CHAPTER XXII.
IN THE WILDS OF VENEZUELA.
Although the Osprey's visit to Venezuela may have but little interest for the reader, still it would be unfair to drag him away from that land without first inviting him on shore to have a look at some of its wild and lovely scenery.
A young fellow—a Spaniard, though he talked capital English—came off one forenoon. He was received by Creggan and the Duckling at the gangway, and after talking for a short time on deck they invited him below.
This Spaniard was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and possessed of all that old Castalian courtesy and urbanity which you see so little of in these matter-of-fact days. He owned, too, that he was independent, if not indeed rich.
"Oh, señor," he said to Creggan, "think you that your captain would permit you to spend a few weeks on shore with me? And your dear friend here? I will do all I can to make you happy."
"I do not doubt that for a moment," said Creggan, "and if we can succeed in getting leave we are at your command."
"Oh, I rejoice!" cried young Miguel.
"I myself," he added, "am bound up in botany, in sport, and in natural history. Ah! we will enjoy our little selves, see if we don't!"
Leave was asked for and granted that very day. The Osprey was going down the coast and would leave them here, returning again in three weeks' time.
"Ah!" said dark-eyed young Miguel, "that does mean six, my capitan. You look good, and good you must be."
The captain smiled.
"Oh, señor, Venezuela is a vast country!"
"Well, well, Miguel, I'll let the young fellows oft for five or six weeks. I think they will be safe with you, and it will do them both good."
"Oh, safe, sir, as the everlasting mountains. And I have two houses—one is my yacht, and the other my dwelling on shore on the banks of the great Orinoco. You have no such rivers in Britain, I believe, señor capitan?"
"Well, no," replied Leeward, smiling. "You see, we are somewhat cramped for space, and a river broader than any of our two counties we should find somewhat inconvenient, to say the least."
"A thousand thanks for the leave, sir!" cried Creggan impulsively.
Then he added:
"Pardon me, sir, but you are so different from Commander Flint."
Well, Creggan and the Ugly Duckling had as many good-byes and hand-shakings given them as if they had been going off for a whole year to fight for their Queen and country.
The Duckling's parting from Admiral Jacko was quite affecting, as far as feeling on the part of this strange but clever ape went. Perhaps from his excessive and droll ugliness Jacko looked upon the middy as a brother. Be that as it may, he hung with his arms around his neck and his cheek against the Duckling's, and the expression of his face was so sad that the gun-room officers would not have been at all surprised had he burst into tears.
"Take care of my brother Jacko, boys!"
These were the Ugly Duckling's last words as he seated himself in Miguel's boat, and the sturdy semi-Spanish sailors bent bravely to their work. Out there, where the Osprey lay at anchor near to a small but beautiful island, there was a kind of "jabble" of small waves, caused by cross seas and currents. But after bearing in towards the green-fringed shore for about three miles, the men singing as they rowed to the sweet, soft notes of a guitar touched by the fingers of Miguel himself, they rounded another island, and were soon lost to view from the deck of the Osprey.
The water was now more smooth, though the outward current ran high. The tide in fact was ebbing. When it flows here it flows fast and furiously, and there are times when the battle betwixt sea and river is so furious, that no boat could float in the turmoil of breaking waters.
The Orinoco is undoubtedly a grand river, though certainly not so wide as Captain Leeward would lead one to infer. It is a grand stream, and a wildly romantic one too—higher up, I mean, for, like the river Nile, it forms a delta. This is about one hundred and thirty miles from the wide Atlantic, and here it divides itself into a great number of mouths, most of them navigable.
The principal mouth or main-stream is called the Boca de Navios, and it was up this great stream that our heroes went with Miguel next morning, in his pretty little steam-yacht, of which the young fellow was so justly proud.
So light was this craft and so little water did she draw, that she could go anywhere, and being strong even in a buffeting sea-way, could have done anything. She was not, however, quite so light as the Yankee's boat that was warranted to sail wherever there was a heavy dew.
I am writing from memory only, so I cannot give the exact tonnage of the Orinoco Queen, but fifty tons is near enough. Her beam was broad, though. Her little cabin or cuddy quite a lady's boudoir, adorned and perfumed with the rarest tropical flowers, through which at night peeped coyly the glow of fairy-lights. The one great lamp that swung from the skylight had a crimson shade, and thus the cabin looked like a scene from dream-land.
At night Miguel played his guitar, and sang wild and martial ballads of the romantic Spain of years gone by, or soft lullaby-like love ditties. The music of these latter seemed to breathe o'er the strings. You could have told it was a serenade, and in imagination you might have seen a beautiful girl-face appear one moment at an open lattice-window above, and next, from a white and shapely hand extended, you might imagine a flower drop down, to be rapturously caught and pressed to the lips of the serenader. Spain, deprived of its romance, were nothing now.
Hammocks were hung on deck, and surrounded, as far as Miguel's guests were concerned, by mosquito curtains. But the captain, Miguel himself, slept on a grass mat.
The crew of the Orinoco Queen consisted of five men and a boy, two of the men being engineers. This little river craft, however, had a main and fore mast, on which were carried, alow and aloft only, fore-and-aft sails. The men were lanky and brown, dark in hair and eyes, with bare necks and chests, and legs all exposed below the knees. But they were as lithe and active as panthers.
From the very first Creggan and the Duckling knew that they were going to have a real good time of it. Miguel believed in taking life easy. With half-shut eyes, while the yacht steamed slowly up the river, he would lie or recline on a grass hammock on deck, a small perfumed cigar between his lips, making little else save interjectional remarks for an hour at a time.
Miguel had no middle-mind, if I may so express it; that is, he was either dreamy happy in a kind of lethargy, or as active as a pole-cat on the war-path.
In this respect he resembled the monster caymans, or huge alligators with which the yellow-white waters of the river swarmed. Terrible monsters indeed these are! You can see their great heads protruding over the moon-lit water, if you are keeping the middle watch. So lazy look they, that scarcely could you believe that anything could excite them, or wake them into activity. But let a man fall overboard, or—awful accident!—a boat capsize, and they cleave the water, quick as seals, and Heaven have mercy on the mariners, for the caymans have none!
In five days' time, taking it very easy, and often-times landing on wooded islands, or at the mouths of rivers—tributaries to the "Mother of Waters",—they reached Ciudad Bolivar.
Both the Ugly Duckling and Creggan were fond of the beautiful in nature, and everything they saw on the pretty arboreal islands which they touched at was new and strange. Many of these were inhabited, and the languid natives, who lived in thatch huts of wattle and clay, existing for the most part on fish, I think, were exceedingly kind to them. They brought them light wine, fruit, eggs, fish, and goat's milk.
Sometimes on a day of racing clouds and sunshine, Miguel would cast anchor at the mouth of a tributary river, and in his boat would start up stream with his guests.
Such rivers were wondrously beautiful. The overhanging trees, laden down with green foliage till the tips of the branches touched the water, were cloud-lands of a beauty that was rich and rare. For not only were their leaves a sight to see, but the climbing flowers that often bound them into great crimson, blue, or orange garlands, dazzled the eyes with their loveliness.
I said the branches bent downwards, yes, and formed cool sylvan arbours, in which the boat could lie for luncheon.
Miguel—kind-hearted he was and thoughtful—had forgotten nothing that could minister to the comfort of his guests, and serve to make this visit to Venezuela an ever-memorable one.
The mosquitoes of these regions are very lively little persons, and very fond of British blood, but a tincture that Miguel gave to the boys with which to rub face and hands, kept them well at bay.
After luncheon Miguel would sing and play for an hour.
Meanwhile the great snakes that lay sometimes all their length on the branches above, or hung head down therefrom, were no source of comfort either to Creggan or his friend. They could not keep from looking at them at first, fearful lest they might drop into the boat; and these serpents are deadly monsters.
"Do not look, my friends," said Miguel; "they may fascinate you."
"Is that story about fascination not all a myth?" said Creggan.
Miguel leaned forward and lit another cigarette before he replied: "Not so, Creggan. I have heard many stories of the power these monsters possess over the minds of men.
"But," he added, "one I do remember personally. I and a friend from Trinidad were hunting the panther in a piece of forest-land far away north of here, and among the Llanos[1].
[1] Tracks of uplands, covered with wild grass, trees, &c., and with cañons between.
"We came to a snake-infested jungle, but being very tired we determined to camp there for the night. We tied our donkeys to leafless cocoanut-trees, that looked at a distance like masts of ships. Then we swung our grass hammocks ready, and cooked supper.
"We were only on the borders of the ugly jungle. Yet it contained game-birds, and in pursuit of these Antoine and I entered its gloom. We got several, and were returning to our camp, I being about ten yards ahead of my companion. Suddenly—it makes me shudder even now—I heard my friend utter that strange quavering low scream that issues from a man in nightmare.
"Oo—oo—hoo—oo!
"I turned quickly. There stood poor Antoine, a huge snake depending from a tree not a yard from his face, and evidently about to strike.
ANTOINE WAS IN A STATE OF MESMERIC FASCINATION,
AND PALE AS DEATH
"Antoine was in a state of mesmeric fascination—visage pale as death, staring upturned eyes, arms straight down by his side, and clenched hands.
"I fired at once, and the snake fell with shattered head, but writhing, leaping, and dancing body.
"A snake, my friends, never looks more hideous than when, headless, he twists and coils in the thraldom of death.
"My friend Antoine had fainted, but though he soon revived I noted something strange in his manner. It put me in mind of the childish hysterical nervousness of speech and movement a wine-bibber sometimes exhibits.
"But I marked also, that whenever that day he saw a huge snake hanging on a tree, he would stop and gaze at it with dilated eyes, and even after passing on he would turn again and again to look once more into the ever-open glassy eyes of the serpent.
"My friends, the worst was to come. I may tell you first, that the nights at this time were brightly moonlit. Well, we supped and turned into our hammocks, but after I had slept for hours I awoke suddenly with a strange kind of fear and coldness at my heart.
"I naturally glanced towards Antoine's hammock. It was too loose and puckered to have anyone in it.
"My friend had fled!
"I turned out at once and roused my men, and together we hurried down through a bit of savannah to the jungle. I was hoping against hope. But to all our shouting no response was given, except from the throats of wild beasts. We returned to camp now disheartened, to await the coming of daylight.
"At last, dear friends, the sun's crimson rays darted through the deep orange hue on the horizon, and after a hasty breakfast we hastened back to the jungle.
"We had not entered far, when, O Dios! my friends, the sight that met our gaze seemed to turn our hearts to ice. I shall never, never forget it.
"Antoine lay on his back; his face and hands were purple and swollen; on his brow were two vivid spots of vermilion; while his open glassy eyes were staring unmeaningly heavenwards through the trees.
"Dead? Yes, my friend was dead, and coiled around his neck was a large and fearful snake!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
As Miguel finished his little story, Creggan gazed upwards at the overhanging boughs and the ever-present snakes. But his host hastened to reassure him.
"Do not fear," he cried, "do not dread. Snakes are never vicious. They are good and kindly creatures, and at no time will they strike unless attacked, or in defence of their homes and their progeny."
I—the author—have had in my time a larger experience of snakes than I ever at any time desired, and I can quite believe the story that Miguel told his guests that day. Nevertheless, Creggan was never very sorry when the boat was once more out in the open stream.
The bird and insect life in these lonely dreamy woods it would be impossible for me to describe. Suffice it to say, that they were beautiful beyond compare. And yet the birds—that looked like flying flowers—had but little song. Their beauty of colour is granted them by God that they may resemble the orchids, and so deceive their reptile foes. If they sang much their presence would be revealed.