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TARZAN of the Apes
by Edgar Rice Burroughs

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Chapter 3

Life and Death

Morning found them but little, if at all refreshed, though

it was with a feeling of intense relief that they saw the

day dawn.

As soon as they had made their meager breakfast of salt

pork, coffee and biscuit, Clayton commenced work upon their

house, for he realized that they could hope for no safety and

no peace of mind at night until four strong walls effectually

barred the jungle life from them.

The task was an arduous one and required the better part of

a month, though he built but one small room. He constructed

his cabin of small logs about six inches in diameter,

stopping the chinks with clay which he found at the depth of

a few feet beneath the surface soil.

At one end he built a fireplace of small stones from the

beach. These also he set in clay and when the house had been

entirely completed he applied a coating of the clay to the

entire outside surface to the thickness of four inches.

In the window opening he set small branches about an inch in

diameter both vertically and horizontally, and so woven that they

formed a substantial grating that could withstand the strength

of a powerful animal. Thus they obtained air and proper

ventilation without fear of lessening the safety of their cabin.

The A-shaped roof was thatched with small branches laid

close together and over these long jungle grass and palm

fronds, with a final coating of clay.

The door he built of pieces of the packing-boxes which

had held their belongings, nailing one piece upon another, the

grain of contiguous layers running transversely, until he had

a solid body some three inches thick and of such great

strength that they were both moved to laughter as they gazed

upon it.

Here the greatest difficulty confronted Clayton, for he had

no means whereby to hang his massive door now that he had

built it. After two days' work, however, he succeeded in

fashioning two massive hardwood hinges, and with these he

hung the door so that it opened and closed easily.

The stuccoing and other final touches were added after

they moved into the house, which they had done as soon as

the roof was on, piling their boxes before the door at night

and thus having a comparatively safe and comfortable habitation.

The building of a bed, chairs, table, and shelves was a

relatively easy matter, so that by the end of the second month

they were well settled, and, but for the constant dread of

attack by wild beasts and the ever growing loneliness, they

were not uncomfortable or unhappy.

At night great beasts snarled and roared about their tiny

cabin, but, so accustomed may one become to oft repeated

noises, that soon they paid little attention to them, sleeping

soundly the whole night through.

Thrice had they caught fleeting glimpses of great man-like

figures like that of the first night, but never at sufficiently

close range to know positively whether the half-seen forms

were those of man or brute.

The brilliant birds and the little monkeys had become accustomed

to their new acquaintances, and as they had evidently never

seen human beings before they presently, after their first

fright had worn off, approached closer and closer, impelled

by that strange curiosity which dominates the wild creatures

of the forest and the jungle and the plain, so that within

the first month several of the birds had gone so far as even

to accept morsels of food from the friendly hands of the Claytons.

One afternoon, while Clayton was working upon an addition

to their cabin, for he contemplated building several more

rooms, a number of their grotesque little friends came shrieking

and scolding through the trees from the direction of the

ridge. Ever as they fled they cast fearful glances back of

them, and finally they stopped near Clayton jabbering excitedly

to him as though to warn him of approaching danger.

At last he saw it, the thing the little monkeys so feared--

the man-brute of which the Claytons had caught occasional

fleeting glimpses.

It was approaching through the jungle in a semi-erect position,

now and then placing the backs of its closed fists upon the

ground--a great anthropoid ape, and, as it advanced, it emitted

deep guttural growls and an occasional low barking sound.

Clayton was at some distance from the cabin, having come

to fell a particularly perfect tree for his building operations.

Grown careless from months of continued safety, during

which time he had seen no dangerous animals during the daylight

hours, he had left his rifles and revolvers all within the

little cabin, and now that he saw the great ape crashing

through the underbrush directly toward him, and from a

direction which practically cut him off from escape, he

felt a vague little shiver play up and down his spine.

He knew that, armed only with an ax, his chances with this

ferocious monster were small indeed--and Alice; O God, he

thought, what will become of Alice?

There was yet a slight chance of reaching the cabin. He

turned and ran toward it, shouting an alarm to his wife to run

in and close the great door in case the ape cut off his retreat.

Lady Greystoke had been sitting a little way from the

cabin, and when she heard his cry she looked up to see the

ape springing with almost incredible swiftness, for so large

and awkward an animal, in an effort to head off Clayton.

With a low cry she sprang toward the cabin, and, as she

entered, gave a backward glance which filled her soul with

terror, for the brute had intercepted her husband, who now

stood at bay grasping his ax with both hands ready to swing

it upon the infuriated animal when he should make his final


"Close and bolt the door, Alice," cried Clayton. "I can

finish this fellow with my ax."

But he knew he was facing a horrible death, and so did she.

The ape was a great bull, weighing probably three hundred

pounds. His nasty, close-set eyes gleamed hatred from beneath

his shaggy brows, while his great canine fangs were bared

in a horrid snarl as he paused a moment before his prey.

Over the brute's shoulder Clayton could see the doorway

of his cabin, not twenty paces distant, and a great wave of

horror and fear swept over him as he saw his young wife

emerge, armed with one of his rifles.

She had always been afraid of firearms, and would never

touch them, but now she rushed toward the ape with the

fearlessness of a lioness protecting its young.

"Back, Alice," shouted Clayton, "for God's sake, go back."

But she would not heed, and just then the ape charged, so

that Clayton could say no more.

The man swung his ax with all his mighty strength, but the

powerful brute seized it in those terrible hands, and tearing it

from Clayton's grasp hurled it far to one side.

With an ugly snarl he closed upon his defenseless victim,

but ere his fangs had reached the throat they thirsted for,

there was a sharp report and a bullet entered the ape's back

between his shoulders.

Throwing Clayton to the ground the beast turned upon his

new enemy. There before him stood the terrified girl vainly

trying to fire another bullet into the animal's body; but she

did not understand the mechanism of the firearm, and the

hammer fell futilely upon an empty cartridge.

Almost simultaneously Clayton regained his feet, and without

thought of the utter hopelessness of it, he rushed forward

to drag the ape from his wife's prostrate form.

With little or no effort he succeeded, and the great bulk

rolled inertly upon the turf before him--the ape was dead.

The bullet had done its work.

A hasty examination of his wife revealed no marks upon

her, and Clayton decided that the huge brute had died the

instant he had sprung toward Alice.

Gently he lifted his wife's still unconscious form, and bore

her to the little cabin, but it was fully two hours before she

regained consciousness.

Her first words filled Clayton with vague apprehension.

For some time after regaining her senses, Alice gazed

wonderingly about the interior of the little cabin, and

then, with a satisfied sigh, said:

"O, John, it is so good to be really home! I have had an

awful dream, dear. I thought we were no longer in London,

but in some horrible place where great beasts attacked us."

"There, there, Alice," he said, stroking her forehead, "try

to sleep again, and do not worry your head about bad dreams."

That night a little son was born in the tiny cabin beside the

primeval forest, while a leopard screamed before the door, and

the deep notes of a lion's roar sounded from beyond the ridge.

Lady Greystoke never recovered from the shock of the

great ape's attack, and, though she lived for a year after her

baby was born, she was never again outside the cabin, nor

did she ever fully realize that she was not in England.

Sometimes she would question Clayton as to the strange

noises of the nights; the absence of servants and friends, and

the strange rudeness of the furnishings within her room, but,

though he made no effort to deceive her, never could she

grasp the meaning of it all.

In other ways she was quite rational, and the joy and happiness

she took in the possession of her little son and the constant

attentions of her husband made that year a very happy

one for her, the happiest of her young life.

That it would have been beset by worries and apprehension

had she been in full command of her mental faculties Clayton

well knew; so that while he suffered terribly to see her so,

there were times when he was almost glad, for her sake, that

she could not understand.

Long since had he given up any hope of rescue, except

through accident. With unremitting zeal he had worked to

beautify the interior of the cabin.

Skins of lion and panther covered the floor. Cupboards and

bookcases lined the walls. Odd vases made by his own hand

from the clay of the region held beautiful tropical flowers.

Curtains of grass and bamboo covered the windows, and,

most arduous task of all, with his meager assortment of tools

he had fashioned lumber to neatly seal the walls and ceiling

and lay a smooth floor within the cabin.

That he had been able to turn his hands at all to such

unaccustomed labor was a source of mild wonder to him.

But he loved the work because it was for her and the tiny life

that had come to cheer them, though adding a hundredfold

to his responsibilities and to the terribleness of their situation.

During the year that followed, Clayton was several times

attacked by the great apes which now seemed to continually

infest the vicinity of the cabin; but as he never again

ventured outside without both rifle and revolvers he had

little fear of the huge beasts.

He had strengthened the window protections and fitted a

unique wooden lock to the cabin door, so that when he

hunted for game and fruits, as it was constantly necessary for

him to do to insure sustenance, he had no fear that any animal

could break into the little home.

At first he shot much of the game from the cabin windows,

but toward the end the animals learned to fear the strange

lair from whence issued the terrifying thunder of his rifle.

In his leisure Clayton read, often aloud to his wife, from

the store of books he had brought for their new home.

Among these were many for little children--picture books,

primers, readers--for they had known that their little child

would be old enough for such before they might hope to return

to England.

At other times Clayton wrote in his diary, which he had

always been accustomed to keep in French, and in which he

recorded the details of their strange life. This book he kept

locked in a little metal box.

A year from the day her little son was born Lady Alice

passed quietly away in the night. So peaceful was her end

that it was hours before Clayton could awake to a realization

that his wife was dead.

The horror of the situation came to him very slowly, and it

is doubtful that he ever fully realized the enormity of his

sorrow and the fearful responsibility that had devolved upon

him with the care of that wee thing, his son, still a nursing babe.

The last entry in his diary was made the morning following

her death, and there he recites the sad details in a matter-of-

fact way that adds to the pathos of it; for it breathes a tired

apathy born of long sorrow and hopelessness, which even this

cruel blow could scarcely awake to further suffering:

My little son is crying for nourishment--O Alice, Alice,

what shall I do?

And as John Clayton wrote the last words his hand was

destined ever to pen, he dropped his head wearily upon his

outstretched arms where they rested upon the table he had

built for her who lay still and cold in the bed beside him.

For a long time no sound broke the deathlike stillness of

the jungle midday save the piteous wailing of the tiny man-child.



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