Da Silva looked at him. “We don't know. That's why we're here. The American is from the police also.” He paused. “Bailey wrote a letter from Marãa; he said from there he was planning on crossing over to Tapuruguara on the Rio Negro. Some time after leaving Marãa he must have run into something.” He remembered something. “In that letter he said that his Indians had quit on him, refused to go into that region. Do you know of any reason why they should quit?”
Captain Freitas shook his head. “I haven't been up this way for a long time. There's less and less to bring up here. And it's because people are leaving; that I know. This I've heard. But why? I don't know. I don't know what brings them to a place like this in the first place.” His eyes raised to the river. The steamer was approaching the larger of a pair of islands. “We'll have to talk later. I like to handle the wheel going through the islands.”
He knocked out his pipe as Da Silva nodded in agreement, walked to the stairway leading above, and began climbing. He seemed to be muttering to himself.
Wilson came up to the rail to stand beside Da Silva; he was wiping his brow.
“Hot,” he said. He looked up at the captain's large figure, just coming in sight on the roof over their heads. “Did you learn anything?”
Da Silva shook his head. “Only that he thinks his first mate is probably guilty of some crime.” He grinned. “Because, otherwise, what would a young fellow be doing working on a broken-down river steamer like this?”
Wilson lit a cigarette and leaned over the rail. “It might not be a bad question.”
Da Silva looked at him; his grin slowly faded. His eyes went back to the top of the deck enclosure and the sturdy back of the young man, who was handing the wheel over to the captain. He turned his gaze to Wilson's expressionless face and then down to the river, watching the paddles lift and fall rhythmically.
“You might be right,” he said slowly. “It might not be a bad question at all.”
Chapter 6
ALL THAT MORNING, the steamer fought the swift currents that twisted through the vast landless waste. The captain took advantage of the varying eddies by crossing from one island to another, taking now the north shore of one and then the south shore of another as he put into practice his years of experience on the great river. Huge trees washed past, some bobbing upright with spreading branches indicating root balls as much as seventy feet below the yellow surface. Logs of tremendous proportions floated lazily by, nudged at the small boat, then rotated away on their long journey to the sea. Shorter logs could also be seen rising above the muddy surface to exhibit unstaring eyes and jaws spread to expose cruel rows of jagged teeth. An island of weeds approached, torn free from some collapsed clearing far upriver, a full acre of tangled green that swayed and dipped as it twisted past. The captain hastily swung the steamer from its path; the long strands of capim could wrap around the paddle, incapacitating the small boat, and one never knew what forms of life might swarm overside from the floating wasteland.
The last of the islands was cleared a bit past noon, and the captain turned the steamer to the northwest, heading across the opening of the Rio Japurá. A faint line could now be seen on the horizon, darker even than the constant bank of clouds; it marked the far shore. The captain relinquished his hold on the wheel, turning it over to his young mate, and tramped down the stairway. He came to stand beside Da Silva and Wilson, wiping sweat from his heavy face.
“You will go with me as far as Marãa, then; is that it?”
Da Silva nodded. “I thought we'd try and find out where he went from there; it's the only lead we have. How long until we arrive there?”
“Three—four days.” Captain Freitas spat into the river and grinned. “We don't hold a very rigid schedule. In this we're quite Brazilian.” He used his pipe to point towards the darkening shoreline. “Normally I'd stop overnight at Senhor Mello's; he's the old man with us, and his clearing is over there. But, if you're in a hurry, we can still make three more hours today. There's another clearing farther upriver I've stayed at sometimes.”
“I'd prefer it, if you don't mind,” Da Silva said. He paused, thinking. “I'd also appreciate it if you don't say anything to your young mate about our purpose in being here. Or about our being policemen.”
The captain stared at him. “Did you really think I would? Do I look crazy?” He smiled. “Good cheap help is too hard to come by.” He watched the shore draw nearer. “Well, I'd better get back to work. We'll talk more tomorrow. Getting into the Japurá is a little tricky if you want to save wood.”
He started back up the stairway, calling something to the boiler crew, and then spoke to the young mate, pointing towards the shore with his pipe and then turning to point upstream. The young man nodded disinterestedly.
On the lower deck Senhor Mello was rolling his hammock, preparing to disembark. The boiler crew relaxed in the shade of the deck enclosure, squatting silently on their haunches.
The far shore was coming closer now, a thickening black band that delineated the edge of the wide expanse of water they had traversed that day. As they neared it, the wall of tangled vegetation took on detail, dissolving from a formless silhouette into a wild kaleidoscope of color. A swarm of cranes took off from the river's edge, disturbed by the intrusion of the steamer, rising like gaunt, honking ghosts with flapping arms to disappear over the roof of the jungle. The scream of noisy parakeets could be heard, as could the weird harsh cough of the jungle hen. Individual trees could now be distinguished-towering palm and bamboo, spreading renaco and the white glimmer of cetigo-all bound together by the looping strands of liana to form a solid wall of impenetrable green. As the steamer drew nearer, the sweet odor of honeysuckle came to the two men leaning on the rail.
Wilson swallowed. “Do you mean we are going to try to go through something like that?”
Da Silva shook his head. “It's usually thickest near the river. Or at least it is downriver, where I've been. I don't think anyone knows what it's like up here. I don't think anyone has been in very deep around here.”
“For which I don't blame them,” Wilson said.
“We'll know better by the time we come out,” Da Silva said.
Wilson didn't even bother to answer; he swung back to the rail. Above their heads the captain took charge of the wheel. The young mate scampered down the ladder and took a stance near the prow, a long hooked pole in his hands. The shore was suddenly before them; huge trees arched over their heads, cutting off the blazing sun. A dock, so close to the water that it had previously been invisible, could suddenly be seen running into the river from a small clearing edge with reeds. A young fellow, deeply tanned, appeared on the dock, caught the pole, held it until a rope had been thrown over and anchored, and then fell into whispered conversation with the mate. Senhor Mello was passed over the side, followed by several parcels and his hammock; he straightened up on the dock, waved once without speaking, and trudged silently up the path that led into the clearing. Naked children scampered down to the dock, picked up the packages, and then stood there, eyeing the steamer somberly.
There was a sharp hail from the bridge. The mate shook his head at the man on the dock, waved, and coiled the rope that had been thrown back to him. The rhythmic beat of the engine began almost at once; the paddle wheels churned in reverse, pulling them back into the wide stream.
Wilson turned to the swarthy man at his side with a faint frown.
“I'm no expert on this part of the country,” he said slowly, “but it strikes me we're running into a lot of young husky boys working in some fairly odd spots. And those two who tried to clobber us on the plane were pretty much the same type. What do they have up here? A junior college?”
“Maybe they belong to something like your Peace Corps in reverse,” Da Silva suggested with a smile, but his eyes were thoughtful.
“A war corps, do you mean?” Wilson nodded. “They all look tough enough.”
Da Silva turned away toward his hammock. “I'm going to lie down
awhile,” he said. “Call me if you see a mosquito.”
Wilson grinned and continued to lean over the rail, staring thoughtfully into the river.
They tied up at dusk at a burned-over clearing some three hours further upriver. Beyond the tiny haven represented by the steamer the forest loomed blackly, fading once again from individual distinction to an obscure threatening barricade as the sun sank swiftly into the green mass of the jungle. The sounds of the unknown wilderness beyond echoed as they disembarked—the shrill, impudent chatter of monkeys; the last evening cries of macaws and weaverbirds before settling down uneasily for the night; the angry rising hum of mosquitoes and cicadas and the thousands of other insects that inhabit the lonely river basin.
A fire was quickly built; a community pot was slung over it and food was put on to cook. The native crew worked efficiently, apparently well trained and settled into this accustomed routine. The young mate directed them with curt instructions. Da Silva and Wilson settled down on a log to eat next to the captain. The large man fed himself first, nodded to the two in a friendly fashion, and disappeared up the gangplank, anxious to return to the protection of the netting over his hammock.
The darkness seemed a solid thing against which the flickering shadows cast by the fire shattered themselves. The two men spooned up portions of food and returned to their log. Suddenly they stiffened. A long-drawn scream split the night, rising to a terror-stricken peak and then falling into a low, savage, chuckling cry, as if the creator of the fearsome noise had made it only as a joke and was retiring, satisfied with the results.
The first mate smiled sardonically at the two men before him.
“There is nothing to worry about,” he said with an air of superiority. “Animals. There is no danger of their attacking.” He dipped his spoon to his plate, beginning to eat.
Wilson forced a smile. “If you'll give me that in writing, I'll feel a lot better about it.”
The mate's eyes passed over the stocky American almost in contempt. “There is nothing to fear. Animals are afraid by nature. It takes a very great force for them to overcome this fear and attack.”
Da Silva looked up from his plate. “Man is an animal also,” he said almost conversationally. “Yet he does not require the force of fear as a motive to attack.”
The young mate smiled; it was apparent he was enjoying the conversation. “Man can reason; man can recognize the fear that lies in others and take advantage of it. As he should. And, also, man can overcome his fear. As he should. Man can be courageous; animals cannot.”
Wilson finished his plate and set it down. He lit a cigarette, allowing the smoke to drift across his face in a vain effort to discourage the insects. “I sometimes wonder,” he said slowly, “just how courageous a tiger would be if he ever learned to use a rifle.”
The mate looked at him. “He would still be a coward, even with a rifle. But man would not.” He shrugged. “You are hunters. Would you hunt without a rifle?”
Wilson smiled at him. “We carry rifles not from courage but from fear.”
The young mate shook his head stubbornly. “It is not true. If you were afraid, you would not hunt the tiger at all. Courage has nothing to do with arms. It is something innate. The church says it is the soul that distinguishes man from the animals, but they do not define this soul to my satisfaction. It is courage; that is what the soul is. And it is this courage that truly distinguishes man from the other animals.”
“The courage to attack?” Da Silva asked, smiling. “To attack without being attacked?”
The young mate rose, slapping at a mosquito, and dropped his plate and spoon into the community pot. He stared down into the fire, framing his answer.
“The courage to be courageous,” he said at last, and turned abruptly and walked back to the boat.
The native crew was gathering up the implements of the supper and beginning to quench the fire. The mosquitoes rose in swarms as the smoke swept the clearing. The two men arose and walked slowly back to the boat.
“A philosopher,” Wilson commented. “'The courage to be courageous.’ Whatever that means.”
“This is no caboclo,” Da Silva said quietly. “He speaks like an educated person. I wish I knew what he was doing up here.”
“Do you think there might be a connection with Bailey?”
“I don't know what I think.” He sighed. “Maybe by the time we get to Marãa we can get some more out of him.”
“By holding hot mosquitoes under his fingernails?” Wilson grinned; his grin was split by a yawn. “I'm sleepy. I don't know why, because all I did today was sweat. Of course that's a full-time job up here. What time is it?”
Da Silva brought his thoughts back from far away. “About seven-thirty or eight, I'd say.”
“Eight o'clock?” Wilson was justifiably shocked. “Well, if you promise not to tell anyone in Rio I went to bed at eight, I think I'll sack in.”
They climbed aboard. A small kerosene lamp had been lit and set on the upper deck, its sooty surface was coated with beating wings as moths, beetles, cicadas and phasmas fought for proximity to the flickering light. The two men walked slowly to their hammocks and rolled in, drawing the netting tightly about them. The hammocks swayed gently as the moored boat rocked slowly with the current. Even at night the heat was stifling.
Wilson's even breathing came within minutes. Da Silva lay back, staring up at the cloudless sky, which was now beginning to be lit by the full moon. Was it possible that that same moon was also shining right now on the warm beach of Copacabana? Or Manaus? He smiled. I wonder where Elena is now, and if she is still angry at our leaving her there. For a moment he allowed himself to listen to the noises of the jungle. No; this is no place for a woman—even a woman like Elena. Later, when this was all over and they were back in Rio...
He forced his thoughts away from the girl, thinking once again of the young steamer mate. What would bring a young man of education to work for almost nothing on a riverboat? Or another to work at a river clearing, probably for even less? His mind struggled, searching for possibilities, but he could not concentrate. Automatically his thoughts ranged back to Elena. Would the captain remember a little girl who came downriver some ten years ago? No; Captain Freitas was working the lower river when Elena lived at Marãa. Possibly when they got there someone would remember. I wonder what she was like as a little girl. I wonder...
Suddenly he froze. A low screech had issued from the deck enclosure. It was instantly modified, brought under control, replaced by a tinny voice that was strange and out of place in the humid night.
“...finishes the evening news. The time is now exactly nine o'clock. And now Radio Manaus brings you a program of music that I'm sure all of our listeners will enjoy: carnival songs!”
The voice was replaced by the sound of a band. The volume wavered, now fading and now returning, but the melody was clearly distinguishable: the insistent beat of an old carnival favorite rang softly. Da Silva shook his head wonderingly. A radio? Up here? I didn't even know the captain had one, he thought. It's odd to lie here, almost at the end of the world, with a wilderness man has never penetrated just over the rail of this steamer, with wild animals and Indians probably within sound of that music, and to listen to sounds coming from civilization.
He lay there in his hammock, his thoughts running softly on many things. The music played on, changing from one old song to another, pleasant and strange in the dark night on the great river. When the last song had ended and the radio had been switched off, the sounds seemed still to echo quietly in his ears. The small boat rocked gently in the current.
The sound that woke Da Silva was so slight that for a moment he thought it the extension of some dream; but he recognized in his immediate alertness a signal of danger that had never failed him in the past, and one that had never lied to him. He forced himself to remain motionless, his breathing slow and regular, while his ears strained for a repetition of whatever had called him from sleep. The quiet noi
ses of the jungle were normal, the soft lapping of the river against the small swaying steamer almost inaudible. The moon was still high in the sky, lighting the scene about him, but the shadow of the deck enclosure, where their hammocks were hung, remained complete and obscure.
He turned his head infinitely slowly and silently. Wilson was only the faintest of outlines in the dense blackness of their corner, unmoving, his breathing soft in the night quiet. Da Silva frowned. And then it came again, a faint scraping or dragging sound. As slowly as possible he swiveled his head in the other direction; there seemed to be some movement near the prow of the vessel. His first thought was that some animal might be attempting to board their craft, but then he heard a muttered voice, instantly hushed by another's admonition. He eased the netting from him, bunching it as far down as he could reach, and allowed his body to roll over while he gripped the mesh of the hammock as tightly as possible between his knees. For one instant he balanced, and then the hammock completed its turn, swinging him downwards. His outstretched hands groped silently for the deck and found it, and then he let himself slide quietly from the cumbersome contrivance, taking his weight on his arms, easing himself soundlessly to the deck.
He paused, listening carefully. The scraping sound was repeated, and then the soft shuffle of feet on the deck could be heard. Staying within the deep shadow of the deck enclosure, he eased himself forward, inching silently until he could peer past the corner of the deck-housing wall. At the prow, bent over the canoes lashed there, two figures were working as quickly and quietly as possible. Even as he craned forward, straining his eyes to see in the moonlight, there was a sudden snap as the cord parted. The two figures paused, waiting tensely, and then returned to their task. With infinite care they lifted the canoe, turned it, and began lowering it into the river.
There was the faintest of splashes; a rope was looped about the rail, and the two immediately tackled the bindings of the second canoe. Within seconds it was slashed free and followed the first over the rail. The faint splash was repeated. Then one of the figures swung itself over the rail and disappeared, lowering itself quickly out of sight. The second began handing gear down, taken from the shadows at his feet. Despite the moonlight, it was impossible to distinguish either the man or the nature of the goods being loaded from the steamer. Da Silva considered attempting to crawl closer but was forced to abandon the idea; the open bare deck offered almost no possibility of cover.
The Shrunken Head Page 8