Fermin rapidly learnt how to cook and prepare turtles in the various native ways, to which he added devices of his own, reminiscent of the preparation of other meats and dishes in his native province.
The change of diet was most welcome at first, but after the fourth or fifth day the very name of turtle was revolting. Fermin was told that, if nothing else but turtle was to be found, we preferred to fall back on boiled rice and casabe. Relying, however, on his ability and the protean plasticity of turtle meat, he insisted on serving some of it as wild-boar flesh, and only upon a formal threat of shooting, or being left tied to the trunk of a tree along the shore, like a new Andromache, did he cease his attempts to deceive our palates. Thus, notwithstanding the plentiful supply of turtles and turtle eggs, we drifted back to the diet of casabe, boiled fish and boiled rice.
We had hoped to strike some cattle-farm, but we scanned the horizon in vain. The plains and the forests rolled before our eyes, an interminable blank for our purposes.
Finally, as everything happens at last, our expectation was gratified; near the confluence of our old friend the Meta with the Orinoco, we came upon a cattle-ranch where we obtained corn, molasses, eggs, lard, cheese, coffee, and the whole side of a recently slaughtered heifer.
I can readily understand that persons of a delicate taste, should they happen to read these awkwardly penned lines, must feel disgusted at the recurrence of such vulgar and material details. Their amazement will certainly be great, for in all probability they will be surrounded by all the comforts and the luxury of civilized life. There is no harsher censor of the misdeeds or faults arising out of somebody else’s hunger than the drowsy philosopher who passes judgment in a comfortable armchair after a plentiful meal; his untempted rectitude makes him the austerest critic of failings and weaknesses in others. However, the opinion of those immaculate beings, with their hot-house virtue, safe from wind and wet behind glass panes, receives precisely the attention it deserves.
Still, I admit that, after having crossed those regions, it were better if I could describe what I saw in a series of pen-pictures which would unroll before the reader in sequence or harmonious groups the numerous sublime aspects of Nature; it were far better that, even as the essence retains the perfume of the flower, the written word should convey to other minds the deep impression left upon my own by the mysterious murmuring forest, the invisible wind whose breath so often cooled my forehead, the constant throb of the wandering waves pent within their narrow channels, the infinite azure of the sky, and the numberless sounds and rumours, now soft, now deafening, which fill the air in that world still free from the burden of civilization, living the life of untrodden Nature, a link in the endless chain of existence ravening on death, with the great drama of being made manifest in a thousand diverse shapes.
Happy were I could I seize one single note from that vast symphony, capture it, and fix it with my words! Vain wishes!
We passed from those solitudes, leaving no more trace behind us than the clouds in the sky, and although the impression of the greatness and the majesty of Nature sank deeply into my heart, so that at times my soul, returning to the days of the past, loses itself in the depths of the forests and the summits of the mountains, follows the course of the rivers, or bathes itself in the pure atmosphere of the free and boundless plain, whenever I seek to utter my inmost feelings, so that others may feel and understand with me, only the faintest shadow of my thought falls on the blank page. The gift of seeing and of feeling, and of creating what we have felt and seen so that others in their turn may feel a similar impression, has been given by the Almighty only to those few chosen artists and men of genius who throw upon the work which they create ‘the light that never was on land or sea.’ I must perforce limit myself to the humble narrative of our daily life. I have no higher ambition in writing these pages, and I shall be fortunate if I meet with readers who understand my motive.
The schooner took us down to La Urbana (a settlement with urban pretensions); it boasts some adobe houses covered with tiles, and a small church. Here we abandoned the schooner, and were obliged to take to a far smaller canoe—large enough, however, for navigation on the Orinoco—in which we proceeded to Caicara, where we expected to meet the steamers plying between Ciudad Bolivar and the Apure River.
CHAPTER XVIII
The journey from La Urbana to Caicara passed off without any incident. On jumping ashore at this latter point we hoped that we were leaving our canoes for good, and that the rest of the journey to Ciudad Bolivar would take place by steam.
The people received us very kindly, and, though the town was far from modern or rich, we enjoyed some comforts that we had lacked during the long journey which lay behind us.
Though eight weeks had passed since the news of the death of the Governor of San Carlos had reached Maipures, nothing was known about it at Caicara. This will give an idea of the abandonment in which those vast territories are left by those under whose political authority they live. Grave international complications with the neighbouring States might arise from disturbances like that at San Carlos, and yet the news had only come down by mere chance, brought by travellers who had no personal interest in it.
Finding that there was no certainty as to the steamers likely to touch at Caicara, we reluctantly decided to take again to the slow and sure method of canoeing, rather than wait for him who had not promised to come, and thus we proceeded on our journey in the same canoes that we had imagined we were abandoning once for all two days before. A feeling of discontent began to possess us. It was not that we were dissatisfied with the kind of life, nor that we had become over-sensitive to the privations inherent to it, nor that we complained of being plain squires compelled to adopt the practices of knight-errants, such as not eating off linen, nor sleeping on comfortable couches, nor under roof of house or mansion; no, our great longing arose at the thought of those far away in the civilized world, to whom our long silence must necessarily be a source of anxiety. For the rest, however, the life we were leading had become a sort of second nature, and we found it by no means disagreeable. We ate with healthy appetites, and when night came, stretched on our matting, we heedlessly let the wind fold its wings or shriek into madness, whilst the river either murmured gently along like a stream across the green meadow or lashed into fury like a lion.
We rowed or sailed as the river and the wind permitted, gaining ground without the loss of an available minute, with the tenacity of one who has a given task to accomplish, and wants to perform it with the least possible delay. One night, shortly after halting, a shudder of delight ran through us on hearing one of the men exclaim, ‘Steamer coming!’ We turned in the direction pointed out by him, but saw nothing. However, we had learnt by that time to trust to the keener senses of the natives. Shortly afterwards, with ear to ground, we heard, or thought we heard, a far-off indistinct vibration as of the paddles of a steamer striking the water. The sound soon became unmistakable. Here was an unexpected redemption. From sheer joy we ceased the preparations for our evening meal. To attract the attention of those on board the steamer the bonfires were piled up high, and, to leave no possible loophole to adverse fate, Alex and four of the men sailed into mid-stream, so as to be quite close to the craft. Soon it loomed majestic and welcome to our eyes. The pennant of whitish smoke rose in the still blue night, and floated as a signal of welcome. The boat advanced steadily; we could see the people on board. That rather undersized vessel was to us, for the moment, the great in fact, the only—steamer in the world. We fired our revolvers. Alex and his men bawled themselves hoarse. No sign of recognition came from the steamer as she ploughed on swiftly, relentlessly, disdainfully, soon to be lost in the distance. This was wanton cruelty, and, as we thought at the time, a sin against human nature. Our feelings were not such as might be commended to the attention and imitation of Sunday-school children! Our language was decidedly ‘unfit for publication.’ According to the reckoning of our men, which events proved accurate, we should require twelve days more to reach Ciudad Bolivar, whilst the steamer, sailing day and night as it could, even against the breeze, would cover the distance in forty-eight or sixty hours. It is well that we possessed no magic powers enabling us to destroy, as if with a thunder-bolt, for in that case the steamer would not have reached its destination. So it generally happens in life when the action of others foils our little plans or obstructs our way. Looking solely to our own side of the question, we are apt to make no allowance, and attribute to utter perversity what from the standpoint of the other side may be perfectly reasonable. As revolutions are frequent in those latitudes, and as steamers had on several occasions been seized by parties of men ambushed on the shore, the captain of the steamer probably thought that prudence and caution were his safest guides. He may have believed that, besides the small group which he saw in the canoe and on the shore, a formidable host might be lurking in the forest, and under those circumstances his behaviour is perfectly intelligible.
As we approached the end of our journey, our impatience and anxiety grew keener. Up to that time we had never lost our equanimity, and now, when we could reckon with a fair degree of accuracy the date of our arrival at Ciudad Bolivar, the smallest obstacle or detention irritated us beyond measure. Yet all things end. On April 20 we arrived at a small outlying village three hours from Ciudad Bolivar.
Our approach to a civilized community awakened slumbering feelings of vanity, and for the first time during many months we bethought ourselves of our appearance. I had an authentic mane on my head; our beards were thick and bushy as the jungle on the banks of the river. Such clothes as we had could hardly have passed muster under the eyes of the most lenient critic. Most of those that we possessed at starting had been left behind amongst the Indians, in payment of work, and what little remained had not been improved by the moisture of the climate. On taking stock, I soon found that my dress coat and trousers—evolved by some London artist—were the only decent clothes left to me; yet I could not screw up courage to don them, as I feared that if, after several months’ journey through the wildest regions of South America, I jumped ashore at noonday on the banks of the Orinoco in a swallow-tail, the authorities would probably provide me with free board and lodging in some cool lunatic asylum! We consoled ourselves with the thought that we were clean, and thus near to godliness, and that we could soon replace our patched and tattered clothes at Ciudad Bolivar.
I have forgotten to mention our visit to the cattle estates of General Crespo, at that time President of Venezuela, a typical son of the llanos. These estates had a frontage of twenty-five leagues along the river, and extend Heaven only knows how far into the interior. The manager, or major-domo, told us that the herds on those estates numbered upwards of 200,000 head of cattle. The figure appears fantastic, but the fact that at that time 1,500 three-year-old bullocks were exported monthly to the neighbouring West India Island, principally Trinidad, may serve as a basis for calculation.
On that eventful 20th of April the breeze blew tantalizingly against us, yet we would not be detained, and decided to advance in its very teeth. The men jumped ashore and pulled the canoes with ropes. The city, built as upon a terrace, soon appeared in the distance, its white, red-roofed houses standing out under the clear sky like dabs of paint upon a blue canvas. Behind the town the hill continued to rise, and opposite the city the river itself, encased into a narrow space, is only one-third of a mile broad. It was a delight to look once more on houses, towers and churches, and other signs of civilized life. The sight was an enchantment after the eternal panorama of forest, mountain, plain and river. We had a feeling akin to that of Columbus and his companions when the watch shouted ‘Land! land!’ We could echo those words in their full significance. The struggle was at an end; river, forest, rapids, fevers, wild beasts, poisonous snakes, savages, and all the obstacles that lay behind us, were over, leaving no further trace than the dust along the roads or the foam of the waves on the sands. Thanks to the Divine protection, we had reached the end of an adventurous journey full of possibilities of mishap and of danger, and all that had taken place was simply as a memory in our minds.
We attracted great attention on landing, and were soon installed in one of the good hotels of the towns. We stared with something like wonderment at mirrors, tables, sofas, as at so many good old friends from whom we had been long separated. In us, primitive man had very soon reasserted full sway, and we had to make some effort to return to the habits and customs of civilized life. As soon as we could, we placed ourselves in the hands of a barber in the town. He had been told of our great store of luggage, and, inquisitive as all men of his profession are, on hearing one of us humming for very joy under his razor and shears, asked (I know not whether in innocence or banter): ‘How many of you are in the company, and what opera are you going to begin with?’ To this I replied: ‘We are not an opera company, but a circus, and our performances will begin shortly; we are on the look-out for a clown.’ He did not proceed with his cross-examination.
Ciudad Bolivar is famous in the annals of Venezuelan and Colombian history. It bears the name of the emancipator of those regions. Formerly it was called Angostura, which means ‘the Narrows.’ In 1819 one of the first Colombian Congresses was held at that city, and its deliberations, which soon crystallized into action, brought about the expulsion of the Spaniards after a daring and sanguinary series of campaigns. The very men who sat at Ciudad Bolivar, 300 miles from the shores of the Atlantic, ended their military campaign on the plateau of Ayacucho in 1824, having marched thousands of leagues across plain and forests, snow-capped mountains, precipices, jungle, fighting for every inch of ground against the stubborn soldiers of Spain in one of the most heroic and tenacious struggles on both sides that are to be found in the annals of history.
The river, as I have stated before, narrows after its long pilgrimage, and, even as a regiment which closes its ranks, rolls its waves in denser array opposite the city. No sooner does it reach the outside limits than it broadens again, and, after running through fertile plains and swampy valleys for a distance of 600 kilometres, reaches the sea. The normal depth opposite Ciudad Bolivar is 120 metres. During the rainy season the level rises from 10 to 20 metres.
Verily the Orinoco is a living, wandering sea of fresh water gathered from the northern plains of South America, which forms the tribute of those lands to the Atlantic Ocean. We had just followed it in its pilgrimage for a long part of its course. We had known it in tempest and in calm; we had watched the dawn gilding its throbbing waters or the twilight covering them with flickering shadows; we had listened to the whispering of the winds and the roar of the hurricane along its shores; we had seen the monsters which roam in its waters, admired the river’s Titanic sport, dashing in the rapids, or its majestic quiet in the deep basins of granite where the current seems to rest before leaping in a wild onslaught through the cañons; and now we saw it majestically unroll before our eyes in the august pageant of its last procession to the ocean. We could not but think that, if that great artery of palpitating life which vibrates through the centre of the continent had stood us in such good service, its possibilities for the development of those vast unknown territories, when once appreciated by humanity, were practically unlimited. To our mind’s eye, prophetic with desire, the vast solitudes we had left behind became resonant glad with the presence of myriads of men; the forests were cleared, the plains tilled, and a happy and prosperous nation, the outcome of the present struggling democracies that own those lands, increased by swarms of immigrants from distant overcrowded countries, reared its cities and towns along the banks of the river which, in its immutable, defiant majesty and power, still rolled to the sea, serving men, but remaining a bond of union, a mighty link between the Cordilleras and the ocean.
CHAPTER XIX
I have thus far sought to give an idea of my personal impressions during a journey most memorable to me; and I am aware that I bring no new or useful contribution from a scientific point of view. We had no instruments of observation, not even an ordinary every-day compass, enabling us to fix the cardinal points with certainty. Furthermore, had we possessed more complicated instruments, we were too ignorant to use them. Let these remarks be borne in mind should errors of appreciation be noticed, as certainly they exist, in this disjointed narrative.
We wandered on with the definite aim of reaching the Atlantic Ocean. Beyond that we did not venture to scrutinize too deeply the mysterious and wonderful manifestations of Nature, but took them as they appeared to our limited means of vision and understanding, and sought nothing beyond.
However, before closing these pages, assuming that some kind reader’s patience may have enabled him to accompany me thus far, it may not be amiss to give some accurate data which I take from the admirable monograph entitled ‘South America: an Outline of its Physical Geography,’ published in the Geographical Journal of April, 1901, by Colonel George Earl Church, a book which might be called ‘South America in a Nutshell,’ wonderfully accurate and concise, and worthy of the highest praise.
The total length of the Orinoco is about 1,500 miles, but if measured by its Guaviari branch it is several hundred miles longer. It reaches its maximum height in August. To its point of junction with the Guaviare it takes a north-west course. Ninety miles before its union with that stream it receives its principal eastern affluent, the Ventuario. From the Guaviare it runs north nearly as far as the Apure, where it suddenly turns east. Between the Guaviare and the Meta the course of the river is obstructed by the Maipures Rapids, which extend for a length of four miles, with a total fall of about 40 feet. Below this the Atures Rapids cover a distance of about six miles, falling about 30 feet. Navigation is then free for about 700 miles, as far as the rapids of Cariben, within six miles of the mouth of the Meta. The river at this point is about a mile wide. Its course continues to the north, and at the mouth of the Apure it is two miles wide in the dry season, and about seven when in flood. At Cariben it rises 32 feet; but at the Angostura, or ‘Narrows,’ 372 miles from the sea, it has risen to 60 feet. It enters the sea by its main trunk, the Boca Grande. About 100 miles above its mouth it throws off a branch northward to the Gulf of Paria, also 100 miles in length. Six other considerable arms find their way to the ocean across a vast delta about 7,000 square miles in area. The Boca Grande is the deepest and main navigable entrance at all seasons, the muddy bar usually maintaining a depth of 16 feet. The basin of the Orinoco covers an area of 364,500 square miles.
The principal affluents flowing from the Andean slopes are the Apure, the Arauca, the Meta, and the Guaviare.
The Apure is 695 miles long, of which 564 are navigable. The Apure in its turn receives numerous tributaries, some of which are navigable for short distances.
The Arauca, the Meta and the Guaviare, are also navigable.
The Casiquiare Canal unites the upper Orinoco with the Rio Negro branch of the Amazon. It is about 300 miles long, with an average depth of 30 feet, and has a strong current in the direction of the Negro. The list of affluents of the Orinoco and of its tributaries would be a very long one, and would serve no useful purpose here.
Evidently the Orinoco and the Orinoco system, with their innumerable ramifications in all directions, form a basis for the easy exploitation of the vast sources of natural wealth which exist in the immense territory through which their waters flow.
That territory lies within the borders of the Republics of Colombia and Venezuela. Up to the present neither nation has seriously attempted to utilize the valuable elements so bountifully offered by Nature. In the matter of navigation, ocean-going steamers sail frequently as far as Ciudad Bolivar. From this latter point river steamers ply once or twice a month up the Orinoco, turning into the Apure as far as San Fernando de Apure, and during the tonga-bean harvest follow the course of the main river generally as far as the Caura, where the harvesters established their central camps a good many years ago. An effort was made to establish navigation on the Orinoco and its affluents above the rapids, and also to run small steamers in the navigable part between the Atures and Maipures rapids; but the French company, which held a charter practically placing the whole region at its disposal, failed of its object, after spending a considerable amount of money. During our journey, in several places we could see, rotting in the sun, the remnants of broken-down steamers, which appeared uncanny objects in those surroundings. The rapids, acting as a barrier, have deterred traders and explorers. The upper part of the Orinoco is the most abundant in natural wealth. As I have had occasion to note in these pages, india-rubber, piazaba, tonga bean, resinous and medicinal plants, are found in practically unlimited quantities along the shores of all the rivers above the rapids, and the small proportion which is gathered is generally shipped through the Rio Negro by way of the Amazon, as traders prefer that long and tedious journey to the difficulties of the Orinoco Rapids.
Yet to give life to the Orinoco, to establish a stream of natural products down its waters, and to facilitate the opening of the forests and mountains beyond the rapids, it would not be necessary to carry out work of a very stupendous nature, beyond the resources of the peoples and the nations most interested in the work. A cursory glance at the elements of the problem reveals the possibility of carrying out a plan, the general outlines of which might be the following:
A line of steamers should be established plying at least twice a month between Ciudad Bolivar and the highest accessible point for navigation below the Atures Rapids.
The old road along the rapids, which extended from that highest point of navigation to beyond Maipures where the river is again free and open, should be reconstructed. A railway could be built along either shore, the ground being mostly level and hard. It would not be necessary to undertake great engineering works, and the road-bed itself would require neither deep cuttings nor terracing, nor expensive culverts and works of drainage, and the few bridges required, being of short span, would not run into high figures.
Steam navigation should also be established beyond the rapids on the rivers forming the upper basin. This could be done at first by means of small steam-launches such as are used in the affluents of the Amazon River, but the service should be carried out faithfully and periodically, even though at first freight and passengers were lacking. People in Spanish America are generally very sceptical as to these enterprises, but once a feeling of confidence was created, explorers would flock both from Colombia and from Venezuela, as they would know that they would have an outlet for whatever products they might gather.
The Indians on the Vichada, and even those on the Meta, would supply abundant labour, and the exports of natural products would soon furnish all the freight that might be desired to make the whole arrangement of steamers above and below the rapids, and the railway along the same, a paying concern.
A line of steamers should also follow the course of the Meta River as far as La Cruz, a port situated about ninety miles from Bogotá, thus tapping the import and export trade of the most thickly-populated region of Colombia, the inhabitants of which in the three provinces of Santander, Boyacá, and Cundinamarca, are over 1,500,000 in number.
Supposing four steamers to be needed for navigation on the lower river and on the Meta, to be bought at Ciudad Bolivar at a cost of £10,000 each, £40,000 would be required under this head. Taking the length of the railway at 60 kilometres, including the bridges, at a cost of £2,000 per kilometre, £120,000 would be required for the railway; and supposing that ten small steam-launches of twenty to thirty tons burden were started for the rivers on the upper basin, £20,000 would be required—in all, £180,000 for the whole undertaking.
The preceding figures are not imaginative, and might, perhaps, be reduced in actual practice. If it has been possible to raise the capital required for the construction of a railway of upwards of 200 kilometres in length along the shores of the Congo, where climate, distance, and natives combine to establish far more serious obstacles than exist on the Orinoco, should it not be possible to find the capital for the establishment of modern means of transportation in a region which offers far brighter and surer prospects than the Congo? Let it be remembered that from Colombia and from Venezuela civilized white, coloured and Indian labour could be found in abundance, and that Europeans engaged in the undertaking, and provided with steamers, could in two days, if on the Meta, reach the high and healthy plateaus of Bogotá and find themselves in a civilized community where they would lack none of the luxuries or comforts of their own land; and that in the Lower Orinoco they would have Ciudad Bolivar, to which the same remarks, barring the advantage of climate, may be applied. The two Governments of Colombia and Venezuela, equally interested in the development of the Orinoco basin, might unite their efforts and guarantee in a form satisfactory to European capitalists the paltry yearly amount required to pay the service of interest and sinking fund on the £180,000. Taking the interest at 6, with a sinking fund of 1 per cent., £12,600 yearly would be required—that is to say, £6,300 for each Government. I know that at the present moment such a task would be well-nigh impossible, but I also know that if a sincere effort were made, notwithstanding the universal feeling of distrust, it would be possible to create securities specially applicable to this purpose, which would satisfy the most exacting capitalist.
In the midst of the daily turmoil and agitation and sanguinary struggle which constitutes the life of those democracies, these problems, urgent and vital as they are, pass unheeded; and the more the pity, for in their solution lies the basis of a permanent peace. Prosperity begets abhorrence of internal revolutions. The development of Mexico is a case in point, from which Colombia and Venezuela might take heed. Woe to them if they do not! The world begins to sicken at the very mention of the constant strife which converts into a positive hell those regions where Nature has shown herself prodigal beyond measure in all her gifts. Not only the valley of the Orinoco, with its boundless prairies, its dense forests, and its innumerable affluents, but the uplands of the Andine regions and the plains extending in Venezuela towards the North Atlantic or Caribbean Sea, and in Colombia to the Pacific Ocean, are coveted by nations where humanity is overcrowded by races which would fain establish colonies in those regions. The development of humanity cannot be stayed; the human wave, even as the stream of water contained by a dyke, will sooner or later break through the walls that imprison it and flood the surrounding country. It were well for men animated by real patriotism in Colombia and in Venezuela to ponder over these possibilities, so that the two nations might themselves open the flood-gates for immigration without delay, so that the new-comers would prove a fresh source of strength and power, helping to build up on the basis of the now existing nations free and mighty commonwealths, rather than as conquerors, who (whether they come from the North as wolves in sheep’s clothing under cover of the Monroe doctrine, or from across the ocean, driven by necessity stronger than all political conventionality) would come as masters.
Now is our accepted time. The moments are counted during which the danger may be averted and the inevitable turned to account; but, alas! feuds and errors deep-rooted in medieval soil, luxuriant in this our twentieth century, darken the minds of men, influence their judgment, turn away their activity from the real aims that would lead their nations to greatness, and force them into barbarous struggles which the world regards with amazement and brands as crimes against mankind.
CHAPTER XX
After a week in Ciudad Bolivar, we bethought ourselves of continuing the journey to the sea. Civilization had reclaimed us for her own, and rigged in European attire, such as befits the tropics, with all the social conventionalities once again paramount in our mind, we set forth on that, the last stage of the journey. We had been, not a nine days’ but a nine hours’ wonder in the historical town which rears its houses and churches alongside the narrows of the majestic stream. Early in the afternoon of a dazzling tropical day, cloudless, blue and hazy from the very brilliancy of the air, we stepped into the large steamboat that was to carry us to the neighbouring British island of Trinidad, once also a Spanish possession. The usual events accompanying the departure of all steamers from the shore repeated themselves: clanging of chains, shouting of orders, groans of the huge structure, shrill whistles, and that trepidation, the dawn as it were of motion, something like a hesitation of things inert apparently unwilling to be set in motion, which is the life of matter inanimate; then the steady throbbing of the machinery, the stroke of the paddles, splash, splash, until regularity and monotony are attained, and the ship, wheeled into midstream after describing a broad arc, set the prow eastward with the current to the ocean.
We looked at the town as it dwindled indistinct, seeming to sink into the vast azure of the horizon, swallowed in the scintillating folds of the blue distance. We sat on the deck as if in a trance. Shortly after starting, wild Nature reasserted her sway, and the small oasis built by the hand of man in the heart of the untamed region, seemed to us who knew how unmeasurable were those forests and those plains, like a tiny nest perched on the branches of a lofty and over-spreading ceiba. A feeling of superiority over our fellow-passengers unconsciously filled our breasts. For were we not boon companions, fellow-travellers, tried and trusted comrades of those rushing waters? Had we not shared their pilgrimage for days and days, in calm and in storm, in sunshine and in darkness? Had we not slept on their bosom or travelled upon it for countless hours, till the secret of their mystery and the joy of their wandering had penetrated into our very soul? What knew they, the other travellers of a few hours, of the intimate life of those waters which we had watched, gathering their strength from all the points of the compass, swelling the current of the central stream, mingling their life with it, now as rivulets, now as rivers, now placid in the embrace, now plunging, foaming, as if loath to loose their identity? Yea, verily, we were comrades, fellow-pilgrims, with the splendid travelling sea, there on its final march to the boundless deep.
Forest and plain, marsh, morass, jungle, succeeded one another in interminable procession, and the setting sun now broke its ray on the low-lying hills, now reverberated on the far-off marshes on either side of the current, tinging them with a crimson glow. Towards sunset the whistle of the steamer frightened a flock of flamingoes gathered to roost, as is their wont when the shadows of evening approach. The whole flock sought refuge in flight, and their widespread wings, as they rose before us, seemed like a huge transparent pink curtain lifted before our very eyes, rising higher and higher until it vanished in space.
Night fell upon the scene. First the stars and then the moon kindled their beacon fires, dispelling darkness into a semi-obscurity fraught with mystery, embalmed with the effluvia from the forest and the river. We felt like a shadow crossing the wilderness. The littleness of self, the insignificance of the human being, became overwhelming.
What could it matter if that daring shell with its human freight were dashed to pieces against a submerged tree and swallowed in the waves? Nature, impassible, would take no notice of the event; in far-off homes sorrow would fill the loving hearts. The river would be looked upon as a grave, wondrous vast, where a dear one had found his rest, but the river itself would suffer no change, and our world of hopes, ambitions, infinite longings, would leave no more trace than the smallest bubble of the floating foam.
And thus the morrow came. With the light of day the circle of the horizon broadened; we were out at sea, no trace of land was visible. The waves tossed the struggling craft tenderly, gliding under its keel, the wind caressed the flying pennants on the mastheads and seemed to whisper promises of freedom as it rustled through the rigging. The mighty river had disappeared, paying its tribute, like a human being to the grave, to Father Ocean. And the long journey which lay behind us was nothing more than a dream in our memory, for things dreamt and things lived do so intermingle their identity in our minds that the attempt to disentangle their threads were useless. And so we drifted into the broad, unmeasurable expanse of waters which seemed to palpitate and tremble as with the touch of life under the glorious rays of the morning sun.
THE END
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
Transcriber’s Notes
- Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook is public-domain in the country of publication.
- In the text versions only, italicized text is delimited by _underscores_.
- Corrected a few palpable typographical errors.