University of Virginia Library

Mayo, Katherine. "Bushed."
Scribner's Magazine 49 (June 1911): 754-761.

It was the beginning of the cool of the day—half after four o'clock, before which hour, as the black folks say, "no one goes into the street but dogs and English." All politer Paramaribo had awakened from its siesta, assumed its afternoon array, taken its tea, and was now embarking on that gentle diurnal amble that counts as exercise. Some slowly proceeded to Gouvernments Plein, where the garrison band would work a perspiring course from the Dutch national anthem through "Washington Post March," "La Paloma," and "Smoky Mokes," back to the Dutch national anthem again, thus impartially recognizing some few of the odds and ends of peoples pacing and re-pacing the circle between Government House and the broad brown River Surinam. Others, having duly inquired by messenger earlier in the day of the convenience of their visit, stepped forth with deliberate tread toward the home of a friend, there to pay the ceremonious hour's devoirs that chiefly constitutes the social intercourse of the colony. His Excellency the governor, should he appear in public, would drive in a Dutch victoria, because he must sustain the dignity of his queen. The doctors, always current, drove in American buggies, because they must make haste. But all others kept to their two feet, as bid by the brief distances.

For Paramaribo, capital of Holland's South American colony of Surinam, is just a little snow-white Dutch village, encompassed by the illimitable jungle as sharply as an islet is encompassed by the sea. The pretty, rigid streets, with their stiff hedge of white houses each flush with the roadline, each close to its neighbor, each differing from each only in point of size, end abruptly at near and clear confines. Then comes a narrow, encircling fringe of transplanted Asia, whether of China, Java, or the British East, and then the unfathomed depth of the primeval bush.

Now, all these things I had known for years. The parti-hued parade around Gouvernments Plein could no longer stir an emotion. "Wie'n Neerlandsch Bloed," "Washington Post," and "La Paloma," when the inevitable turns of fever came, tattooed themselves on my brain in rhythm without tone, as a regular part of the ordeal. As for the streets, the little, white,

close-docked streets, every inch of them was of old familiar. Moreover, and above all, a spirit of restlessness had seized me this day—a longing for some new thing to do; which thought, when occurring within six degrees of the equator, bears the special hall-mark of the devil, and demands direct intervention, or the faithful dealing of friends.

Turning aside from the great mahogany allee that led from our door, I crossed the town and in ten minutes' time stood in a little group of Calcutta men's huts outlying the margin of civilization. What next? Of hints there showed but one—a little, unknown foot-path plunging into low brush. That I followed, and presently saw it opening upon a wide, reedy swamp traversed by a long, narrow hillock making a sort of natural causeway. This causeway appeared to offer passage to the very edge of the jungle, where it rose directly from the marsh's farther verge in a dark and towering wall. Here, at least, was a new idea—a scrap of adventure to attempt.

The foothold held. The ridge continued unbroken. And at its finish, just where it touched the great Thus Far of the bush, a little lure lay peeping. All along, as far as the eye could reach, the face of the jungle loomed to its height of two hundred feet or more, solid and impenetrable as a front of barbed and steel-barred net—all along except at this one point, where a small but well-marked orifice suggested a travelled trail. The huts of the Javanese laborers employed in the Cultuur-tuin, the Government's Cultivation Garden, must, I reasoned, lie in just beyond. This head of bush must be a narrow point projecting from the main forest, this little opening the mouth of a short-cut of the Javans to town. It should afford a suggestion of the always thrilling heart of the jungle and, in a few minutes, should emerge upon plain, familiar ground.

I ventured in—into a low and twilight tunnel. Arms outstretched could more than touch each side, where the big tree-ferns stood webbed and woven together with vine and thorn and tangle that caught and draped overhead in a dense, low-swinging canopy. The ground was cushioned deep with damp dead leaves, upon which, here and there, crept a heavy, sparse-foliaged vine, bearing big, improbable blossoms such as occur in Oriental prints. The air, unstirred by any breath of wind, hung vapor-charged and thick, hot and hard to breathe, like the air of an orchid-house; but still the tunnel continued distinct, though veering somewhat oddly. "They followed the line of least resistance, those little Javans, when they cut this trail," I thought, persisting. "No doubt it would have meant hard work to make a straight one." Presently an ant-hill, three feet high or over, rose directly in the path—a sight of horror in this land of fiercely poisonous and carnivorous formicidae. Yet, bent on the purpose, I risked the ants, tiptoeing around their castle without arousing its garrison. On, on, and on I pushed, not stopping even to look at the glorious, broad-winged moths flitting before, and sure that each next moment must reveal the palm-thatched huts of the Javans. And so, of a sudden, I stood in a tiny open circle—and the path forked!

I looked behind. Whence had I come? No tunnel mouth was visible. The great, deep bush loomed vague and Sphynx-like, its liana veil drawn full across its face. Not a leaf flickered, not an inequality showed, not a hint, not a sign suggested any entrance. Ten steps in any direction and one would be utterly engulfed from sight and seeing. The jungle light, always dim, was already near to waning. Even could I recover the way by which I came, no time remained to retrace it—and to pass that ant-hill in the dusk! Clearly the only thing was to go ahead, on to the Javanese hamlet. As to those leads beyond the little circle, were they real trails or only shallow and accidental irregularities? One could only try and see. Choosing that of the likelier general direction, I hurried forward. Some solitary bird began to tell a single, solemn, long-drawn note that echoed through the dim abysses deep and clear, like a funeral bell. The ground grew soft and wet. The tangle wove closer and lower, till it was no longer possible to stand erect. Then, at one step, my feet sank ankle-deep in bog, on the verge of a pool of water black and still, and the path ended. No human trail, then, this, but some big beast's burrow to its drinking-hole.

Turning, I hastened back, saw another possible trail-mouth tending to the right

Just a little snow-white Dutch village ... The pretty rigid streets, with their stiff hedge of white houses. — Page 754.

quarter, and plunged in. The lead proved, for a moment, clear as a drill-hole through an at once condensed and magnified bramble-patch, then persisted for a rod or so in vaguer shape, only to break short off, like the other, at a deep, steep pit, full of water black from sap and rot and seepage. Again and again the thing repeated. Invisible creatures jumped and rustled and slithered in the smother all around. At first I had watched the path for snakes; for the deadly fer-de-lance, the deadlier bushmaster, and more than one kin of the kind, haunt this bush. But one could not watch every branch and spray and foothold, and not a moment remained, besides, to take thought of anything but the fading light. It seemed, too, as if any respectable animal would hesitate to complicate circumstances already so embarrassing. So, calling out once for all, "Run, Bre'r Snake, I'm coming," I rushed ahead regardless.

All underfoot was rot and squash and writhing roots—lithe, looping roots that caught my toes and would a hundred times

have thrown me but that some bight of swinging liana invariably stopped the fall, lassoing me by chin or waist or shoulder or across the eyes or mouth, swinging and holding me with a violent wrench and lurch, till I found my feet again. Thorns seized and ripped my thin attire. My pretty hat, new by the last ship from home, became an impossible burden. With enduring practicality I tore off and pocketed the pride of its trimming, before throwing it away. In the problematic event of my survival, there would be need of another pretty hat. But now the great steel-spiked ferns snatched at my unprotected hair till in a moment it all streamed loose, not one pin remaining. And so, like the breathing of a sigh, night came, and I knew myself at last as utterly lost as was ever any creature on this round earth.

Now, at least, there was time enough to think it out—to think, for example, of the fates of those few others who had strayed in the giant labyrinth. Some had merely disappeared, untraced forever. The rest, for the most part, when found by search-parties after two or three days' hunt, were crazed, and so had died soon after. Matching the alternatives to my own sense of likelihood, that I had already looked my last on mankind seemed more than probable; but that, barring the sting of some extra-venomous creature, I should in the process of starving, lose my mind, I did not believe—admitting the possession of a mind by a person capable of walking wilfully into this situation. As to expedients, much could be said in favor of sitting down on some fallen tree-trunk and waiting quietly there for dawn, in order to spend no strength on the wrong side of the chances, where all chances showed so passing slim. But the great tree-trunks were wet with dew, and slimy with who knew what. That they harbored scorpions, tarantulas, centipedes, and maybe snakes, there could be no doubt—nor that other hostile creepers and crawlers would gather there upon one who should settle for the night. Yet the most potent consideration was of another stripe: If I did not escape from this bush very soon, myself, the whole town would be aroused. Not a living soul knew whither I had gone. The jungle was the last of all places in which a reputedly sane being would be sought. For the past hour I had been calling, as I ran, at the top of my voice, hoping to reach the ears of the Javans—a perfectly useless exertion as far as any hope of answer was concerned. A woman's voice, coming from these uncanny quarters, could be to those wary Orientals only and surely the voice of an evil spirit, whose power would be fixed upon that foolish mortal who should reply. When, however, the general hunt began—when the Dutch garrison turned out with trumpets and cutlasses, some party would eventually question the Javans. Then these might speak of the spirit crying by night in the jungle, and their words would serve as a clue. But the thought brought shame anew. Having committed a colossal foolishness, to be found by searchers! To be unearthed by much toil, with trumpets and cutlasses! To drag some hundreds of weary and blameless men through mire and thorn, by night and day, to occasion how many snake-bites, how many attacks of fever—and then to be discovered in inert and imbecile placidity sitting on a log! No! Better find one's self, and that promptly, or else, not be found. Clearly then, although direction was no longer perceivable, the thing to do was to keep moving, on chance.

So, in the inky darkness, in the deepest smother, I felt out an aimless passage, very slowly, inch by inch. The enormous silence of the place seemed to breathe and threaten like a living presence. Only now and again a sudden whisper would steal and pass as though a breeze had stirred, where no breeze was. Once the cry of a jaguar came wailing through the dark. Once some unseen heavy creature, snuffing, treading ponderously, moved near at hand. But these rare sounds, like the little rustlings and glidings underfoot and in the foliage that brushed my face, only served to deepen a vast and hovering stillness. Often my forward step would sink in the sudden mire of an invisible water-hole's brink, and I would back away, blindly to try again. And then at last, bettering all reasonable hope, came a break in the thick darkness above and beyond, and the glimpse of a little patch of stars. Did it mean a clearing? But in that direction lay no thoroughfare. Feeling, pressing, pulling, I could find no place that yielded. A solid, thorny wall of tree-ferns, meshed

in snarls of snake-like bush-rope and sharp-toothed growing things and stayed by columns of towering trees, seemed utterly to close the way. A man, with a good stout cutlass, given time and light, could hew a passage. What could be done with bare hands, in the dark, if one burrowed like a terrier, with a terrier's disregard of damages sustained in the act, remained to be proved. And the mere keeping of a relatively whole skin seemed poor compensation for the alternative. I burrowed. In an instant thorns had spiked me everywhere. As I twisted the hanging lianas away from my eyes and lifted them over my head, others, daubed with slimy things, snapped taut between my teeth or clutched my neck or shoulders. These worked away and those others eased that wound around my waist, I was free to take a forward step, over a fallen log. And now, in a flash, some curious local exhaustion set in, whereby by no effort could I any longer raise my feet. They would swing forward in an ordinary step with ease, but to lift them over the smallest obstacle, from this time on, meant to take the foremost knee and ankle in my hands and raise them thus laboriously to the point necessary.

Despite all rules and probabilities, the burrowing process succeeded, in part because it was done with single-minded terrier's devotion, but rather because this thicket proved to be the thin outer buttress before a break in the bush. As its last snarl gave, I stepped forward into a very little open space, before the most sinister vision that had yet beset the night. An empty, palm-roofed shelter of the rudest sort, might seem an innocent, even a friendly sight; but this, so placed, could scarce be else than the present or recent lodging of some French deporte—one of the many convicts continually trying the desperate risks of an escape through the jungle from the neighboring penal colony of Cayenne. With shivering thankfulness that the place was untenanted, I stole across to its far side. Here the growth seemed thin, and a breeze stirred through—a breeze that led to a wide, dim space broadly open to the sky. Enchanted, I hurried forward—the ground slipped and sank—I pitched head-foremost into a bog. My hands, by chance, clutched upon a tussock of coarse grass. By this precarious buoy I lay half floating. Thin, cold mud and colder marsh-water came oozing up through all my garments, soft, delicious. What an easy place to rest! Why trouble any more! With a sharp effort, I scrambled up on the tussock and looked about. Over on the left stretched a dark, straight front of trees, tending forward across the bog, which might betoken a solid bank and a foothold. From tussock to tussock, falling, scrambling, mud-caked, drenched, and exhausted, I labored toward it, and had all but reached the tree-line when again I fell, half into, half across a little stream. But the stream lapped the roots of the trees. By their aid I dragged myself to the firm ground about the trunks, and now, while slowly plodding along, began once more to call aloud.

Then the miracle happened. A voice came back in answer!— Unmistakably the voice of a British East Indian, who mocked in inarticulate hooting what he took for the cry of a bird; for the jungle creatures make strange sounds at night.

Painfully I worked along, still calling, toward the mocking voice. The coolie—a brave, adventurous fellow, surely, had stopped to await the event. At last he became visible, lank, bare-bodied, shadowy in the starlight, standing on the far bank of a stream. At the sight of me, no bird, but a seeming human shape, he succumbed to panic fright.

"Come over and help," I cried.

"Never!" quavered he, and clear it was that he believed himself forbidding a "water-spirit."

Now what in the world would a water-spirit be least likely to say? I racked my brains, recalled the methods of the Lorelei, and decided in haste against fair words.

"Don't be stupid," I rapped out. "I am an English lady, bushed. Come over at once and help me."

But the thing was too fantastically improbable. He would not stir. Yet the marvel remained that he did not take to his heels. All my wits I spent upon this heathen. A log spanned the stream, but I knew I could not walk it unaided. He must come over; so come at last he did. Bent against his will by the tone of authority, he stretched out a trembling hand. The human touch reassured him.

Drawn by Harry Townsend.
I sat upon the rungs, and so, with the two men stalking silent beside, the journey began. — Page 760.

"Truly, an English lady!" he exclaimed, overwhelmed by the plain fact. "And all wet and torn!" He laid a finger-tip upon my streaming hair. "All wet! All loose! All uncovered! Oh, poor thing, poor thing!" And without more demur he carried me over the log to the far bank, then gave himself up, heart and soul, to amazement. Where had the mem-sahib come from, and why? Where was her hat? How long had she been bushed? What, when, how, and O, Heaven! A query as to this present whereabouts served only to set him off into fresh paroxysms, and minutes elapsed before he calmed sufficiently to explain that we stood far down a hunter's trail cutting the jungle toward the sea.

"Which way is town?" I asked. He pointed in a direction exactly opposite to that of my idea!

"Now, you must bring me to a coolie woman, and leave me in her hut, while you fetch a carriage to take me home."

"But there are no huts here," he gasped. "There are no coolie women. There are no carriages. The mem-sahib does not understand. Why, this is"—seizing in his eagerness at the only rag of English life had taught him—"this is t' hell backside way!"

"Then I must walk?"

"The mem-sahib must walk."

"Then you come too, babu."

So walk we did, on and on, by the light of the low-hung stars, while the great white oeroekoekoe owls made their shivering moan, and the bats, with circling swoops, fanned our faces—walked till a sweet whiff of smoke in the air told the story of the beginning of the end. No simpler story could describe a human life—the story of one brass water-pot, one battered tin of rice, one skeleton cart, one little gray donkey, asleep, and one gaunt old sleeping man, all huddled together by a tiny fire on the bare earth, under the shelter of a few leaves of palm; the householder, his house, and all his worldly goods; his protection the will of God and the little smudge that warded off the mosquitoes, the vampires, and the beasts.

Uncoiling the shroud-like folds of his mantle, the sleeper rose and stood before us, a tableau of surprise. Then my protector's dramatic instinct awoke. This was his moment. His very soul sprang to the opportunity and he narrated my perils, his own dare-devil audacity, and the glories of the rescue with such excellence that his hearer, forgetting all else, fairly panted toward the flashing words. Time passed, but neither sympathy nor policy commended me to stay the flood. So I dropped on the ground by the smudge, and sat looking on while the one declaimed and the other, with long arms raised to heaven, gave praise to Allah.

At last the tale was told. A few words more, and my friend approached me with a whisper:

"This old man is a very greedy old man," said he. "I am ashamed. He says he and his donkey have worked hard all day and are weary. He will take the mem-sahib in his waggi to town; but, he asks a whole gulden!"

They brought the "waggi"—a ladder laid across two axle-trees, commonest vehicle of the country. I sat upon the rungs, and so, with the two men stalking silent beside, the journey began. The cold night wind, blowing down the open trail, struck chill to my very bones, and I shivered in my drenched rags. The old man unwound the cotton turban from his head and laid it over my shoulders. The faint light of a little lantern hung beneath the cart deepened the shadows of the thicket on either side or brought into strong relief some near outreaching fern or spray of blossoming alamander; or it caught alternately on the strange, long, fleshless legs of the men, or on the white linings of the poor tired donkey's thighs, as he plodded his patient, unthanked, weary way. Now a group of feathery palms, towering solitary, delicately etched their profile upon the radiance of the Milky Way. Again, that pale light was momentarily blotted out by the huge buttressed bulk of a "water-mother tree." The whole world seemed wrapped in the silence of sleep. Suddenly my first friend spoke.

"Men say," said he, "because some coolies have done murder in this place, that all coolies are bad. Will the mem-sahib say some are not bad?" Silence again, while a mile or more wore slowly away beneath the little donkey's tiny tired feet. Then again came the fruit of meditation:

"What was I doing, up that bush-trail, I, Ramsahai, at this time of night? I had nothing to do there! Nobody goes there!"

And a third time, with exalted solemnity:

"There be yellow men and white men, brown men and black men, Calcutta men, and sahibs of much honor and many countries. And each has his own gods. But all gods are one God. One God for us all. And He only sent me down that trail to-night."

At intervals, now, we passed a coolie's hut, when the denizens must be aroused, unfailingly, to hear the marvel and to bear witness to its evidence. All listened thrilled with wonder, then commented with the thoughtful, sententious philosophy of their race. But it was near the mouth of the way—near the outskirts of the town—that Wisdom spoke plain verity. Here, beneath a mammoth mango-tree, in a little wooden cabin, lived a very aged high-caste man. Having heard the tale, he loomed above me, tall, white-headed, lean as a bamboo wand, and uttered judgment:

"All is well with the mem-sahib. By great mercy she will see her home again in safety. If she had remained in the bush this night she must have died, and horribly. But, has she deserved safety? Has not the queen of this country caused to be made good roads in plenty, that mem-sahibs, for no reason but idleness, folly, and selfishness, should thrust themselves into the trackless bush? If it were ended with the mem-sahib, that, too, were well, if so she chose. But, what was she thinking of her household at home, when she did this thing? What was she thinking of those to whom her duty is due? What excuse dare she make this night when she faces her man?"