Yet, so strong is man's instinct of self-preservation that, unconsciously almost, in the midst of these reflections I found myself hurrying onward, thinking how I might manage to survive. My plight was desperate. For months I had hesitated to attempt to make my way to civilization, fearing to take the chance even when provided with food enough to last me for weeks, with ammunition enough and to spare. Yet here I was without food, with only a few rounds of ammunition, without shoes, alone in the Gran Pajonal, the largest area of unexplored jungle in the world. What I had feared to do Fate had forced upon me. As full realization of my position came to me I was half-minded to give up, to put an end to myself. Then I cursed myself for a coward and a fool. I would go on. I would fight to the end. If I found myself unable to go farther—starving, facing a certain lingering death—there would still be time enough to put a merciful bullet through my own brain. In the face of what was ahead I forgot what lay behind. I no longer even thought of the eruption. I didn't believe there would be one anyway. Abruptly I remembered that I was almost naked and was still carrying the garments that, instinctively, I had snatched up. I stopped, put on my ragged, patched clothes and again resumed my way through the forest.
That afternoon I shot an agouti. It was the only living creature, other than small birds, that I had seen. Partly sheltered by the outflung root buttresses of a huge mora tree I built a fire, cooked my meat and passed the night. I felt more cheerful, more confident when another day dawned. I might yet pull through, I decided. I might find enough game to keep me going. The agouti would provide food for the day, and if I were lucky enough to kill a deer or some large animal, I could smoke the meat—smoke it over a fire—and live on it for many days.
The Journey to Civilization Begun
I counted my cartridges. I had twenty-two. Even if I shot some creature every other day I had enough ammunition to last me for over a month—that is, if I didn't miss. I would have to be careful, be sure every shot counted. And I would have to keep a sharp lookout for anything edible—nuts, fruits, snakes, lizards, frogs—which would help conserve my ammunition. I decided that unless something went amiss I should be able to survive for nearly two months, and I ought to strike some outpost or some village of semi-civilized Indians in six weeks, if at all.
No use trying to give you a detailed account of my wanderings. It wouldn't interest you, and it isn't important—just the usual thing, the thing you and scores of others have been through. Just the endless jungle, damp, soggy underfoot; endless, giant tree trunks, a dense impenetrable roof of green, a tangle of lianas drooping from the lofty branches; shafts of sunlight here and there; occasional small streams, impassable patches of thorn and saw-grass; the notes of invisible birds hundreds of feet above; hour after hour with no sign of life, and a weary, despairing man plodding on and on and on. There's nothing like the jungle to take the self-conceit out of a man, to destroy his inherent superiority complex. I don't think I ever had fully realized it before. I had always been with other men—white men or Indians—and unconsciously one compared oneself with others—and can always find ways in which one is their superior. But alone in the jungle! That's when a man realizes what he really is. Only an atom. I know just how an ant must feel in an acre of corn. And the silence! I had never noticed that before. Not a silence devoid of sound, but a silence made the more obtrusive, the more terrible because of the sounds—the dropping of a nut that makes one jump, the falling of a twig that fairly crashes, the twitter of a bird that seems to pierce one's ear-drums. Lord, how it got on my nerves! Sometimes I had to shout, scream and yell just to break that awful vast silence. And for hour after hour I sung, whistled, talked to myself—anything to hear a steady sound of some sort. Of course that frightened what game there was, so for other hours I had to force myself to be as silent as the jungle creatures. Yet through it all, within my brain I could still hear that accursed Death-Drum beating, beating, beating, beating!"
Stirling, trembling, wild eyed, he reached for the decanter on the table before us, poured himself a stiff drink and gulped it down. With shaking fingers he filled and lit the pipe I had given him. Presently he continued.
Ten Days in the Pajonal—A River Is Reached
"I {{uc|must{{ have been in the Pajonal for ten days when I came to the river," he said. "It flowed toward the west, so I felt I must be on the Pacific water-shed. That would mean I would come out in Peru or Ecuador if I followed down the stream. But of course I couldn't be certain of that. The river might turn and twist in every direction. It might really flow to the east, to the north or to the south. But whatever its course I made up my mind to trust to it. I couldn't stand much more of that jungle tramping. It wasn't a large stream—not much more than a good sized brook, and the current wasn't swift. There might be rapids ahead, but it wasn't mountainous country. I thanked God I had a machete, for without it I never could have made the raft. It wasn't much of a raft at that—just a few sections of the cecropia tree trunks—you know, the ones the Indians use for floating timbers; like gigantic bamboos. Two or three of the pieces lashed together with vines was all I needed. That and a long pole and a sort of crude paddle I hacked out of a piece of a palm tree.
It floated me all right, and you can't imagine what a joy it was—just to stand there and guide the thing, and float along between the banks with no real effort.
