Tarzan of the Apes
pay any attention to me—that’s a dear.”
“Yes, honey; now you go right to sleep. Your nerves are all on edge.
What with all these ripotamuses and man eating geniuses that Mister
Philander been telling about—Lord, it ain’t no wonder we all get
nervous prosecution.”
Jane crossed the little room, laughing, and kissing the faithful woman,
bid Esmeralda good night.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Brother Men.
When D’Arnot regained consciousness, he found himself lying upon a bed
of soft ferns and grasses beneath a little “A” shaped shelter of
boughs.
At his feet an opening looked out upon a green sward, and at a little
distance beyond was the dense wall of jungle and forest.
He was very lame and sore and weak, and as full consciousness returned
he felt the sharp torture of many cruel wounds and the dull aching of
every bone and muscle in his body as a result of the hideous beating he
had received.
Even the turning of his head caused him such excruciating agony that he
lay still with closed eyes for a long time.
He tried to piece out the details of his adventure prior to the time he
lost consciousness to see if they would explain his present
whereabouts—he wondered if he were among friends or foes.
At length he recollected the whole hideous scene at the stake, and
finally recalled the strange white figure in whose arms he had sunk
into oblivion.
D’Arnot wondered what fate lay in store for him now. He could neither
see nor hear any signs of life about him.
The incessant hum of the jungle—the rustling of millions of leaves—the
buzz of insects—the voices of the birds and monkeys seemed blended into
a strangely soothing purr, as though he lay apart, far from the myriad
life whose sounds came to him only as a blurred echo.
At length he fell into a quiet slumber, nor did he awake again until
afternoon.
Once more he experienced the strange sense of utter bewilderment that
had marked his earlier awakening, but soon he recalled the recent past,
and looking through the opening at his feet he saw the figure of a man
squatting on his haunches.
The broad, muscular back was turned toward him, but, tanned though it
was, D’Arnot saw that it was the back of a white man, and he thanked
God.
The Frenchman called faintly. The man turned, and rising, came toward
the shelter. His face was very handsome—the handsomest, thought
D’Arnot, that he had ever seen.
Stooping, he crawled into the shelter beside the wounded officer, and
placed a cool hand upon his forehead.
D’Arnot spoke to him in French, but the man only shook his head—sadly,
it seemed to the Frenchman.
Then D’Arnot tried English, but still the man shook his head. Italian,
Spanish and German brought similar discouragement.
D’Arnot knew a few words of Norwegian, Russian, Greek, and also had a
smattering of the language of one of the West Coast negro tribes—the
man denied them all.
After examining D’Arnot’s wounds the man left the shelter and
disappeared. In half an hour he was back with fruit and a hollow
gourd-like vegetable filled with water.
D’Arnot drank and ate a little. He was surprised that he had no fever.
Again he tried to converse with his strange nurse, but the attempt was
useless.
Suddenly the man hastened from the shelter only to return a few minutes
later with several pieces of bark and—wonder of wonders—a lead pencil.
Squatting beside D’Arnot he wrote for a minute on the smooth inner
surface of the bark; then he handed it to the Frenchman.
D’Arnot was astonished to see, in plain print-like characters, a
message in English:
I am Tarzan of the Apes. Who are you? Can you read this language?
D’Arnot seized the pencil—then he stopped. This strange man wrote
English—evidently he was an Englishman.
“Yes,” said D’Arnot, “I read English. I speak it also. Now we may talk.
First let me thank you for all that you have done for me.”
The man only shook his head and pointed to the pencil and the bark.
“_Mon Dieu!_” cried D’Arnot. “If you are English why is it then that
you cannot speak English?”
And then in a flash it came to him—the man was a mute, possibly a deaf
mute.
So D’Arnot wrote a message on the bark, in English.
I am Paul d’Arnot, Lieutenant in the navy of France. I thank you for
what you have done for me. You have saved my life, and all that I have
is yours. May I ask how it is that one who writes English does not
speak it?
Tarzan’s reply filled D’Arnot with still greater wonder:
I speak only the language of my tribe—the great apes who were
Kerchak’s; and a little of the languages of Tantor, the elephant, and
Numa, the lion, and of the other folks of the jungle I understand. With
a human being I have never spoken, except once with Jane Porter, by
signs. This is the first time I have spoken with another of my kind
through written words.
D’Arnot was mystified. It seemed incredible that there lived upon earth
a full-grown man who had never spoken with a fellow man, and still more
preposterous that such a one could read and write.
He looked again at Tarzan’s message—“except once, with Jane Porter.”
That was the American girl who had been carried into the jungle by a
gorilla.
A sudden light commenced to dawn on D’Arnot—this then was the
“gorilla.” He seized the pencil and wrote:
Where is Jane Porter?
And Tarzan replied, below:
Back with her people in the cabin of Tarzan of the Apes.
She is not dead then? Where was she? What happened to her?
She is not dead. She was taken by Terkoz to be his wife; but Tarzan
of the Apes took her away from Terkoz and killed him before he
could harm her.
None in all the jungle may face Tarzan of the Apes in battle, and
live. I am Tarzan of the Apes—mighty fighter.
D’Arnot wrote:
I am glad she is safe. It pains me to write, I will rest a while.
And then Tarzan:
Yes, rest. When you are well I shall take you back to your people.
For many days D’Arnot lay upon his bed of soft ferns. The second day a
fever had come and D’Arnot thought that it meant infection and he knew
that he would die.
An idea came to him. He wondered why he had not thought of it before.
He called Tarzan and indicated by signs that he would write, and when
Tarzan had fetched the bark and pencil, D’Arnot wrote:
Can you go to my people and lead them here? I will write a message that
you may take to them, and they will follow you.
Tarzan shook his head and taking the bark, wrote:
I had thought of that—the first day; but I dared not. The great apes
come often to this spot, and if they found you here, wounded and alone,
they would kill you.
D’Arnot turned on his side and closed his eyes. He did not wish to die;
but he felt that he was going, for the fever was mounting higher and
higher. That night he lost consciousness.
For three days he was in delirium, and Tarzan sat beside him and bathed
his head and hands and washed his wounds.
On the fourth day the fever broke as suddenly as it had come, but it
left D’Arnot a shadow of his former self, and very weak. Tarzan had to
lift him that he might drink from the gourd.
The fever had not been the result of infection, as D’Arnot had thought,
but one of those that commonly attack whites in the jungles of Africa,
and either kill or leave them as suddenly as D’Arnot’s had left him.
Two days later, D’Arnot was tottering about the amphitheater, Tarzan’s
strong arm about him to keep him from falling.
They sat beneath the shade of a great tree, and Tarzan found some
smooth bark that they might converse.
D’Arnot wrote the first message:
What can I do to repay you for all that you have done for me?
And Tarzan, in reply:
Teach me to speak the language of men.
And so D’Arnot commenced at once, pointing out familiar objects and
repeating their names in French, for he thought that it would be easier
to teach this man his own language, since he understood it himself best
of all.
It meant nothing to Tarzan, of course, for he could not tell one
language from another, so when he pointed to the word man which he had
printed upon a piece of bark he learned from D’Arnot that it was
pronounced _homme_, and in the same way he was taught to pronounce ape,
_singe_ and tree, _arbre_.
He was a most eager student, and in two more days had mastered so much
French that he could speak little sentences such as: “That is a tree,”
“this is grass,” “I am hungry,” and the like, but D’Arnot found that it
was difficult to teach him the French construction upon a foundation of
English.
The Frenchman wrote little lessons for him in English and had Tarzan
repeat them in French, but as a literal translation was usually very
poor French Tarzan was often confused.
D’Arnot realized now that he had made a mistake, but it seemed too late
to go back and do it all over again and force Tarzan to unlearn all
that he had learned, especially as they were rapidly approaching a
point where they would be able to converse.
On the third day after the fever broke Tarzan wrote a message asking
D’Arnot if he felt strong enough to be carried back to the cabin.
Tarzan was as anxious to go as D’Arnot, for he longed to see Jane
again.
It had been hard for him to remain with the Frenchman all these days
for that very reason, and that he had unselfishly done so spoke more
glowingly of his nobility of character than even did his rescuing the
French officer from Mbonga’s clutches.
D’Arnot, only too willing to attempt the journey, wrote:
But you cannot carry me all the distance through this tangled forest.
Tarzan laughed.
“_Mais oui_,” he said, and D’Arnot laughed aloud to hear the phrase
that he used so often glide from Tarzan’s tongue.
So they set out, D’Arnot marveling as had Clayton and Jane at the
wondrous strength and agility of the apeman.
Mid-afternoon brought them to the clearing, and as Tarzan dropped to
earth from the branches of the last tree his heart leaped and bounded
against his ribs in anticipation of seeing Jane so soon again.
No one was in sight outside the cabin, and D’Arnot was perplexed to
note that neither the cruiser nor the _Arrow_ was at anchor in the bay.
An atmosphere of loneliness pervaded the spot, which caught suddenly at
both men as they strode toward the cabin.
Neither spoke, yet both knew before they opened the closed door what
they would find beyond.
Tarzan lifted the latch and pushed the great door in upon its wooden
hinges. It was as they had feared. The cabin was deserted.
The men turned and looked at one another. D’Arnot knew that his people
thought him dead; but Tarzan thought only of the woman who had kissed
him in love and now had fled from him while he was serving one of her
people.
A great bitterness rose in his heart. He would go away, far into the
jungle and join his tribe. Never would he see one of his own kind
again, nor could he bear the thought of returning to the cabin. He
would leave that forever behind him with the great hopes he had nursed
there of finding his own race and becoming a man among men.
And the Frenchman? D’Arnot? What of him? He could get along as Tarzan
had. Tarzan did not want to see him more. He wanted to get away from
everything that might remind him of Jane.
As Tarzan stood upon the threshold brooding, D’Arnot had entered the
cabin. Many comforts he saw that had been left behind. He recognized
numerous articles from the cruiser—a camp oven, some kitchen utensils,
a rifle and many rounds of ammunition, canned foods, blankets, two
chairs and a cot—and several books and periodicals, mostly American.
“They must intend returning,” thought D’Arnot.
He walked over to the table that John Clayton had built so many years
before to serve as a desk, and on it he saw two notes addressed to
Tarzan of the Apes.