The Mighty Orinoco. Jules Verne

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.”

      “And the instant we boarded ship, didn’t I set you a good example by consistently calling you uncle?”

      “Yes, you were so consistent. You didn’t let up even—”

      “Even a little!” Jean cut in emphatically.

      “Right, not even a little!” echoed Sergeant Martial, whose eyes softened whenever they settled on his make-believe nephew.

      “And while we’re at it,” the other added, “don’t forget that the word ‘little’ is pequeño in Spanish.”

      “Pequeño,” Sergeant Martial repeated over and over. “Not a bad word! I learned that one and maybe fifty others—but not a whole lot more, even though I’ve been racking my brains over them.”

      “How thick can your skull be?” Jean went on. “During our trip over on the Pereire, I made you do your Spanish lessons every day.”

      “What do you expect, Jean? I’ve spoken French my whole life, it’s torture for an old soldier my age to learn this Andalusian gibberish! Honestly, hell will freeze over before I’ll ever ‘Spaniardize’ myself, as some writer put it!”

      “It’ll come, my dear Martial.”

      “You’re right, it’s already happened with those fifty words I’ve been practicing. I know how to ask for something to eat: Deme usted algo de comer. Something to drink: Deme usted de beber. Somewhere to sleep: Deme usted una cama. Which way to go: Enseñeme usted el camino. How much it costs: Cuánto vale esto? Also I can say thanks: Gracias! And hello: Buenos dias. Good night: Buenas noches. How’re things: Cómo está usted? What’s more, I can cuss like I grew up in Aragon or Castille: Carambi de carambo de caramba—”²

      “All right—all right!” Jean exclaimed, his cheeks turning red. “You didn’t learn those words from me, and you’d better not start swearing all over the place!”

      “What do you expect, Jean? I’m an old NCO, and that’s how we are! All my life I’ve tossed around my hells and damns, and conversations that aren’t spiced up with a few cusswords seem lifeless to me! You know what I like best about this Spanish lingo that you talk like a señora?”

      “Tell me, Sergeant.”

      “Just this—Spanish has almost as many swearwords as regular words!”

      “And naturally these are the ones that you have no trouble remembering!”

      “You’ve got it, lad! And when I served under Colonel de Kermor, he didn’t care if I swore up a storm!”

      At this mention of the name Colonel de Kermor, the young man’s face suddenly changed expression, while Sergeant Martial’s eyes began to moisten.

      “You see, Jean,” he went on. “If God whispered to me, ‘Sergeant, in one hour you will shake your Colonel’s hand, but two minutes later I shall strike you dead.’ I’d answer back, ‘Whatever you say, Lord. Get your lightning ready and aim straight for the heart!’”

      Wiping his eyes, Jean looked at the old soldier affectionately; he lacked polish, but he was absolutely honest and devoted. And when the old fellow tried to give him a hug, the boy caught his arms. “You need to be a little less fond of me, my dear Sergeant!” he said in a tender voice.

      “Is that possible?”

      “Possible, and essential—at least out in public, where people can see us.”

      “But when they can’t see us?”

      “You can treat me