THE RAPIDS
Had Ralph known it, he was now not so very far from his friends. The
stream, down which he was floating, was a tributary of that on the banks
of which he had become separated from them, flowing down the next valley
between the hills, and becoming merged in the larger one some five or
six miles below the police-station.
The range of hills between them was higher and more abrupt than that
upon which the police-station was situated, concealing it from view; but
the density of the forest and jungle made its inhabitants widely
dispersed. They were wholly composed of small scattered remnants of wild
Karens, constantly fighting with each other, split up into small
numbers, of which half a dozen families would suffice to stock a
village, and incessantly changing their abode.
They would come to a jungle-covered hill, and set it on fire. When a
sufficient space for their wants was burnt out, they planted rice upon
the ground manured by the ashes, ran up a few hovels with bamboos and
palm leaves, and awaited their harvest. This gathered, the same land
would not bear a second crop; and, space being unlimited, the remedy was
simple. They only moved to another hillside, and repeated the fire and
farming manoeuvres.
When their own rice failed them, they helped themselves to that
belonging to other villages or tribes, provided these were weaker than
themselves. Sometimes they made a mistake on this point, and became
wiped off the face of the land. If this did not happen, they generally
wiped out the others; for, if anyone escaped, he was bound to slay as
many of his enemies as he had lost of friends. This species of vendetta
was a religion to them all, and a curious comment upon the idea that, to
take life of any description, was to shut the gates of the highest
heaven upon the slayer.
The Burman will not destroy the principle of life even in noxious
animals, but murder is his commonest crime, and his murders are often
accompanied with great atrocity.
The dacoits who plundered Ralph fell into the power of an enemy's tribe,
and the chief's head was carried to the police-station for sake of the
reward paid for all such tribute; and while Mr. Gilchrist was sadly
mourning over what he considered the certain proof of his young friend's
death, in the discovery of his watch, Denham had passed the junction of
the two rivulets, and was prosperously pursuing his voyage towards the
Salween River.
We say "prosperously," though, in good sooth, the voyage was carried on
with many vicissitudes. The stream narrowed day by day, as the extreme
heat dried up its margins. Now the frail barque stuck helplessly in the
mud, which was yet too soft to bear walking upon.
Ralph would sink up to his knees as he pulled and hauled his little
craft out of the shallows, and set it once more afloat.
Then he would become entangled in débris of the forest,--sticks, rotten
stumps, masses of leaves, etc., all stuck together in one jumble, and
caught by a little promontory, wafted into some tiny bay, or even
detained by the drooping boughs of some tree or shrub dipping into the
water, to coagulate and solidify into a floating island.
Poor Ralph's garments were of the slightest description, for he had
left all which he had possessed at first--little enough at the
best--when he fled from the dacoits. It was well for him that he had
retained his knife; but at least his clothes, such as they were, dried
easily in the sun, which was a good thing, as they were wetted through
and through every day.
"I wish I were an Israelite in the desert," thought he, as his only
button came off, and he cut a hole in his waistband and tied a loop of
twisted grass into it. "How I am ever to get into a suit of broadcloth
again passes me to imagine. But it is well for me that folks are not
very particular hereabouts."
On the fifth day of his voyage he saw the vista open before him, and a
wide expanse of water appeared to his sight. This must be, he thought,
the Salween River; and he hoped that his troubles were now approaching
their end.
"I shall soon come to an English settlement, or a missionary station, or
at least to some Burmese village," he thought; "and some good Christian
will help me on my way. What a pretty place this is!"
The river upon which he had now emerged wound very much, and almost took
the appearance of a succession of lakes. Hills clothed with jungle shut
it in, and stretches of rocky land jutted out from either side at
irregular distances.
Protected from the force of the deeper current by one of these little
promontories, the rapidity of the stream down which he had come shot him
well out into the wider river with a velocity which surprised him;
though, in his ignorance of what it meant, he considered it "very jolly"
at first to be cleared of all the impedimenta which had hitherto
encumbered him so sadly.
But this was only a momentary joy, as his frail barque was caught in a
power beyond his control, and whirled about in a manner which even he
saw meant mischief. He had but one thing to save--his orchids. He had
prepared for a catastrophe of some sort previously, and had them merely
slung by a long cord to a cane. He caught this off, throwing the loop
around his neck, and in five minutes more was battling with rapids for
his life, his raft beaten into a thousand pieces.
He had clutched, with the energy of despair, the stout bamboo which he
had used to punt his raft; and, clinging instinctively to this, was
tossed down some two or three feet; plunged overhead in a pool, floated
up again; washed violently against rough stones; felt his feet, lost
them again, was rolled over; dashed down another little cascade; and
brought up, finally, breathless, bruised, battered and bleeding, upon a
tiny ait in the centre of the stream, where his bamboo had become
entangled between some small bushes.
He had but strength enough to catch at a firmer support, and draw
himself up upon the islet, where he lay, utterly spent, for a long time.
Everything darkened before his eyes, the earth seemed to reel beneath
him, all the heavens to be unsteady above him, and he became
unconscious.
He must have remained so for long; as, when he slowly came to himself
again, the stars were jewelling the purple vault above him, and the full
moon casting a long silvery highway over the rippling water around.
Where was he? What had happened to him? He tried to sit up, and felt
very sick, stiff, and sore, utterly confused and helpless. He did not
seem to care for his condition, or even to wonder at it. Existence alone
was enough for him. Enough?--too much, for hysteria overcame him; he hid
his face and cried like a child.
Baffled on every side, everything lost but life--even that imperilled in
the most desperate manner; surely God must be against him, it was of no
use to fight longer against the pricks; better to lie there and die,
rather than struggle any more. Despair made of him its puppet at last.
Was it any good to pray?--did God hear him? Would God answer his
supplications? Was there a God of love and mercy at all, when he was
beaten back at every point like this, however bravely he tried to bear
up against misfortune?
He was ashamed of weeping, even though there was no one to observe him;
and it did but exhaust him further, yet it was a relief too. His tears
were soon spent, and he sat, forlorn and dejected, gazing in a
purposeless way before him, taking no heed to what he saw.
But gradually the extreme beauty of the scene forced itself upon his
mental vision. The hills, covered with rich masses of woods, were black
against the clear opal sky, where the moon reigned in her pure
loveliness. The shadows of these hills lay deep on the translucent
waters, except where the broken rocks stood picturesquely above them,
and changed their duskiness to pearly foam. The stars were reflected on
the bosom of the river wherever it was sufficiently still; and a herd of
hog-deer issued from a clearing of the jungle, and stooped their
graceful heads to drink just where the moonlight fell on them.
The clear whistle of some night-bird was heard and answered from a
neighbouring thicket, "Did you do it? Did you do it?" they cried in
turn, and the rippling water made a gentle accompaniment to their song.
"I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh my help," was
borne in upon Ralph's heart, and his longdrawn sobs ceased.
Up sprang the sun, and touched the tops of the hills with golden glory.
Colour and warmth flashed over the landscape, and brought comfort to his
chilled frame. What was that something glittering brightly between the
trees? It was no natural object--the outline was too regular, too hard;
it was the work of man's hand, for it was gilt,--it was, yes, it was a
pagoda! Man had erected that building,--his fellow-men must be near at
hand. Thank God! thank God!
He rose, and sought to unstiffen his cramped limbs with exercise, and
the sun warmed him.
On the narrow strip of shingle where he had been cast up, a human waif
and stray, lay a small bundle. Ralph looked at it, stooped over it, and
lifted it from the wet stones. It was his little package of orchids,
safely bound up as he had arranged it; which, slight thing as it was,
had safely stood the wreck of all else, and lay stranded at his feet
none the worse for its immersion.
Ralph almost laughed to see it. "You foolish things," thought he, "could
nothing of greater value to me have been spared for me. Can _you_ feed
me, clothe me, save me, take me to my friends, do _anything_ for me?"
He spurned them with his foot in irritation. Even his knife, his one
precious possession, was gone; his garments hung in shreds upon him;
there was nothing to eat upon the islet; and this ridiculous bundle of
plants, good for nothing but to gratify the whimsical taste of a rich
man, was intact.
Then his mood changed, and he took it up in his hands again. Between the
crevices of the bark and moss he saw one tiny delicate floweret pushing
its fragile head out, and seeming to smile at him.
"Good Lord," he said, "just to think of this! Come, then, if God so made
the grass of the field, shall He not much more care for you, oh ye of
little faith?" He readjusted the loop of string, and passed it again
round his neck.
Then he tried to think how he might reach the mainland, where that
pagoda glimmered like a hand beckoning to him, but he could not devise
any plan.
He was too weary and spent to attempt swimming in that powerful current;
he had no means of making a second raft, or helping himself in any way;
there were neither bamboos nor lianas on this scrap of land.
He sat down close to the edge of the water, and rested his chin in his
hands, gazing straight before him. He must sit there till he died; what
else remained for him to do? He thought of his mother, of Agnes, of his
brothers and little sisters. How grieved they all would be when the news
went home to them. But would it ever go home? No, not one of his friends
would know how he had struggled, how he had failed, where he had died.
No one would visit his grave, or weep over his remains. The crows and
the vultures would fight over his carcase, and leave his bones to blanch
there, unburied. For him no funeral service, no hallowed ground, no holy
hymn.
"Oh, my God!" he cried aloud, "have I deserved this? If this is the end
of my short life, am I fit to go before Thee on Thy judgment throne, and
confidently crave for mercy? What have I done so wicked as to merit
this? Tell me, oh my Father, and let me repent."
So he sat, until, his eyes gazing mournfully straight before him, he
became aware of some objects moving through the jungle on the mainland.
They came in single file, carrying some large burden. Then one ran from
the rear, past the others, and gave directions, waving a long lean arm
and gesticulating.
No animals would conduct themselves so, they must be men! Gracious
Providence grant that they be men!
They moved steadily forward among the thinning trees to the very margin
of the river, and were plainly to be perceived. Native Burmese!
Fishermen, bearing a large net, which they were preparing to cast into
the water, and draw up stream.
Ralph's voice failed him from revulse of feeling, he thought that he
should choke. He sprang to his feet, tore off the last rags upon him,
twisted them round a stick, and waved them in the air.
They were not perceived,--no notice was taken. He stooped to the water,
drank from the hollow of his hand, his tongue was unloosed, he cast
water precipitately over head and face, stood erect once more, clear
from the undergrowth, in the plashy shallows, waved his flag with the
energy of despair, and shouted with all his might--"Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!"