The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  “Will you take me to the river and show me where the imvuba are?” I asked.

  “Yes, chief; and you will give him a present, a little one, some beads, some gunpowder, and some salt; is it not so?”

  “Yes, and a blanket as well if I shoot one,” I added, to stimulate his exertions.

  The bargain was soon struck. I determined to start at once, and nothing remained but to get leave from my amiable old chief, for at that time I was a pupil in the noble art of land-surveying, and was studying the rudiments in the wildest regions of Mashonaland. This was easily obtained.

  “Don’t do anything foolish, Jack,” said my kind old instructor, when I rushed into the tent where he was patiently wading through a tangled scribble of my triangulations.

  “Don’t have any accident and be carried back home on a stretcher. And oh, Jack, I wish you would learn to write better. But then it’s no good talking. Now, that’ll do. Don’t say you’re sorry, because I know you aren’t. You couldn’t be if you tried, you Scaramouch. Now be off with you, and if you don’t bring me back a hippopotamus whip that will tickle up old Ginger, and a load of fat ‘bacon,’ look out for squalls. I’ll make you plant a white flag on every mountain in Mashonaland.”

  Laughing gaily at the terrible threat contained in the last sentence, I ran out and collected a few articles for our journey. Five minutes later we were en route. Cherumbila carried my blanket and the bag of bread and dried meat, while my diminutive kettle was jauntily suspended on the end of his long spear. I carried my rifle and a few cartridges. Cherumbila was an ideal pace-maker. His pet pace was a kind of dog-trot which meant five miles an hour. He knew every path and game track, and without his assistance I could not have reached the distant blue mountains at whose feet the river ran until long after nightfall. As it was, we reached the Inteliquy about three o’clock in the afternoon. We sat down about a quarter of a mile from the river and made a fire and got something to eat, which, speaking for myself, I was quite ready for, as we had been travelling for about six hours without a stop.

  “Now is the time,” said Cherumbila, pointing to the declining sun, “when the hippopotamus comes out to play. At night he feeds on the banks, in the day he lies in the wet reeds, but now, when the sun is low, he plays in the water. Let the great chief come now and shoot.”

  “Can we speak?” I asked, as we walked to the river.

  For answer Cherumbila pressed his finger on his lips as a warning to me to be silent, and began to advance with the utmost caution. Luckily the long grass by the river-side had been recently burned, and we were able to follow the hippopotamus track in the soft ashes without making a sound.

  Suddenly Cherumbila stopped as if transfixed. And clutching my arm with his left hand pointed eagerly to the river with his right. I could see nothing, and was on the point of saying so, when I heard the sound which old hunters had so often described and which I had longed to hear—a hippopotamus “blowing.” It was a weird, curious sound, and my heart seemed to stop dead as I listened. We tried to locate the great beast in the river, but he was still some distance away. We advanced another fifty yards in the same stealthy fashion, and again listened intently. Hark! there it is again, a long steady blast like an engine blowing off steam, only not quite so shrill. I could see a big dark object in the middle of the river through the thick fringe of reeds. We lay down flat on our stomachs and wriggled through the black ashes to the bank and peered eagerly through the bushes. There he was, an enormous bull, and not fifty yards off ! It was quite wonderful to watch his ungainly antics. At one moment he would hurl himself almost clear into the air and descend with a mighty concussion, driving the water away in waves from all sides. Then, as if exhausted with his exertions, he would gently sink and rise again with a “blow” you could hear a mile away. Then sink again, and, emerging slowly, expose nothing but his nostrils and one cunning little brown eye to view.

  Cherumbila, squatting by my head like a huge black toad, touched me on the shoulder and said, in a hoarse whisper:

  “Shoot, chief; he will smell us.”

  “What part shall I aim at?” I asked, remembering that his tough hide is practically invulnerable.

  Cherumbila closed his right eye significantly, but said not a word. I took a fine sight and fired dead in his eye. There was violent splash as the great brute sank, and a few bubbles rippled lightly on the surface. Cherumbila sprang to his feet with a scream of delight, dancing and brandishing his spear in the air. “See, chief,” he cried, “the blood in the water!”

  There was indeed a glossy red stain on the water, which died quickly away as the ripples washed over the spot where the monster had sunk. Darkness descended with true tropical suddenness. We made a fire on some high ground about two hundred yards from the river in order to escape the poisonous night mist which as soon as the sun went down began to brood over the water. A few minutes later, after our scanty supper, I had rolled myself up in my blanket and was snoring in blissful unconsciousness. Next morning when I awoke, Cherumbila was blowing some sticks into a fire for our coffee. Before the sun was up we got down to the river. There was not a sign of the hippopotamus on the placid surface of the pool.

  “We must take the trail, Cherumbila,” I said, “and follow him up. He is badly wounded, I know, and he cannot stay under water.”

  “Yes, chief, let us hunt him down,” responded Cherumbila, with alacrity, as he sprang into the reeds and dense under-growth which edged the river, while be added, “The chief must walk on the top of the bank, and look for a trail leaving the river, while I hunt for the imvubu in the reeds.”

  In this way we worked along together like terriers hunting a rat, but for a long time without success. At the end of the long pool Cherumbila got his clue.

  “Chief, chief!” he cried out, and I ran to the spot.

  “What is it?” I cried, eagerly.

  “See!” said Cherumbila, who was standing in a sort of tunnel pierced through the dense mass of reeds, “here are the tracks; they are fresh, and still wet. The imvubu is near us. And, look, here is warm blood.” He plucked a smeared and broken reed, against which the hippopotamus had brushed as he emerged from the river. Together we followed in the tracks of the wounded beast. It was easy to trace every turn. Where he had pushed inland through the long grass the track was fresh and plain. Now and then, to keep the excitement hot, Cherumbila would pluck a blood-stained leaf or blade of grass, and hold it up with a gleam of vindictive triumph sparkling in his sharp bright eyes.

  What a chase it was! The tracks went away from the river for quite two miles, and then it was evident that the hippopotamus, who must have lost a vast amount of blood, had resolved to return to his native element. A hippo will always die by the water. We got back to the river, and as the tracks were warm and fresh we fairly trotted on the trail. We scrambled over the rough slippery rocks, through pools of stagnant water shallow and slimy, across stony beaches, and dense patches of willow and thorn trees. The rocks hurt my feet, the thorns had torn my hands and face, and parts of my clothes were cut into shreds. Cherumbila seeing my exhaustion caught hold of my arm, and hurried me along. We got on to a long strip of heavy sand, and before us, gleaming through the reeds, we could see the great pool which the wounded hippopotamus was doing his utmost to reach, and to which we were racing to cut him off. A great dark object emerged from behind a solitary rock which stood in the middle of the long strip of sand. Cherumbila gave a wild yell and darted forward like an arrow, and I made a desperate spurt and came up with him. There was the hippo not two hundred yards in front of us, staggering blindly towards the great pool, which was not more than a quarter of a mile distant. Every minute he groaned and plunged his head in the sand. For the last two hundred paces it was a neck-andneck race. I was too much out of breath to fire, and Cherumbila prodding the great brute with his spear only made him travel the faster.

  We reached the edge of the pool, and just as his great feet splashed into the shallow water we both jumped
in front of him and barred the way. Cherumbila commenced stabbing him furiously with his spear. I was slipping a cartridge into my rifle. Before I could fire the infuriated monster had charged at Cherumbila, knocking him several yards into the pool. Just as he was rushing to trample the bruised and prostrate negro I put up my rifle, and aiming at the uninjured eye, shot him. He staggered and swayed for a few seconds, bellowing with rage and pain, then with a great splash he fell on his side in the shallow water, not more than a foot from Cherumbila’s head. The next thing was to rescue my unfortunate companion from a watery grave. I ran into the water and picked up poor Cherumbila, who was lying bleeding and unconscious. Laying him out at full length on the sand, I lost no time in pumping the water from his lungs and bandaging his wounded leg. In a few minutes I had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes. He seized my hand, and kissed it fondly.

  “Chief,” he said, with tears in his eyes, “you have saved my life. The imvubu would have crushed me to death, but you shot him dead, you have saved my life. I am your slave.”

  Dear Cherumbila,” I answered, “I don’t want to boast, but I must confess it was a close shave. Now we must strip off the hide while it is warm, and get back to the wagon.”

  After that day Cherumbila never left me while I remained in Mashonaland. We got back safely to the waggon before dark, and the first person I saw was my dear old chief coming out to meet us. He greeted me warmly, and was evidently astonished at my success. I handed him a choice strip of hippopotamus hide for a riding-whip.

  “You see, sir, I have kept my promise,” I said, “Here is something that will persuade old Ginger to quicken his paces; but we couldn’t bring you back any of the ‘bacon.’ We must send some of the ’boys’ to bring that.”

  “Never mind, Jack; I’ll forgive you everything for this beautiful whip, even your bad writing and your worse calculations,’ he replied, heartily.

  “And how about those white flags I’ve got to plant on every mountain in Mashonaland?” I asked.

  “Well,” he answered, laughingly, “we’ll see about it. Perhaps your new black friend can be induced to develop a weakness for climbing mountains. At any rate, Jack,” he added, with a sly laugh, as he swished the hippopotamus whip suspiciously near my legs,” you have made me a present with which I mean to keep you in order. So beware!”

  HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE FOX

  SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  In all the great hosts of France there was only one officer toward whom the English of Wellington’s Army retained a deep, steady, and unchangeable hatred.

  There were plunderers among the French, and men of violence, gamblers, duellists, and roúes. All these could be forgiven, for others of their kind were to be found among the ranks of the English. But one officer of Massena’s force had committed a crime which was unspeakable, unheard of, abominable; only to be alluded to with curses late in the evening, when a second bottle had loosened the tongues of men. The news of it was carried back to England, and country gentlemen who knew little of the details of the war grew crimson with passion when they heard of it, and yeomen of the shires raised freckled fists to Heaven and swore. And yet who should be the doer of this dreadful deed but our friend the Brigadier, Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans, gay-riding, plumetossing, debonair, the darling of the ladies and of the six brigades of light cavalry.

  But the strange part of it is that this gallant gentleman did this hateful thing, and made himself the most unpopular man in the Peninsula, without ever knowing that he had done a crime for which there is hardly a name amid all the resources of our language. He died of old age, and never once in that imperturbable self-confidence which adorned or disfigured his character knew that so many thousand Englishmen would gladly have hanged him with their own hands. On the contrary, he numbered this adventure among those other exploits which he has given to the world, and many a time he chuckled and hugged himself as he narrated it to the eager circle who gathered round him in that humble cafe where, between his dinner and his dominoes, he would tell, amid tears and laughter, of that inconceivable Napoleonic past when France, like and angel of wrath, rose up, splendid and terrible, before a cowering continent. Let us listen to him as he tells the story in his own way and from his own point of view.

  You must know, my friends, said he, that it was toward the end of the year eighteen hundred and ten that I and Massena and the others pushed Wellington backward until we had hoped to drive him and his army into the Tagus. But when we were still twenty five miles from Lisbon we found that we were betrayed, for what had this Englishman done but build an enormous line of works and forts at a place called Torres Vedras, so that even we were unable to get through them! They lay across the whole Peninsula, and our army was so far from home that we did not dare to risk a reverse, and we had already learned at Busaco that it was no child’s play to fight against these people. What could we do, then, but sit down in front of these lines and blockade them to the best of our power? There we remained for six months, amid such anxieties that Massena said afterward that he had not one hair which was not white upon his body.

  For my own part, I did not worry much about our situation, but I looked after our horses, who were in much need of rest and green fodder. For the rest, we drank the wine of the country and passed the time as best we might. There was lady at Santarem—but my lips are sealed. It is the part of a gallant man to say nothing, though he may indicate that he could say a great deal.

  One day Massena sent for me, and I found him in his tent with a great plan pinned upon the table. He looked at me in silence with that single piercing eye of his, and I felt by his expression that the matter was serious. He was nervous and ill at ease, but my bearing seemed to reassure him. It is good to be in contact with brave men.

  “Colonel Etienne Gerard,” said he, “I have always heard that you are a very gallant and enterprising officer.”

  It was not for me to confirm such a report, and yet it would be folly to deny it, so I clinked my spurs together and saluted.

  “You are also an excellent rider.”

  I admitted it.

  “And the best swordsman in the six brigades of light cavalry.”

  Massena was famous for the accuracy of his information.

  “Now,” said he, “if you will look at this plan you will have no difficulty in understanding what it is that I wish you to do. These are the lines of Torres Vedras. You will perceive that they cover a vast space, and you will realise that the English can only hold a position here and there. Once through the lines you have twenty-five miles of open country which lie between them and Lisbon. It is very important to me to learn how Wellington’s troops are distributed throughout that space, and it is my wish that you should go and ascertain.”

  His words turned me cold.

  “Sir,” said I, “it is impossible that a colonel of light cavalry should condescend to act as a spy.”

  He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “You would not be a Hussar if you were not a hot-head,” said he. “If you will listen you will understand that I have not asked you to act as a spy. What do you think of that horse?”

  He had conducted me to the opening of his tent, and there was a chasseur who led up and down a most admirable creature. He was a dapple grey, not very tall, a little over fifteen hands perhaps, but with the short head and splendid arch of the neck which comes with the Arab blood. His shoulders and haunches were so muscular, and yet his legs so fine, that it thrilled me with joy just to gaze upon him. A fine horse or a beautiful woman—I cannot look at them unmoved, even now when seventy winters have chilled my blood. You can think how it was in the year ’10.

  “This,” said Massena, “is Voltigeur, the swiftest horse in our army. What I desire is that you should start tonight, ride round the lines upon the flank, make your way across the enemy’s rear, and return upon the other flank, bringing me news of his disposition. You will wear a uniform, and will, therefore, if captured, be safe
from the death of a spy. It is probable that you will get through the lines unchallenged, for the posts are very scattered. Once through, in daylight you can outride anything which you meet, and if you keep off the roads you may escape entirely unnoticed. If you have not reported yourself by to-morrow night, I will understand that you are taken, and I will offer them Colonel Petrie in exchange.”

  Ah, how my heart swelled with pride and joy as I sprang into the saddle and galloped this grand horse up and down to show the Marshal the mastery which I had of him! He was magnificent—we were both magnificent, for Massena clapped his hands and cried out in his delight.

  It was not I, but he, who said that a gallant beast deserves a gallant rider. Then, when for the third time, with my panache flying and my dolman streaming behind me, I thundered past him, I saw upon his hard old face that he had no longer any doubt that he had chosen the man for his purpose. I drew my sabre, raised the hilt to my lips in salute, and galloped on to my own quarters.

  Already the news had spread that I had been chosen for a mission, and my little rascals came swarming out of their tents to cheer me. Ah! It brings the tears to my old eyes when I think how proud they were of their Colonel.

  And I was proud of them also. They deserved a dashing leader.

  The night promised to be a stormy one, which was very much to my liking. It was my desire to keep my departure most secret, for it was evident that if the English heard that I had been detached from the army they would naturally conclude that something important was about to happen. My horse was taken, therefore, beyond the picket line, as if for watering, and I followed and mounted him there. I had map, a compass, and a paper of instructions from the Marshal, and with these in the bosom of my tunic and my sabre at my side I set out upon my adventure.

  A thin rain was falling and there was no moon, so you may imagine that it was not very cheerful. But my heart was light at the thought of the honour which had been done me and the glory which awaited me. This exploit should be one more in that brilliant series which was to change my sabre into a baton. Ah, how we dreamed, we foolish fellows, young, and drunk with success! Could I have foreseen that night as I rode, the chosen man of sixty thousand, that I should spend my life planting cabbages on a hundred francs a month! Oh, my youth, my hopes, my comrades! But the wheel turns and never stops. Forgive me, my friends, for an old man has his weakness.