Short Fiction, H. G. Wells [i am malala young readers edition .TXT] 📗

young man, this was his first sight of the tropics, he came straight from England, where Nature is hedged, ditched, and drained, into the perfection of submission, and he had suddenly discovered the insignificance of man. For six days they had been steaming up from the sea by unfrequented channels; and man had been as rare as a rare butterfly. One saw one day a canoe, another day a distant station, the next no men at all. He began to perceive that man is indeed a rare animal, having but a precarious hold upon this land.

He perceived it more clearly as the days passed, and he made his devious way to the Batemo, in the company of this remarkable commander, who ruled over one big gun, and was forbidden to waste his ammunition. Holroyd was learning Spanish industriously, but he was still in the present tense and substantive stage of speech, and the only other person who had any words of English was a negro stoker, who had them all wrong. The second in command was a Portuguese, da Cunha, who spoke French, but it was a different sort of French from the French Holroyd had learnt in Southport, and their intercourse was confined to politenesses and simple propositions about the weather. And the weather, like everything else in this amazing new world, the weather had no human aspect, and was hot by night and hot by day, and the air steam, even the wind was hot steam, smelling of vegetation in decay: and the alligators and the strange birds, the flies of many sorts and sizes, the beetles, the ants, the snakes and monkeys seemed to wonder what man was doing in an atmosphere that had no gladness in its sunshine and no coolness in its night. To wear clothing was intolerable, but to cast it aside was to scorch by day, and expose an ampler area to the mosquitoes by night; to go on deck by day was to be blinded by glare and to stay below was to suffocate. And in the daytime came certain flies, extremely clever and noxious about one’s wrist and ankle. Captain Gerilleau, who was Holroyd’s sole distraction from these physical distresses, developed into a formidable bore, telling the simple story of his heart’s affections day by day, a string of anonymous women, as if he was telling beads. Sometimes he suggested sport, and they shot at alligators, and at rare intervals they came to human aggregations in the waste of trees, and stayed for a day or so, and drank and sat about, and, one night, danced with Creole girls, who found Holroyd’s poor elements of Spanish, without either past tense or future, amply sufficient for their purposes. But these were mere luminous chinks in the long grey passage of the streaming river, up which the throbbing engines beat. A certain liberal heathen deity, in the shape of a demijohn, held seductive court aft, and, it is probable, forward.

But Gerilleau learnt things about the ants, more things and more, at this stopping-place and that, and became interested in his mission.

“Dey are a new sort of ant,” he said. “We have got to be⁠—what do you call it?⁠—entomologie? Big. Five centimetres! Some bigger! It is ridiculous. We are like the monkeys⁠—sent to pick insects⁠ ⁠… But dey are eating up the country.”

He burst out indignantly. “Suppose⁠—suddenly, there are complications with Europe. Here am I⁠—soon we shall be above the Rio Negro⁠—and my gun, useless!”

He nursed his knee and mused.

“Dose people who were dere at de dancing place, dey ’ave come down. Dey ’ave lost all they got. De ants come to deir house one afternoon. Everyone run out. You know when de ants come one must⁠—everyone runs out and they go over the house. If you stayed they’d eat you. See? Well, presently dey go back; dey say, ‘The ants ’ave gone.’⁠ ⁠… De ants ’aven’t gone. Dey try to go in⁠—de son, ’e goes in. De ants fight.”

“Swarm over him?”

“Bite ’im. Presently he comes out again⁠—screaming and running. He runs past them to the river. See? He gets into de water and drowns de ants⁠—yes.” Gerilleau paused, brought his liquid eyes close to Holroyd’s face, tapped Holroyd’s knee with his knuckle. “That night he dies, just as if he was stung by a snake.”

“Poisoned⁠—by the ants?”

“Who knows?” Gerilleau shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps they bit him badly⁠ ⁠… When I joined dis service I joined to fight men. Dese things, dese ants, dey come and go. It is no business for men.”

After that he talked frequently of the ants to Holroyd, and whenever they chanced to drift against any speck of humanity in that waste of water and sunshine and distant trees, Holroyd’s improving knowledge of the language enabled him to recognise the ascendant word Saüba, more and more completely dominating the whole.

He perceived the ants were becoming interesting, and the nearer he drew to them the more interesting they became. Gerilleau abandoned his old themes almost suddenly, and the Portuguese lieutenant became a conversational figure; he knew something about the leaf-cutting ant, and expanded his knowledge. Gerilleau sometimes rendered what he had to tell to Holroyd. He told of the little workers that swarm and fight, and the big workers that command and rule, and how these latter always crawled to the neck and how their bites drew blood. He told how they cut leaves and made fungus beds, and how their nests in Caracas are sometimes a hundred yards across. Two days the three men spent disputing whether ants have eyes. The discussion grew dangerously heated on the second afternoon, and Holroyd saved the situation by going ashore in a boat to catch ants and see. He captured various specimens and returned, and some had eyes and some hadn’t. Also, they argued, do ants bite or sting?

“Dese ants,” said Gerilleau, after collecting information at a rancho, “have big eyes. They don’t run about blind⁠—not as most ants