Chapter XXXIV.
FLOOD AND FEVER.
The Indians were as good as their word. Headed by the chief's canoe, the adventurers passed in steady procession through more than a hundred miles of delta waterways. Progress was slow, for, though the current in the cross channels was not strong, the wind was hardly felt; the heat was stifling, and rest during the midday hours absolutely necessary. Then there were villages to be visited, presents to be made to the chieftains, and feasts to be eaten in return. Haste was impossible, though very desirable. The rains were beginning, the river would soon be in flood, and pestilence would stalk through the swampy regions like a destroying angel.
At last the apex of the delta was reached, and the broad river—stretching miles from bank to bank—lay before the navigators. The milk-white current, laden with chalky washings from the land, swept by in a mighty flood. On its bosom floated trees and detached masses of soil, going northwards to build up the growing delta. But for the wind and the guidance of the natives the adventurers would have made no headway against the mighty volume of the waters. Happily the North-East Trades from the Atlantic, unimpeded by mountain or hill, blew with steady and strong persistence across the flat delta and along the level plains through which the river made its way. Sandbanks in the bed diverted the current here and there, making quiet, lake-like pools under the banks. The Indians knew of these, and skilfully made use of them. Sails were spread to the breeze, and the flotilla went steadily on its way.
One week went by, and then another. The weather grew worse and worse. Terrific storms swept across the plains, lashing the Orinoco into fury, tearing down the mighty trees on its banks, and deluging the intrepid voyagers. The banks of the stream were almost lost; hundreds of square miles of forest-clad plain were under water, the tree-tops alone showing the navigators the true course of the river. The flood flowing sea-wards became thicker, deeper, and mightier than ever. The humid heat of the stormy summer became well-nigh unbearable. Men sickened, and in a few cases died. Camping ground at night was almost unobtainable, and thick, poisonous mists enwreathed the boats during the hours of darkness, fevering the men's blood, cramping and stiffening their limbs. It became imperative to call a halt for a while; the enfeebled rowers made scant progress against the strengthening current, and the success achieved was not worth the effort that was made. A pile-supported village was sighted, and the Indian guides turned their boat thither, the others following.
The village stood on some rising ground on the western bank of the stream, and in the dry season must have been at least half a mile from the margin of the waters. Now the floods rolled between the piles, submerging at least ten feet of them. Native canoes were tethered to the supports, and the house platforms were soon covered with knots of brown-skinned fellows full of anxiety and apprehension concerning the oncoming fleet. They knew the ship's boats for those used by the white men who came trading or raiding along the river, and wondered to find them attempting a voyage at such a time. The friendly Indians went forward and explained who the white men were, and what they wanted, and the villagers proved kind and confiding, as indeed had all the natives dwelling along the river. They gave up room in their huts to the fevered men, sleeping out on the platforms themselves, and for a few days the expedition rested and recuperated.
The sun had set, the moon was above the tree-tops, steadily making for its zenith. A group of three—Johnnie Morgan, Timothy Jeffreys, and Dan Pengelly—sat on the platform of one of the huts, their legs dangling over the edge within a couple of feet of the water. The day had been fiercely hot, and the water around had steamed like a smoking cauldron. With the moon had come a brisk breeze, that swept the stagnant, mouldy vapours away, and left a clear landscape and cool air. Dan was stuffing tobacco into a pipe of bamboo, and urging the two gentlemen to follow his example, the smoke of the weed being, he declared, an antidote against the malarial poisons breathed out by the foul mud and rotting vegetation that surrounded them. The old sailor had enjoyed marvellously good health throughout the river voyage, and, forgetting his previous travels, and the natural toughness of his constitution, put his happy condition down to his daily pipes of the fragrant Indian weed. But his two companions were too languid for indulgence in smoking. Their heads were giddy, their hearts throbbing, and their stomachs at war with all solid food. The tropical marsh fever had them in its grip, and the grasp was tightening every moment. The trees swayed dismally in the breeze, and the birds chattered querulously at being disturbed. The waters "lap, lapped" monotonously against the piles, and horny-backed alligators nosed amongst them, seeking for scraps and offal or any stray eatables that came their way. Moths and fireflies flitted about in such numbers that the air seemed alive with them. All around was a vast, shallow, fresh-water sea—rolling, heaving, sucking, lapping, shimmering under the tropical moon. A night full of majesty, beauty, mystery, and death.
Dan curled himself comfortably against a pillar, closed his eyes, and smoked with keen enjoyment. Morgan and Jeffreys gazed for a while with aching eyes at the weird scene around; then the heavy lids dropped, and they fell a-dreaming.
Johnnie was back in the cool forest by Severn side; the oaks and the beeches swayed above him, and the bracken rustled as a rabbit scuttled through. The nightingale was singing his love song to his mate and the moon, and the dull, far-off roar of the rushing tide sounded a low accompaniment to the song. Gone were the white, warm, mud-laden waters, the floating trunks, the screaming parrots, the croaking frogs, the howling beasts; the glare of the sun no longer hurt his eyes, and its fierce heat no longer sent his brain throbbing and burning. The air was cool, the bracken sweet, and the bird trilled out its passionate music. Why should he sit uncomfortably propped against a tree? He would lie down, and let the fresh, green fronds curl above him. He sighed, his limbs relaxed, he swayed—he fell with a heavy splash into the warm, lapping waters!