Chapter 23 - Ran Away to Sea by Mayne Reid
Of course my companion and I kept our places in the top of the tree; we could not do otherwise. Had we attempted to come down it would only have been to fling ourselves right into the jaws of the lion—who lay at just such a distance from the trunk that he could have reached us by a single bound, the moment we set foot upon the earth. There he lay or rather squatted, like a cat; though at intervals he rose and stretched his body into a crouching attitude, and lashed his sides with his tufted tail, and showed his teeth, and roared angrily. Then for some moments he would lie down again and lick his wounded paw—still growling while he did so, as though he was vowing revenge for the injury!
When he saw that he had ceased to attempt climbing the tree, we were in hopes he would get tired of the attack and go off altogether. But those hopes gradually forsook us, as we observed the pertinacity with which he still continued to watch us. If either of us made a motion among the branches, he would instantly spring to his feet—as though he fancied we were about to descend and was determined to intercept us. This, of itself, proved that he had not the slightest intention of moving off from the ground, and convinced us that the siege was not to be raised with the consent of the besieger.
We began to grow exceedingly apprehensive about our situation. Hitherto we had been terrified by the sudden attack of the lion, but these moments of terror were short-lived, and, on account of the excitement which accompanied them, we had neither time to reflect nor suffer; we had not time to feel despair, and in fact had not despaired of safety, even while the lion was using all his efforts to reach us, for we had the belief that he could not get up.
Now, however, a new danger threatened us. Though we felt quite secure in our “roost” we could not remain there long. It was by no means comfortable, straddling the naked branch of a tree; but the comfort was a small consideration. We were both used to riding such a stock-horse, and as for Brace, he could have gone to sleep with only the flying-jib-boom between his legs, so that it was not the discomfort we cared about. There was something more serious than this to reflect upon, and that was the prospect of being afflicted by hunger and thirst. I need not say the prospect. As for hunger, we were not yet suffering for want of food; but already the sister appetite had begun to be felt, and keenly too. We had not tasted water since leaving the river, and any one who has ever made a march under the tropical sun of Africa knows that at every half-mile you feel the desire to drink. Both of us had been thirsty almost since the moment we parted with the boat, and I had been looking out for water ever since. We blamed ourselves for not having brought with us a canteen, or water-bottle, and we already paid for our negligence, or rather our ignorance—for it never entered into our minds that such a provision would be necessary, any more than if we had gone out for a day’s fowling into the fields about home.
We had already been suffering from thirst, but now that we sat upon those bare branches, with not a bit of shade to screen us from the fierce rays of a noon-day’s sun—and a hot tropical sun at that—we began to feel the pangs of thirst in right earnest, and in a way I had never felt them before. Indeed, it was a most painful sensation, and I thought if it was to increase, or even continue much longer, it would kill me. My companion suffered also, though not so badly as I. He was more used to such extremities, and could better bear them.
Perhaps had we been actually engaged in some work we should not have felt this misery so keenly; but we had nothing to do but balance our bodies upon the branches and calmly reflect. So much the worse. We were able to comprehend our situation, and fully understand its perilous nature.
The prospect was far from cheering. Out of the tree we dared not go, else we should be eaten up by the lion. If we remained in the tree, we should become the victims either of thirst or hunger, or both.
How were we to be relieved from this terrible alternative? Would the lion grow wearied with watching us, and wander away? There was not the least likelihood he would do so. All his movements indicated an opposite intention; and for our consolation, I now remembered having read of the implacable nature of this fierce brute when wounded or provoked—so far different from the generous disposition usually ascribed to him, and which certainly he often displays when not molested, or perhaps when not hungry.
Whether our lion was hungry or not, we had no means of judging; but we knew he had been molested, and roughly handled too; his revengeful feelings had been roused to their highest pitch; and, therefore, whatever of vengeance was in his nature would now be exhibited. Beyond a doubt his ire was not going to cool down in a hurry. We might wait a long while before he would feel inclined to forgiveness. We had no hope from his mercy. Perhaps the night might produce a change. On this alone we rested our hopes.
We never speculated on being rescued by any of our companions from the Pandora. Though Brace had friends among them, they were not the sort of friends to trouble themselves much about what became of him. They might make a show of search, but there were twenty ways they could go, without hitting on the right one; and to find any one among these limitless forests would be a mere act of chance. We had not much hope of being rescued by them.
What little hope we had from this source rested upon a singular belief. My companion suggested that the Pandora’s people, on finding we did not return at night, might fancy we had deserted. In that case it was probable enough we might be searched for, and with sufficient zeal to ensure our being found!
This was a singular conjecture, and both of us wished it might prove a correct one. Under this contingency there was a better prospect of our being relieved.
By this time our thirst had become oppressive. Our throats were parched as though we had swallowed red-pepper, and our tongues could not produce the slightest moisture. Even the natural saliva had ceased to flow.
While suffering thus, an idea occurred to my companion: I saw him with his knife make an incision in the bark of one of the branches. The point that had first led us to approach the great tree was now decided. Red sap flowed from the wound:—it was the “dragons’-blood!”
In hopes of getting relief from this source, we both moistened our lips with the crimson-juice, and swallowed it as fast as it oozed out. Had we been better acquainted with the medical botany we should have let this liquor alone, for the dragons’-blood is one of the most noted of astringents. Alas! we soon discovered its qualities by experiment. In five minutes after, our tongues felt as if vitriol had been poured upon them, and our thirst increased to a degree of violence and fierceness that could no longer be borne. Deeply did we now repent what we had done; deeply did we rue the tasting of that blood-like sap. We might have endured for days, had we not swallowed those crimson drops; but already were we suffering as if days had passed since we had tasted water!
Our thirst had suddenly increased, and still kept increasing, until the agony we endured was positively excruciating. I cannot describe it. Some idea may be had of its terrible nature when I assert that we actually talked of descending from the tree, and risking our lives in a knife-conflict with the lion, rather than endure it longer!