It took me four hours. Four hours of agony, tortured by mosquitoes and flies of every description, the iron bracelets rubbing my wrists raw so that each push on the pole became an effort of will.
The trouble was that every so often I ran into areas where the mangroves seemed to come closer together, branches crowding in overhead so that I couldn't see the sun which meant that I lost direction. And then there was the bamboo - gigantic walls of it that I could not possibly hope to penetrate. Each time, I had to probe for another way round or even retrace my route and try again from another direction.
When I finally saw daylight, so to speak, it was certainly more by accident than design. There was suddenly considerably fewer mangrove trees around although I suppose it must have been a gradual process. And then I heard the river.
I came out of the trees and edged into the Negro cautiously. It rolled along quietly enough and I had it to myself as far as I could see although as it was several hundred yards wide at that point, islands of various sizes scattered down the centre, it was impossible to be certain.
One thing I needed now above anything else. Rest, even sleep if possible. Some place where I could lie up for a while in safety for I could not continue in my present state.
It seemed to me then that one of those islands out there would be as good a place as any and I pushed out towards the centre of the river using the pole like a double-bladed paddle. It was slow work and I missed my first objective. By then there was hardly any strength left in me at all and each movement of my arms was physical agony.
It was the current which helped me at last, pushing me into ground on a strip of the purest whitest sand imaginable. No south sea island could have offered more. I fell out of the canoe and lay beside it in the shadows for a while, only moving in the end because I would obviously drown if I stayed there, so I got up off my knees and hauled that bloody boat clear of the water ... then fell on my face again.
*
I don't know how long I lay there. It may have been an hour or just a few minutes. There seemed to be some sort of shouting going on near by, all part of the dream, or so it seemed. Perhaps I was still back in the Seco after jumping from the stern-wheeler? I opened my eyes and a child screamed.
There was all the terror in the whole world in that one cry. Enough to bring even me back to life. I got to my feet uncertainly and it started again and didn't stop.
There was a high spit of sand to my right, I scrambled to the top and found two children, a boy and a girl, huddled together in the shadows on the other side, an alligator nosing in towards them.
They could not retreat any farther for there was deep water behind them and the little girl, who was hardly more than a baby, was screaming helplessly. The boy advanced on the beast, howling at the top of his voice, which considering he looked about eight years of age was probably one of the bravest things I've seen in my life.
I started down the slope, forgetting my chains and fell headlong, rolling over twice and landing in about a foot of water which just about finished me off. I'm not really sure what happened then. Someone was yelling at the top of his voice, me, I suppose. The alligator shied away from the children and darted at me, jaws gaping.
I grabbed up the chain between my wrists and brought it down like a flail across that ugly snout again and again, shouting at the children in Portuguese, telling them to get out of it. I was aware of them scurrying by as I battered away and then the alligator slewed round and that great tail knocked my feet from under me.
I kicked at it frantically and then there was a shot and a ragged hole appeared in its snout. The sound it made was unbelievable and it pushed off into deep water leaving a cloud of blood behind.
I lay on my back in the water for a while, then rolled over and got to my knees. A man was standing on the shore, small, muscular, brown-skinned. He might have passed for an Indian except for his hair which was cut European style. He wore a denim shirt and cotton loincloth and the children hung to his legs sobbing bitterly.
The rifle which was pointing in my direction was an old British Army Lee-Enfield. I didn't know what he was going to do with it, didn't even care. I held out my manacled wrists and started to laugh. I remember that and also that I was still laughing when I passed out.
*
It was raining when I returned to life and the sky was the colour of brass, stars already out in the far distances. I was lying beside a flickering fire, there was the roof of a hut silhouetted against the sky beyond and yet I seemed to be moving and there was the gurgle of water beneath me.
I tried to sit up and saw that I was entirely naked except for my chains and my body was blotched here and there with great black swamp leeches.
A hand pushed me down again. 'Please to be still, senhor.'
My friend from the island crouched beside me puffing on a large cigar. When the end of it was really hot he touched it to one of the leeches which shrivelled at once, releasing its hold.
'You are all right, senhor?'
'Just get rid of them,' I said, my flesh crawling.
He lit another cigar and offered it to me politely then continued his task. Beyond him in the shadows the two children watched, faces solemn in the firelight.
'Are the children all right?' I asked.
'Thanks to you, senhor. With children one can never turn the back, you have noticed this? I had put into that island to repair my steering oar. I turn my head for an instant and they are gone.'
Steering oar? I frowned. 'Where am I?'
'You are on my raft, senhor. I am Bartolomeo da Costa, balsero.'
*
Balseros are the water gipsies of Brazil, drifting down the Amazon and Negro with their families on great balsa rafts up to a hundred feet long, the cheapest way of handling cargo on the river. Two thousand miles from the jungles of Peru down to Belem on occasion, taking a couple of months over the voyage.
It seemed as if that little bit of luck I had been seeking had finally come my way. The last leech gave up the ghost and as if at a signal, a quiet, dark-haired woman wearing an old pilot coat against the evening chill emerged from the hut and crouched beside me holding an enamel mug.
It was black coffee and scalding hot. I don't think I have ever tasted anything more delicious. She produced an old blanket which she spread across me then suddenly seized my free hand and kissed it, bursting into tears. Then she got up and rushed away.
'My wife, Nula, senhor,' Bartolomeo told me calmly. 'You must excuse her, but the children - you understand? She wishes to thank you, but does not have the words.'
I didn't know what to say. In any case, he motioned the children forward. 'My son Flaveo and my daughter Christina, senhor.'
The children bobbed their heads. I put a hand out to the boy, forgetting my chains and failed to reach him. 'How old are you?'
'Seven years, senhor,' he whispered.
I said to Bartolomeo, 'Did you know that before I intervened, this one rushed on the jacare to save his sister?'
It was the one and only time during our short acquaintance that I saw Bartolomeo show any emotion on that normally placid face of his. 'No, senhor.' He put a hand on his son's shoulder. 'He did not speak of this.'
'He is a brave boy.'
Bartolomeo capitulated completely, pulled the boy to him, kissed him soundly on both cheeks, kissed the girl and gave them both a push away from him. 'Off with you - go help your mama with the meal.' He got to his feet. 'And now, senhor, we will see to these chains of yours.'
He went into the hut and reappeared with a bundle under one arm which when unrolled, proved to be about as comprehensive a tool kit as I could have wished for.
'On a raft one must be prepared for all eventualities,' he informed me.
'Are you sure you should be doing this?'
'You escaped from Machados?' he said.
'I was on my way there. Jumped overboard when we were on the Seco. They shot the man who was with me.'
'A bad place. You are well out of it. How did they fasten these things?'
'Some sort of twist key.'
'Then it should be simple enough to get them open.'
It could have been worse, I suppose. The leg anklets took him almost an hour, but he seemed to have the knack after that and had my hands free in twenty minutes. My wrists were rubbed raw. He eased them with some sort of grease or other which certainly got results for they stopped hurting almost immediately, then he bandaged them with strips of cotton.
'My wife has washed your clothes,' he said. 'They are almost dry now except for the leather jacket and boots which will take longer, but first we eat. Talk can come later.'
*
It was a simple enough meal. Fish cooked on heated flat stones, cassava root bread, bananas. Nothing had tasted better. Never had my appetite been keener.
Afterwards I dressed and Nula brought more coffee then disappeared with the children. Bartolomeo offered me a cigar and I leaned back and took in the night.
It was very peaceful, whippoorwills wailed mournfully, tree frogs croaked, water rattled against the raft. 'Don't you need to guide it?' I asked him.
'Not on this section of the river. Here, the current takes us along a well-defined channel and life is easy. In other places, I am at the steering oar constantly.'
'Do you always travel by night?'
He shook his head. 'Usually we carry green bananas, but this time we are lucky. We have a cargo of wild rubber. There is a bonus in it for me if I can have it in Belem by a certain date. Nula and I take turn and turn about and watch during the night.'
I got to my feet and looked out into the pale darkness. 'You are a lucky man. This is a good life.'
He said, 'Senhor, I owe you more than sits comfortably on me. It is a burden. A debt to be repaid. We will be in Belem in a month. Stay with us. No one would look for you here if there should be a hue and cry.'
It was a tempting thought. Belem and possibly a berth on a British freighter. I could even try stowing away if the worst came to the worst.
But then there was Hannah and the fact that if I ran now, I would be running, in the most fundamental way of all, for the rest of my life. 'When do you reach Forte Franco?'
'If things go according to plan, around dawn on the day after tomorrow.'
'That's where I'll leave you. I want to get to Landro about fifty miles up the Rio das Mortes. Do you know it?'
'I've heard of the place. This is important to you?'
'Very.'
'Good.' He nodded. 'Plenty of boats coming up-river and I know everyone in the game. We will wait at Franco till I see you safely on your way. It is settled.'
I tried to protest, but he brushed it aside, went into the hut and reappeared with a bottle of what turned out to be the roughest brandy I've ever tasted in my life. It almost took the skin off my tongue. I fought for air, but the consequent effect was all that could be desired. All tiredness slipped away, I felt ten feet tall.
'Your business in Landro, senhor,' he said pouring more brandy into my mug. 'It is important?'
'I'm going to see a man.'
'To kill him?'
'In a way,' I said. 'I'm going to make him tell the truth for the first time in his life.'
*
I slept like a baby for fourteen hours and didn't raise my head till noon the following day. During the afternoon I helped Bartolomeo generally around the raft in spite of his protests. There was always work to be done. Ropes chafing or some of the great balsa logs working loose which was only to be expected on such a long voyage. I even took a turn on the steering oar although the river continued so placid that it was hardly necessary.
That night it rained and I sat in the hut and played cards with him in the light of a storm lantern. Surprisingly he was an excellent whist player - certainly a damned sight better than me. Eventually, he went out on watch and I wrapped myself in a blanket and lay in the corner smoking one of his cigars and thinking about what lay ahead.
The truth was that I was a fool. I was putting my head into a noose again with no guarantee of any other outcome than a swift return to Machados and this time, they'd see I got there.
But I had to face Hannah with this thing - had to make him admit his treachery, no matter what the consequences. I flicked my cigar out into the rain, hitched my blanket over my shoulder and went to sleep.
*
We reached the mouth of the Mortes about four in the morning. Bartolomeo took the raft into the left bank and I helped him tie her securely to a couple of trees. Afterwards, he put a canoe in the water and departed down-river.
I breakfasted with Nula and the children then paced the raft restlessly, waiting for something to happen. I was too close, that was the thing, itching to be on my way and have it all over and done with.
Bartolomeo returned at seven, hailing us from the deck of an old steam barge, the canoe trailing behind on a line. The barge came alongside and Bartolomeo crossed over. The man who leaned from the deckhouse was thin and ill-looking with the haggard, bad-tempered face of one constantly in pain. His skin was as yellow as only jaundice can make it.
'All right, Bartolomeo,' he called. 'If we're going, let's go. I'm in a hurry. I've got cargo waiting up-river.'
'My second cousin,' Bartolomeo said. 'Inside, he has a heart of purest gold.'
'Hurry it up, you bastard,' his cousin shouted.
'If you want to speak to him, call him Silvio. He won't ask you questions if you don't ask him any and he'll put you down at Landro. He owes me a favour.'
We shook hands. 'My thanks,' I said.
'God be with you, my friend.'
I stepped over the rail to the steam barge and the two Indian deckhands cast off. As we pulled away, I moved to the stern and looked back towards the raft. Bartolomeo stood watching, an arm about his wife, the two children at his side.
He leaned down and spoke to them and they both started to wave vigorously. I waved back, feeling unaccountably cheered and then we moved into the mouth of the Mortes and they disappeared from view.