A PAINFUL WALK—BIRD’S NEST FERNS—DOWN THE CURIPUNG—VOICES
OF THE NIGHT—AN INDIAN FAMILY—A QUICK JOURNEY—SHOOTING THE
FALLS—TIMBER SHOOTS IN CANADA—A LOST CHANNEL—ANTICIPATIONS OF A
FEAST—CAPSIZE—A SWIM FOR LIFE—TEBUCU FALLS—HOME AGAIN.
In order to reach Macrebah before our hands and feet were quite worn out,
we determined to waste no time but to proceed by forced marches. Poor
McTurk, in addition to injured limbs and feverish attacks, was worse off
as regards foot covering than I was, as he was reduced to three pair of
india-rubber shoes, which he wore one over the other on account of the
holes.
With our thin soles, the sharp-ribbed roots made our movements as
delicate as walking over eggs, and it was very ludicrous but rather
painful to find ourselves now on one leg and now on the other, vainly
endeavouring to escape the knobs and pointed projections which thrust
themselves against our bruised feet. I could not help thinking of the
grasshopper when he said to the bee;
“There’s a time to be sad,
And a time to be glad,
A time both for working and stopping;
For men to make money,
For you to make honey,
And for me to do nothing but hopping.”
During this walk we saw for the first time the great “bird’s nest” fern,
adapted for the purpose its name implies. Numbers of these plants grew on
the trunks and low branches of the trees, and in many instances they had
been made the nesting places of ground-doves. No other species of bird
occupied them, but we invariably discovered one or two eggs of the dove,
and in one instance the mother allowed us to look at her as she sat on
her nest.
Concerning the rest of our foot-journey, it suffices to say that in three
days we arrived at Macrebah and there found our boat, the Adaba, all
safe. My wonderful boots would certainly not have lasted another day; but
I had no further need of them, and in gratitude I hung them to a high
pole driven into the sand, and after tracing underneath the well-known
words
“Whoever dare these boots displace
Must meet Bombastes face to face!”
I abandoned them as an offering to the Spirit of Macrebah Falls.
The large dacana balli, which we had left covered with white flowers,
had now fruited, and the great green nuts fell heavily to the ground.
The Curipung River was but little affected by the recent rain, and its
claret coloured water reflected the white sand in as clear a purple as
when we first saw it. Here we rested for a day and dismissed all the
Indian carriers, with the exception of our own six, who formed the crew
of the Adaba, and Lanceman and Mazaruni, who accompanied us, when we
departed, in a woodskin. “Master will no take boot,” said Charlie with a
mischievous grin, as he pointed to the two skeletons swinging near the
water’s edge, when we started.
A long day’s journey brought us down to the Mazaruni River. There was
little current in the creek, and in some places so little water that
there was scarcely sufficient to moisten the throats of the disconsolate
herons which, like lone fishermen, moodily gazed at the shallow stream
from the pebbly shore.
The sun was just setting when we arrived at the mouth of the creek,
and never before had the scenery of the great river appeared to us so
picturesque as it did then. The black water stretched away north and
south-east to the wooded hills, whose sides were first a rose colour,
then crimson, then purple. Above the dark forest, across the river, a
golden green haze expanded itself up and up until it touched the pink
and pearl clouds in the east. The sharp promontories of silver sand
sparkled as they caught the expiring rays, and stood out so clearly
that even on the most distant could be seen the shadowy forms of the
egrets or cranes. Then, as the colours all faded into a slowly darkening
purple, a mysterious silence prevailed; the cries of the monkeys ceased,
the toucans had called “tucáno” for the last time, and the ibises no
longer screamed “curri-curri” as they flapped by. The sombre jungle grew
blacker, the sky clearer and the thin vapour which stole up from the
water’s edge crept along the forest-crest and spread a film over more
distant objects. Then on noiseless wing the night-hawks floated past
looking like great butterflies, bats skimmed through the forest openings,
and fire-beetles suddenly started into life.
Presently the breeze brought faint sounds from the river, a frog croaked,
again we heard the fog-horn notes of the howling monkeys, and then the
“brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep” was over. When the
full moon rose, the scene might have been in Greenland. The river changed
to a sheet of silver-blue ice, the vapour-clad trees sparkled like dew,
the sky and stars were brilliantly clear, and the great sandbank was a
drift of the purest snow. On this white bank some travelling Indians had
encamped, and their dark figures stood out in as bold relief as those of
Esquimaux on a snow-field. The illusion was heightened by the sleigh-like
appearance of a woodskin which had been drawn up from the water, and at
whose side three dogs were lying asleep.
The night sounds which issue from the forests of Guiana are singularly
strange and weird. Whether on broad river, narrow creek, or out in the
lonely woods, the traveller is greeted with unearthly sounds that utterly
banish sleep. Scarcely had we ensconced ourselves in our hammocks, which
had been slung to the trees bordering the sandbank, when the “voices of
the night” broke forth. First, the night-jar ran down its scale “ha,
ha-ha, ha-ha-ha,” each note lower than the preceding, and each the acme
of the most hopeless sorrow. The utter misery told in this bird’s voice
must be heard to be believed. Next a mâam uttered its shrill plaintive
whistle, whose volume increased until the whole forest resounded with it.
Then, as if a warning to the noisy reveller, a loud rattle, like that of
a night-watchman, sounded close by. This was the music of a night-hawk.
Immediately after came the melancholy cries of a pigeon, like a human
voice calling for aid. These sounds were hushed by the dismal wail of
a sloth, which, in its turn, gave place to a series of sharp clucks
like those of a hen, and which were produced by some winged creature
of darkness. After a moment’s stillness a stealthy rustle in the leaves
betokened the neighbourhood of a snake or lizard, and, farther off, a
breaking branch told where a larger animal was pushing its way.
These sounds continued until nearly midnight, that hour when, as Cotton
says:
“The goblin now the fool alarms,
Hags meet to mumble o’er their charms;
The nightmare rides the dreaming ass,
And fairies trip it o’er the grass.”
Suddenly the Indians commenced to whisper, for even their sleep had been
aroused by the wild screeching of the terrible didi, whose dreaded notes
ended in a prolonged and mournful crowing. This unearthly sound seemed to
be the climax, and soon the real silence of the night settled down.
“Now night it was, and everything on earth had won the grace
Of quiet sleep; the woods had rest, the wildered waters’ face;
It was the tide when stars roll on amid their courses due,
And all the tilth is hushed, and beasts and birds of many a hue,
And all that is in waters wide, and what the waste doth keep,
In thicket rough, amid the hush of night-tide, lay asleep.”
For three or four hours the silence lasted, only broken occasionally,
and for a few minutes at a time, by the moan of a jaguar, or the fierce
snappings of the small hunting tigers on the track of some peccaries,
or of the night-loving tapir. Before dawn the concert was renewed;
the monkeys howled, the mâams whistled piercingly, the honoquas and
duraquaras gave endless repetitions of their own name, and with the first
streak of daylight the parrots chattered from the tree tops. Day broke,
and the camp was again alive.
Bird cries are imitated to perfection by Indians, and we not
unfrequently obtained a pani, or a duraquara, by such means. At night
they would note the position of the roosting bird by its notes, and then
in the early morn proceed in its direction, attract it by their imitative
cries and shoot it.
Amongst the Indians encamped on the sandbank was a family which was on
its way to Georgetown, with hammocks and birds for sale. We christened
its members the Cowenaros, _i.e._, cocks of the rock, as they had a fine
specimen of the bird in their possession. They were good-looking people,
and as the father was the only one who had ever visited the coast,
there was considerable excitement with the younger members, especially
on the part of Miss Cowenaro, who was going to celebrate her débût
into society by a new dress—the first she had ever worn. By some means
she had obtained some pink calico, and out of it she had manufactured
an extraordinary robe which she was always trying on, or, perhaps,
accustoming herself to wear. At any rate, on our way down the river we
never arrived near a prominent rock without seeing the young lady perched
on the top of it, and evidently lost in admiration of herself.
After leaving Lanceman’s house at Menaparuti where we found all that
we had left, the rain, which we could see by the heightened river had
been falling heavily in the mountains, burst upon us. The fine weather
which had favoured us for so unexpected a length of time, broke up and
rain set in. Sometimes the squalls were so severe that the waves almost
swamped our boat, and the woodskins, containing Lanceman and Mazaruni,
who accompanied us to the Settlement, were only saved by a quick run to
shore.
Our journey up the river had by no means been a slow one, in spite of the
delays at the cataracts and rapids, but now with the swift current in our
favour and the speed with which we shot the falls, up which we had toiled
wearily on foot, our progress was extremely quick. Shooting the falls
was splendidly exciting, and not unaccompanied by danger. I had once
employed a spare afternoon in Ottawa by accompanying the rafts in their
descent of the “timber shoots,” and great amusement it was, but devoid of
the inspiring element of danger. There the descent was swift but smooth,
steerage was unnecessary, and no impediment barred the narrow, wall-edged
current. Here it was different, conflicting currents seethed in all
directions, broken rocks and half-hidden projections cropped up all
around, and nothing but the strong arm and steady eye of both the man at
the prow and the man in the stern could save the boat from being dashed
to pieces.
To those unaccustomed to it—as I was—the novel sensation of fall shooting
is delightful. Choosing the long smooth tongue of water which indicates
the safest passage, the words “Give way all!” are spoken, and though the
paddles work with intense vigour, and the foaming water is pouring madly
at your side, the boat seems to stand still; the rocky walls rush up to
you, the waves dash at you instead of from you, the roar increases, the
drop looks perpendicular, and still you are apparently not moving; there
is a plunge, a wave or two shipped perhaps, and the next moment the boat
is floating quietly in the smooth back-water below the falls. Sometimes
the difficulties of the descent are much increased by the twists and
turns which have to be made in the very middle of the fall itself. Our
Indians, who had been rather nervous at the first few cataracts, soon
recovered their self-possession, and were so elated at their skill that
once or twice their valour almost overcame their discretion.
When we reached the Falls of Yaninzaec, the rising water had so altered
the appearance of the river that we could no longer recognize our old
landmarks. In the island labyrinth we lost the channel which led to the
“portage,” and it was in vain that we tried to regain it. All our efforts
only brought us to one or other of the great falls, a safe descent of
which could no more be accomplished than that of Niagara. Darkness at
last came on, and we had to encamp on a small island.
Next morning we were fortunately discovered by the two
woodskins—containing Lanceman and the Cowenaros—and under their guidance
we reached the portage; passing on our way a curious rock called “the
Cabuni”—near the mouth of the river of that name. After carrying the boat
over the portage, and reloading it, it was McTurk’s intention to proceed
a short way down the river and camp early, so as to replenish our larder
with fresh meat. It was many days since we had tasted meat, and our
appetites told us that game would be very desirable.
“I shoot and eat one pani,” said Sammy.
“Pani!” said Charlie indignantly. “I eat one maipurie myself.”
Now as a pani is nearly as large as a turkey, and as a maipurie, _i.e._,
tapir, is about the size of a small donkey, the speakers must, indeed,
have been hungry. For ourselves we had arranged quite a little banquet
with the remnant of the provisions that had been left at Lanceman’s
house. There was a tin of mullagatawny soup, a pot of marmalade, a tin
of biscuits, and besides a bottle of brandy which we had been treasuring
for weeks, there was still a small supply of Seidlitz Powders, which had
of late superseded Eno’s Fruit Salt on occasions of great jollification.
In order the better to enjoy our intended repast, we had refrained from
breakfast on that day, but “_l’homme propose, Dieu dispose_.”
Having safely descended several cataracts after leaving Yaninzaec, we saw
in the distance a pleasant spot for camping, and from the same direction
heard a great howling of monkeys which promised sport. We rapidly
approached a fall, the roar of whose waters seemed unnecessarily loud.
This we descended, but a sharp turn that had been hidden by a high rock
revealed another and steeper fall, which it would be madness to attempt
to shoot. But it was too late, no power could stop us; we were already
in the long swift current which swept down to the deep drop. “Give way!”
shouted McTurk, as a glance showed that there was no chance of escape
except by the mere possibility of speed; then there was a sweep of
paddles, a plunge, a wild swirl of waters, wave after wave rushed over
us, and the boat went down. The whole affair had happened so quickly
that, almost before I could realise it, I found myself under water and
powerless to rise to the surface, as my legs seemed to be entangled in
something—probably the framework of the awning we had lately put up as a
shelter from the rain. The idea flashed through me that this surely could
not be the end of my long looked for Roraima expedition, and giving a
great struggle up I came to the surface.
The first thing I saw was the Adaba, bottom upwards, floating down the
river, and McTurk and two of the crew clinging to her. I soon reached
them, and in about thirty minutes, by gently guiding our support towards
a rocky island, our feet touched the ground. Higher up the river, in a
different direction, we saw that what we thought were the remaining four
of the Indian crew, standing on another rocky islet. Almost immediately
afterwards the woodskins appeared; having descended on the opposite side
of the river, where there was a moderately easy passage unknown to us.
They at once unloaded, and pushed out into the river to try and save
whatever happened to be floating.
Suddenly the cry was raised “Where is Charlie?” Then we saw that only
three men stood on the far rock, and that what we had at first taken for
a figure was only a barrel. We never saw him again. Sammy, who sat next
to him in the bow, said he saw him spring clean out of the boat before
she went down, and strike out for land. No cry was heard; we on the
boat thought he was with those on the barrel, and they thought he was
with us. As he was a very strong swimmer, we could only suppose that he
had been sucked down by the terrible undercurrent, or that he had been
dashed against a rock. It was very, very sad, and for a time we could not
believe that he was really drowned. For the rest of that day and next
morning we searched long and carefully in the hopes of recovering the
body, but uselessly. The Indians said that two years ago three natives
were drowned in the same place, and their bodies were never found. The
poor fellow had only been married a month before we left Georgetown, and
among the crew were two of his wife’s brothers. One of these had a very
narrow escape as he was not a good swimmer, and was just sinking when
he caught at a pillow floating by, which supported him until he reached
the flour barrel that saved the other two. Everything was lost, with the
exception of a few hammocks and a tin canister of mine, which, besides
Indian curiosities, fortunately contained shirts and other clothes. For
the crew had divested themselves of everything when in the water, and
not one of their bundles was picked up. Guns, ammunition, field-glasses,
provisions, plants, boxes of clothes, in fact almost everything we had,
and alas! a human life—the only thing that could never be replaced—all
lay in the deep water under the falls of Tebucu.[110]
When we continued our journey, we took Lanceman as a guide to guard
against any future catastrophe, and no other accident occurred, with the
exception of a hole which was knocked into the side of the boat whilst
being let down a fall by means of ropes. From the woodskins we had
received paddles to replace those we had lost, and urged on by hunger we
made rapid progress, and at last issued from the island-dotted river into
the large lake-like expanse of water near the junction of the Cuyuni.
After we had passed the neat houses of the Caribs, the island church
came in view, cottages appeared, people with clothes on were seen
walking about, there were ducks and geese, and the different signs of
civilization. We soon rounded Palmer’s Point, and after a tremendous
squall of rain and wind, arrived at the Settlement, where we received a
hearty welcome from the Superintendent and his family. And thus ended our
expedition to Roraima, a journey which we had accomplished in a little
more than two months.