Prisoners of Chance - Page 103/233

It seems simple enough, yet it was not so small a struggle, nor did I fully win the battle over stubbornness until the gray of evening began wrapping about us hazy folds of cloud, the time coming when we must seek suitable night camp. It was then I found tongue, even while glancing across my shoulder, through the shadows, searching for a landing-place. As if all this were yesterday, I recall the scene. Everything swam in the gray haze, which, settling across the water, shut off from view much of the land. We were nearly abreast of where a smaller stream came leaping down from the right to hurl its clear current far out into the muddy river. So rapid was this discharge, the waters about us were thrown into turmoil, tossing our boat like a cork, causing Madame to grasp the rail nervously. Its narrow mouth was partially concealed by overhanging shrubbery, so we were well within the sweep of its invading waters before I could conjecture the force with which it came. Through the dim light, confusing to the eyes, I sought to peer ahead. The hills, huddled much closer to the shore, appeared rough in their rocky outlines, while the heavy underbrush, clinging tightly to the water-side, offered nothing in the way of a suitable camping-spot. Beyond the tumultuous sweep of this northern tributary, however, I discovered a considerable patch of grass, overshadowed by giant trees, and there I made selection of the spot which should complete our upward voyage.

"Steer us in toward yonder green bank, Madame," I called to Eloise, "where you see that group of trees through the fog. God willing, it shall prove our last camp before we turn east and south once more."

It did my heart good to observe the sudden brightening of her face at these words of promise, as if they came in direct answer to prayer. I understood then how weary she was with our toll, how cruel I had been to hold her so long at it. She had given utterance to no complaint; even now, it was not her voice which welcomed my decision. It was the Chevalier, seldom failing in ready speech, whose careless tongue rasped me with quick retort.

"Ah, so you have really come to your senses, Benteen," he cried eagerly. "I thought it would not be much longer after you were able to get grip upon an oar. Our red-headed friend has slow tongue of late, yet I warrant he has little love for such man-killing work; so a turn-about will be the vote of us all. Saint Anne! 'tis the happiest word to ring in my ears since this cursed trip began."