Chapter XVIII
The Jungle Toll
Early the following morning Tarzan awoke, and his first thought of thenew day, as the last of yesterday, was of the wonderful writing whichlay hidden in his quiver.
Hurriedly he brought it forth, hoping against hope that he could readwhat the beautiful white girl had written there the preceding evening.
At the first glance he suffered a bitter disappointment; never beforehad he so yearned for anything as now he did for the ability tointerpret a message from that golden-haired divinity who had come sosuddenly and so unexpectedly into his life.
What did it matter if the message were not intended for him? It was anexpression of her thoughts, and that was sufficient for Tarzan of theApes.
And now to be baffled by strange, uncouth characters the like of whichhe had never seen before! Why, they even tipped in the oppositedirection from all that he had ever examined either in printed books orthe difficult script of the few letters he had found.
Even the little bugs of the black book were familiar friends, thoughtheir arrangement meant nothing to him; but these bugs were new andunheard of.
For twenty minutes he pored over them, when suddenly they commenced totake familiar though distorted shapes. Ah, they were his old friends,but badly crippled.
Then he began to make out a word here and a word there. His heartleaped for joy. He could read it, and he would.
In another half hour he was progressing rapidly, and, but for anexceptional word now and again, he found it very plain sailing.
Here is what he read:
WEST COAST OF AFRICA, ABOUT 10 DEGREES SOUTH LATITUDE. (So Mr. Clayton says.) February 3 (?), 1909.
DEAREST HAZEL:
It seems foolish to write you a letter that you may never see, but Isimply must tell somebody of our awful experiences since we sailed fromEurope on the ill-fated Arrow.
If we never return to civilization, as now seems only too likely, thiswill at least prove a brief record of the events which led up to ourfinal fate, whatever it may be.
As you know, we were supposed to have set out upon a scientificexpedition to the Congo. Papa was presumed to entertain some wondroustheory of an unthinkably ancient civilization, the remains of which layburied somewhere in the Congo valley. But after we were well undersail the truth came out.
It seems that an old bookworm who has a book and curio shop inBaltimore discovered between the leaves of a very old Spanishmanuscript a letter written in 1550 detailing the adventures of a crewof mutineers of a Spanish galleon bound from Spain to South Americawith a vast treasure of ”doubloons” and ”pieces of eight,” I suppose,for they certainly sound weird and piraty.
The writer had been one of the crew, and the letter was to his son, whowas, at the very time the letter was written, master of a Spanishmerchantman.
Many years had elapsed since the events the letter narrated hadtranspired, and the old man had become a respected citizen of anobscure Spanish town, but the love of gold was still so strong upon himthat he risked all to acquaint his son with the means of attainingfabulous wealth for them both.
The writer told how when but a week out from Spain the crew hadmutinied and murdered every officer and man who opposed them; but theydefeated their own ends by this very act, for there was none leftcompetent to navigate a ship at sea.
They were blown hither and thither for two months, until sick and dyingof scurvy, starvation, and thirst, they had been wrecked on a smallislet.
The galleon was washed high upon the beach where she went to pieces;but not before the survivors, who numbered but ten souls, had rescuedone of the great chests of treasure.
This they buried well up on the island, and for three years they livedthere in constant hope of being rescued.
One by one they sickened and died, until only one man was left, thewriter of the letter.
The men had built a boat from the wreckage of the galleon, but havingno idea where the island was located they had not dared to put to sea.
When all were dead except himself, however, the awful loneliness soweighed upon the mind of the sole survivor that he could endure it nolonger, and choosing to risk death upon the open sea rather thanmadness on the lonely isle, he set sail in his little boat after nearlya year of solitude.
Fortunately he sailed due north, and within a week was in the track ofthe Spanish merchantmen plying between the West Indies and Spain, andwas picked up by one of these vessels homeward bound.
The story he told was merely one of shipwreck in which all but a fewhad perished, the balance, except himself, dying after they reached theisland. He did not mention the mutiny or the chest of buried treasure.
The master of the merchantman assured him that from the position atwhich they had picked him up, and the prevailing winds for the pastweek he could have been on no other island than one of the Cape Verdegroup, which lie off the West Coast of Africa in about 16 degrees or 17degrees north latitude.
His letter described the island minutely, as well as the location ofthe treasure, and was accompanied by the crudest, funniest little oldmap you ever saw; with trees and rocks all marked by scrawly X's toshow the exact spot where the treasure had been buried.
When papa explained the real nature of the expedition, my heart sank,for I know so well how visionary and impractical the poor dear hasalways been that I feared that he had again been duped; especially whenhe told me he had paid a thousand dollars for the letter and map.
To add to my distress, I learned that he had borrowed ten thousanddollars more from Robert Canler, and had given his notes for the amount.
Mr. Canler had asked for no security, and you know, dearie, what thatwill mean for me if papa cannot meet them. Oh, how I detest that man!
We all tried to look on the bright side of things, but Mr. Philander,and Mr. Clayton--he joined us in London just for the adventure--bothfelt as skeptical as I.
Well, to make a long story short, we found the island and thetreasure--a great iron-bound oak chest, wrapped in many layers of oiledsailcloth, and as strong and firm as when it had been buried nearly twohundred years ago.
It was SIMPLY FILLED with gold coin, and was so heavy that four menbent underneath its weight.
The horrid thing seems to bring nothing but murder and misfortune tothose who have anything to do with it, for three days after we sailedfrom the Cape Verde Islands our own crew mutinied and killed every oneof their officers.
Oh, it was the most terrifying experience one could imagine--I cannoteven write of it.
They were going to kill us too, but one of them, the leader, namedKing, would not let them, and so they sailed south along the coast to alonely spot where they found a good harbor, and here they landed andhave left us.
They sailed away with the treasure to-day, but Mr. Clayton says theywill meet with a fate similar to the mutineers of the ancient galleon,because King, the only man aboard who knew aught of navigation, wasmurdered on the beach by one of the men the day we landed.
I wish you could know Mr. Clayton; he is the dearest fellow imaginable,and unless I am mistaken he has fallen very much in love with me.
He is the only son of Lord Greystoke, and some day will inherit thetitle and estates. In addition, he is wealthy in his own right, butthe fact that he is going to be an English Lord makes me very sad--youknow what my sentiments have always been relative to American girls whomarried titled foreigners. Oh, if he were only a plain Americangentleman!
But it isn't his fault, poor fellow, and in everything except birth hewould do credit to my country, and that is the greatest compliment Iknow how to pay any man.
We have had the most weird experiences since we were landed here. Papaand Mr. Philander lost in the jungle, and chased by a real lion.
Mr. Clayton lost, and attacked twice by wild beasts. Esmeralda and Icornered in an old cabin by a perfectly awful man-eating lioness. Oh,it was simply ”terrifical,” as Esmeralda would say.
But the strangest part of it all is the wonderful creature who rescuedus. I have not seen him, but Mr. Clayton and papa and Mr. Philanderhave, and they say that he is a perfectly god-like white man tanned toa dusky brown, with the strength of a wild elephant, the agility of amonkey, and the bravery of a lion.
He speaks no English and vanishes as quickly and as mysteriously afterhe has performed some valorous deed, as though he were a disembodiedspirit.
Then we have another weird neighbor, who printed a beautiful sign inEnglish and tacked it on the door of his cabin, which we havepreempted, warning us to destroy none of his belongings, and signinghimself ”Tarzan of the Apes.”
We have never seen him, though we think he is about, for one of thesailors, who was going to shoot Mr. Clayton in the back, received aspear in his shoulder from some unseen hand in the jungle.
The sailors left us but a meager supply of food, so, as we have only asingle revolver with but three cartridges left in it, we do not knowhow we can procure meat, though Mr. Philander says that we can existindefinitely on the wild fruit and nuts which abound in the jungle.
I am very tired now, so I shall go to my funny bed of grasses which Mr.Clayton gathered for me, but will add to this from day to day as thingshappen. Lovingly, JANE PORTER.
TO HAZEL STRONG, BALTIMORE, MD.
Tarzan sat in a brown study for a long time after he finished readingthe letter. It was filled with so many new and wonderful things thathis brain was in a whirl as he attempted to digest them all.
So they did not know that he was Tarzan of the Apes. He would tellthem.
In his tree he had constructed a rude shelter of leaves and boughs,beneath which, protected from the rain, he had placed the few treasuresbrought from the cabin. Among these were some pencils.
He took one, and beneath Jane Porter's signature he wrote:
I am Tarzan of the Apes
He thought that would be sufficient. Later he would return the letterto the cabin.
In the matter of food, thought Tarzan, they had no need to worry--hewould provide, and he did.
The next morning Jane found her missing letter in the exact spot fromwhich it had disappeared two nights before. She was mystified; butwhen she saw the printed words beneath her signature, she felt a cold,clammy chill run up her spine. She showed the letter, or rather thelast sheet with the signature, to Clayton.
”And to think,” she said, ”that uncanny thing was probably watching meall the time that I was writing--oo! It makes me shudder just to thinkof it.”
”But he must be friendly,” reassured Clayton, ”for he has returned yourletter, nor did he offer to harm you, and unless I am mistaken he lefta very substantial memento of his friendship outside the cabin doorlast night, for I just found the carcass of a wild boar there as I cameout.”
From then on scarcely a day passed that did not bring its offering ofgame or other food. Sometimes it was a young deer, again a quantity ofstrange, cooked food--cassava cakes pilfered from the village ofMbonga--or a boar, or leopard, and once a lion.
Tarzan derived the greatest pleasure of his life in hunting meat forthese strangers. It seemed to him that no pleasure on earth couldcompare with laboring for the welfare and protection of the beautifulwhite girl.
Some day he would venture into the camp in daylight and talk with thesepeople through the medium of the little bugs which were familiar tothem and to Tarzan.
But he found it difficult to overcome the timidity of the wild thing ofthe forest, and so day followed day without seeing a fulfillment of hisgood intentions.
The party in the camp, emboldened by familiarity, wandered farther andyet farther into the jungle in search of nuts and fruit.
Scarcely a day passed that did not find Professor Porter straying inhis preoccupied indifference toward the jaws of death. Mr. Samuel T.Philander, never what one might call robust, was worn to the shadow ofa shadow through the ceaseless worry and mental distraction resultantfrom his Herculean efforts to safeguard the professor.
A month passed. Tarzan had finally determined to visit the camp bydaylight.
It was early afternoon. Clayton had wandered to the point at theharbor's mouth to look for passing vessels. Here he kept a great massof wood, high piled, ready to be ignited as a signal should a steameror a sail top the far horizon.
Professor Porter was wandering along the beach south of the camp withMr. Philander at his elbow, urging him to turn his steps back beforethe two became again the sport of some savage beast.
The others gone, Jane and Esmeralda had wandered into the jungle togather fruit, and in their search were led farther and farther from thecabin.
Tarzan waited in silence before the door of the little house until theyshould return. His thoughts were of the beautiful white girl. Theywere always of her now. He wondered if she would fear him, and thethought all but caused him to relinquish his plan.
He was rapidly becoming impatient for her return, that he might feasthis eyes upon her and be near her, perhaps touch her. The ape-man knewno god, but he was as near to worshipping his divinity as mortal manever comes to worship. While he waited he passed the time printing amessage to her; whether he intended giving it to her he himself couldnot have told, but he took infinite pleasure in seeing his thoughtsexpressed in print--in which he was not so uncivilized after all. Hewrote:
I am Tarzan of the Apes. I want you. I am yours. You are mine. Welive here together always in my house. I will bring you the best offruits, the tenderest deer, the finest meats that roam the jungle. Iwill hunt for you. I am the greatest of the jungle fighters. I willfight for you. I am the mightiest of the jungle fighters. You areJane Porter, I saw it in your letter. When you see this you will knowthat it is for you and that Tarzan of the Apes loves you.
As he stood, straight as a young Indian, by the door, waiting after hehad finished the message, there came to his keen ears a familiar sound.It was the passing of a great ape through the lower branches of theforest.
For an instant he listened intently, and then from the jungle came theagonized scream of a woman, and Tarzan of the Apes, dropping his firstlove letter upon the ground, shot like a panther into the forest.
Clayton, also, heard the scream, and Professor Porter and Mr.Philander, and in a few minutes they came panting to the cabin, callingout to each other a volley of excited questions as they approached. Aglance within confirmed their worst fears.
Jane and Esmeralda were not there.
Instantly, Clayton, followed by the two old men, plunged into thejungle, calling the girl's name aloud. For half an hour they stumbledon, until Clayton, by merest chance, came upon the prostrate form ofEsmeralda.
He stopped beside her, feeling for her pulse and then listening for herheartbeats. She lived. He shook her.
”Esmeralda!” he shrieked in her ear. ”Esmeralda! For God's sake,where is Miss Porter? What has happened? Esmeralda!”
Slowly Esmeralda opened her eyes. She saw Clayton. She saw the jungleabout her.
”Oh, Gaberelle!” she screamed, and fainted again.
By this time Professor Porter and Mr. Philander had come up.
”What shall we do, Mr. Clayton?” asked the old professor. ”Where shallwe look? God could not have been so cruel as to take my little girlaway from me now.”
”We must arouse Esmeralda first,” replied Clayton. ”She can tell uswhat has happened. Esmeralda!” he cried again, shaking the black womanroughly by the shoulder.
”O Gaberelle, I want to die!” cried the poor woman, but with eyes fastclosed. ”Let me die, dear Lord, don't let me see that awful faceagain.”
”Come, come, Esmeralda,” cried Clayton.
”The Lord isn't here; it's Mr. Clayton. Open your eyes.”
Esmeralda did as she was bade.
”O Gaberelle! Thank the Lord,” she said.
”Where's Miss Porter? What happened?” questioned Clayton.
”Ain't Miss Jane here?” cried Esmeralda, sitting up with wonderfulcelerity for one of her bulk. ”Oh, Lord, now I remember! It must havetook her away,” and the Negress commenced to sob, and wail herlamentations.
”What took her away?” cried Professor Porter.
”A great big giant all covered with hair.”
”A gorilla, Esmeralda?” questioned Mr. Philander, and the three menscarcely breathed as he voiced the horrible thought.
”I thought it was the devil; but I guess it must have been one of themgorilephants. Oh, my poor baby, my poor little honey,” and againEsmeralda broke into uncontrollable sobbing.
Clayton immediately began to look about for tracks, but he could findnothing save a confusion of trampled grasses in the close vicinity, andhis woodcraft was too meager for the translation of what he did see.
All the balance of the day they sought through the jungle; but as nightdrew on they were forced to give up in despair and hopelessness, forthey did not even know in what direction the thing had borne Jane.
It was long after dark ere they reached the cabin, and a sad andgrief-stricken party it was that sat silently within the littlestructure.
Professor Porter finally broke the silence. His tones were no longerthose of the erudite pedant theorizing upon the abstract and theunknowable; but those of the man of action--determined, but tinged alsoby a note of indescribable hopelessness and grief which wrung ananswering pang from Clayton's heart.
”I shall lie down now,” said the old man, ”and try to sleep. Earlyto-morrow, as soon as it is light, I shall take what food I can carryand continue the search until I have found Jane. I will not returnwithout her.”
His companions did not reply at once. Each was immersed in his ownsorrowful thoughts, and each knew, as did the old professor, what thelast words meant--Professor Porter would never return from the jungle.
At length Clayton arose and laid his hand gently upon ProfessorPorter's bent old shoulder.
”I shall go with you, of course,” he said.
”I knew that you would offer--that you would wish to go, Mr. Clayton;but you must not. Jane is beyond human assistance now. What was oncemy dear little girl shall not lie alone and friendless in the awfuljungle.
”The same vines and leaves will cover us, the same rains beat upon us;and when the spirit of her mother is abroad, it will find us togetherin death, as it has always found us in life.
”No; it is I alone who may go, for she was my daughter--all that wasleft on earth for me to love.”
”I shall go with you,” said Clayton simply.
The old man looked up, regarding the strong, handsome face of WilliamCecil Clayton intently. Perhaps he read there the love that lay in theheart beneath--the love for his daughter.
He had been too preoccupied with his own scholarly thoughts in the pastto consider the little occurrences, the chance words, which would haveindicated to a more practical man that these young people were beingdrawn more and more closely to one another. Now they came back to him,one by one.
”As you wish,” he said.
”You may count on me, also,” said Mr. Philander.
”No, my dear old friend,” said Professor Porter. ”We may not all go.It would be cruelly wicked to leave poor Esmeralda here alone, andthree of us would be no more successful than one.
”There be enough dead things in the cruel forest as it is. Come--letus try to sleep a little.”