The territory beyond Banpáwa was more savage than any we had yet encountered; everywhere a rank vegetation so thick that our feet rarely reached the ground. Now and again we plunged into a thicket only to be caught as in a net, and, powerless to advance, retreated with rent garments and bleeding hands and faces to fight our way around the impenetrable spot. We were now in the very heart of the mountains. Range after range of unbroken jungle succeeded each other. From every summit there spread out a boundless forest of teak and bamboo, turgid with riotous undergrowth. Mountains that were just blue wreaths in the morning climbed higher and higher into the sky—rolling ranges without a yard of clearing to break the monotony of waving tree tops—and beyond them more mountains, identical in formation. Level spaces were there none. Descents so steep that the force of gravity sent us plunging headlong through thorn-bristling thickets, ended in the uncanny depths of V-shaped valleys at the very base of steeper ascents which we mounted hand over hand as a sailor climbs a rope. In our ears sounded the incessant humming of insects; now and then a snake squirmed off through the bushes; more than once there came faintly to us the roar of some distant brute. Of animate nature, most numerous were the apes that swarmed in the dense network of branches overhead, and scampered screaming away, at our intrusion, into the oppressive depths of the forest.
Though the rains continued unabated, there were fewer streams in these higher altitudes, and those were mere rivulets of silt fighting their way down the slopes. At every mudhole we halted to drink; for within us burned a thirst such as no man knows who has not suffered it in the jungle-girdled waist line of Mother Earth. Chocolate-colored water we drank, water alive with squirming animal life, in pools out of which wriggled brilliant green snakes. Often I rose to my feet to find a leech clinging to my nether lip.
As the day grew, a raging hunger fell upon us. In a sharp valley we came upon a tree on the trunk of which hung a dozen or more jack-fruits within easy reach. We grasped one and attempted to pull it down. The short, fibrous stem was as stout as a manila rope, and knife had we none. We wrapped our arms around the fruit and tugged with the strength of despair; as well have tried to pull up a ship’s anchor by hand. We chopped at the stem with sharp stones; we hunted up great rocks and attempted to split the fruit open on the tree, screaming with rage and bruising our fingers. Streams of perspiration coursed down our sun-scorched skins, hunger and thirst redoubled, and still our efforts availed us nothing. When we gave up and plunged on, our assault on the fruit had barely scratched the adamantine rind.
Weary and famished, matted with mud from crown to toe, and bleeding from innumerable superficial lacerations, we were still grappling with the throttling vegetation well on in the afternoon when James, a bit in advance, uttered a triumphant shriek.
“A path! A path!” he cried, “and a telegraph wire!”
Certain that hunger and the sun had turned his brain, I tore my way through the thicket that separated us. His cry had been awakened by no mirage of delirium. A path there was, narrow and steep, but showing evidences of recent travel, and, overhead, a sagging telegraph wire running from tree to tree. The compass had brought us again to that elusive route followed by the native porters.
A half-hour along it and we came to a little plain, intersected by a swift stream, in the backwater of which swam a covey of snow-white ducks. On the western bank stood a weather-beaten bungalow, over the door of which was a faded shield bearing the white elephant of Siam. Above it disappeared the telegraph wire. Our thirst quenched, we mounted the narrow steps and shouted to attract attention. There was no response. We pushed open the door and entered. The room was some eight feet square and entirely unfurnished, but in one corner hung an unpainted telephone instrument of crude and ancient construction. A spider had spun his web across the mouth of the receiver and there were no signs that the hut had been occupied within modern times.
“Nothing doing here,” said James. “Let’s swim the creek.”
On the opposite bank was a bamboo rest-house, smaller than that of Banpáwa, but with a floor raised some feet above the fever-breeding ground. Back of it, among the trees, stood a cluster of seven huts. We made the round of them, seeking food; but returned to the rest-house with nothing but the information that the village was called Kathái Ywá. Nine Laos carriers had arrived, among whom were several we had seen the evening before. They had, perhaps, some secret grudge against white men, for they not only refused to sell us rice, but scowled and snarled when we drew near them. The day was not yet done. We should have pushed on had not James fallen victim to a burning jungle fever.
With plenty of water at hand, hunger grew apace. For a time the forlorn hope that some more tractable human might wander into Kathái Ywá buoyed us up. But each new arrival was more stupid and surly than his forerunner. The sun touched the western tree-tops. James lay on his back, red-eyed with fever. Eat we must, if we were to have strength to continue in the morning. I made a second circuit of the village, hoping to win by bluster what we had not with cajolery. The community rose en masse and swarmed upon me. The males carried long, overgrown knives; the females, cudgels. I returned hastily to the rest-house.