Читать книгу The Mighty Orinoco - Jules Verne - Страница 16

CHAPTER VIII

A Cloud of Dust on the Horizon

One could call La Urbana the capital of the middle Orinoco. It is the most important village between Caicara and San Fernando de Atabapo, each situated at one of the two angles the river makes—the first where it leaves the direction of east to west in order to head south, the second where it leaves the southerly direction to take that of the west to east.

It goes without saying that this particular hydrographic disposition is true only if M. Miguel’s opinion is accepted over those of MM. Felipe and Varinas, and in accordance with the layout of the Orinoco as indicated on modern maps.

In any event, some six hundred kilometers upstream, the geographers would eventually reach the point of triple confluence where this important question would finally be settled—so one could hope, at least.

A cerro, a hill of modest height, rose on the right bank and bore the same name as the village built at its foot. At that time, La Urbana had a population of 350 to 400 inhabitants, sharing a hundred or so huts. For the most part they were mulatto, a mix of Spanish and Indian. They were not tillers of the soil, and only a few raised cattle. Aside from the seasonal harvesting of tonka beans and turtle eggs, they did nothing but fish and hunt and showed a natural penchant for laziness. But they lived a life of ease, and the dwellings spread out among the banana trees along the shore suggested a level of comfort and well-being that was rare in these distant regions.¹

MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas, Sergeant Martial, and Jean de Kermor were planning to stay only one night in La Urbana. Since they had arrived around five o’clock, the evening would be enough to renew their provisions of meat and vegetables, for La Urbana had an ample supply for all their needs.

They decided that it would be best to deal with the head official, who was eager to offer his services and accommodate the passengers in his home. He was a mulatto some fifty years old whose authority extended over the plains of the region and to policing the river. He lived with his mulatto wife and a half dozen children from six to eighteen, boys and girls, vigorous and in fine health.

When he learned that M. Miguel and his two colleagues were well-known personages from Ciudad Bolívar, he granted them an even warmer welcome and invited them to spend the evening in his home.

The invitation also included the passengers of the Gallinetta. Jean de Kermor was all the happier for perhaps having the chance to find out more about his two countrymen whose fate continued to worry him.

First the skippers, Valdez and Martos, took charge of resupplying the boats, providing sugar, yams, and especially manioc flour crushed in a stone grinder called a rayo that is commonly used for bread making in the regions of the mid-Orinoco.

The two falcas had drawn alongside the inner shore, which was fairly steep, to a cove which formed a little harbor where dinghies and fishing boats were at their moorings.

They also saw a third falca in the care of a native skipper. It was the boat of the two French explorers, MM. Jacques Helloch and Germain Paterne. Their crew had been waiting for them at La Urbana for six weeks. They had received no word from them and were very concerned, as might well be imagined.

After dining aboard the falcas, the passengers went on to the home of the head official.

The family was in the main room, which was simply furnished with a table and leather-appointed chairs and decorated with a few hunting trophies.

Several notables of La Urbana had been invited to the evening festivities, and with them a local habitant. This person was not entirely unknown to Jean, thanks to a portrait that M. Chaffanjon had made of him in his report; at his home the French traveler had received a very cordial and generous welcome. He described him as follows:

“M. Marchal, an elderly Venezuelan, came some fifteen years ago to settle in Tigra, situated upstream from La Urbana. He is a true man of wisdom. Abandoning politics for cattle raising, he founded a hato, a cattle ranch, whose corral holds some hundred animals, cared for by several peons and their families. Around the cattle ranch there stretch out fields of manioc, corn, and sugarcane with a border of superb banana trees. These amply supply the food for this happy and tranquil little world.”²

The falca of the two French explorers

M. Marchal’s presence in La Urbana was required by some business affairs. He had come in his dinghy, brought by two of his men, and when he stopped by his friend the head official’s home, he was naturally invited to the evening party.

One could, of course, not expect a “high-society” reception in this little village hidden away on the Orinoco plains. But, if there were no delicate pastries, dainty sweets, wines of renown, or rare liqueurs, there were cakes made by the mistress of the house and her daughters accompanied by a sincere and cordial welcome. Several cups of a delicious coffee—bruquilla—were served, the beans for which come from a herbaceous legume cultivated on M. Marchal’s ranch.

This fine old man took great pleasure in talking with Jean de Kermor in the language of the country. He reminded him that, five years before, his illustrious countryman had spent some time on his ranch—although regrettably not enough.

“He was very impatient to continue his adventurous trip!” added M. Marchal. “He’s a hardy pioneer, my dear child. Disdaining danger, he reconnoitered our national river to its very sources, and at the risk of his life. There’s a Frenchman who is an honor to France!”

These words, pronounced with fervor, showed the warm-heartedness of this venerable Venezuelan.

When M. Marchal and the head official learned of the purpose of the journey by MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas, Jean noticed that they looked at each other with some surprise. As far as they were concerned, the question of the Orinoco had been settled for a long time and in favor of M. Miguel.

Although M. Marchal no longer kept up with San Fernando and his mind was already made up concerning the Atabapo and the Guaviare, he encouraged the three members of the Geography Society to push on with their research as far as the confluence of the three rivers.

“Science can only profit from it,” he said, “and who knows, gentlemen, if you might not come back from this expedition with some original discovery?”

“That’s what we hope,” responded M. Miguel, “because, if we must go beyond San Fernando, we will be visiting a practically unknown region.”

“And we will go—” affirmed M. Felipe.

“As far as necessary!” added M. Varinas.

Sergeant Martial only partially understood this conversation, of which his nephew translated a few words. It astonished him that anyone, unless deprived of their reason, would be so curious to find out what hole the river was coming out of.

“Well,” he murmured, “if all men were wise, there would be no need to build so many hospitals for the insane!”

The conversation then turned to the two Frenchmen, whose return to La Urbana they had been awaiting in vain. The local official had received them when they arrived. M. Marchal also knew them, for, when leaving, they had stopped over one day at the ranch on the Tigra.

“And since their departure,” asked M. Miguel, “you haven’t heard any more about them?”

“No, nothing at all,” replied the official. “The llaneros, or plainsmen, who were returning from the east and with whom we have often spoken, deny ever having met them.”

“Wasn’t their intention,” inquired Jean, “to go up the Orinoco?”

“Yes, my dear lad,” answered M. Marchal, “and they planned to stop over at several villages along the way. They’re traveling a bit as luck would take them, that’s what they told me. One, M. Germain Paterne, botanizes with all the curiosity of a naturalist who would risk his life to discover some unknown plant. The other fellow, M. Jacques Helloch, a determined hunter, is passionate about all things geographical, the contours of a region, the path of a water course, et cetera. These obsessions can lead one far … often very far … too far, perhaps … and then, when it’s time to return…”

“Let’s hope,” said M. Varinas, “that nothing unfortunate has happened to those two Frenchmen!”

“We have to hope so,” responded the official, “although their absence is already too long.”

“Can we be sure that they planned to return to La Urbana?” asked M. Felipe.

“No doubt about that, since their boat is waiting for them here, with the specimens they’ve already collected and their camping gear.”

“When they left,” said Jean, “did they have a guide, an escort?”

“Yes, a few Mapoyos that I got for them,” replied the official.

“Men you trusted?” asked M. Miguel.

“As much as one can, when it’s a question of Indians from the interior.”

“And,” continued Jean, “do you know what part of the territory they were preparing to visit?”

“From what I know of their plans,” explained M. Marchal, “they must have headed toward the Sierra Matapey, to the east of the Orinoco, a little-known area frequented only by the Yaruros or the Mapoyos. Your two compatriots and the leader of the escort were on horseback; the other Indians, numbering some half-dozen, accompanied them on foot, carrying packs.”

“Is the land to the east of the Orinoco subject to flooding?” asked Jean de Kermor.

“No,” replied M. Miguel, “and the surface of its plains is considerably above sea level.”

“True enough, M. Miguel,” added the head official, “but it is subject to earthquakes, and you know they are not rare in Venezuela.”

“At all times?” asked the lad.

“No,” declared M. Marchal, “at certain times of the year. Over the last month we have felt rather violent tremors as far as the Tigra ranch.”

It is common knowledge that the Venezuelan soil is often troubled by volcanic tremors, although its mountains do not have active craters. Humboldt even called it “the country of earthquakes par excellence.” That title seems justified by the destruction of the city of Cumana in the sixteenth century, which was struck again 150 years later when the region “trembled” for fifteen months. Another city in the Andean territory, Mesida, also found itself devastated by those dreadful commotions. And, in 1812, twelve thousand inhabitants were crushed under the ruins of Caracas. These disasters, which have had thousands of victims, are still to be feared in the Hispano-American provinces, and it was true that, for some time now, they had been feeling the ground tremble in the eastern area of the mid-Orinoco.

When all questions were asked and answered about the two Frenchmen, M. Marchal then turned his attention to Sergeant Martial and his nephew.

“We now know,” he said, “why MM. Miguel, Varinas, and Felipe undertook their journey on the Orinoco. No doubt your trip does not have the same goal.”

Sergeant Martial made a sweeping gesture of denial; but on a sign from Jean, he had to refrain from further expressing his disdain for these geographic questions which, in his mind, would interest only publishers of textbooks and atlases.

The lad then told his story, what motives had brought him to leave France, what filial sentiment he was obeying in going up the Orinoco, and his hope of finding some new information in San Fernando, where the last letter from his father was sent.

Old M. Marchal could not disguise the emotion this response caused him. He seized Jean’s hands, drew him into his arms, kissed him on the forehead—which made the Sergeant grumble under his breath. It was like a blessing that he gave him, along with the warmest wishes for the success of his project.

“But neither you, M. Marchal, nor you, monsieur the official, you haven’t heard of the Colonel de Kermor?” asked the lad.

They both shook their heads.

“Perhaps,” answered the official, “the colonel did not stop in La Urbana? That would surprise me, though, for it is rare that a boat doesn’t stop here to stock up. It was in 1879, you say?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jean. “Were you already living in this town?”

“Certainly, and I never heard that the Colonel de Kermor had come through here.”

Again that incognito with which the colonel had sought to cover himself since his departure.

“Don’t worry, my dear lad,” affirmed M. Miguel, “it is impossible that your father didn’t leave some trace of his stay in San Fernando, and there you will no doubt obtain information which will assure the success of your search.”

The discussion continued until ten o’clock, when the guests of the head official, after taking leave of this hospitable family, returned on board their boats, which were to cast off the next day at dawn.

Jean went to lie down on his cot in the passenger quarters, and, once his usual mosquito hunt was completed, Sergeant Martial stretched out on his own.

Both fell asleep, but not for long.

Toward two o’clock they were aroused by a distant rumbling, continuously growing.

It was like a dull murmuring which they could not mistake for thunder, even distant. The river waters, unusually agitated, began rocking the Gallinetta.

Sergeant Martial and the lad got up, left their quarters, and stood at the foot of the mast.

The skipper Valdez and his crew, standing in the bow of the falca, were searching the horizon.

“What’s happening, Valdez?” asked Jean.

“I don’t know.“

“Is it a storm approaching?”

“No. The sky has no clouds. The wind is from the east, and it’s very weak.”

“Where’s this disturbance coming from?”

“I don’t know … I just don’t know,” repeated Valdez.

Indeed, it was inexplicable, unless it was being produced, upstream or downstream from the village, by a sort of tidal bore caused by the sudden rise of the river. Anything could be expected from the capricious Orinoco.

On board the Maripare, the passengers and crew showed the same surprise. M. Miguel and his two friends, outside their quarters, were seeking in vain to determine the cause of this phenomenon.

Remarks exchanged between the two boats gave no plausible explanation. Further, if this movement of the water was being felt in both boats, the ground along the riverside was also not exempt from it. Almost at the same instant, the inhabitants of La Urbana, abandoning their huts, came down toward the riverbank. M. Marchal and the head official rapidly joined them. A growing alarm was beginning to overtake the town’s population.

It was then four-thirty in the morning, and day was about to break.

The passengers in both ships disembarked and went at once to the head official.

“What’s going on?” asked M. Miguel.

“No doubt it is an earthquake in the Sierra Matapey,” he answered, “and the shocks are extending as far as the riverbed.”

M. Miguel was of the same opinion. There was no doubt that the region was undergoing shocks due to seismic disturbance, quite frequent in the land of the plains.

“But … there is something else.” observed M. Miguel. “Do you hear that sort of hum that’s coming from the east?” And, by listening intently, one could hear a sort of snoring, a continuous low sound, the origin of which was unknown.

“Let’s wait,” said M. Marchal. “I don’t believe that La Urbana has anything to fear.”

“That’s also my opinion,” declared the official, “and there is no danger in returning to our homes.”

That was probable, yet only a minority of the inhabitants took the advice. Besides, the day was brightening and perhaps eyes would find an explanation of a phenomenon that ears could not provide.

For three hours the distant murmur kept increasing in a strange way. There seemed to be a kind of gliding sound, creating a powerful vibration on the surface of the entire region. Heavy and cadenced, this vibration was transmitted all the way to the right bank of the river, as though the soil had been made of peat. That the trembling could be attributed to an earthquake whose center was located in the Sierra Matapey sounded logical, and it was not the first time that the town had to contend with such a phenomenon. As for that rolling sound, like what might be produced by the matériel of an army on the march, no one could yet understand its real cause.

The official and M. Marchal, accompanied by the passengers of the falcas, walked toward the first rise of the Urbana hill, in order to observe a larger radius of the surrounding countryside.³

The sun rose into a pure sky like an enormous balloon swollen with luminous gas that the breeze had pushed toward the shores of the Orinoco. Not a cloud on the horizon, no indication that the day would be stormy. When the observers had climbed up some thirty meters, they cast their eyes toward the east.

The immense prairie appeared before them, the vast and verdant plain, that “sea of silent grasses,” following the poetic metaphor of Elisée Reclus. The surface of this sea was not calm. It must have been troubled in its depths, for, some five kilometers away, the plains were crowned with sandy swirls.

“That,” said M. Marchal, “is a heavy dust cloud; the dust of the soil is being thrown up.”

“Even so, it cannot be the wind that is raising it,” affirmed M. Miguel.

“Indeed, since it is barely blowing,” responded M. Marchal. “Could it be from small whirlwinds? No, that explanation doesn’t hold up.”

“And besides,” added the official, “there’s that continuous noise, which seems to come from heavy steps.”

“What is it then?” exclaimed M. Felipe.

And, at that moment, like a response addressed to him, a detonation was heard—the discharge of a firearm, echoing across the hill of Urbana. It was followed by others.

“Gunfire!” declared Sergeant Martial. “Those are gunshots, or I don’t know what one is!”

“They must be hunters, hunting on the plain.” observed Jean.

“Hunters, my dear lad?” responded M. Marchal. “They wouldn’t raise such a cloud of dust, unless they are an entire legion.”

There was no doubt, however, that the detonations heard came from firearms, revolvers or carbines. And one could even discern a whitish vapor, which stood out against the yellow tint of the dust cloud. More gunshots burst out. Although still distant, the sounds were easily carried to the town by the light breeze.

“To my way of thinking, gentlemen,” said M. Miguel, “we should go check out what’s going on out there!”

“And bring some assistance to those, perhaps, who have a dire need of it!” added M. Varinas.

“Who knows,” said Jean, looking at M. Marchal, “they may be my compatriots.”

“Then they must be fighting an army,” said the elderly man, “since it would take thousands of men to raise so much dust! You’re right, M. Miguel, let’s go down onto the plain to investigate.”

“And go well armed!” added M. Miguel.

This measure of prudence was indeed warranted. If Jean de Kermor’s premonition were correct, it could well be the two Frenchmen that the Indians of the area were attacking and who were defending themselves with their guns. In a few moments, everyone had regained his hut or boat. The official and a few villagers, the three geographers, Jean, and Sergeant Martial, a revolver tucked in his belt, the carbine on his shoulder, headed toward the plains, walking around the foot of the Urbana hill.

M. Marchal had wanted to join them as well; he was very impatient to find out what this was all about.

The little troop moved off at a good pace, and since the cloud remained in front of them the three or four kilometers which separated them would not take long to cover. Even at that distance, it would have been possible to distinguish human forms if the clouds of dust had not been so thick. The flashes accompanying the detonations, which were continuing, could be clearly seen and now became increasingly perceptible to the ear.