The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  “Yep. Not here, but back in my tent.”

  Before we could talk more, Pedro came hurrying back with a gourd of chibeh. At sight of it the man tried to scramble up, but groaned and sank back. I scolded him, telling him to keep quiet. Then we fed him.

  It was not until the gourd was empty that I thought to ask him how long he had been without food. He said it was three days. Then I wished we had fed him more sparingly at first. But since chibeh is only a mush of farinha and water, I decided that it would not hurt him. This proved true.

  “Now if I only had a bucket of coffee and a smoke I’d be all set,” said the stranger. “Got a cigarette on you, buddy?”

  I quickly made a cigarette for him, and we promised him coffee as soon as we could make it. But first we decided to take him back to his tent and make him more comfortable. So, when he had finished his smoke, we lifted him as gently as possible and carried him back through the bush.

  The distance was short, but the traveling was not easy, and in spite of our care we knew we must be hurting his bad leg. Yet he made no sound. Keeping his teeth locked, he stared straight upward until we brought him to his camp.

  Beside a huge itauba tree we found his little tent. Inside this his hammock hung. On the ground lay his mosquito net. We laid him down easily and picked up the net to drape it over him again. On the earth under the net we found a battered bugle.

  “So it was this we heard, not a bird,” I said, picking it up and glancing it over. “At first we thought you were a trumpeter.”

  He lay quiet a few minutes, his teeth still set. Then, as the pain in his leg grew easier, his jaws unlocked and he grinned in a tight-lipped way.

  “I am,” he said. “Been fooling with tin horns since I was a kid. Maybe it’s my name that makes me that way—Horner. Folks used to call me Little Jack Horner, though my first name really is Jerome. How about that coffee, buddies?”

  “You shall have it,” I promised. We left him there and returned to our canoe, where we got our coffee and other things and started back.

  “A brave fellow, Lourenço,” said Pedro, as we neared the tent. “No fuss, no groan or whine, though he is broken and starved and has been alone with no help in sight. Por Deos! Look there!”

  On the ground were jaguar tracks. They were more than tracks—they made a path, showing that the beast had circled for hours around the tent. The marks seemed fresh.

  “You were not alone last night, senhor,” I said, entering the little cloth house.

  “Huh? Oh, you mean the big cat. Sure, he did sentry-go around here most of the night. He wouldn’t come in, so I kept still and let him prowl.”

  “Your tent saved your life,” Pedro told him. “He could smell you, but he did not know he could force his way through these strange cloth walls. If he had—”

  “If he had I’d have eaten him,” Horner cut in. “Did you bring the coffee?”

  We made the coffee, and we made it strong. The hot black liquid gave him new vigor. When he had swallowed all he could hold he gave a long sigh.

  “Oh boy!” he said. “That’s better than a bushel of that sawdust you fed me. How do you guys live on that farinha stuff, anyhow? It takes pork and beans or ham and eggs to put hair on a fellow’s chest. Now say, while I’m feeling husky I wish you’d straighten out my leg. It feels twisted.”

  It was twisted. Working carefully, we reset the broken bone as well as we could and bound new splints on it. As before, he made no sound. When the work was done he calmly asked for another smoke. And then, with the cigarette glowing, he told how he had come there.

  * * * *

  He had been a soldier of your United States in the great war in Europe. When the war ended and he returned to his own country, he said, he made the same mistake that many other released soldiers made—he lingered in the vast city of Nova York, quickly spent all his money, and then found himself unable to get work. So, when a chance to make money came unexpectedly to him, he grasped it eagerly.

  While he was sitting with other penniless soldiers in a place called Union Square, a tall bony man with strange eyes passed by several times, looking sharply at him and his mates. Then this man asked him and four others to come with him. Being curious, they did so. He led them to a big hotel some distance away, took them to his room, and there made them an odd offer.

  He wanted trusty and fearless men to go with him into South America and help him seek something of which he would tell them later on. They would be handsomely paid, and if he found what he sought they would all be made quite rich. There might be danger, he said, but they would be well armed, and the reward would be worth any risk. He had already obtained the promises of other war veterans to go, and he intended to get more. All they had to do was to come along, obey orders, ask no questions, and take their chances of success.

  With nothing to lose except their lives, all five of them accepted. Soon afterward they sailed southward with more than a dozen other soldiers whom the bony man had got in the same way. They came up the Amazon and turned into a smaller river, where Indian paddlers in long canoes carried them southward for many days. And in all this time their queer leader never told them where they went or why.

  He had been acting oddly for some time, and naturally the men had been talking much among themselves. Now at last they demanded the reason for this long journey into dismal and flooded jungle. Still they got no satisfaction. They were told that they would soon know, but the time had not yet come. Quarreling followed.

  The men said they would go no farther. Finding them determined, the bony man suddenly began to rave and shriek. He screamed that he was somebody named Midas, and that he could turn all things to gold by touching them. Then he jerked out a revolver and began shooting at the men.

  His bullets killed two soldiers before they downed him. Somebody fired back, and he toppled overboard and never came up again.

  After that the men disputed among themselves over what they should do now. None of them had a clear idea as to where they were. Some were for going back as they had come, while others believed that by keeping on they would soon reach the Andes and could then cross the mountains and so reach the western ocean. Before they could settle the question their paddlers brought them to a small Indian settlement where the people gave them welcome. And since all were tired of so much boat travel, they agreed to stay at that place for a few days while they rested and determined what should be done next.

  Two days of this were enough for Horner. In spite of much argument, his mates could not yet agree, and he grew too restless to stay idle any longer. So, quietly taking a small canoe, a tent, a little food, his guns and his bugle, he slipped away by himself on an exploring trip to the eastward.

  He did not intend to desert his comrades, but only to see what he might see and then return. But he found it so pleasant to be alone that he traveled onward for five days before he tired of it and decided to turn back. Then he became confused among some winding waterways, and before he could find the right one again he met more misfortune. He lost his canoe and broke a leg.

  The boat drifted away in the night. While seeking it, he tripped among some vines and snapped his leg over a projecting tree root. Then he could do nothing but crawl back to his tent, lie there, and blow his bugle in the hope that some of his comrades might seek him.

  He knew well that his chance of rescue was slight, for he had left the settlement without telling anyone where or why he was going, and the other men probably would think he had gone along the river. And yesterday, he said, his courage had almost failed.

  “It’s the loneliness that gets you,” he added. “Being hungry and busted up is no joke, but knowing that you’ve got less than one chance in a million of coming through is a lot worse. I’ve lain out in No Man’s Land for two nights and a day, with five shrapnel holes in me and all hell rip-roaring around, and I thought I was out of luck. But I’d rather be there than here any time. A fellow has lots of company out there. Last night I got so down in the mou
th I blew taps over myself.”

  Seeing that we did not quite understand, he lifted the trum­pet which we had laid beside him and blew the sad, sweet song we had heard at sunset.

  “That’s Taps,” he explained. “They blow it over dead soldiers. I didn’t know but I might go west before morning, so I did the honors beforehand.”

  “But how could you go west without a canoe, senhor?” I asked.

  He laughed, and explained that by “going west” he meant dying. So then I told him he was going west indeed, but not as he had thought.

  Whether we should be able to find the Indian town over to the west we did not know; but if we did not find it, I told him, we would carry him with us all the way northwestward to our own country, where our old coronel would do everything possible for him. And since it was best for all of us that we lose no time, we would get underway at once.

  Carrying him and his hammock together to the canoe, we left him there while we took down his tent. On our return we folded the canvas to make a bed in the bottom of the boat, stowed our supplies differently, and helped him in. When he was comfortable he gave a long yawn.

  “Guess I’ll rip off a few yards of sleep,” he said. “I’m about all in. Haven’t had a real solid snooze since I cracked my shin.” His eyes closed.

  After we had paddled a while Pedro said:

  “He spoke truth when he said he would rip off his sleep. Hear him snore!”

  I grinned, for the blond trumpeter certainly was a noisy sleeper. But as I thought of the long black nights of pain and hunger and hopelessness that lay behind him his snorts and gurgles did not seem funny at all. Indeed, I marveled that he had not gone mad or ended his torment with one of his bullets.

  All the rest of the day he slept while we paddled on. Near night, as we were seeking a sleeping place, he opened his eyes and blinked at us, the canoe, and the trees.

  “Aw shucks!” he grunted. “I’m back here again!”

  “Where have you been, Senhor Trumpeter?” laughed Pedro.

  “I was back home, playing ball and cussing the umpire because he called me out when I never even offered to swing. Home was never like this. I’ll say not! Say, when do we eat?”

  “As soon as we land,” I told him. “Are you ready to eat more of our sawdust?”

  “I’ll eat anything, buddy. If you don’t get ashore pretty quick I’ll start chewing your leg.”

  Then, lifting his bugle, he blew a loud, lively air, much different from anything we had heard before.

  “That’s reveille,” he said. “It means ‘wake up—snap into it.’ Put a hop on your stroke and land me before I get violent.”

  “Calm yourself and spare my leg awhile longer, and we all shall eat,” I promised. “But I would not blow that trumpet again, senhor, until we reach some place where we know we are more safe. We are few, and it would not be well to let any savage Indians know we are here. Did you blow a bugle in the war?”

  “Nope. Not so anybody could hear it. I knew all those army calls before any war came along. Then I wanted to fight, and the only way you can be sure of fighting these days is to make the personnel sharks think you don’t know anything.”

  ‘‘How is that?” I wondered.

  “If you can do anything they try to make you do it in the army. If you’re a mechanic they keep you tinkering on bum motors. If you’re a newspaper man they make you a censor. If you know a shirt from a sock they shove you into quartermaster work. If you’re a cop they make you an M.P.—and then you’re popular, I guess not!

  “It’s the same way all along the line. So when my turn came I didn’t know a thing. If they’d learned I could blow a horn they might have made me a bandmaster or something. But seeing I was dead from the neck up, they gave me a gun and let me in on the big show.”

  This seemed very queer to us, for we had always thought that in an army everybody was expected to fight. He grinned as he talked, and it may be that he did not mean just what he said. But we spoke no more of the matter, for then we spied a good camping spot and went ashore. And after eating and smoking, we all slept soundly.

  * * * *

  The next day Horner found himself. Without realizing it, we strayed off the furo into another channel, along which we paddled for some distance before the slant of the sun-thrown sha­dows warned us that we were off our course. Then, as we slowed and told each other we must go back, the Trumpeter spied an oddly bent tree leaning out over the water ahead.

  “Say, this is the way I came!” he told us. “I know that tree. There was a big snake on it. I shot him off, and he kicked up such a riot he nearly upset me. Gee, he was a regular whale! Keep on going, and you’ll hit the burg where the rest of my gang hangs out.”

  So we kept on, and as we went he recognized other things along the way.

  Two days later we came out into a rather large river flowing northeastward. And there our passenger blew again that dancing reveille tune.

  “Home again!” he laughed, when the last note had pealed away through the jungle. “Injun Town is only about half a mile upstream, and the rough old tough old bunch is waiting for us up there. Snap into it, buddies!”

  We snapped into it. We knew how eager he was to meet his comrades again, and it had been some time since we ourselves had talked with white men. So we went upstream fast.

  The Trumpeter was much stronger now after the long sleeps and hearty meals of the past few days, and as we surged on up the river he sat leaning forward, grinning and waiting for a sight of his mates. But as we swung around a bend his smile faded and his jaw dropped.

  A little way ahead, under tall trees where little bush grew, a number of Indians were standing at the water’s edge. Several small canoes also were there. But we saw no large boat nor any white men.

  “Hell’s bells!” groaned Homer. “The gang’s gone!”

  It was so. Only the Indians waited for us there. They held weapons, and at first they seemed unfriendly. But when we came near and they saw Horner clearly they grinned at him, and as Pedro and I stepped out on shore they greeted us cordially.

  A tall, grave man who seemed to be chief spoke in a Tupi tongue, saying they were glad to see again the blower of the horn, and that they had thought him gone forever. I explained why he had left them and why we now came with him, and asked where the other white men were. He said they had gone two days after Horner disappeared; that they believed he had gone up the river, and so they had decided to go that way also. He added that he was sorry to know the blower of the horn had hurt himself, but that a broken bone would soon mend, and all of us were welcome to his village.

  “When you guys get through making a noise with your mouths maybe you’ll give me the lowdown,” said the Trumpeter. “It don’t make sense to me.”

  So I said it all over to him, and asked how he and his fellow soldiers had been able to talk with these people if they knew no Tupi. He said the talking had been done through one of their canoemen. The thought came to me that if he could not speak their tongue he might find it hard to get along with them after we left, and that we had best take him on with us. But I said nothing of this just then. We helped him out and followed the Indians.

  They led us only a short distance back from the water, and then we found ourselves in a small town of little low houses. The chief took us to one of these, ordered a man and woman living in it to go elsewhere, and told us it was ours. Then he went away, and his men with him. But before he left us he looked shrewdly at our guns and asked whether we could make them speak many times.

  Of course we told him yes, we could make them spit death at a whole tribe. This was not true, for we had used up many of our cartridges in a fight with some beastly barbaros back on the Jurua, and now we had not a great number left. But it is not wise to let Indians think you to be weak, even though they are friendly; so we were prompt in our answer. He said it was well.

  After we put up our hammocks I told the Trumpeter he had better come on to the Javary with us. Before this
he had been one of a score of fighting men, I pointed out, but after we went he would be alone among these Indians, and perhaps he would not be so well-treated as before. So, though the journey to the Javary might be hard, he might come out better in the end than by staying here. But he only laughed.

  “Oh, they’re good skates,” he said. “They wouldn’t pull anything raw. You don’t know ’em as well as I do.”

  “Perhaps not,” Pedro answered him. “But we have ranged the bush far more than you, senhor, and my comrade here speaks sense. It takes more than a few days to know Indians well; and the ways of Indians toward twenty strong white men and toward one broken white man may not be the same. And these people came to meet us with weapons and their leader just asked us how strong our guns are. True, they seem peaceable, but—you had best go on with us.”

  “But I tell you they’re all right,” he insisted. “They’re only a bunch of hicks, and they don’t want trouble with anybody. They raise crops and kids and take it easy, and they’re regular fellows. Walk around and look ’em over. Me, I like ’em fine.”

  * * * *

  Still rather doubtful, we did walk around and look over the place and the people. And we found that it was as he said: the Indians here seemed to be quiet and honest, happy in the peace of their town and content to toil on the plantations beyond it, where the trees had been thinned to let the crops grow. Still, we noticed that here and there were men with weapons, watching the women work and occasionally scanning the thick bush be­yond.

  Stopping beside one of these armed men, we talked for a time about hunting and such things, and then asked why he and his mates stood guard in this way. In a quiet, respectful manner he replied that they watched lest the place be attacked. And when we asked further about this, he said they had heard that a band of fierce savages was somewhere in the region round about.

  Who the bad men were he did not know, nor whether they would come this way. This flood season was not the time for such attacks, he said, for usually those roving bands of warriors were not boatmen and so were more likely to come at the time of low water; but of course one could never know when creatures of that sort would take it into their heads to run wild and kill. He spoke of them as if they were jaguars or other beasts—dangerous animals against which his people must guard themselves but which they considered unworthy of any respect.