The journey from La Urbana to Caicara passed off without any incident.
On jumping ashore at this latter point we hoped that we were leaving our
canoes for good, and that the rest of the journey to Ciudad Bolivar
would take place by steam.
The people received us very kindly, and, though the town was far from
modern or rich, we enjoyed some comforts that we had lacked during the
long journey which lay behind us.
Though eight weeks had passed since the news of the death of the
Governor of San Carlos had reached Maipures, nothing was known about it
at Caicara. This will give an idea of the abandonment in which those
vast territories are left by those under whose political authority they
live. Grave international complications with the neighbouring States
might arise from disturbances like that at San Carlos, and yet the news
had only come down by mere chance, brought by travellers who had no
personal interest in it.
Finding that there was no certainty as to the steamers likely to touch
at Caicara, we reluctantly decided to take again to the slow and sure
method of canoeing, rather than wait for him who had not promised to
come, and thus we proceeded on our journey in the same canoes that we
had imagined we were abandoning once for all two days before. A feeling
of discontent began to possess us. It was not that we were dissatisfied
with the kind of life, nor that we had become over-sensitive to the
privations inherent to it, nor that we complained of being plain squires
compelled to adopt the practices of knight-errants, such as not eating
off linen, nor sleeping on comfortable couches, nor under roof of house
or mansion; no, our great longing arose at the thought of those far away
in the civilized world, to whom our long silence must necessarily be a
source of anxiety. For the rest, however, the life we were leading had
become a sort of second nature, and we found it by no means
disagreeable. We ate with healthy appetites, and when night came,
stretched on our matting, we heedlessly let the wind fold its wings or
shriek into madness, whilst the river either murmured gently along like
a stream across the green meadow or lashed into fury like a lion.
We rowed or sailed as the river and the wind permitted, gaining ground
without the loss of an available minute, with the tenacity of one who
has a given task to accomplish, and wants to perform it with the least
possible delay. One night, shortly after halting, a shudder of delight
ran through us on hearing one of the men exclaim, ‘Steamer coming!’ We
turned in the direction pointed out by him, but saw nothing. However, we
had learnt by that time to trust to the keener senses of the natives.
Shortly afterwards, with ear to ground, we heard, or thought we heard, a
far-off indistinct vibration as of the paddles of a steamer striking the
water. The sound soon became unmistakable. Here was an unexpected
redemption. From sheer joy we ceased the preparations for our evening
meal. To attract the attention of those on board the steamer the
bonfires were piled up high, and, to leave no possible loophole to
adverse fate, Alex and four of the men sailed into mid-stream, so as to
be quite close to the craft. Soon it loomed majestic and welcome to our
eyes. The pennant of whitish smoke rose in the still blue night, and
floated as a signal of welcome. The boat advanced steadily; we could see
the people on board. That rather undersized vessel was to us, for the
moment, the great in fact, the only—steamer in the world. We fired our
revolvers. Alex and his men bawled themselves hoarse. No sign of
recognition came from the steamer as she ploughed on swiftly,
relentlessly, disdainfully, soon to be lost in the distance. This was
wanton cruelty, and, as we thought at the time, a sin against human
nature. Our feelings were not such as might be commended to the
attention and imitation of Sunday-school children! Our language was
decidedly ‘unfit for publication.’ According to the reckoning of our
men, which events proved accurate, we should require twelve days more to
reach Ciudad Bolivar, whilst the steamer, sailing day and night as it
could, even against the breeze, would cover the distance in forty-eight
or sixty hours. It is well that we possessed no magic powers enabling us
to destroy, as if with a thunder-bolt, for in that case the steamer
would not have reached its destination. So it generally happens in life
when the action of others foils our little plans or obstructs our way.
Looking solely to our own side of the question, we are apt to make no
allowance, and attribute to utter perversity what from the standpoint of
the other side may be perfectly reasonable. As revolutions are frequent
in those latitudes, and as steamers had on several occasions been seized
by parties of men ambushed on the shore, the captain of the steamer
probably thought that prudence and caution were his safest guides. He
may have believed that, besides the small group which he saw in the
canoe and on the shore, a formidable host might be lurking in the
forest, and under those circumstances his behaviour is perfectly
intelligible.
As we approached the end of our journey, our impatience and anxiety grew
keener. Up to that time we had never lost our equanimity, and now, when
we could reckon with a fair degree of accuracy the date of our arrival
at Ciudad Bolivar, the smallest obstacle or detention irritated us
beyond measure. Yet all things end. On April 20 we arrived at a small
outlying village three hours from Ciudad Bolivar.
Our approach to a civilized community awakened slumbering feelings of
vanity, and for the first time during many months we bethought ourselves
of our appearance. I had an authentic mane on my head; our beards were
thick and bushy as the jungle on the banks of the river. Such clothes as
we had could hardly have passed muster under the eyes of the most
lenient critic. Most of those that we possessed at starting had been
left behind amongst the Indians, in payment of work, and what little
remained had not been improved by the moisture of the climate. On taking
stock, I soon found that my dress coat and trousers—evolved by some
London artist—were the only decent clothes left to me; yet I could not
screw up courage to don them, as I feared that if, after several months’
journey through the wildest regions of South America, I jumped ashore at
noonday on the banks of the Orinoco in a swallow-tail, the authorities
would probably provide me with free board and lodging in some cool
lunatic asylum! We consoled ourselves with the thought that we were
clean, and thus near to godliness, and that we could soon replace our
patched and tattered clothes at Ciudad Bolivar.
I have forgotten to mention our visit to the cattle estates of General
Crespo, at that time President of Venezuela, a typical son of the
_llanos_. These estates had a frontage of twenty-five leagues along the
river, and extend Heaven only knows how far into the interior. The
manager, or _major-domo_, told us that the herds on those estates
numbered upwards of 200,000 head of cattle. The figure appears
fantastic, but the fact that at that time 1,500 three-year-old bullocks
were exported monthly to the neighbouring West India Island, principally
Trinidad, may serve as a basis for calculation.
On that eventful 20th of April the breeze blew tantalizingly against us,
yet we would not be detained, and decided to advance in its very teeth.
The men jumped ashore and pulled the canoes with ropes. The city, built
as upon a terrace, soon appeared in the distance, its white, red-roofed
houses standing out under the clear sky like dabs of paint upon a blue
canvas. Behind the town the hill continued to rise, and opposite the
city the river itself, encased into a narrow space, is only one-third of
a mile broad. It was a delight to look once more on houses, towers and
churches, and other signs of civilized life. The sight was an
enchantment after the eternal panorama of forest, mountain, plain and
river. We had a feeling akin to that of Columbus and his companions when
the watch shouted ‘Land! land!’ We could echo those words in their full
significance. The struggle was at an end; river, forest, rapids, fevers,
wild beasts, poisonous snakes, savages, and all the obstacles that lay
behind us, were over, leaving no further trace than the dust along the
roads or the foam of the waves on the sands. Thanks to the Divine
protection, we had reached the end of an adventurous journey full of
possibilities of mishap and of danger, and all that had taken place was
simply as a memory in our minds.
We attracted great attention on landing, and were soon installed in one
of the good hotels of the towns. We stared with something like
wonderment at mirrors, tables, sofas, as at so many good old friends
from whom we had been long separated. In us, primitive man had very soon
reasserted full sway, and we had to make some effort to return to the
habits and customs of civilized life. As soon as we could, we placed
ourselves in the hands of a barber in the town. He had been told of our
great store of luggage, and, inquisitive as all men of his profession
are, on hearing one of us humming for very joy under his razor and
shears, asked (I know not whether in innocence or banter): ‘How many of
you are in the company, and what opera are you going to begin with?’ To
this I replied: ‘We are not an opera company, but a circus, and our
performances will begin shortly; we are on the look-out for a clown.’ He
did not proceed with his cross-examination.
Ciudad Bolivar is famous in the annals of Venezuelan and Colombian
history. It bears the name of the emancipator of those regions. Formerly
it was called Angostura, which means ‘the Narrows.’ In 1819 one of the
first Colombian Congresses was held at that city, and its deliberations,
which soon crystallized into action, brought about the expulsion of the
Spaniards after a daring and sanguinary series of campaigns. The very
men who sat at Ciudad Bolivar, 300 miles from the shores of the
Atlantic, ended their military campaign on the plateau of Ayacucho in
1824, having marched thousands of leagues across plain and forests,
snow-capped mountains, precipices, jungle, fighting for every inch of
ground against the stubborn soldiers of Spain in one of the most heroic
and tenacious struggles on both sides that are to be found in the annals
of history.
The river, as I have stated before, narrows after its long pilgrimage,
and, even as a regiment which closes its ranks, rolls its waves in
denser array opposite the city. No sooner does it reach the outside
limits than it broadens again, and, after running through fertile plains
and swampy valleys for a distance of 600 kilometres, reaches the sea.
The normal depth opposite Ciudad Bolivar is 120 metres. During the rainy
season the level rises from 10 to 20 metres.
Verily the Orinoco is a living, wandering sea of fresh water gathered
from the northern plains of South America, which forms the tribute of
those lands to the Atlantic Ocean. We had just followed it in its
pilgrimage for a long part of its course. We had known it in tempest and
in calm; we had watched the dawn gilding its throbbing waters or the
twilight covering them with flickering shadows; we had listened to the
whispering of the winds and the roar of the hurricane along its shores;
we had seen the monsters which roam in its waters, admired the river’s
Titanic sport, dashing in the rapids, or its majestic quiet in the deep
basins of granite where the current seems to rest before leaping in a
wild onslaught through the cañons; and now we saw it majestically unroll
before our eyes in the august pageant of its last procession to the
ocean. We could not but think that, if that great artery of palpitating
life which vibrates through the centre of the continent had stood us in
such good service, its possibilities for the development of those vast
unknown territories, when once appreciated by humanity, were practically
unlimited. To our mind’s eye, prophetic with desire, the vast solitudes
we had left behind became resonant glad with the presence of myriads of
men; the forests were cleared, the plains tilled, and a happy and
prosperous nation, the outcome of the present struggling democracies
that own those lands, increased by swarms of immigrants from distant
overcrowded countries, reared its cities and towns along the banks of
the river which, in its immutable, defiant majesty and power, still
rolled to the sea, serving men, but remaining a bond of union, a mighty
link between the Cordilleras and the ocean.