Part 37 (2/2)
We were having beautiful, clear skies. Only on July 4th at sunset a solitary streak of mist extended to the summit of the sky.
I had two plans in my mind when I decided to descend the Arinos River. One was to abandon that river at the point where it met the Juruena River and strike across country westward until the Madeira-Mamore Railway was met. The other plan--even more difficult--was to continue down the river as far as its junction with the Tres Barras, from which place I would strike across the virgin forest as far as the Madeira River. I had not the faintest idea how I could realize either plan with the ridiculously meagre resources at my disposal. I had money enough, but unfortunately that was one of the few spots on earth where money was of little use. Again I trusted in Providence to come to our help. Both plans involved thousands of kilometres of navigation of a diabolical river, in an almost uncontrollable canoe, with an insufficient and absolutely incapable crew. Then would come the crossing of the virgin forest on foot, for some hundreds of kilometres--n.o.body knew how many. The least number of men necessary in order to be able to carry provisions sufficient to execute either plan was thirty. I only had four. Yet I started. The second plan was successfully carried out, but necessarily at the cost almost of all our lives, and with sufferings unimaginable.
CHAPTER II
Hoisting the British Flag--An Escaped Slave--A Dilemma--Benedicto--The _Lutra Brasiliensis_--The Seringueiros--A Marvellous River--Rapids
ON July 6th we packed the canoe with our baggage and dogs. The British flag was hoisted at the stern of the canoe, and with tender embraces from the seringueiros, whose eyes were wet with tears--they imagined that we were going to certain death--we pulled out of Porto Velho at seven minutes to eleven o'clock a.m.
”We will pray with all our hearts that you may reach the end of your journey safely!... Beware of the rapids; they are terrible.... Be careful because the canoe does not steer true.... Do not let the canoe knock too hard against rocks, or she may split in two!... Good-bye!... good-bye!”
With those encouraging remarks from the seringueiros, who were sobbing bitterly, we drifted with the current, Antonio and Filippe the negro paddling in the style generally adopted for scooping soup with a spoon out of a dish.
I had provided the canoe with a number of improvised paddles we had cut ourselves. There were no two of equal size, shape, or weight. We had chopped them with an axe from sections of a tree. They were originally all intended to be the same, but what we intended to have and what we got were two different matters, as the five of us each worked on a separate paddle.
The seringueiros stood on the high bank, waving their arms in the air.
One of them blew plaintive sounds on one of the horns used by them for calling their companions while in the forest. Those horns could be heard enormous distances. Filippe the white man, who was not paddling, fired back a salute of ten shots. There was nothing my men loved more than to waste ammunition. Fortunately we had plenty.
The average width of the river was there from 80 to 100 metres, with a fairly swift current. It was lucky that ours was the only boat on that river, for indeed we needed all that breadth of water in our snake-like navigation. I remonstrated with Alcides, who was at the helm, and advised him to keep the nose of the canoe straight ahead, as we were coming to a _corrideira_ or small rapid.
Alcides, who could never be told anything, became enraged at my words of warning, and also at the derision of the other men, as we were drifting side on and he could not straighten her course. Just as we were entering the rapid, in his fury Alcides, in disgust, let go the steering-gear, which he said was useless. We were seized by the current and swung round with some violence, das.h.i.+ng along, sc.r.a.ping the bottom of the canoe on rocks, and b.u.mping now on one side, now on the other, until eventually we were dashed violently over a lot of submerged trees, where the bank had been eroded by the current and there had been a landslide. The canoe nearly capsized, the three dogs and some top baggage being thrown out into the water by the impact. We got stuck so hard among the branches of the trees that we all had to remove our lower garments and get into the water trying to get the canoe off.
My men used pretty language. That small accident was lucky for us. The shouts of my men attracted to the bank a pa.s.sing man. Half-scared, a wild figure of a mulatto with long, unkempt hair and beard, his body covered by what must have once been a suit of clothes, stood gazing at us, clutching a double-barrelled gun in his hands.
”Is there a revolution in Matto Grosso?” he inquired when I caught sight of him. ”Why do you fly the red flag?”
”That is not the flag of revolution, that is the flag of peace. It is the English flag.”
”The English flag! The English flag!” he exclaimed, running down the slope of the river bank. ”You are Englis.h.!.+... Oh, sir, take me with you!
I entreat you take me with you! I am an escaped slave.... I owe my master much money.... I can never repay it.... I am a seringueiro. My estrada is some miles down the river. I have been there alone suffering for months.
I had no more food, nothing. There is very little fish in the river. The life is too terrible. I can stand it no more. If you do not take me with you I shall kill myself.”
I tried to persuade the strange figure to return to his master--the master lived in comfort in the city of Cuyaba. ”If you chose to borrow money and sell yourself, it was only right that you should repay your debt.” That was the only way I could look at it. But the man would not hear of it. If I did not take him he would kill himself--there, before me, he repeated; that was all.
So difficult a dilemma to solve--at so inconvenient a moment, when we were as busy as busy could be, trying to disentangle the canoe--was rather tiresome. The strange man, having laid his gun upon the ground, helped us with all his might in our work. When the canoe got off, the strange man, gun and all, jumped clumsily into her and nearly capsized her a second time. He implored me with tears in his eyes to take him along. He would work day and night; he would present me with his double-barrelled gun (an old muzzle-loader); he did not want pay--he only wanted to get freed from his master, who, he said, robbed and ill-treated him.
”Do you swear upon all that is most sacred that you have made up your mind not to go back to your master?”
”Yes. If you say 'No' to me, I shall kill myself now.”
Benedicto--that was his name--spoke with quiet determination.
”Very good, Benedicto. You can remain. What is more, you shall receive from this moment the same pay as the other men. You can keep your old gun, too.”
Benedicto embraced and kissed my hands, then my feet. The poor man's joy was so great that it was really worth living to see that such moments of happiness could be procured in a man's lifetime.
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