# Tiberius Smith/Chapter 12
### XII THE BASEBALL GOD

"IT was a long, dreary run down to the settlements, and Wogo took French leave at the first hint of civilization. Then Tib and I jumped one of those one-horse river-steamers and ate up the miles to Obidos. We were going right through to Para and catch a boat for somewhere, but at Obidos we found young Santos on his way up the river, and we foolishly stopped to have heap big talk. I was nervous, as the old chap showed an inclination to tarry, and under the petals I softly reminded him how glad we had been to flee to the East.
"‘But we were talking about the gold-fields of Minas Geraes and Bahia,' he explained. 'Do you realize, child, that in addition to the hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold there are forty thousand carats of diamonds annually exported from the Brazilian fields?'
"I observed I didn't care an old-fashioned rap if there were a million. I wanted to go home. But at this point Santos chipped in and quickly dispelled ​any visions my patron might have had of leaking into the diamond-fields to absorb a scuttleful of bright-eyed gems, and then cantering merrily back to port before any one could ring in an alarm. According to his say-so, the desirable weed of all evil was firmly tied up by English capital, and independent harvesters were heartily frowned upon.
"Oh, I ought to have got wise and wrenched the dear old boy away when the cub finished his coffee and observed, 'If you're satisfied your quest is impracticable, I'll propose something different.'
"I ought to have got wise, but I didn't, and only sulked as Tib inquired, 'You would advise a virgin field, seeing all these pastures we've been discussing are nailed down?'
"And that was just what the brat suggested. His proposition was that we should pursue our search for precious stones in his company up the Madeira. He told us that he'd often heard stories of clay puddings, with diamond plums, in the Blue Hen Valley in the Tarijara district. The only drawback, he explained, was the natives' unhappy reputation for eating one another. But odd ideas as to table etiquette, Tib declared, could never keep him from nature's jewelry-shop.
"‘My boy,' he said, after we'd returned to our hut, 'I do not doubt but what these Mundrucu, or Blue Hen men, or whatever they're called, are crude ​in their tastes and will gladly devour their grandparents when the larder is low; but we won't plan on becoming chummy with them, and I guess we can turn the trick without figuring in a salad. While they are not a jovial, whole-souled people, they are, thank Heavens, few in number. For see, the census returns show that in all the State of Amazonas, with its seven hundred and thirty-two thousand, two hundred and fifty square miles, the population is but two-tenths of a person per mile. That's what I call a scattered population. When you figure out the squaws and children, it would be queer if we couldn't easily dodge the remaining decimal fraction. We only need about one mile to browse in, and a fortune may be contained in one yard of earth.'
"I balked, and was for jumping to New Orleans and picking up some plantation medleys for the New England trade.
"‘Child,' pleaded Tib, 'just this one fling with fortune's dice. Santos was up there last year, and he'll get through all right this trip. Thousands travel up and down the Madeira each season and it's safer than Broadway. There's no danger until we branch off to the Blue Hen Valley. We won't carry a band with us—just sly in—and if things look rocky, we'll trip a merry morris back to the settlement. Do you think I would place your young life in hazard?' he concluded, reproachfully, and then, ​probably remembering that he had done so about once a week for ten years, he added, 'that is, without saving it.'
"Two days later we started on our long jaunt with Santos.
"The trip up the Amazon was uneventful and exceedingly tedious, and both Tib and I were delighted when just before reaching the mouth of the Madeira we shifted over into a small craft propelled by Moxos and set off up a side-creek. Even here there was little to vary the monotony. The scenery was uniform. Immense stretches of stonewood, cinnamon, and bow-wood screened the river-banks. A casual glimpse of the aborigines demonstrated clearly that they hadn't received the latest styles. Every time we met some of these beggars, Remigio, our captain of rowers, would sniff his squat nose and, glancing complacently at his bark shirt, growl: 'No Christianos!' My courage was considerably weakened when he explained through Santos that the many side-streams which emptied themselves into the Madeira all flowed from a wholly unknown country. He also pointed out a sand-bar where the season before three Bolivians had been captured and carried off by the Indians. After that the dark, oily waters of each tributary, now and then washing down an empty Araras bark canoe, were to me fraught with some terrible menace.
​"And while I was in the dumps Santos announced that the psychological moment had arrived at which to invade the Blue Hen Valley. The low, clear-cut cornices of the Blue Hen Mountains showed off to the right, and as the land separating us from them was an open plateau carpeted with a short, tough grass, Tib decided we should leave the winding river and cut straight across country.
"Santos promised that he would pick us up two weeks from date, on his way back from Jauca; and wringing his hand we packed up some fodder and trinkets and left him. We had no guns, as we had come to dig and run, not fight.
"Well, for three days we tramped steadily towards the mountains. On the morning of the fourth day the trouble began. Tib said he was tired of preserved meat and was going to bag one of the water-fowl that we found everywhere in great numbers.
"‘I never saw a blue hen before, but they must be good eating,' he remarked, as he drove a rock into a flock and downed one.
"As he did this there was a fearful howl, and a cloud of long reed arrows hurtled by us. Before we had time to clinch our nerve we were surrounded by twenty fierce-faced gentlemen, dressed carelessly in bone necklaces, bone ornaments, and girdles of red toucan feathers. They were further adorned with blue clay plastered about their flat mouths, and with ​red feathers which they wore in their ears and nostrils, as well as in their long black hair, and they easily looked like nightmares. Tib and I were ready at sight of them to believe them cannibals, and expected nothing better than to speedily find ourselves salted down for a rainy day.
"The president of the delegation had a little powwow with the other Trilbys and then waved his spear, and we were hustled along towards the upper end of the valley, the brown beggars yowling some plaintive medley all the time. They carried the blue hen with them, and whenever their eyes caught a glimpse of it they beat their breasts and howled and whined in a perfectly ridiculous manner. A three-mile trot brought us to a bunch of low huts with palm-leaf roofs, and there the whole chorus tripped out to greet us. The squaws were much taken with Tib, I reckon because he was so plump; they kind of side-stepped me as being good only for a sandwich. But when the chairman held up the hen and threw a little Russian at them, their curiosity gave way to rage, and several expressed a kindly desire to hold an autopsy.
"‘I guess, my boy, that when I heaved that rock and hit the bird I hit their gospel,' groaned Tib.
"And that was the layout. We'd unintentionally shattered their whole religious fabric when we ​gunned for roast fowl. They doped us out as unbelievers and wanted to free our spirits over a well-prepared hecatomb. Tib offered to pay for the biddy, but they didn't understand him, and an old hag began to sharpen a vulgar-looking knife and croon a bit of folk-lore song, in which the nasal tones predominated. We were shoved into a dirty hut of bark and hides and left to ourselves for the time being, though the building was surrounded by guards. The first thing Tib did was to discover a pretty palm-leaf basket in the corner. He examined it and found it contained a skull and some miscellaneous bones.
"'That settles it, my boy, they would eat the father of the drama. I thought grandma's necklace was formed of the crooked teeth of the water-pig, but I can see now the molars once belonged to neighboring tribesmen, perhaps relatives.'
"In spite of the horror of the situation, Tib managed to keep up his spirit. He admitted that it was a disgrace to be eaten by such ignoramuses and that he should always feel ashamed of himself. 'But cheer up,' he cried. 'Tiberius Smith has never been eaten yet and doesn't intend now to contribute himself for a pink tea. I'll try and think of something before the curtain goes up.'
"'If we could only cut and run to that stream and make a raft, or steal one of their canoes, we could ​float down to Borba; that is, if an alligator didn't get us,' I groaned.
"‘I'm sorry I brought you,' observed Tib, gravely. 'But let's to business. Here's our pack with fish-lines and hooks, some dried beef, and general tommy-rot. And, oh yes; here's six of those hand-bombs we use to explode at the evening performance of the circus. I thought we could use them to signal with if we got separated. Red, green, and yellow are the colors. They were in our baggage that Santos brought up to Obidos. Take three, but don't use one till I give the word.'
"‘I reckon these people are the Mundrucu, all right,' I observed, pushing the basket with my foot.
"‘I'm afraid they are,' sighed Tib. 'Head-hunters. Did you ever stop to think what a queer fad that is?'
"‘No,' I groaned, 'but I realize that you were away off in dividing these folks up into decimals. The population seems to be looking up.'
"‘Census-takers are liars,' declared Tib. 'Or else they've rung in repeaters from another ward.'
"‘Those large, smooth, open places on the map aren't all English lawns,' I moaned.
"Then we sat dumbly and nursed out despair. At last Tib broke the dismal silence by crying: 'I wonder what those imps are up to?'
"This last was called forth by a shrill shouting ​outside. We peeped through the narrow opening past our guards, and saw the heathens were playing a crude game of ball. It wasn't handball, nor was it baseball. One tall pest hurled the sphere at a man with a club, and it was the duty of the latter to hit it. When he did, he ran, and whoever got the ball threw it back to the pitcher. I don't know what would have happened if the batter had missed. Tib said they'd eat him. The game reminded me of my youth and two-old-cat, and we couldn't help admiring the dexterity of the batter, who evidently was the chief of the tribe. No matter how swiftly the ball came he would give a jump away from it, or towards it, and bang! 'way down to the bleachers. I remembered that the North American Indians have been given to this form of sport from the time of the white man's first coming, and I suppose it is common to all the tribes below the equator.
"‘Billy,' cried Tib, after we had watched their antics for some time, 'I'm going to make a grandstand play. That rugged sprite of a pitcher ought to be released, or else sent to the bench. Old Cocoa has hit him for nineteen singles and eight home-runs inside of five minutes. I'm going to join the nine and show 'em how our boys can play.'
"‘You throw a ball?' I gasped.
"‘Can I?' and he smiled complacently. 'Why, in the days of straight pitching I pitched a game for ​the old Red Stockings when the score was one hundred and ninety to one hundred and forty. Close game, I tell you.'
"‘The batter out there can cart away all the straight balls any one can dish up to him,' I reminded, sadly.
"‘But not curves,' grinned Tib.
"‘You curve?' I murmured.
"‘I do, my child,' he affirmed. 'Two years ago I wished to create a Ten Thousand Dollar Beauty's part in a little baseball drama I was to star in, and I played with a village nine all through the summer, just to get the atmosphere. And do you know, little one, I got onto the knack of tossing up grape-vines in a way that would make Cy Young look like a last year's rose-leaf. Now you stay here and watch me capture the cup.'
"Before the guards knew his intention he had picked up the skull and was out of the hut and walking gravely towards the old chief. The guards didn't like to leave me, and as Tib was moving towards the crowd they contented themselves with a college yell of warning. When Tib walked up to the chief, and, placing the skull down for the home base and pushing His Ivories into proper position, motioned for him to stand ready to strike the ball, the old boy was stunned.
"But he came to after a bit and howled and bang​ed his club on the ground and called out to his men. Instantly two rushed Tib down the field in front of the grinning base and gave him the ball, while the others stood on the side-lines with arrows drawn to the head on their long bows. Tib, with his back towards me, was now standing directly in front of me, and, without turning his head, cried out: 'Maybe it's good-bye, Billy. The scalawags mean to shoot if I let Othello hit it.'
"In a flash I realized the meaning of the ready bowmen. Hiawatha was enraged at Tib's presumption and was going to have him punctured the minute the first hit was made. It was grewsome, I tell you. There was the old devil, gnashing his teeth and tapping the grisly skull in an ecstasy of impatience to smash the ball. There were the bowmen, all anxious to get the first chance at the pitcher. There was the old lady with the big knife, scurrying around, brightening up the fire, and singing a cheery carol, happy at the prospects of having a stranger for supper. And last, there was Tib, short and comfortable, peeled down to his underwear, posed on one toe, carefully examining the ball.
"And do you know those savages cured me of all liking for the sport. I never pass a vacant lot and see the kids tossing ball but what I shiver, and yet in my knickerbocker days I was fond of the game. But here was a time when a hit meant two lives and ​the bleachers were determined that that hit should be made. Never willingly will I look on two nines crossing bats. And to this day I detest chickens; I never see a gallinaceous biped but what my hand seeks a weapon.
"‘Cheer up, Billy,' he called over his shoulder. 'The leather is almost as good as a league ball. Now learn how to throw an out-curve.'
"Then with fearful contortions he waved his arms, doubled up his fat form, and threw a ball that had all the promise of cutting the skull. My heart rose in my mouth as the old chief smiled, closed his eyes with satisfaction, and swung for all he was worth. And he missed it.
"But so sure were the men that he was going to score that, when he struck, they all took a pot-shot at Tib. Fortunately he had anticipated this and had dropped to the ground. Two lines of reed arrows kissed each other in passing over him. Then he sprang to his feet, and the way he called down Old Cocoa and the bowmen would have done you good, sir, to have heard. And the chief was mad. He hopped a double hornpipe; smashed in the top of the skull, and then began on his men. You see, sir, his pride was hurt and he dressed 'em down beautifully. They were scared as bluebirds and all drew back and rested on their bows. Then Tib cried out to me: 'Now if I can ​get a fair shake, I'm going to pitch a thirteen-inning game. If I've got any friends on the side-lines, I'd like to hear their voices cheering, as it heartens me. Here goes a simple drop.'
"Bless you, it entirely took the crowd off their feet. The batter literally wallowed in the grass. When he saw that ball humming along as true as a die, he just gritted his teeth and swung himself into the air and came down with a crash.
"‘Hooray!' I yelled, in my excitement. 'Two strikes! No balls! Go it, Tibby!'
"Hang me, if that rascal didn't turn and, with one hand on his breast and the other at his back, make me a stage bow and blow me a kiss. A chocolate-drop returned the ball, and with a bellow of rage the batter pranced to wipe out his disgrace. It was a rising in-shoot, and from where I stood I should have diagnosed it as a corkscrew. After Tib delivered it he turned aside and put one hand up to his smirking mouth, as if he were ashamed of having done it. The ball ducked the club and brushed the old gentleman's jugular. A howl of amazement went up from all hands, and grandma dropped her knife and began to bump her head on the ground. The chief, too, looked a bit frightened.
"‘Guess I've got a glass arm, eh?' cried Tib. 'That's pretty rotten, isn't it? Oh yes.'
"The batter frowned at his club, muttered some​thing that sounded like the key-board of a type-writer pronounced all together, and grabbed his nose-ring. Then he chatted away for a while to a bone ornament on his wrist and seemed to find some more courage.
"‘He thinks he's big medicine now,' remarked Tib, rubbing the ball on his jeans. 'Just observe the erratic orbit of this new-fangled out. It's been called quite a teaser in the States. Dear old States! How I wish we were back there, living in Christian fraternity with Mike O'Daffy, the boodle alderman; and with Slitzenberger sending out for another pail of suds! Well, ready for Act III.; curtain!' And the new-fangled out was released. Unlike the others it was thrown square at the batter's stomach. He did not budge, but with a grunt of satisfaction presented the flat side of his club and tried to bunt it. The ball swerved and passed two feet outside the plate. Well, Tib just sat down and laughed.
"If you could only have heard the old man swear! He threw down his club, cussed the niggers, cussed himself, and then took a fall out of the little bone god on his wrist. Then I woke up and began to root. I forgot the guards, and danced out in the open and gave a rowdy-dowdy-zip-boom-bah class yell. In my more hopeful days I had few equals as a coach. I could see my joy-talk was putting new blood into Tib, and he kept bowing and scraping ​to imaginary grandstands. The chief didn't try to stop us. He just looked sullen and waited for us to get through. It was the Baseball God against the God of the Blue Hen, and he was quite a square old sport, once you forgot his gastronomic stunts. After I'd lost my wind and Tib had stopped mincing about in the pitcher's box, the chief rattled off a few eeny-meeny-miney-mo sentiments to his god and again swung back his club for another foozle. Dear, dear! He had never heard of curved pitching and of course he stood no show from the go-in.
"Tib then tossed up a ball so slow that I could have sworn a babe might have lambasted it. But such a curve! It loafed up to the plate, and just as Mr. Hen exclaimed 'wow' with much satisfaction it dropped a bit and wriggled by. Then I gave another college yell, and Tib pinned on imaginary bouquets, while the chief took another whack at cussing. I guess he'd forgotten some of his ancestors in his previous efforts, for this time with concentrated mind he seemed to be dipping into the dry bones of the dim past, and he rattled the skeleton of every forebear as he tore down the macadam. When he arrived in the nineteenth century he was in rare fettle, and for pure form he had a circus boss beaten to a tender mush.
"But now I could see Tib was taking more time ​in sending the ball, and every once in a while he doubled up his arm as if it ached.
"‘"When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, …"
he murmured.
"‘ Tired, old man?' I choked.
"‘A little. I wish you knew how to curve 'em. But, then, the other nine would probably kick if we changed batteries. Oh, I'm good for a few more.'
"The chief struck twice at the next one and barked his shins. He was so angry he bit his flat lips through till the blood oozed out and perfectly matched the hue of the toucan feathers in his fat nose. Then Tib settled down and pitched for our two lives. Slow ones, followed up by rifle-bullets; bow-legged ones, chased up by rainbows, and so on, always ringing in the changes just as the Hen thought he had doped out a winning combination. A wonderful love for my patron now filled my soul. He was pitching to save my life, and there was something infinitely encouraging in the way he cocked his head and smiled at me. Then I noticed the gray in his hair and remembered he was old enough to be my father. His face began to look drawn and his lips trembled, but they never lost their smile. I could give him none of my youthful strength, and it ​was very hard to stand there and watch him go it all alone.
"‘Can you keep it up?' I stammered.
"‘Hard work playing against nine men and the umpire,' he replied, cheerfully, sending in one that was so full of ginger as almost to cause the batter's eyes to pop out of his head.
"The sun was sinking now and Tib motioned to it and signed for a rest. But old Beetle Brows howled out a negative reply and significantly pointed to the bowmen. Then he gave them some order and they straightened up.
"‘Listen, Billy,' gasped Tib. 'When the night comes it will come all at once and in two seconds be as black as your immediate future. Be ready to cut down the grass to the river when I let him hit it.'
"‘They'll shoot the minute he hits,' I cried, in anguish.
"‘My dear boy, they are going to shoot anyway. He's crooked. He's tipped 'em off to turn me into a pin-cushion when the sun-rays say good-night. But it's one of the bombs, not the ball, I'm going to let him hit. So be ready to place yours where they'll do the most good. Are you on?'
"I said I was, and just as the sun dipped, Tib prepared to throw an easy straight. Our lives this time depended entirely on the batter's making a hit. ​Straight, and not too swift, the hand-bomb, substituted for the bunch of leather, sped, and smash! The Blue Hens had made the first and only hit of the day. But such a hit! Bang! and a dozen colored balls of fire radiated about the batter's head. One or two arrows whimpered by, but the most of the gang had fallen on their faces.
"With a crazy yell I drove my three bombs at the bowmen and saw each one explode. Tib let drive another at the chief, who sat stupefied on the home plate, and it took him square in the forehead. Then as the night fell like a blanket we ran for the river. In passing the old woman, who lay prostrate by the fire, I saw in the evil glow something on her necklace glitter. Before I knew it I had wrenched it from off her throat.
"There was no pursuit. We blundered on through the darkness until we came to the river and found a canoe made of one broad piece of bark, laced up at either end in a sharp point. One night and a day we paddled on, with nothing to eat but raw fish. At times we were hemmed in by walls of metamorphic rock. Now we were tossed over rapids and only came through by luck. Again the floating vegetation threatened to end our flight. And all through it the fear of the Blue Hen men was upon us, although Tib showed it not. At last we reached Vista Alegre, where Santos found us ​three weeks later. While waiting for him I discovered the necklace in my trousers-pocket, and on examining it observed seven large diamonds mixed in with the horrid bone ornaments. Tib said it was the best-paid game of ball he ever pitched.
"But it was a game I never wish to see again; for the medicine of the Blue Hen god was very strong.