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Through Forest and Stream: The Quest of the Quetzal, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 3. Night Ashore |
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_ CHAPTER THREE. NIGHT ASHORE I was brought back to the present by my uncle giving me a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Ready to begin again, Nat?" he cried. "Yes, uncle," I said eagerly. "It seems like the old days come back." "Ship the rudder, then, while I hoist the sail. The skipper may be right, so let's make use of this soft breeze to get to the mainland before the calm leaves us at the mercy of the currents." A few minutes later the boat careened over gently, and glided fast through the water, while I steered, making for an opening which Uncle Dick made out with his glass to be the mouth of a valley running up the country. "It's too far off to see all I want, Nat," he said, as he closed his glass; "but I fancy we shall find a river there, and we'll run in and try our luck. If there's nothing attractive about the place, we'll make a fresh start after a night's rest, and go on coasting along south till we find the sort of place we want. How well the boat sails with her load!" On we glided, with the vessel we had left gradually getting hull down as the afternoon wore on, while we passed no less than three tempting-looking wooded islets where we might have landed to pass the night; but Uncle Dick shook his head. "No, my boy," he said; "we'll keep to our course. There are more of these cays about, and we could land upon one if the wind dropped. As it holds fair, we'll run on to the mainland, for if it only keeps on till sunset, we shall reach the shore before dark." Uncle Dick was right, and as it drew near sunset I was feasting my eyes on a wild-looking region whose beauty increased as we drew closer. There was dense mangrove jungle, then cliff covered with verdure, and this was broken up by patches of yellow sand backed by fringes of cocoanut grove, which again gave place to open park-like forest with big trees--this last where the great rocky bluff towered up with another eminence on the other side of the opening--but there was no river, nothing but a fine sandy cove, with a tiny stream running down from a patch of beautiful forest. As we ran in we had our last sight of the distant vessel which had brought us so far on our journey, and Uncle Dick, who was standing up forward to direct me in my steering, cried-- "Nothing could be better, Nat. It's like landing on one of our old islands. Neither hut nor inhabitant to be seen. This is genuine wild country, and we shall find a river to-morrow. I was half afraid that we should be coming upon sugar or coffee plantations, or perhaps men cutting down the great mahogany trees." I was as delighted as he was, for my mind was full of the gloriously-plumaged bird we meant to shoot, and there in imagination I peopled the flower-decked bushes with flashing humming-birds whose throats and crests glowed with scale-like feathers, brilliant as the precious stones--emerald, topaz, ruby, and sapphire--after which they were named. The great forest trees would be, I felt sure, full of the screaming parrot tribe, in their uniforms of leafy green, faced with orange, blue, and crimson; while, farther up the country, there would be the splendid quetzals, all metallic golden-green and scarlet. But I had little time for thought. In a short time, in obedience to my uncle's orders, I had steered the boat right into the mouth of the little stream beyond where the salt waves broke; the sail was lowered and furled and the anchor carried ashore and fixed between two masses of rock, so that it could not be dragged out by the tugging of the craft. "Wouldn't do to wake up and find our boat gone, Nat," said Uncle Dick, "if we set up our tent on shore. The sand looks very tempting, and we are not likely to be disturbed. But now then, start a fire, while I unpack some stores, and--yes--we will. We'll set up the tent to sleep under. More room to stretch our legs." I was not long in getting a fire burning, with the kettle full of the beautiful rivulet water heating; while Uncle Dick stuck in the two pointed and forked sticks with which we were provided, laid the pole from fork to fork, and spread the oiled canvas sheet over it, so that there was a shelter from the night dews. But before our coffee was ready and the bacon for our supper fried, night was upon us, and the bushes near scintillating in the most wondrous way, every twig seeming to be alive with fire-flies. For a short space of time, as we sat there on the sands, partaking of our meal--than which nothing more delicious had ever passed my lips--all was still but the lapping of the tiny waves and the musical trickling of the rivulet amongst the rocks and stones. Then I jumped, for a peculiar cry arose from the forest behind us, and this seemed to be the signal for an outburst of sounds new to me, piping, thrumming, drumming, shrieking, howling, grunting in every variety, and I turned to look in Uncle Dick's face, which was lit up by the glow from our little wood fire. "Brings back old times in the South American forests, Nat," he said coolly. "I could put a name to nearly every musician at work in Nature's orchestra yonder." "What was that horrible cry?" I whispered. "Jaguar or puma?" "Neither, my boy; only a heron or crane somewhere up the stream." "That snorting croak, then?" "Only frogs or toads, Nat; and that chirruping whirring is something in the cricket or cicada way. If we heard a jaguar or puma, it would most likely be a magnified tom-cat-like sort of sound." "But that mournful howl, uncle?" I whispered. "A poor, melancholy spider-monkey saying good-night to his friends in the big trees. Most of the other cries are made by night-birds out on the hunt for their suppers. That cry was made by a goat-sucker, one of those 'Chuck-Will's-widow' sort of fellows. They're very peculiar, these night-hawks. Even ours at home keeps up that whirring, spinning-wheel-like sound in the Surrey and Sussex fir-woods. Ah, that's a dangerous creature, if you like!" he said, in a whisper. "Which?" I said, below my breath. "That piping _ping-wing-wing_." "Why, that's a mosquito, uncle," I cried contemptuously. "The only thing likely to attack us to-night, Nat," he said, laughing; "but we'll have the guns and everything ready all the same." "To shoot the mosquitoes, uncle?" "No, but anything that might--mind, I say _might_--come snuffing about us." Uncle Dick was so calm and cool over it that he made me the same, and the little nervous sensation caused by the novelty of my position soon passed away. The guns were loaded and laid ready, a couple of blankets spread, and utterly wearied out, after making up the fire, we crept into our tent and lay down to get a good night's sleep. "We'll rest on shore wherever it's safe, Nat," were Uncle Dick's last words. "It's nicer to have the solid ground under you. This is a treat; the sand's like a feather bed; but we shan't often have such a luxurious place. Good-night." "One moment, uncle," I whispered, as I heard a rustling sound somewhere in the bushes. "What do you think is making that?" I waited for him to answer, under the impression that he was listening to make sure before he replied; but as he took no heed, I spoke again, but only to hear his hard breathing, for he was fast asleep, and I started up in horror, for the strange rustling sound, as of a huge snake or alligator creeping through the dry grass and bushes, began again much nearer than before. _ |
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