Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Afloat in the Forest
A Voyage among the Tree-Tops
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by Ticknor and Fields, Boston.
This edition dated 1867.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE BROTHERS AT HOME.
Twenty years ago, not twenty miles from the Land's End, there lived a
Cornish gentleman named Trevannion. Just twenty years ago he died,
leaving to lament him a brace of noble boys, whose mother all three had
mourned, with like profound sorrow, but a short while before.
"Squire" Trevannion, as he was called, died in his own house, where his
ancestors for hundreds of years before him had dispensed hospitality.
None of them, however, had entertained so profusely as he; or rather
improvidently, it might be said, since in less than three months after
his death the old family mansion, with the broad acres appertaining to
it, passed into the hands of an alien, leaving his two sons, Ralph and
Richard, landless, houseless, and almost powerless. One thousand pounds
apiece was all that remained to them out of the wreck of the patrimonial
estates. It was whispered that even this much was not in reality
theirs, but had been given to them by the _very respectable_ solicitor
who had managed their father's affairs, and had furthermore _managed_ to
succeed him in the ownership of a property worth a rental of three
thousand a year.
Any one knowing the conditions under which the young Trevannions
received their two thousand pounds must have believed it to be a gift,
since it was handed over to them by the family solicitor with the
private understanding that they were to use it in pushing their fortunes
elsewhere,--anywhere except in Cornwall!
The land-pirate who had plucked them--for in reality had they been
plucked--did not wish them to stay at home, divested, as they were, of
their valuable plumage. He had appropriated their fine feathers, and
cared not for the naked bodies of the birds.
There were those in Cornwall who suspected foul play in the lawyer's
dealings with the young Trevannions, among others, the victims
themselves. But what could they, do? They were utterly ignorant of
their late father's affairs,--indeed, with any affairs that did not
partake of the nature of "sports." A solicitor "most respectable,"--a
phrase that has become almost synonymous with rascality,--a regular
church-goer,--accounts kept with scrupulous exactness,--a man of honest
face, distinguished for probity of speech and integrity of heart,--what
could the Trevannions do? What more than the Smiths and the Browns and
the Joneses, who, notwithstanding their presumed greater skill in the
ways of a wicked lawyer world, are duped every day in a similar manner.
It is an old and oft-repeated story,--a tale too often told, and too
often true,--that of the family lawyer and his confiding client,
standing in the relationship of robber and robbed.
The two children of Squire Trevannion could do nothing to save or
recover their paternal estate. Caught in the net of legal chicanery,
they were forced to yield, as other squires' children have had to do,
and make the best, of a bad matter,--forced to depart from a home that
had been held by Trevannions perhaps since the Phoenicians strayed
thitherward in search of their shining tin.
It sore grieved them to separate from the scenes of their youth; but the
secret understanding with the solicitor required that sacrifice. By
staying at home a still greater might be called for,--subsistence in
penury, and, worse than all, in a humiliating position; for,
notwithstanding the open house long kept by their father, his friends
had disappeared with his guests. Impelled by these thoughts, the
brothers resolved to go forth into the wide world, and seek fortune
wherever it seemed most likely they should find it.
They were at this period something more than mere children. Ralph had
reached within twelve months of being twenty. Richard was his junior by
a couple of years. Their book-education had been good; the practice of
manly sports had imparted to both of them a physical strength that
fitted them for toil, either of the mind or body. They were equal to a
tough struggle, either in the intellectual or material world; and to
this they determined to resign themselves.
For a time they debated between themselves where they should go, and
what do. The army and navy came under their consideration. With such
patronage as their father's former friends could command, and might
still exert in favour of their fallen fortunes, a commission in either
army or navy was not above their ambition. But neither felt much
inclined towards a naval or military life; the truth being, that a
thought had taken shape in their minds leading them to a different
determination.
Their deliberations ended by each of them proclaiming a resolve,--almost
sealing it with a vow,--that they would enter into some more profitable,
though perhaps less pretentious, employment than that of either
soldiering or sailoring; that they would toil--with their hands, if need
be--until they should accumulate a sufficient sum to return and recover
the ancestral estate from the grasp of the avaricious usurper. They did
not know how it was to be done; but, young, strong, and hopeful, they
believed it might be done,--with time, patience, and industry to aid
them in the execution.
"Where shall we go?" inquired Richard, the younger of the two. "To
America, where every poor man appears to prosper? With a thousand each
to begin the world with, we might do well there. What say you, Ralph?"
"America is a country where men seem to thrive best who have _nothing_
to begin the world with. You mean North America,--the United States,--I
suppose?"
"I do."
"I don't much like the United States as a home,--not because it is a
republic, for I believe that is the only just form of government,
whatever our aristocratic friends may say. I object to it simply
because I wish to go south,--to some part of the tropical world, where
one may equally be in the way of acquiring a fortune."
"Is there such a place?"
"There is."
"Where, brother?"
"Peru. Anywhere along the Sierra of the Andes from Chili to the Isthmus
of Panama. As Cornish men we should adopt the specialty of our
province, and become miners. The Andes mountains will give us that
opportunity, where, instead of grey tin, we may delve for yellow gold.
What say you to South America?"
"I like the thought of South America,--nothing would please me better
than going there. But I must confess, brother, I have no inclination
for the occupation you speak of. I had rather be a merchant than a
miner."
"Don't let that _penchant_ prevent you from selecting Peru as the scene
of mercantile transactions. There are many Englishmen who have made
fortunes in the Peruvian trade. You may hope to follow their example.
We may choose different occupations and still be near each other. One
thousand pounds each may give both of us a start,--you as a merchant of
goods, I as a digger for gold. Peru is the place for either business.
Decide, Dick! Shall we sail for the scenes rendered celebrated by
Pizarro?"
"If you will it--I'm agreed."
"Thither then let us go."
In a month from that time the two Trevannions might have been seen upon
a ship, steering westward from the Land's End, and six months later both
disembarked upon the beach of Callao,--_en route_ first for Lima, thence
up the mountains, to the sterile snow-crested mountains, that tower
above the treasures of Cerro Pasco,--vainly guarded within the bosom of
adamantine rocks.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE BROTHERS ABROAD.
Ralph and Richard Trevannion. If it were so, a gap of some fifteen
years--after the date of their arrival at Cerro Pasco--would have to be
filled up. I decline to speak of this interval of their lives, simply
because the details might not have any remarkable interest for those
before whom they would be laid.
Suffice it to say, that Richard, the younger, soon became wearied of a
miner's life; and, parting with his brother, he crossed the Cordilleras,
and descended into the great Amazonian forest,--the "montana," as it is
called by the Spanish inhabitants of the Andes. Thence, in company with
a party of Portuguese traders, he kept on down the river Amazon, trading
along its banks, and upon some of its tributary streams; and finally
established himself as a merchant at its mouth, in the thriving "city"
of Gran Para.
Richard was not unsocial in his habits; and soon became the husband of a
fair-haired wife,--the daughter of a countryman who, like himself, had
established commercial relations at Para. In a few years after, several
sweet children called him "father,"--only two of whom survived to
prattle in his ears this endearing appellation, alas! no longer to be
pronounced in the presence of their mother.
Fifteen years after leaving the Land's End, Richard Trevannion, still
under thirty-five years of age, was a widower, with two children,--
respected wherever known, prosperous in pecuniary affairs,--rich enough
to return home, and spend the remainder of his days in that state so
much desired by the Sybarite Roman poet,--"otium cum dignitate."
Did he remember the vow mutually made between him and his brother, that,
having enough money, they would one day go back to Cornwall, and recover
the ancestral estate? He did remember it. He longed to accomplish this
design, he only awaited his brother's answer to a communication he had
made to him on this very subject.
He had no doubt that Ralph's desire would be in unison with his own,--
that his brother would soon join him, and then both would return to
their native land,--perhaps to dwell again under the same roof that had
sheltered them as children.
The history of the elder brother during this period of fifteen years, if
less eventful, was not less distinguished by success. By steadily
following the pursuit which had first attracted him to Peru, he
succeeded in becoming a man of considerable means,--independent, if not
wealthy.
Like his brother, he got married at an early period,--in fact, within
the first year after establishing himself in Cerro Pasco. Unlike the
latter, however, he chose for his wife one of the women of the
country,--a beautiful Peruvian lady. She too, but a short while before,
had gone to a better world, leaving motherless two pretty children, of
twelve and fourteen years of age,--the elder of the two being a
daughter.
Such was the family of Ralph Trevannion, and such the condition of life
in which his brother's epistle reached him,--that epistle containing the
proposal that they should wind lip their respective businesses, dispose
of both, and carry their gains to the land that had given them birth.
The proposition was at once accepted, as Richard knew it would be. It
was far from the first time that the thing had been discussed,
epistolary fashion, between them; for letters were exchanged as often as
opportunity permitted,--sometimes twice or thrice in the year.
In these letters, during the last few years of their sojourn in South
America, the promise made on leaving home was mutually mentioned, and as
often renewed on either side. Richard knew that his brother was as
eager as himself to keep that well-remembered vow.
So long as the mother of Ralph's children was alive, he had not urged
his brother to its fulfilment; but now that she had been dead for more
than a year, he had written to say that the time had come for their
return to their country and their home.
His proposal was, that Ralph, having settled his affairs in Peru,--
which, of course, included the selling out of his share in the mines,--
should join him, Richard, at Para, thence to take ship for England.
That instead of going round by Cape Horn, or across the Isthmus, by
Panama, Ralph should make the descent of the great Amazon River, which
traverse would carry him latitudinally across the continent from west to
east.
Richard had two reasons for recommending this route. First, because he
wished his brother to see the great river of Orellana, as he himself had
done; and secondly, because he was still more desirous that his _own
son_ should see it.
How this last wish was to be gratified by his brother making the descent
of the Amazon, may require explanation; but it will suffice to say that
the son of Richard Trevannion was at that time residing with his uncle
at the mines of Cerro Pasco.
The boy had gone to Peru the year before, in one of his father's
ships,--first, to see the Great Ocean, then the Great Andes,--afterwards
to become acquainted with the country of the Incas, and last, though not
of least importance, to make the acquaintance of his own uncle and his
two interesting cousins, the elder of whom was exactly his own age. He
had gone to the Pacific side by _sea_. It was his father's wish he
should return to the Atlantic side by land,--or, to speak more
accurately, by _river_.
The merchant's wish was to be gratified. The miner had no desire to
refuse compliance with his proposal. On the contrary, it chimed in with
his own inclinations. Ralph Trevannion possessed a spirit adventurous
as his brother's, which fourteen years of mining industry, carried on in
the cold mountains of Cerro Pasco, had neither deadened nor chilled.
The thought of once more returning to the scenes of his youth quite
rejuvenated him; and on the day of receiving his brother's challenge to
go, he not only accepted it, but commenced proceedings towards carrying
the design into execution.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A month afterwards and he might have been seen descending the eastern
slope of the Cordilleras on mule-back, and accompanied by his family and
followers; afterwards aboard a _balsa_,--one of those curious crafts
used in the descent of the Huallaga; and later still on the _montaria_,
upon the bosom of the great river itself.
With the details of his mountain travels, interesting as they may be, we
have naught to do. No more with his descent of the Huallaga, nor his
long voyage on the Amazon itself, in that up-river portion of the stream
where it is called the "Maranon." Only where it becomes the stupendous
"Solimoes" do we join Ralph Trevannion on his journey, and remain with
him as long as he is "Afloat in the Forest," _or making a voyage among
the tree-tops_.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE GALATEA.
On an evening in the early part of December, a craft of singular
construction might have been seen descending the Solimoes, and
apparently making for the little Portuguese port of Coary, that lies on
the southern side of the river.
When we say of singular construction, we mean singular to one
unaccustomed to the navigation of Amazonian waters. There the craft in
question was too common to excite curiosity, since it was nothing more
than a _galatea_, or large canoe, furnished with mast and sail, with a
palm-thatched cabin, or _toldo_, rising over the quarter, a low-decked
locker running from bow to midships,--along each side of which were to
be seen, half seated, half standing, some half-dozen dark-skinned men,
each plying, instead of an oar, a paddle-blade.
Perhaps the most singular sight on board this embarkation was the group
of animated beings who composed its crew and passengers. The former, as
already stated, were dark-skinned men scantily clad,--in fact, almost
naked, since a single pair of white cotton drawers constituted the
complete costume of each.
For passengers there were three men, and a like number of individuals of
younger age. Two of the men were white, apparently Europeans; the other
was as black as soot could have made him,--unquestionably an African
negro. Of the young people two were boys, not much differing in size,
and apparently not much in age, while the third was a half-grown girl,
of dark complexion, raven-coloured hair, and beautiful features.
One of the white men appeared to be, and was, the proprietor of the
montaria, and the employer of its swarthy crew. He was Ralph
Trevannion.
The young girl was his daughter, and bore her Peruvian mother's name,
Rosa, more often pronounced by its diminutive of endearment, Rosita.
The younger of the two boys--also of dark complexion--was his son Ralph;
while the older, of true Saxon physiognomy and hue, was the son of his
brother, also bearing his father's Christian name, Richard.
The second white man was unmistakably of European race,--so much so that
any one possessing the slightest knowledge of the Hibernian type would
at once have pronounced him a "Son of the Sod." A pure pug nose, a
shock of curled hair of the clearest carrot colour, an eternal twinkle
in the eye, a volume of fun lying open at each angle of the mouth, were
all characteristics by which "Tipperary Tom"--for such was his
_sobriquet_--might be remembered.
About the negro there was nothing special, more than that he was a pure
negro, with enormously thick lips, flattened nose, long protruding
heels, teeth white as hippopotamus ivory, and almost always set in a
good-humoured grin. The darkey had been a sailor, or rather
ship-steward, before landing in Peru. Thither had he strayed, and
settled at Cerro Pasco after several years spent aboard ship. He was a
native of Mozambique, on the eastern coast of Africa, to which
circumstance was he indebted for the only name ever given him,--Mozey.
Both he and the Irishman were the servants of the miner, or rather his
retainers, who served him in various ways, and had done so almost ever
since his establishing himself among the rocks of Cerro Pasco.
The other creatures of the animated kingdom that found lodgment upon the
craft were of various shapes, sizes, and species. There were
quadrupeds, quadrumana, and birds,--beasts of the field, monkeys of the
forest, and birds of the air,--clustering upon the cabin top, squatted
in the hold, perched upon the gangway, the toldo, the yard, and the
mast,--forming an epitomised menagerie, such as may be seen on every
kind of craft that navigates the mighty Amazon.
It is not our design to give any description of the galatea's crew.
There were nine of them,--all Indians,--four on each side acting as
rowers, or more properly "paddlers," the ninth being the pilot or
steersman, standing abaft the toldo.
Our reason for not describing them is that they were a changing crew,
only attached to the craft for a particular stage of the long river
voyage, and had succeeded several other similar sets since the
embarkation of our voyagers on the waters of the upper Amazon. They had
joined the galatea at the port of Ega, and would take leave of her at
Coary, where a fresh crew of civilised Indians--"tapuyos"--would be
required.
And they _were_ required, but not obtained. On the galatea putting into
the port of Coary, it was found that nearly every man in the place was
off upon a hunting excursion,--turtle and cow-fish being the game that
had called them out. Not a canoe-man could be had for love or money.
The owner of the galatea endeavoured to tempt the Ega crew to continue
another stage. It was contrary to their habit, and they refused to go.
Persuasion and threats were tried in vain. Coaxing and scolding proved
equally unavailable; all except one remained firm in their refusal, the
exception being an old Indian who did not belong to the Ega tribe, and
who could not resist the large bribe offered by Trevannion.
The voyagers must either suspend their journey till the Coary
turtle-hunters should return, or proceed without paddlers. The hunters
were not expected for a month. To stay a month at Coary was out of the
question. The galatea must go on manned by her own people, and the old
Indian who was to act as pilot. Such was the determination of Ralph
Trevannion. But for that resolve,--rash as it was, and ending
unfortunately for him who made it,--we should have no story to tell.
CHAPTER FOUR.
DRIFTING WITH THE CURRENT.
The craft that carried the ex-miner, his family and following, once more
floated on the broad bosom of the Solimoes. Not so swift as before,
since, instead of eight paddlers, it was now impelled by only half the
number,--these, too, with less than half the experience of the crew who
had preceded them.
The owner himself acted as steersman, while the paddles were plied by
"Tipperary Tom," Mozey, the old Indian,--who, being of the Mundurucu
tribe, passed by the name of "Munday,"--and Richard Trevannion.
The last, though by far the youngest, was perhaps the best paddler in
the party. Brought up in his native place of Gran Para, he had been
accustomed to spend half his time either in or upon the water; and an
oar or paddle was to him no novelty.
Young Ralph, on the contrary, a true mountaineer, knew nothing of
either, and therefore counted for nothing among the crew of the galatea.
To him and the little Rosa was assigned the keeping of the pets, with
such other light duties as they were capable of performing.
For the first day the voyage was uninterrupted by any incident,--at
least any that might be called unpleasant. Their slow progress, it is
true, was a cause of dissatisfaction; but so long as they were going at
all, and going in the right direction, this might be borne with
equanimity. Three miles an hour was about their average rate of speed;
for half of which they were indebted to the current of the river, and
for the other half to the impulsion of their paddles.
Considering that they had still a thousand miles to go before reaching
Gran Para, the prospect of a protracted voyage was very plainly outlined
before them.
Could they have calculated on making three miles an hour for every hour
of the twenty-four, things would not have been bad. This rate of speed
would have carried them to their destination in a dozen days,--a mere
bagatelle. But they knew enough of river-navigation to disregard such
data. They knew the current of the Solimoes to be extremely slow; they
had heard of the strange phenomenon, that, run which way the river
might, north, south, east, or west,--and it _does_ keep bending and
curving in all these directions,--the wind is almost always met with
blowing _up stream_!
For this reason they could put no dependence in their sail, and would
have to trust altogether to the paddles. These could not be always in
the water. Human strength could not stand a perpetual spell, even at
paddles; and less so in the hands of a crew of men so little used to
them.
Nor could they continue the voyage at night. By doing so, they would be
in danger of losing their course, their craft, and themselves!
You may smile at the idea. You will ask--a little scornfully, perhaps--
how a canoe, or any other craft, drifting down a deep river to its
destination, could possibly go astray. Does not the current point out
the path,--the broad waterway not to be mistaken?
So it might appear to one seated in a skiff, and floating down the
tranquil Thames, with its well-defined banks. But far different is the
aspect of the stupendous Solimoes to the voyager gliding through its
_Capo_.
I have made use of a word of strange sound, and still stranger
signification. Perhaps it is new to your eye, as your oar. You will
become better acquainted with it before the end of our voyage; for into
the "Gapo" it is my intention to take you, where ill-luck carried the
galatea and her crew.
On leaving Coary, it was not the design of her owner to attempt taking
his craft, so indifferently manned, all the way to Para. He knew there
were several civilised settlements between,--as Barra at the mouth of
the Rio Negro, Obidos below it, Santarem, and others. At one or other
of these places he expected to obtain a supply of _tapuyos_, to replace
the crew who had so provokingly forsaken him.
The voyage to the nearest of them, however, would take several days, at
the rate of speed the galatea was now making; and the thought of being
delayed on their route became each hour more irksome. The ex-miner, who
had not seen his beloved brother during half a score of years, was
impatient once more to embrace him. He had been, already, several
months travelling towards him by land and water; and just as he was
beginning to believe that the most difficult half of the journey had
been accomplished, he found himself delayed by an obstruction vexatious
as unexpected.
The first night after his departure from Coary, he consented that the
galatea should lie to,--moored to some bushes that grew upon the banks
of the river.
On the second night, however, he acted with less prudence. His
impatience to make way prompted him to the resolution to keep on. The
night was clear,--a full moon shining conspicuously above, which is not
always the case in the skies of the Solimoes.
There was to be no sail set, no use made of the paddles. The crew were
fatigued, and wanted rest and repose. The current alone was to favour
their progress; and as it appeared to be running nearly two miles an
hour, it should advance them between twenty and thirty miles before the
morning.
The Mundurucu made an attempt to dissuade his "patron" from the course
he designed pursuing; but his advice was disregarded,--perhaps because
ill-understood,--and the galatea glided on.
Who could mistake that broad expanse of water--upon which the moon shone
so clearly--for aught else than the true channel of the Solimoes? Not
Tipperary Tom, who, in the second watch of the night,--the owner himself
having kept the first,--acted as steersman of the galatea.
The others had gone to sleep. Trevannion and the three young people
under the toldo; Mozey and the Mundurucu along the staging known as the
"hold." The birds and monkeys were at rest on their respective perches,
and in their respective cages,--all was silent in the galatea, and
around,--all save the rippling of the water, as it parted to the
cleaving of her keel.
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE GALATEA AGROUND.
Little experienced as he was in the art of navigation, the steersman was
not inattentive to his duty. Previously to his taking the rudder, he
had been admonished about the importance of keeping the craft in the
channel of the stream, and to this had he been giving his attention.
It so chanced, however, that he had arrived at a place where there were
two channels,--as if an island was interposed in the middle of the
river, causing it to branch at an acute angle. Which of these was the
right one? Which should be taken? These were the questions that
occurred to Tipperary Tom.
At first he thought of awakening his master, and consulting him, but on
once more glancing at the two channels, he became half convinced that
the broader one must be the proper route to be followed.
"Bay Japers!" muttered he to himself. "Shure I can't be mistaken. The
biggest av the two ought to be the mane sthrame. Anyway, I won't wake
the masther. I'll lave it to the ship to choose for hersilf." Saying
this he relaxed his hold upon the steering oar, and permitted the
galatea to drift with the current.
Sure enough, the little craft inclined towards the branch that appeared
the broader one; and in ten minutes' time had made such way that the
other opening was no longer visible from her decks. The steersman,
confident of being on the right course, gave himself no further
uneasiness; but, once more renewing his hold upon the steering oar,
guided the galatea in the middle of the channel.
Notwithstanding all absence of suspicion as to having gone astray, he
could not help noticing that the banks on each side appeared to be
singularly irregular, as if here and there indented by deep bays, or
reaches of water. Some of these opened out vistas of shining surface,
apparently illimitable, while the dark patches that separated them
looked more like clumps of trees half-submerged under water than
stretches of solid earth.
As the galatea continued her course, this puzzling phenomenon ceased to
be a conjecture; Tipperary Tom saw that he was no longer steering down a
river between two boundary banks, but on a broad expanse of water,
stretching as far as eye could reach, with no other boundary than that
afforded by a _flooded forest_.
There was nothing in all this to excite alarm,--at least in the mind of
Tipperary Tom. The Mundurucu, had he been awake, might have shown some
uneasiness at the situation. But the Indian was asleep,--perhaps
dreaming of some Mura enemy,--whose head he would have been happy to
embalm.
Tom simply supposed himself to be in some part of the Solimoes flooded
beyond its banks, as he had seen it in more places than one. With this
confidence, he stuck faithfully to his steering oar, and allowed the
galatea to glide on. It was only when the reach of water--upon which
the craft was drifting--began to narrow, or rather after it had narrowed
to a surprising degree, that the steersman began to suspect himself of
having taken the wrong course.
His suspicions became stronger, at length terminating in a conviction
that such was the truth, when the galatea arrived at a part where less
than a cable's length lay between her beam-ends and the bushes that
stood out of the water on both sides of her. Too surely had he strayed
from the "mane sthrame." The craft that carried him could no longer be
in the channel of the mighty Solimoes!
The steersman was alarmed, and this very alarm hindered him from
following the only prudent course he could have taken under the
circumstances. He should have aroused his fellow-voyagers, and
proclaimed the error into which he had fallen. He did not do so. A
sense of shame at having neglected his duty, or rather at having
performed it in an indifferent manner,--a species of regret not uncommon
among his countrymen,--hindered him from disclosing the truth, and
taking steps to avert any evil consequences that might spring from it.
He knew nothing of the great river on which they were voyaging. There
_might_ be such a strait as that through which the galatea was gliding.
The channel might widen below; and, after all, he might have steered in
the proper direction. With such conjectures, strengthened by such
hopes, he permitted the vessel to float on.
The channel _did_ widen again; and the galatea once more rode upon open
water. The steersman was restored to confidence and contentment. Only
for a short while did this state of mind continue. Again the clear
water became contracted, this time to a very strip, while on either side
extended reaches and estuaries, bordered by half-submerged bushes,--some
of them opening apparently to the sky horizon, wider and freer from
obstruction than that upon which the galatea was holding her course.
The steersman no longer thought of continuing his course, which he was
now convinced must be the wrong one. Bearing with all his strength upon
the steering oar, he endeavoured to direct the galatea back into the
channel through which he had come; but partly from the drifting of the
current, and partly owing to the deceptive light of the moon, he could
no longer recognise the latter, and, dropping the rudder in despair, he
permitted the vessel to drift whichever way the current might carry her!
Before Tipperary Tom could summon courage to make known to his
companions the dilemma into which he had conducted them, the galatea had
drifted among the tree-tops of the flooded forest, where she was
instantly "brought to anchor."
The crashing of broken boughs roused her crew from their slumbers. The
ex-miner, followed by his children, rushed forth from the toldo. He was
not only alarmed, but perplexed, by the unaccountable occurrence. Mozey
was equally in a muddle. The only one who appeared to comprehend the
situation was the old Indian, who showed sufficient uneasiness as to its
consequences by the terrified manner in which he called out: "The Gapo!
The Gapo!"
CHAPTER SIX.
THE MONKEY-POTS.
"The Gapo?" exclaimed the master of the craft. "What is it, Munday?"
"The Gapo?" repeated Tipperary Tom, fancying by the troubled expression
on the face of the Indian that he had conducted his companions toward
some terrible disaster. "Phwat is it, Manday?"
"Da Gapoo?" simultaneously interrogated the negro, the whites of his
eyeballs shining in the moonlight. "What be dat?"
The Mundurucu made reply only by a wave of his hand, and a glance around
him, as if to say, "Yes, the Gapo; you see we're in it."
The three interrogators were as much in the dark as ever. Whether the
Gapo was fish, flesh, or fowl, air, fire, or water, they could not even
guess. There was but one upon the galatea besides the Indian himself
who knew the signification of the word which had created such a
sensation among the crew, and this was young Richard Trevannion.
"It's nothing, uncle," said he, hastening to allay the alarm around him;
"old Munday means that we've strayed from the true channel of the
Solimoes, and got into the flooded forest,--that's all."
"The flooded forest?"
"Yes. What you see around us, looking like low bushes, are the tops of
tall trees. We're now aground on the branches of a _sapucaya_,--a
species of the Brazil-nut, and among the tallest of Amazonian trees.
I'm right,--see! there are the nuts themselves!" As the young Paraense
spoke, he pointed to some pericarps, large as cocoa-nuts, that were seen
depending from the branches among which the galatea had caught.
Grasping one of them in his hand, he wrenched it from the branch; but as
he did so, the husk dropped off, and the prism-shaped nuts fell like a
shower of huge hailstones on the roof of the _toldo_. "Monkey-pots
they're called," continued he, referring to the empty pericarp still in
his hand. "That's the name by which the Indians know them; because the
monkeys are very fond of these nuts."
"But the Gapo?" interrupted the ex-miner, observing that the expressive
look of uneasiness still clouded the brow of the Mundurucu.
"It's the Indian name for the great inundation," replied Richard, in the
same tranquil tone. "Or rather I should say, the name for it in the
_lingoa-geral_."
"And what is there to fear? Munday has frightened us all, and seems
frightened himself. What is the cause?"
"That I can't tell you, uncle. I know there are queer stories about the
Gapo,--tales of strange monsters that inhabit it,--huge serpents,
enormous apes, and all that sort of thing. I never believed them,
though the _tapuyos_ do; and from old Munday's actions I suppose he puts
full faith in them."
"The young patron is mistaken," interposed the Indian, speaking a patois
of the _lingoa-geral_. "The Mundurucu does not believe in monsters. He
believes in big serpents and monkeys,--he has seen them."
"But shure yez are not afeerd o' them, Manday?" asked the Irishman.
The Indian only replied by turning on Tipperary Tom a most scornful
look.
"What is the use of this alarm?" inquired Trevannion. "The galatea does
not appear to have sustained any injury. We can easily get her out of
her present predicament, by lopping off the branches that are holding
her."
"Patron," said the Indian, still speaking in a serious tone, "it may not
be so easy as you think. We may get clear of the tree-top in ten
minutes. In as many hours--perhaps days--we may not get clear of the
Gapo. That is why the Mundurucu shows signs of apprehension."
"Ho! You think we may have a difficulty in finding our way back to the
channel of the river?"
"Think it, patron! I am too sure of it. If not, we shall be in the
best of good luck."
"It's of no use trying to-night, at all events," pursued Trevannion, as
he glanced uncertainly around him. "The moon is sinking over the
tree-tops. Before we could well get adrift, she'll be gone out of
sight. We might only drift deeper into the maze. Is that your opinion,
Munday?"
"It is, patron. We can do no good by leaving the place to-night. Wiser
for us to wait for the light of the sun."
"Let all go to rest, then," commanded the patron, "and be ready for work
in the morning. We need keep no lookout, I should think. The galatea
is as safe here as if moored in a dry dock. She is _aground_, I take
it, upon the limb of a tree! Ha! ha! ha!"
The thought of such a situation for a sailing craft--moored amid the
tops of a tall tree--was of so ludicrous a nature as to elicit a peal of
laughter from the patron, which was echoed by the rest of the crew, the
Mundurucu alone excepted. His countenance still preserved its
expression of uneasiness; and long after the others had sunk into
unconscious sleep, he sat upon the stem of the galatea, gazing out into
the gloom, with glances that betokened serious apprehension.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE GAPO.
The young Paraense had given a correct, although not sufficiently
explicit, account of the sort of place in which the galatea had gone
"aground."
That singular phenomenon known as the _Gapo_ (or _Ygapo_), and which is
one of the most remarkable characteristics of the great Amazonian
region, demands a more detailed description. It is worthy of this, as a
mere study of physical geography,--perhaps as pleasant a science as any;
and furthermore, it is here absolutely necessary to the understanding of
our tale. Without some comprehension of the circumstances that
surrounded them, the hardships and sufferings endured, the adventures
accomplished, and the perils passed by the crew of the strayed galatea,
would appear as so many fabulous inventions, set forth to stimulate and
gratify a taste for the merely marvellous. Young reader, this is not
the aim of your author, nor does he desire it to be the end. On the
contrary, he claims to draw Nature with a verisimilitude that will
challenge the criticism of the naturalist; though he acknowledges a
predilection for Nature in her wildest aspects,--for scenes least
exposed to the eye of civilisation, and yet most exposed to its doubting
incredulity.
There are few country people who have not witnessed the spectacle of a
piece of woodland inundated by the overflow of a neighbouring stream.
This flood is temporary; the waters soon subside into their ordinary
channel, and the trees once more appear growing out of _terra firma_,
with the green mead spreading on all sides around them. But a flooded
forest is a very different affair; somewhat similar in character indeed,
but far grander. Not a mere spinney of trees along the bank of a small
stream; but a region extending beyond the reach of vision,--a vast tract
of primeval woods,--the tall trees submerged to their very tops, not for
days, nor weeks, but for months,--ay, some of them forever! Picture to
your mind an inundation of this kind, and you will have some idea of the
Gapo.
Extending for seventeen hundred miles along the banks of the Solimoes,
now wider on the northern, now stretching farther back from the southern
side, this semi-submerged forest is found, its interior almost as
unknown as the crater-like caverns of the moon, or the icy oceans that
storm or slumber round the Poles,--unknown to civilised man, but not
altogether to the savage. The aboriginal of Amazonia, crouching in his
canoe, has pierced this water-land of wonders. He could tell you much
about it that is real, and much that is marvellous,--the latter too
often pronounced fanciful by lettered _savans_. He could tell you of
strange trees that grow there, bearing strange fruits, not to be found
elsewhere,--of wonderful quadrupeds, and _quadrumana_, that exist only
in the Gapo,--of birds brilliantly beautiful, and reptiles hideously
ugly; among the last the dreaded dragon serpent, "Sucuruju." He could
tell you, moreover, of creatures of his own kind,--if they deserve the
name of man,--who dwell continuously in the flooded forest, making their
home on scaffolds among the tree-tops, passing from place to place in
floating rafts or canoes, finding their subsistence on fish, on the
flesh of the _manatee_, on birds, beasts, reptiles, and insects, on the
stalks of huge water-plants and the fruits of undescribed trees, on
monkeys, and sometimes upon _man_! Such Indians as have penetrated the
vast water-land have brought strange tales out of it. We may give
credence to them or refuse it; but they, at least, are firm believers in
most of the accounts which they have collected.
It is not to be supposed that the Gapo is impenetrable. On the
contrary, there are several well-known waterways leading through it,--
well-known, I mean, to the Indians dwelling upon its borders, to the
_tapuyos_, whose business it is to supply crews for the galateas of the
Portuguese traders, and to many of these traders themselves. These
waterways are often indicated by "blazings" on the trees, or broken
branches, just as the roads are laid out by pioneer settlers in a North
American forest; and but for these marks, they could not be followed.
Sometimes, however, large spaces occur in which no trees are to be seen,
where, indeed, none grow. There are extensive lakes, always under
water, even at the lowest ebb of the inundation. They are of all sizes
and every possible configuration, from the complete circle through all
the degrees of the ellipse, and not unfrequently in the form of a belt,
like the channel of a river running for scores of miles between what
might readily be mistaken for banks covered with a continuous thicket of
low bushes, which are nothing more than the "spray" of evergreen trees,
whose roots lie forty feet under water!
More frequently these openings are of irregular shape, and of such
extent as to merit the title of "inland seas." When such are to be
crossed, the sun has to be consulted by the canoe or galatea gliding
near their centre; and when he is not visible,--by no means a rare
phenomenon in the Gapo,--then is there great danger of the craft
straying from her course.
When within sight of the so-called "shore," a clump of peculiar form, or
a tree topping over its fellows, is used as a landmark, and often guides
the navigator of the Gapo to the _igarita_ of which he is in search.
It is not all tranquillity on this tree-studded ocean. It has its fogs,
its gales, and its storms,--of frequent occurrence. The canoe is oft
shattered against the stems of gigantic trees; and the galatea goes
down, leaving her crew to perish miserably in the midst of a gloomy
wilderness of wood and water. Many strange tales are told of such
mishaps; but up to the present hour none have received the permanent
record of print and paper.
Be it _our_ task to supply this deficiency.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE ECHENTE.
It would not be true to say that the crew of the galatea were up with
the sun. There was no sun to shine upon the gloomy scene that revealed
itself next morning. Instead, there was a fog almost thick enough to be
grasped with the hand. They were astir, however, by the earliest
appearance of day; for the captain of the galatea was too anxious about
his "stranded" craft to lie late abed.
They had no difficulty in getting the vessel afloat. A strong pull at
the branches of the sapucaya, and then an adroit use of the paddles,
carried the craft clear.
But what was the profit of this? Once out in the open water, they were
as badly off as ever. Not one of them had the slightest idea of the
direction they would take, even supposing they could find a clear course
in any direction! A consultation was the result, in which all hands
took part, though it was evident that, after the patron, most deference
was paid to the Mundurucu. The young Paraense stood next in the scale
of respect; while Tipperary Tom, beyond the account which he was called
upon to give of his steersmanship, was not permitted to mingle his
Hibernian brogue in the discussion.
Where was the river? That was the first problem to be solved, and of
this there appeared to be no possible solution. There was no sun to
guide them, no visible sky. Even had there been both, it would scarce
have mended the matter. The steersman could not tell whether, on
straying from the channel, he had drifted to the south or the north, the
east or the west; and, indeed, an intellect less obtuse than that of
Tipperary Tom might have been puzzled upon the point. It has been
already mentioned, that the Solimoes is so tortuous as to turn to every
point of the compass in its slow course. The mere fact that the moon
was shining at the time could be of little use to Tipperary Tom, whose
astronomy had never extended beyond the knowledge that there was a moon.
Where lay the river? The interrogatory was repeated a score of times,
without receiving a satisfactory answer; though every one on board--the
little Rosita excepted--ventured some sort of reply, most, however,
offering their opinion with a doubting diffidence. The Mundurucu,
although repeatedly appealed to, had taken small part in the discussion,
remaining silent, his eyes moodily wandering over the water, seeking
through the fog for some clue to their escape from the spot.
No one plied the paddles; they had impelled her out of sight of the
sapucaya, now shrouded in the thick fog; but, as it was useless paddling
any farther, all hands had desisted, and were now resting upon their
oars. At this moment it was perceived that the galatea was in motion.
The Mundurucu was the first to notice it; for his attention had for some
time been directed to such discovery. For this reason had he cast his
searching glances, now down into the turbid waters, and now out through
the murky atmosphere. A thicket was discernible through the fog, but
every moment becoming less distinct. Of course it was only a collection
of tree-tops; but whatever it was, it soon became evident that the
galatea was very slowly receding from it. On discovering this, the
Mundurucu displayed signs of fresh animation. He had been for some
minutes lying upon his face, craning out over the gangway, and his long
withered arms submerged in the water. The others occupied themselves in
guessing what he was about; but their guesses had been to no purpose.
Equally purposeless had appeared the actions of the Indian; for, after
keeping his arm under water for a period of several minutes, he drew it
in with a dissatisfied air, and once more arose to his feet. It was
just then that he perceived the tree-tops, upon which he kept his eyes
sharply fixed, until assured that the galatea was going away from them.
"_Hoola_!" he exclaimed, attempting to imitate the cry he had more than
once heard issuing from the lips of Tipperary Tom. "_Hoola_! the river
is out there!" As he spoke, he pointed towards the tree-tops.
It was the first confident answer to the all-important question.
"How can you tell that, Munday?" inquired the captain of the craft.
"How tell, patron? How tell day from night, the moon from the sun, fire
from water? The Solimoes is there." The Indian spoke with his arm
still extended in the direction of the trees.
"We are willing to believe you," rejoined Trevannion, "and will trust to
your guidance; but pray explain yourself."
"It's all guess-work," interpolated Tipperary Tom. "Ould Munday knows
no more av fwat he's talkin' about than Judy Fitzcummons's mother. I'll
warrant ye we come in from the t'other side."
"Silence, Tom!" commanded his master. "Let us hear what Munday has to
say. _You_ have no right to contradict him."
"Och, awance! An Indyen's opinion prefarred before that ov a freeborn
Oirishman! I wondher what nixt." And as Tipperary completed his
chapter of reproaches, he slank crouchingly under the shadow of the
_toldo_.
"So you think the river is there?" said Trevannion, once more addressing
himself to the Mundurucu.
"The Mundurucu is sure of it, patron. Sure as that the sky is above
us."
"Remember, old man! It won't do for us to make any mistake. No doubt
we've already strayed a considerable distance from the channel of the
Solimoes. To go again from it will be to endanger our lives."
"The Mundurucu knows that," was the laconic reply.
"Well, then, we must be satisfied of the fact, before we can venture to
make a move. What proof can you give us that the river lies in that
direction?"
"Patron! You know the month? It is the month of March."
"Certainly it is. What of that?"
"The _echente_."
"The _echente_? What is that?"
"The flood getting bigger. The water on the rise,--the Gapo still
growing,--that is the _echente_."
"But how should that enable you to determine the direction of the
river?"
"It has done so," replied the Indian. "Not before three months--in
June--will come the _vasante_."
"The _vasante_?"