The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo by Charles Gibson (classic books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

be a path through the jungle; but I doubt if even then he would have

been able to come this distance on foot. And yet his canoe never passed

Hippo Pool, or we should have seen it--that’s sure enough." Then, on a

sudden, he slapped his knee. "By Christopher," he cried, "I have it! I

remember!"

"You remember what?" asked Max.

"About half-way between the Pool and Makanda I remember seeing the

entrance of a little back-water, on the left bank of the river. That

back-water probably rejoins the river somewhere about here. It’s all as

plain as a pikestaff. He has come north by the back-water, which

accounts for us not having seen him pass through Hippo Pool. The end of

that back-water is either between here and the place where we left the

canoe, or else farther down-stream. Come," said Crouch, "we’ll get the

better of this rascal. Perhaps, for once, Fortune will play into our

hands."

He struggled to his feet, but immediately turned pale, and was obliged

to support himself against the trunk of a tree.

"I feel mighty dizzy," he said. "I’ve lost a deal of blood."

"You had better stay here," said Max; "I’ll work along the bank until I

find the canoe, and then come back to you. I don’t like leaving you,

but there’s nothing else to be done. Perhaps the canoe is not far

away."

"It’s farther than you think," said Crouch; "that tunnel took us almost

due north. Besides, I can tell by the water. The rapids are pretty

strong; we can’t be far from the ravine."

"Will we be able to paddle against it, do you think?" asked Max.

Crouch looked at the river.

"Yes," said he. "My arms are all right, though I’ve gone wrong in the

leg. You get off, and come back here as quickly as you can. If you see

Cæsar, shoot."

At that Max set off alone. He soon found it impossible to make any

progress on the actual bank of the river, since here, by reason of the

moisture that was in the ground, the vegetation was so dense and tangled

that a weasel would have found some difficulty in making any headway.

He soon found, however, that by moving about thirty yards from the river

bank, he could make his way southward with tolerable ease. From time to

time he forced his way to the river’s edge, and looked both up-stream

and down, to note if he could see any sign of the canoe.

The sun was in the mid-heavens, and the heat intense. The jungle was

alive with sounds. The evening before there had been a heavy shower of

rain, and now the vapour rose like steam, and the moisture dropped from

the trees. To his left he could hear the roar of the rapids as the

river plunged upon its way, and this served to guide him, making it

possible for him to hold his course parallel to the river bank. He was

followed by a swarm of insects that droned and buzzed in his ears. The

perspiration fell from his forehead in great drops, and frequently he

found himself caught and held fast by strong, hook-like thorns.

Presently the forest opened. It was like coming out of a darkened room

into the light. For a moment he was unable to see. During that moment

he fancied he heard a sound quite near to him--a sound of something that

moved. Looking about him, he discovered that he was standing in long

reeds which reached almost to his chest. To his right, the trees of the

forest were extended in a kind of avenue, and at their feet was a

narrow, swiftly-flowing stream.

He had discovered Cæsar’s back-water. Moreover, he had discovered

Cæsar’s canoe, for there it was, its bows just visible, peeping through

the reeds.

Max took in the situation at a glance. If Cæsar had come north from

Makanda by way of the back-water, he had not passed their canoe on the

Hidden River. Two courses lay open to Max: he might cross the

back-water in Cæsar’s canoe, and pursue his journey on foot; or he might

take this canoe and go down to Crouch, about whom he was anxious. The

latter was undoubtedly the wiser course to pursue. In the heart of

Africa, one canoe is as good as another; and, besides, by taking Cæsar’s

canoe he would be paying off old scores.

Having come to this conclusion, he looked about him for a suitable way

by which to approach the canoe. He had not taken one step in the right

direction, when he discovered to his dismay that the reeds were growing

in a bog, into which one leg sank deep before he was able to recover his

footing on dry land.

Still, he had every reason to be hopeful. If the Portuguese and his

party had disembarked at this place, there was clearly a way of getting

into the canoe. For all that, search as he might among the reeds, he

could not find it, and at last he retired to the top of the bank.

No sooner had he got there than he discovered that for which he had been

looking. A tall tree had fallen in the forest, and the roots were half

in the water. The canoe had been moored under the lee of this. On each

side of the fallen tree the reeds grew so high that the trunk was half

hidden from view.

This tree formed a sort of natural pier, or landing-stage, along which

it was possible to walk. Max stepped upon the trunk, and walked towards

the canoe. Fearing that if he jumped into it he would knock a hole in

the bottom, he lowered himself to a sitting position, and then

remembered that he had not untied the painter at the bows. He always

looks upon his next action as the most foolish thing he ever did in his

life. He left his rifle in the canoe, and returned along the tree-trunk

to untie the bows.

It was then that he was seized from behind. Some one sprang upon him

from out of the reeds. Two strong arms closed about his chest, and he

was lifted bodily from off his feet.

Putting forth his strength, he managed to twist himself round, seizing

his adversary by the throat.

He had been set upon by one of Cæsar’s Arabs. The Portuguese himself

was doubtless still searching in the jungle for Crouch and Max, and no

doubt he had left this fellow in charge of his canoe. Fortunately, the

man was not armed; otherwise, Max would have been murdered. As it was,

he realized from the start that his life was in imminent danger.

The man was possessed of the strength of all his race. His arms, though

thin, were sinewy, and his muscles stood out like bands of whip-cord as

he strove to gain the upper hand. Max was at a disadvantage, since he

wore boots; whereas the Arab with his bare feet had the better foot-hold

on the trunk of the fallen tree. Still, even he could not retain his

balance for long, with the young Englishman flying at his throat like a

tiger. The man had a beard, and Max, laying hold of this, forced his

head backwards, so that they both fell together into the mud.

During that fall Max’s head struck the bows of the canoe. For a moment

he was dazed, half stunned. He relaxed his hold of his opponent, and

thereafter he lay at the mercy of the Arab.

If we make an exception of the Chinese, the Arab is in all probability

the cruellest man we know of. He is possessed of an almost fiendish

cunning. His courage no one will dispute. To his children he is a kind

father; to those who know and understand him he is a good friend; he is

one of the most hospitable men in the world. But to his enemies he is

relentless. He has none of the barbarity of the savage races, like the

Zulus or the Masai. He is refined, even in his cruelty. Above all, he

is a man of brains.

Because of their craftiness, their cunning and their courage, the Arab

races have existed from the very beginnings of time. We read in the

most ancient history that exists--in the history of the Pharaohs--of how

the Egyptian towns in the valley of the Nile were walled against the

incursions of the Arabs. Long before the Persians came to Egypt, no man

dared venture far into the desert because of the Bedouin bands. And that

was when the world was in its cradle, when just the valleys of two

rivers--the one in Asia and the other in Egypt--were able to produce the

rudiments of the civilization of the future. That was, perhaps, eight

thousand years ago.

Since then--and before then--the Arab has been feared. The Negro races

have bowed down before him, as dumb animals obey a superior

intelligence. In this, above all things, had the Portuguese been wise;

he had formed his bodyguard of those men who for centuries have been the

stern, implacable rulers of the great, mysterious continent.

Max never lost possession of his senses; he was only dazed. And, whilst

in that condition, he was lifted in the strong arms of the Arab, and

thrown bodily into the canoe. When he was sufficiently recovered to

endeavour to rise to his feet, he found that he was in mid-stream,

drifting rapidly towards the river. He looked about him for a paddle,

and seeing none, turned his eyes to the bank. And there stood the Arab,

in his mud-stained garments, his white teeth showing in his swarthy face

in a broad, unholy grin. Moreover, in both hands, he held the paddles

which he had taken from the canoe.

Max recognized, as in a flash, that his fate was in the hands of a

greater Power than himself. He snatched up his rifle, and endeavoured

to steer with the butt. That had the effect of turning the canoe a

little, but the current was too strong, and he was borne onwards.

Twenty yards farther, and the canoe would turn the corner and shoot out

into the river, where the rapids foamed and lashed. At one time the

bows brushed the tall reeds which were growing from the water. Max,

dropping his rifle, seized the only one of these that was within his

grasp. He held it for no longer than a second--an agonizing moment that

seemed eternity--and then the reed was drawn out by its roots from the

soft mud beneath the water.

The canoe was launched into the rapids at a bound. The current struck

it sideways, and sent it round like a top. For a moment it was like

some blind, excited animal that knows not whither it means to go, and

then it shot down-stream like an arrow from the bow.

Max became aware of a kind of singing in his head. This may have been

caused by the blow which he had received, or else by the manner in which

the canoe was now whirled round and round upon the tide. The whole

scene about him became blurred and indistinct. The great, white-hot sky

above him was like a sheet of fire. He saw the trees on either bank fly

past like armies of dark, gigantic spectres. At such times as this, it

is as if the brain becomes unhinged; we think of strange, and often

foolish things, of no consequence soever. Max saw a large dragonfly, of

all the colours in the rainbow. Even then he admired its beauty and

coveted its wings. The latter thought was natural, but the first was

strange. And the next thing he knew of was Crouch shouting and waving

his arms upon the bank. In a few moments Max had shot down the river to

the place where he had left the little captain, though it had taken him

more than two hours to force his way