already climbing into the same tree. Seeing itself intercepted on both
sides, the tamandua began crawling up towards the topmost branches. But
Munday was too quick for it, and springing after, with the agility of a
cat, he caught hold of it by one of the hind-legs. Being an animal
insignificant in size, and apparently in strength, the spectator
supposed he would speedily have dragged it down. In this however they
were mistaken, not taking account of the power in its fore-limbs and
tail.
Notwithstanding the tapuyo exerted all his strength, he could not detach
it from the tree; and even when assisted by his companion, was only able
to get the fore-legs free. The tail, lapped several times around a
limb, resisted all their efforts. But Munday cut the clinging tail with
his knife, leaving two or three of its rings around the branch. Then,
twisting the stump around his wrist, he swung the animal back against
the trunk with a force that deprived it at once of strength and life.
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.
ROAST ANT-EATER.
Instead of returning to the tree, the Indian and Richard swam directly
to the dead-wood, where they were quickly joined by the rest of the
party. Although the dead-wood was as hard as any other wood, and to
sleep upon it would be like sleeping on a plank, still it would give
them the feeling of security; so, as if by general consent, though
nothing was said, they stretched themselves along the trunk, and were
soon fast asleep.
The old Indian, tough as the sipos of his native forests, seemed as if
he could live out the remainder of his life without another wink of
sleep; and when the rest of his companions were buried in profound
repose, he was engaged in an operation that required both energy and the
most stoical patience. In a place where the bark was dry, he had picked
out a small circular cavity, beside which he had placed some withered
leaves and dead twigs collected from the tree that spread its branches
above. Kneeling over this cavity, he thrust down into it a straight
stick, that had been cut from some species of hard wood, and trimmed
clear of knots or other inequalities, twirling it between the palms of
his hands so as to produce a rapid motion, now one way, now the other.
In about ten minutes a smoke appeared, and soon after sparks were seen
among the loose dust that had collected from the friction. Presently
the sparks, becoming thicker, united into a flame; and then, dropping
the straight stick, he hastily covered the hole with the dry leaves and
chips, and, blowing gently under them, was soon cheered by a blaze, over
which a cook with even little skill might have prepared a tolerable
dinner. This had been Munday's object; and as soon as he saw his fire
fairly under way, without dressing or trussing the game,--not even
taking the hide off,--he laid the tamandua across the fire, and left it
to cook in its skin.
It was not the first time by scores that Munday had make that repast,
known among Spanish-Americans as _carne con cuero_. He now proceeded to
prevent the spreading of the flames. The dead-wood around was dry as
tinder. Stripping off the cotton shirt that, through every vicissitude,
still clung to his shoulders, he leant over the side of the floating
log, and dipped it for several minutes under the water. When well
soaked, he drew it up again, and taking it to the spot where the fire
was crackling, he wrung the water out in a circle around the edge of his
hearth. When the tamandua was done brown, he then awakened his
companions, who were astonished to see the fire, with the bronzed body
of the Indian, nude to the waist, squatting in front of it,--to hear the
crackling of sticks, the loud sputtering of the roast, and the hissing
of the water circle that surrounded the hearth. But the savour that
filled the air was very agreeable. They accepted his invitation to
partake of the repast, which was found greatly to resemble roast goose
in taste; and in an inconceivably short time only the bones of the
ant-eater, and these clean picked, could be seen upon the ceiba.
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.
THE JUAROUa.
Postponing till the next day the task of making a canoe out of their
log, the party soon betook themselves to rest again; but they had been
slumbering only about an hour when a low whimpering noise made by the
monkey awoke Tipperary Tom, close to whose ear the animal had squatted
down. Its master raised himself up, and, leaning upon his elbow, looked
out over the Gapo. There was nothing but open water, whose smooth
surface was shining like burnished gold under the beams of the setting
sun. He turned toward the trees. He saw nothing there,--not so much as
a bird moving among the branches. Raising his head a little higher, and
peeping over the edge of the dead-wood, "It's thare is it, the somethin'
that's scyarin' ye?" he said to his pet. "An' shure enough there is a
somethin' yandher. There's a `purl' upon the wather, as if some
crayther was below makin' a disturbance among the weeds. I wondther
what it is!"
At length the creature whose motion he had observed, whatever it was,
came near enough for him to obtain a full view of it; and though it was
neither a snake nor a crocodile, still it was of sufficiently formidable
and novel appearance to cause him a feeling of fear. In shape it
resembled a seal; but in dimensions it was altogether different, being
much larger than seals usually are. It was full ten feet from snout to
tail, and of a proportionate thickness of body. It had the head of a
bull or cow, with a broad muzzle, and thick, overhanging lip, but with
very small eyes; and instead of ears, there were two round cavities upon
the crown of its head. It had a large, flat tail, not standing up like
the tail of a fish, but spread in a horizontal direction, like that of a
bird. Its skin was smooth, and naked of hairs, with the exception of
some straggling ones set thinly over it, and some tufts resembling
bristles radiating around its mouth and nostrils. The skin itself was
of a dull leaden hue, with some cream-coloured spots under the throat
and along the belly. It had also a pair of flippers, more than a foot
in length, standing out from the shoulders, with a teat in front of
each, and looking like little paddles, with which the huge creature was
propelling itself through the water, just as a fish uses its fins or a
man his arms.
The Irishman did not stay to note half of these characteristics, but
hastily woke Munday, crying, "What is it? O what is it?"
The Indian, rousing himself, looked round for a moment dreamily, and
then, as he caught sight of the strange object, replied, "Good fortune!
it is the _juaroua_."
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.
A FISH-COW AT PASTURE.
The Irishman was no wiser for Munday's answer, "The juaroua."
"But what is it?" he again asked, curious to learn something of the
creature. "Is it a fish or a quadruped?"
"A _peixe-boi_,--a _peixe-boi_!" hurriedly answered the tapuyo. "That's
how the whites call it. Now you know."
"But I don't, though, not a bit betther than before. A pikes-boy!
Troth, it don't look much like a pike at all, at all. If it's a fish av
any kind, I should say it was a sale. O, luk there, Munday! Arrah, see
now! If it's the owld pike's boy, yandher's the young wan too. See, it
has tuk howlt av the tit, an' 's sucking away like a calf! An' luk! the
old wan has got howlt av it with her flipper, an' 's kapin' it up to the
breast! Save us! did hever I see such a thing!"
The sight was indeed one to astonish the Irishman, since it has from all
time astonished the Amazonian Indians themselves, in spite of its
frequency. They cannot understand so unusual a habit as that of a fish
suckling its young; for they naturally think that the peixe-boi is a
fish, instead of a cetacean, and they therefore continue to regard it
with curious feelings, as a creature not to be classified in the
ordinary way.
"Hush!" whispered the Indian, with a sign to Tom to keep quiet. "Sit
still! make no noise. There's a chance of our capturing the juaroua,--a
good chance, now that I see the _juaroua-i_ [little one] along with it.
Don't wake the others yet. The juaroua can see like a vulture, and hear
like an eagle, though it has such little eyes and ears. Hush!"
The peixe-boi had by this time got abreast of the dead-wood, and was
swimming slowly past it. A little beyond there was a sort of bay,
opening in among the trees, towards which it appeared to be directing
its course, suckling the calf as it swam.
"Good," said Munday, softly. "I guess what it's going after up there.
Don't you see something lying along the water?"
"Yes; but it's some sort av wather-grass."
"That's just it."
"An' what would it want wid the grass? Yez don't mane to till me it
ates grass?"
"Eats nothing else, and this is just the sort it feeds on. Very like
that's its pasturing place. So much the better if it is, because it
will stay there till morning, and give me a chance to kill it."
"But why can't yez kill it now?" said Tom.
"For want of a proper weapon. My knife is of no use. The juaroua is
too cunning to let one come so near. If it come back in the morning, I
will take care to be ready for it. From it we can get meat enough for a
long voyage. See, it has begun to browse!"
Sure enough it had, just as the Indian said, commenced pasturing upon
the long blades of grass that spread horizontally over the surface; and
just as a cow gathers the meadow sward into her huge mouth, at intervals
protruding her tongue to secure it, so did the great water cow of the
Amazon spread her broad lips and extend her rough tongue to take in the
floating herbage of the Gapo.
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.
THE PASHUBA SPEAR.
Munday was now prepared to set out on a little exploring excursion, as
he said; so, enjoining upon Tom, who was determined to awake the
sleepers that they might share the sight of the feeding fish-cow, to
keep them all strictly quiet until his return, he slipped softly into
the water and swam noiselessly away.
The enforced silence was tedious enough to the party, who were all eager
to talk about the strange spectacle they saw, and it would surely have
been soon broken, had not the Indian returned with a new object for
their curiosity. He had stolen off, taking with him only his knife. At
his reappearance he had the knife still with him, and another weapon as
well, which the knife had enabled him to procure. It was a staff of
about twelve feet in length, straight as a rush, slightly tapering, and
pointed at the end like a spear. In fact, it _was_ a spear, which he
had been manufacturing during his hour of absence out of a split stem of
the _pashuba_ palm. Not far off he had found one of these trees, a
water-loving species,--the _Martea exorhuza_,--whose stems are supported
upon slanting roots, that stand many feet above the surface of the soil.
With the skill known only to an Amazonian Indian in the use of a
knife-blade, he had split the pashuba, (hard as iron on the outside, but
soft at the heart,) and out of one of the split pieces had he hastily
fashioned his spear. Its point only needed to be submitted to fire, and
then steel itself would not serve better for a spear-head. Fortunately
the hearth was not yet cold. A few red cinders smouldered by the wet
circle, and, thrusting his spear point among them, the Indian waited for
it to become hardened. When done to his satisfaction, he drew it out of
the ashes, scraped it to a keen point with the blade of his knife, and
then announced himself ready to attack the juaroua.
The amphibious animal was yet there, its head visible above the bed of
grass upon which it was still grazing. Munday, while rejoiced at the
circumstance, expressed himself also surprised at it. He had not been
sanguine of finding it on his return with the spear, and, while
fabricating the weapon, he had only been encouraged by the expectation
that the peixe-boi, if gone away for the night, would return to its
grazing ground in the morning. As it was now, it could not have
afforded him a better opportunity for _striking_ it. It was reclining
near the surface, its head several inches above it, and directly under a
large tree, whose lower limbs, extending horizontally, almost dropped
into the water. If he could but get unperceived upon one of those
limbs, it would be an easy matter to drive the spear into its body as
far as his strength would enable him.
If any man could swim noiselessly through the water, climb silently into
the tree, and steal without making sound along its limbs, that man was
the Mundurucu. In less time than you could count a thousand, he had
successfully accomplished this, and was crouching upon a limb right over
the cow. In an instant his spear was seen to descend as the spectators
were expecting it to do; but to their astonishment, instead of striking
the body of the peixe-boi, it pierced into the water several feet from
the snout of the animal! What could it mean? Surely the skilled
harpooner of fish-cattle could not have made such a stray stroke.
Certainly he had not touched the cow! Had he speared anything?
"He's killed the calf!" cried Tipperary Tom. "Luk yandher! Don't yez
see its carcass floatin' in the wather?"
Still the spectators could not understand it. Why should the calf have
been killed, which would scarce give them a supper, and the cow spared,
that would have provisioned the whole crew for a month? Why had the
chance been thrown away? Was it thrown away? They only thought so,
while expecting the peixe-boi to escape. But they were quickly
undeceived. They had not reckoned upon the strong maternal instincts of
that amphibious mother,--instincts that annihilate all sense of danger,
and prompt a reckless rushing upon death in the companionship or for the
protection of the beloved offspring. It was too late to protect the
tiny creature, but the mother recked not of this. Danger deterred her
not from approaching it again and again, each time receiving a fresh
stab from that terrible stick, until, with a long-drawn sigh, she
expired among the sedge.
These animals are extremely tenacious of life, and a single, thrust from
such a weapon as he wielded would only have put the peixe-boi to flight,
never to be encountered again. The harpoon alone, with its barbed head
and floats, can secure them for a second strike; and not being provided
with this weapon, nor the means of making it, the old tapuyo knew that
his only chance was to act as he had done. Experience had made him a
believer in the affection of the animal, and the result proved that he
had not mistaken its strength.
CHAPTER SEVENTY.
CURING THE FISH-COW.
Nothing was done for that night. All slept contentedly on the
dead-wood, which next day became the scene of a series of curious
operations. This did not differ very much from the spectacle that might
be witnessed in the midst of the wide ocean, when whalemen have struck
one of the great leviathans of the deep, and brought their ship
alongside for the purpose of cutting it up.
In like manner as the whale is "flensed," so was the fish-cow, Munday
performing the operation with his knife, by first skinning the creature,
and then separating the flesh into broad strips or steaks, which were
afterwards make into _charqui_, by being hung up in the sun.
Previous to this, however, many "griskins"--as Tom called them--had been
cut from the carcass, and, broiled over the fire kindled upon the log,
had furnished both supper and breakfast to the party. No squeamishness
was shown by any one. Hunger forbade it; and, indeed, whether with
sharp appetites or not, there was no reason why they should not relish
one of the most coveted articles of animal food to be obtained in
Amazonia. The taste was that of pork; though there were parts of the
flesh of a somewhat coarser grain, and inferior in flavour to the real
dairy-fed pig.
The day was occupied in making it ready for curing, which would take
several days' exposure under the hot sun. Before night, however, they
had it separated into thin slices, and suspended upon a sort of
clothes-line, which, by means of poles and sipos, Munday had rigged upon
the log. The lean parts alone were to be preserved, for the fat which
lies between these, in thick layers of a greenish colour and fishy
flavour, is considered rather strong for the stomach,--even of an Indian
not over nice about such matters. When a peixe-boi has been harpooned
in the usual manner, this is not thrown away, or wasted. Put into a
proper boiling-pot, it yields a very good kind of oil,--ten or twelve
gallons being obtained from an individual of the largest and fattest
kind.
In the present instance, the fat was disregarded and flung back into the
flood, while the bones, as they were laid bare, were served in a similar
fashion. The skin, however, varying from an inch in thickness over the
back, to half an inch under the abdomen, and which Munday had removed
with considerable care, was stowed away in a hollow place upon the log.
Why it was kept, none of the others could guess. Perhaps the Indian
meant it as something to fall back upon in the event of the charqui
giving out.
It was again night by the time the cow-skin was deposited in its place,
and of course no journey could be attempted for that day. On the morrow
they intended to commence the voyage which it was hoped would bring them
to the other side of the lagoa, if not within sight of land. As they
ate their second supper of _amphibious steaks_, they felt in better
spirits than for many days. They were not troubled with hunger or
thirst; they were not tortured by sitting astride the branches of a
tree; and the knowledge that they had now a craft capable of carrying
them--however slow might be the rate--inspired them with pleasant
expectations. Their conversation was more cheerful than usual, and
during the after-supper hour it turned chiefly on the attributes and
habits of the strange animal which Munday had so cleverly dissected.
Most of the information about its habits was supplied by the Indian
himself, who had learned them by personal experience; though many points
in its natural history were given by the patron, who drew his knowledge
of it from books. Trevannion told them that a similar creature--though
believed to be of a different species--was found in the sea; but
generally near to some coast where there was fresh water flowing in by
the estuary of a river. One kind in the Indian seas was known by the
name of _dugong_, and another in the West Indies as the _manati_ or
_manatee_,--called by the French _lamantin_. The Spaniards also know it
by the name of _vaca marina_ (sea-cow), the identical name given by the
Dutch of the Cape Colony to the hippopotamus,--of course a very
different animal.
The manati is supposed to have been so named from its fins, or flippers,
bearing some resemblance to the hands of a human being,--in Spanish,
_manos_,--entitling it to the appellation of the "handed" animal. But
the learned Humboldt has shown that this derivation would be contrary to
the idiom of the Spanish language, which would have made the word
_manudo_ or _manon_, and not _manati_. It is therefore more likely that
this name is the one by which it was known to the aborigines of the
southern coast of Cuba, where the creature was first seen by the
discoverers of America. Certain it is that the sea species of the West
Indies and the Guianian coast is much larger than that found in the
Amazon and other South American rivers; the former being sometimes found
full twenty feet in length, while the length of the fish-cow of South
America rarely reaches ten.
Here Munday took up the thread of the discourse, and informed the circle
of listeners that there were several species of juaroua--this was the
name he gave it--in the waters of the Amazon. He knew of three kinds,
that were distinct, not only in size, but in shape,--the difference
being chiefly observable in the fashion of the fins and tail. There was
also some difference in their colour,--one species being much lighter in
hue than the others, with a pale cream-coloured belly; while the abdomen
of the common kind is of a slaty lead, with some pinkish white spots
scattered thinly over it.
A peculiar characteristic of the peixe-boi is discovered in if lungs,--
no doubt having something to do with its amphibious existence. These,
when taken out of the animal and inflated by blowing into them, swell up
to the lightness and dimensions of an India-rubber swimming-belt; so
that, as young Richard observed while so inflating them, they could
spare at least one set of the sapucaya-shells, if once more compelled to
take to the water.
Munday gave a very good account of the mode practised in capturing the
juaroua, not only by the Indians of his own tribe, but by all others in
the Amazon valley. The hunter of the peixe-boi--or fisher, as we should
rather call him--provides himself with a _montaria_ (a light canoe) and
a harpoon. He rows to the spot where the creature may be expected to
appear,--usually some solitary lagoon or quiet spot out of the current,
where there is a species of grass forming its favourite food. At
certain hours the animal comes thither to pasture. Sometimes only a
single individual frequents the place, but oftener a pair, with their
calves,--never more than two of the latter. At times there may be seen
a small herd of old ones.
Their enemy, seated in his canoe, awaits their approach in silence; and
then, after they have become forgetful of all save their enjoyment of
the succulent grass, he paddles up to them. He makes his advances with
the greatest caution; for the fish-cow, unlike its namesake of the
farm-yard, is a shy and suspicious animal. The plunge of the paddle, or
a rude ripple of the water against the sides of the montaria, would
frighten it from its food, and send it off into the open water, where it
could not be approached.
The occupant of the canoe is aware of this, and takes care not to make
the slightest disturbance, till he has got within striking distance. He
then rises gently into a half-crouching attitude, takes the measure of
the distance between him and his victim, and throws his harpoon with
unerring aim. A line attached to the shaft of the weapon secures the
wounded animal from getting clear away. It may dive to the bottom, or
rush madly along the surface, but can only go so far as that terrible
tether will allow it, to be dragged back towards the montaria, where its
struggles are usually terminated by two or three thrusts of a spear.
The sport, or, more properly speaking, the trade, of harpooning this
river cetacean, is followed by most of the Amazonian Indians. There is
not much of it done during the season of the floods. Then the animals,
becoming dispersed over a large surface of inundated forest, are seen
only on rare occasions; and a chase specially directed to discover them
would not repay the trouble and loss of time. It is when the floods
have fallen to their lowest, and the lagoas or permanent ponds of water
have contracted to their ordinary limits, that the harpooning of the
fish-cow becomes profitable. Then it is followed as a regular pursuit,
and occupies the Indian for several weeks in the year.
Sometimes a lagoon is discovered in which many of these creatures have
congregated,--their retreat to the main river having been cut off by the
falling of the floods. On such occasions the tribe making the discovery
reaps a plentiful harvest, and butchering becomes the order of the day.
The malocca, or village, is for the time deserted; all hands--men,
women, children, and curs--moving off to the lagoa, and making their
encampment upon its edge. They bring with them boiling-pots, for trying
out the oil, and jars to contain it, and carry it to the port of
commerce; for, being of a superior quality, it tempts the Portuguese
trader to make long voyages up many remote tributaries where it is
obtained.
During these grand fisheries there is much feasting and rejoicing. The
"jerked" flesh of the animal, its skin, and, above all, its valuable
oil, are exchanged for knives, pigments, trinkets, and, worse still, for
_cashaca_ (rum). The last is too freely indulged in; and the fishing
rarely comes to a close without weapons being used in a manner to bring
wounds, and often death.
As the old Mundurucu had been present at many a hunt of the fish-cow, he
was able to give a graphic account of the scenes he had witnessed, to
which his companions on the log listened with the greatest attention.
So interested were they, that it was not till near midnight that they
thought of retiring to rest.
CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.
A SAIL OF SKIN.