The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo, Charles Gibson [most life changing books .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Gibson
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be a path through the jungle; but I doubt if even then he would have
been able to come this distance on foot. And yet his canoe never passed
Hippo Pool, or we should have seen it--that’s sure enough." Then, on a
sudden, he slapped his knee. "By Christopher," he cried, "I have it! I
remember!"
"You remember what?" asked Max.
"About half-way between the Pool and Makanda I remember seeing the
entrance of a little back-water, on the left bank of the river. That
back-water probably rejoins the river somewhere about here. It’s all as
plain as a pikestaff. He has come north by the back-water, which
accounts for us not having seen him pass through Hippo Pool. The end of
that back-water is either between here and the place where we left the
canoe, or else farther down-stream. Come," said Crouch, "we’ll get the
better of this rascal. Perhaps, for once, Fortune will play into our
hands."
He struggled to his feet, but immediately turned pale, and was obliged
to support himself against the trunk of a tree.
"I feel mighty dizzy," he said. "I’ve lost a deal of blood."
"You had better stay here," said Max; "I’ll work along the bank until I
find the canoe, and then come back to you. I don’t like leaving you,
but there’s nothing else to be done. Perhaps the canoe is not far
away."
"It’s farther than you think," said Crouch; "that tunnel took us almost
due north. Besides, I can tell by the water. The rapids are pretty
strong; we can’t be far from the ravine."
"Will we be able to paddle against it, do you think?" asked Max.
Crouch looked at the river.
"Yes," said he. "My arms are all right, though I’ve gone wrong in the
leg. You get off, and come back here as quickly as you can. If you see
Cæsar, shoot."
At that Max set off alone. He soon found it impossible to make any
progress on the actual bank of the river, since here, by reason of the
moisture that was in the ground, the vegetation was so dense and tangled
that a weasel would have found some difficulty in making any headway.
He soon found, however, that by moving about thirty yards from the river
bank, he could make his way southward with tolerable ease. From time to
time he forced his way to the river’s edge, and looked both up-stream
and down, to note if he could see any sign of the canoe.
The sun was in the mid-heavens, and the heat intense. The jungle was
alive with sounds. The evening before there had been a heavy shower of
rain, and now the vapour rose like steam, and the moisture dropped from
the trees. To his left he could hear the roar of the rapids as the
river plunged upon its way, and this served to guide him, making it
possible for him to hold his course parallel to the river bank. He was
followed by a swarm of insects that droned and buzzed in his ears. The
perspiration fell from his forehead in great drops, and frequently he
found himself caught and held fast by strong, hook-like thorns.
Presently the forest opened. It was like coming out of a darkened room
into the light. For a moment he was unable to see. During that moment
he fancied he heard a sound quite near to him--a sound of something that
moved. Looking about him, he discovered that he was standing in long
reeds which reached almost to his chest. To his right, the trees of the
forest were extended in a kind of avenue, and at their feet was a
narrow, swiftly-flowing stream.
He had discovered Cæsar’s back-water. Moreover, he had discovered
Cæsar’s canoe, for there it was, its bows just visible, peeping through
the reeds.
THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER XI--IN THE LONG RAVINE
Max took in the situation at a glance. If Cæsar had come north from
Makanda by way of the back-water, he had not passed their canoe on the
Hidden River. Two courses lay open to Max: he might cross the
back-water in Cæsar’s canoe, and pursue his journey on foot; or he might
take this canoe and go down to Crouch, about whom he was anxious. The
latter was undoubtedly the wiser course to pursue. In the heart of
Africa, one canoe is as good as another; and, besides, by taking Cæsar’s
canoe he would be paying off old scores.
Having come to this conclusion, he looked about him for a suitable way
by which to approach the canoe. He had not taken one step in the right
direction, when he discovered to his dismay that the reeds were growing
in a bog, into which one leg sank deep before he was able to recover his
footing on dry land.
Still, he had every reason to be hopeful. If the Portuguese and his
party had disembarked at this place, there was clearly a way of getting
into the canoe. For all that, search as he might among the reeds, he
could not find it, and at last he retired to the top of the bank.
No sooner had he got there than he discovered that for which he had been
looking. A tall tree had fallen in the forest, and the roots were half
in the water. The canoe had been moored under the lee of this. On each
side of the fallen tree the reeds grew so high that the trunk was half
hidden from view.
This tree formed a sort of natural pier, or landing-stage, along which
it was possible to walk. Max stepped upon the trunk, and walked towards
the canoe. Fearing that if he jumped into it he would knock a hole in
the bottom, he lowered himself to a sitting position, and then
remembered that he had not untied the painter at the bows. He always
looks upon his next action as the most foolish thing he ever did in his
life. He left his rifle in the canoe, and returned along the tree-trunk
to untie the bows.
It was then that he was seized from behind. Some one sprang upon him
from out of the reeds. Two strong arms closed about his chest, and he
was lifted bodily from off his feet.
Putting forth his strength, he managed to twist himself round, seizing
his adversary by the throat.
He had been set upon by one of Cæsar’s Arabs. The Portuguese himself
was doubtless still searching in the jungle for Crouch and Max, and no
doubt he had left this fellow in charge of his canoe. Fortunately, the
man was not armed; otherwise, Max would have been murdered. As it was,
he realized from the start that his life was in imminent danger.
The man was possessed of the strength of all his race. His arms, though
thin, were sinewy, and his muscles stood out like bands of whip-cord as
he strove to gain the upper hand. Max was at a disadvantage, since he
wore boots; whereas the Arab with his bare feet had the better foot-hold
on the trunk of the fallen tree. Still, even he could not retain his
balance for long, with the young Englishman flying at his throat like a
tiger. The man had a beard, and Max, laying hold of this, forced his
head backwards, so that they both fell together into the mud.
During that fall Max’s head struck the bows of the canoe. For a moment
he was dazed, half stunned. He relaxed his hold of his opponent, and
thereafter he lay at the mercy of the Arab.
If we make an exception of the Chinese, the Arab is in all probability
the cruellest man we know of. He is possessed of an almost fiendish
cunning. His courage no one will dispute. To his children he is a kind
father; to those who know and understand him he is a good friend; he is
one of the most hospitable men in the world. But to his enemies he is
relentless. He has none of the barbarity of the savage races, like the
Zulus or the Masai. He is refined, even in his cruelty. Above all, he
is a man of brains.
Because of their craftiness, their cunning and their courage, the Arab
races have existed from the very beginnings of time. We read in the
most ancient history that exists--in the history of the Pharaohs--of how
the Egyptian towns in the valley of the Nile were walled against the
incursions of the Arabs. Long before the Persians came to Egypt, no man
dared venture far into the desert because of the Bedouin bands. And that
was when the world was in its cradle, when just the valleys of two
rivers--the one in Asia and the other in Egypt--were able to produce the
rudiments of the civilization of the future. That was, perhaps, eight
thousand years ago.
Since then--and before then--the Arab has been feared. The Negro races
have bowed down before him, as dumb animals obey a superior
intelligence. In this, above all things, had the Portuguese been wise;
he had formed his bodyguard of those men who for centuries have been the
stern, implacable rulers of the great, mysterious continent.
Max never lost possession of his senses; he was only dazed. And, whilst
in that condition, he was lifted in the strong arms of the Arab, and
thrown bodily into the canoe. When he was sufficiently recovered to
endeavour to rise to his feet, he found that he was in mid-stream,
drifting rapidly towards the river. He looked about him for a paddle,
and seeing none, turned his eyes to the bank. And there stood the Arab,
in his mud-stained garments, his white teeth showing in his swarthy face
in a broad, unholy grin. Moreover, in both hands, he held the paddles
which he had taken from the canoe.
Max recognized, as in a flash, that his fate was in the hands of a
greater Power than himself. He snatched up his rifle, and endeavoured
to steer with the butt. That had the effect of turning the canoe a
little, but the current was too strong, and he was borne onwards.
Twenty yards farther, and the canoe would turn the corner and shoot out
into the river, where the rapids foamed and lashed. At one time the
bows brushed the tall reeds which were growing from the water. Max,
dropping his rifle, seized the only one of these that was within his
grasp. He held it for no longer than a second--an agonizing moment that
seemed eternity--and then the reed was drawn out by its roots from the
soft mud beneath the water.
The canoe was launched into the rapids at a bound. The current struck
it sideways, and sent it round like a top. For a moment it was like
some blind, excited animal that knows not whither it means to go, and
then it shot down-stream like an arrow from the bow.
Max became aware of a kind of singing in his head. This may have been
caused by the blow which he had received, or else by the manner in which
the canoe was now whirled round and round upon the tide. The whole
scene about him became blurred and indistinct. The great, white-hot sky
above him was like a sheet of fire. He saw the trees on either bank fly
past like armies of dark, gigantic spectres. At such times as this, it
is as if the brain becomes unhinged; we think of strange, and often
foolish things, of no consequence soever. Max saw a large dragonfly, of
all the colours in the rainbow. Even then he admired its beauty and
coveted its wings. The latter thought was natural, but the first was
strange. And the next thing he knew of was Crouch shouting and waving
his arms upon the bank. In a few moments Max had shot down the river to
the place where he had left the little captain, though it had taken him
more than two hours to force his way
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