OFF FOR THE JUNGLE
Never will the two boys forget that first trip up the big, turbid
South American river. From start to finish it was one never ending
succession of surprises, interests, wonders and delight. The miles of
mangrove swamps, with their aerial roots drooping from the branches
into the water, lured the boys’ imaginations with their mysterious,
dark depths. A great flock of scarlet ibis, that rose from their
feeding ground upon a mud flat and, lighting on the trees, looked like
gorgeous fiery blossoms, brought cries of delight from the boys. They
watched the big greenheart rafts floating silently downstream with
their Indian crews lolling in hammocks beneath the thatched shelters
on the logs. Mr. Thorne pointed out dozing alligators which Tom and
Frank had mistaken for logs; he showed them the giant, lily-like water
plants which he said were “mucka mucka,” and he called their attention
to countless bright-plumaged birds which flitted in the foliage of the
riverside trees. At times the steamer swung in so close to shore that
the boys caught glimpses of frightened, scurrying iguanas or great
lizards; at other times, it slowed down and stopped before some tiny
thatched hut at the edge of a clearing and unloaded merchandise or
people into the huge dugout canoes that put off from shore pulled by
bronze-skinned, half-naked men.
“Are they Indians?” asked Tom, as they watched the fellows handling
the heavy barrels and boxes with ease.
“No, Bovianders,” replied Mr. Thorne, “a mixture of Dutch, negro and
Indian blood. They’re the best boatmen in the colony. I always have a
Boviander captain for my boat.”
“What does Boviander mean?” asked Frank. “Is it an Indian name?”
“It has a curious origin,” the explorer informed him. “It’s a
corruption of ‘above yonder.’ In the old days, any one who lived up
the river from the coast was said to live ‘above yonder’ and gradually
the expression was transformed to ‘Boviander.’”
“Well, that _is_ funny!” declared Tom. “I never would have
guessed it.”
“You’ll find a lot of queer expressions here,” laughed the explorer.
“You’ll hear the people speak of ‘taking a walk’ when they mean a trip
in a canoe and you’ll hear them say ‘topside’ when they mean some
place which is indefinite. They also speak of the turns of a stream as
‘streets’ and they all use the native Indian names for birds, animals,
and trees. They never say ‘tapir’ but ‘maipuri,’ a boa or anaconda is
a ‘camudi,’ a camp is always a ‘logi’ or ‘benab,’ a canoe is a
‘coorial’ and so on.”
“Gosh, I don’t believe I’ll ever understand them!” declared Tom, “but
I’m going to try. Can’t you get one of your Indians to talk? I’d love
to hear that ‘talky-talky’ lingo you spoke about.”
Mr. Thorne laughed. “All right,” he assented and, approaching the edge
of the upper deck where the first-class passengers were quartered, he
leaned over and beckoned to one of the Indian boys who was dozing in a
cotton hammock he had swung in the shade.
“Hey, Joseph!” he called. “Makeum for come here, this side.”
The Akawoia grinned, stretched himself, and came padding on bare feet
up the ladder.
“This fellow Buck name Joseph!” said Mr. Thorne, as the two boys
looked at the pleasant-faced Indian whose head scarcely reached Tom’s
shoulder. “He one plenty good boy. Makeum for tellum white boy how can
speakum talky-talky, Joseph.”
Joseph half turned his head and, fixing his eyes on the deck, twiddled
his toes in an embarrassed manner.
“No makeum for shame!” went on the explorer. “This fellows white boys
makeum plenty long walk topside ’long we. Him wantum sabby
plenty--wantum sabby Buck talk, wantum sabby bush, how can makeum for
hunt, how catchum fish. Must for tellum, Joseph, must for makeum good
fren’.”
The Indian grinned and looked up. “Me tellum, Chief,” he replied in a
soft, low voice. “Me be plenty good fren’ lon’side him. How you
call-urn?”
“This fellow makeum call Tom,” replied Mr. Thorne, introducing the
boys, “Nex’ fren’ makeum call Frank.”
Joseph shook hands gravely with the boys and smiled in a friendly way.
“S’pose you want makeum one walk. S’pose no sabby bush me tellum like
so,” he remarked, and then, evidently thinking there was nothing more
to be said, he turned and walked silently away.
“Why, that’s easy!” cried Frank as the Indian left. “I’ll bet I can
talk that now. You no sabby Tom, me tellum you all same Joseph. How
you likeum talky-talky like so?”
“Splendid!” cried Mr. Thorne, and all three roared with laughter at
Frank’s first attempt at talking the Indian jargon.
The banks of the stream had now changed from the low mangrove swamps
to bluffs and hills of sand; the dense tangle of weeds, mucka-mucka
and vines had given place to lofty trees. There were heavy forests
stretching away into the distance; tiny clearings and cultivated land
showed here and there and the boys caught glimpses of numerous,
open-sided, thatched huts among the trees. From time to time flocks of
parrots flew swiftly overhead, screeching loudly as they winged their
way across the river; herons, blue, gray and white, flapped up at the
steamer’s approach. In backwaters covered with gigantic lily leaves
the boys saw tiny brown and yellow birds running about, apparently
treading on the water, and these Mr. Thorne told them were jacanas,
whose long toes enabled them to walk upon the leaves of water plants
without sinking.
Then the current of the river became swifter, the steamer chugged and
struggled and panted and Mr. Thorne explained that the tide had
turned.
“You don’t mean to say that they have a tide clear up here!” exclaimed
Tom in surprise.
“For nearly one hundred miles up the rivers,” the explorer assured
him. “Of course, the salt water doesn’t come up here, but the tide
backs up the rivers so there is a rise and fall of nearly six feet up
to the first rapids or cataracts as they are called.”
“Jimminy, are there rapids?” asked Frank.
“Rapids!” ejaculated Mr. Thorne. “Why, my boy, there are nothing but
rapids. It’s just one rapid and fall after another.”
“Hurrah, that will be great!” declared Frank. “I’ve always wanted to
run rapids.”
“You’ll run enough to last you for life,” Mr. Thorne assured him. “And
you’ll have enough of them and to spare. It’s all right running them
when you’re coming downstream, but it’s slow, heartbreaking work going
up. Why, it often takes days to haul up a rapid that we shoot in less
than an hour coming down.”
“I see where I’d like to have that blamed old plane,” exclaimed
Rawlins, who had arrived in time to hear the explorer’s remarks. “If
they see us coming, there won’t be much chance of catching them. A
plane’s the thing for this country.”
“Leave that to the Indians,” chuckled Mr. Thorne, “When we locate the
plane the rest will be easy--that is, if we can overcome the Bucks’
superstitions enough to get them to touch the plane.”
“By glory, that’s a good idea!” declared the diver. “If they see
Indians they won’t be suspicious and they’ll never know we’re near
until we march in and say ‘hands up.’”
“They won’t see the Indians,” said Mr. Thorne decisively. “You don’t
know the Guiana red man, Mr. Rawlins. A shadow is a noisy and tangible
thing compared with him.”
“Oh, look, there’s a ship!” cried Tom, pointing ahead to where the
masts of a large vessel showed above the trees.
“Yes, she’s off Wisniar--loading greenheart, I expect,” assented the
explorer. “We’re almost at the end of our steamer trip.”
“But how did a big ship get up here?” inquired Frank.
“Ocean liners can come up here,” replied Mr. Thorne. “The river is
deep and it’s not unusual to see several big tramps up here loading
greenheart or even farther up at Akyma loading bauxite--aluminum ore,
that is. An American company is developing a large mine there.”
“Oh, there’s the town!” cried Tom.
A few moments later, the steamer was being moored to a rickety wharf
before the little settlement and the boys were surprised to see a
diminutive locomotive and a train of toylike cars standing on a track
near the landing.
“Why, they have a railway here!” exclaimed Prank. “Pshaw! this isn’t
wild a bit.”
“It’s the jumping-off place of civilization,” said Mr. Thorne. “The
railway merely runs across to Rockstone, a settlement on the Essequibo
River.”
Rapidly the motley crowd of passengers disembarked, Mr. Thome’s two
Indians, reënforced by five others who appeared to spring by magic
from nowhere, shouldered the party’s baggage, and Mr. Thorne led the
way to a large dug-out canoe which was moored near the dock.
“We’ll spend the night across the river,” he explained, as the Indians
piled their loads in the “coorial” and the boys and their companions
seated themselves. “There is a hotel here,” he continued, “but it’s a
rotten hole and my Boviander captain has a nice place where we can be
far more comfortable.”
Pushing off from shore, the Indians grasped their paddles and with
swift, powerful strokes drove the craft diagonally across the river,
swung it deftly into a small creek, and ran its bow on to a mud bank
from which a notched log led up to the higher land.
Standing at the head of the improvised steps was a powerfully built,
yellow man with grizzled curly hair, a heavy mustache and a pair of
keen gray eyes.
“Howdy!” he greeted them with a pleasant smile, “I’se please to see
you retarn, Chief.”
Mr. Thorne shook his hand warmly. “Glad you were here, Colcord,” he
exclaimed. “These are the gentlemen and the boys that are going up
river with me.” Then, turning to the others, “This is Captain Colcord,
my boat captain,” he announced. “And there’s none better in the
colony.”
The Boviander flushed under his dark skin and then, shaking hands with
each member of the party in turn, led the way along a narrow path
between the trees.
“You’ll have to tell Colcord something of our plans,” said Mr. Thorne,
speaking to Mr. Pauling in subdued tones. “He’s perfectly dependable
and can keep a secret, but we can’t accomplish much unless he knows
what we want to do.”
“Very well,” assented the other. “I trust to your judgment, Thorne.”
Colcord’s house proved a revelation to the boys. It was merely a huge
open shed, with a high, thatched roof, a floor of hewn boards raised
several feet above the earth, and one small room partitioned off by
wattled palm leaves. Its furnishings consisted of a rough table of
native wood, a few cheap chairs, a number of big hammocks, a
nickel-plated alarm clock, and an American lantern. On the rafters
overhead were spread woven palm leaf mats on which were placed Indian
baskets and trays; a huge red earthen jug of water stood on a tripod
of hard wood sticks; a long, highly polished bow and several six-foot
arrows were laid upon a timber; and a single-barreled gun stood in a
corner. It seemed scarcely more than a camp and might well have been
the home of an Indian, but they soon found that this rude and
primitive dwelling was very comfortable and that, despite its
simplicity and its meager furnishings, no necessity was lacking.
Colcord’s wife, who appeared to be of nearly pure Indian blood, was
busy over a tiny fire in a small shed in the rear and no sooner had
the Indian boatmen brought the baggage into the house than they joined
her and seemed perfectly at home. Presently the Akawoia, Joseph,
appeared, carrying a steaming earthenware pot, and Colcord rapidly
produced dishes and cutlery and set the table. As he moved about and
Joseph brought in more steaming dishes, the boys lolled in the
hammocks in the deliciously cool breeze and idly watched the chickens,
doves, and woefully thin dogs that swarmed about the house. They knew
that less than a mile distant was a town, with railway trains, a
sawmill, and shipping, and that only a few hours’ travel by steamer
was the big busy port of Georgetown, and yet, they could not help
feeling that they were in the heart of the jungle and far beyond the
reach of civilization.
“Gosh, isn’t it great!” exclaimed Tom. “This is really camping out.”
“You bet!” replied Frank. “I wonder if there are any wild animals
about.”
“Plenty deer,” declared Colcord, who overheard Frank. “I made fo’ to
kill one this marnin’. I ’spect you folks plenty hungry, no?”
“Well, I have got a mighty good appetite,” admitted Tom.
“Me too,” added Frank. “Gee, that food smells good!”
“O. K., then,” declared the Boviander. “Jus’ draw up an’ he’p
yourselves. I ’spect you’re not accustom’ to rough livin’ like this,
an I have to ’pologize fo’ not havin’ more better.”
“Now don’t say a word!” Mr. Thorne admonished him, as the party drew
chairs to the table. “I’ll bet they never tasted anything better than
this venison and yams and pepper pot, and it’s like the Ritz compared
to what we’ll be getting from now on.”
Every one declared that Mr. Thorne was right and that they had never
tasted anything to equal the roast venison, the boiled yams, the fried
plantains and the pepper pot.
The boys were particularly enthusiastic over the last and also over
the crisp, toasted cassava bread and were greatly surprised to learn
that both were made from the deadly poisonous bitter cassava root.
“The juice is the poisonous part,” explained Mr. Thorne. “After it’s
squeezed out through a cylindrical sieve called a ‘metapee’--that’s
one hanging over in the corner--any traces of the poison, which is
prussic acid, are driven off by baking the meal into these cakes. The
poisonous juice boiled down makes the pepper pot. It has the property
of preserving meat and giving it this delicious flavor. It’s really
the national dish of Guiana.”
“Well, it’s good enough to be the national dish of any country,”
declared Rawlins. “Just fill my plate up again, Mr. Thorne.”
The meal over, the party made themselves comfortable in the hammocks
and, as pipes were lighted, the explorer told Colcord that they were
going in search of an aircraft which had last been sighted flying to
the south over Wismar.
“It’s of the utmost importance that we find it,” he said. “The men in
it are desperate criminals and Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson are
officials sent out by the United States Government to get them. They
want those men dead or alive--alive preferably--and we expect you to
help us. We have no idea where the machine is, but we have an idea
they are hiding somewhere not far away. Now do you suppose we can
trail that plane and get the men, Colcord?”
“Yes, Sir--Chief,” replied the Boviander confidently. “But we’ll never
fin’ it over this side, Chief. That airship’s went up the Essequibo
topside. I was makin’ a walk up beyon’ Malali for locus’ gum an’ I
never cotch a glimmer of it, but ol’ Charlie--the Macusi what lives
over Mule Pen side, you know--he was huntin’ pacu on the Tukumi Creek
an’ he mek to get mos’ frighted to death when she fly over. Yes,
Chief, I sure we make our walk up the Essequibo top side we boun’ for
to find she.”
“Hmm, very likely,” agreed the explorer. “Can we get a boat at
Rockstone?”
“I can’ say rightly, Chief,” replied Colcord. “But I ’spect you can.
Le’s see, they’s seven of you, an’ we’ll need a plenty good size boat
an’ ’bout ten men an’ bowman asides me. You got Joseph, an’ Billy an’
Bagot an’ Carlos an’ Theophilus an’ Abr’ham. That’s six, an’ I reckon
I can s’cure free more boys an’ Boters for bowman, but I can’ rightly
say ’bout the nex’ man.”
“Ah can paddle,” put in Sam who had been very silent. “Ah don’ lay to
do narthin’.”
The Bovinander glanced approvingly at the Bahaman’s powerful arms and
shoulders. “Yes, son, I ’spect you can,” he agreed. “You surely is a
strong-lookin’ boy.”
Everything was soon arranged, one of the Indians was sent off to
notify the men Colcord had in view, and, in preparation for an early
start the next morning, all turned in almost as soon as it was dark.
The boys had never before slept in hammocks and, although Mr. Thorne
and Colcord showed them how to wrap themselves in their blankets and
lie diagonally across the hammocks, it was some time before they could
make themselves comfortable and go to sleep. It was a new sensation to
be thus going to bed practically in the open air and for a long time
the boys remained awake, listening to the multitude of strange and
unusual sounds which issued from every side. There were chirps,
whistles, squeaks, and strident songs of insects; thousands of frogs
croaked and barked and grunted; night birds called plaintively; owls
hooted and from the forest in the distance came a roaring,
reverberating bellow which Tom was sure must be a jaguar. But Mr.
Thorne laughed and assured him it was merely a troop of howling
monkeys or baboons and, to put the boys more at ease, he patiently
identified each of the unusual noises that disturbed them. Gradually,
realizing that there was nothing more dangerous than frogs or monkeys
to be feared, and assured by the explorer that even the vampire bats
would keep away as long as the lantern was kept burning, the two boys
quieted down and, watching the myriad giant fireflies, dropped off to
sleep.
It seemed as if they had scarcely closed their eyes when Colcord’s
cheery cry of “Fireside” aroused them and they sat up, yawning
sleepily, to find the sky across the river pink and gold with the
coming dawn.
It was cold and chilly and the steaming coffee which Colcord had ready
was very welcome.
“Golly, I thought the tropics were hot!” exclaimed Frank, as he beat
his arms about and tried to keep his teeth from chattering.
Mr. Thorne chuckled. “Not at night--in the bush,” he replied. “You’ll
find colder nights than this after we get farther up river.”
“Whew! I’ll want an overcoat then,” declared Tom, “or a furnace fire!”
But the boys’ chill was only temporary and a little exercise, combined
with piping hot food, soon made them forget all about the cold morning
air and by the time they were ready to embark in the canoe and cross
the river the air was balmy and springlike.
The boys found little of interest on their ride across from Wismar to
Rockstone by the railway, for the train passed through land which had
been stripped of its forests by the lumbermen and the few remaining
trees stood gaunt and dead above a tangle of weeds and shrubs. But at
Rockstone they were delighted, for, close to the station, flowed the
great Essequibo River, dark and mysterious, with its shores covered by
the impenetrable tropic jungle. To them this mile-wide, silently
flowing stream gave an impression of the unknown and savored of
adventures to come, for Mr. Thorne had told them that its source was
near the borders of Brazil and that much of its rapid and
cataract-filled course led through country never seen or penetrated by
white men.
The boat was ready and waiting, for the Indian sent by Colcord had
made his way across to Rockstone and had arranged everything, and
already the additional members of the crew and the bowman were stowing
the outfit in the craft.
Within half an hour of their arrival the boys and their friends were
seated under the arched canvas awning or “tent” near the stem, the
nine Indian paddlers, with Sam, were in their places, and the bowman,
grasping a huge paddle, was perched precariously on the boat’s prow.
Colcord stepped on to the stern and slipped an enormous paddle through
a bight of rope. Then, to his shout of “Way-ee-oo!” the ten paddles
dug into the water as one, the heavy, spoon-bottomed boat sprang
forward, and Colcord straining at his great steering paddle, headed
the speeding craft upstream. Five minutes later Rockstone with its
houses, its railway station and its docks, slipped from sight behind a
wooded point and only the sullen, mighty river and the endless jungle
stretched ahead.