At daylight the Indians begin at the paddles. They work best early in the mornings and in the evenings.
As we moved slowly down stream, rain began to fall; the winds were variable. Some four or five different kinds of monkeys kept up an excited chattering. An awkward, thick-set, ugly, bay-coated fellow was bellowing out a noise not unlike that made by a large bullfrog. The black ring-tailed squealed as he scampered off among the tree-tops. The little white-whiskered tribe come down close to the river-bank among the canes, and seem quizzically disposed to examine the character of the craft that intruded upon their morning sports. There goes a chocolate-colored little family, as though frightened to distraction. Richards shouts at them in English, and the Canichanas roar with laughter. The crew desire a ring-tailed monkey for breakfast. Their bows and arrows lay on the roof of the cabin, but they prefer to see one fall by a shot from our gun.
The captain suddenly called to the men, and they all shouted. Looking down the river, we discovered two canoes well peopled, working manfully against the current close along the bank. Canoes going down keep in mid-channel, where the current is most rapid. These canoes were from Trinidad on their way to Vinchuta, with orders from the prefect of the department to report themselves to me for service in the expedition as soon as they landed their cargo of cacao, sugar, and passengers.
A basket of fine oranges was passed on board of us, the compliment being returned in biscuit. Our captain received news of some men he had left on the banks of the river with small-pox.
We pushed on by islands in the stream. Though the river is flooded, there is little or no drift-wood. Along the beach large trees have been left as the rain-belt passed north. These trees lay on the inner side of the turns in the stream. That side is a flat sand-beach, while the long or outer side of the turn breaks down perpendicularly. The current of the river strikes the bank; the drift-wood beats against the alluvial soil; undermines the forest trees; the roots are washed clean, and the tops fall down into the river; their branches sink; the heavy green leaves go to the bottom loaded with mud; become entangled or anchored. Drift-wood and rubbish collect about them; and while an island is built up on the small frame-work of one single log of wood, the bank gives way for the river to pass on.
The turns in this stream are very short. We are at one time heading northeast, then northwest, and often southwest, when we turn round northeast again. The distance between the upper and lower turns, in a north direction, is constantly decreasing; for the perpendicular bank on the upper turn is being dug away towards the north, and the same bank on the lower turn is caving in on the south side. When the work is done, the upper waters flow straight through to the lower; and as the river grows older, like a well-drilled soldier, it straightens.
The southwest turn is deserted by the waters, and the bed of the river lies uncovered, and becomes a proof to us that, while rivers travel, they do not always sleep on the same side of their bed, but shift from one to the other, as suits their convenience. The speed of the current of the river, after it has straightened itself through the land, instead of winding down, as the llama descends the side of a mountain, appears to us the same. That the older the river grows the more rapid the current would be a work directly in opposition to the natural purposes of navigation, for which it was intended.
As the upper country wears away, and the heavy load of earth is carried down towards the mouth of the river, the head of the stream is deepening, and being constantly cut down towards a level with the bottom, which is filling up at its mouth. This will be best explained by the sounding-line, cast from a vessel entering the mouth of a river. The pilot is taken on board to carry the ship safely over the bar, or that bank of earth which has been carried down from the head of the streams and deposited at the river's mouth. As the ship crosses this shoal, the man at the lead-line calls deeper and deeper soundings as he enters the river. He will continue to do so some distance up. From this point back to the bar, the bottom of the river is an inclined plane, sloping from the edge of the sea towards the mountains, down to the last deep soundings of the leadsman, from which place to the ocean the river may be said to be running up hill; a hill made by its own action, and which is stretching farther and farther up stream.
We find some snags and sawyers in the channel that should be cleared out to make this river in a condition for steamboat navigation.
As we descend, the Chaparé widens in some places two hundred yards, and from two and a half to three fathoms water. The river has risen three feet by rains in the up country, though the current remains about the same, which is not half the rate of the Gulf stream between the Florida reefs and the Bahama banks.