and in a little while they were clear of the swamp, on terra firma.
Seating themselves, they put on their boots.
"By Christopher," said Crouch, "I’m weak! I don’t fancy making that
canoe with a jackknife."
"Nor I," said Max. "But we’ll do it."
Crouch laughed.
"We will," said he, but his face was white as a ghost. Then he sat bolt
upright and listened. "What’s that?" he cried.
Faint in the distance was a gentle, scraping sound, which grew louder
and louder as the minutes passed. Max at first could not believe the
evidence of his ears. He waited expectantly, and at last heard a
rippling sound, that was like the laughter of a child. He sprang to his
feet, and rushing to the water’s edge, looked up-stream, shading his
eyes with his hand. It was, indeed, the truth--a long canoe was
swinging down upon the tide.