Early the following morning
Tarzan awoke, and his first thought
of the new day, as the last of
yesterday, was of the wonderful
writing which lay hidden in his
quiver.
Hurriedly he brought it forth,
hoping against hope that he could
read what the beautiful white
girl had written there the preceding
evening.
At the first glance he suffered
a bitter disappointment; never
before had he so yearned for
anything as now he did for the
ability to interpret a message
from that golden-haired divinity
who had come so suddenly and
so unexpectedly into his life.
What did it matter if the message
were not intended for him? It
was an expression of her thoughts,
and that was sufficient for Tarzan
of the Apes.
And now to be baffled by strange,
uncouth characters the like of
which he had never seen before!
Why, they even tipped in the
opposite direction from all that
he had ever examined either in
printed books or the difficult
script of the few letters he
had found.
Even the little bugs of the
black book were familiar friends,
though their arrangement meant
nothing to him; but these bugs
were new and unheard of.
For twenty minutes he pored
over them, when suddenly they
commenced to take familiar though
distorted shapes. Ah, they were
his old friends, but badly crippled.
Then he began to make out a
word here and a word there. His
heart leaped for joy. He could
read it, and he would.
In another half hour he was
progressing rapidly, and, but
for an exceptional word now and
again, he found it very plain
sailing.
Here is what he read:
WEST COAST OF AFRICA, ABOUT
10X DEGREES SOUTH LATITUDE. (So
Mr. Clayton says.) February 3
(?), 1909.
DEAREST HAZEL:
It seems foolish to write you
a letter that you may never see,
but I simply must tell somebody
of our awful experiences since
we sailed from Europe on the
ill-fated Arrow.
If we never return to civilization,
as now seems only too likely,
this will at least prove a brief
record of the events which led
up to our final fate, whatever
it may be.
As you know, we were supposed
to have set out upon a scientific
expedition to the Congo. Papa
was presumed to entertain some
wondrous theory of an unthinkably
ancient civilization, the remains
of which lay buried somewhere
in the Congo valley. But after
we were well under sail the truth
came out.
It seems that
an old bookworm who has a book
and curio shop
in Baltimore discovered between
the leaves of a very old Spanish
manuscript a letter written in
1550 detailing the adventures
of a crew of mutineers of a Spanish
galleon bound from Spain to South
America with a vast treasure
of "doubloons" and "pieces of
eight," I suppose, for they certainly
sound weird and piraty.
The writer had been one of
the crew, and the letter was
to his son, who was, at the very
time the letter was written,
master of a Spanish merchantman.
Many years had elapsed since
the events the letter narrated
had transpired, and the old man
had become a respected citizen
of an obscure Spanish town, but
the love of gold was still so
strong upon him that he risked
all to acquaint his son with
the means of attaining fabulous
wealth for them both.
The writer told how when but
a week out from Spain the crew
had mutinied and murdered every
officer and man who opposed them;
but they defeated their own ends
by this very act, for there was
none left competent to navigate
a ship at sea.
They were blown hither and
thither for two months, until
sick and dying of scurvy, starvation,
and thirst, they had been wrecked
on a small islet.
The galleon was washed high
upon the beach where she went
to pieces; but not before the
survivors, who numbered but ten
souls, had rescued one of the
great chests of treasure.
This they buried well up on
the island, and for three years
they lived there in constant
hope of being rescued.
One by one they sickened and
died, until only one man was
left, the writer of the letter.
The men had built a boat from
the wreckage of the galleon,
but having no idea where the
island was located they had not
dared to put to sea.
When all were dead except himself,
however, the awful loneliness
so weighed upon the mind of the
sole survivor that he could endure
it no longer, and choosing to
risk death upon the open sea
rather than madness on the lonely
isle, he set sail in his little
boat after nearly a year of solitude.
Fortunately he sailed due north,
and within a week was in the
track of the Spanish merchantmen
plying between the West Indies
and Spain, and was picked up
by one of these vessels homeward
bound.
The story he told was merely
one of shipwreck in which all
but a few had perished, the balance,
except himself, dying after they
reached the island. He did not
mention the mutiny or the chest
of buried treasure.
The master of the merchantman
assured him that from the position
at which they had picked him
up, and the prevailing winds
for the past week he could have
been on no other island than
one of the Cape Verde group,
which lie off the West Coast
of Africa in about 16x or 17x
north latitude.
His letter described the island
minutely, as well as the location
of the treasure, and was accompanied
by the crudest, funniest little
old map you ever saw; with trees
and rocks all marked by scrawly
X's to show the exact spot where
the treasure had been buried.
When papa explained the real
nature of the expedition, my
heart sank, for I know so well
how visionary and impractical
the poor dear has always been
that I feared that he had again
been duped; especially when he
told me he had paid a thousand
dollars for the letter and map.
To add to my distress, I learned
that he had borrowed ten thousand
dollars more from Robert Canler,
and had given his notes for the
amount.
Mr. Canler had asked for no
security, and you know, dearie,
what that will mean for me if
papa cannot meet them. Oh, how
I detest that man!
We all tried to look on the
bright side of things, but Mr.
Philander, and Mr. Clayton--he
joined us in London just for
the adventure--both felt as skeptical
as I.
Well, to make a long story
short, we found the island and
the treasure--a great iron-bound
oak chest, wrapped in many layers
of oiled sailcloth, and as strong
and firm as when it had been
buried nearly two hundred years
ago.
It was SIMPLY FILLED with gold
coin, and was so heavy that four
men bent underneath its weight.
The horrid thing seems to bring
nothing but murder and misfortune
to those who have anything to
do with it, for three days after
we sailed from the Cape Verde
Islands our own crew mutinied
and killed every one of their
officers.
Oh, it was the most terrifying
experience one could imagine--I
cannot even write of it.
They were going to kill us
too, but one of them, the leader,
named King, would not let them,
and so they sailed south along
the coast to a lonely spot where
they found a good harbor, and
here they landed and have left
us.
They sailed away with the treasure
to-day, but Mr. Clayton says
they will meet with a fate similar
to the mutineers of the ancient
galleon, because King, the only
man aboard who knew aught of
navigation, was murdered on the
beach by one of the men the day
we landed.
I wish you could know Mr. Clayton;
he is the dearest fellow imaginable,
and unless I am mistaken he has
fallen very much in love with
me.
He is the only son of Lord
Greystoke, and some day will
inherit the title and estates.
In addition, he is wealthy in
his own right, but the fact that
he is going to be an English
Lord makes me very sad--you know
what my sentiments have always
been relative to American girls
who married titled foreigners.
Oh, if he were only a plain American
gentleman!
But it isn't his fault, poor
fellow, and in everything except
birth he would do credit to my
country, and that is the greatest
compliment I know how to pay
any man.
We have had the most weird
experiences since we were landed
here. Papa and Mr. Philander
lost in the jungle, and chased
by a real lion.
Mr. Clayton
lost, and attacked twice by
wild beasts. Esmeralda
and I cornered in an old cabin
by a perfectly awful man-eating
lioness. Oh, it was simply "terrifical," as
Esmeralda would say.
But the strangest part of it
all is the wonderful creature
who rescued us. I have not seen
him, but Mr. Clayton and papa
and Mr. Philander have, and they
say that he is a perfectly god-like
white man tanned to a dusky brown,
with the strength of a wild elephant,
the agility of a monkey, and
the bravery of a lion.
He speaks no English and vanishes
as quickly and as mysteriously
after he has performed some valorous
deed, as though he were a disembodied
spirit.
Then we have
another weird neighbor, who
printed a beautiful
sign in English and tacked it
on the door of his cabin, which
we have preempted, warning us
to destroy none of his belongings,
and signing himself "Tarzan of
the Apes."
We have never seen him, though
we think he is about, for one
of the sailors, who was going
to shoot Mr. Clayton in the back,
received a spear in his shoulder
from some unseen hand in the
jungle.
The sailors left us but a meager
supply of food, so, as we have
only a single revolver with but
three cartridges left in it,
we do not know how we can procure
meat, though Mr. Philander says
that we can exist indefinitely
on the wild fruit and nuts which
abound in the jungle.
I am very tired now, so I shall
go to my funny bed of grasses
which Mr. Clayton gathered for
me, but will add to this from
day to day as things happen.
Lovingly, JANE PORTER.
TO HAZEL STRONG, BALTIMORE,
MD.
Tarzan sat in a brown study
for a long time after he finished
reading the letter. It was filled
with so many new and wonderful
things that his brain was in
a whirl as he attempted to digest
them all.
So they did not know that he
was Tarzan of the Apes. He would
tell them.
In his tree he had constructed
a rude shelter of leaves and
boughs, beneath which, protected
from the rain, he had placed
the few treasures brought from
the cabin. Among these were some
pencils.
He took one, and beneath Jane
Porter's signature he wrote:
I am Tarzan of the Apes
He thought that would be sufficient.
Later he would return the letter
to the cabin.
In the matter of food, thought
Tarzan, they had no need to worry--he
would provide, and he did.
The next morning Jane found
her missing letter in the exact
spot from which it had disappeared
two nights before. She was mystified;
but when she saw the printed
words beneath her signature,
she felt a cold, clammy chill
run up her spine. She showed
the letter, or rather the last
sheet with the signature, to
Clayton.
"And to think," she said, "that
uncanny thing was probably watching
me all the time that I was writing--oo!
It makes me shudder just to think
of it."
"But he must be friendly," reassured
Clayton, "for he has returned
your letter, nor did he offer
to harm you, and unless I am
mistaken he left a very substantial
memento of his friendship outside
the cabin door last night, for
I just found the carcass of a
wild boar there as I came out."
From then on scarcely a day
passed that did not bring its
offering of game or other food.
Sometimes it was a young deer,
again a quantity of strange,
cooked food--cassava cakes pilfered
from the village of Mbonga--or
a boar, or leopard, and once
a lion.
Tarzan derived the greatest
pleasure of his life in hunting
meat for these strangers. It
seemed to him that no pleasure
on earth could compare with laboring
for the welfare and protection
of the beautiful white girl.
Some day he would venture into
the camp in daylight and talk
with these people through the
medium of the little bugs which
were familiar to them and to
Tarzan.
But he found it difficult to
overcome the timidity of the
wild thing of the forest, and
so day followed day without seeing
a fulfillment of his good intentions.
The party in the camp, emboldened
by familiarity, wandered farther
and yet farther into the jungle
in search of nuts and fruit.
Scarcely a day passed that
did not find Professor Porter
straying in his preoccupied indifference
toward the jaws of death. Mr.
Samuel T. Philander, never what
one might call robust, was worn
to the shadow of a shadow through
the ceaseless worry and mental
distraction resultant from his
Herculean efforts to safeguard
the professor.
A month passed. Tarzan had
finally determined to visit the
camp by daylight.
It was early afternoon. Clayton
had wandered to the point at
the harbor's mouth to look for
passing vessels. Here he kept
a great mass of wood, high piled,
ready to be ignited as a signal
should a steamer or a sail top
the far horizon.
Professor Porter was wandering
along the beach south of the
camp with Mr. Philander at his
elbow, urging him to turn his
steps back before the two became
again the sport of some savage
beast.
The others gone, Jane and Esmeralda
had wandered into the jungle
to gather fruit, and in their
search were led farther and farther
from the cabin.
Tarzan waited in silence before
the door of the little house
until they should return. His
thoughts were of the beautiful
white girl. They were always
of her now. He wondered if she
would fear him, and the thought
all but caused him to relinquish
his plan.
He was rapidly becoming impatient
for her return, that he might
feast his eyes upon her and be
near her, perhaps touch her.
The ape-man knew no god, but
he was as near to worshipping
his divinity as mortal man ever
comes to worship. While he waited
he passed the time printing a
message to her; whether he intended
giving it to her he himself could
not have told, but he took infinite
pleasure in seeing his thoughts
expressed in print--in which
he was not so uncivilized after
all. He wrote:
I am Tarzan of the Apes. I
want you. I am yours. You are
mine. We live here together always
in my house. I will bring you
the best of fruits, the tenderest
deer, the finest meats that roam
the jungle. I will hunt for you.
I am the greatest of the jungle
fighters. I will fight for you.
I am the mightiest of the jungle
fighters. You are Jane Porter,
I saw it in your letter. When
you see this you will know that
it is for you and that Tarzan
of the Apes loves you.
As he stood, straight as a
young Indian, by the door, waiting
after he had finished the message,
there came to his keen ears a
familiar sound. It was the passing
of a great ape through the lower
branches of the forest.
For an instant he listened
intently, and then from the jungle
came the agonized scream of a
woman, and Tarzan of the Apes,
dropping his first love letter
upon the ground, shot like a
panther into the forest.
Clayton, also, heard the scream,
and Professor Porter and Mr.
Philander, and in a few minutes
they came panting to the cabin,
calling out to each other a volley
of excited questions as they
approached. A glance within confirmed
their worst fears.
Jane and Esmeralda were not
there.
Instantly, Clayton, followed
by the two old men, plunged into
the jungle, calling the girl's
name aloud. For half an hour
they stumbled on, until Clayton,
by merest chance, came upon the
prostrate form of Esmeralda.
He stopped beside her, feeling
for her pulse and then listening
for her heartbeats. She lived.
He shook her.
"Esmeralda!" he shrieked in
her ear. "Esmeralda! For God's
sake, where is Miss Porter? What
has happened? Esmeralda!"
Slowly Esmeralda opened her
eyes. She saw Clayton. She saw
the jungle about her.
"Oh, Gaberelle!" she
screamed, and fainted again.
By this time Professor Porter
and Mr. Philander had come up.
"What shall we do, Mr. Clayton?" asked
the old professor. "Where shall
we look? God could not have been
so cruel as to take my little
girl away from me now."
"We must arouse Esmeralda first," replied
Clayton. "She can tell us what
has happened. Esmeralda!" he
cried again, shaking the black
woman roughly by the shoulder.
"O Gaberelle, I want to die!" cried
the poor woman, but with eyes
fast closed. "Let me die, dear
Lord, don't let me see that awful
face again."
"Come, come, Esmeralda," cried
Clayton.
"The Lord isn't
here; it's Mr. Clayton. Open
your eyes."
Esmeralda did as she was bade.
"O Gaberelle! Thank the Lord," she
said.
"Where's Miss Porter? What
happened?" questioned Clayton.
"Ain't Miss Jane here?" cried
Esmeralda, sitting up with wonderful
celerity for one of her bulk. "Oh,
Lord, now I remember! It must
have took her away," and the
Negress commenced to sob, and
wail her lamentations.
"What took her away?" cried
Professor Porter.
"A great big
giant all covered with hair."
"A gorilla, Esmeralda?" questioned
Mr. Philander, and the three
men scarcely breathed as he voiced
the horrible thought.
"I thought it was the devil;
but I guess it must have been
one of them gorilephants. Oh,
my poor baby, my poor little
honey," and again Esmeralda broke
into uncontrollable sobbing.
Clayton immediately began to
look about for tracks, but he
could find nothing save a confusion
of trampled grasses in the close
vicinity, and his woodcraft was
too meager for the translation
of what he did see.
All the balance of the day
they sought through the jungle;
but as night drew on they were
forced to give up in despair
and hopelessness, for they did
not even know in what direction
the thing had borne Jane.
It was long after dark ere
they reached the cabin, and a
sad and grief-stricken party
it was that sat silently within
the little structure.
Professor Porter finally broke
the silence. His tones were no
longer those of the erudite pedant
theorizing upon the abstract
and the unknowable; but those
of the man of action-- determined,
but tinged also by a note of
indescribable hopelessness and
grief which wrung an answering
pang from Clayton's heart.
"I shall lie down now," said
the old man, "and try to sleep.
Early to-morrow, as soon as it
is light, I shall take what food
I can carry and continue the
search until I have found Jane.
I will not return without her."
His companions did not reply
at once. Each was immersed in
his own sorrowful thoughts, and
each knew, as did the old professor,
what the last words meant--Professor
Porter would never return from
the jungle.
At length Clayton arose and
laid his hand gently upon Professor
Porter's bent old shoulder.
"I shall go with you, of course," he
said.
"I knew that
you would offer--that you would
wish to go, Mr. Clayton;
but you must not. Jane is beyond
human assistance now. What was
once my dear little girl shall
not lie alone and friendless
in the awful jungle.
"The same vines
and leaves will cover us, the
same rains
beat upon us; and when the spirit
of her mother is abroad, it will
find us together in death, as
it has always found us in life.
"No; it is
I alone who may go, for she
was my daughter--
all that was left on earth for
me to love."
"I shall go with you," said
Clayton simply.
The old man looked up, regarding
the strong, handsome face of
William Cecil Clayton intently.
Perhaps he read there the love
that lay in the heart beneath--the
love for his daughter.
He had been too preoccupied
with his own scholarly thoughts
in the past to consider the little
occurrences, the chance words,
which would have indicated to
a more practical man that these
young people were being drawn
more and more closely to one
another. Now they came back to
him, one by one.
"As you wish," he
said.
"You may count on me, also," said
Mr. Philander.
"No, my dear old friend," said
Professor Porter. "We may not
all go. It would be cruelly wicked
to leave poor Esmeralda here
alone, and three of us would
be no more successful than one.
"There be enough
dead things in the cruel forest
as it is.
Come--let us try to sleep a little."
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