My next business was to descend upon the river. I had lost sight of the
pass which I had seen from the saddle, but had made such notes of it
that I could not fail to find it. I was bruised and stiff, and my boots
had begun to give, for I had been going on rough ground for more than
three weeks; but, as the day wore on, and I found myself descending
without serious difficulty, I became easier. In a couple of hours I got
among pine forests where there was little undergrowth, and descended
quickly till I reached the edge of another precipice, which gave me a
great deal of trouble, though I eventually managed to avoid it. By
about three or four o’clock I found myself on the river-bed.
From calculations which I made as to the height of the valley on the
other side the saddle over which I had come, I concluded that the
saddle itself could not be less than nine thousand feet high; and I
should think that the river-bed, on to which I now descended, was three
thousand feet above the sea-level. The water had a terrific current,
with a fall of not less than forty to fifty feet per mile. It was
certainly the river next to the northward of that which flowed past my
master’s run, and would have to go through an impassable gorge (as is
commonly the case with the rivers of that country) before it came upon
known parts. It was reckoned to be nearly two thousand feet above the
sea-level where it came out of the gorge on to the plains.
As soon as I got to the river side I liked it even less than I thought
I should. It was muddy, being near its parent glaciers. The stream was
wide, rapid, and rough, and I could hear the smaller stones knocking
against each other under the rage of the waters, as upon a seashore.
Fording was out of the question. I could not swim and carry my swag,
and I dared not leave my swag behind me. My only chance was to make a
small raft; and that would be difficult to make, and not at all safe
when it was made,—not for one man in such a current.
As it was too late to do much that afternoon, I spent the rest of it in
going up and down the river side, and seeing where I should find the
most favourable crossing. Then I camped early, and had a quiet
comfortable night with no more music, for which I was thankful, as it
had haunted me all day, although I perfectly well knew that it had been
nothing but my own fancy, brought on by the reminiscence of what I had
heard from Chowbok and by the over-excitement of the preceding evening.
Next day I began gathering the dry bloom stalks of a kind of flag or
iris-looking plant, which was abundant, and whose leaves, when torn
into strips, were as strong as the strongest string. I brought them to
the waterside, and fell to making myself a kind of rough platform,
which should suffice for myself and my swag if I could only stick to
it. The stalks were ten or twelve feet long, and very strong, but light
and hollow. I made my raft entirely of them, binding bundles of them at
right angles to each other, neatly and strongly, with strips from the
leaves of the same plant, and tying other rods across. It took me all
day till nearly four o’clock to finish the raft, but I had still enough
daylight for crossing, and resolved on doing so at once.
I had selected a place where the river was broad and comparatively
still, some seventy or eighty yards above a furious rapid. At this spot
I had built my raft. I now launched it, made my swag fast to the
middle, and got on to it myself, keeping in my hand one of the longest
blossom stalks, so that I might punt myself across as long as the water
was shallow enough to let me do so. I got on pretty well for twenty or
thirty yards from the shore, but even in this short space I nearly
upset my raft by shifting too rapidly from one side to the other. The
water then became much deeper, and I leaned over so far in order to get
the bloom rod to the bottom that I had to stay still, leaning on the
rod for a few seconds. Then, when I lifted up the rod from the ground,
the current was too much for me and I found myself being carried down
the rapid. Everything in a second flew past me, and I had no more
control over the raft; neither can I remember anything except hurry,
and noise, and waters which in the end upset me. But it all came right,
and I found myself near the shore, not more than up to my knees in
water and pulling my raft to land, fortunately upon the left bank of
the river, which was the one I wanted. When I had landed I found that I
was about a mile, or perhaps a little less, below the point from which
I started. My swag was wet upon the outside, and I was myself dripping;
but I had gained my point, and knew that my difficulties were for a
time over. I then lit my fire and dried myself; having done so I caught
some of the young ducks and sea-gulls, which were abundant on and near
the river-bed, so that I had not only a good meal, of which I was in
great want, having had an insufficient diet from the time that Chowbok
left me, but was also well provided for the morrow.
I thought of Chowbok, and felt how useful he had been to me, and in how
many ways I was the loser by his absence, having now to do all sorts of
things for myself which he had hitherto done for me, and could do
infinitely better than I could. Moreover, I had set my heart upon
making him a real convert to the Christian religion, which he had
already embraced outwardly, though I cannot think that it had taken
deep root in his impenetrably stupid nature. I used to catechise him by
our camp fire, and explain to him the mysteries of the Trinity and of
original sin, with which I was myself familiar, having been the
grandson of an archdeacon by my mother’s side, to say nothing of the
fact that my father was a clergyman of the English Church. I was
therefore sufficiently qualified for the task, and was the more
inclined to it, over and above my real desire to save the unhappy
creature from an eternity of torture, by recollecting the promise of
St. James, that if any one converted a sinner (which Chowbok surely
was) he should hide a multitude of sins. I reflected, therefore, that
the conversion of Chowbok might in some degree compensate for
irregularities and short-comings in my own previous life, the
remembrance of which had been more than once unpleasant to me during my
recent experiences.
Indeed, on one occasion I had even gone so far as to baptize him, as
well as I could, having ascertained that he had certainly not been both
christened and baptized, and gathering (from his telling me that he had
received the name William from the missionary) that it was probably the
first-mentioned rite to which he had been subjected. I thought it great
carelessness on the part of the missionary to have omitted the second,
and certainly more important, ceremony which I have always understood
precedes christening both in the case of infants and of adult converts;
and when I thought of the risks we were both incurring I determined
that there should be no further delay. Fortunately it was not yet
twelve o’clock, so I baptized him at once from one of the pannikins
(the only vessels I had) reverently, and, I trust, efficiently. I then
set myself to work to instruct him in the deeper mysteries of our
belief, and to make him, not only in name, but in heart a Christian.
It is true that I might not have succeeded, for Chowbok was very hard
to teach. Indeed, on the evening of the same day that I baptized him he
tried for the twentieth time to steal the brandy, which made me rather
unhappy as to whether I could have baptized him rightly. He had a
prayer-book—more than twenty years old—which had been given him by the
missionaries, but the only thing in it which had taken any living hold
upon him was the title of Adelaide the Queen Dowager, which he would
repeat whenever strongly moved or touched, and which did really seem to
have some deep spiritual significance to him, though he could never
completely separate her individuality from that of Mary Magdalene,
whose name had also fascinated him, though in a less degree.
He was indeed stony ground, but by digging about him I might have at
any rate deprived him of all faith in the religion of his tribe, which
would have been half way towards making him a sincere Christian; and
now all this was cut off from me, and I could neither be of further
spiritual assistance to him nor he of bodily profit to myself: besides,
any company was better than being quite alone.
I got very melancholy as these reflections crossed me, but when I had
boiled the ducks and eaten them I was much better. I had a little tea
left and about a pound of tobacco, which should last me for another
fortnight with moderate smoking. I had also eight ship biscuits, and,
most precious of all, about six ounces of brandy, which I presently
reduced to four, for the night was cold.
I rose with early dawn, and in an hour I was on my way, feeling
strange, not to say weak, from the burden of solitude, but full of hope
when I considered how many dangers I had overcome, and that this day
should see me at the summit of the dividing range.
After a slow but steady climb of between three and four hours, during
which I met with no serious hindrance, I found myself upon a tableland,
and close to a glacier which I recognised as marking the summit of the
pass. Above it towered a succession of rugged precipices and snowy
mountain sides. The solitude was greater than I could bear; the
mountain upon my master’s sheep-run was a crowded thoroughfare in
comparison with this sombre sullen place. The air, moreover, was dark
and heavy, which made the loneliness even more oppressive. There was an
inky gloom over all that was not covered with snow and ice. Grass there
was none.
Each moment I felt increasing upon me that dreadful doubt as to my own
identity—as to the continuity of my past and present existence—which is
the first sign of that distraction which comes on those who have lost
themselves in the bush. I had fought against this feeling hitherto, and
had conquered it; but the intense silence and gloom of this rocky
wilderness were too much for me, and I felt that my power of collecting
myself was beginning to be impaired.
I rested for a little while, and then advanced over very rough ground,
until I reached the lower end of the glacier. Then I saw another
glacier, descending from the eastern side into a small lake. I passed
along the western side of the lake, where the ground was easier, and
when I had got about half way I expected that I should see the plains
which I had already seen from the opposite mountains; but it was not to
be so, for the clouds rolled up to the very summit of the pass, though
they did not overlip it on to the side from which I had come. I
therefore soon found myself enshrouded by a cold thin vapour, which
prevented my seeing more than a very few yards in front of me. Then I
came upon a large patch of old snow, in which I could distinctly trace
the half-melted tracks of goats—and in one place, as it seemed to me,
there had been a dog following them. Had I lighted upon a land of
shepherds? The ground, where not covered with snow, was so poor and
stony, and there was so little herbage, that I could see no sign of a
path or regular sheep-track. But I could not help feeling rather uneasy
as I wondered what sort of a reception I might meet with if I were to
come suddenly upon inhabitants. I was thinking of this, and proceeding
cautiously through the mist, when I began to fancy that I saw some
objects darker than the cloud looming in front of me. A few steps
brought me nearer, and a shudder of unutterable horror ran through me
when I saw a circle of gigantic forms, many times higher than myself,
upstanding grim and grey through the veil of cloud before me.
I suppose I must have fainted, for I found myself some time afterwards
sitting upon the ground, sick and deadly cold. There were the figures,
quite still and silent, seen vaguely through the thick gloom, but in
human shape indisputably.
A sudden thought occurred to me, which would have doubtless struck me
at once had I not been prepossessed with forebodings at the time that I
first saw the figures, and had not the cloud concealed them from me—I
mean that they were not living beings, but statues. I determined that I
would count fifty slowly, and was sure that the objects were not alive
if during that time I could detect no sign of motion.
How thankful was I when I came to the end of my fifty and there had
been no movement!
I counted a second time—but again all was still.
I then advanced timidly forward, and in another moment I saw that my
surmise was correct. I had come upon a sort of Stonehenge of rude and
barbaric figures, seated as Chowbok had sat when I questioned him in
the wool-shed, and with the same superhumanly malevolent expression
upon their faces. They had been all seated, but two had fallen. They
were barbarous—neither Egyptian, nor Assyrian, nor Japanese—different
from any of these, and yet akin to all. They were six or seven times
larger than life, of great antiquity, worn and lichen grown. They were
ten in number. There was snow upon their heads and wherever snow could
lodge. Each statue had been built of four or five enormous blocks, but
how these had been raised and put together is known to those alone who
raised them. Each was terrible after a different kind. One was raging
furiously, as in pain and great despair; another was lean and
cadaverous with famine; another cruel and idiotic, but with the
silliest simper that can be conceived—this one had fallen, and looked
exquisitely ludicrous in his fall—the mouths of all were more or less
open, and as I looked at them from behind, I saw that their heads had
been hollowed.
I was sick and shivering with cold. Solitude had unmanned me already,
and I was utterly unfit to have come upon such an assembly of fiends in
such a dreadful wilderness and without preparation. I would have given
everything I had in the world to have been back at my master’s station;
but that was not to be thought of: my head was failing, and I felt sure
that I could never get back alive.
Then came a gust of howling wind, accompanied with a moan from one of
the statues above me. I clasped my hands in fear. I felt like a rat
caught in a trap, as though I would have turned and bitten at whatever
thing was nearest me. The wildness of the wind increased, the moans
grew shriller, coming from several statues, and swelling into a chorus.
I almost immediately knew what it was, but the sound was so unearthly
that this was but little consolation. The inhuman beings into whose
hearts the Evil One had put it to conceive these statues, had made
their heads into a sort of organ-pipe, so that their mouths should
catch the wind and sound with its blowing. It was horrible. However
brave a man might be, he could never stand such a concert, from such
lips, and in such a place. I heaped every invective upon them that my
tongue could utter as I rushed away from them into the mist, and even
after I had lost sight of them, and turning my head round could see
nothing but the storm-wraiths driving behind me, I heard their ghostly
chanting, and felt as though one of them would rush after me and grip
me in his hand and throttle me.
I may say here that, since my return to England, I heard a friend
playing some chords upon the organ which put me very forcibly in mind
of the Erewhonian statues (for Erewhon is the name of the country upon
which I was now entering). They rose most vividly to my recollection
the moment my friend began. They are as follows, and are by the
greatest of all musicians:—[2]
[Illustration]