The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure.

  “I am quite ready now,” was his tranquil response. “Diamonds are trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen.”

  AMONG THE CROCODILES

  H. HERVEY

  Take care! for goodness’ sake! you’ll be through the sleepers if you make a false step!”

  Such was my greeting when next we met; but he didn’t heed it. When did he ever heed me? He took not the slightest notice of my caution, and continued skipping along from sleeper to sleeper, although there were “way boards” on the other side of the metals purposely for pedestrians. He care? not he! and yet he had a heart of gold.

  I, standing on a pier of the Dhodairoo railway bridge, superintending the attachment of angle-iron telegraph brackets, had caught his eye as he passed on the engine of the mixed train. No sooner he “spotted” me than he ordered the driver to stop, and knowing that I would welcome him, he bawled to his servants to bundle out with his camp “kit,” while he came titupping back across the open-work bridge with a recklessness that made my blood run cold.

  “By Jove! I’m blown!” he exclaimed, bringing up above me. “If that’s cold tea you’ve got in that bottle there, pass it along, and I’ll take a pull. Phew! it was hot on that old rattle-trap.” indicating the laboring locomotive now getting into motion again with its load.

  “Had a good time in Madras?” I asked, handing up the tea.

  “Fairish; but hang old Maggs! he has played me something like a trick. I say, where are you staying!—under an umbrella?”

  I pointed to my tents beneath some trees on the river bank.

  “You will remain the night, Sparkes?”

  “Yes; but longer than for a night, I expect. Seen any crocodiles since you’ve been here?” he resumed, going off at one of his usual tangents.

  “Yes, in the distance; the river swarms with them. Why?”

  “How about elbow room?” nodding in the direction of my camp.

  “Plenty for you and me. I’ve a third tent also—unpitched.”

  “You have! How long will you be here?”

  “Another week at least; this job will take quite that.”

  He deliberated for a while, I watching him from my lower level on the pier. I guessed he had something in contemplation, and I waited for him to unfold it.

  “Bother! What’s the odds?” he exclaimed at length. “I can always get them to slow down to drop me here, can’t I? You don’t mind putting up a couple of fellers besides me for a day or two, do you, Hervey? We’ll share expenses as before.”

  “If you guarantee the ‘fellers,’ and they bring their camp cots, I’ve no objection.”

  “Well, this is how it is,” said he, swinging down by my angle-iron bracket on to the pier-head, “directly I went to see old Maggs, he introduced me to a monied son-of-a-gun, some relative of one of our directors; he’s a bit gone in the upper story, I think, and—

  “Who’s gone, Maggs, the director, or the son-of-a-gun?”

  “The son-of-a-gun; he’s out here on the mooch, the trot, and wants to see everything, try his hand at everything before the hot weather comes and drives him back to England. Tredethlin has shown him tiger and bison shooting; that is, the feller was present while the others did the work; and old Maggs has given him his quantum suff. of Anglo-Indian society at Madras. Now a hankering after crocodile shooting possesses the chap’s soul, and he has been bothering Magg’s life out of him about it. My turning up at Madras for that confounded ball gave the old boy his opportunity; he promptly shunted the son-of-a-gun and his toady on to me, and—”

  “His toady?”

  “Yes, a one-horse sort of an individual, who—figuratively—brushes the other feller’s boots, and—”

  “What other fellow?”

  “The son-of-a-gun; and as much as ordered me to arrange that he gets his stomach full of crocodile potting. Hang it all! I should like to ram one down his throat!”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I returned to Irodepett day before yesterday, and have been prospecting around for a likely place. Old Clarke mentioned the Yellavunka river. I’ve just come from it; but cholera has broken out there, so it won’t do; then, spotting you, and Clarke having named the Dhodairoo also, I thought this would answer, provided other things fitted and you proved agreeable.”

  “I am agreeable. When will they be coming?”

  “You’re a brick! I’ll send a man with a telegram to Cooloor, telling them to start at once. They ought to turn up by to-morrow’s mixed train.”

  “All right; you go on to my camp, and tell them to pitch the third tent; ask for whatever you want, and make yourself comfortable; have a tub; tell them you’re going to stay, and to see to the dinner accordingly; I’ll be back by five or so.”

  Singing out to his people to tote along his impedimenta, he left me. I remained on the work till sundown, when I followed my chum to the tents. Poor chap! I was very glad to have him with me again, though only for a day or two; he always “shined me up” a bit, somehow.

  The next morning, accompanied by the headmen of the village, we were shown a secluded reach of the river, about half a mile up, where it was fringed with thick jungle, and the stream itself broken by a small islet, and several sandbanks, on the latter of which, we were told, the crocodiles, or, more correctly speaking, the gavials, were wont to drag themselves high and dry to bask in the sun. Here, then, it was decided to conduct our expected guests on the morrow, and we instructed the villagers to bring along a coracle, for possible use in our operations. This settled, I went to the bridge to see after the work, and Sparkes returned to camp, where I joined him later on for breakfast.

  In due course that afternoon the two men arrived, and Sparkes introduced me to them in the evening. That they were “verdants” with respect to their present surroundings, and the object of their visit was patent from the first; their speech, their manner, their very “kit” betrayed the fact. Mr. Brett—Sparkes’ son-of-a-gun—was a florid, fair-faced, light-eyed, short, stout man of between twenty-five and thirty; while Mr. Walker—Sparkes’ “today”—was as direct an antithesis of his principal as you could imagine; having described the one, you can picture the other. In age they appeared about the same; but what lent comicality to the whole thing was the persistent manner in which Walker echoed Brett; this peculiarity will be made manifest further on.

  “So you have set your heart on a shot at the crocodiles, Mr. Brett,” said I, as soon as we were seated at dinner.

  “Y—yes; being in the land of the great saurian, we thought it would not do to return to England and face our friends without having encountered the animal in his native haunts.”

  “In his native haunts,” added Walker.

  “Can’t understand you waifs from home wanting to run your blessed necks into nooses like this,” observed Sparkes. “However, to business. We’ll have to start confoundedly early to get to the spot and take up our position before the brutes come out to bask, which they do at the first sun-blush. You and Mr. What’s-his-name,” nodding at Walker, “will have to take your stand on a bushcovered islet in the stream, which commands the sand-banks where the varmints lay themselves out to get warmed by the sun; it had better be the islet; for if you fire from the river bank it would make the range about two hundred yards, and you might miss. All you have to do is wait till the first one gapes, when slap a bullet down its thorax, and you’ve got him; do you see?”

  It was amusing to note their faces as Sparkes delivered himself of the above; they stared blankly at us, then at each other.

  “But—but—er—er——” began Brett and stopped.

  “But—but—er—er——”added Walker, and he stopped too. “But what? Hang it all! out with it!” cried Sparkes.

  “What—are—you two going to do? Mr. Tredethlin accompanied———”

  “Oh, confound Mr. Tredethlin! You’re here t
o shoot crocodiles; I am here to put you in the way. If Tredethlin chose to shoot the tiger for you, I’m not going to do ditto with the crocs. I and Mr. Hervey will caché on the bank,—to see fair play, savez?”

  “But how are we to get to the islet? We can’t swim!”

  “Can’t swim a stroke,” added Walker.

  “Who said you could? You can paddle, I suppose,—one or other of you?”

  “Paddle what?”

  “Paddle what?”

  “Paddle your own canoe! There’ll be a coracle, and the distance to be traversed a hundred yards or so; you can manage that surely! Living Mortlake way, as you say you do, you must have gone on the river occasionally and learnt how to propel a boat?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Oh, frequently.”

  “That’s all right. Your guns are somewhat antiquated affairs though. What are they sighted to?”

  “Three hundred yards, I think.”

  “Yes, three hundred yards,” said the echo.

  “Pooh! then you are bound to go on to the islet. Shouldn’t like to trust you with a Martini, especially as you told me you’ve never handled one. You can shoot straight enough to fire down a croc’s open mouth at seventy or eighty yards?”

  “No possible doubt of that,” said Brett, gaining confidence.

  “No possible doubt whatever,” added Walker hilariously.

  And so we conversed.They showed us their battery: old muzzle loaders—family heirlooms evidently; and we wondered that Brett, a man of means, should have come so poorly provided in respect to armament. They retired early, wishing—so they averred one after the other—to fortify themselves against the morrow.

  We roused them before dawn, and after partaking of tea and toast, accompanied by two men carrying their guns, we sallied forth, and struck the river at the desired spot. Here we found the coracle moored to the steep bank, and a couple of villagers rolled up in their blankets, squatting by.

  “There’s your islet,” said Sparkes, indicating it. “Lie down on the hither slope, and keep an eye through the bushes on the sand-bank lying beyond; wait till several of the animals lug themselves out and set to gape; select the one that gives you the squarer chance of sending your lead down into his insides, for you’ll never be able to perforate his hide with those Brown Besses, and I don’t suppose either of you could hit the eye. In you get; there’s no time to lose,” hustling them into the coracle.

  “Do come with us!” pleaded Brett.

  “Yes, do come with us!” tacked on Walker entreatingly.

  “You be shot!” vociferated Sparkes. “What do you want me for? you fellers are bossing this show, not I.”

  They managed to paddle themselves across after a fashion. They landed, hitched the painter to a bush and took up their positions as instructed. I, Sparkes, and the natives concealed ourselves in the jungle that grew to the edge of the high bank, and waited in silence, our elevated vantage-ground enabling us to command a view of both islet and the sand-bank farther out.

  Though as a rule timid of the human being, the Asiatic gavial is known to be a man-eater; its attack, under ordinary circumstances, is delivered insidiously. The usual modus operandi is to stalk the solitary bather, seize him below water, and carry him off to some secluded pool, where the huge lizards in numbers fall upon the perhaps still breathing victim and tear him in pieces. We knew that when assailed or otherwise roused to anger, the animal evinces courage and aggressiveness; but neither of us had actual experience of crocodiles, and we contended ourselves with the assurances of the villagers that so long as we kept clear of the water, there was nothing to fear, and that the gavials would vanish at the first report of a gun.

  The sun rose,—up the river; and soon after his rays had burnished everything with a fiery effulgence we descried several ugly snouts protruding from the water. A little while, and more of the hideous bodies became visible; we heard their frequent harsh respirations, and then, from under the lea of the opposite bank which was marshy and much lower than ours, a general movement ensued towards deeper water: half a dozen of the reptiles drew their scaly lengths on to the sand-banks; others went up, some down stream, as if in quest of food—but our hearts ascended to our mouths when we saw the long shape of one brute emerge on to the islet occupied by Brett and his mate! And yet the natives had assured us that the lizards would confine themselves to the sand-banks! The crocodile drew clear of the water; it faced our friends; not five paces divided them! The men made no sign: perhaps they were waiting till the brute gaped. We looked on with a sickening sensation of horror! Then the saurian opened its fearful mouth, keeping it so for a few seconds, and closing it with a clash! What were those two fellows about? they must have heard that “snap”; the sound had penetrated to our ears. Why had they allowed so splendid an opportunity to slip by? Were they asleep? Sparkes could stand the suspense no longer.

  “Shoot! Can’t you, you howling idiots? There he is under your very noses!”

  Immediately on the sound of the human voice there was a simultaneous movement on the part of every gavial within our ken: one or two slid into the water, but the others only raised themselves on their squat limbs, closed their jaws, and seemed to eye the bank.

  “Which one?” came in quavering accents from the islet: it was Brett who spoke.

  “Confound you! the one within arm’s length of you! Get up and look, you jackasses!” foamed Sparkes.

  Brett and Walker erected themselves and peered over the bushes; no sooner did their eyes alight on the gruesome shape in such close proximity than Brett dropped his gun into the water, and set to wringing his hands, yelling at the top of his voice. Walker with better spirit, fired point blank at the gavial; the bullet glanced off the adamantine armouring into space, but the impact at so short a range was sufficient to sting the animal to madness, for it uttered a sort of bellow, and commenced—sluggishly, it is true—to approach Walker. The other saurians, attracted no doubt by their fellow’s cry, tumbled helter-skelter into the water, and with their long, single-nostrilled snouts in the air, all swam converging on the islet. Before we could shout at him to desist, Brett, impelled by sheer panic, threw himself into the coracle, tore away the painter, and paddled frantically for the shore. Sparkes, with his brow black as thunder, rushed down the bank; I followed him; and as Brett, quaking with “funk,” staggered out of the frail vessel, “You miserable son of a sea cook!” exclaimed my friend, “to leave the other feller in the lurch! Call yourself a man!” He had jumped into the boat as he spoke, and before I could join him was off to the rescue.

  “Hold on!” I cried, wading after him; for he had used such despatch that he was off before I had well divined his intention. “Hold on! I’ll come with you.”

  The lizards lay like dark logs of wood in the water, but the monster that Walker had fired at seemed determined to make a victim of him. The islet did not much exceed a few paces in length and breadth, rising to a bush-crested ridge about four feet high, the slopes on both sides were clear of vegetation: as a matter of fact there was not a sufficiency of level for a single saurian to spread himself out on in the sun; hence, I suppose, the natives saying that the spot was not frequented by the reptiles. Fortunately for Walker—and the human race in general—the gavial out of the water is neither nimble nor active, and had the space not been so confined, the man could have eluded his pursuer with ease. But as things stood the crocodile had drawn itself up to the bushes on the ridge, and was gradually pressing his enemy towards the water’s edge. There was no room for Walker to dodge round the beast; he had clubbed his gun, and by showering blow after blow on the varmint’s snout had hitherto arrested its final rush. I could see that the poor fellow’s strength was fast failing him; in another second he must yield to the Scylla in front or the Charybdis in the water behind him and he would have eventually fallen into the clutches of one or the other if my plucky chum had not come up at this supreme moment. Yelling with all his voice, scaring thereby the gavials in the water, a
nd managing his uncouth craft with consummate adroitness, he ran her shore just behind Walker, who by now was at his last gasp. “Jump back!” he shouted. “Jump for your life! I’ll catch you!” standing up in the flimsy coracle as he uttered the words. Walker tumbled rather than jumped back; quick as thought Sparkes seized him, threw him into the bottom of the boat, and pushed off just as the gavial lunged ponderously forward to grasp his victim. Plying his paddle with all his might—for the whole swarm might take it into their heads to pursue the boat and “chaw” it up together with its occupants—he reached the bank, and we hauled them out in safety.

  “Thank Heaven that’s over,” coolly remarked Sparkes, as we set our faces campwards.

  HIPPO HUNTING IN AFRICA

  DAVID POLLOCK

  ISEE you, great chief,” said a tall black figure, rising out of the green grass. “I see you,” I replied in the grave salutation of Mashonaland. That was my first introduction to Cherumbila. He was a tall, grey-headed negro with not an ounce of spare flesh on his wiry frame. He was innocent of anything in the shape of clothing, but he wore the spotted skin of a wild-cat tucked carelessly into a girdle of pink and blue beads, and a thick brass bangle round each wrist and ankle.

  “What news do you bring?” I asked, after looking him up and down.

  “Great news, chief,” he said, speaking rapidly in his excitement. “I have seen the imvuba [hippopotami] in the great river. Inteliquy, and I am come to tell the great chief so that he may take the spear that spits fire and kill them.”

  “How many did you see?” I queried rather incredulously, knowing that the Caffres are the most persistent liars on the face of the earth.

  “Many, many, chief.” He held up both arms to express a young army of hippopotami.