The Mighty Orinoco. Jules Verne

M. Marchal, “and they planned to stop over at several villages along the way. They’re traveling a bit as luck would take them, that’s what they told me. One, M. Germain Paterne, botanizes with all the curiosity of a naturalist who would risk his life to discover some unknown plant. The other fellow, M. Jacques Helloch, a determined hunter, is passionate about all things geographical, the contours of a region, the path of a water course, et cetera. These obsessions can lead one far … often very far … too far, perhaps … and then, when it’s time to return…”

      “Let’s hope,” said M. Varinas, “that nothing unfortunate has happened to those two Frenchmen!”

      “We have to hope so,” responded the official, “although their absence is already too long.”

      “Can we be sure that they planned to return to La Urbana?” asked M. Felipe.

      “No doubt about that, since their boat is waiting for them here, with the specimens they’ve already collected and their camping gear.”

      “When they left,” said Jean, “did they have a guide, an escort?”

      “Yes, a few Mapoyos that I got for them,” replied the official.

      “Men you trusted?” asked M. Miguel.

      “As much as one can, when it’s a question of Indians from the interior.”

      “And,” continued Jean, “do you know what part of the territory they were preparing to visit?”

      “From what I know of their plans,” explained M. Marchal, “they must have headed toward the Sierra Matapey, to the east of the Orinoco, a little-known area frequented only by the Yaruros or the Mapoyos. Your two compatriots and the leader of the escort were on horseback; the other Indians, numbering some half-dozen, accompanied them on foot, carrying packs.”

      “Is the land to the east of the Orinoco subject to flooding?” asked Jean de Kermor.

      “No,” replied M. Miguel, “and the surface of its plains is considerably above sea level.”

      “True enough, M. Miguel,” added the head official, “but it is subject to earthquakes, and you know they are not rare in Venezuela.”

      “At all times?” asked the lad.

      “No,” declared M. Marchal, “at certain times of the year. Over the last month we have felt rather violent tremors as far as the Tigra ranch.”

      It is common knowledge that the Venezuelan soil is often troubled by volcanic tremors, although its mountains do not have active craters. Humboldt even called it “the country of earthquakes par excellence.” That title seems justified by the destruction of the city of Cumana in the sixteenth century, which was struck again 150 years later when the region “trembled” for fifteen months. Another city in the Andean territory, Mesida, also found itself devastated by those dreadful commotions. And, in 1812, twelve thousand inhabitants were crushed under the ruins of Caracas. These disasters, which have had thousands of victims, are still to be feared in the Hispano-American provinces, and it was true that, for some time now, they had been feeling the ground tremble in the eastern area of the mid-Orinoco.

      When all questions were asked and answered about the two Frenchmen, M. Marchal then turned his attention to Sergeant Martial and his nephew.

      “We now know,” he said, “why MM. Miguel, Varinas, and Felipe undertook their journey on the Orinoco. No doubt your trip does not have the same goal.”

      Sergeant Martial made a sweeping gesture of denial; but on a sign from Jean, he had to refrain from further expressing his disdain for these geographic questions which, in his mind, would interest only publishers of textbooks and atlases.

      The lad then told his story, what motives had brought him to leave France, what filial sentiment he was obeying in going up the Orinoco, and his hope of finding some new information in San Fernando, where the last letter from his father was sent.

      Old M. Marchal could not disguise the emotion this response caused him. He seized Jean’s hands, drew him into his arms, kissed him on the forehead—which made the Sergeant grumble under his breath. It was like a blessing that he gave him, along with the warmest wishes for the success of his project.

      “But neither you, M. Marchal, nor you, monsieur the official, you haven’t heard of the Colonel de Kermor?” asked the lad.

      They both shook their heads.

      “Perhaps,” answered the official, “the colonel did not stop in La Urbana? That would surprise me, though, for it is rare that a boat doesn’t stop here to stock up. It was in 1879, you say?”

      “Yes, sir,” replied Jean. “Were you already living in this town?”

      “Certainly, and I never heard that the Colonel de Kermor had come through here.”

      Again that incognito with which the colonel had sought to cover himself since his departure.

      “Don’t worry, my dear lad,” affirmed M. Miguel, “it is impossible that your father didn’t leave some trace of his stay in San Fernando, and there you will no doubt obtain information which will assure the success of your search.”

      The discussion continued until ten o’clock, when the guests of the head official, after taking leave of this hospitable family, returned on board their boats, which were to cast off the next day at dawn.

      Jean went to lie down on his cot in the passenger quarters, and, once his usual mosquito hunt was completed, Sergeant Martial stretched out on his own.

      Both fell asleep, but not for long.

      Toward two o’clock they were aroused by a distant rumbling, continuously growing.

      It was like a dull murmuring which they could not mistake for thunder, even distant. The river waters, unusually agitated, began rocking the Gallinetta.

      Sergeant Martial and the lad got up, left their quarters, and stood at the foot of the mast.

      The skipper Valdez and his crew, standing in the bow of the falca, were searching the horizon.

      “What’s happening, Valdez?” asked Jean.

      “I don’t know.“

      “Is it a storm approaching?”

      “No. The sky has no clouds. The wind is from the east, and it’s very weak.”

      “Where’s this disturbance coming from?”

      “I don’t know … I just don’t know,” repeated Valdez.

      Indeed, it was inexplicable, unless it was being produced, upstream or downstream from the village, by a sort of tidal bore caused by the sudden rise of the river. Anything could be expected from the capricious Orinoco.

      On board the Maripare, the passengers and crew showed the same surprise. M. Miguel and his two friends, outside their quarters, were seeking in vain to determine the cause of this phenomenon.

      Remarks exchanged between the two boats gave no plausible explanation. Further, if this movement of the water was being felt in both boats, the ground along the riverside was also not exempt from it. Almost at the same instant, the inhabitants of La Urbana, abandoning their huts, came down toward the riverbank. M. Marchal and the head official rapidly joined them. A growing alarm was beginning to overtake the town’s population.

      It was then four-thirty in the morning, and day was about to break.

      The passengers in both ships disembarked and went at once to the head official.

      “What’s going on?” asked M. Miguel.

      “No doubt it is an earthquake in the Sierra Matapey,” he answered, “and the shocks are extending as far as the riverbed.”

      M. Miguel was of the same opinion. There was no doubt that the region was undergoing shocks due to seismic disturbance, quite frequent in the land