My first thought on waking the next morning was, of course, the river.
During the night, in a moment of wakefulness, a steady rumbling noise,
the rush of distant water, had struck on my listening ear, and I was
accordingly prepared to find a further rise in the river at daylight.
But the sight which now met my gaze took me by surprise
notwithstanding. The whole of the lower-lying portion of the valley,
as far as the eye could reach, was one sheet of water, and the flood
was almost visibly rising towards those parts which yet remained dry.
The river itself was no longer distinguishable, being confounded with
the general mass of water, but we could plainly hear the dull roar of
its mighty current, which was still sweeping down with unabated force,
bearing on its curling waters huge trunks of trees, which, perhaps,
but the day before had been torn from the distant Cordilleras.
On account of the high position of our camp, we were as yet far from
the flood, though if it continued to rise as rapidly as hitherto, we
might soon have to move further on.
Isidoro, too, was quite aghast at the dimensions the inundation was
assuming. He had never seen the river so swollen before, and began
seriously to doubt whether, in a fortnight even, we should be able to
cross over, as there was no knowing how long the rise would continue.
The snowfall of the past winter had been heavier than any of the
oldest Indians could remember, and it might reasonably be supposed
that the spring-floods would be proportionately unusual in volume and
duration.
We passed all that day in gloomy forebodings, watching the progress of
the water. At night-time it was still steadily rising. The following
morning we found the flood had risen to within fifteen feet of our
camp; but we had the satisfaction of finding that it was already
abating, for during the night it had been several feet higher, as
evinced by the marks left on the grass. Indeed, all day it kept on
falling, and so rapidly that we commenced to speculate on whether the
river might not eventually subside as quickly as it had risen, and
allow us to cross over, after all, within the eight days we had from
the first considered as the probable duration of our enforced stay at
Gallegos.
The next day again brought despondency. The water seemed to have
remained stationary during the night, and there was a change for the
worse in the weather. The thick mist which had accompanied daybreak
resolved itself, as the morning wore on, into a steady heavy rainfall,
which seemed grimly resolved to reduce us to the last stage of misery
and discomfort.
We covered up our furs with the packages of feathers, so as, if
possible, to have something dry for bedtime; and then cowered round
the drooping fire in resigned helplessness, whilst it rained and
rained down upon us with merciless pertinacity.
There is nothing so trying as having to sit hour after hour in
dejected silence, exposed to a cold rain-storm, which you know may
possibly last for days, and from which you have absolutely no shelter,
feeling, as time goes on, the damp gradually creeping through your
clothes, till it at last reaches the skin and chills you to the bone,
while occasional rills of water run off your back hair and trickle
icily down your shivering neck, till you are thoroughly drenched and
numbed and cramped with cold.
We passively sat shivering in this wretched plight till long after
noon, getting up now and then to have a look at the weather or to
stretch our stiffened limbs. At last the clouds began to break up, the
storm collected its dying force in one last fierce downpour, and then
ceased altogether, giving us just time to dry our clothes and bodies
with the aid of a good fire before night came on.
The days dragged their slow length along, and at last a week, which,
in the weariness of eternally watching and waiting, seemed more like a
month, had gone past without any signs of a speedy abatement in the
height of the river. The waters had fallen, it is true, and were still
falling, but how slowly and sluggishly!
Day after day I used to climb up the tall escarpment bounding the
northern plain, from the top of which a good view was to be obtained
of the valley, which was now one vast sheet of water, dotted here and
there with green islands, a long line of foam showing where the course
of the river lay. There I would sit for hours, watching how little
tufts of grass would gradually enlarge into islands, which in their
turn would slowly grow and grow till they joined and formed part of
the mainland, which was slowly but steadily reclaiming its lost
domains from the retreating waters. This was my only occupation; I had
no heart to join Isidoro on his frequent hunting expeditions; the
river was my sole thought, the only topic of conversation in which I
could take any interest, and beside that everything else was of the
utmost indifference.
It was not that I had any actual fear of losing the steamer of the
30th, especially after the eighth day of our sojourn, during which the
water had fallen with such surprising quickness that the banks of the
river were in some parts beginning to uncover again. Still,
occasionally, the fact that it was just within the limits of
possibility that I might not be able to pass in time would obtrude
itself unpleasantly on my mind; and though I would immediately
triumphantly argue any such idea away, yet I felt that nothing was
absolutely sure till we were actually on the other side of the river,
and, pending that event, I was in a continual state of worry and
restlessness.
When we had been nine days at Guaraiké, as that part of Gallegos is
called by the Indians, Isidoro suggested, in view of the late rapid
fall of the water, that we should go to another pass, some forty miles
further up the river, which he thought might perhaps be fordable
before the one we were now at.
Any change was welcome to me; I had got to know and grow weary of
every line, every curve of the country, every stone almost, round our
present camp, and leaving them seemed a step towards crossing the
river. It was, therefore, with a comparatively light heart that I
helped to drive up, pack, and saddle the horses, and soon we were off
for the 'Paso del Medio,' or Middle Pass, as it is called.
As usual there was a boisterous wind blowing upon the plains, though
far colder and sharper than any we had as yet experienced. In fact,
the weather, instead of daily growing warmer, had been steadily
becoming colder and colder, and of late snow-squalls had become of
quite frequent occurrence.
Several hours' riding brought us to the Middle Pass. Before camping we
rode down to inspect the state of the water. At Guaraiké we had been
unable to approach the river itself, as all the land on our side had
been flooded over; but here at one spot the river bent in towards the
northern side of the valley, and flowed for some distance along a
steep cliff, which, of course, it could not overflow, and we were thus
enabled to go down to its very brink, which was in so far satisfactory
as it enabled us to gauge with more exactness the rise or fall of the
flood.
I drove a stake into the bank, and notched it at the water's level,
and then we went back to a bush we selected for camping under. It was
rather a small one, and, being upon the plain, was exposed to the full
force of the wind. However, it was the most suitable place we could
find, and with the aid of some drift-wood, quantities of which were
lying along the banks of the river, we managed to build up a kind of
one-walled hut, which formed a tolerable shelter against the wind. The
latter, during the whole of my stay in Patagonia, blew almost
uninterruptedly from the west, either more or less cold, according as
it came from the north-west or south-west.
That evening we ate our last biscuit; our other provisions had already
been exhausted, and henceforward we were reduced to a regimen of
guanaco and ostrich-meat, _pur et simple_, without salt even, for our
small stock of that necessary, notwithstanding careful nursing, had
also gradually thinned away. At first the results of this exclusively
meat diet were very unpleasant. However much I would eat at a
meal--and the quantity of meat I consumed at times was incredible--half
an hour afterwards I would feel as famished as if I had touched
nothing for days; in fact, I seemed to derive no nourishment at all
from my food. As time went on, however, I got more used to the change,
and soon ceased to experience so phenomenal and troublesome an
appetite, though, of course, I grew very weak, and had it not been for
the ostriches' eggs we occasionally found, and which kept up my
stamina a little, I should not have had sufficient strength to support
me through the exertions I was subsequently called upon to make.
It became quite an important event when, as now and then happened, we
managed to kill a puma, as we were then enabled to indulge in fat
meat. On these occasions, I remember, I used to feel rather disgusted
at the voracity with which we all used to gorge ourselves on the fat,
without biscuit, salt, or any other condiment. But when one passes
days and days, eating nothing but the leanest and most tasteless of
meat, and more especially in cold weather, one feels a hankering for
fat, as strong as the habitual drunkard's craving for alcohol.
The day after our arrival at the Paso del Medio, the waters commenced
to retire at a rapid pace, and such improvement shortly took place in
the state of things, that we quite looked forward to being able to
cross in three or four days.
The water had disappeared everywhere except in close vicinity to the
river, which still looked of formidable breadth, however, though its
banks were for the most part uncovered. We had had several sharp
frosts, and the weather had continued bitterly cold, to which
fortunate circumstance we attributed the corresponding speedy
abatement in the water. But now came two successive days of warm
sunshine, and, though the water still continued to fall, Isidoro grew
apprehensive of a fresh thaw taking place in the Cordilleras, before
the effects of the first flood had subsided sufficiently to allow of
our passing the river.
This new danger threatening us gave me extreme uneasiness. I had
already observed how sensitive the river was to the state of the
temperature, its fall varying in measure as the weather, in the
preceding one or two days, had been more or less cold, and I therefore
looked doubtfully forward to the morrow for the effects of the
before-mentioned comparatively warm days.
Our apprehensions were unfortunately but too well founded. The next
day I had no need to go down to examine the notch on the stake, to
find out whether the river had fallen or risen. Without leaving our
camp, which was at some distance from the valley, one could see but
too plainly that a fresh flood had taken place during the night. The
banks of the river had disappeared, and half the valley was under
water again. Thus one night had undone all the progress of several
days, and our chances of crossing the river had become as
problematical as they had been ten days ago.
This was a heavy, disheartening blow to me. Now it was indeed
difficult to foresee when we might be able to pass. Any attempt at
calculating the event was gratuitous in the face of what had just
happened. The water might rise and fall in the same manner a dozen
times. The unusual fall of snow that winter might entail, and had in
fact already entailed, unusual consequences. We might be kept waiting
for weeks, and months even, during which my friends would be kept in a
state of great anxiety and suspense as to my fate; and, apart from
these considerations, now that the charm of novelty had worn off, the
life of hardship and isolation I was leading had become extremely
distasteful to me; a deep _ennui_ fell upon me, which I could not
shake off, and which the society of my companions was not calculated
to dissipate. I impatiently longed for those refinements and
associations of civilisation, from which, at the outset of my trip, I
had thought it pleasant to escape.
Under the influence of all these feelings I resolved to attempt to
swim the river. On the first day of our arrival at Guaraiké I had
seriously entertained this plan, but I had then rejected it as being
attended with considerable danger, and also because I had hoped that
in a few days the river might be fordable. The danger was now, of
course, still greater; but the prospect of an indefinite prolongation
of my present unbearable position was so terrible that I felt ready
for any enterprise, however risky, which might free me from it.
Guillaume, to whom I communicated my intentions, thought my idea was
practicable, and declared himself ready to accompany me whenever I
chose. He, too, was anxious to get to Sandy Point for several reasons,
of which the chief one was that he had no tobacco left, and life
without it, he seemed to think, was not worth living.
It was now the 18th October, and if we crossed the river by the 26th
we had plenty of time to get to Sandy Point by the 1st November, on or
about which day the next steamer passed for Buenos Ayres. We therefore
deferred the carrying out of our plans for a few days, in order to
await a fresh fall in the water.
I felt much more tranquil now that I had made up my mind to take the
bull by the horns, and my companions were surprised at the sudden
change of my spirits, which henceforward were more cheerful and
buoyant than they had been for a long time.