Chapter 3: On the Upper Amazon

Two thousand miles and more up the Amazon River, traveling northwest on the Japurá tributary, we had crossed the Brazilian frontier into Colombia. There were three of us — Glenny, Walkey, and myself— with four natives from British Guiana to do the rough river work to which they are accustomed.
We had been commissioned by the Evangelical Union of South America to ascertain the feasibility of starting some kind of Gospel work among the Indians, thousands of whom had been ruthlessly murdered by a certain band of unscrupulous Peruvian rubber merchants, whose trade center was in Iquitos. Our ascent of the Putumayo River itself having been banned by the enemies of the poor Redskin, we endeavored to reach the region by means of another river flowing parallel with, and at no great distance from, the Putumayo — the Japurá.
From information received front several sources we had expected to encounter numbers of Indians of the Miranha, Bora, Witoto, and Aucloque tribes, who originally inhabited that section of the Putumayo After many weeks of exhausting travel and investigation, of plans and counter-plans, including weeks of heavy axe work clearing sections of the dense Amazon forest for future residence and cultivation, we abandoned all hope of a successful issue to our mission.
With the exception of a few score of Indians, who worked as slaves for a humane Columbian rubber merchant, the only traces we actually found of their original existence were abandoned tribal huts, some sunken dugouts, broken pottery, and an occasional thin wreath of smoke far away over the tree tops.
We had drawn a blank. The Indians had been wiped out of existence, save the few small hordes of homeless, desperate survivors who wandered here and there through the forest, mad with hatred and revenge, and in whose sight every white man was a merciless enemy of whom all they wanted to see was his blood. The region, too, was pestilential, and mosquito infested to an intolerable degree. The few white men were thin and anemic, being utterly dependent on the outside world for food and supplies of every kind, and as these were most uncertain and irregular, hunger was the most common state of all.
Our retreat from this unhappy river and the devising of some new plan of action became imperative and urgent. Nevertheless a new kind of expedition, though a forlorn hope, was decided upon, the upshot of which was already a foregone conclusion.
Abandoning our fine but unwieldy canvas Berthon boat as totally unfitted for upstream travel, we set work, and in a few weeks’ time had built ourselves a big dug-out — axe-carved, scorched, and stretched— out of a solid tree trunk found in the heart of the forest. This we launched with considerable effort, and set out, after hiding away all superfluous stores and equipment.
In this very unstable and primitive canoe we succeeded in stemming the swift current of the Columbian river Caqueta. About two weeks travel from the frontier we turned up a small tributary the dark and sinuous Cauhanary. At the mouth this river we expected to find the last white man’s outpost habitation, though we had heard that the unfortunate inmates had been massacred by the Indians a few weeks earlier. After climbing the steep bank, and penetrating about fifty yards of jungle, we suddenly came upon the black ruins of a large home which had evidently been burnt down a few hours before. It was rather a startling sight, for every sound in the surrounding forest might well have been caused by the wild Redskins themselves whom, it must be confessed, we were by no means anxious to meet under the circumstances.
As we turned up the River Cauhanary we had an uncomfortable feeling of being watched, if not shadowed. We paddled all that afternoon upstream, till the fading light warned us of the need of seeking night quarters ere the sudden equatorial darkness closed in on us. As usual, this proved no easy task. The river was high, the banks low and swampy, and the fringing forest of considerable density.
Darkness had nearly set in before we discerned what seemed to promise a few square yards of semidry camping ground, to which with cutlasses and axes we cut our way, making as it were a narrow lane through the trees and brushwood, Another half hour and we had cleared enough space to rig up our crude tent and sling our hammocks by the light of a camp fire.
We all felt rather subdued, and each man instinctively spoke in lower tones as we gathered round the fire for our evening meal. Then we drew lots for the night watch. Mine fell from twelve to two. By eight o’clock we were all asleep in our hammocks, save the man who kept vigil by the camp fire.
I suffered with malarial toothache, and slept feverishly. Due felt so completely at the mercy of the surrounding forest and its dreaded inhabitants — wild beasts and revengeful men.
I awoke with a tremendous start and almost cried out, for somebody grasped me firmly by the arm. “It’s your watch,” came in a subdued growl, and I tumbled out of my hammock for the two hours’ ordeal.
The fire burned brightly, lighting up the circular space we had cleared with our axes, gleaming fitfully along the narrow strip of waterway we had cut back from the river through the forest. At the end of the cutting, about twenty yards beyond, the River Cauhanary gleamed silvery white in the bright moonlight, which failed, however, to illuminate our camp.
I leant against a tree and listened. At first the only sound I heard was the heavy breathing of my weary companions. A weird and ghostly feeling pervaded the atmosphere. Then a twig snapped in the forest close by — and another! It may only have been one of the numerous harmless nocturnal animals; but it might have been a jaguar, or a Redskin, it seemed to me, and I grasped my gun a little more tightly. Presently my accustomed ear could detect the faint sounds — strange and uncanny some of them inseparable from the equatorial forests of the Amazon.
Little by little, however, I grew indifferent to these circumstances and sounds, and began to feel having difficulty in keeping awake.
Suddenly I was wide awake indeed, and I felt my beat more quickly. Away in the distance, far down the river we had ascended that previous afternoon, I could hear the clear rhythmic oar-beat of what seemed to be a big Indian canoe.
Could I believe my ears? Who were they?
What could be their object at that hour of night?
Instinctively I damped down the fire somewhat, and listened for all I was worth. They were a long way off yet, and perhaps the danger was not very great after all. Nearer and nearer drew the ominous sound, and I stamped out the remaining embers, and stood staring through the gloom of that narrow alley at the bright shining water flowing beyond. Would they detect that entrance of ours? I felt it was nearly bine to arouse my slumbering companions, for the canoe seemed to be less than a quarter of a mile away, and the noise of their paddles grew louder and louder. I felt intensely excited; but before I could decide just what to do the sound of the paddies suddenly ceased. What was happening?
Straining my eyes and ears as never before, I stood like a statue — five, ten, fifteen minutes perhaps; and then again I heard those paddles, but to my immense relief the sound came from far away down the stream. After reaching a point so near our hiding place they had evidently stopped and drifted down with the current.
Early next morning, over our cup of coffee, I told of my night’s experience in as casual a manner as possible. At once the leader of the Guiana men declared that he had heard of such ghostly sounds on the waters of the Essequibo, and to my surprise this became the accepted explanation of the incident, and for certain reasons I did not insist. It is my belief, however, that only a merciful intervention of God spared our little party from being massacred that night.
Continuing our weary journey up stream, it was only ten days later that we turned our canoe in the homeward direction completely disillusioned. After shooting the rapids of the Japura, five of the party continued their journey downstream to Manaos in the Berthon boat, while Mr. O. Walley and I drew up our canoe at Jatuarana, a little frontier fiscal station of Brazil perched high up on the river banks. It commanded a splendid view of the river, here about a mile in width, in one of the most lovely, yet most desolate, regions of the world.
The settlement consisted of some six or eight rough dwellings of mud with a dash of whitewash, and were hardly worthy of the designation of houses, except perhaps that of the administrator, which was floored. They were occupied by a few Government officials and a dozen or two crude, rough sailors.
From this point we expected to continue our long journey down the Japura, River to the Amazon by means of a small stereo launch which makes a monthly trip between this very? remote point and Manaos, but we found we should have to wait a week or more for its arrival. Hospitality was at once freely extended to my companion and myself, and we speedily won the confidence and goodwill of these people.
I felt it was an opportunity not to be missed, especially as I providentially found awaiting me at this point the long delayed box of Scriptures, in Spanish and Portuguese, which I had ordered from Para four months previously. But it often needs much wisdom and tact to break the ice and induce people to give one a hearing. How could I do it here? I soon remembered that we had in our outfit a small box gramophone, which had helped Considerably to relieve the terrible silence and the awful monotony of existence on the Upper Amazon.
I used to feel very much prejudiced against these instruments, its, but now I incorporate them in the armory of useful and lawful means to attract the people, and so it certainly proved on this occasion.
On the evening of our arrival, after dinner, before the crowd had dispersed, I produced the gramophone, which was to them a great novelty, and before the week was up it had drawn all the neighbors from both sides of the river within several miles. On this first occasion I wound up the instrument and we had a few selections, finishing up with Handel’s “Largo” and the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I then, in a casual tone, remarked that I had a most interesting book in my pocket, and that I would, with their permission, read them an extract.
“Pois nao” (why not) I they exclaimed; and I read them the story of the Prodigal Son, accompanied by a short explanation, which was followed with very quiet attention.
The next night I repeated the same maneuver. We had one or two gramophone hymns, and I sang to them in Portuguese; then once more I produced my book, and opened up the Scriptures.
By the third night they were accustomed to my voice, and seemed to forget my presence in their interest in what they heard.
One young sailor lad, who showed particular interest, was intent with wide-open eyes on what I said, and when I ceased he broke the momentary silence which fell on us, exclaiming, “Well, my father and mother were devotes (religious people), but they never told me this! I never heard it before, and now that I have listened to your words, and understand what it means, I can say, ‘I am for it! I am for it’” Ten thousand Brazilian hearts would re-echo these words if they had but the chance to hear what these sailors heard. “How can they hear without a preacher?”
Another man named Antao was perhaps still more deeply convinced, and when I presented each one with a copy of the Scriptures be started reading his Bible by the hour at a stretch in a loud voice, so that he could be heard by all the village. Lying in my hammock in a neighboring house I could follow his reading distinctly This same man alter we left started a school there for the benefit of his companions who wanted to learn to read for the Gospel’s sake, and sometime later I had the good news of several professed conversions in that far-away part. One of these is a fine young Miranha. Indian lad named Claudino. By his aid I was able to compile a fairly large and useful vocabulary of that dialect.
The little informal meetings were continued nightly until one evening the small steam launch arrived, when this ministry terminated abruptly. In a few hours we found ourselves whirling downstream on the homeward journey after bidding an affectionate and long farewell. The precious Word left behind is a sure and lasting witness that will someday yield a certain harvest.
All down the river we distributed these Scriptures, and sent large numbers into the Spanish Caqueta region, bordering the infamous Putumayo district, so that there are very few families in this remote part of the world who do not possess one portion of the Word of Life.
Several years later Antao joined me in Maceio, and is now one of the most successful and most beloved at our colporteurs, as he has also been the faithful companion in many of my travels.
Such a result seemed an ample compensation for all the previous trials and disappointments of this, expedition on the Upper Amazon.