Chapter XXI: The Rapids

Had Ralph known it, he was now not so very far from his friends. The stream, down which he was floating, was a tributary of that on the banks of which he had become separated from them, flowing down the next valley between the hills, and becoming merged in the larger one some five or six miles below the police-station.

The range of hills between them was higher and more abrupt than that upon which the police-station was situated, concealing it from view; but the density of the forest and jungle made its inhabitants widely dispersed. They were wholly composed of small scattered remnants of wild Karens, constantly fighting with each other, split up into small numbers, of which half a dozen families would suffice to stock a village, and incessantly changing their abode.

They would come to a jungle-covered hill, and set it on fire. When a sufficient space for their wants was burnt out, they planted rice upon the ground manured by the ashes, ran up a few hovels with bamboos and palm leaves, and awaited their harvest. This gathered, the same land would not bear a second crop; and, space being unlimited, the remedy was simple. They only moved to another hillside, and repeated the fire and farming manoeuvres.

When their own rice failed them, they helped themselves to that belonging to other villages or tribes, provided these were weaker than themselves. Sometimes they made a mistake on this point, and became wiped off the face of the land. If this did not happen, they generally wiped out the others; for, if anyone escaped, he was bound to slay as many of his enemies as he had lost of friends. This species of vendetta was a religion to them all, and a curious comment upon the idea that, to take life of any description, was to shut the gates of the highest heaven upon the slayer.

The Burman will not destroy the principle of life even in noxious animals, but murder is his commonest crime, and his murders are often accompanied with great atrocity.

The dacoits who plundered Ralph fell into the power of an enemy's tribe, and the chief's head was carried to the police-station for sake of the reward paid for all such tribute; and while Mr. Gilchrist was sadly mourning over what he considered the certain proof of his young friend's death, in the discovery of his watch, Denham had passed the junction of the two rivulets, and was prosperously pursuing his voyage towards the Salween River.

We say "prosperously," though, in good sooth, the voyage was carried on with many vicissitudes. The stream narrowed day by day, as the extreme heat dried up its margins. Now the frail barque stuck helplessly in the mud, which was yet too soft to bear walking upon.

Ralph would sink up to his knees as he pulled and hauled his little craft out of the shallows, and set it once more afloat.

Then he would become entangled in débris of the forest,--sticks, rotten stumps, masses of leaves, etc., all stuck together in one jumble, and caught by a little promontory, wafted into some tiny bay, or even detained by the drooping boughs of some tree or shrub dipping into the water, to coagulate and solidify into a floating island.

Poor Ralph's garments were of the slightest description, for he had left all which he had possessed at first--little enough at the best--when he fled from the dacoits. It was well for him that he had retained his knife; but at least his clothes, such as they were, dried easily in the sun, which was a good thing, as they were wetted through and through every day.

"I wish I were an Israelite in the desert," thought he, as his only button came off, and he cut a hole in his waistband and tied a loop of twisted grass into it. "How I am ever to get into a suit of broadcloth again passes me to imagine. But it is well for me that folks are not very particular hereabouts."

On the fifth day of his voyage he saw the vista open before him, and a wide expanse of water appeared to his sight. This must be, he thought, the Salween River; and he hoped that his troubles were now approaching their end.

"I shall soon come to an English settlement, or a missionary station, or at least to some Burmese village," he thought; "and some good Christian will help me on my way. What a pretty place this is!"

The river upon which he had now emerged wound very much, and almost took the appearance of a succession of lakes. Hills clothed with jungle shut it in, and stretches of rocky land jutted out from either side at irregular distances.

Protected from the force of the deeper current by one of these little promontories, the rapidity of the stream down which he had come shot him well out into the wider river with a velocity which surprised him; though, in his ignorance of what it meant, he considered it "very jolly" at first to be cleared of all the impedimenta which had hitherto encumbered him so sadly.

But this was only a momentary joy, as his frail barque was caught in a power beyond his control, and whirled about in a manner which even he saw meant mischief. He had but one thing to save--his orchids. He had prepared for a catastrophe of some sort previously, and had them merely slung by a long cord to a cane. He caught this off, throwing the loop around his neck, and in five minutes more was battling with rapids for his life, his raft beaten into a thousand pieces.

He had clutched, with the energy of despair, the stout bamboo which he had used to punt his raft; and, clinging instinctively to this, was tossed down some two or three feet; plunged overhead in a pool, floated up again; washed violently against rough stones; felt his feet, lost them again, was rolled over; dashed down another little cascade; and brought up, finally, breathless, bruised, battered and bleeding, upon a tiny ait in the centre of the stream, where his bamboo had become entangled between some small bushes.

He had but strength enough to catch at a firmer support, and draw himself up upon the islet, where he lay, utterly spent, for a long time.

Everything darkened before his eyes, the earth seemed to reel beneath him, all the heavens to be unsteady above him, and he became unconscious.

He must have remained so for long; as, when he slowly came to himself again, the stars were jewelling the purple vault above him, and the full moon casting a long silvery highway over the rippling water around.

Where was he? What had happened to him? He tried to sit up, and felt very sick, stiff, and sore, utterly confused and helpless. He did not seem to care for his condition, or even to wonder at it. Existence alone was enough for him. Enough?--too much, for hysteria overcame him; he hid his face and cried like a child.

Baffled on every side, everything lost but life--even that imperilled in the most desperate manner; surely God must be against him, it was of no use to fight longer against the pricks; better to lie there and die, rather than struggle any more. Despair made of him its puppet at last. Was it any good to pray?--did God hear him? Would God answer his supplications? Was there a God of love and mercy at all, when he was beaten back at every point like this, however bravely he tried to bear up against misfortune?

He was ashamed of weeping, even though there was no one to observe him; and it did but exhaust him further, yet it was a relief too. His tears were soon spent, and he sat, forlorn and dejected, gazing in a purposeless way before him, taking no heed to what he saw.

But gradually the extreme beauty of the scene forced itself upon his mental vision. The hills, covered with rich masses of woods, were black against the clear opal sky, where the moon reigned in her pure loveliness. The shadows of these hills lay deep on the translucent waters, except where the broken rocks stood picturesquely above them, and changed their duskiness to pearly foam. The stars were reflected on the bosom of the river wherever it was sufficiently still; and a herd of hog-deer issued from a clearing of the jungle, and stooped their graceful heads to drink just where the moonlight fell on them.

The clear whistle of some night-bird was heard and answered from a neighbouring thicket, "Did you do it? Did you do it?" they cried in turn, and the rippling water made a gentle accompaniment to their song.

"I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh my help," was borne in upon Ralph's heart, and his longdrawn sobs ceased.

Up sprang the sun, and touched the tops of the hills with golden glory. Colour and warmth flashed over the landscape, and brought comfort to his chilled frame. What was that something glittering brightly between the trees? It was no natural object--the outline was too regular, too hard; it was the work of man's hand, for it was gilt,--it was, yes, it was a pagoda! Man had erected that building,--his fellow-men must be near at hand. Thank God! thank God!

He rose, and sought to unstiffen his cramped limbs with exercise, and the sun warmed him.

On the narrow strip of shingle where he had been cast up, a human waif and stray, lay a small bundle. Ralph looked at it, stooped over it, and lifted it from the wet stones. It was his little package of orchids, safely bound up as he had arranged it; which, slight thing as it was, had safely stood the wreck of all else, and lay stranded at his feet none the worse for its immersion.

Ralph almost laughed to see it. "You foolish things," thought he, "could nothing of greater value to me have been spared for me. Can _you_ feed me, clothe me, save me, take me to my friends, do _anything_ for me?"

He spurned them with his foot in irritation. Even his knife, his one precious possession, was gone; his garments hung in shreds upon him; there was nothing to eat upon the islet; and this ridiculous bundle of plants, good for nothing but to gratify the whimsical taste of a rich man, was intact.

Then his mood changed, and he took it up in his hands again. Between the crevices of the bark and moss he saw one tiny delicate floweret pushing its fragile head out, and seeming to smile at him.

"Good Lord," he said, "just to think of this! Come, then, if God so made the grass of the field, shall He not much more care for you, oh ye of little faith?" He readjusted the loop of string, and passed it again round his neck.

Then he tried to think how he might reach the mainland, where that pagoda glimmered like a hand beckoning to him, but he could not devise any plan.

He was too weary and spent to attempt swimming in that powerful current; he had no means of making a second raft, or helping himself in any way; there were neither bamboos nor lianas on this scrap of land.

He sat down close to the edge of the water, and rested his chin in his hands, gazing straight before him. He must sit there till he died; what else remained for him to do? He thought of his mother, of Agnes, of his brothers and little sisters. How grieved they all would be when the news went home to them. But would it ever go home? No, not one of his friends would know how he had struggled, how he had failed, where he had died. No one would visit his grave, or weep over his remains. The crows and the vultures would fight over his carcase, and leave his bones to blanch there, unburied. For him no funeral service, no hallowed ground, no holy hymn.

"Oh, my God!" he cried aloud, "have I deserved this? If this is the end of my short life, am I fit to go before Thee on Thy judgment throne, and confidently crave for mercy? What have I done so wicked as to merit this? Tell me, oh my Father, and let me repent."

So he sat, until, his eyes gazing mournfully straight before him, he became aware of some objects moving through the jungle on the mainland. They came in single file, carrying some large burden. Then one ran from the rear, past the others, and gave directions, waving a long lean arm and gesticulating.

No animals would conduct themselves so, they must be men! Gracious Providence grant that they be men!

They moved steadily forward among the thinning trees to the very margin of the river, and were plainly to be perceived. Native Burmese! Fishermen, bearing a large net, which they were preparing to cast into the water, and draw up stream.

Ralph's voice failed him from revulse of feeling, he thought that he should choke. He sprang to his feet, tore off the last rags upon him, twisted them round a stick, and waved them in the air.

They were not perceived,--no notice was taken. He stooped to the water, drank from the hollow of his hand, his tongue was unloosed, he cast water precipitately over head and face, stood erect once more, clear from the undergrowth, in the plashy shallows, waved his flag with the energy of despair, and shouted with all his might--"Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!"