The Mighty Orinoco. Jules Verne

any kind of domination, who fiercely resisted, to be blunt, the forces of civilization itself. The Caura governor furnished many specifics about the natives, valuable details that M. Miguel, as knowledgeable as he was in geographic matters, had not heard until that day. Moreover, their discussion never deteriorated into a heated dispute, since it did not ruffle the feisty feathers of MM. Felipe and Varinas.

      Close to noontime the governor’s guests got up from the table and headed back to the Simón Bolívar, due to depart at one o’clock in the afternoon.

      Uncle and nephew, having already returned for lunch, had remained on board. Astern on the upper deck, where Sergeant Martial was smoking his pipe, they spotted M. Miguel and his colleagues off in the distance, coming back to the boat.

      The governor had decided to accompany them. Wishing to give them a last handshake and bid them farewell as the boat was casting off, he came aboard and went up to the promenade deck.

      At this, Sergeant Martial said to Jean: “That governor’s got to be at least a general—though he has on a jacket instead of a tunic, a sombrero instead of a cocked hat, and no medals on his chest.”

      “Could be, uncle.”

      “One of those generals without soldiers—there are quite a few in these American republics.”

      “He seems like a pretty intelligent man,” the lad commented.

      “More like a pretty nosy man,” Sergeant Martial shot back. “Because he’s looking over here in a way I can hardly tolerate.”

      It was true, the governor kept staring intently at the two Frenchmen who had been a topic of conversation at his lunch table.

      Their presence on the Simón Bolívar, their reason for taking this trip, the question of whether their destination was Caicara or somewhere farther along the Apure or the Orinoco—all this continued to arouse his interest. Generally, explorers of these rivers were men in the prime of life, like the two who had visited Las Bonitas a few weeks before and had not been heard from since they left La Urbana. But this young man of sixteen or seventeen, plus this old soldier of sixty—it was hard to picture them on any kind of scientific expedition!

      After all, even in Venezuela a governor has the right to look into why foreigners are visiting his territory, to speak with them about it, to ask them a few bureaucratic questions.

      So the governor strolled toward the stern of the promenade deck, all the while chatting with M. Miguel, who had the official to himself after his two colleagues had gone back to their cabin.

      Sergeant Martial could instantly see what was up.

      “Watch out!” he said. “Our general’s all set to approach us, and I guarantee he’ll ask us who we are, why we’re here, where we’re headed—”

      “Fine, my dear Martial, we haven’t a thing to hide,” Jean replied.

      “I hate it when people poke into my affairs, and I’m going to tell him to just leave us be.”

      “You’ll get us in trouble, uncle!” the lad said, holding him back.

      “I don’t want anybody talking to you. I don’t want anybody around you.”

      “And I don’t want you ruining our trip with your clumsy stubbornness!” Jean retorted, putting his foot down. “This man’s governor of the Caura region. If he asks me a question, I’ll gladly answer, and hopefully I’ll get some information from him in return.”

      Sergeant Martial grumbled to himself, and puffed resentfully on his pipe. He pulled in closer when the governor addressed his nephew in Spanish, which Jean spoke fluently.

      “You’re French?”

      “That’s right, Mr. Governor,” Jean replied, facing the official.

      “How about your friend here?”

      “My uncle. He’s a Frenchman also, a retired army sergeant.”

      Despite his shaky grasp of Spanish, Sergeant Martial understood they were talking about him. Accordingly, he drew himself up to his full height, believing that a French sergeant of the 72nd Division equaled a Venezuelan general any day, including those who governed entire territories.

      “I don’t think I’m out of line, young fellow,” the governor went on, “if I ask whether you’ll be traveling farther than Caicara.”

      “Yes, we’ll be going farther, Mr. Governor,” Jean answered.

      “Up the Orinoco or the Apure?”

      “The Orinoco.”

      “As far as San Fernando de Atabapo?”

      “That far, Mr. Governor. Maybe even farther, if I get any information there that calls for it.”

      The governor, along with M. Miguel, was deeply impressed with Jean’s crisp manner and clear answers, and it was obvious they both had a genuine liking for the young man.

      Now then, Sergeant Martial aimed to protect the lad from just this kind of overt attention. He did not like anybody inspecting Jean too closely; he did not want other people—foreigners or not—appreciating his nephew’s natural grace and charm. And what upset the sergeant even more was M. Miguel’s obvious interest in the lad. The Caura governor was not important since he would stay behind in Las Bonitas. But M. Miguel not only was a passenger on the Simón Bolívar, he was also continuing up the river to San Fernando. Once he got acquainted with Jean, it would be hard to keep them from becoming friendly, which often happens among travelers on a long trip.

      And why not? one might ask Sergeant Martial.

      If, during their risky Orinoco journey, uncle and nephew were helped by some influential person, what would be wrong if he became close to them in the process? That would be perfectly normal, would it not?

      Of course. And yet if you were to ask Sergeant Martial why he would throw obstacles in the way of such a budding friendship, he would only growl, “Because I don’t like it, that’s why!” And you would have to be happy with that, because it is the only answer you would ever be likely to get from him.

      However, at this point he had to put up with the governor and let his nephew converse with the man.

      Just then the official was busy questioning Jean on the purpose of his trip. “You’re going to San Fernando?” he asked the boy.

      “Yes, Mr. Governor.”

       “That far, Mr. Governor. Maybe even farther … ”

      “For what purpose?”

      “To get information.”

      “Information about what?”

      “About Colonel de Kermor.”

      “Colonel de Kermor?” the governor repeated. “This is the first time I’ve ever heard that name. And I haven’t heard about any Frenchman being in San Fernando since the days of M. Chaffanjon.”

      “But he was there a few years earlier,” the young man noted.

      “How do you know that?” the governor asked.

      “Because of the last letter the Colonel sent to France, a signed letter to a friend of his in Nantes.”

      “So, young man,” the governor went on, “you’re saying that Colonel de Kermor stayed in San Fernando some years ago?”

      “No doubt about it. His letter was dated April 12, 1879.”

      “That’s amazing.”

      “How so, Mr. Governor?”

      “Because I was there at that time as governor of Atabapo, and if a Frenchman like Colonel de Kermor had shown up in the region, I definitely would