With Cochrane the Dauntless

by G. A. Henty

Another three weeks and Stephen stood at the foot of the fall of the river Madeira. The flood of water that poured down in one unbroken sheet was enormous. The noise was like that of continual thunder, and Stephen, as he stood watching the swollen waters at his feet and feeling the very ground shake beneath them, felt spell-bound at the grandeur of the scene. The mission-house was inhabited by only two or three old monks, and from them they learned that there [pg 326]had been a bad outbreak of fever there, several had died, and the rest were so weakened that it had been determined that the monks, with the exception of these men, who had passed through many fevers and were thoroughly acclimatized, should go down by boat to Barra, and remain there until the season of the floods terminated and the sun had dried the inundated country.

Stephen was glad of a rest, for since entering the rapids the work had been hard and continuous. The Indians would have undertaken all the portage round the various falls and bad rapids, but he insisted on doing his share of the work, and had day after day toiled with heavy weights over a rough country. It was all over now, and the prospect of a week spent at the mission before proceeding on their voyage was very pleasant.

“You must be careful,” one of the monks said, “not to stray too far from the house. The natives of the neighbourhood have long since been Christianized, but we are visited by parties from long distances belonging to some of the other tribes who are still wholly wild and eat human flesh. Here they behave peaceably, because they credit us with supernatural powers, seeing the respect and devotion with which we are regarded by the natives here, of whom indeed we generally keep a strong body on guard during the time that the strangers most frequently visit us; that is to say, at the time that the floods are out. At that time most of the people who live near the river are forced to retire to a great distance from their homes, and being deprived of their usual pursuits, they take that opportunity of coming here to purchase the articles they require. I do not say that they would harm you, but assuredly they might do so, and it would therefore be best for you to keep near the mission-house. Here you are safe from any danger whatever, for even the wildest Indian would not venture to set foot inside these walls, fearing that if they did, some terrible calamity might befall them.”

Stephen took the advice, for although he was not much affected by what the old man said, Pita and his companion both confirmed his words, and told him that many bad Indians, who would kill and eat any white man who entered their district, frequently visited these mission-houses.

“Always carry your gun with you, señor. They have not the same terror of firearms as their forefathers had, but they have heard enough to know that they are weapons of war, and much more formidable than their own bows and arrows, or the poisoned darts of their blow-pipes.”

Stephen accordingly never went out, even to visit the falls, where he spent the greater portion of his time, without his rifle. Generally one or other of the Indians accompanied him, but seeing that no strangers visited the mission-house, they gradually abstained from doing so. Stephen preferred being alone—the tremendous roar of the water rendered conversation impossible—and he was quite content to lie and dreamily watch the flood pouring down unceasingly. On the evening before the day on which they were to start, the moon was shining brilliantly, and Stephen, taking his gun as usual, went out without mentioning his intention to his companions, and strolled down to take a last quiet look at the mighty fall, whose fascination grew upon him the oftener he looked at it and came to realize more and more its marvellous power and energy. He had been seated there for about an hour, when, without the slightest warning that anyone was near him, he received a sudden blow on the head that rolled him over unconscious. When he recovered his senses he found himself in the bottom of a small canoe paddled by three Indians.

Overhead he could see the branches of trees, and knew from this that they were following the bank of the river. Presently, to his surprise, they turned sharply off, and were at once in the gloom of the forest. They paddled for an hour, and then tied [pg 328]up the canoe to a tree. One of them lit a torch at the fire that smouldered on a flat stone, and the three gathered round it. Stephen could see that they were closely examining his rifle, pistols, watch, and money. Few remarks were made, but Stephen gathered from the tone that they were well satisfied with the capture.

“I have fallen into bad hands this time,” he said to himself. “There is no doubt about their being stranger Indians. I can understand my arms being regarded by them as a most valuable capture, but why they did not finish me at once, instead, of taking me away with them, is more than I can understand, unless it be that they are cannibals.”

After examining his bonds and assuring themselves that they were tight, the Indians lay down to sleep, but in the morning continued their journey as soon as daylight broke. From the absence of undergrowth and of lianas stretching from tree to tree anywhere low down, Stephen came to the conclusion that they were following what was in the dry season a track through the forest. The Indians were quite young men, and laughed and talked without any of the gravity that distinguished the older men among the natives. For some hours they paddled on, then their progress was stopped by a deep tangle of creepers stretching from tree to tree across their way. There was an exclamation of surprise and, as Stephen thought, of apprehension; they began to talk rapidly and eagerly together, one pointing in one direction and another in quite an opposite one.

“They have lost the path,” he said to himself, “perhaps they took the wrong turn at starting.”