Читать книгу Into the Primitive - Robert Ames Bennet - Страница 6

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Morning was well advanced, and the sun beat down upon the three with almost overpowering fierceness. The heat would have rendered their thirst unendurable had not Blake hacked off for them bit after bit of the moist coryphene flesh.

In a temperate climate, ten miles over firm ground is a pleasant walk for one accustomed to the exercise. Quite a different matter is ten miles across mud-flats, covered with a tangle of reeds and rushes, and frequently dipping into salt marsh and ooze. Before they had gone a mile Miss Leslie would have lost her slippers had it not been for Blake’s forethought in tying them so securely. Within a little more than three miles the girl’s strength began to fail.

“Oh, Blake,” called Winthrope, for the American was some yards in the lead, “pull up a bit on that knoll. We’ll have to rest a while, I fancy. Miss Leslie is about pegged.”

“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “We’re not half-way yet!”

Winthrope did not reply. It was all he could do to drag the girl up on the hummock. She sank, half-fainting, upon the dry reeds, and he sat down beside her to protect her with the shade. Blake stared at the miles of swampy flats which yet lay between them and the out-jutting headland of gray rock. The base of the cliff was screened by a belt of trees; but the nearest clump of green did not look more than a mile nearer than the headland.

“Hell!” muttered Blake, despondently. “Not even a short four miles. Mush and sassiety girls!”

Though he spoke to himself, the others heard him. Miss Leslie flushed, and would have risen had not Winthrope put his hand on her arm.

“Could you not go on, and bring back a flask of water for Miss Leslie?” he asked. “By that time she will be rested.”

“No; I don’t fetch back any flasks of water. She’s going when I go, or you can come on to suit yourselves.”

“Mr. Blake, you–you won’t go, and leave me here! If you have a sister–if your mother–”

“She died of drink, and both my sisters did worse.”

“My God, man! do you mean to say you’ll abandon a helpless young girl?”

“Not a bit more helpless than were my sisters when you rich folks’ guardians of law and order jugged me for the winter, ’cause I didn’t have a job, and turned both girls into the street–onto the street, if you know what that means–one only sixteen and the other seventeen. Talk about helpless young girls– Damnation!”

Miss Leslie cringed back as though she had been struck. Blake, however, seemed to have vented his anger in the curse, for when he again spoke, there was nothing more than impatience in his tone. “Come on, now; get aboard. Winthrope couldn’t lug you a half-mile, and long’s it’s the only way, don’t be all day about it. Here, Winthrope, look to the fish.”

“But, my dear fellow, I don’t quite take your idea, nor does Miss Leslie, I fancy,” ventured Winthrope.

“Well, we’ve got to get to water, or die; and as the lady can’t walk, she’s going on my back. It’s a case of have-to.”

“No! I am not–I am not! I’d sooner die!”

“I’m afraid you’ll find that easy enough, later on, Miss Jenny. Stand by, Winthrope, to help her up. Do you hear? Take the knife and fish, and lend a hand.”

There was a note in Blake’s voice that neither Winthrope nor Miss Leslie dared disregard. Though scarlet with mortification, she permitted herself to be taken pick-a-back upon Blake’s broad shoulders, and meekly obeyed his command to clasp her hands about his throat. Yet even at that moment, such are the inconsistencies of human nature, she could not but admire the ease with which he rose under her weight.

Now that he no longer had the slow pace of the girl to consider, he advanced at his natural gait, the quick, tireless stride of an American railroad-surveyor. His feet, trained to swamp travel in Louisiana and Panama, seemed to find the firmest ground as by instinct, and whether on the half-dried mud of the hummocks or in the ankle-deep water of the bogs, they felt their way without slip or stumble.

Winthrope, though burdened only with the half-eaten coryphene, toiled along behind, greatly troubled by the mud and the tangled reeds, and now and then flung down by some unlucky misstep. His modish suit, already much damaged by the salt water, was soon smeared afresh with a coating of greenish slime. His one consolation was that Blake, after jeering at his first tumble, paid no more attention to him. On the other hand, he was cut by the seeming indifference of Miss Leslie. Intent on his own misery, he failed to consider that the girl might be suffering far greater discomfort and humiliation.

More than three miles had been covered before Blake stopped on a hummock. Releasing Miss Leslie, he stretched out on the dry crest of the knoll, and called for a slice of the fish. At his urging, the others took a few mouthfuls, although their throats were now so parched that even the moist flesh afforded scant relief. Fortunately for them all, Blake had been thoroughly trained to endure thirst. He rested less than ten minutes; then, taking Miss Leslie up again like a rag doll, he swung away at a good pace.

The trees were less than half a mile distant when he halted for the second time. He would have gone to them without a pause though his muscles were quivering with exhaustion, had not Miss Leslie chanced to look around and discover that Winthrope was no longer following them. For the last mile he had been lagging farther and farther behind, and now he had suddenly disappeared. At the girl’s dismayed exclamation, Blake released his hold, and she found herself standing in a foot or more of mud and water. The sweat was streaming down Blake’s face. As he turned around, he wiped it off with his shirtsleeves.

“Do you–can it be, Mr. Blake, that he has had a sunstroke?” asked Miss Leslie.

“Sunstroke? No; he’s just laid down, that’s all. I thought he had more sand–confound him!”

“But the sun is so dreadfully hot, and I have his shade.”

“And he’s been tumbling into every other pool. No; it’s not the sun. I’ve half a mind to let him lie–the paper-legged swell! It would no more than square our aboard-ship accounts.”

“Surely, you would not do that, Mr. Blake! It may be that he has hurt himself in falling.”

“In this mud?–bah! But I guess I’m in for the pack-mule stunt all around. Now, now; don’t yowl, Miss Jenny. I’m going. But you can’t expect me to love the snob.”

As he splashed away on the return trail, Miss Leslie dabbed at her eyes to check the starting tears.

“Oh, dear–Oh, dear!” she moaned; “what have I done, to be so treated? Such a brute, Oh, dear!–and I am so thirsty!”

In her despair she would have sunk down where she stood had not the sliminess of the water repelled her. She gazed longingly at the trees, in the fore of which stood a grove of stately palms. The half-mile seemed an insuperable distance, but the ride on Blake’s back had rested her, and thirst goaded her forward.

Stumbling and slipping, she waded on across the inundated ground, and came out upon a half-baked mud-flat, where the walking was much easier. But the sun was now almost directly overhead, and between her thirst and the heat, she soon found herself faltering. She tottered on a few steps farther, and then stopped, utterly spent As she sank upon the dried rushes, she glanced around, and was vaguely conscious of a strange, double-headed figure following her path across the marsh. All about her became black.

The next she knew, Blake was splashing her head and face with brackish water out of the whiskey flask. She raised her hand to shield her face, and sat up, sick and dizzy.

“That’s it!” said Blake. He spoke in a kindly tone, though his voice was harsh and broken with thirst. “You’re all right now. Pull yourself together, and we’ll get to the trees in a jiffy.”

“Mr. Winthrope–?”

“I’m here, Miss Genevieve. It was only a wrenched ankle. If I had a stick, Blake, I fancy I could make a go of it over this drier ground.”

“And lay yourself up for a month. Come, Miss Jenny, brace up for another try. It’s only a quarter-mile, and I’ve got to pack him.”

The girl was gasping with thirst; yet she made an effort, and assisted by Blake managed to gain her feet. She was still dizzy; but as Blake swung Winthrope upon his back, he told her to take hold of his arm. Winthrope held the shade over her head. Thus assisted, and sheltered from the direct beat of the sun-rays, she tottered along beside Blake, half unconscious.

Fortunately the remaining distance lay across a stretch of bare dry ground, for even Blake had all but reached the limit of endurance. Step by step he labored on, staggering under the weight of the Englishman, and gasping with a thirst which his exertions rendered even greater than that of his companions. But through the trees and brush which stretched away inland in a wall of verdure he had caught glimpses of a broad stream, and the hope of fresh water called out every ounce of his reserve strength.

At last the nearest palm was only a few paces distant. Blake clutched Miss Leslie’s arm, and dragged her forward with a rush, in a final outburst of energy. A moment later all three lay gasping in the shade. But the river was yet another hundred yards distant. Blake waited only to regain his breath; then he staggered up and went on. The others, unable to rise, gazed after him in silent misery.

Soon Blake found himself rushing through the jungle along a broad trail pitted with enormous footprints; but he was so near mad with thirst that he paid no heed to the spoor other than to curse the holes for the trouble they gave him. Suddenly the trail turned to the left and sloped down a low bank into the river. Blind to all else, Blake ran down the slope, and dropping upon his knees, plunged his head into the water.

At first his throat was so dry that he could no more than rinse his mouth. With the first swallow, his swollen tongue mocked him with the salt, bitter taste of sea-water. The tide was flowing! He rose, sputtering and choking and gasping. He stared around. There was no question that he was on the bank of a river and would be certain of fresh water with the ebb tide. But could he endure the agony of his thirst all those hours?

He thought of his companions.

“Good God!” he groaned, “they’re goners anyway!”

He stared dully up the river at the thousands of waterfowl which lined its banks. Within close view were herons and black ibises, geese, pelicans, flamingoes, and a dozen other species of birds of which he did not know the names. But he sat as though in a stupor, and did not move even when one of the driftwood logs on a mud-shoal a few yards up-stream opened an enormous mouth and displayed two rows of hooked fangs. It was otherwise when the noontime stillness was broken by a violent splashing and loud snortings down-stream. He glanced about, and saw six or eight monstrous heads drifting towards him with the tide.

“What in– Whee! a whole herd of hippos!” he muttered. “That’s what the holes mean.”

The foremost hippopotamus was headed directly for him. He glared at the huge head with sullen resentment. For all his stupor, he perceived at once that the beast intended to land; and he sat in the middle of its accustomed path. His first impulse was to spring up and yell at the creature. Then he remembered hearing that a white hunter had recently been killed by these beasts on one of the South African lakes. Instead of leaping up, he sank down almost flat, and crawled back around the turn in the path. Once certain that he was hidden from the beasts, he rose to his feet and hastened back through the jungle.

He was almost in view of the spot where he had left Winthrope and Miss Leslie, when he stopped and stood hesitating.

“I can’t do it,” he muttered; “I can’t tell her,–poor girl!”

He turned and pushed into the thicket. Forcing a way through the tangle of thorny shrubs and creepers, until several yards from the path, he began to edge towards the face of the jungle, that he might peer out at his companions, unseen by them.

There was more of the thicket before him than he had thought, and he was still fighting his way through it, when he was brought to a stand by a peculiar cry that might have been the bleat of a young lamb: “Ba–ba!”

“What’s that!” he croaked.

He stood listening, and in a moment he again heard the cry, this time more distinctly: “Blak!–Blak!”

There could be no mistake. It was Winthrope calling for him, and calling with a clearness of voice that would have been physically impossible half an hour since. Blake’s sunken eyes lighted with hope. He burst through the last screen of jungle, and stared towards the palm under which he had left his companions. They were not there.

Another call from Winthrope directed his gaze more seaward. The two were seated beside a fallen palm, and Miss Leslie had a large round object raised to her lips. Winthrope was waving to him.

“Cocoanuts!” he yelled. “Come on!”

Three of the palms had been overthrown by the hurricane, and when Blake came up, he found the ground strewn with nuts. He seized the first he came to; but Winthrope held out one already opened. He snatched it from him, and placed the hole to his swollen lips. Never had champagne tasted half so delicious as that cocoanut milk. Before he could drain the last of it through the little opening, Winthrope had the husks torn from the ends of two other nuts, and the convenient germinal spots gouged open with his penknife.

Blake emptied the third before he spoke. Even then his voice was hoarse and strained. “How’d you strike ’em?”

“I couldn’t help it,” explained Winthrope. “Hardly had you disappeared when I noticed the tops of the fallen palms, and thought of the nuts. There was one in the grass not twenty feet from where we lay.”

“Lucky for you–and for me, too, I guess,” said Blake. “We were all three down for the count. But this settles the first round in our favor. How do you like the picnic, Miss Jenny?”

“Miss Leslie, if you please,” replied the girl, with hauteur.

“Oh, say, Miss Jenny!” protested Blake, genially. “We live in the same boarding-house now. Why not be folksy? You’re free to call me Tom. Pass me another nut, Winthrope. Thanks! By the way, what’s your front name? Saw it aboard ship–Cyril–”

“Cecil,” corrected Winthrope, in a low tone.

“Cecil–Lord Cecil, eh?–or is it only The Honorable Cecil?”

“My dear sir, I have intimated before that, for reasons of–er–State–”

“Oh, yes; you’re travelling incog., in the secret service. Sort of detective–”

“Detective!” echoed Winthrope, in a peculiar tone.

Blake grinned. “Well, it is rawther a nawsty business for your honorable ludship. But there’s nothing like calling things by their right names.”

“Right names–er–I don’t quite take you. I have told you distinctly, my name is Cecil Winthrope!”

“O-h-h! how lovely!–See-sill! See-seal!–Bet they called you Sissy at school. English, chum of mine told me your schools are corkers for nicknames. What’ll we make it–Sis or Sissy?”

“I prefer my patronymic, Mr. Blake,” replied Winthrope.

“All right, then; we’ll make it Pat, if that’s your choice. I say, Pat, this juice is the stuff for wetness, but it makes a fellow remember his grub. Where’d you leave that fish?”

“Really, I can’t just say, but it must have been where I wrenched my ankle.”

“You cawn’t just say! And what are we going to eat?”

“Here are the cocoanuts.”

“Bright boy! go to the head of the class! Just take some more husk off those empty ones.”

Winthrope caught up one of the nuts, and with the aid of his knife, stripped it of its husk. At a gesture from Blake, he laid it on the bare ground, and the American burst it open with a blow of his heel. It was an immature nut, and the meat proved to be little thicker than clotted cream. Blake divided it into three parts, handing Miss Leslie the cleanest.

Though his companions began with more restraint, they finished their shares with equal gusto. Winthrope needed no further orders to return to his husking. One after another, the nuts were cracked and divided among the three, until even Blake could not swallow another mouthful of the luscious cream.

Toward the end Miss Leslie had become drowsy. At Winthrope’s urging, she now lay down for a nap, Blake’s coat serving as a pillow. She fell asleep while Winthrope was yet arranging it for her. Blake had turned his back on her, and was staring moodily at the hippopotamus trail, when Winthrope hobbled around and sat down on the palm trunk beside him.

“I say, Blake,” he suggested, “I feel deuced fagged myself. Why not all take a nap?”

“‘And when they awoke, they were all dead men,’” remarked Blake.

“By Jove, that sounds like a joke,” protested the Englishman. “Don’t rag me now.”

“Joke!” repeated Blake. “Why, that’s Scripture, Pat, Scripture! Anyway, you’d think it no joke to wake up and find yourself going down the throat of a hippo.”

“Hippo?”

“Dozens of them over in the river. Shouldn’t wonder if they’ve all landed, and ’re tracking me down by this time.”

“But hippopotami are not carnivorous–they’re not at all dangerous, unless one wounds them, out in the water.”

“That may be; but I’m not taking chances. They’ve got mouths like sperm whales–I saw one take a yawn. Another thing, that bayou is chuck full of alligators, and a fellow down on the Rand told me they’re like the Central American gavials for keenness to nip a swimmer.”