the trees which cradle them, the sort of lakes that the river forms as it widens both up and downstream, the movement and animation of the port, the numerous ships of both sail and steam attesting to its bustling river commerce, which is supplemented by its substantial trade on land—all this contributed to make the area quite charming and picturesque.
Through Soledad, where the railroad is to end, Ciudad Bolívar will not be long in linking up with Caracas, the capital of Venezuela.12 Its exports in cow and deer hides, in coffee, cotton, indigo, cacao, and tobacco will thus be expanded, adding to its already sizeable increases due to the mining of deposits of gold-bearing quartz, discovered in 1840 in the valley of Yurauri.
So the news that the three scientists, members of the Geographic Society of Venezuela, were going on an expedition to settle the question of the Orinoco and its two tributaries in the southwest caused a great stir throughout the country. The Bolívarians are a demonstrative sort, passionate and fiery by nature. The newspapers soon became involved, taking sides with the Atabapoists, Guaviarians, and the Orinocophiles. Public sentiment became inflamed. One might really have thought that these waterways were threatening to rise up from their beds, to leave the country, to emigrate to some other state in the New World if they were not treated fairly.
Did this journey upriver hold any serious dangers? Yes, especially for travelers with only themselves to rely on. So would it not have been appropriate for the government to make a few sacrifices to solve this critical problem? Was not this a clear opportunity to use the militia, which could put 250,000 men in the field but which has never called up more than a tenth of them? Why not assign the explorers a unit of 6,000 soldiers from this standing army whose upper ranks include, according to Elisée Reclus who is always so perfectly documented in such ethnographic curiosities,13 up to 7,000 generals plus a lavish assortment of other officers?14
But MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas asked for no such help. They would travel at their own expense, escorted only by the laborers, ranchers, boatmen, and guides who reside along the banks of the river. They would proceed in the same fashion as all other pioneers of science before them. Besides, they did not have to go beyond the village of San Fernando, which had been built at the junction of the Atabapo and Guaviare. Further, it is mainly in the lands along the upper reaches of the river that there is a danger of attack by Indians from independent tribes who are difficult to contain and who are sometimes justly blamed for the massacres and looting in those parts, which is not surprising in a region that used to be inhabited by the Caribes.
To be sure, downstream of San Fernando in the lands opposite the mouth of the Meta, it is also wise to avoid both the Guahibo Indians, so resistant to social laws, and the Quivas, whose reputation for savagery is well deserved, thanks to the outrages they perpetrated in Colombia before moving to the banks of the Orinoco.
As a result, there was definite uneasiness in Ciudad Bolívar concerning the fate of two Frenchmen who had gone off on a similar expedition about a month before. After heading up the river past its junction with the Meta, these two travelers had ventured into Quiva and Guahibo territory and had not been heard from since.
News of the expedition caused a great stir.
But all the same, the upper reaches of the Orinoco are infinitely worse: completely uncharted territory, out of reach of the Venezuelan authorities, never visited by traders, and at the mercy of prowling bands of natives. In truth, if the Indian settlers to the west and to the north of the main river are well mannered and devoted to agricultural pursuits, those who live in the low grasslands of this Orinoco district are a different story entirely. They are thieves by both greed and necessity, and they are no strangers to treachery or murder.
Would it be possible someday to tame these fierce and indomitable people? What cannot be achieved with the beasts of the plains, can it be achieved with the natives of the upper Orinoco flatlands? The truth is that even the bravest missionaries who have tried have had no great success.
One of them, a Frenchman from the foreign missions,15 went some years back to these regions upriver. Had his faith and courage paid off? Had he subdued these savage tribes and converted them into practicing Catholics? These Indians had resisted civilization’s best efforts—was there any reason to think that this courageous emissary from the Santa Juana Mission had finally managed to gather them into the fold?16
In any case, to return to M. Miguel and his two colleagues, it was not a question of venturing into those far-off lands beneath Mount Roraima, although if geographic progress had demanded it, they would not have balked at charting the respective sources of the Orinoco, the Guaviare, and the Atabapo. Still, their friends were realistically hopeful that this question of origins could be settled at the place where these three rivers meet. It was generally accepted that Orinoco’s preeminence would ultimately prevail—this mighty river which is joined by some three hundred streams over its course of 2,500 kilometers before branching into the fifty arms of its delta and flowing into the Atlantic.
CHAPTER II
Sergeant Martial and His Nephew
The departure of this trio of geographers—a trio whose performers rarely played in tune with each other—was set for August 12, in the middle of the rainy season.
The night before, around eight o’clock in the evening, two travelers staying at a hotel in Ciudad Bolívar were chatting in one of their rooms. A light, balmy breeze blew in through the window, which overlooked the Alameda boardwalk.
Just then, the younger of these two travelers stood up and said to the other in French, “Pay close attention, my dear Martial. I’ll remind you one last time, before we retire, of everything we agreed to before we left home.”
“As you wish, monsieur.”
“Come now!” Jean exclaimed. “There you go, already forgetting your role the instant you open your mouth!”
“How did I forget my role?”
“You’re using the formal vous and not the familiar tu!”1
“You’re right. But what do you expect, monsie—uh, Jean! Old habits die hard!”
“Hard? What are you saying, my dear Sergeant? We left France a month ago, and the whole way from Saint-Nazaire to Caracas you’ve been calling me by my first name!”
“That is true!” Sergeant Martial admitted.
“And here we are in Ciudad Bolívar, at the starting point of this journey that offers us the possibility of so much happiness … or disappointment … or sorrow…”
Jean had spoken these words with intense feeling. His chest quivered, his eyes moistened. However, seeing the alarm that came over the sergeant’s craggy features, the lad got a grip on himself.
Then he smiled again. “Yes, here we are in Ciudad Bolívar,” he chided, “and you pick a fine time to suddenly forget that you’re my uncle and I’m your nephew!”
“What an idiot I am!” Sergeant Martial answered, slapping himself sharply on the forehead.
“No, but you get distracted. Instead of you taking care of me, I have to … Look, my dear Martial, isn’t it customary for an uncle to address his nephew in a more familiar way?”
“Yes, it’s customary.”
