Chapter III (2)

Stooping, the sergeant-major picked up a kris which was lying close to the man's hand. He eyed it intently for a moment, wiped the blood off, and then, taking the blade between his thumb and forefinger, he handed me the hilt.

"The 'female' kris, Tuan," he said, politely.

"Jack Ashore."

+By Albert E. Craft+.

The airy assurance with which "Jack Ashore" gets into--and out
of--serious scrapes has become almost proverbial. This story
describes the adventures which befell a party of British seamen
who went for a ramble in a Chilian port.

It was in the early months of 1896, and I was an able seaman on board the ship _Micronesia_, of Liverpool, then lying in the port of Antofagasta, Chile, where we were discharging a cargo of coals loaded at Newcastle, New South Wales. A quarter of a mile away was the French barque, _La Provence_, loading a cargo of saltpetre for Havre.

_From a Photograph._]

Amongst our sailors was a Frenchman, and he, being one of our boat's crew, had made the acquaintance of his countrymen on board the other ship in his various trips, it being the custom of the captains then in port to call upon each other and all to go ashore in the one boat. Thus they benefited by having the full complement of their crew on board to work cargo--which they had to do in those days, except on the occasion when their particular boat had to act as ferry.

We had been there something like eight or ten days when part of the crew of the French ship got the usual twenty-four hours' liberty in which to go ashore and enjoy themselves.

Liberty day! The one bright day in the weary monotony of a long sailing-ship voyage--the one day in which, with a month's pay in his pocket, Jack is as good as his master, when he may eat what he likes, drink what he likes, do what he likes, so long as he turns up when the boatswain musters the hands to work after the all-too-short holiday.

So, with the jingling coins burning holes in their pockets, and their hearts as light as school-boys', they pushed off from their ship. And we, knowing where they were going, stared moodily across the bay, longing to be with them.

A diversion occurred, however, when we saw the boat's head swing in our direction, and a few minutes later range alongside our ship.

Up to our deck climbed the merry Frenchmen, laughing and jabbering like so many monkeys. Soon they were in animated conversation with our messmate, "Frenchy," whom we presently discovered, by adroit questioning, they were persuading to obtain leave from our captain and go with them.

And he got it, too--minus the month's pay--and immediately set about rigging himself out in his shore clothes. This did not suit us at all--at least, some of us. Why should he have leave of absence, and we not? we asked each other. We would go and ask the captain, too.

The end of it was that we got the desired leave--five of us, Frenchy making the sixth--but only for the one night. We were given to understand we must be on board by four bells--six o'clock--next morning ready to turn to.

"And look here, Craft," was the captain's parting injunction--"no monkey tricks, mind. I look to you, as leading seaman, for the good behaviour of the rest. Further, I shall hold you responsible for these men turning up in the morning, or else"--he shook a warning finger at me--"not another hour's liberty this voyage for any of you."

Promising obedience--I would have promised anything just then for a run ashore--we hustled off to prepare ourselves. This did not take long. Throwing aside our coal-grimed dungarees, we each donned white trousers and jackets and broad-brimmed straw hats. With these on we felt equal to the best, happily unconscious of a few small rents, a missing button, or the fact that the virgin whiteness of our "shore togs" was marred by many and various stains.

But what about money? For the moment we had forgotten that. True, the Frenchmen had a month's pay in their pockets, but we had no intention of sponging upon them. Well, then, we would take some clothing, we decided. There were numerous places in Antofagasta where we could trade them. There was old Don Carlos, as he was called, whom we had heard so much about, and his Jew partner Miguel. Perhaps they were not so black as they were painted, and we had been told they would buy anything from a hard-up sailor. For myself, I was the envied possessor of a whole Australian sovereign, so you may guess my bearing was in accordance with my wealth.

"Now, then, all aboard!" sang out one of the Frenchmen. Into the boat we scuttled with our bundles, and, giving way with a will, we soon covered the stretch of water between the ship and jetty and pulled the boat alongside, mooring her head and stern.

Not a hundred yards along the quay, who should we come suddenly upon but Don Carlos and his partner.

"Talk of the old gentleman!" cried someone in the rear. "I shouldn't wonder if the old sharks haven't been watching us all the while. I bet you they know we have something to trade."

"Halloa, boys"--Don Carlos's greeting was hearty enough, as was the hand-shake all round--"going to have a little run round? That's right, _amigos_; nothing like it. Too much salt water is not good for anybody. What! no money! Well, now, that's too bad. Got something to sell, have you? All right, come along to the store and have a drink with me; then we'll talk business. Come on, now, boys, every one of you. A drink at my expense!"

For a Chilano he spoke excellent English, with a slight American intonation and accent, and had a certain geniality of manner which appealed to the simple minds of the sailors.

Off we sailed, the two Chilanos and myself in the van, and soon arrived at the "store," a combination of ship-chandler's shop, café, card-room, and billiard saloon.

Inside, our hosts were the very essence of geniality. They served us with drinks and cigars--real Havanas at that--telling us to "Drink up, boys, and have another," until we were unanimous in our verdict that they were "true blue" and not the unscrupulous sharks we had been led to believe.

A second drink was served out, and over this Don Carlos and his party made an inspection of the articles we had for sale.

By a previous arrangement it had been agreed upon that our Frenchy was to have the entire handling of this part of the programme, not only because he spoke Chilano like a native, thereby putting a stopper upon any by-play between the two merchants, but also because we knew him as a man who could drive a hard bargain.

Therefore, knowing that our interests--and our capital, too, for that matter--were in safe hands, we just lay back and smoked and drank our "piscoe," and allowed him to do the haggling. Nor did we take the slightest interest in the bargaining until our attention was suddenly arrested by high words and a long, burring curse from our shipmate. We looked up to see him on his feet, shaking his fist in Don Carlos's face--which was as white as the Frenchy's was red--and talking thirteen to the dozen.

The volubility and the rapidity with which he delivered himself were simply marvellous. We could for the time being simply sit still and gape at him, open-mouthed and wondering. Such a jargon of sounds, such a jumble of languages, it would be hard to conceive. First French, next broken English, and then a mixture of Spanish and Chilano.

At it he went, tacks and sheets, for all he was worth, never giving the Chilano a chance to open his mouth. And from it all we gathered that Don Carlos, polished rascal that he was, contended that the drinks and cigars we had received--free, gratis, and for nothing, as we thought--were sufficient pay for the "few paltry rags" we had brought ashore. And he'd be hanged, he said, if he'd pay another cent!

"Gif me six dollars, you shark--zat ees une dollar for each piece of us," hissed Frenchy; "or I vill, I vill----" He ended up with a mixture of imprecations, while his fist, thumping upon the table, jarred every glass upon it.

The Chilano was obdurate. Finding his voice at length, he swore by all the saints in South America that he would see our man in Jericho, or some even warmer locality, before he would give him a ha'penny. Springing to his feet, he ordered us all outside, threatening to call the _vigilantes_ to shift us if we did not go.

"Gif me ze monai first; gif me ze monai," shouted Frenchy, spluttering with rage. "Or return to me ze artickeels."

Seeing trouble looming large on the horizon, and remembering the captain's instructions and my promise, I stepped forward with the intention of taking it upon myself to come to an amicable settlement.

I was too late, for Frenchy, beside himself with rage, reached forward and, laying violent hands upon Don Carlos's prominent nose, gave it a pull that made him squeak like a bos'n's pipe. At the same moment up jumped old Miguel, who had hitherto remained a silent observer, and seizing a stout malacca cane, loaded at one end, he brought it down with a crash on to Frenchy's skull.

This was the signal for what followed. As the unfortunate seaman toppled to the floor, his face covered with blood, we five "Micronesias" made a forward rush.

What else could we do? I am peaceably inclined, and would rather run a mile than fight a minute; but what Englishman could stand by and see a shipmate keel-hauled for standing up for his rights, without wanting to know the reason? Good intentions, captain's orders, my promises--they all blew away like a royal sheet in a breeze.

With a "Come on, boys!" we got right down to business. The table, laden with glasses, cigars, and bottles, the chairs upon which we had been seated, as well as other sundries, instantly found a resting-place against the wall, all in a more or less complete state of dilapidation. While I and another fellow attended to Miguel and his wildly-swinging malacca cane, with the intention of rescuing Frenchy, the other three busied themselves with Don Carlos, who had now been reinforced by his man-of-all-work--a big, lumbering, evil-faced Chilano.

The Frenchmen from the other ship formed the after-guard. They did not take any hand in the fight, and for that matter we did not blame them. Frenchy was our shipmate, not theirs. It was in our interests that he had got a cracked skull, and so we had a double right to punish his cowardly assailants.

This, by the way, did not prove a very difficult job. They were cowards at heart, were these scoundrelly Chilanos. A short, sharp tussle, a few well-directed blows given with all an Englishman's zest, and we had Frenchy out of the mêlée, while, with a quick wrench, I possessed myself of the loaded cane.

A horse-rug in the corner caught my eye, and in a twinkling we had Frenchy in it and hustled him outside--I, meanwhile, calling off our men and bidding them make tracks for the boat. As we gained the open air, and stooped down with our burden so that we might get a better grip of the improvised stretcher, the man-of-all-work made a flying leap towards me and, with a savage downward blow, endeavoured to drive a knife between my shoulder-blades. Only my quickness of movement saved me. Almost before he could recover himself I had jumped up and caught him a resounding crack on his figurehead that laid him low. Old Miguel joined him next with a similar dose. Don Carlos had by this time made a rapid exit and, running to the corner, was howling vociferously for the _vigilantes_. But what did I care for _vigilantes_ now? My blood was fairly up. Into the store I rushed, followed by my shipmates, leaving the Frenchman to the care of his countrymen, and in less time than it takes to tell the place was in the most artistic state of wreck you can well conceive.

Then, triumphant, we marched off--a defiant, victorious squad, tattered and torn to a degree. For myself, my white coat had gone entirely; a cotton singlet which I wore was minus an arm, and that which was left was splashed with blood; my white trousers were torn from the ankle to the knee, and one of my shoes was missing.

We had not proceeded far, however, before we found that Don Carlos's howling for the _vigilantes_ was taking effect.

From this street and that figures came running, and swelled a rapidly growing mob, which followed on our heels, hooting and throwing missiles. Higher up the street a shout was raised, which cry was taken up and echoed by the mob. An officer of _vigilantes_, with drawn sword and bristling moustache, pushed his way through the crowd and called upon us to halt. Failing to get his way by word of mouth, he started pricking us in the legs with his sword-point. Hearing me give the order to "rush him," and seeing in me the man whom he believed to be in command, he directed his attentions to me. "Halta! halta!" he cried, peremptorily, but I pushed him aside and marched on. Then a sharp stab in my leg made me hop. For a moment only did I hesitate, then my back stiffened, my hand shot forward with the malacca at the first guard, and with my old R.N.R. drill in my mind I engaged him--his sword to my cane.

For some time we went at it hammer and tongs, while the crowd stood back in awestricken amazement. Acting only on the defensive, I warded off his cuts with a coolness which surprised me later on, but soon a stinging sensation in the shoulder caused me to change my tactics. Pressing him hard until an opening presented itself, I brought him to the ground with a "cut one," delivered with all the force I possessed.

Then came the retreat. Away we flew--the Frenchmen, with our wounded man, towards the mountains; some of our men up one street, some down another, while I made a bee-line for the wharf and the boat.

The howling mob behind pursued me hotly. Occasionally I would stop and shake my cane at them, which had the effect of bringing them to a momentary halt. Then I was off again.

I don't wonder at their halting when I swung round upon them, for I must have cut a most awful figure. Blood-stained and ragged, with the excitement of battle showing in my eyes and face, they must have thought I was mad, and for the moment I suppose I was.

Soon the wharf hove into view. Out in the bay I could see the lights of my ship. With beating heart and laboured breath I sped on. Suddenly someone rushed out at me from a dark corner. For a moment I staggered; then, as he raced on at my side, I discovered, to my joy, that it was one of my shipmates.

Another hundred yards and we should be safe. Then, without warning, we ran straight into the arms of a cordon of _vigilantes_ drawn up in a semicircle awaiting our approach!

It was all over. Unresistingly we allowed ourselves to be manacled, and, guarded on either side by half-a-dozen men with shouldered rifles and fixed bayonets, we were driven off to the "calaboose," two officers on horseback bringing up the rear of the cavalcade.

Thrown into a cell, where I found my comrades already housed, I had ample time to meditate upon the events of the last hour or two. I had been in many a scrape before, but this was the first time I had ever been on the hither side of prison walls, and now that the excitement had passed, I fairly recoiled at the disgrace of it.

My head ached, my feet were lacerated, I was dirty, blood-stained, and nearly naked. I looked around the filthy place, at the no less filthy Chilanos--our fellow-prisoners, who jeered at us derisively--and groaned aloud.

Though feeling my position keenly, I was by no means sorry for what I had done. I had acted, I told myself, just as any other Englishman would under the circumstances. I had been goaded into it, and the blame lay with Don Carlos and his rascally compatriot.

Arraigned before the judge the next day we presented a bedraggled appearance. Through an interpreter the charge was explained to us, evidence was heard, and the case decided. After we had been removed we found that the prison-sheet contained the following notice: "Alberto Crafto, José Essien, Juan Andres, Carlos Parko, Tomaso Mahan, twenty-five days' imprisonment each." The Frenchmen were not in it--they had apparently got clear away to the hills.

Prison life was not so bad, save for the taint and the vile companions amongst whom we were thrown. We were fairly well treated and fed, had plenty of outdoor recreation, and labour of any description was never asked of one.

This last was the thing which preyed upon me. I like being busy at any time, besides, the enforced idleness left too much time for unwholesome thinking.

At length I asked permission to work. "What can you do?" questioned the Commandante. "Do? Anything!" I told him. "Mend a roof, make a chair, do joiner work, paint----"

"Paint, ah!" he cried--some idea had evidently struck him. "Well, I will think of it."

The end of it was that I was given the job to paint the office at which ships received pratique. This office stood on the wharf adjacent to the landing-place. It was a building constructed of inch-and-a-half deal planking, and consisted of two rooms. I was also given tools with which to do a little repairing.

Nothing could possibly have suited me better. The moment I entered it I thought: "Here is my chance of escape!" A thin, wooden floor, a rickety old wharf, and beneath that the water and safety--I could not have wished for anything better.

Each morning I was escorted to the office by two _vigilantes_, who locked the door upon me and immediately went off, returning only to give me my midday meal, and later to escort me back to prison.

An hour after being left alone I had weighed up all the chances. Another went by, and by dint of strenuous exertions I had made a very fair show of painting on one of the walls--this in case of any undue inquisitiveness.

Next I found a suitable place, away from observation, at a point where the floor was covered with reed matting, and began, carefully and noiselessly, cutting through the planks.

Between times I showed myself at the one window in case anyone should be spying; then I would do a little painting and hammering, but I always returned to my chief objective--sawing my way through to the water.

Using every precaution--covering up and disposing of even the minutest particle of sawdust--always on the alert, and working like a Trojan whenever my jailers were expected, I made such good progress that by the third morning a hole large enough to permit of my body passing had been cut through the twelve-inch deals of the jetty, the pieces which I had cut out being carefully stowed in the space between the floor of the office and the jetty. The way of escape was open!

The only thing that bothered me was that I should be compelled to make my attempt at escape during the day, as each night, of course, I was securely locked up in the jail. Well, I should have to risk it. I would wait until the hour after noon, I decided, when the greater percentage of these indolent Chilanos indulged in their siesta. It was a hundred to one chance against my being discovered, and as I had been taking risks all along, there was no reason why I should shirk them now.

Noon came, and with it my dinner. My hand must have trembled as I took the dish from the _vigilante's_ hand, for he calmly walked within a yard of the hole in the floor! Certainly I felt my face pale with suppressed emotion and fear.

He looked sharply at me. "Usted malo?" (you sick) he asked. I shook my head, and, apparently satisfied, the man turned on his heel and left.

Hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of food, I waited, with what patience I could, for the time I had fixed upon for my escape. In this, fortune favoured me. It was a stifling, suffocating day, with not a breath of air stirring. The populace seemed even more eager than usual to seek the shelter of their verandas, while the boatmen and quay loiterers retreated to the comparative coolness of the shaded alameda.

A little while longer and only an occasional straggler disturbed the stillness of the sleepy quayside. Then I knew the time had come.

Carefully, yet quickly, I slipped through the hole in the floor, and, hanging on to the beams overhead, pulled the matting over the cavity. Though my heart beat fast with trepidation, I could not repress a grim chuckle at the thought of the consternation of my jailer when he found me gone. Then I dropped silently into the water.

It was only a few yards to the nearest boat. Reaching it, I clambered cautiously over the gunwale and lay flat in the bottom. Barely allowing myself time to regain my breath, and inwardly congratulating myself upon my success, I raised my body with the intention of casting off the painter. Then a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and a guttural voice spoke a short, sharp command.

It was a _vigilante_! Under an awning in the next boat he had sought relief from the fierce heat, and the gentle bumping of my craft against his had awakened him. And now I had been recaptured, just when victory seemed within my grasp!

Back to the prison I was marched, being informed that thenceforth I should be kept in close confinement.

Next morning, while communing with my moody thoughts, I was aroused by heavy footsteps outside. A key grated in the lock, and the Commandante, with my captain at his side, stepped in.

"Pretty mess this is you've got yourself into!" growled the captain. "And you are the man I depended upon and held responsible for the good behaviour of the others! Going around the place like a madman, killing half-a-dozen police, and wrecking a store--not to speak of the disgrace you have brought upon yourself and my ship. You deserve all that is coming to you--and I'll see you get it, too!"

"Very well, sir," I answered, not without a little shame in my voice. "You have heard what these people have to say against me. But there are two sides to every story----"

"And my side," interrupted the captain, flicking a paper in my face, "is that you'll pay this twenty-five dollars fine and come down to the ship with me at once, where you'll be logged two days' pay for one as a fitting finish to your holiday."[5]

[5] It is an understood thing--perhaps an unwritten law--that when a seaman is sentenced to imprisonment in a foreign port as the result of a "flare-up," the captain of his ship can, with the aid of the Consul, pay any fine imposed, thereby claiming the man's discharge and immediate removal to his vessel. The fine, with the further forfeiture of the two days' pay claimed for every one absent from duty, is then deducted from the seaman's pay at the end of the voyage.--+The Author+.

So, one way and another, we paid pretty dearly for our little trip ashore at Antofagasta.

A Daring Voyage Down the Grand Canyon.

+By David Allen+.

An account of the unique feat accomplished by two intrepid
miners who, in frail row-boats, made a trip which has never
before been performed in its entirety by water--a voyage down
the rock-strewn torrent of the Colorado River, where it burrows
thousands of feet below the surface of the earth in a series
of tremendous gorges, the most famous of which is the Grand
Canyon. Time and again the two men faced death in the boiling
rapids, but eventually they emerged in safety after a journey
of seven hundred and fifty miles, lasting over three months.

Everybody has heard of Niagara Falls and the terrible rapids which the tortured waters of the river form below the great cascade.

The Niagara, however, is a mere creek in size compared with another American stream, the Colorado, which may well be called a river of mystery, partly because of the strange region through which it passes, and partly because so little is known about it. Unlike the Niagara, the Colorado is far away from civilization. Making its devious way through inaccessible mountains and arid deserts, very few human beings live near it. But the Colorado flows _under_ the earth rather than on the top; for hundreds of miles it rushes through vast gorges thousands of feet in depth. The greatest gorge of all is well called the Grand Canyon of the Colorado.

The Grand Canyon, however, is only one of a series of mighty clefts in which the river has literally buried itself. The bottoms are so rugged, so strewn with great rocks and boulders, that only in a few places does the current flow smoothly. For miles and miles the surface of the water is a mass of foaming wave-tops, tossed ceaselessly to and fro amid the rocky obstructions, forming currents and fierce eddies beside which the famous Niagara whirlpool seems insignificant.

There are places where the surface of the Colorado is seven thousand five hundred feet below the brink of the gorge, and at nearly every point it is close on six thousand feet. Looking across from one edge of the canyon to the other, the distance seems to the novice to be two miles. Say so to one of the guides or trailsmen and he may smile; for at Bright Angel trail the width is no less than thirteen miles, while the tourist who stands on the brink at Grand View and looks directly across covers with the glance a distance of eighteen miles. The eye is indeed deceptive here, for if you descend to what is known as the top of the inner gorge and look down upon the river the Colorado appears to be a muddy creek twenty or twenty-five feet wide. But these black walls of granite, which descend almost vertically from the place where you stand, are actually four times the height of Niagara's famous gorge, being nearly fourteen hundred feet sheer, and the river itself is over a hundred and fifty feet wide.

Yet, spite of its fierce current and deadly, rock-strewn rapids, men have dared to attempt to float down this semi-subterranean river in boats. They have tried it, but only two such adventurers can say that they did it successfully, and can prove their story by photographs. These men, who have accomplished a feat that seemed to be impossible, are Charles Russell and E. R. Monett, two American gold-miners. Away back in 1869 the famous explorer Powell tried to navigate the river with an expedition consisting of four boats and eight men, but most of the boats were wrecked long before the end of the gorges was reached, and in several places they dared not trust to the waters, but carried their craft bodily round the dangerous passages. Twenty years after Major Powell made the attempt Stanton, another explorer, tried it with three boats and twelve men, but his party did not complete the journey by water. Since then several other expeditions have risked their lives; and in some cases men have gone into those grim and gloomy gorges and never been heard of again.

Russell and Monett expected to have a companion named Loper in their adventure, but, as will be noted, Loper met with such disaster early in the trip that he left them. How the trio conceived the daring exploit is worth the telling. The plan, according to Russell, originated several years ago in the mind of Russell's companion, Loper, while the two men were working in a mine at Cripple Creek. In 1893 Loper had been attracted to the San Juan River, a tributary of the Colorado, in South-Eastern Utah, by the excitement created by the discovery of placer gold there. He had never forgotten his experiences, and confided to Russell his belief that the Grand Canyon of the Colorado offered proportionately greater chances of much richer placer mining. The two men planned to make their start in the spring of 1900, but the dangers and almost insurmountable difficulties of the task they had so lightly undertaken slowly became apparent to them, and they finally decided to wait until they were properly equipped in point of money and information. At the outset they found they must get at least one more companion if they were to be successful--and four men were preferable to three. According to Russell, their eight years' search for a partner disclosed no individual with the necessary qualifications who was willing to make the trip.

_From a Photograph._]

Consequently, it was not until April, 1907, that their long-laid plans began to materialize. Loper met Monett--a boy in appearance, not seemingly strong and unusually quiet--at the Mohawk Mine in Goldfield. But that Monett was not young--in courage, at least--and not as weak as a casual glance revealed, was presently evidenced when the young man expressed not only a willingness to share the dangers of the trip with the other two, but urged as proof of his strength his work in the mines--a daily physical test calling for no little endurance. Loper notified Russell, then foreman of a mine near Prescott, that the third man had at last been found, and a meeting was arranged for Green River, Utah, early in September. To this point were shipped the row-boats Russell and Loper had determined to pin their faith to, together with a three months' supply of provisions.

Realizing that the loss of the boats meant failure and perhaps loss of life, the explorers took great care to secure suitable craft. They were designed to be light yet strong, each large enough to hold one man in addition to the food and clothing composing his outfit. Each boat was sixteen feet long, with steel ribs, covered with a tough wooden "skin," which was still further protected by a covering of stout canvas. To prevent them being swamped in the boiling rapids, the boats were covered with decks made of steel sheets, carefully riveted together so that the joints would be water-tight. A hole just large enough to admit a man's body was left in the centre, and when the voyager took his seat at the oars flaps of heavy cloth were stretched around his body extending to the edges of the cavity. Each craft had a reservoir full of air built into either end, like a lifeboat, to give it more buoyancy. The little fleet bore the names of _Arizona_, _Utah_, and _Nevada_, the respective States from which the intrepid trio hailed.

_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]

On the Green River in Utah, one of the sources of the Colorado, the men launched their craft and began their strange voyage. They were four days in reaching the Colorado, having to travel about a hundred and twenty-five miles. It was not difficult to tell when the Colorado was reached, for almost immediately they plunged into what is known as the Little Cataract Canyon, where the smooth waters abruptly ended. For forty-one miles they were swirled and thrown about in the grip of angry currents. Luckily Russell and Monett came out safely, but Loper came to grief. Their experience is thus described by Russell:--

"The rapids presented a terrifying appearance, the rushing, roaring water, beaten into foam as it plunged over the rocks, rolling in waves five to ten feet high at the foot. These extended for a hundred yards and more before they became quieter, and ended in swirling whirlpools. Hardly does the water quiet down when it takes another plunge, so close are the rapids together. This was my first experience in shooting rapids. I seemed to go very slowly until quite near the brink, when my speed was suddenly accelerated and over I plunged, the boat taking a stiff angle downward as she went over, only to rise abruptly as she climbed the next wave. Then came another pitch downward for the succeeding billow, but this she did not climb. The wave combed back fiercely, and the stern end of the boat plunged under, the water almost taking my breath away as it swept clear across the boat. She rose nicely, however, and came out on top of the next one easily. We were soon through the worst part, and pulled into the eddy.

"Before long we entered upon the worst part of this canyon. Rapids Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen are so close together that they must be run without stopping, as there is practically no quiet water between them; and so rocky is No. Sixteen that it seems impossible to get through at all. Loper proposed to run it with his boat, the _Arizona_, while we watched the result. He handled the craft very dexterously, being an excellent oarsman, and was successful in striking the only place in Rapid Sixteen that a boat could pass through. But even here the current dashed hard against a huge rock, taking a vertical drop of four or five feet off one side. Loper found it impossible to keep the boat away from this boulder and she was swept heavily against it. She turned almost on end, but luckily the water was deep and she came up like a fish. After seeing Loper's experience Monett and myself were fearful of our ability to get through, and Loper bravely volunteered to bring our boats through, which feat he accomplished in safety."

When they had pulled themselves together and looked over the little fleet it was found that Loper's boat had been unfitted for further service by the collision with the rock, and the greater part of his supplies lost. After a consultation it was decided that the others should leave their unfortunate partner at a little settlement just below the cataract and proceed. Russell and Monett, pushing ahead, put in many days prospecting along the shores of Glen Canyon. They waited for Loper at Lee's Ferry, a Mormon settlement, more than twice as long as the time agreed upon. Then, as there were no signs of him, they determined to go on without him. Friday, the 13th of the month, had no terrors for the intrepid pair, and they started off down the river on the morning of that day, with the Marble Canyon acting as an introduction to the Grand Canyon below. In dwelling on this stage of their journey Russell seemed to lose sight entirely of the remarkable nerve both men showed in going through what is admittedly the wildest part of the river without the third companion who, at the outset, had seemed absolutely indispensable to the successful accomplishment of the trip. In seven days they had passed the length of the roaring stream through the perpendicular walls of Marble Canyon, towering up on either side to an average height of three thousand feet, and had come safely through the worst rapids up to that point. At one place there were fifty-seven rapids to be negotiated in quick succession, some of them having falls from sixteen to twenty feet deep.

_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]

Entering the Grand Canyon, for the first fifteen miles below the entrance of the Little Colorado they found the water comparatively quiet. From this point onwards they found, however, their way was threatened by the worst falls they had thus far met. But the good luck which had attended them from the start still prevailed, and they managed to force their way without damage to either boat down over the almost continuous cataracts. Christmas found them only fifteen miles above Bright Angel trail. In describing the manner in which they celebrated the great day, Russell remarked, casually, that they certainly hung up their stockings--to dry. From beginning to end of their journey the adventurers had been obliged to depend for fuel entirely on such driftwood as they could find lodged in eddies and on the rocky shores. They spent more than one night in clothes soaked through with the icy water of the Colorado, with no fire to warm them. Their Christmas camp, however, was on a narrow strip of sand, with a greater supply of driftwood at hand than they had found at any point along the river. Immediately below this camping place, and continuing for the succeeding ten miles, the river dashes through a troubled stretch, the most perilous section of which is known as the "Sockdologer Rapid." To make matters worse, Russell found it impossible to follow his usual custom of "picking a trail" through these rapids. When possible the elder man climbed along the precipitous sides of the canyon beside each cataract, leaving Monett above the rough water in charge of the two boats. In this manner Russell could observe the most dangerous places through the rapids, and chart a course accordingly. But in this ten-mile stretch the granite walls rise sheer and smooth for the first fifteen hundred feet, and Russell could find no foothold, so that the men faced the necessity of "shooting" unknown waters.

Russell led the way in his boat, swinging it into the boiling current stern first--his own method of taking each cataract--making the frail craft respond to his will when possible by a forward pull on one or the other of his oars. After the first minute the cockpit in which each man sat, shut off from the rest of the boat by water-tight compartments, was filled to the gunwales with icy water, in which the oarsmen were compelled to remain. The boats dashed through one wave only to plunge into another. With less than a quarter of a mile still to be covered before the less vicious water below was reached, Russell heard his companion cry out in terror from behind, but before he could turn to ascertain the cause he was driven into smooth water. Mooring his boat at the foot of the rapids as quickly as possible, Russell half climbed, half waded, along the shore of the river and made his way back.

Here was disaster indeed! Monett's boat had been thrown by a heavy wave into a cleft between two jagged rocks. The craft was wedged in so tightly that he could have done little to release her if she had been "high and dry," but as it was he was literally a prisoner in the rushing waters, and how to rescue him was the question to be answered--and answered quickly. How Russell performed this brave feat is best told in his own words: "Monett, with his boat wedged tightly between two rocks, whose tops were about a foot below the sweeping water, was hanging desperately to the gunwales of the little craft--his body straightened out horizontally by the rush of the current. The boat was completely wrecked, but when I threw the rope to him I was astounded to see the boy carefully work his way closer to the craft and begin to tie its contents securely to the one means of saving his own life.

_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]

"So loud was the roar of the rapids that it was useless for me to yell to him to let the provisions go and save himself. Four times he made me haul sides of bacon and sacks of beans through the thirty feet of rushing water between him and the shore, before he finally caught the rope himself and let me drag him to safety. He had been in the water more than twenty minutes, and was nearly exhausted when I helped him to his feet."

The loss of the boat seemed at first to mark the end of their attempt to equal the record of their predecessors, but Monett insisted that they should try the plan of carrying him astride on the stern of the surviving boat. "If we strike too rough water, I can always swing overboard," he urged, "and we've needed a drag that wouldn't get fouled in the rocks all along."

So the adventurers continued, Monett managing to keep a grip on the covered deck while Russell navigated the frail craft through the foaming torrent, stern first. It was a case of "get out or die," as they put it afterwards, for they could not possibly scale the black walls that rose on either side for thousands of feet as sheer as a stone falls through the air. They might abandon the boat and work their way up to some rocky shelf, but they stood an excellent chance of starving if they found farther progress impossible. Thus began one of the most remarkable exploits in the history of adventure. For several days they dodged in and out of the rapids, but finally reached the little stretch of smooth water where the river flows past Bright Angel trail. At noon one day, about two weeks after the second shipwreck, a party of tourists were eating their luncheon by the river-side; they saw two men in one little row-boat swing out of the rapids two hundred yards up stream and row leisurely toward them. In the thirty years that tourists have visited the bottom of the canyon at this point, it is safe to assert that not one ever saw a sight like this. Two horses were placed at the disposal of the explorers, whose clothes were torn and soaking wet, while their faces were covered with many weeks' growth of beard.

They had planned to climb out of the canyon at Bright Angel to send and receive letters, but they had no intention of remaining here. With all their provisions now confined to the limited quarters of one boat, and with other incentives to make them push on with all speed possible, it was with difficulty that they were persuaded to remain at the hotel three days. During their stay here they were fêted and made the heroes of the hour by the guests. Through it all they displayed an equanimity and unfailing good nature which surprised those who expected to find these ragged adventurers rather taciturn than talkative. Three days later the entire community accompanied the two men to the river edge and bade them an enthusiastic farewell as they pushed off into midstream and headed down river once more.

_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]

_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]

Below Bright Angel they had more thrilling experiences, for one of the ugliest canyons had to be "rushed," as Russell puts it. Here they went through no fewer than fifteen different rapids in a distance of twenty-five miles. Several times Monett was torn from the boat by monster waves, but being an expert swimmer and very strong he managed to keep himself from being drowned or dashed upon the rocks, although his escapes were miraculous. At length they emerged from the last gorge at the little town of Needles, California, where their appearance excited the utmost astonishment. They had started on the journey with clean-shaven faces, but their hair and beards had grown until Russell and Monett looked twenty years older. Their clothing was stained by exposure to the weather and torn by the rough usage they had experienced, and they appeared far more like tramps than the heroes they had proved themselves to be. Well they had earned the right to hoist the "flag of victory" on their little craft, even though it was only the remains of a cotton undershirt tied to a pole. During the last part of the voyage the gunwale of the boat was swung against a ledge with such force that the steel deck was torn from its fastenings, and, to lighten the craft and keep her from sinking, they had to pull off the useless sheets and throw them overboard.

_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]

During this unique voyage they floated down no less than seven hundred and fifty miles of the Colorado, traversing over twenty gorges whose walls ranged from three thousand to seven thousand feet--over a mile--in height. While the Grand Canyon and its divisions was the longest of the gorges, extending for three hundred miles, they also ran the Marble Canyon--a gorge seventy-five miles long. The last abyss from which they emerged was Black Canyon. At this point they came to the first settlement of human beings they had found on the banks of the Colorado since leaving Lee's Ferry over three months before, for the Bright Angel trail is several miles away from any dwelling.

The men say that they were able to accomplish their exploit only by doing the exact opposite from what a boatman usually does. They let their boats go stern first down stream instead of bow first, and pulled their oars against the current. In other words, they kept rowing away from their destination, and up instead of down river. They followed this plan because, as Russell said, it enabled them to see where they were going. The current and rapids propelled the boats so swiftly that they merely used the oars for steering. Thus they avoided rocks and points on shore upon which the craft would otherwise have struck and been battered to pieces.

_From a Photograph._]

A Romance of Two Islands.

+By Frederic Lees+.

That romance, such as the writer of fiction is alone thought
capable of producing, often lies hidden in family records is
strikingly borne out by the following story of adventure. The
author recently came into possession of a bundle of letters
written from the West Coast of Africa in 1844 and 1845 by his
paternal great-grandfather, and from these, combined with
details handed down from father to son, he has put together
this interesting narrative. Fierce fighting and foul play on
sea and land is the subject; the scene, the Islands of Ichaboe
and St. Helena; the time, the early years of the reign of Queen
Victoria, when, as the reader will see from the dangers run by
the hero of the story, the early pioneers of British commerce
were brought face to face with difficulties and perils which
are now almost unknown.