The Mighty Orinoco. Jules VerneЧитать онлайн книгу.
explorers in this part of South America.
Shortly past midnight, the storm began to die down. After that heavy downpour, the skies were clear again. Some stars came out, looking as damp as if the floodwaters had swept up to the far reaches of the firmament. This phenomenon was over almost immediately, but it was a sight often seen in these parts when the atmosphere has been troubled by discharges of electricity.
“Good weather for tomorrow,” the Indian commented as his guests took their leave.
They decided that the best course of action was to go back to their falcas, since it promised to be a calm, dry night. They would sleep better on their deckhouse cots than on the ground in that Indian hut.
The next day at dawn, the travelers were ready to leave Buena Vista. Not only did the sun rise above a tolerably clear horizon but also the wind was out of the northeast, and the sails could be used instead of the barge poles.
They had only a short distance to travel before they reached the town of La Urbana, where they could lay over for a day. Barring unforeseen circumstances, the falcas would be there that afternoon.
M. Miguel, his two friends, Sergeant Martial, and Jean de Kermor said good-bye to their Indian host and his family. Then, hoisting sail, the Gallinetta and the Maripare headed into the channels between the sandbars. The water level had risen enough to cover the shoals completely and to make the river several kilometers wide.
Aboard their boat, Sergeant Martial and young Jean stationed themselves in front of the deckhouse to breathe the fresh, bracing air of that lovely morning. Their sail shielded them from the rays of the rising sun, already quite bright.
Sergeant Martial, remembering the discussion in which he had participated the night before, struck up the following conversation: “Do tell me, Jean. Do you believe all those stories that Indian told us?”
“Which stories?”
“The ones about those thousands of turtles tramping around here like an army on the march.”
“Why shouldn’t I believe them?”
“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous! Swarms of rats I can accept, people have seen ’em, but swarms of big animals a yard long—”
“People have seen those too.”
“Who has?”
“Our Indian host for one.”
“Bah! Tales from savages!”
“But explorers who’ve gone up the Orinoco toward La Urbana say the same thing.”
“Oh, that’s just stuff in books!” replied Sergeant Martial, a thorough skeptic on the subject of travel guides.
“You’re wrong, uncle. Not only is it completely plausible, it’s an established fact.”
“Fine … fine! Anyhow, if it’s true, I don’t see why M. Miguel’s all worried about us being in danger. So what if we meet up with a lot of turtles on the way!”
“Yet suppose they bar your path?”
“Well, you just walk right over them!”
“But if you accidentally slipped and fell in the midst of them, you could be crushed.”
“Oh come on! I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“We’re arriving a little too late,” Jean answered. “But four months ago during the nesting season, you could have seen it with your own two eyes.”
“No, Jean, no! It’s all just a pack of stories that explorers cook up to amuse the good folks who prefer staying home.”
“Oh, that’s just stuff in books!” replied Sesrgeant Martial.
“Much of it perfectly true, my dear Martial.”
“Then if there are so many turtles, how come we haven’t spotted any? On all these sandbars, you don’t see one single shell! Look, I’m not asking for much. I don’t need a hundred thousand of these turtles, not even fifty. Just give me a dozen! They’d furnish the kind of soup I’d be happy to dip my bread in!”
“You’d share your bowl with me, wouldn’t you, uncle?”
“I shouldn’t have to! With anything like five or six thousand of those critters, I’d think we could fill up your bowl and mine too! But there isn’t a blasted one! Where are they all hiding? In the imagination of that Indian, most likely!”
He was as skeptical as it was possible to be. But if Sergeant Martial did not see a single one of those errant reptiles, it was not for lack of looking. In fact, he would end up using his telescope to search for them.
Meanwhile, the two falcas continued up the river, propelled by the wind. So long as they could follow the left bank, the breeze was in their favor, and there was no call for the barge poles. They continued on in this way to the mouth of the Arauca, a major branch of the Orinoco whose waters partly originate in the Andes Mountains and whose riverbed is so narrow that it does not merge with any other tributary.
This portion of their journey lasted nearly all morning. Around eleven o’clock, they had to cross the river, since La Urbana is located on the right bank.
At this moment, the problems began, and they were serious enough to cause delays. Thanks to the high waters, the shoals of fine-grained sand were smaller, but the channels between them twisted and turned. Instead of having the breeze behind them, the falcas suddenly found themselves facing a head wind. As a result, they were obliged to lower the sails and resort to the barge poles—and everybody had to pitch in against the swift current, to keep from being dragged downstream.
Their pocket watches read two o’clock when the Gallinetta and the Maripare finally reached an island that carries the same name as the town they were heading for. In contrast to the riverside plains, this island was covered with trees; it even showed signs of being cultivated, a rarity in this part of the river where the Indians have no other occupations than hunting, fishing, and harvesting turtle eggs—a harvest so abundant that it calls for huge numbers of harvesters, regardless of what Sergeant Martial thinks.
They finally reached the island of La Urbana.
Since the boatmen were thoroughly exhausted from their exertions in the scorching midday heat, the two skippers felt it was time to stop for an hour, first to eat, second to rest. They would still be able to reach the town of La Urbana before evening. In fact, as soon as they had passed this island, the village would come into sight. It was the last town on the central Orinoco until Cariben, located two hundred kilometers upstream near the mouth of the Meta.
The falcas docked alongside the bank, and the travelers went ashore, where the dense foliage of some trees offered them shelter.
Sergeant Martial notwithstanding, a certain camaraderie began to spring up between the passengers of the two boats, and was that not perfectly natural on a trip like this? Acting standoffish would be unreasonable. More than ever, M. Miguel could not help showing the concern he felt for young Jean de Kermor, and if the lad had ignored these signs of good will, it would have been extremely discourteous. Sergeant Martial had to bow to the inevitable. He started to soften up, to lower his porcupine quills—but only after giving himself a good talking-to on the subject of his own foolish shortcomings.
Although parts of the island had been cultivated, it did not seem to contain any game animals. Moreover, only a small number of ducks or wood pigeons flew overhead, so if the hunters wanted a change of pace at their next meal, it was not going to be something they could shoot. However, La Urbana would have all they needed to restock the two falcas.
During this rest stop they engaged in conversation, while the boatmen napped under