Chapter V: The River and the Range
My next
business was to descend upon the river. I had lost sight
of the pass which I had seen from the
saddle, but had made such
notes of it that I could not fail to find it. I was bruised and
stiff, and my boots had begun to give, for I had been going on
rough ground for more than three weeks; but, as the day wore on,
and I found myself descending without serious
difficulty, I became
easier. In a couple of hours I got among pine forests where there
was little
undergrowth, and descended quickly till I reached the
edge of another
precipice, which gave me a great deal of trouble,
though I eventually managed to
avoid it. By about three or four
o'clock I found myself on the
river-bed.
From calculations which I made as to the height of the valley on
the other side the saddle over which I had come, I concluded that
the saddle itself could not be less than nine thousand feet high;
and I should think that the river-bed, on to which I now descended,
was three thousand feet above the sea-level. The water had a
terrific current, with a fall of not less than forty to fifty feet
per mile. It was certainly the river next to the northward of that
which flowed past my master's run, and would have to go through an
impassable gorge (as is commonly the case with the rivers of that
country) before it came upon known parts. It was reckoned to be
nearly two thousand feet above the sea-level where it came out of
the gorge on to the plains.
As soon as I got to the river side I liked it even less than I
thought I should. It was muddy, being near its parent glaciers.
The stream was wide, rapid, and rough, and I could hear the smaller
stones knocking against each other under the rage of the waters, as
upon a seashore. Fording was out of the question. I could not
swim and carry my swag, and I dared not leave my swag behind me.
My only chance was to make a small raft; and that would be
difficult to make, and not at all safe when it was made,--not for
one man in such a current.
As it was too late to do much that afternoon, I spent the rest of
it in going up and down the river side, and seeing where I should
find the most favourable crossing. Then I camped early, and had a
quiet comfortable night with no more music, for which I was
thankful, as it had haunted me all day, although I perfectly well
knew that it had been nothing but my own fancy, brought on by the
reminiscence of what I had heard from Chowbok and by the over-
excitement of the preceding evening.
Next day I began gathering the dry bloom stalks of a kind of flag
or iris-looking plant, which was abundant, and whose leaves, when
torn into strips, were as strong as the strongest string. I
brought them to the waterside, and fell to making myself a kind of
rough platform, which should suffice for myself and my swag if I
could only stick to it. The stalks were ten or twelve feet long,
and very strong, but light and hollow. I made my raft entirely of
them, binding bundles of them at right angles to each other, neatly
and strongly, with strips from the leaves of the same plant, and
tying other rods across. It took me all day till nearly four
o'clock to finish the raft, but I had still enough daylight for
crossing, and resolved on doing so at once.
I had selected a place where the river was broad and comparatively
still, some seventy or eighty yards above a furious rapid. At this
spot I had built my raft. I now launched it, made my swag fast to
the middle, and got on to it myself, keeping in my hand one of the
longest blossom stalks, so that I might punt myself across as long
as the water was shallow enough to let me do so. I got on pretty
well for twenty or thirty yards from the shore, but even in this
short space I nearly upset my raft by shifting too rapidly from one
side to the other. The water then became much deeper, and I leaned
over so far in order to get the bloom rod to the bottom that I had
to stay still, leaning on the rod for a few seconds. Then, when I
lifted up the rod from the ground, the current was too much for me
and I found myself being carried down the rapid. Everything in a
second flew past me, and I had no more control over the raft;
neither can I remember anything except hurry, and noise, and waters
which in the end upset me. But it all came right, and I found
myself near the shore, not more than up to my knees in water and
pulling my raft to land, fortunately upon the left bank of the
river, which was the one I wanted. When I had landed I found that
I was about a mile, or perhaps a little less, below the point from
which I started. My swag was wet upon the outside, and I was
myself dripping; but I had gained my point, and knew that my
difficulties were for a time over. I then lit my fire and dried
myself; having done so I caught some of the young ducks and sea-
gulls, which were abundant on and near the river-bed, so that I had
not only a good meal, of which I was in great want, having had an
insufficient diet from the time that Chowbok left me, but was also
well provided for the morrow.
I thought of Chowbok, and felt how useful he had been to me, and in
how many ways I was the loser by his absence, having now to do all
sorts of things for myself which he had hitherto done for me, and
could do infinitely better than I could. Moreover, I had set my
heart upon making him a real convert to the Christian religion,
which he had already embraced outwardly, though I cannot think that
it had taken deep root in his impenetrably stupid nature. I used
to catechise him by our camp fire, and explain to him the mysteries
of the Trinity and of original sin, with which I was myself
familiar, having been the grandson of an archdeacon by my mother's
side, to say nothing of the fact that my father was a clergyman of
the English Church. I was therefore sufficiently qualified for the
task, and was the more inclined to it, over and above my real
desire to save the unhappy creature from an eternity of torture, by
recollecting the promise of St. James, that if any one converted a
sinner (which Chowbok surely was) he should hide a multitude of
sins. I reflected, therefore, that the conversion of Chowbok might
in some degree compensate for irregularities and short-comings in
my own previous life, the remembrance of which had been more than
once unpleasant to me during my recent experiences.
Indeed, on one occasion I had even gone so far as to baptize him,
as well as I could, having ascertained that he had certainly not
been both christened and baptized, and gathering (from his telling
me that he had received the name William from the missionary) that
it was probably the first-mentioned rite to which he had been
subjected. I thought it great carelessness on the part of the
missionary to have omitted the second, and certainly more
important, ceremony which I have always understood precedes
christening both in the case of infants and of adult converts; and
when I thought of the risks we were both incurring I determined
that there should be no further delay. Fortunately it was not yet
twelve o'clock, so I baptized him at once from one of the pannikins
(the only vessels I had) reverently, and, I trust, efficiently. I
then set myself to work to instruct him in the deeper mysteries of
our belief, and to make him, not only in name, but in heart a
Christian.
It is true that I might not have succeeded, for Chowbok was very
hard to teach. Indeed, on the evening of the same day that I
baptized him he tried for the twentieth time to steal the brandy,
which made me rather unhappy as to whether I could have baptized
him rightly. He had a prayer-book--more than twenty years old--
which had been given him by the missionaries, but the only thing in
it which had taken any living hold upon him was the title of
Adelaide the Queen Dowager, which he would repeat whenever strongly
moved or touched, and which did really seem to have some deep
spiritual significance to him, though he could never completely
separate her individuality from that of Mary Magdalene, whose name
had also fascinated him, though in a less degree.
He was indeed stony ground, but by digging about him I might have
at any rate deprived him of all faith in the religion of his tribe,
which would have been half way towards making him a sincere
Christian; and now all this was cut off from me, and I could
neither be of further spiritual assistance to him nor he of bodily
profit to myself: besides, any company was better than being quite
alone.
I got very melancholy as these reflections crossed me, but when I
had boiled the ducks and eaten them I was much better. I had a
little tea left and about a pound of tobacco, which should last me
for another fortnight with moderate smoking. I had also eight ship
biscuits, and, most precious of all, about six ounces of brandy,
which I presently reduced to four, for the night was cold.
I rose with early dawn, and in an hour I was on my way, feeling
strange, not to say weak, from the burden of solitude, but full of
hope when I considered how many dangers I had overcome, and that
this day should see me at the summit of the dividing range.
After a slow but steady climb of between three and four hours,
during which I met with no serious hindrance, I found myself upon a
tableland, and close to a glacier which I recognised as marking the
summit of the pass. Above it towered a succession of rugged
precipices and snowy mountain sides. The solitude was greater than
I could bear; the mountain upon my master's sheep-run was a crowded
thoroughfare in comparison with this sombre sullen place. The air,
moreover, was dark and heavy, which made the loneliness even more
oppressive. There was an inky gloom over all that was not covered
with snow and ice. Grass there was none.
Each moment I felt increasing upon me that dreadful doubt as to my
own identity--as to the continuity of my past and present
existence--which is the first sign of that distraction which comes
on those who have lost themselves in the bush. I had fought
against this feeling hitherto, and had conquered it; but the
intense silence and gloom of this rocky wilderness were too much
for me, and I felt that my power of collecting myself was beginning
to be impaired.
I rested for a little while, and then advanced over very rough
ground, until I reached the lower end of the glacier. Then I saw
another glacier, descending from the eastern side into a small
lake. I passed along the western side of the lake, where the
ground was easier, and when I had got about half way I expected
that I should see the plains which I had already seen from the
opposite mountains; but it was not to be so, for the clouds rolled
up to the very summit of the pass, though they did not overlip it
on to the side from which I had come. I therefore soon found
myself enshrouded by a cold thin vapour, which prevented my seeing
more than a very few yards in front of me. Then I came upon a
large patch of old snow, in which I could distinctly trace the
half-melted tracks of goats--and in one place, as it seemed to me,
there had been a dog following them. Had I lighted upon a land of
shepherds? The ground, where not covered with snow, was so poor
and stony, and there was so little herbage, that I could see no
sign of a path or regular sheep-track. But I could not help
feeling rather uneasy as I wondered what sort of a reception I
might meet with if I were to come suddenly upon inhabitants. I was
thinking of this, and proceeding cautiously through the mist, when
I began to fancy that I saw some objects darker than the cloud
looming in front of me. A few steps brought me nearer, and a
shudder of unutterable horror ran through me when I saw a circle of
gigantic forms, many times higher than myself, upstanding grim and
grey through the veil of cloud before me.
I suppose I must have fainted, for I found myself some time
afterwards sitting upon the ground, sick and deadly cold. There
were the figures, quite still and silent, seen vaguely through the
thick gloom, but in human shape indisputably.
A sudden thought occurred to me, which would have doubtless struck
me at once had I not been prepossessed with forebodings at the time that I first saw the figures, and had not the cloud concealed them from me--I mean that they were not living beings, but statues. I determined that I would count fifty slowly, and was sure that the objects were not alive if during that time I could detect no sign
of motion.
How thankful was I when I came to the end of my fifty and there had
been no movement!
I counted a second time--but again all was still.
I then advanced timidly forward, and in another moment I saw that
my surmise was correct. I had come upon a sort of Stonehenge of
rude and barbaric figures, seated as Chowbok had sat when I
questioned him in the wool-shed, and with the same superhumanly
malevolent expression upon their faces. They had been all seated,
but two had fallen. They were barbarous--neither Egyptian, nor
Assyrian, nor Japanese--different from any of these, and yet akin
to all. They were six or seven times larger than life, of great
antiquity, worn and lichen grown. They were ten in number. There
was snow upon their heads and wherever snow could lodge. Each
statue had been built of four or five enormous blocks, but how
these had been raised and put together is known to those alone who
raised them. Each was terrible after a different kind. One was
raging furiously, as in pain and great despair; another was lean
and cadaverous with famine; another cruel and idiotic, but with the
silliest simper that can be conceived--this one had fallen, and
looked exquisitely ludicrous in his fall--the mouths of all were
more or less open, and as I looked at them from behind, I saw that
their heads had been hollowed.
I was sick and shivering with cold. Solitude had unmanned me
already, and I was utterly unfit to have come upon such an assembly
of fiends in such a dreadful wilderness and without preparation. I
would have given everything I had in the world to have been back at
my master's station; but that was not to be thought of: my head
was failing, and I felt sure that I could never get back alive.
Then came a gust of howling wind, accompanied with a moan from one
of the statues above me. I clasped my hands in fear. I felt like
a rat caught in a trap, as though I would have turned and bitten at
whatever thing was nearest me. The wildness of the wind increased,
the moans grew shriller, coming from several statues, and swelling
into a chorus. I almost immediately knew what it was, but the
sound was so unearthly that this was but little consolation. The
inhuman beings into whose hearts the Evil One had put it to
conceive these statues, had made their heads into a sort of organ-
pipe, so that their mouths should catch the wind and sound with its
blowing. It was horrible. However brave a man might be, he could
never stand such a concert, from such lips, and in such a place. I
heaped every invective upon them that my tongue could utter as I
rushed away from them into the mist, and even after I had lost
sight of them, and turning my head round could see nothing but the
storm-wraiths driving behind me, I heard their ghostly chanting,
and felt as though one of them would rush after me and grip me in
his hand and throttle me.
I may say here that, since my return to England, I heard a friend
playing some chords upon the organ which put me very forcibly in
mind of the Erewhonian statues (for Erewhon is the name of the
country upon which I was now entering). They rose most vividly to
my recollection the moment my friend began. They are as follows,
and are by the greatest of all musicians:- {2}
Music score which cannot be reproduced
Erewhon : Chapter VI - Into Erewhon
Erewhon