In Search of El Dorado

by Harry Collingwood

For an entire week the journey up the stream progressed in pretty much the same deliberate fashion, at the end of which time they were detained for a whole day by a furious outburst of wind, rain, thunder and lightning, in the course of which the raft broke adrift, and, but for Dick’s skilful handling of the situation, would probably have been lost, with all the party’s belongings, and, quite possibly, a few lives as well. As it was, they were driven back some ten miles down stream before a suitable refuge could be found and the raft again safely anchored. It was the worst storm that Dick had experienced, and even Earle admitted that it far surpassed the worst that he had ever encountered, even in the interior of Africa. The wind blew with hurricane force, stripping the trees of their leaves and even of some of their branches, so that the air was full of flying débris, while the lightning flashed and the thunder roared and boomed and crashed in a continuous deafening medley of sound that might almost have excused the belief that the foundations of the earth were being torn asunder. And all the time the rain came pounding down out of the storm-riven clouds in such a deluge that it was difficult to draw one’s breath while exposed to it. But even this does not convey any very clear idea of the copiousness of the downpour, which will perhaps be more easily realised from the statement that within the short space of twenty minutes it completely filled and swamped the canoe. This storm burst upon the travellers about eleven o’clock at night, and it continued with unabated fury all through the next day until within about half an hour of sunset.

For the following three days the weather continued unsettled; then it cleared, and the raft resumed her journey. But her progress was slow, owing to the scantness of the wind, and for the next ten days they were able to accomplish only a few miles a day, the current running strong against them. Then, late on a certain afternoon, they reached a point where the bed of the river was obstructed by rapids, and the raft was moored for the night so that the banks might be explored on the morrow for portage facilities. And now it was that the real difficulties of the journey began to reveal themselves; for upon attempting to find a path through the forest, which grew right down to the water’s edge on both banks of the river, the explorers found the undergrowth to be so absolutely impenetrable that, even to make their own way through it, it was necessary to employ a gang of men to cut a path. And this was a slow process, for not only had the tough tangle of creepers, of which the underbush was chiefly composed, to be cut away, but it had to be afterwards removed from the path, so that the better part of three days was consumed in this way before a road was cleared to the upper end of the rapids.

Then followed the laborious task of carrying the various items of their equipment up through the quarter of a mile of roughly cut pathway, which consumed the whole of another day. And finally came the dismembering of the raft itself, and the porterage of its component parts and the canoe to the upper end of the rapids, where it was put together again. Thus, altogether, the intervention of those rapids involved the travellers in a loss of no less than five days.

The four which followed were much more favourable, the raft covering a distance of nearly sixty miles during that period. Then a stretch of some four miles of river bed was encountered so cumbered and choked with rocks that its navigation was impossible, and the raft had again to be taken to pieces and transported overland. And when this obstacle was at length surmounted, it was found that the channel of the stream had become so contracted that the further use of the raft as a concrete structure was out of the question; the wooden platform, with the masts and sails, as also the metal decks of the two canoe-like pontoons, were therefore abandoned, after carefully enveloping them in tarpaulins brought along for the purpose; and after their place of concealment had been marked, so that it might easily be found again in the event of the expedition returning by that route, the journey was continued in the open pontoons and the canoe. Finally, when at length the party had been travelling for nearly five weeks upon the river, they reached a point where navigation was no longer possible, even for the small canoe, and it became necessary to take to the forest, still, however, keeping in touch with the stream as nearly as possible, for the sake of the water.

It is not necessary for the purposes of this story to enlarge upon the difficulties with which the travellers now had to contend; they may be left to the imagination of the reader, merely remarking that in many places the trees grew so thickly together, and the undergrowth between them was so dense, that to accomplish a march through it of three miles between sunrise and sunset of a single day was regarded as a feat worthy of especial note. Not, however, it must be understood, that these conditions uniformly prevailed; very far from it indeed; for there were days when, from circumstances difficult to account for, the going was so comparatively easy that a distance of ten, or even twelve miles was accomplished. But this did not occur until some time after they had finally lost touch with the river and had got away from the vast plains on to higher ground, where the forest was less dense, the undergrowth much thinner—becoming in some places altogether non-existent—and where open glades became increasingly frequent and of ever extending area.

Thus far the travellers had met with no very remarkable experiences. There is nothing exciting in the work of hewing a path for oneself through miles of tough, tangled undergrowth, or in toiling thirstily hour after hour in sweltering heat, wondering meanwhile how much longer it will be before the welcome sound of trickling water will reach one’s ears; even crouching in concealment for hours at a stretch, rifle in hand, in the hope that something eatable will come within shot, soon grows monotonous; while, as for the multitudinous nocturnal sounds of the forest, so weird and thrilling when first heard, the party soon became accustomed to them, and slept soundly through them all.

But, naturally, in the course of a long journey through the unexplored wilds of South America, interesting incidents are by no means uncommon, while others of a more weird and thrilling character occur occasionally, as our friends were to learn in due time. It was, however, one of the merely interesting kind that awaited them in an open glade which they entered on a certain evening, after a long and toilsome journey, just as the sun’s last rays were gilding the tree-tops on the eastern side of the clearing.

The weary, sweat-drenched travellers celebrated their arrival in this wide open space with shouts of joy, for a tiny streamlet meandered through the middle of it, while in other respects it was ideal, not only as a camping place for the coming night, but also as a spot upon which to halt and recuperate for a few days—a relaxation which they had been promising themselves during the past fortnight. It was the bone-weary Indian carriers who were loudest in the expression of their rejoicing as they stumbled through the tangled grass toward the margin of the tiny stream, upon the bank of which their camp would be pitched; and as they gladly flung down their burdens on the chosen spot, they emitted a final yell of satisfaction which, to the astonishment of all, was answered, from some distance on the opposite side of the stream, by a wailing cry, as of some person—or, more probably, some creature—in extreme anguish. The cry was so peculiar, so expressive of suffering, so piercing, yet at the same time so feeble, that it instantly arrested the attention of everybody, and all stood staring tensely in the direction from which it had come.

“Hillo!” exclaimed Dick, who was the first to find his voice after the first moment of surprise had passed. “What on earth does that mean?”

“Don’t know,” answered Earle, who was glancing about him in search of a favourable spot upon which to pitch the tent; “but we’ll soon find out. Pitch the tent anywhere you like, Peter, so long as it is not too close to the water. Where you are standing now will do quite well. Come on, Dick, and bring your rifle with you. It was somewhere over in that direction.”