‘One of the lady artistes held the doctrine that life was sacred in all its manifestations; that man has no right to kill any animal, however small it may be, so she did not kill the mosquitoes that swarmed around her, but tried to blow them away with her fan. However, as some of them alighted on her forehead and on her hands, she would take them carefully between thumb and forefinger and place them on the side of a basin half filled with water, moistening their wings so that they stuck and remained harmless for the time being.
‘The smokers amongst us—all the men, in fact—after lighting their cigars or cigarettes, threw their wooden matches into the basin, a necessary precaution lest the thatch-roofed shed might catch fire.
‘In the earlier part of the night the mosquitoes made sleep almost impossible, and there we lay on the ground or upon canvas stretchers snoozing and tossing about, waiting for the morning. As night advanced, with the arrival of a welcome breeze, they seemed to diminish in numbers. I began to doze, but was awakened by one of my companions who called my attention to the echo of distant music, sweet and low, a harmony of lutes and soft recorders, whose sounds were wafted on the wings of the night air. We went out of the shed, and the sounds ceased. On returning to it we heard the melody again. This was a mystery. Nearly all our companions were asleep. We were determined to ascertain whence the music came, and, on investigation, found that the blessed mosquitoes, placed by the charitable and humane artiste on the sides of the basin, had contrived to build a raft with the fag-ends of matches, on which, waiting for their wings to dry completely, they were whiling the night away gaily singing the most popular ditty in our operetta, descriptive of the joys of life on the ocean wave!
‘This will show you,’ Fermin added, ‘that, though we have neither tigers, nor boas, nor turtles, nor fighting bulls, nor alligators, in our province, our mosquitoes beat all yours in talent and ability!’
CHAPTER XVII
Not far from the Atures rapids, we stopped at Puerto Real, a short curve in the river where the waters penetrate into a sort of bay justifying the name of ‘port,’ but with no other title to it, for no human habitation, not even the humblest hut, exists on either shore. Here the canoes were laden permanently, as the river flowed straight to the ocean, free from all rapids except at a few narrow places where the current is swifter. These, however, did not call for the precautions of the past days.
Leal considered his task at an end. We were on the open Orinoco in the Republic of Venezuela, and in the hands of a guide as careful and expert as Gatiño. This led Leal to return. In vain did we seek to persuade him to accompany us, to enter Colombia by the Magdalena River, thence to Bogotá, and then by the road we had followed to San Pedro del Tua. He would not abandon his companions, and decided to go back by the identical route we had followed. We deeply felt parting from that noble companion whose quiet, unobtrusive courage, whose skilled prudence and ready intelligence, had not only contributed greatly to our comfort during the ninety odd days that he had been with us, but had doubtless saved our lives on more than one occasion.
As a proof of the extent and value of his services, I will quote a letter received many months after in Europe, when, in the midst of modern civilization, the events and occurrences of my journey through the tropical regions of South America seemed more like a dream than a reality. Alex, who had returned to Bogotá, wrote as follows:
‘I have just received a letter from Leal, dated from his home at San Pedro del Tua. You will remember that he left us with fourteen of our men, to return by the Vichada and the Meta. On the very day of their departure, whilst they were ascending the rapids, and we proceeded on our journey down-stream, only a few hours after bidding us farewell, one of the two canoes, carrying seven men, struck the trunk of a tree lying under the water, and capsized. The men were all good swimmers, and soon overtook the canoe, which was drifting with the stream. After a good deal of trouble, they succeeded in turning it over. Whilst they were getting back into it, they were attacked by two enormous alligators which sought to overturn the canoe, striking it furiously with their tails. One of the sailors was struck on the head and stunned, losing his grip, and before he could be pulled in the other alligator cut his body in two, as if with a saw, crushing him between its jaws, so that the man was actually devoured in the very presence of his companions.’
On reading these tragic details, I felt a cold shiver run through me, like a man who sees lightning strike an object close to him, or feels a murderous bullet whizz past his head. A retrospective fear seized upon me at the thought of the many nights spent on the lonely beaches, and the numberless times that our canoes had struck submerged rocks or trunks of trees. Surely a kind Providence had watched over us during that long journey. ‘The child’s heart within the man’s’ revived in me, with the faith in God learnt from the lips of my mother, and my soul went to her who, during those long, anxious days, had prayed night and day to Him above for the safety of her absent son.