The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a human, living thing. It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet, meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at the grate; it was an actuality—stern, mournful, and fine.

  The correspondent plainly saw the soldier. He lay on the sand with his feet out straight and still. While his pale left hand was upon his chest in an attempt to thwart the going of his life, the blood came between his fingers. In the far Algerian distance, a city of low square forms was set against a sky that was faint with the last sunset hues. The correspondent, plying the oars and dreaming of the slow and slower movements of the lips of the soldier, was moved by a profound and perfectly impersonal comprehension. He was sorry for the soldier of the Legion who lay dying in Algiers.

  The thing which had followed the boat and waited had evidently grown bored at the delay. There was no longer to be heard the slash of the cut-water, and there was no longer the flame of the long trail. The light in the north still glimmered, but it was apparently no nearer to the boat. Sometimes the boom of the surf rang in the correspondent’s ears, and he turned the craft seaward then and rowed harder. Southward, someone had evidently built a watch-fire on the beach. It was too low and too far to be seen, but it made a shimmering, roseate reflection upon the bluff back of it, and this could be discerned from the boat. The wind came stronger, and sometimes a wave suddenly raged out like a mountain-cat and there was to be seen the sheen and sparkle of a broken crest.

  The captain, in the bow, moved on his water-jar and sat erect. “Pretty long night,” he observed to the correspondent. He looked at the shore. “Those lifesaving people take their time.”

  “Did you see that shark playing around?”

  “Yes, I saw him. He was a big fellow, all right.”

  “Wish I had known you were awake.”

  Later the correspondent spoke into the bottom of the boat.

  “Billie!” There was a slow and gradual disentanglement. “Billie, will you spell me?”

  “Sure,” said the oiler.

  As soon as the correspondent touched the cold comfortable sea-water in the bottom of the boat, and had huddled close to the cook’s life-belt he was deep in sleep, despite the fact that his teeth played all the popular airs. This sleep was so good to him that it was but a moment before he heard a voice call his name in a tone that demonstrated the last stages of exhaustion. “Will you spell me?”

  “Sure, Billie.”

  The light in the north had mysteriously vanished, but the correspondent took his course from the wide-awake captain.

  Later in the night they took the boat farther out to sea, and the captain directed the cook to take one oar at the stern and keep the boat facing the seas. He was to call out if he should hear the thunder of the surf. This plan enabled the oiler and the correspondent to get respite together. “Well give those boys a chance to get into shape again,” said the captain. They curled down and, after a few preliminary chattering and trembles, slept once more the dead sleep. Neither knew they had bequeathed to the cook the company of another shark, or perhaps the same shark.

  As the boat caroused on the waves, spray occasionally bumped over the side and gave them a fresh soaking, but this had no power to break their repose. The ominous slash of the wind and the water affected them as it would have affected mummies.

  “Boys,” said the cook, with the notes of every reluctance in his voice, “she’s drifted in pretty close. I guess one of you had better take her to sea again.” The correspondent, aroused, heard the crash of the toppled crests.

  As he was rowing, the captain gave him some whiskey and water, and this steadied the chills out of him. “If I ever get ashore and anybody shows me even a photograph of an oar—”

  At last there was a short conversation.

  “Billie. . . . Billie, will be spell me?”

  “Sure,” said the oiler.

  VII

  When the correspondent again opened his eyes, the sea and the sky were each of the gray hue of the dawning. Later, carmine and gold was painted upon the waters. The morning appeared finally, in its splendor with a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the tips of the waves.

  On the distant dunes were set many little black cottages, and a tall white wind-mill reared above them. No man, nor dog, nor bicycle appeared on the beach. The cottages might have formed a deserted village.

  The voyagers scanned the shore. A conference was held in the boat. “Well,” said the captain, if no help is coming, we might better try a fun through the surf right away. If we stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all.” The others silently acquiesced in this reasoning. The boat was headed for the beach. The correspondent wondered if none ever ascended the tall wind-tower, and if then they never looked seaward. This tower was giant, standing with its back to the plight of the ants. It represented in a degree, to the correspondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual—nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men. She did not seem cruel to him, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise. But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent. It is, perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws of his life and have them taste wickedly in his mind and wish for another chance. A distinction between right and wrong seems absurdly clear to him, then, in this new ignorance of the grace-edge, and he understands that if he were given another opportunity he would mend his conduct and his words, and be better and brighter during an introduction, or at a tea.

  “Now, boys,” said the captain, “she is going to swamp sure. All we can do is to work her in as far as possible, and then when she swamps, pile out and scramble for the beach. Keep cool now and don’t jump until she swamps sure.”

  The oiler took the oars. Over his shoulders he scanned the surf. “Captain,” he said, “I think I’d better bring her about, and keep her head-on to the seas and back her in.”

  “All right, Billie,” said the captain. “Back her in.” The oiler swung the boat then and, seated in the stern, the cook and the correspondent were obliged to look over their shoulders to contemplate the lonely and indifferent shore.

  The monstrous inshore rollers heaved the boat high until the men were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding up the slanted beach. “We won’t get in very close,” said the captain. Each time a man could wrest his attention from the rollers, he turned his glance toward the shore, and in the expression of the eyes during this contemplation there was a singular quality. The correspondent, observing the others, knew that they were not afraid, but the full meaning of their glances was shrouded.

  As for himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally with the fact. He tried to coerce his mind into thinking of it, but the mind was dominated at this time by the muscles, and the muscles said they did not care. It merely occurred to him that if he should drown it would be a shame.

  There were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation. The men simply looked at the shore, “Now, remember to get well clear of the boat when you jump,” said the captain.

  Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderous crash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon the boat.

  “Steady now,” said the captain. The men were silent. They turned their eyes from the shore to the comber and waited. The boat slid up the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung down the long back of the waves. Some water had been shipped and the cook bailed it out.

  But the next crest crashed also. The tumbling boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular. Water swarmed in from all sides. The correspondent had his hands on the gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that place he swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wetting them.

  The little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled deep into the sea.

  “Bail her out, coo
k! Bail her out,” said the captain.

  “All right, captain,” said the cook.

  “Now, boys, the next one will do for us, sure,” said the oiler. “Mind to jump clear of the boat.”

  The third wave moved forward, hug, furious, implacable. It fairly swallowed the dingey, and almost simultaneously the men tumbled into the sea. A piece of life-belt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left hand.

  The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was colder than he had expected to find it off the coast of Florida. This appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the time. The coldness of water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was somehow mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation that it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. The water was cold.

  When he came to the surface he was conscious of little but the noisy water. Afterward he saw his companions in the sea. The oiler was ahead in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly. Off to the correspondent’s left, the cook’s great white and corked back bulged out of the water, and in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dingey.

  There is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and the correspondent wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea.

  It seemed also very attractive, but the correspondent knew that it was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece of life-preserver lay under him, and sometimes he whirled down the incline of a wave as if he were on a hand-sled.

  But finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel was beset with difficulty. He did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of current had caught him, but there his progress ceased. The shore was set before him like a bit of scenery on a stage, and he looked at it and understood with his eyes each detail of it.

  As the cook passed, much farther to the left, the captain was calling to him, “Turn over on your back, cook! Turn over on your back and use the oar.”

  “All right, sir!” The cook turned on his back, and, paddling with an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe.

  Presently the boat also passed to the left of the correspondent with the captain clinging with one hand to the keel. He would have appeared like a man raising himself to look over a board fence, if it were not for the extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. The correspondent marvelled that the captain could still hold to it.

  They passed on, nearer to shore—the oiler, the cook, the captain—and following them went the water-jar, bouncing gaily over the seas.

  The correspondent remained in the grip of this strange new enemy—a current. The shore, with its white slope of sand and its green bluff, topped with little silent cottages, was spread like a picture before him. It was very near to him then, but he was impressed as one who in a gallery looks at a scene from Brittany or Algiers.

  He thought: “I am going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it be possible? Can it be possible?” Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.

  But later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this small deadly current, for he found suddenly that he could again make progress toward the shore. Later still, he was aware that the captain, clinging with one hand to the keel of the dingey, had his face turned away from the shore and toward him, and was calling his name. “Come to the boat! Come to the boat!”

  In his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflected that when one gets properly wearied, drowning must really be a comfortable arrangement, a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief, and he was glad of it, for the main thing in his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporary agony. He did not wish to be hurt.

  Presently he saw a man running along the shore. He was undressing with most remarkable speed. Coat, trousers, shirt, everything flew magically off him.

  “Come to the boat,” called the captain.

  “All right, captain.” As the correspondent paddled, he saw the captain let himself down to bottom and leave the boat. Then the correspondent performed his one little marvel of the voyage. A large wave caught him and flung him with east and supreme speed completely over the boat and far beyond it. It struck him even then as an event in gymnastics, and a true miracle of the sea. An overturned boat I the surf is not a plaything to a swimming man.

  The correspondent arrived in water that reached only to his waist, but his condition did not enable him to stand for more than a moment. Each wave knocked him into a heap, and the under-tow pulled at him.

  Then he saw the man who had been running and undressing, and undressing and running, come bounding into the water. He dragged ashore the cook, and then waded toward the captain, but the captain waved him away, and sent him to the correspondent. He was naked, naked as a tree in winter, but a halo was about his head, and he shone like a saint. He gave a strong pull, and a long drag, and a bully heave at the correspondent’s hand. The correspondent, schooled in the minor formulae, said: “Thanks, old man.” But suddenly the man cried: “What’s that?” He pointed a swift finger. The correspondent said: “Go.”

  In the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. His forehead touched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea.

  The correspondent did not know all that transpired afterward. When he achieved safe ground he fell, striking the sand with each particular part of his body. It was as if he had dropped from a roof, but the thud was grateful to him.

  It seems that instantly the beach was populated with men with blankets, clothes, and flasks, and women with coffee-pots and all the remedies sacred to their minds. The welcome of the land to the men from the sea was warm and generous, but a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land’s welcome for it could only be the different and sinister hospitality of the grave.

  When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea’s voice to the men on shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.

  THE “SHOLAH” TIGER

  A Girl’s Adventure On The Neilgherry Hills

  HENRIETTA A. HERVEY

  THE second time I visited India was after a residence in England of three years. My father’s corps was garrisoned at Cannanore, and when, on reporting his arrival at Madras, the authorities told him that he would command, our plans were considerably altered. It was the hot weather, and not immediately expectant of promotion, my father had intended applying for a term of general duty at the cool station of Bangalore before rejoining his regiment. This idea being now out of the question, it was decided that my mother and we children should go straight to Ootacamund on the Neilgherry Hills, and reside there for six months, while my father took up his lieutenantcolonelcy at Cannanore, where we would join him when the monsoon broke; but in the meanwhile he was to come up to Ootacamund on a short leave— whenever he could obtain it.

  We engaged a comfortable, furnished bungalow called “Blair Athol,” close to “Stonehenge,” a larger house occupied by my father’s sister, Mrs. Hamilton and her family. Aunt Mary, who was not very strong, lived on the hills permanently: “Stonehenge” was her own property, and Colonel Hamilton, who had a staff appointment at Madras, used to come up at intervals.

  So there we were: Aunt Mary with her five children, the eldest, Alfred, a boy of sixteen who went to school, and my mother with six children, of whom I, the eldest, was aged seventeen. Of course each establishment had its army of native servants; otherwise, we were comparatively isolated, for the two houses stood somewhat removed from the rest of the settlement, being the last bungalows to the south-east, and without even a single native hut in the vicinity. A good road across the undulating downs led to Ootacamund proper, and soon brought one in touch with other dwellings; but about half a mile to the left of the road, and the same distance from our habitations, extending indefinitely southwards, was a great sholah, the local term
for a tract of jungle, large or small. To traverse a corner of this sholah meant an appreciable short cut to the town; but it had recently been abandoned, owing to rumours of the jungle being haunted by wild animals. Almost immediately on our arrival, Aunt Mary told us that a tiger had lately been seen in the sholah, and the local sportsmen had been doing their best to “bag” it, but without success. Naturally, then, we all felt rather nervous, and carefully shunned the sholah, keeping close to the house, and never straying very far. When any of us had occasion to go into Ootacamund, we either drove or went in large parties on foot, escorted by several servants, and taking care to get home before dusk.

  One day, after we had been at “Blair Athol” for about a month, my cousin Alfred brought word that the sholah tiger had, during the previous night, carried away a goat from the “compound” (grounds) of the house nearest us towards the settlement, that the sportsmen had again been roused to activity, and that measures for destroying the beast would be started at once. Needless to say that this news made us feel eerie, and take greater precautions than ever. Aunt Mary had Alfred to sleep at her door with his father’s rifle by his side; but we at “Blair Athol,” having no firearms, could only look to our fastenings, and insist on some of the servants sleeping turn-about inside the house. For a whole week did a number of officers and other gentlemen try to shoot that tiger; they endeavoured to track him, but could never get up to the beast; they built mácháns or tree-platforms in various parts of the sholah, sitting up night after night with live bait, such as buffaloes, goats, or dogs, tethered within range of their rifles. But all these measures failed, the tiger lay low, and people concluded that he was an “old stager,” evidently strayed up from the low country, with full experience of the human artifices now being employed for his destruction. Then Captain Davy, one of the sportsmen, a stranger from the Central Provinces, proposed that they should try and trap the tiger, as he had seen done in the Nerbudda territory. The suggestion was adopted, and Captain Davy speedily constructed a trap to the general satisfaction. He had built it in a little open space just off the short, cut path already alluded to, and those who went to examine the device heartily approved of it. Evening after evening they baited the trap with a live goat, and morning after morning was a rush made to the spot; the goat was always there, but no tiger. They kept on thus for ten days, with the same disappointing result, till—finally—they gave it up in disgust; the goat was taken away, and the idea of circumventing that tiger died a natural death—the more easily as the animal did not show himself again.