The Fire-Gods Part 13

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 suns.h.i.+ne. This was the gate that guarded the Hidden Valley.

Max had a sensation of pa.s.sing 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, flas.h.i.+ng 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!

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 fort.i.tude 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 cla.s.sic 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 b.u.t.t, 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. The strong brows, the firm mouth, the great hatchet chin--these had not been given him for naught.

He may have had the strength of Hercules; yet he had never accomplished his journey down the river, had it not been for the indomitable strength of his mind. And now that he realized that the victory was his, that his efforts had been crowned with success, the will, on a sudden, relinquished its task, as a helmsman gives way to his successor at the wheel--and Crouch fell forward in a faint.

At dawn, the sun found them lying together on the mud, and by the warmth of its rays set the blood coursing more freely in their veins.

Max was the first to revive. He tried to lift himself, but found that he was not able to do so, because of the weight of Crouch's body on his chest. He fell back again, and lay for some time with opened eyes, staring upward at the sky.

He saw the colours change in the heavens. He heard the cries of the birds upon the marsh. Then, once again, he struggled to an elbow.

With difficulty he lifted Crouch; and then, looking into the captain's face, he wondered where he was, and how it had come about that they two were stranded, side by side, in the midst of surroundings with which he was wholly unfamiliar.

Then he remembered, by degrees. The struggle with the Arab in the back-water--his headlong rush throughout the length of the rapids--the vision he had had of Crouch, frantic on the bank. And then--the ravine, and at the end, the cataract--the thunder of the water--the rus.h.i.+ng in his ears.

The truth was not difficult to guess; indeed, there was no other explanation. He tried to rise to his feet, but could not do so. At that, he lay back again, to rest, and gave silent thanks in his heart to Divine Providence by means of which he had been saved as by a miracle.

He had undergone the sensations of death, and yet he lived.

He had lain quite still and motionless, it may have been for an hour, when Crouch sat up and looked about him. And when he had taken in the scene, he let fall the following irrelevant remark--

"I've lost my pipe," said he.

He then got to his feet, and walking to the water's edge--which was but a few feet distant--he knelt down, scooped the water in his hands, and drank.

Then he returned to Max, and seated himself by his side.

"Feeling queer?" he asked.

Max answered that he was very weak.

"Your strength 'll return," said Crouch; "but you must have some cover for your head."

He took off his coat, which was nothing but a bundle of tatters, and rolling this into a kind of turban, he placed it upon Max's forehead to protect him from the heat of the sun. Then he went back to the water's edge, washed the blood from his face and hands, and bathed the back of his neck. As he returned, he found the barrel of his broken rifle, and stooped and picked it up.

"Look at that!" said he. "That was once the best rifle in this forsaken continent. Not worth its weight as sc.r.a.p-iron!"

"I suppose," said Max, "you'll be offended if I try to thank you?"