Jules Verne (3 page)

Torres, driven to distraction, picked up the stones within his reach,
and threw them at him, but did no harm at such a distance.

But he hesitated to make a fresh start. On one hand, to keep on in chase
of the monkey with so little chance of reaching him was madness. On the
other, to accept as definite this accidental interruption to all his
plans, to be not only conquered, but cheated and hoaxed by a dumb
animal, was maddening. And in the meantime Torres had begun to think
that when the night came the robber would disappear without trouble, and
he, the robbed one, would find a difficulty in retracing his way through
the dense forest. In fact, the pursuit had taken him many miles from the
bank of the river, and he would even now find it difficult to return to
it.

Torres hesitated; he tried to resume his thoughts with coolness, and
finally, after giving vent to a last imprecation, he was about to
abandon all idea of regaining possession of his case, when once more, in
spite of himself, there flashed across him the thought of his document,
the remembrance of all that scaffolding on which his future hopes
depended, on which he had counted so much; and he resolved to make
another effort.

Then he got up.

The guariba got up too.

He made several steps in advance.

The monkey made as many in the rear, but this time, instead of plunging
more deeply into the forest, he stopped at the foot of an enormous
ficus—the tree of which the different kinds are so numerous all over
the Upper Amazon basin.

To seize the trunk with his four hands, to climb with the agility of a
clown who is acting the monkey, to hook on with his prehensile tail to
the first branches, which stretched away horizontally at forty feet from
the ground, and to hoist himself to the top of the tree, to the point
where the higher branches just bent beneath its weight, was only sport
to the active guariba, and the work of but a few seconds.

Up there, installed at his ease, he resumed his interrupted repast, and
gathered the fruits which were within his reach. Torres, like him, was
much in want of something to eat and drink, but it was impossible! His
pouch was flat, his flask was empty.

However, instead of retracing his steps he directed them toward the
tree, although the position taken up by the monkey was still more
unfavorable for him. He could not dream for one instant of climbing the
ficus, which the thief would have quickly abandoned for another.

And all the time the miserable case rattled at his ear.

Then in his fury, in his folly, Torres apostrophized the guariba. It
would be impossible for us to tell the series of invectives in which he
indulged. Not only did he call him a half-breed, which is the
greatest of insults in the mouth of a Brazilian of white descent, but
"curiboca"
—that is to say, half-breed negro and Indian, and of all
the insults that one man can hurl at another in this equatorial latitude
"curiboca"
is the cruelest.

But the monkey, who was only a humble quadruman, was simply amused at
what would have revolted a representative of humanity.

Then Torres began to throw stones at him again, and bits of roots and
everything he could get hold of that would do for a missile. Had he the
hope to seriously hurt the monkey? No! he no longer knew what he was
about. To tell the truth, anger at his powerlessness had deprived him
of his wits. Perhaps he hoped that in one of the movements which the
guariba would make in passing from branch to branch the case might
escape him, perhaps he thought that if he continued to worry the monkey
he might throw it at his head. But no! the monkey did not part with the
case, and, holding it with one hand, he had still three left with which
to move.

Torres, in despair, was just about to abandon the chase for good, and
to return toward the Amazon, when he heard the sound of voices. Yes! the
sound of human voices.

Those were speaking at about twenty paces to the right of him.

The first care of Torres was to hide himself in a dense thicket. Like
a prudent man, he did not wish to show himself without at least knowing
with whom he might have to deal. Panting, puzzled, his ears on the
stretch, he waited, when suddenly the sharp report of a gun rang through
the woods.

A cry followed, and the monkey, mortally wounded, fell heavily on the
ground, still holding Torres' case.

"By Jove!" he muttered, "that bullet came at the right time!"

And then, without fearing to be seen, he came out of the thicket, and
two young gentlemen appeared from under the trees.

They were Brazilians clothed as hunters, with leather boots, light
palm-leaf hats, waistcoats, or rather tunics, buckled in at the waist,
and more convenient than the national poncho. By their features and
their complexion they were at once recognizable as of Portuguese
descent.

Each of them was armed with one of those long guns of Spanish make which
slightly remind us of the arms of the Arabs, guns of long range and
considerable precision, which the dwellers in the forest of the upper
Amazon handle with success.

What had just happened was a proof of this. At an angular distance of
more than eighty paces the quadruman had been shot full in the head.

The two young men carried in addition, in their belts, a sort of
dagger-knife, which is known in Brazil as a
"foca,"
and which hunters
do not hesitate to use when attacking the ounce and other wild animals
which, if not very formidable, are pretty numerous in these forests.

Torres had obviously little to fear from this meeting, and so he went on
running toward the monkey's corpse.

But the young men, who were taking the same direction, had less ground
to cover, and coming forward a few paces, found themselves face to face
with Torres.

The latter had recovered his presence of mind.

"Many thanks, gentlemen," said he gayly, as he raised the brim of his
hat; "in killing this wretched animal you have just done me a great
service!"

The hunters looked at him inquiringly, not knowing what value to attach
to his thanks.

Torres explained matters in a few words.

"You thought you had killed a monkey," said he, "but as it happens you
have killed a thief!"

"If we have been of use to you," said the youngest of the two, "it was
by accident, but we are none the less pleased to find that we have done
some good."

And taking several steps to the rear, he bent over the guariba, and, not
without an effort, withdrew the case from his stiffened hand.

"Doubtless that, sir, is what belongs to you?"

"The very thing," said Torres briskly, catching hold of the case and
failing to repress a huge sigh of relief.

"Whom ought I to thank, gentlemen," said he, "for the service you have
rendered me?"

"My friend, Manoel, assistant surgeon, Brazilian army," replied the
young man.

"If it was I who shot the monkey, Benito," said Manoel, "it was you that
pointed him out to me."

"In that case, sirs," replied Torres, "I am under an obligation to you
both, as well to you, Mr. Manoel, as to you, Mr. —"

"Benito Garral," replied Manoel.

The captain of the woods required great command over himself to avoid
giving a jump when he heard this name, and more especially when the
young man obligingly continued:

"My father, Joam Garral, has his farm about three miles from here. If
you would like, Mr. —"

"Torres," replied the adventurer.

"If you would like to accompany us there, Mr. Torres, you will be
hospitably received."

"I do not know that I can," said Torres, who, surprised by this
unexpected meeting, hesitated to make a start. "I fear in truth that I
am not able to accept your offer. The occurrence I have just related to
you has caused me to lose time. It is necessary for me to return at once
to the Amazon—as I purpose descending thence to Para."

"Very well, Mr. Torres," replied Benito, "it is not unlikely that we
shall see you again in our travels, for before a month has passed my
father and all his family will have taken the same road as you."

"Ah!" said Torres sharply, "your father is thinking of recrossing the
Brazilian frontier?"

"Yes, for a voyage of some months," replied Benito. "At least we hope to
make him decide so. Don't we, Manoel?"

Manoel nodded affirmatively.

"Well, gentlemen," replied Torres, "it is very probable that we shall
meet again on the road. But I cannot, much to my regret, accept your
offer now. I thank you, nevertheless, and I consider myself as twice
your debtor."

And having said so, Torres saluted the young men, who in turn saluted
him, and set out on their way to the farm.

As for Torres he looked after them as they got further and further away,
and when he had lost sight of them—

"Ah! he is about to recross the frontier!" said he, with a deep voice.
"Let him recross it! and he will be still more at my mercy! Pleasant
journey to you, Joam Garral!"

And having uttered these words the captain of the woods, making for the
south so as to regain the left bank of the river by the shortest road,
disappeared into the dense forest.

THE VILLAGE of Iquitos is situated on the left bank of the Amazon, near
the seventy-fourth meridian, on that portion of the great river which
still bears the name of the Marânon, and of which the bed separates Peru
from the republic of Ecuador. It is about fifty-five leagues to the west
of the Brazilian frontier.

Iquitos, like every other collection of huts, hamlet, or village met
with in the basin of the Upper Amazon, was founded by the missionaries.
Up to the seventeenth year of the century the Iquito Indians, who
then formed the entire population, were settled in the interior of the
province at some distance from the river. But one day the springs in
their territory all dried up under the influence of a volcanic eruption,
and they were obliged to come and take up their abode on the left of the
Marânon. The race soon altered through the alliances which were entered
into with the riverine Indians, Ticunas, or Omaguas, mixed descent with
a few Spaniards, and to-day Iquitos has a population of two or three
families of half-breeds.

The village is most picturesquely grouped on a kind of esplanade, and
runs along at about sixty feet from the river. It consists of some forty
miserable huts, whose thatched roofs only just render them worthy of the
name of cottages. A stairway made of crossed trunks of trees leads up to
the village, which lies hidden from the traveler's eyes until the steps
have been ascended. Once at the top he finds himself before an inclosure
admitting of slight defense, and consisting of many different shrubs and
arborescent plants, attached to each other by festoons of lianas, which
here and there have made their way abgove the summits of the graceful
palms and banana-trees.

At the time we speak of the Indians of Iquitos went about in almost a
state of nudity. The Spaniards and half-breeds alone were clothed,
and much as they scorned their indigenous fellow-citizens, wore only
a simple shirt, light cotton trousers, and a straw hat. All lived
cheerlessly enough in the village, mixing little together, and if they
did meet occasionally, it was only at such times as the bell of the
mission called them to the dilapidated cottage which served them for a
church.

But if existence in the village of Iquitos, as in most of the hamlets
of the Upper Amazon, was almost in a rudimentary stage, it was only
necessary to journey a league further down the river to find on the same
bank a wealthy settlement, with all the elements of comfortable life.

This was the farm of Joam Garral, toward which our two young friends
returned after their meeting with the captain of the woods.

There, on a bend of the stream, at the junction of the River Nanay,
which is here about five hundred feet across, there had been established
for many years this farm, homestead, or, to use the expression of the
country,
"fazenda,"
then in the height of its prosperity. The Nanay
with its left bank bounded it to the north for about a mile, and for
nearly the same distance to the east it ran along the bank of the larger
river. To the west some small rivulets, tributaries of the Nanay, and
some lagoons of small extent, separated it from the savannah and the
fields devoted to the pasturage of the cattle.

It was here that Joam Garral, in 1826, twenty-six years before the date
when our story opens, was received by the proprietor of the fazenda.

This Portuguese, whose name was Magalhaës, followed the trade of
timber-felling, and his settlement, then recently formed, extended for
about half a mile along the bank of the river.

There, hospitable as he was, like all the Portuguese of the old race,
Magalhaës lived with his daughter Yaquita, who after the death of her
mother had taken charge of his household. Magalhaës was an excellent
worker, inured to fatigue, but lacking education. If he understood the
management of the few slaves whom he owned, and the dozen Indians
whom he hired, he showed himself much less apt in the various external
requirements of his trade. In truth, the establishment at Iquitos was
not prospering, and the affairs of the Portuguese were getting somewhat
embarrassed.

It was under these circumstances that Joam Garral, then twenty-two years
old, found himself one day in the presence of Magalhaës. He had arrived
in the country at the limit both of his strength and his resources.
Magalhaës had found him half-dead with hunger and fatigue in the
neighboring forest. The Portuguese had an excellent heart; he did not
ask the unknown where he came from, but what he wanted. The noble,
high-spirited look which Joam Garral bore in spite of his exhaustion
had touched him. He received him, restored him, and, for several days to
begin with, offered him a hospitality which lasted for his life.