The journey from La Urbana to Caicara passed off without any incident. On jumping ashore at this latter point we hoped that we were leaving our canoes for good, and that the rest of the journey to Ciudad Bolivar would take place by steam.

The people received us very kindly, and, though the town was far from modern or rich, we enjoyed some comforts that we had lacked during the long journey which lay behind us.

Though eight weeks had passed since the news of the death of the Governor of San Carlos had reached Maipures, nothing was known about it at Caicara. This will give an idea of the abandonment in which those vast territories are left by those under whose political authority they live. Grave international complications with the neighbouring States might arise from disturbances like that at San Carlos, and yet the news had only come down by mere chance, brought by travellers who had no personal interest in it.

Finding that there was no certainty as to the steamers likely to touch at Caicara, we reluctantly decided to take again to the slow and sure method of canoeing, rather than wait for him who had not promised to come, and thus we proceeded on our journey in the same canoes that we had imagined we were abandoning once for all two days before. A feeling of discontent began to possess us. It was not that we were dissatisfied with the kind of life, nor that we had become over-sensitive to the privations inherent to it, nor that we complained of being plain squires compelled to adopt the practices of knight-errants, such as not eating off linen, nor sleeping on comfortable couches, nor under roof of house or mansion; no, our great longing arose at the thought of those far away in the civilized world, to whom our long silence must necessarily be a source of anxiety. For the rest, however, the life we were leading had become a sort of second nature, and we found it by no means disagreeable. We ate with healthy appetites, and when night came, stretched on our matting, we heedlessly let the wind fold its wings or shriek into madness, whilst the river either murmured gently along like a stream across the green meadow or lashed into fury like a lion.

We rowed or sailed as the river and the wind permitted, gaining ground without the loss of an available minute, with the tenacity of one who has a given task to accomplish, and wants to perform it with the least possible delay. One night, shortly after halting, a shudder of delight ran through us on hearing one of the men exclaim, ‘Steamer coming!’ We turned in the direction pointed out by him, but saw nothing. However, we had learnt by that time to trust to the keener senses of the natives. Shortly afterwards, with ear to ground, we heard, or thought we heard, a far-off indistinct vibration as of the paddles of a steamer striking the water. The sound soon became unmistakable. Here was an unexpected redemption. From sheer joy we ceased the preparations for our evening meal. To attract the attention of those on board the steamer the bonfires were piled up high, and, to leave no possible loophole to adverse fate, Alex and four of the men sailed into mid-stream, so as to be quite close to the craft. Soon it loomed majestic and welcome to our eyes. The pennant of whitish smoke rose in the still blue night, and floated as a signal of welcome. The boat advanced steadily; we could see the people on board. That rather undersized vessel was to us, for the moment, the great in fact, the only—steamer in the world. We fired our revolvers. Alex and his men bawled themselves hoarse. No sign of recognition came from the steamer as she ploughed on swiftly, relentlessly, disdainfully, soon to be lost in the distance. This was wanton cruelty, and, as we thought at the time, a sin against human nature. Our feelings were not such as might be commended to the attention and imitation of Sunday-school children! Our language was decidedly ‘unfit for publication.’ According to the reckoning of our men, which events proved accurate, we should require twelve days more to reach Ciudad Bolivar, whilst the steamer, sailing day and night as it could, even against the breeze, would cover the distance in forty-eight or sixty hours. It is well that we possessed no magic powers enabling us to destroy, as if with a thunder-bolt, for in that case the steamer would not have reached its destination. So it generally happens in life when the action of others foils our little plans or obstructs our way. Looking solely to our own side of the question, we are apt to make no allowance, and attribute to utter perversity what from the standpoint of the other side may be perfectly reasonable. As revolutions are frequent in those latitudes, and as steamers had on several occasions been seized by parties of men ambushed on the shore, the captain of the steamer probably thought that prudence and caution were his safest guides. He may have believed that, besides the small group which he saw in the canoe and on the shore, a formidable host might be lurking in the forest, and under those circumstances his behaviour is perfectly intelligible.

As we approached the end of our journey, our impatience and anxiety grew keener. Up to that time we had never lost our equanimity, and now, when we could reckon with a fair degree of accuracy the date of our arrival at Ciudad Bolivar, the smallest obstacle or detention irritated us beyond measure. Yet all things end. On April 20 we arrived at a small outlying village three hours from Ciudad Bolivar.

Our approach to a civilized community awakened slumbering feelings of vanity, and for the first time during many months we bethought ourselves of our appearance. I had an authentic mane on my head; our beards were thick and bushy as the jungle on the banks of the river. Such clothes as we had could hardly have passed muster under the eyes of the most lenient critic. Most of those that we possessed at starting had been left behind amongst the Indians, in payment of work, and what little remained had not been improved by the moisture of the climate. On taking stock, I soon found that my dress coat and trousers—evolved by some London artist—were the only decent clothes left to me; yet I could not screw up courage to don them, as I feared that if, after several months’ journey through the wildest regions of South America, I jumped ashore at noonday on the banks of the Orinoco in a swallow-tail, the authorities would probably provide me with free board and lodging in some cool lunatic asylum! We consoled ourselves with the thought that we were clean, and thus near to godliness, and that we could soon replace our patched and tattered clothes at Ciudad Bolivar.

I have forgotten to mention our visit to the cattle estates of General Crespo, at that time President of Venezuela, a typical son of the llanos. These estates had a frontage of twenty-five leagues along the river, and extend Heaven only knows how far into the interior. The manager, or major-domo, told us that the herds on those estates numbered upwards of 200,000 head of cattle. The figure appears fantastic, but the fact that at that time 1,500 three-year-old bullocks were exported monthly to the neighbouring West India Island, principally Trinidad, may serve as a basis for calculation.

On that eventful 20th of April the breeze blew tantalizingly against us, yet we would not be detained, and decided to advance in its very teeth. The men jumped ashore and pulled the canoes with ropes. The city, built as upon a terrace, soon appeared in the distance, its white, red-roofed houses standing out under the clear sky like dabs of paint upon a blue canvas. Behind the town the hill continued to rise, and opposite the city the river itself, encased into a narrow space, is only one-third of a mile broad. It was a delight to look once more on houses, towers and churches, and other signs of civilized life. The sight was an enchantment after the eternal panorama of forest, mountain, plain and river. We had a feeling akin to that of Columbus and his companions when the watch shouted ‘Land! land!’ We could echo those words in their full significance. The struggle was at an end; river, forest, rapids, fevers, wild beasts, poisonous snakes, savages, and all the obstacles that lay behind us, were over, leaving no further trace than the dust along the roads or the foam of the waves on the sands. Thanks to the Divine protection, we had reached the end of an adventurous journey full of possibilities of mishap and of danger, and all that had taken place was simply as a memory in our minds.

We attracted great attention on landing, and were soon installed in one of the good hotels of the towns. We stared with something like wonderment at mirrors, tables, sofas, as at so many good old friends from whom we had been long separated. In us, primitive man had very soon reasserted full sway, and we had to make some effort to return to the habits and customs of civilized life. As soon as we could, we placed ourselves in the hands of a barber in the town. He had been told of our great store of luggage, and, inquisitive as all men of his profession are, on hearing one of us humming for very joy under his razor and shears, asked (I know not whether in innocence or banter): ‘How many of you are in the company, and what opera are you going to begin with?’ To this I replied: ‘We are not an opera company, but a circus, and our performances will begin shortly; we are on the look-out for a clown.’ He did not proceed with his cross-examination.

Ciudad Bolivar is famous in the annals of Venezuelan and Colombian history. It bears the name of the emancipator of those regions. Formerly it was called Angostura, which means ‘the Narrows.’ In 1819 one of the first Colombian Congresses was held at that city, and its deliberations, which soon crystallized into action, brought about the expulsion of the Spaniards after a daring and sanguinary series of campaigns. The very men who sat at Ciudad Bolivar, 300 miles from the shores of the Atlantic, ended their military campaign on the plateau of Ayacucho in 1824, having marched thousands of leagues across plain and forests, snow-capped mountains, precipices, jungle, fighting for every inch of ground against the stubborn soldiers of Spain in one of the most heroic and tenacious struggles on both sides that are to be found in the annals of history.

The river, as I have stated before, narrows after its long pilgrimage, and, even as a regiment which closes its ranks, rolls its waves in denser array opposite the city. No sooner does it reach the outside limits than it broadens again, and, after running through fertile plains and swampy valleys for a distance of 600 kilometres, reaches the sea. The normal depth opposite Ciudad Bolivar is 120 metres. During the rainy season the level rises from 10 to 20 metres.

Verily the Orinoco is a living, wandering sea of fresh water gathered from the northern plains of South America, which forms the tribute of those lands to the Atlantic Ocean. We had just followed it in its pilgrimage for a long part of its course. We had known it in tempest and in calm; we had watched the dawn gilding its throbbing waters or the twilight covering them with flickering shadows; we had listened to the whispering of the winds and the roar of the hurricane along its shores; we had seen the monsters which roam in its waters, admired the river’s Titanic sport, dashing in the rapids, or its majestic quiet in the deep basins of granite where the current seems to rest before leaping in a wild onslaught through the caÑons; and now we saw it majestically unroll before our eyes in the august pageant of its last procession to the ocean. We could not but think that, if that great artery of palpitating life which vibrates through the centre of the continent had stood us in such good service, its possibilities for the development of those vast unknown territories, when once appreciated by humanity, were practically unlimited. To our mind’s eye, prophetic with desire, the vast solitudes we had left behind became resonant glad with the presence of myriads of men; the forests were cleared, the plains tilled, and a happy and prosperous nation, the outcome of the present struggling democracies that own those lands, increased by swarms of immigrants from distant overcrowded countries, reared its cities and towns along the banks of the river which, in its immutable, defiant majesty and power, still rolled to the sea, serving men, but remaining a bond of union, a mighty link between the Cordilleras and the ocean.