Along about three o’clock, just as I had about made up my mind that in a couple of hours I would be due to start on an indefinite exploration into regions about which nothing is known except that no traveller ever returns from them, I heard a short scuffle at each end of the path the sentries were patrolling and a gurgling noise as though a man was choking. The next moment Lorensen’s voice came softly through the door, “Are you in there, Captain?” I assured him that I was.
“Stand away from the door,” he said, and I obeyed the order with pleasurable alacrity. Three blows with a log of crutch mahogany taken from a pile in the courtyard which had been brought in from the mountains for export, smashed in the door. Lorensen seized my arm and, led by the sergeant who had, after all, recognized the sign I had made and answered it, we climbed down a declivity back of the fort and made our way to the shore, where two boats were waiting for us. The smashing in of the door of my prison aroused the drowsy guard and we were hardly well out of the fort before there was a beating of drums and loud shouts from the few half sober officers, directed at the soundly sleeping soldiers. They finally mustered a detachment which was sent in pursuit of us, but they were not in a condition to move rapidly and did not reach the shore until we were a considerable distance away from it. They fired a few shots in the general direction of the sea but as we were in no danger of being hit we did not raise a gun.
When we got out to the “Juliette” I heard the story of my deliverance. I had been taken prisoner about the middle of the afternoon and it was early in the evening when the death sentence was passed on me. The sergeant, whose name was Alexandro, had understood my signal. He went into the city as soon as he could get away from the fort and, by persistent questioning of the natives, finally ascertained that I was in command of the American ship lying in the harbor,—for I had not hoisted the Santo Domingan flag on the “Juliette.” He then rowed out to the ship and, after telling Lorensen what had happened, through a member of the crew who could speak Spanish, offered to lead a rescuing party to the place where I was confined. He said it would be comparatively easy to get me away as only a small body of troops had been left at the fort, the supply of rum in the city being much larger, and they would be helpless from drink.
Lorensen, being a member of the same order, could well understand why a white man should have taken the deep personal interest in my welfare which Alexandro manifested, but he was suspicious that the negro was seeking to lead him into a trap. He decided, however, to take no chances, so, after warning Alexandro that he would be the first man killed if he attempted any treachery, Lorensen went ashore with sixteen well-armed men, six of whom were left with the boats while the others proceeded to the old fort. They surprised the two sentries at the opposite ends of their beat, throttled them and, as the surest means of preventing an outcry, cut their throats, which accounted for the gurgling noise I had heard. Then they broke in the door of the sala, in which operation they were obliged to make enough noise to arouse the guard.
Such are the obligations of a great secret order.
Men whom I sent ashore reported that President Baez and his brother had fled and the rebels were in full control of the government, and as soon as it was day I sailed close in and bombarded the fort where my execution was to have taken place. There was a great helter-skeltering of rum-soaked braves when the first shells exploded around their ears, but there were some who did not get away, and the crumbling walls came down and buried them. Then we headed for Venezuela again, after an experience that paid me only in excitement. I had not drawn a dollar from Baez and I had been obliged to pay for the changes made in the “Juliette” and for the guns that were brought from England, for I could not find a banker in Halifax who would advance a cent on the letter of credit from the great Republic of Santo Domingo. Still, I figured that the experience had furnished me enough excitement to justify its cost. Several years later I met Gen. Baez again in Murphy’s Hotel at St. Thomas but did not see him until he took a good-natured shot at me. The bullet smashed a pile of dishes on the arm of a waiter ten feet away from me, and from the start that waiter made I would not be surprised to hear that he is running yet around the hills back of Charlotte Amalia.
At Caracas I found that Guzman had been duly elected Constitutional President. He was inaugurating a scheme of public improvements, the country had settled down to business, and the prospect was all for long continued peace, which was displeasing to me and I wanted to get away again. However, Guzman had a plan to keep me busy. There was not then, nor is there now for that matter, a decent map of Venezuela. It was reported from Paris that a Frenchman had gone up the Orinoco to its headwaters and had found that the Casiquiare River, which empties into it, formed a natural canal connecting with the Rio Negro, which runs into the Amazon at Manaos, Brazil. Guzman proposed that I go over this route and seek to verify the Frenchman’s report. Exploring unknown lands has always been as much a passion with me as aiding and abetting revolutions, and I willingly accepted the commission, but, though I did not tell Guzman so, I had no intention of returning to Caracas. As an evidence of my appreciation of his friendship I gave him a Jurgensen watch, which I had had made to order, and the “Juliette,” just as she stood, sending Lorensen and one or two others to London to work under the direction of my agents until I should arrive. He used the good little ship for years as a mail boat between La Guaira and Curacoa. Guzman gave me a Damascus sword of exquisite workmanship, which, not long afterward, I used with good effect on the pirates of the China Sea.
He wanted the exploration made on a grand scale and suggested that he send along a detachment of soldiers. I convinced him that his plan was impracticable, for a small party could get through much more easily than a large one. Late in October I went to Trinidad to outfit for the trip. There, at the old Ice House Hotel, I met two young Britishers who were men after my own heart: Dr. Rogers, a rich Church of England clergyman who preferred the legitimate pleasures of this world to the prospects of the next, and Frank Anderson, son of a wealthy Glasgow merchant and a recent graduate of Edinburgh University. They had come out to hunt for big game and were outfitting for a trip up the Orinoco. When I told them where I was going they expressed a great desire to accompany me and I readily agreed. I was glad to have such good companions for the long and probably dangerous journey, for it was a tradition that there were many “bad Indians” far up the river. I was the commandant of the party, Rogers was the scientist, and Anderson the provider. They had brought out from England two Peacock collapsible boats and to complete our fleet I bought an Orinoco lancha, a large flat-bottomed scow with a single enormous sail.
We went up as far as Ciudad Bolivar, the head of steam navigation, on the old side-wheeler “Bolivar,” and there took to our boats, which were provisioned for six months and carried seven natives to do the hard work. There was only a slight current in the river, which was at low stage as it was then “midsummer”—their winter comes with the rainy season in our midsummer,—while the steady trade wind from the Atlantic blew straight upstream, so we made good progress under sail. It was a lazy trip in the early stages and a tiresome one, for there were only a few dirty hamlets along the way and the llanos stretched away on both sides of us in an interminable monotony. At the confluence of the Apure and Arauca Rivers, two hundred and fifty miles above Ciudad Bolivar, we found a great inland delta, larger and more bewildering than that at the mouth of the Orinoco where there are thirty-six separate channels that have been charted. This delta, like the one on the coast, was formed by the tremendous force and volume of the “midwinter” floods, which had built up so many islands of soft mud that it was at times difficult for us to stick to the main stream.
One of our most interesting experiences was at the junction of the Rio Meta and the Orinoco, one hundred and fifty miles farther on, where we encountered the so-called “musical stones,” of which we had heard marvellous tales from the natives. These are granite cliffs which, we had been told, gave out at sunrise sounds closely resembling the tones of an organ. This mythical music, as we regarded it, caused us to stay here several days and finally, on one very cool morning, by placing our ears to the rocks, we distinctly heard subterranean growls, groans, and whistles, which could without great stretch of the imagination be compared to the notes of an organ, though it must needs be a wheezy one to make the similarity approximately honest. We all knew something about geology and, without pretending to give a scientific conclusion, it was our opinion that the sounds were caused by the hot air of the day, which the rocks retained during the night, being driven out by the cool air of the early morning through narrow fissures that were partially obstructed by thin layers of mica, lying at an angle to the general stratification, which served as reeds. The resultant vibrations were musical enough to produce a weird sensation as we listened to them, and it was easy to imagine the effect they would have on the ignorant and superstitious natives, and the stories for which they furnished a foundation. The Orinoco is navigable as far as the Meta for light-draft steamers at all seasons of the year, but it may be centuries before the “musical stones” become an advertised attraction for tourists.