The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo - Charles Gibson (short novels in english .TXT) 📗

to the back-water through the

density of the jungle.

 

"Paddle!" Crouch was crying. "Paddle for your life! Bring her in to

the bank."

 

Just then the canoe was steady, shooting downward like a dart. Max

raised his hands to his lips and shouted back.

 

"I’ve no paddles!" he cried.

 

He saw Crouch break into the jungle. The little sea-captain threw

himself into the thickets like a madman. Once again, only for an

instant, Max caught sight of him. He was fighting his way down-stream

along the river bank like some ferocious beast. The long arm of a

creeper barred his way, and Crouch wrenched it from the tree to which it

clung with a strength that was almost superhuman. And then he was lost

to view.

 

Max looked down into the water, and saw at once that it would be

impossible to reach the bank by swimming. He had never been a strong

swimmer, and in such a current as this no one could hope to prevail. On

hands and knees, he crawled to the other end of the canoe, and

immediately the thing swung round again, like a gate upon its hinges.

 

He was now calm enough to think the matter out. If he tried to swim to

the shore the odds would be a hundred to one against him. There was

still a chance that the canoe might be driven into the bank. He was

determined to keep his head, to be ready to spring ashore, should the

opportunity occur, and lay hold upon the first thing that fell to his

reach.

 

As he sat and waited, whilst the seconds flew, his heart sank within

him. The river narrowed. Black, ugly-looking rocks sprang up, like

living things in mid-stream, and before him opened the ravine.

 

He saw its great walls rising, smooth and sheer, on either side of the

river, and fading away in the distance, in the thick haze of the

steaming, tropic day. He was fascinated by the rocks. He marvelled

every instant that the canoe was not dashed to atoms. The surface of

the water was now white with foam, in the midst of which the black rocks

glistened in the sunlight. The canoe would rush towards one of these,

as some swift beast of prey hurls itself upon its victim; and at the

eleventh hour it would be whipped aside to go dancing, leaping on.

 

The ravine was like one of the pits we read of in Dante’s _Inferno_. Its

walls were precipitous and white, glaring in the sunshine. This was the

gate that guarded the Hidden Valley.

 

Max had a sensation of passing through a railway-cutting in an express

train. Little objects upon the steep banks--perhaps straggling plants,

sprung from seeds which had fallen from above--were blurred and

indistinct, flashing past like may-flies in the sunlight. There was the

same rattling noise in his ears, quite distinguishable from the roar of

the water beneath his feet.

 

For a moment he buried his face in his hands. A hundred thoughts went

galloping through his brain, not one of which was complete. One gave

place to another; there was no gap between them; they were like the

films on a cinematograph.

 

And then came a murmuring in his ears which was something apart from the

rattling sound we have mentioned, and the loud roar of the rapids. He

looked up, with a white face, and listened. It seemed his heart had

ceased to beat, and breathing consisted of inspiration only. The

murmuring grew into a roar, and the roar into a peal of thunder--the

cataract was ahead!

 

 

 

THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER XII--WHEN HOPE DIES OUT

 

As the canoe rushed forward, Max Harden recognized himself for lost; he

realized there was no hope. Resolved to meet his fate with all the

fortitude he could command, he was yet sufficiently unnerved to stand

upright in the canoe, which so rocked and swayed that he balanced

himself with difficulty.

 

It was then that he looked down upon what seemed certain death. The

river ended abruptly, as a cliff falls sheer to the sea. The walls of

the ravine were folded back to the east and to the west, and between,

the water went over the cataract in one long, unbroken wave.

 

Far below, extending to the north, was a broad plain, dotted here and

there with trees which, in the haze of the tropic heat, appeared

indistinct and restless, like weeds and pebbles at the bottom of deep,

discoloured water. Beyond that were the broad, gleaming waters of the

Kasai, rolling north-westward to the Congo.

 

Max looked up to the wide, burning sky. In that mad, headlong moment he

offered up a prayer. The roar of the waters thundered in his ears. The

canoe over-shot the crest of the cataract, as a swallow dips upon the

wing. Max was conscious of a bursting in his head. There was a noise

in his ears as if all chaos were rushing in upon him; it was as if he

were an atom in the midst of an upheaval of the worlds. And then he

remembered no more.

 

                                 ————

 

Now that the Hidden Valley has been explored, and is even shown upon

some of the large scale maps that have recently been issued by the Royal

Geographical Society, those whose pleasure it is to study such matters

are well acquainted with the formation of the country.

 

The river finds its source in the unknown mountains to the south of

Makanda; thence it flows due north towards the Kasai. South of the

waterfall the basin consists of a hard, impervious rock. In the region

of the jungle, this rock is covered by about ten feet of fertile

subsoil: in some places a black, glutinous mud; in others, a red, loamy

clay, containing a super-abundance of plant food. At the Long Ravine

the rock rises to the surface, in what geologists call an "out-crop."

North of the cataract lies a great plain of mud.

 

This phenomenon is merely what is found in every waterfall in the world.

The river at the top of the falls flows over hard, impermeable rock; at

the foot is found a softer stratum--such as chalk or clay--which is

easily washed away. Originally, far back in the centuries, there was no

waterfall at all. The river flowed on an even course from Makanda to

the Kasai. Very soon, however, the current swept away vast tracts of

mud to the north of the waterfall. This mud was carried by the Kasai to

the Congo, and thence to the sea. In consequence, a tract of country,

many square miles in area, gradually descended lower and lower. On the

other hand, in the hard rock of the ravine, the river worked more

slowly, so that, at last, the cataract was formed.

 

At the foot of the falls is a great pool in which the water is

exceedingly deep, and round which the current spends its fury in many

whirlpools, such as may be seen in a mill-pond when the flood-gates are

opened to their full extent.

 

Having thus briefly explained the conformation of the country in the

lower valley of the Hidden River, it is now necessary to return to

Captain Crouch. The effort made by the little wizened sea-captain upon

that eventful morning is worthy to rank with anything that was ever told

by the poets of classic days. Had it not been for his indomitable will,

he could never have accomplished a feat that was almost superhuman.

Edward Harden had said that he believed that he was the only person whom

Crouch cared for in the world. That might have been true at the time,

but certain it is that the captain thought well of Max, else he had

never accomplished what he did.

 

He was already wounded; even he himself had owned he was in pain. And

yet, mile upon mile, he broke his way through the jungle, fighting

onward amid the profusion of the forest, like one who was raving mad.

Often he sank to his waist in marsh. His clothes were torn to shreds by

thorns. His face and hands were red with blood which had mingled with

the perspiration that streamed from every pore. When he came forth from

the forest, at the head of the ravine, he looked hardly human--the most

desperate being it were possible to picture.

 

For all that he dashed on, across the bare rocks, in the blazing heat of

the sun. There was nothing now to impede him, and he raced upon his

way, never pausing for breath. He was half-naked; he had left the

greater part of his clothes upon the thorn-trees in the jungle. His

pith helmet was askew, and battered and out of shape. He had used his

Remington rifle as a club to beat his way through the thickets, had

broken it off at the small of the butt, and now held the barrel in his

hand. His legs were bare to the knee, like those of an urchin, and so

clotted with blood that he looked like a savage who had dyed his skin.

Sometimes he stumbled, and seemed in danger of falling; but each time he

braced himself up, struck himself upon the chest, and went on even

faster than before.

 

When he came to the end of the ravine he turned to the west, and there

found a place where he could climb down to the low-lying flats. It was

then approaching sunset. The heat of the day was past.

 

At about half-way down the incline he paused, and lifted the palm of his

hand to screen his only eye. For some minutes he scanned the plain, and

then on a sudden he gave vent to a loud cry of exultation, and bounded

down the hill. Far in the distance, high and dry upon a mud-bank, he

had caught sight of a small speck, which he knew for a human being.

 

It took him more than half an hour to reach this place. By then it was

nearly dusk. Bending down over the drenched, motionless form, he

thought at first that Max was dead. He could feel no beating of the

heart.

 

Still, Crouch was not the man to despair. Moreover, in the days when he

had sailed the seas, he had had experience in the resuscitation of the

drowned.

 

Without delay he set to work. He lifted the body so that the water

poured from the mouth of the unconscious man. He then seated himself

upon the ground at Max’s head, and worked both arms like the handles of

a pump.

 

The sun set and a full moon arose, which traced a silvery pathway across

the great wasteland that extended both to the east and to the west, as

far as the eye could reach. Here and there lonely, stunted trees showed

like sentinels upon the plain. The only sound that disturbed the

stillness of the night was the dull, continuous roar of the cataract to

the south. Here was no sign of animal life. In the daytime the

marshland was thronged with birds, but these now were silent. It would

be impossible to imagine a place more desolate and weird. It seemed not

of the world, or, if it were, of some forgotten country, buried for ever

beyond the reach of progress and the influence of man.

 

Hour after hour Crouch held to his task. The sweat poured from his

forehead, the blood still issued from his wounds, but never for a moment

did he cease.

 

At last he stopped, and placed an ear to Max’s chest. Thereupon, he

went on again, more feverishly than ever.

 

Soon after that, a quick cry escaped his lips. He had looked into Max’s

face, and seen the eyelids flicker; and presently, two eyes were staring

in his face. And at that the little man just toppled forward in a

faint, and lay upon his face across the body which his efforts had

brought back to life.

 

Without doubt, the mind is master of the body, and the will is king of

the mind. One had but to glance into the face of Captain Crouch to see

that he was possessed of a will of iron.