“We’ll continue for a while,” said Mr. Holton. “Then we may be able to find out what is ahead of us.”
The words had scarcely left his mouth when the boats rounded a corner, not two hundred feet above a seething, boiling rapids, its waters rushing madly past protruding rocks.
There was no time to lose. Something must be done at once!
“Stop the boats!” cried Mr. Lewis in Portuguese to the crew.
The Indians heard, and struggled with all their might against the rapidly increasing current, but their efforts were in vain. The boats had gained too much momentum.
The cruel water carried them on at terrific speed, which was increased several fold when they went into the rapids. Then they realized that there was little use trying to stop. The forces of man were puny indeed compared to that terrific onslaught of foam.
“Make for the middle of the stream!” commanded Mr. Holton. “Even then it will tax our efforts to the utmost.”
The whites grabbed poles and what other objects they could find and did their part in keeping the foremost boat at as near the middle of the river as they could. But even with the added help it was extremely difficult to guide straight.
The crew had the paddles, and they were doing their best to steer the boats away from the banks. They succeeded fairly well, for the river was still several score feet wide.
But grave misfortune awaited them.