“Thank God, indeed!” said his brother. “All will be right with you now.”
“Well, Fanny,” said her husband, as he took her very gently from the
litter and seated her on a bench which stood outside the door. “It is
all over now,--is it not?”
She answered him by a shower of tears, but they were tears which brought
her relief. He was aware of this, and therefore stood by her, still
holding her by both her hands while her head rested against his side.
“You will find the motion of the boat very gentle,” he said “indeed
there will be no motion, and you and baby will sleep all the way down to
Greytown.” She did not answer him in words, but she looked up into his
face, and he could see that her spirit was recovering itself.
There was almost a crowd of people collected on the spot, preparatory to
the departure of the canoes. In the first place there was the commandant
of the fort, to whom the small house belonged. He was looking to the
passports of our friends, and with due diligence endeavouring to make
something of the occasion, by discovering fatal legal impediments to the
further prosecution of their voyage, which impediments would disappear
on the payment of certain dollars. And then there were half a dozen
Costa Rican soldiers, men with coloured caps and old muskets, ready to
support the dignity and authority of the commandant. There were the
guides taking payment from Abel Ring for their past work, and the
postmen preparing their boats for the further journey. And then there
was a certain German there, with a German servant, to whom the boats
belonged. He also was very busy preparing for the river voyage. He was
not going down with them, but it was his business to see them well
started. A singular looking man was he, with a huge shaggy beard, and
shaggy uncombed hair, but with bright blue eyes, which gave to his face
a remarkable look of sweetness. He was an uncouth man to the eye, and
yet a child would have trusted herself with him in a forest.
At this place they remained some two hours. Coffee was prepared here,
and Mrs. Arkwright refreshed herself and her child. They washed and
arranged their clothes, and when she stepped down the steep bank,
clinging to her husband’s arm as she made her way towards the boat, she
smiled upon him as he looked at her.
“It is all over now,--is it not, my girl?”--he said, encouraging her.
“Oh, Harry, do not talk about it,” she answered, shuddering.
“But I want you to say a word to me to let me know that you are better.”
“I am better,--much better.”
“And you will see your mother again; will you not; and give baby to her
yourself?”
To this she made no immediate answer, for she was on a level with the
river, and the canoe was close at her feet. And then she had to bid
farewell to her brother. He was now the unfortunate one of the party,
for his destiny required that he should go back to San José alone,--go
back and remain there perhaps some ten years longer before he might look
for the happiness of home.
“God bless you, dearest Abel,” she said, kissing him and sobbing as she
spoke.
“Good-bye, Fanny,” he said, “and do not let them forget me in England.
It is a great comfort to think that the worst of your troubles are
over.”
“Oh,--she’s all right now,” said Arkwright. “Good-bye, old boy,”--and
the two brothers-in-law grasped each other’s hands heartily. “Keep up
your spirits, and we’ll have you home before long.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said the other. But from the tone of the voices, it
was clear that poor Ring was despondent at the thoughts of his coming
solitude, and that Arkwright was already triumphing in his emancipation.
And then, with much care, Fanny Arkwright was stowed away in the boat.
There was a great contest about the baby, but at last it was arranged,
that at any rate for the first few hours she should be placed in the
boat with the servant. The mother was told that by this plan she would
feel herself at liberty to sleep during the heat of the day, and then
she might hope to have strength to look to the child when they should be
on shore during the night. In this way therefore they prepared to start,
while Abel Ring stood on the bank looking at them with wishful eyes. In
the first boat were two Indians paddling, and a third man steering with
another paddle. In the middle there was much luggage, and near the
luggage so as to be under shade, was the baby’s soft bed. If nothing
evil happened to the boat, the child could not be more safe in the best
cradle that was ever rocked. With her was the maid-servant and some
stranger who was also going down to Greytown.
In the second boat were the same number of men to paddle, the Indian
guide being one of them, and there were the mails placed. Then there was
a seat arranged with blankets, cloaks, and cushions, for Mrs. Arkwright,
so that she might lean back and sleep without fatigue, and immediately
opposite to her her husband placed himself. “You all look very
comfortable,” said poor Abel from the bank.
“We shall do very well now,” said Arkwright.
“And I do think I shall see mamma again,” said his wife.
“That’s right, old girl;--of course you will see her. Now then,--we are
all ready.” And with some little assistance from the German on the bank,
the first boat was pushed off into the stream.
The river in this place is rapid, because the full course of the water
is somewhat impeded by a bank of earth jutting out from the opposite
side of the river into the stream; but it is not so rapid as to make any
recognised danger in the embarkation. Below this bank, which is opposite
to the spot at which the boats were entered, there were four or five
broken trees in the water, some of the shattered boughs of which showed
themselves above the surface. These are called snags, and are very
dangerous if they are met with in the course of the stream; but in this
instance no danger was apprehended from them, as they lay considerably
to the left of the passage which the boats would take. The first canoe
was pushed off by the German, and went rapidly away. The waters were
strong with rain, and it was pretty to see with what velocity the boat
was carried on some hundred of yards in advance of the other by the
force of the first effort of the paddle. The German, however, from the
bank holloaed to the first men in Spanish, bidding them relax their
efforts for a while; and then he said a word or two of caution to those
who were now on the point of starting.
The boat then was pushed steadily forward, the man at the stern keeping
it with his paddle a little farther away from the bank at which they had
embarked. It was close under the land that the stream ran the fastest,
and in obedience to the directions given to him he made his course
somewhat nearer to the sunken trees. It was but one turn of his hand
that gave the light boat its direction, but that turn of the hand was
too strong. Had the anxious master of the canoes been but a thought less
anxious, all might have been well; but, as it was, the prow of the boat
was caught by some slight hidden branch which impeded its course and
turned it round in the rapid river. The whole length of the canoe was
thus brought against the sunken tree, and in half a minute the five
occupants of the boat were struggling in the stream.
Abel Ring and the German were both standing on the bank close to the
water when this happened, and each for a moment looked into the other’s
face. “Stand where you are,” shouted the German, “so that you may assist
them from the shore. I will go in.” And then, throwing from him his
boots and coat, he plunged into the river.
The canoe had been swept round so as to be brought by the force of the
waters absolutely in among the upturned roots and broken stumps of the
trees which impeded the river, and thus, when the party was upset, they
were at first to be seen scrambling among the branches. But
unfortunately there was much more wood below the water than above it,
and the force of the stream was so great, that those who caught hold of
the timber were not able to support themselves by it above the surface.
Arkwright was soon to be seen some forty yards down, having been carried
clear of the trees, and here he got out of the river on the further
bank. The distance to him was not above forty yards, but from the nature
of the ground he could not get up towards his wife, unless he could have
forced his way against the stream.
The Indian who had had charge of the baby rose quickly to the surface,
was carried once round in the eddy, with his head high above the water,
and then was seen to throw himself among the broken wood. He had seen
the dress of the poor woman, and made his effort to save her. The other
two men were so caught by the fragments of the boughs, that they could
not extricate themselves so as to make any exertions; ultimately,
however, they also got out on the further bank.
Mrs. Arkwright had sunk at once on being precipitated into the water,
but the buoyancy of her clothes had brought her for a moment again to
the surface. She had risen for a moment, and then had again gone down,
immediately below the forked trunk of a huge tree;--had gone down, alas,
alas! never to rise again with life within her bosom. The poor Indian
made two attempts to save her, and then came up himself, incapable of
further effort.
It was then that the German, the owner of the canoes, who had fought his
way with great efforts across the violence of the waters, and indeed up
against the stream for some few yards, made his effort to save the life
of that poor frail creature. He had watched the spot at which she had
gone down, and even while struggling across the river, had seen how the
Indian had followed her and had failed. It was now his turn. His life
was in his hand, and he was prepared to throw it away in that attempt.
Having succeeded in placing himself a little above the large tree, he
turned his face towards the bottom of the river, and dived down among
the branches. And he also, after that, was never again seen with the
life-blood flowing round his heart.
When the sun set that night, the two swollen corpses were lying in the
Commandant’s hut, and Abel Ring and Arkwright were sitting beside them.
Arkwright had his baby sleeping in his arms, but he sat there for
hours,--into the middle of the long night,--without speaking a word to
any one.
“Harry,” said his brother at last, “come away and lay down. It will be
good for you to sleep.”
“Nothing ever will be good again for me,” said he.
“You must bear up against your sorrow as other men do,” said Ring.
“Why am I not sleeping with her as the poor German sleeps? Why did I let
another man take my place in dying for her?” And then he walked away
that the other might not see the tears on his face.
It was a sad night,--that at the Commandant’s hut, and a sad morning
followed upon it. It must be remembered that they had there none of
those appurtenances which are so necessary to make woe decent and
misfortune comfortable. They sat through the night in the small hut, and
in the morning they came forth with their clothes still wet and dirty,
with their haggard faces, and weary stiff limbs, encumbered with the
horrid task of burying that loved body among the forest trees. And then,
to keep life in them till it was done, the brandy flask passed from hand
to hand; and after that, with slow but resolute efforts, they reformed
the litter on which the living woman had been carried thither, and took
her body back to the wild plantation at Padregal. There they dug for her
her grave, and repeating over her some portion of the service for the
dead, left her to sleep the sleep of death. But before they left her,
they erected a pallisade of timber round the grave, so that the beasts
of the forest should not tear the body from its resting-place.
When that was done Arkwright and his brother made their slow journey
back to San José. The widowed husband could not face his darling’s
mother with such a tale upon his tongue as that.
A RIDE ACROSS PALESTINE.
Circumstances took me to the Holy Land without a companion, and
compelled me to visit Bethany, the Mount of Olives, and the Church of
the Sepulchre alone. I acknowledge myself to be a gregarious animal, or,
perhaps, rather one of those which nature has intended to go in pairs.
At any rate I dislike solitude, and especially travelling solitude, and
was, therefore, rather sad at heart as I sat one night at Z----’s
hotel, in Jerusalem, thinking over my proposed wanderings for the next
few days. Early on the following morning I intended to start, of course
on horseback, for the Dead Sea, the banks of Jordan, Jericho, and those
mountains of the wilderness through which it is supposed that Our
Saviour wandered for the forty days when the devil tempted him. I would
then return to the Holy City, and remaining only long enough to refresh
my horse and wipe the dust from my hands and feet, I would start again
for Jaffa, and there catch a certain Austrian steamer which would take
me to Egypt. Such was my programme, and I confess that I was but ill
contented with it, seeing that I was to be alone during the time.
I had already made all my arrangements, and though I had no reason for
any doubt as to my personal security during the trip, I did not feel
altogether satisfied with them. I intended to take a French guide, or
dragoman, who had been with me for some days, and to put myself under
the peculiar guardianship of two Bedouin Arabs, who were to accompany me
as long as I should remain east of Jerusalem. This travelling through
the desert under the protection of Bedouins was, in idea, pleasant
enough; and I must here declare that I did not at all begrudge the forty
shillings which I was told by our British consul that I must pay them
for their trouble, in accordance with the established tariff. But I did
begrudge the fact of the tariff. I would rather have fallen in with my
friendly Arabs, as it were by chance, and have rewarded their fidelity
at the end of our joint journeyings by a donation of piastres to be
settled by myself, and which, under such circumstances, would certainly
have been as agreeable to them as the stipulated sum. In the same way I
dislike having waiters put down in my bill. I find that I pay them twice
over, and thus lose money; and as they do not expect to be so treated, I
never have the advantage of their civility. The world, I fear, is
becoming too fond of tariffs.
“A tariff!” said I to the consul, feeling that the whole romance of my
expedition would be dissipated by such an arrangement. “Then I’ll go
alone; I’ll take a revolver with me.”
“You can’t do it, sir,” said the consul, in a dry and somewhat angry
tone. “You have no more right to ride through that country without
paying the regular price for protection, than you have to stop in Z----
’s hotel without settling the bill.”
I could not contest the point, so I ordered my Bedouins for the
appointed day, exactly as I would send for a ticket-porter at home, and
determined to make the best of it. The wild unlimited sands, the
desolation of the Dead Sea, the rushing waters of Jordan, the outlines
of the mountains of Moab;--those things the consular tariff could not
alter, nor deprive them of the glories of their association.
I had submitted, and the arrangements had been made. Joseph, my
dragoman, was to come to me with the horses and an Arab groom at five in
the morning, and we were to encounter our Bedouins outside the gate of
St. Stephen, down the hill, where the road turns, close to the tomb of
the Virgin.
I was sitting alone in the public room at the hotel, filling my flask
with brandy,--for matters of primary importance I never leave to
servant, dragoman, or guide,--when the waiter entered, and said that a
gentleman wished to speak with me. The gentleman had not sent in his
card or name; but any gentleman was welcome to me in my solitude, and I
requested that the gentleman might enter. In appearance the gentleman
certainly was a gentleman, for I thought that I had never before seen a
young man whose looks were more in his favour, or whose face and gait
and outward bearing seemed to betoken better breeding. He might be some
twenty or twenty-one years of age, was slight and well made, with very
black hair, which he wore rather long, very dark long bright eyes, a
straight nose, and teeth that were perfectly white. He was dressed
throughout in grey tweed clothing, having coat, waistcoat, and trousers
of the same; and in his hand he carried a very broad-brimmed straw hat.
“Mr. Jones, I believe,” he said, as he bowed to me. Jones is a good
travelling name, and, if the reader will allow me, I will call myself
Jones on the present occasion.
“Yes,” I said, pausing with the brandy-bottle in one hand, and the flask
in the other. “That’s my name; I’m Jones. Can I do anything for you,
sir?”
“Why, yes, you can,” said he. “My name is Smith,--John Smith.”
“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Will you do
anything in this way?” and I proposed to hand the bottle to him. “As far
as I can judge from a short stay, you won’t find much like that in
Jerusalem.”
He declined the Cognac, however, and immediately began his story. “I
hear, Mr. Jones,” said he, “that you are going to Moab to-morrow.”
“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know whether I shall cross the water. It’s
not very easy, I take it, at all times; but I shall certainly get as far
as Jordan. Can I do anything for you in those parts?”
And then he explained to me what was the object of his visit. He was
quite alone in Jerusalem, as I was myself, and was staying at H----’s
hotel. He had heard that I was starting for the Dead Sea, and had called
to ask if I objected to his joining me. He had found himself, he said,
very lonely; and as he had heard that I also was alone, he had ventured
to call and make his proposition. He seemed to be very bashful, and half
ashamed of what he was doing; and when he had done speaking he declared
himself conscious that he was intruding, and expressed a hope that I
would not hesitate to say so if his suggestion were from any cause
disagreeable to me.
As a rule I am rather shy of chance travelling English friends. It has
so frequently happened to me that I have had to blush for the
acquaintances whom I have selected, that I seldom indulge in any close
intimacies of this kind. But, nevertheless, I was taken with John Smith,
in spite of his name. There was so much about him that was pleasant,
both to the eye and to the understanding! One meets constantly with men
from contact with whom one revolts without knowing the cause of such
dislike. The cut of their beard is displeasing, or the mode in which
they walk or speak. But, on the other hand, there are men who are
attractive, and I must confess that I was attracted by John Smith at
first sight. I hesitated, however, for a minute; for there are sundry
things of which it behoves a traveller to think before he can join a
companion for such a journey as that which I was about to make. Could
the young man rise early, and remain in the saddle for ten hours
together? Could he live upon hard-boiled eggs and brandy-and-water?
Could he take his chance of a tent under which to sleep, and make
himself happy with the bare fact of being in the desert? He saw my
hesitation, and attributed it to a cause which was not present in my
mind at the moment, though the subject was one of the greatest
importance when strangers consent to join themselves together for a
time, and agree to become no strangers on the spur of the moment.
“Of course I will take half the expense,” said he, absolutely blushing
as he mentioned the matter.
“As to that there will be very little. You have your own horse, of
course?”
“Oh, yes.”
“My dragoman and groom-boy will do for both. But you’ll have to pay
forty shillings to the Arabs! There’s no getting over that. The consul
won’t even look after your dead body, if you get murdered, without going
through that ceremony.”
Mr. Smith immediately produced his purse, which he tendered to me. “If
you will manage it all,” said he, “it will make it so much the easier,
and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.” This of course I declined to
do. I had no business with his purse, and explained to him that if we
went together we could settle that on our return to Jerusalem. “But
could he go through really hard work?” I asked. He answered me with an
assurance that he would and could do anything in that way that it was
possible for man to perform. As for eating and drinking he cared nothing
about it, and would undertake to be astir at any hour of the morning
that might be named. As for sleeping accommodation, he did not care if
he kept his clothes on for a week together. He looked slight and weak;
but he spoke so well, and that without boasting, that I ultimately
agreed to his proposal, and in a few minutes he took his leave of me,
promising to be at Z----’s door with his horse at five o’clock on the
following morning.
“I wish you’d allow me to leave my purse with you,” he said again.
“I cannot think of it. There is no possible occasion for it,” I said
again. “If there is anything to pay, I’ll ask you for it when the
journey is over. That forty shillings you must fork out. It’s a law of
the Medes and Persians.”
“I’d better give it you at once,” he said again, offering me money. But
I would not have it. It would be quite time enough for that when the
Arabs were leaving us.
“Because,” he added, “strangers, I know, are sometimes suspicious about
money; and I would not, for worlds, have you think that I would put you
to expense.” I assured him that I did not think so, and then the subject
was dropped.
He was, at any rate, up to his time, for when I came down on the
following morning I found him in the narrow street, the first on
horseback. Joseph, the Frenchman, was strapping on to a rough pony our
belongings, and was staring at Mr. Smith. My new friend, unfortunately,
could not speak a word of French, and therefore I had to explain to the
dragoman how it had come to pass that our party was to be enlarged.
“But the Bedouins will expect full pay for both,” said he, alarmed. Men
in that class, and especially Orientals, always think that every
arrangement of life, let it be made in what way it will, is made with
the intention of saving some expense, or cheating somebody out of some
money. They do not understand that men can have any other object, and
are ever on their guard lest the saving should be made at their cost, or
lest they should be the victims of the fraud.
“All right,” said I.
“I shall be responsible, Monsieur,” said the dragoman, piteously.
“It shall be all right,” said I, again. “If that does not satisfy you,
you may remain behind.”
“If Monsieur says it is all right, of course it is so;” and then he
completed his strapping. We took blankets with us, of which I had to
borrow two out of the hotel for my friend Smith, a small hamper of
provisions, a sack containing forage for the horses, and a large empty
jar, so that we might supply ourselves with water when leaving the
neighbourhood of wells for any considerable time.
“I ought to have brought these things for myself,” said Smith, quite
unhappy at finding that he had thrown on me the necessity of catering
for him. But I laughed at him, saying that it was nothing; he should do
as much for me another time. I am prepared to own that I do not
willingly rush up-stairs and load myself with blankets out of strange
rooms for men whom I do not know; nor, as a rule, do I make all the
Smiths of the world free of my canteen. But, with reference to this
fellow I did feel more than ordinarily good-natured and unselfish. There
was something in the tone of his voice which was satisfactory; and I
should really have felt vexed had anything occurred at the last moment
to prevent his going with me.