Up the Rio Guaya
"How does your marvellous searchlight progress, Señor Strong?"
inquired Don Ramon Diaz.
Brian shook his head.
"Not at all well, Señor," he replied. "In fact, I'm beginning to
think I've worked myself to a standstill."
"Is that so?" said the Rioguayan, giving the Englishman a sharp
glance. "But, as a rule, one does not test searchlights by day."
"In this case one does," replied Brian. "If the combined telephone
and searchlight apparatus can be perfected--as no doubt some day it
will--you will reap the benefit. Or at least, the Republic of
Rioguay will. Regarding daylight experiments, you will agree that it
is easier to make delicate adjustments by natural light. The testing
under actual working conditions at night will be made later. But
that brings me to another point, Señor. I'm badly in want of a
holiday."
"Not a long one, I beg?"
"Oh no," replied Brian jauntily. "A week or ten days. My nephew and
I would like to have a shooting trip up the Rio Tinto."
"It is dangerous--very dangerous," declared Ramon Diaz. "And, Señor,
we do not want to lose your valuable services just yet."
"Perhaps not," rejoined the Englishman. "But there are other ways of
doing that without running risks on the Rio Tinto."
"What do you mean?" demanded the Rioguayan suspiciously.
"For instance, I might have brain fever through overwork," replied
Brian. "I feel pretty confident that on my return I can tackle the
present perplexing problem with a far better chance of success."
Ramon Diaz considered the matter. He realized that he was in a
position to refuse to grant permission. But at the same time, it was
too early to show himself in his true colours. He had to make more
use of the Englishman's undoubted skill before Rioguay was in a
position to throw down the gauntlet to the British Empire. And Señor
Strong's request was not unreasonable. He was supposed to be a free
agent in the employ of the Rioguayan Government. To thwart him might
cause trouble. He had not asked to go for a holiday to San Benito or
anywhere in that direction. He wished to go up-country into the
wilds beyond which was an impassable mountain chain, or at least
impassable except with a train of mules to carry provisions and
stores for a prolonged and perilous trek. No, there was no risk as
far as Don Ramon was concerned. The Englishman would still be a
prisoner in Rioguayan territory.
"Very good, Señor Strong," he said. "We can spare you for ten days.
I hope you have good sport. Of course, if you like, we will send
along a flying-boat to see how you fare in case your boat meets with
a mishap and you are stranded."
"I should be delighted, Señor Diaz," replied Brian, without as much
as a flicker of his eyelids. "Say in a week's time. She would be
quite able to spot us up the Rio Tinto. I do not suppose we'll
ascend for more than thirty kilometres."
The two parted, Ramon Diaz shaking hands with himself at the
prospect of being able to verify his suspicions as to what Señor
Strong's secret invention actually was; Brian chuckling with
satisfaction at the thought that he had bluffed the Rioguayan so
neatly.
Early next morning, the two Englishmen started on their dash for
freedom. The final preparations took but little time, compared with
the many hours spent in stealth to collect the essential portions of
the secret ray apparatus.
The latter, wrapped in oiled silk, were hidden in bags containing
provisions, the smaller and intricate pieces being concealed in
empty cartridge-cases and placed in Brian's ammunition belt.
They took complete camp equipment, not that they had any idea of
travelling on foot with it, but chiefly to lend colour to the
deception that they were on a shooting expedition. Heavily-soled
boots, leggings, change of socks and underclothing, sleeping-bags,
and small mosquito nets, formed their travelling luggage. For
defence and as a means of procuring food Brian carried a twelve-bore
double-barrelled shot-gun, Peter an Express magazine rifle. In
addition, they each had a 230 automatic pistol.
Brian Strong had already handed over the keys and given final
instructions to the acting manager, an intelligent Rioguayan, who
had more black blood in his veins than white.
The peons carried the gear down to the little landing-stage of the
estate, where a small half-tide backwater communicated with the wide
estuary of the Rio Guaya.
"There's our boat," announced Brian.
His nephew regarded the craft critically. He was not at all
favourably impressed. As a deep-sea sailor he had an instinctive eye
for boats. He could judge a small craft's capabilities without going
on board and rarely was his judgment at fault.
What he saw was obviously a roughly-built boat of soft wood, about
twenty feet over-all and four feet in beam. She drew about four or
five inches of water when at rest, while her freeboard seemed
decidedly excessive. Her bow and stern were straight; she had little
or no sheer, and with the exception of three feet from the bows was
entirely open. In fact, viewed broadside-on she resembled what the
Americans term a dory, but was without the characteristic sheer that
these able little boats possess.
But it was the stern with which Peter found fault. So far the
builder, whoever he might be, had made a creditable job, but for
some inexplicable reason the after part tapered off, terminating in
a transom only nine inches in width. Thus, not only was the boat
deprived of useful bearing surface aft, to lift to a following sea,
but she was additionally hampered by a heavy out-board motor clamped
to the narrow transom.
"What do you think of her?" inquired Uncle Brian.
"Not much," replied Peter bluntly. "Looks to me like a cross between
a pauper's coffin and an orange box. She'll fill in the first bit of
sea we meet."
"Not likely to do that," replied his relative. "It's all sheltered
water. We'll pile the gear for'ard. Beggars can't be choosers, and
this is the best I could pick up for the job. There's a mast and
sail; shall we take them?"
Peter shook his head emphatically.
"Unless you want to make Kingdom Come straight away, Uncle," he
said. "She's no keel, so there's no grip on the water. That idiotic
rudder on the engine's all right for what it is intended, but you
wouldn't be able to keep the boat on a wind with it. She'd broach-to
and dive right under at the first hard puff. No, scrap it."
Uncle Brian did so. He was no sailorman, and he had the common sense
not to pretend that he was. The mast and sail were handed to one of
the peons with instructions to take them back to the store, and the
work of loading up was resumed.
Ten two-gallon tins of petrol, mixed with the necessary quantity of
lubricating oil, were stowed amidships, to add to the pile of gear
already flush with the coamings.
"All aboard, Peter!" exclaimed his uncle, signing to the peons to
cast off.
The motor, like the majority of two-strokes, started only after
considerable persuasion, and the little craft was headed for the
broad waters of the Rio Guaya.
"I hope we've seen the last of El Toro, Peter," said his uncle, who
seemed utterly indifferent to the fact that his whole personal
estate had had to be abandoned. Compared with the service he hoped
to do to his country, the loss was negligible.
All day the pauper's-coffin-_cum_-orange-box was kept hard at it.
Even during the terrific midday heat, with nothing save their
broad-brimmed straw hats to shield them from the almost vertical
rays, they stuck it gamely. Their freak craft was taking them
steadily at four knots "over the ground", in spite of an adverse
current which they encountered as soon as the influence of the tide
ceased.
Well before nightfall, the boat was alone on the river. Rarely were
craft of any description to be encountered fifty miles above
Tepecicoa. Occasionally, an Indian canoe, rough-hewn from a
tree-trunk, was seen keeping discreetly close to the well-wooded
banks, but civilized Rioguay seemed to have halted sharply at a spot
where a range of low hills dipped to allow the now shallow stream to
pass on its way to the ocean.
So far, the craft that had aroused Peter's resentment had done
remarkably well. He was beginning to feel a certain amount of
confidence in her; but, he reminded himself, there had been no wind
and the water was as smooth as a mill pond.
As a matter of fact, a tornado might be blowing and the surface of
the river would be hardly ruffled, provided the wind was at right
angles to the course of the stream, for the banks were high and
deeply wooded. In places the giant vegetation almost formed a
complete archway over the river. Caymans floated idly on the water,
looking more like half-sunken logs, until the approach of the
motor-driven boat aroused them from their lethargy. Enormous eels,
some of them of the deadly electric variety, could be seen beneath
the placid surface, giving promise of a horrible death to any human
being who, by accident or design, had to take to swimming in those
cool and tranquil waters. Through the foliage came the unmistakable
signs of the presence of jaguars and panthers, while more than once
Peter caught sight of an enormous anaconda gliding over the
branches.
With death lurking in the water and in the forests on either side,
the prospect did not seem particularly alluring.
Well before sunset, the boat was run ashore on a small island,
almost destitute of trees and covered with high grass. On one side
there was a narrow sandy beach. The other sides were composed of
rock rising sheer out of the water to a height of about ten feet.
"This looks like a comfortable camping-ground," observed Uncle
Brian, as he leapt ashore and stretched his cramped legs. "According
to the map, we're only five miles below the junction of the Rio
Tinto and the Rio Guaya. I'd like to push on and get clear of the
forests for a while, but it's too risky in the dark."
"S'pose it's all right," responded his nephew, "but how about the
grass? I've no particular desire to get chawed up by a jaguar or
pipped by a snake. And if we sleep on the sand, or even in the boat,
there's a chance of a hungry alligator butting in."
"We must get sleep," declared Uncle Brian. "It is absolutely
essential at this stage of our journey. Later on we may not have the
opportunity. We'll keep watch-and-watch. As an extra precaution, I
think we'll fire this grass."
"Don't forget we've gallons and gallons of petrol on the boat,"
Peter reminded him.
"By Jove, yes," agreed his uncle. "All right, Peter, you push off in
the boat until the grass has burned itself out. It won't be very
long."
Peter took to the oars and rowed the "orange-box" well out into the
stream. Brian Strong struck a match and applied it to the sun-dried
grass. The result exceeded his expectations. The flames literally
ran, throwing orange-coloured tongues of fire fifty feet in the air.
The heat was terrific. Although he retreated to the water's edge,
with twenty yards of sand between him and the edge of the
conflagration, Brian could barely stand his ground.
It was a nasty predicament. To shout to Peter to bring the boat in
would probably result in the petrol exploding, since the sparks were
flying to wind'ard, which was what Brian Strong had thought he had
guarded against. To attempt to swim off was equally hazardous, owing
to the presence of the deadly electric eels.
The flames died down almost as quickly as they had shot up, although
on the furthermost side of the island the fire was burning even more
fiercely than before.
In a quarter of an hour the place was thoroughly cleared of animal
and vegetable life, the bare rock showing through the diminishing
wreaths of smoke from the smouldering timber.
"We've cleared out the mosquitoes at all events," declared Peter, as
he rejoined his uncle and once more made the boat secure. "S'pose
this packet will be all right in case of a shift of wind?"
"We're sheltered," declared Uncle Brian. "The only wind that can
hurt us is a southerly one. That's very rare in this district; it's
the Norther that plays up Old Harry.... Right-o, you turn in. I'll
keep watch till midnight; that's another five hours. We'll make a
start at dawn."
Clearing away a space amidships, Peter lay down in the boat and was
soon sound asleep, his strange surroundings notwithstanding. In
fact, it seemed to him that he had only just dropped off when his
uncle roused him.
"Half-past twelve, Peter," he announced.
Peter had been used to keeping Middle Watch, but, if the truth be
told, he would have infinitely preferred the bridge of a British
cruiser at 1 a.m. to the stretch of sand on the edge of the
fire-devastated island.
It was not pitch-dark. A dank mist hung over the river, blotting out
the tree-clad banks on either hand. Overhead, the stars shone dimly
through the drifting pall of vapour. The air reeked with noxious
odours of decaying vegetation mingled with the sickly smell from the
burnt grass.
From the depths of the forests came unmistakable sounds to indicate
that the never-ceasing war between the various denizens was being
briskly prosecuted. The shrill cries of a colony of monkeys, their
rest suddenly disturbed by a hungry puma, the death-cry of a deer,
crushed to the ground by the irresistible weight of a leaping
jaguar; the squeal of agony of some luckless animal seized in the
act of drinking on the riverbank, by the powerful jaws of a
cayman--these were but a few of the noises that disturbed the
silence of the tropical night.
The river flowed silently past the rocky islet on which the
Englishmen were camping, but even the river contributed to the
disturbing factors. Ever and again there was a sullen splash, as a
semi-torpid alligator collided with another of his kind.
A little later on--it must have been about two in the morning--Peter
noticed several dark objects drifting downstream. At first he
thought that they were caymans, until one of them, hitching upon a
submerged rock, revealed itself as a huge tree trunk. Swinging
round, the massive log fouled another projection. Quickly a second
trunk drifted against the first, then another, and yet another,
until the "jam" assumed gigantic proportions, extending from
midstream to within ten or twelve yards from the sandy beach of the
little island.
Suddenly, from the rapidly increasing raft, a lithe shape leapt
shorewards. Its leap was insufficient to clear the intervening
space. It fell into the water and commenced swimming for the island.
Before Peter could grasp the situation and level his rifle, the
animal rushed past him at a distance less than fifty paces, and with
a cat-like bound gained the high rocky ground and disappeared from
view.
It was a jaguar, one of the most formidable and cunning animals of
the South American forests. And now the brute, possibly ravenous
from its prolonged stay on the floating log, was marooned on a
barren islet. In such circumstances it would not hesitate to attack
man.
It was no exaggeration to say that Peter "had the wind up"--badly.
The bare rock eight feet high and less than twenty feet from the
boat, offered an excellent "take off" for a hungry jaguar. Yet Peter
hesitated to rouse his relative. Although he was in a blue funk, it
struck him that it was a far greater admission of fear to have to
acknowledge the fact. Very cautiously, he laid down his rifle and
took up the double-barrelled shot-gun, reasoning that with a heavy
charge of buck-shot he stood a better chance of dealing with the
huge feline than with a rifle.
Then, with his face to the menacing wall of rock, and with the gun
held at the "ready", Peter prepared for the coming attack, since he
felt certain that the jaguar would take the offensive.
From that moment he had no knowledge of the passing of time. It
seemed an hour, perhaps more, before the tension was relaxed.
Somewhere on his right he felt certain that there was something
moving. In the misty starlight he could discern, as he turned his
head, a long, writhing object moving over the sand. At first he took
the creature to be a large eel, but soon he was certain that the
thing was a huge serpent.
It was only ten paces off when Peter brought the gun to his shoulder
and pressed the left trigger. The weapon clicked harmlessly. He
pressed the right trigger. The result was the same.
Dropping the useless weapon, Peter grasped the previously discarded
rifle. A vivid flash stabbed the night air, followed by a sharp
report that sent myriads of birds fluttering in terror from the
trees on the river banks.
Whether the bullet took effect or not Peter could not tell, but the
reptile slewed round and with almost incredible rapidity made for
the rocky wall of the island.
"Hello! What's wrong?" inquired Uncle Brian, awake in a moment.
Peter briefly outlined the situation.
"H'm!" ejaculated his uncle. "Seems to me that we've chosen a sort
of animal casual ward for our camp. Two misfires? Where's my torch?"
The electric torch was soon forthcoming. Brian Strong picked up the
gun and ejected both cartridges. On examination the caps in their
bases showed no sign of a blow.
Brian said nothing, but thought the more.
He placed the double-barrelled weapon in the boat and unfastened the
flap of his automatic holster.
"Almost wish we'd carried on," he remarked at length. "At all
events----"
A crumbling, swirling sound interrupted his remarks. The "jam" that
had been steadily and almost silently mounting up for the last hour
or more had suddenly given way. The pent-up waters had forced the
barrier of logs from the rocks that had impeded their progress, and
now in a smother of foam the accumulated floating timber was
speeding on its way.
"No," continued Uncle Brian. "I think we'd better hang on where we
are. We'll make a fire to cheer us up, though."