While we breakfasted on young birds and eggs, wild cattle were seen on the opposite bank of the river. These cattle have roamed down to the territory of the savages. A number of palm-trees stand on the banks, and the country appears to be getting more thickly wooded. An alligator had driven a school of fish close to the bank, and, in the most comfortable way possible, was making his breakfast. The fish were crowded together; they could not clear themselves from one another so as to swim away. The alligator took full advantage of the difficulty. Our crew saw what was going on some time before we rapidly neared the school. The captain steered the canoe in about three feet of the bank, cutting between the alligator and his mess. In an instant a broadside of arrows were fired by the crew; nearly every man struck his fish. The fish were so frightened that numbers jumped out on dry land, and several leaped into the bottom of the canoe. The Indians laughed; became excited; kept on shooting. Some jumped on shore and secured the game; others ran up the bank, firing their arrows through the crowded school. One man stripped himself, jumped into the stream, and gathered in the quivering arrows as they floated down, the feathered ends up, and struggling fish on the points. The crew were most active and perfectly delighted at the number of fine fish they had to help down their farinha. While the men broiled fish on sticks and over hot coals of fire, or made a chowder with yuca, the alligator indignantly rested on the opposite shore, now and then slowly wagging his tail as he cleared the fish-bones from his teeth, but constantly eyeing the long, low, black canoe and the happy crew as they seated themselves laughingly about the boiling iron pot. The fish were the size of a small shad, shaped like them, except in mouth, and quite as good eating. Our fears of starving in the wilderness are overcome. We can travel a long way on fish, fowls, and eggs.
These Indians talk very little. They silently pull along as though they were sleeping, but their eyes are wandering all the time in every direction. Nothing moves above the water's surface or among the forest trees but they see it at once. They understand the habits and customs of the animals perfectly. Knowing that the alligator keeps accounts with the fish, when they see him, they are at once on the look-out for sport. They know at what time in the evening the wild turkey will appear on the bank of the river to drink before he goes to roost, and when to look for him in the morning, as he feeds by early light. The wild ducks sleep on the beach in the noonday sun; then it is the Indian calls our attention to them. They understand the manners of the savages too. Sometimes we all sleep on the beach; at other times in the canoe. When we keep afloat, they secure the bow of the canoe to a stake run into the sandy bottom. When night overtakes us, we pull silently along, until it becomes so dark that no one can see us come to for a rest. Our paddles are in motion again before the break of day, to avoid being caught asleep by others. In this way the chances of being fired into by the arrows of the wild men are pretty certainly reduced to broad daylight, when we take mid channel.
Our crew know tolerably well what parts of the country are populated, and when there is a probability of meeting their enemy. We find the party depending entirely upon the judgment of this aboriginal race, who are a generous set of fellows, constantly offering to share their game with us. We return the compliment when we can, but there are more fish than turkeys. The men tell me that the Chacobo savages inhabit the west bank of the river, and a tribe called "Houbarayos," the most unmerciful, live on the east bank; therefore, we are between two fires. The soundings taken the second day from Exaltacion were one hundred and two feet deep—the very bottom of the Madeira Plate. We have reached a rocky formation passing through it, and beyond it the soundings decrease. Rocks stand up in mid-channel where we find forty-five feet water; while it requires more careful navigation, the river is 400 yards wide, with plenty of room for a steamer to pass.
September 3, at 8 a. m., thermometer, 72°; water, 78°; wind, southeast. The night was foggy. As the day promises to be clear, we break out our cargo, wash out the canoe, and restow. The internal arrangements are the same we had on board the Canichanas. We passed the mouth of a small stream emptying into the Mamoré from the eastward. During the rainy season this stream is navigable for canoes.
September 4.—We find small creeks running in on both sides of the river. After passing about five miles of rocky banks, the country becomes more and more thickly wooded. We breakfast on young gulls and old green parrots, the latter very poor living, even when made into soup. The men dip their fingers into the pot; the captain carries along with him a spoon made of horn, which he carefully wipes on the tail of his camecita before taking his seat at breakfast. He reclines on the bank while the others prepare the meals, after he has waited upon the "patron," one of the men appears before him with a cup of water, or light for his cigar. The crew never sing or whistle on a voyage like this; it is generally understood such noises disturb the savages. They quietly laugh at monkeys at midday, and joke the old geese as they trot along the beach with a brood of little ones. When the wind blows from the southeast, the men shiver and shake for the want of proper clothing, and work much the best when it blows from the northwest, under a clear hot sun.
At 9 a. m., thermometer, 78°; water, 77°; wind southeast. At 3 p. m., thermometer, 80°; water, 78°; wind northwest; lightning to the north. The Indians decorate their hats with the green and scarlet feathers of the parrots shot. Current of the river one mile and a half per hour. We came to a shoal in the middle of the river where the channel was only fifteen feet deep; parties of small seals barked at us, and the men saw a "Gran Bestia" looking out from among the foliage. The woods are cut up in paths made by these heavy animals, who come down the banks to drink in the river. The alligators make use of the ends of the paths to bask in the sun. Tigers are not particular about keeping in the old beaten track, but roam through the grass and bushes after the scent. The Indians shot a number of fish to-day. The Mamoré is well supplied with animal life—though the alligators are small, there are great numbers of them.
After dark, a pole was stuck in the sand on the east side of the river, near a flat beach, which extended some distance back from the water, perfectly clear of vegetable growth. The bow of the canoe was fastened to the pole, and she swung to the current of the stream. We were trying to sleep, but the musquitoes disputed the question with us all. At midnight, some birds roosting on the flat began to fly up and cry out; in an instant every Indian silently raised his head, and while looking intently towards the beach, they all laid their hands on their paddles. The screaming of the disturbed birds became more general, and those nearest us began to take up the cry of alarm. Mamoré, who was lying on the baggage, uttered a sleepy growl, when the old captain whispered to me, that the savage Houbarayos were approaching us. The stake was pulled quietly in, each man inserted his paddle deep into the water, and with a powerful pull together, the canoe silently glided into mid channel. As the current carried us rapidly down through the darkness, the men were ready with bows and arrows, and we with fire arms. No noise was heard above that of the screaming of the birds; we could not see any enemy, but the captain and crew said they saw several men. These fellows are not easily entrapped; we were struck with the admirable order with which they handled their canoe, and were ready to return a shower of arrows. They watch closely the movements of all animals; could tell by the alarm cry of the birds that some one approached, as they knew the difference between the notes of a bird disturbed by man, and those sounds produced from other sources—wild animals, or one of their own feather. They tell me that some of their tribe were robbed and murdered by these savages during the night while encamped on the bank in this neighborhood, and that it is best to remain in the boat all night. We drifted down the Mamoré, and before the break of day, under a bright moon, turned up into the Itenez river, which divides the territory of Bolivia from the empire of Brazil. The crew hug the Brazil shore where there are no inhabitants, and paddle with a will against an half mile current. Here we are forced to turn away from the direct road towards home, for the purpose of procuring the means of getting there. The boat we are in is unfit for the navigation of the Madeira, between us and the Amazon. This valuable crew of civil men are inexperienced beyond their own country. We must now grope our way among the Brazils.
I had thought, while detained in Trinidad, we should have had a few good North American carpenters and seamen along, to build a boat and launch her on our way to the Atlantic, but last night's experience taught me to believe I was mistaken; unless sailors understand the cries of birds better than I do, we might have all been cut off in the darkness of night, before the rising of the moon. These Cayavabos Indians are good fellows; they say very little, and keep thinking as well by night as by day. I asked the captain if he was certain we were in the Itenez river? "I don't know, patron, but," said he, "that is the land of Brazil," pointing to the east bank, "and this is the way to Matto Grosso."
The Itenez river varies in width from four to six hundred yards, with white sandy bottom and shoals. The color of the water is clear dark green; half a mile current, with a winding channel, through sand flats, decreasing from thirty-three feet depth to six feet. Seals and river porpoises are in great numbers, while the shores are lined with water fowl.
At 9 a. m., thermometer, 80°; water, 82°. The difference between the temperature of the Mamoré and Itenez is 4° Fahrenheit. The Brazil water is clear and green, with white sand bottom, while that of Bolivia is muddy, and of a milky color, with grey sand and clay bottom. The muddy water is the best; we are all complaining of pains after drinking Itenez water; it bears a bad character among the canoe-men.