“IN THE FORESTS STRANGE SHRIEKS AND SOUNDS WERE HEARD.”
It was only that daring and indomitable spirit of adventure which every
true-born healthy Briton possesses that compelled Tom to climb any
further into cloud-land to-day.
Tootu and his companions were left behind at the cave, our hero going up
alone with Samaro. He meant to reach the snow-line, and he did; and had
the satisfaction of walking a mile or two over a region of glaciers
unsurpassed anywhere else in the world.
Apart from the pleasure he felt in having gained his desires, and
standing where no human foot had probably ever trodden before, there was
little comfort at this sublime altitude. A high cutting wind was
blowing, and the cold was intense and piercing. Poor Samaro looked blue
and benumbed; and albeit he had donned those wonderful nether garments
of his, he was a very pitiable spectacle indeed.
At last he stopped, and pointing to a cloud that seemed fast
approaching--
“Has my young chief,” he said, “made his will? If we have to die, Samaro
would prefer to be where the birds sing.”
So enchanted had Tom been with the desolalation and sublimity of the
scene everywhere beneath, above, and around him, that he took no heed of
anything else, and had hardly felt the cold.
But his eyes now followed the direction of Samaro’s finger, and to his
surprise and alarm he noticed that the last shoulder of the mighty
mountain was already hidden with a darkling cloud. It was as if this
monarch of the Andes were himself feeling the effects of the bitter wind
and drawing his mantle close around him.
“Come, sir, come; there is not a moment to lose.”
Tom looked now towards the point from which they had entered the
plateau; it appeared very far away indeed.
“We can run,” he said.
“Nay, nay,” was the reply. “We will be exhausted soon enough. As well
lie down and die as run.”
The guide going on in front at a moderately quick pace, with Tom in the
rear, they now began to retrace their steps.
But soon the snow began to drive athwart the track in a blinding shower,
the wind and cold also increased till the former gained all the awful
strength of a blizzard. In less than five minutes their footprints in
the soft snow were entirely obliterated. But Samaro held on unheeding,
and now and then some hummock of ice dimly seen through the snow-cloud
proved to Tom that they were still in the right track.
There was no talking now. Indeed had they shrieked even, their voices
would hardly have been heard in the howling of that awful storm.
How long they had walked Tom never knew: it seemed hours and hours; but
he was drowsy, stupid, and all but benumbed. He was aroused at length
from his lethargy by the Indian violently shaking him, for he had almost
sunk down with the terrible fatigue. Samaro, standing there by his side
all clad in ice and snow, looked like the very spirit of the storm.
Tom pulled himself together once more and followed his guide.
At last, at long, long last they were descending.
Tom could breathe more freely now at every step. The terrible tightness
across his chest had gone, and the fearful feeling of suffocation that
had half-garrotted him.
Then the snow changed gradually to sleet, the sleet to rain, and the
rain to mountain-mist. In half an hour the sun was shining brightly,
though all around the terrible mountain-top the clouds still curled and
mixed.
They were saved! Saved but by the merest chance; for Samaro now told Tom
that had the wind changed by so much as two points of the compass, as it
often does during these blizzards, they must both have sunk and
perished.
“You were steering by the wind, then?” said Tom.
“Entirely by the wind, señor.”
* * * * *
In another week’s time a change was made in the method of travelling,
for the party were now entering a region so terribly wild and trackless
that horses would no longer be of any service to them. So well and
faithfully, however, had these honest nags served them, that Tom
determined not to part entirely with them; and as Samaro thought it
would be possible to trust to the honesty of some of the people of the
last village through which they passed before entering the wilderness
proper, they were left there, and might or might not be awaiting them on
the return journey, if ever such a journey should be permitted them.
Ten additional carriers had now to be hired, and, to his credit be it
said, Samaro made the very best bargains possible for his young master.
Altogether, the crew all told, as we say at sea, of the little
expedition now consisted of seventeen souls, not including the three
dogs and Black Tom himself, who possibly had souls as well as the rest.
Here what the poet Tupper says on this subject:--
“It is not unwisdom to hold with the savage
That brutes (as we name them for dumbness) have souls,
For though, as with us, death’s fury may ravage
Their bodies--their spirits it never controls.
Dumb innocents, often too cruelly treated,
May well for their patience find future reward,
And the Great Judge in mercy and majesty seated
Claims _all_ His creation as bought by its Lord.”
Black Tom and the dogs, it may be added, were very friendly; though at
the same time puss gave the dogs to understand that he was king of the
castle, being his master’s chief pet and favourite, and sleeping in his
arms every night.
One evening puss brought home a fine specimen of cavy which he had
caught in the forest. He laid it dead at his master’s feet; and
receiving the praise that was his due, went immediately forth and
brought in another. His master offered those to Tootu; but Tootu said,
“No sah, I not eat de food wot de debil catch.”
So the cavies were cooked for Tom himself, and his guide shared them,
washing the excellent food down with a cup of _yerba-maté_, which Samaro
assured his white chief came all the way from Patagonia. A most
delightful beverage it made; and it turned out that the guide had quite
a store of it. After drinking it a gentle feeling of comfort seems
instilled through every vein and nerve in the body, far more pleasant
than that produced by tea, but by no means approaching the stimulating
effects of wine or beer.
Still acting on the advice of his clever guide and companion, Tom
continued to figure as an eccentric Englishman, and made no hurry across
country into the land of the Indians proper. They had seen but few of
these even yet, so the packages of gifts had not been broached.
The life now led was quite of a gypsy character. Whenever Tom found a
more comfortable bivouac than usual, “Here shall we stay for a day or
two, Samaro,” he would say, and probably this day would be extended to a
week or even more.
Tom fished as well as hunted.
In many of the lesser streams the fish were truly marvellously tame.
Here hardly any science at all was required to catch them. A hook
“busked” with a little white hair or cotton at the end of a strong
line, and a short stout rod, was all that was required. Patience is one
of the angler’s virtues in this country, but in the wilds out there it
was not needed; for at times one might work two rods, leaving one line
in the water while taking the fish from the other, and even thus he
would have plenty of work to do.
Strange to say the cat always accompanied his master on a fishing
expedition; but very seldom, indeed, when he went shooting. Cats, we all
know, are fond of fish; but there are exceptions, and this particular
puss could never be prevailed upon to eat fish raw or cooked.
Nevertheless he would play with those his master threw out on the bank,
and thus had no end of fun.
Black Tom came to the tent one evening with a huge snake in his mouth.
He no doubt expected praise for this exploit also; but on being
admonished about the matter he evidently made a resolve not to repeat
the offence, at all events he never did.
One evening, on returning after dark, Tom found Samaro with the cat on
his knee, and nearly all the men standing silently round him. He jumped
up laughing as his master approached, and puss sprang on Tom’s shoulder
with his usual fond cry of welcome.
“What were you doing with pussy?” asked Tom that same night.
“Hush, chief!” said Samaro. “I was keeping up their creed--the servants’
creed.”
“And that is--”
“That the cat is a debil. I was stroking his back, and the ’lectricity
was crackling, and the sparks flying plentifully when you, señor, came
up. They think the chief is a great man to have a private debil.”
Tom laughed, and the subject dropped.
In the forests of Ecuador, by day as well as by night, there are all
kinds of strange shrieks and sounds to be heard; but returning about
sunset one evening towards his little camp, and just before leaving the
woods, Tom heard a plaintive scream that caused him at once to pause and
listen. Again and again it was repeated, and he hastened in the
direction from which it came.
None too soon, for there on the top of a large spreading tree was his
favourite and pet, and not five yards away a gigantic puma preparing to
spring.
Up came the rifle. He hardly took aim, but nevertheless one minute
afterwards the puma was stretched lifeless on the ground, and the cat
was singing a song of victory on his master’s shoulder.
About a week after this, our hero had a very narrow escape from death by
drowning. His company were on the march, when they came to an extremely
rapid river that had to be crossed acrobatically. It was well for Tom
that he was a sailor, for the rope bridge is very common in these wilds.
This one looked rather insecure, for it stretched with each man till his
feet were almost touching the torrent beneath. Package after package had
been swung over in the loop attached to the rope, and man after man, in
somewhat the same way adopted in saving life by a line from a wrecked
ship to the shore. The dogs had been taken over, and then it came to
Tom’s own turn--the cat, as usual on such occasions, clinging to his
shoulder. When about half-way across there was an ominous crack; but
still the rope held, and it was not until he was nearly at bank that it
gave way suddenly and entirely, and the white chief was plunged into the
boiling whirling rapids.
He struck out bravely though blindly. He could see nothing and hear
nothing save the roaring of the water in his ears. How long he struggled
he could not have told. It seemed like an age. He was giving up at last,
when all at once the surging sound of the rapids ceased, and he found
himself near the bank and in calm water. He caught at a tree-trunk that
was floating slowly down stream, and held on till rescued by the
Indians.
But where was Black Tom? Gone undoubtedly.
They did not travel much farther that day before the white chief called
a halt, although it still wanted three hours to sunset.
The tent was erected, and the men soon built themselves shelters of palm
and plantain leaves. The camp fires were lit, and dinner cooked and
eaten. Then the men settled down for their long forenight’s chat and
smoke, and as usual Samaro threw himself down beside his chief.
But his chief was very sad to-night.
He cared not for the guide’s stories or conversation, nor would he
partake of the fragrant _yerba-maté_.
All was silence and gloom for a time, but as it grew darker the forest
seemed to suddenly awake to life--though a weird wild life it was. The
low grumbling growl of the prowling jaguar, the strange medley of notes
produced by flying or crawling insects, the plaintive wailings of the
night-birds, and now and then these howlings and shriekings from the
darkest depths of the woods that make one’s spine feel like ice to
listen to, and cause the superstitious Indians themselves to place their
fingers in their ears and cease for a time to talk.
“The señor is very sad to-night,” said Samaro.
“Very sad, my friend. Very sad.”
“And I too mourn the loss of your poor dark friend.”
“He has been with me so long, Samaro.”
“And he has come through so much, señor.”
“And was always so loving and faithful, Samaro.”
What Samaro was going to reply will never be known, for at that moment a
wild and frightened yell burst from the lungs of the Indian servants.
Something black had leapt over their heads.
Tom made a spring for his rifle, which lay loaded near him, thinking a
jaguar had attacked the camp. But the mystery was speedily solved; for
here was Black Tom himself, none the worse for his adventure, as dry as
if he had never been half drowned, and in his mouth a plump little cavy.
Tom could talk after that.
Samaro brewed an additional bowl of maté, and it was quite late that
night before either thought of retiring.