UP THE RIVER
The captain pulled the cord of the ship's whistle. The shrill sudden
call tore its way through the air, floated along the yellow surface
of the water, lingered along the banks of the river and finally lost
itself in the depths of the forest.
The _Vien-Thian_ turned through a quarter of a circle, nosing out her
way slowly between the banks of mud which showed almost level with
the current, like brown backs of great sleeping saurians. There was
a second call from the whistle, longer this time and more lingering,
which died away softly in the moist, still air.
Suddenly awakened, Lursac drew himself up and looked about him. Through
the round porthole, beneath which the water slid and gurgled, the
yellow light trickled, showing the gray walls of the cabin. The narrow
little den stowed away in the 'tween decks of the boat vibrated heavily
with every throb from the engine-room next door. Jumping out of his
bunk, Pierre hastily flung on his clothes and went out. In two strides
he reached the ladder screwed to the wall of the passage and climbed
it. The spectacle which the waist of the ship offered him made him stop
for a moment. On the wooden deck, littered with all kinds of parcels,
the natives still lay sleeping,--a picturesque mixture of Annamese,
Chinese, Cambodians and Lao-ese. Amidst the scattered medley of chests,
mats and baskets of all shapes and sizes, their bodies entwined and
pressed close against each other gave the effect of a many-colored
carpet. From the all too narrow deck they had spread into the gunwales
and were even stretched upon the bulwarks in a dangerous sleep,
balanced above the slimy waters of the river.
Hesitatingly the day broke, dimly showing the left bank of the Me-Kong,
which stretched away into the distance straight and low. Thin and
persistent, the rain fell like gray ashes, streaking the countryside,
while over the earth, still drowned in fog, the light seemed powerless
to spread.
Pierre had now got as far as the bridge. Upright before the binnacle,
his eyes fixed on the course of the ship, the captain snapped his
orders through the engine-room speaking tube. He was an old man, tall
and thin, but erect, and clothed in khaki-colored linen. His lined
face, baked by the sun and tanned by the weather, had a reddish tinge
which gave him the peculiar appearance of having been kneaded from a
block of the Cambodian earth which showed brick-colored along the sides
of the river. A sailor of the old school, he sported whiskers, whose
whiteness framed and emphasised the softness of his deep blue eyes.
Approaching him, Pierre gave him a friendly greeting and asked:
"Are we getting there?"
Without letting his glance stray from the current against which the
screws were pushing the vessel, the old man replied briefly:
"Not yet; we are just entering the 'drowned forest.' Look!"
As a matter of fact, the boat, turning about, was pointed directly
towards the bank.
Leaning on the bulwarks, Pierre watched the land as it loomed nearer
and larger. The bank, slowly becoming plainer, stretched to the
horizon, cutting the yellow waters with its narrow flat marshy outline.
Gradually the eye could discern the details of the scene: hanging over
the muddy earth and bathing their innumerable roots in the current
the mangroves, with their twisted branches, and the palms with their
slender stems, stood in ranks upon the fen which stretched far to the
west, leprous with moss and spotted with clumps of cane and brush. Far
away, their tops girdled with fog, the rounded masses of the hills
sloped gradually upward. Little by little everything came nearer and
grew larger. In the middle of the current floating masses of leafage
torn from the palms by the rising waters turned slowly round and round
as they drifted by. In spots the trees which the flood had overtaken
stretched their dark tops above the flat water; for the river, breaking
loose, had conquered the giant wood and submerged it. Against the bow
of the boat from time to time branches crashed and were pushed aside
with a dull scraping sound.
And then, suddenly, clear and mysterious like an avenue in some
nightmare park, the channel appeared. Slowly the _Vien-Thian_ forced
itself into the deep and mysterious heart of the great Cambodian
forest, through which in the dry season the native hunters were wont
to go with their ears pricked and their eyes on the watch questing for
their daily prey. Hidden under the great masses of tamarinds, teak
trees and sandalwoods, of which only the tops were still visible above
the water, the banks of the river had suddenly vanished. Against the
enormous trunks the current frothed and grumbled. Above the submerged
forest-land the fog was gradually lifting: it wound itself between the
rounded summits of the trees and floated gradually towards the sky.
Half seen now through the mist, islets showed, fringed by branches
mixed with giant grasses which draggled in the muddy waters.
On the deck the crowd of native passengers began to move confusedly. A
deep silence still brooded over them: crushed one against another, the
men smoked without speaking, while crouched on their mats, the women,
silent and shivering, watched the gloomy scene slide by the bow of the
vessel.
Leaning on the rail, Pierre de Lursac felt all the magic of this
strange voyage in the heart of the "drowned forest," on an invisible
river peopled by ghosts of trees and shadows of islands. Denser and
denser the fog again closed round the boat: and the mob of natives
could only be seen as a vague dark mass.
On the bridge, hidden in fog, even the captain was no longer visible.
All that remained of him was the sound of his sharp orders shot from
time to time into the mouthpiece of the engine-room speaking tube, with
which amidst the brooding silence he ruled the rhythmic throb of the
engine.
Suddenly a clear and vigorous feminine voice sounded:
"What a mad-looking country!"
In his isolation and amid the monotonous sadness of this voyage, which
had now lasted for a week, the sound of this voice seemed to Pierre the
most unexpected and the most extraordinary of adventures.
He turned round swiftly and tried to penetrate with his eyes the cold
wall of fog which hung over everything; but he could see nothing. Then,
however, a conversation began between the mysterious unknown and the
captain.
"Good morning, Père Rabaud. Aren't you surprised, after my hiding
myself for eight days, to meet me on the bridge? Yes, I decided to
clamber up here, you see.... I should have been sorry to miss all this.
What a peculiar sight!"
"Good morning, Mademoiselle. I don't wonder you think so! But this part
of the world has got a lot of strange things to show! As you said just
now, it's a queer country! You'll see lots of other strange things, no
fear of that."
The woman's voice with its peculiar metallic timbre sounded again.
"So much the better."
The captain groaned.
"Phew! You say that ... but if you lived as I have for twenty years in
this cursed country ... it isn't quite the same thing as Paris, I can
tell you!..."
A long ripple of laughter broke the silence.
"Yes ... but as for me, I have lived in Europe; and there existence is
so monotonous and so exactly the same day after day that I am tired of
it."
Then there was a short silence and the captain said in a lowered voice:
"Then you are still determined to go on with your plan?"
"More than ever, as I feel that he needs me.... Oh! he does not
complain, but in between the lines of the letters that he has written
me I have felt that his loneliness has weighed on him terribly.... Yes,
I know, ... you are going to tell me that my place is not here and that
I shall be a nuisance to him. But he is alone, you understand, and for
him as for me, there can be nothing worse than this isolation which we
have never been able to get used to and against which we have never
ceased to struggle with all our love for each other."
The tone of her voice had become grave with an undertone of deep
earnestness. Then suddenly it changed and rose again.
"Are we far from Khône-Sud?"
"No, ... even now we are getting out of the great 'drowned forest,' and
see, ... the fog is lifting."
Pierre had to imagine a gesture which he could not see but which a
short silence emphasised; then the captain went on in a low voice and
in a bantering, confidential tone:
"I have a fellow-traveler for you...."
Vibrant and authoritative her response leapt out:
"I don't want one.... I prefer to be independent...."
The captain gave a jovial laugh.
"Yes, yes ... of course ... but I have my responsibility to consider;
I have promised to do what I can for you to help you to get there,
and...."
He called out sharply:
"Monsieur de Lursac!"
Pierre jumped. He took two steps forward quickly and then stopped dead.
A sentence which the unknown had spoken had arrested him in mid career.
"No!" she cried, with irritation, "No ... I shall not thank you for
that!"
"But heavens and earth!" swore the captain, "how can I leave a woman
to play the adventurer here all alone, without escort in a country
in which the men themselves daren't go about without all kinds of
precautions! That would be foolishness!..."
"Foolishness or not, I have made up my mind. Do not let us speak of it
again."
Pierre had turned away. The fog was now thinning; the sun, yellow and
rayless, appeared between two clouds. The river had broadened into a
great loop and the last scattered trees of the "drowned forest" could
be seen dotted about the immense waste of waters. Picking its way
between islands of mud, the _Vien-Thian_, coming out into the open,
pointed straight towards the bank of the Me-Kong, which appeared in
the distance as a vague brown line marked in the middle with a white
splash, the memorial erected to Commandant Diacre, who had been drowned
there some years before. With hoarse cries a flock of herons rose and
wheeled; while, in the rigid attitude of sleepers, three cormorants,
perched on a tree trunk, each with one claw drawn up under his gray
breast, snapped their beaks with loud clacking noises and watched the
boat suspiciously as it passed them.
* * * * *
Forcing himself to seem unaware of the conversation he had overheard,
Pierre pretended to be absorbed once more in the contemplation of the
bank which was rapidly growing plainer. Behind him, however, he was
conscious of the Unknown whose unexpected presence on board excited
his curiosity. With this feeling was mingled one of hurt pride. Who
was she? Who was this man of whom she had spoken in terms which were
certainly open to misconstruction? And what was he to her? Pierre would
have given anything to know. But the roughness of the young woman's
response when Captain Rabaud had offered her a traveling-companion had
hurt his feelings.
He lit a cigarette and pulled his sketch-book out of his pocket.
* * * * *
Now over the bow of the boat appeared the river bank, every detail
clear and distinct. A long rank of palm trees stood on the edge of
the stream, revealing under their thin straight shadows a shed with a
thatched roof. A kind of primitive landing stage made of planks roughly
thrown together on some cross beams projected into the water of the
river. Beyond, over the tops of the palms, stretched toward the horizon
a brown land dotted with scanty bushes, while in the distance the
rapids of Hou-Sadan frothed and snarled.
Pointing out the yellow thatched roof with his finger, the captain
announced:
"Khône-Sud!"
A confused noise rose from the waist of the ship filled with native
passengers. They had all risen to their feet, and pressed tight
against the bulwarks they disputed among themselves, exchanged remarks
and busied themselves over their meagre baggage. Tanned, brown and
powerful, the Cambodians folded up their square flat mattresses and
hoisted their bundles to their shoulders to be ready for landing.
Small and noisy, the Annamese pushed here and there, cursing aloud,
shoving their women, boxing the ears of the children who screamed with
ear-splitting yells. In a corner, collected together in a separate
group, the Chinese methodically and without hurry counted over their
bags of merchandise, lined up their boxes and got their papers ready.
Nonchalant and frail, the Lao-ese, with their pale faces, smiled and
hummed the chants of their native country, remaining stretched out on
the gunwales.
Thinning into long slanting wisps, the fog cleared away. Almost as
suddenly as it had fallen, it was gone, and the sun shone in the sky,
warm, sparkling and golden.
The _Vien-Thian_ came about, slackened her speed and cautiously laid
herself alongside the landing stage, which gave to her weight with
creakings and groanings. Across the gangway, which was immediately
lowered, the natives rushed, fighting among themselves for room to pass.
Pierre made hurriedly for his cabin. Forcing a way through the crowd
on the lower deck, he reached his little stateroom and strapped up his
valise. Then two Cambodians took charge of his baggage, and having
carried it up to the deck piled it up at the head of the gangway.
Beside his own things, heavy and massive, each one of which carried
in large black letters his name and destination, Pierre observed some
copper-covered trunks and leather suitcases carefully shrouded in blue
cloth coverings. He guessed that they must belong to her whom he, with
some irritation, had named "The Unknown." Mechanically, he drew near to
the baggage. Bending over the aristocratic-looking things, he attempted
uselessly to discover the name of their proprietor. On the trunks and
the leather of the bags the same initials were repeated in slender
strokes: a W and an R, intertwined, in a lozenge-shaped monogram.
He expressed his disappointment by an impatient gesture. Once again his
curiosity remained ungratified. He put out his hand and stopped the
porters who were beginning to take his trunks down, and told them to
wait for him.
The crowd of yellow passengers was now thinning out: beyond the wall
and the primitive shed which, with three or four straw-thatched huts,
constituted the entire town of Khône-Sud, they could be seen trailing
off in groups, becoming smaller and disappearing. Only a few Lao-ese
still waited in the shade of the palms, where their variegated attire
broke the shade with little moving spots of color. Before the landing
stage some ox-carts were standing, while on the bank, up to their knees
in the river, six elephants, undisturbed, were squirting jets of water
over their backs. Upon their brown wrinkled flanks the water splashed
and ran down, while the mahouts, crouched on the enormous necks of the
brutes, mingled their guttural cries with the noise of the pouring
water.
Pierre guessed that this extraordinary outfit, elephants and ox-carts,
was the caravan that had been got together for his journey to Post 32.
He smiled with amusement. At the same time a feeling of depression shot
through him. The monotony of this voyage up the unending river, through
scenery everlastingly the same, with only the continued tramping
backward and forward on the narrow deck for amusement or the reading
of a few volumes picked out of Captain Rabaud's library, had left him
with a feeling of lassitude and nervousness. He wanted to get on shore
to continue his journey, to get to the end of this pilgrimage where the
mysterious Post 32 and the strange land of which Bressond had spoken
were awaiting him.
With a few bounds he reached the top of the ladder leading to the
bridge. Still standing in the corner which he used as a look-out,
Captain Rabaud was saying good bye to the unknown woman. Just as she
parted from him, after a final _au revoir_, Pierre came forward. Their
paths crossed. The young man raised his hat. She acknowledged the
salute with a slight nod and passed him quickly.
Struck by the unusual and peculiar beauty of the face and eyes,
half-seen under the shadow of her large white felt hat, Pierre stopped.
Behind him the light decided footsteps of the young woman were growing
fainter. Already she must be descending the ladder to the lower deck.
Almost carried away by his sudden desire to look at her again and fix
her features in his memory, Pierre had hard work not to run back and
follow her. But there came to him the remembrance of that haughty and
reserved look which she had just flashed upon him as she passed, and he
stood motionless, not even daring to turn his head.