Chapter XII: “a Shower of Poisoned Darts Fell Pattering on the Stockade.”

One day about three weeks after the adventure in the floods, as the party were filing over the ridge of a hill, Samaro pointed away towards the horizon with his outstretched arm.

There was a joyful smile on his face.

“At last, señor,” he said, “we come to human beings.”

True; there was a village down there, for blue smoke was curling up over the green of the palm-trees.

Tom was rejoiced. What if Bernard himself were in that village! Perhaps he would be one of the first to come to meet them. And what a strange story it would be his to tell!

Tom could not think of his captain’s son as a slave. No white man ever remained long in a position of actual slavery among Indians; and Bernard, if indeed he were alive, would doubtless be some great chief or warrior.

They were nearing the land of the Jivaro Indians.

Two hours more of a toilsome march across ground which was partly marsh and partly fallen forest brought them to hard open ground. They could hear the beating of drums and shouting of the natives, and presently a dusky crowd swarmed out to meet them.

A halt was immediately ordered, for even among Indians etiquette must be obeyed.

Samaro advanced alone with Tom; who, by the way, much to the terror of some of the juvenile portion of this wild community, had his feline pet perched upon his shoulder.

But their reception on the whole was a hearty one. The general notion that appeared to prevail among these Indian villagers was that Tom and all his party were starving, for they brought them food of all kinds; and to refuse to taste at least would have been a grave offence.

That evening a grand festival was held at one of the chiefs’ houses. Tom was not quite sure, indeed, if the man was a chief, or held some office akin to that of our mayors in this country.

Every one in the village or town was armed in some form or another. Even the boys moved about with their blow-guns; while spears and shields formed the defensive weapons of their elders. Many of the latter had the awful-looking scalp hanging at their waists, just as Samaro wore his. This evidently entitled them to be looked upon as braves; for these scalps had all been taken in battle.

Tom spent a few days in this village, distributed a few presents, and went on again, having left nothing but good-will behind him, and being therefore assured of a welcome if ever he returned this way.

On the evening of the day of their departure from this village of Jivaros, and while resting by the camp fire in the solitude of the forest, Tom questioned Samaro about the probability of their finding Bernard among these tribes.

Samaro’s first reply was a negative and solemn shake of the head.

Then he became a little more explicit. He had feared he said to put questions too directly, but at a feast one evening he had led round deftly to the subject by asking an old warrior whether Tom was not the second Englishman ever he had seen; Tom’s Uncle Robert, who had been here, being reckoned the first. “Yes,” the brave had replied, “with the exception of a child.”

This child, he had told Samaro later on, had been the cause of a great quarrel; for the Jivaros on the other bank of the river had borne him off. The Canelo Indians had joined against these. But, meanwhile, the boy had been sold to a tribe who had taken him northward and east, perhaps to Napo or Zaparo-land, and he might be killed. The old warrior knew no more, or would tell no more.

This was far from encouraging intelligence to Tom, but he determined at all hazards to pursue his wanderings and his investigations until at all events he should discover the fate of Bernard Herbert.

They visited many more villages and scattered hamlets of the Jivaros. Each of these possess what is called a war-drum, which if beaten at one village is heard at another, and soon echoes throughout the length and breadth of the tribal land. This is a method of calling the warriors together, and is as much resorted to as was the fiery cross in the brave days of old in the Scottish Highlands.

* * * * *

About a month after his visit to the Jivaro Indians Tom found himself with his men descending a ridge of hills towards a river, where Samaro expected to find a village. He had been here before, and was somewhat surprised now to find as they drew near no appearance of smoke, nor any sound of life among the trees. True, many if not most of the tribes in these regions are nomads; but so well situated was this town, on the banks of the Aguarico, not far from its conjunction with the Napo, that something very remarkable must have occurred to account for its apparent desolation.

They were not left long in doubt; for Samaro, who had entered the town some distance in front of Tom, stopped short, then turning round beckoned to his master to hurry.

Here on its back lay a corpse. The neck had been fearfully gashed with a spear, and one hand was almost severed through. The unfortunate man must have been alive but a short time before, for decomposition, so rapid in these hot regions, had not yet set in.

They found the bodies of many more murdered Indians; indeed, almost every house told its sad story of massacre, not even the children nor old women having been spared. The huts had been all plundered, but otherwise left intact.

“Who has done these fearful deeds?” said Tom, addressing Samaro.

“The Awheeshiries, without doubt,” was the reply.

Some broken blow-guns and spears lay about, but otherwise there was scarcely any evidence of a struggle. The attack must have been made at the dead of night; and from the dreadful way the victims had been cut and hacked about, the probability is that revenge had instigated the attack quite as much as the hopes of plunder.

Close to the village, at a bend of the river, they came upon several boats drawn up on the beach. They had evidently been used very shortly before this, as evidenced by the number of fresh banana skins lying here and there. The hostile Indians must have come in these war-canoes therefore; and it was certain they had not gone. Indeed, from the care with which the paddles were secured, and the boats themselves shaded by bushes from the sun, it appeared certain they meant to return. Where were they now? In all probability they had gone farther inland, bent on plundering other peaceful villages; and Tom shuddered as he thought of the awful deeds that might be enacted in that lovely, still, forest land before the sun now declining towards the west should again rise and shine over the greenery of the woods.

What must now be done? was the next question to be considered. Savages on the war-path, their knives and hands still red with the fresh-drawn blood of fellow-savages, are but little likely to brook the presence of strangers in their midst. Tom knew he could not expect to gain anything by fair means. He must be on the defensive; and there was no time to lose.

So he held a council of war.

Tom proposed instant embarkation in the canoes, and a passage down the river. But wiser and more wary Samaro vetoed such a plan. They knew the dangers around them now, but to drop down an unknown river at night would almost certainly expose them to worse, not the least of which might be perils from rapids and cataracts.

But a sand bank or spit ran out into the river some distance down, and this could easily be fortified, and held against a whole cloud of hostile Indians. To decide was to act with Tom. The packages and stores were therefore immediately transferred to the boats, and landed on the spit; and at the land-side thereof a long trench was dug, where a kind of fort, formed of the bamboo fences dragged from the village, had been formed. Behind this they would be safe against even poisoned darts, for luckily there was no cover for the enemy anywhere very close at hand.

The sun was almost set, and Tom was having one final run round the village, to find out if there were not some poor wretch still alive that he might render assistance to. He came upon a footpath that led him for some distance directly away from the river, through the bush, to the very gates of an Indian compound of far greater pretensions than any he had yet seen. It must be a kind of palace, Tom thought. As he listened before pushing open the door of the hut, he heard the unmistakable moaning of someone in pain. He hesitated no longer, and next moment stood in the inner compartment. Here on a kind of raised wicker couch lay the insensible form of a woman, who, a glance told him, was certainly no Indian belonging to this land of Ecuador. Her face, though sadly racked by anguish, was very fair and finely chiselled. Her hair--long, dark, and straight, though now dishevelled--and her dress betokened her a kind of princess of the tribe.

She raised herself on her elbow as Tom entered, and looked at him for a moment wildly and wistfully.

“O,” she exclaimed, “an Englishman! You are not my boy, Bernard?”

“No, no,” cried Tom advancing excitedly. “I am not Bernard. I have come to seek him. O, it is awful to find you thus! You were the ayah on board the _Southern Hope_. Speak! tell me quickly where I can find Bernard.”

“Find? Find my boy? Yes, I will tell you.”

A spasm of pain passed over her pale face, and she fell back as if dead.

A calabash of water stood near, and Tom moistened her lips and brow, and presently she revived.

“You are wounded,” Tom said. “I am selfish to ask you to talk now. I will hurry away for help; but first let me bind your arm.”

It had been frightfully gashed with a knife while she was trying to ward off a blow aimed at her heart.

Tom brought the edges together, and bound the arm up with leaves and grass cloth. At that moment Samaro himself entered.

“Quick, señor,” he said, “the Awheeshiries are returning. If they find us here we will have but small mercy.”

“Help me then to bear this lady to our camp, my good friend. Pray heaven she may live, for she knows Bernard’s story.”

Between them they carried the ayah princess out and away to the fortified sand-spit. And none too soon. Hardly had they entered when savages appeared from the bush, and a shower of poison darts fell pattering upon the stockade.

As there was no reply from the fort they came nearer and nearer, brandishing spears and capering and howling like very demons. The reply they sought came at length, however. Tom’s rifle rang out sharp and clear in the evening air, and the foremost foeman fell never to rise more. Consternation seized the Indians, and they fled indiscriminately towards the bush; but before they could reach it Tom fired his revolver, and some of them were wounded. It was from no spirit of cruelty he opened fire on a retreating foe, but for the safety of his camp. He wished to show these savages what kind of an enemy they had to deal with, and the lesson was well merited.

It fell dark now; but presently the moon rose, silvering the beautiful river and casting a glamour over the now silent woods.

Yes, the woods were silent; for the savages appeared to have fled. But about midnight there were signs unmistakable that they were continuing their unhallowed work in other places; for every now and then, borne along on the light breeze, came sounds that made Tom’s heart thrill with anger--the exultant shouts of victorious Indians mingling with mournful cries of agony and fear.

Then a great red gleam appeared in the north, and dense white clouds of smoke rolled skyward. The savages had fired the forest.

Nearer and nearer came that red glare as the night wore on, and soon they could hear the crackling of the blazing wood; then the deserted village took fire, and burned with terrible fierceness for a time.

Constantly all night long after this, in the fitful light of the conflagration, creatures could be seen leaping madly into the river, and swimming towards the other bank for safety. These were the denizens of the woods and wilds; but many must have perished in the merciless flames.