Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War by G. A. Henty (book club recommendations .txt) 📖
- Author: G. A. Henty
Book online «By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War by G. A. Henty (book club recommendations .txt) 📖». Author G. A. Henty
He soon found a tree with a branch which would suit his purpose, and, climbing up into it, lit his pipe and prepared for an uncomfortable night. Frank had never smoked until he reached Africa, but he had then taken to it on the advice of Mr. Goodenough, who told him that smoking was certainly a preventive, to some extent, of fever in malarious countries, and, although he had not liked it at first, he had now taken kindly to his pipe, and smoked from the time when the evening mists began to rise until he went to bed.
The time passed very slowly. The cries of wild creatures could be heard in the woods, and although Frank did not expect to be attacked, it was impossible to sleep with these calls of leopards, with which the forest seemed to abound, in his ears. He had reloaded his revolver immediately after discharging it, and had replaced it in his pouch, and felt confident that nothing could climb the tree. Besides, he had heard that leopards seldom attack men unless themselves attacked. Sleep, however, was out of the question, for when he slept he might have fallen from his seat in the crotch of the tree. Occasionally, however, he dozed off, waking up always with an uncomfortable start, and a feeling that he had just saved himself from falling. With the earliest dawn of morn he descended, stiff and weary, from the tree. Directly the sun rose he set off walking. He knew at least that he was to the south of the camp, and that by keeping the sun on his right hand till it reached the zenith he must get in time to the little stream on which it was pitched. As he walked he listened intently for the sound of guns. Once or twice he fancied that he heard them, but he was quite unable to judge of the direction. He had been out with the Houssa about six hours before he strayed from him in the pursuit of the butterfly, and they had for some time been walking towards the camp, in order to reach it by nightfall. Thus he thought, that at that time, he could only have been some three or four miles distant from it. Supposing that he had run due south, he could still be but eight miles from the stream, and he thought that in three hours' walking he might arrive there. In point of fact, after leaving the Houssa the butterfly had led him towards the southeast, and as the stream took a sharp bend to the north a little distance above the camp, he was many miles farther from it than he expected. This stream was one of the upper tributaries of the Gaboon.
After walking for two hours the character of the forest changed. The high trees were farther apart, and a thick undergrowth began to make its appearance, frequently causing him to make long detours and preventing his following the line he had marked out for himself. This caused him much uneasiness, for he knew that he had passed across no such country on his way from the camp, and the thought that he might experience great difficulties in recovering it, now began to press upon him.
CHAPTER XI: A HOSTILE TRIBE
Every step that he went the ground grew softer and more swampy, and he at length determined to push on no farther in this direction, but turning to his left to try and gain higher ground, and then to continue on the line he had marked out for himself.
His progress was now very slow. The bush was thick and close, thorny plants and innumerable creepers continually barred his way, and the necessity for constantly looking up through the trees to catch a glimpse of the sun, which was his only guide, added to his difficulty. At length, when his watch told him it was eleven o'clock, he came to a standstill, the sun being too high overhead to serve him as a reliable guide. He had now been walking for nearly six hours, and he was utterly worn out and exhausted, having had no food since his midday meal on the previous day. He was devoured with thirst, having merely rinsed his mouth in the black and poisonous water of the swamps he had crossed. His sleepless night, too, had told on him. He was bathed in perspiration, and for the last hour had scarcely been able to drag his feet along.
He now lay down at the foot of a great tree, and for three or four hours slept heavily. When he awoke he pursued his journey, the sun serving as a guide again. In two hours' time he had got upon higher ground. The brushwood was less dense, and he again turned his face to the north, and stepped forward with renewed hopes.
It was late in the afternoon when he came upon a native path. Here he sat down to think. He did not remember having crossed such a path on the day before. Probably it crossed the stream at some point above the encampment. Therefore it would serve as a guide, and he might, too, come upon some native village where he could procure food. By following it far enough he must arrive somewhere. He sat for a quarter of an hour to rest himself, and then proceeded along the path, whose direction seemed to be the northwest.
For an hour he proceeded and then paused, hearing a sudden outcry ahead. Scampering along the path came a number of great baboons, and Frank at once stepped aside into the bush to avoid them, as these are formidable creatures when disturbed. They were of a very large species, and several of the females had little ones clinging around their necks. In the distance Frank could hear the shouts of some natives, and supposed that the monkeys had been plundering their plantations, and that they were driving them away. The baboons passed without paying any attention to him, but Frank observed that the last of the troop was carrying a little one in one of its forearms.
Frank glanced at the baby monkey and saw that it had round its waist a string of blue beads. As a string of beads is the only attire which a negro child wears until it reaches the age of ten or eleven years old, the truth at once flashed upon Frank that the baboons were carrying off a native baby, which had probably been set down by its mother while she worked in the plantation. Instantly he drew his pistol, leaped into the road, and fired at the retreating ape. It gave a cry, dropped the baby and turned to attack its aggressor.
Frank waited till it was within six feet, and then shot it through the head. He sprang forward and seized the baby, but in a moment he was attacked by the whole party of baboons, who, barking like dogs, and uttering angry cries, rushed at him. Frank stood
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