The Fire-Gods: A Tale of the Congo
by unknown · English · Gutenberg #39255 · 307,316 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Fire-Gods: A Tale of the Congo
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Fire-Gods: A Tale of the Congo
Creator: Charles Gilson
Illustrator: George Soper
Release date: March 24, 2012 [eBook #39255]
Most recently updated: December 19, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39255
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIRE-GODS: A TALE OF THE CONGO ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover 1]
[Illustration: Cover 2]
[Illustration: "MAX LEANED FORWARD TO EXAMINE THE FACE OF THE ROCK; AND
AS HE DID SO, HE WAS SEIZED SUDDENLY FROM BEHIND."]
THE FIRE-GODS
A Tale of the Congo
By
CAPTAIN CHARLES GILSON
_Author of "Submarine U93," "The Mystery of Ah Jim,"_
_and other Stories._
_ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE SOPER_
LONDON
"THE BOY’S OWN PAPER" OFFICE
4, Bouverie Street
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Submarine U93. A Tale of the Great War by Sea.
The Mystery of Ah Jim. A Tale of the East.
On Secret Service. A Tale of German Spies.
A Motor Scout in Flanders. A Tale of the Bombardment of Antwerp.
The Race Round the World. A Tale of the Motor Spirit of the Future.
The Pirate Aeroplane. A Tale of the Kingdom of Asmalia.
The Lost Island. A Tale of a Chinese Secret Society.
The Lost Column. A Tale of the Boxer Rebellion in China.
Across the Cameroons. A Tale of the Germans in West Africa.
The Spy. A Tale of the Peninsular War.
The Sword of Freedom. A Tale of the English Revolution.
The Lost Empire. A Tale of the Napoleonic Wars.
In the Power of the Pygmies. A Tale of Central Africa.
In Arms for Russia. A Tale of the Great War.
The Pirate Yacht. A Tale of Southern Seas.
The Sword of Deliverance. A Tale of the Balkan War.
————
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--THE EXPLORERS’ CLUB
CHAPTER II--ON THE KASAI
CHAPTER III--THE WHITE WIZARD
CHAPTER IV--THE HIDDEN RIVER
CHAPTER V--THE STOCKADE
CHAPTER VI--CROUCH ON THE WAR-PATH
CHAPTER VII--THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN
CHAPTER VIII--LEAVE TO QUIT
CHAPTER IX--A THIEF BY NIGHT
CHAPTER X--THE BACK-WATER
CHAPTER XI--IN THE LONG RAVINE
CHAPTER XII--WHEN HOPE DIES OUT
CHAPTER XIII--BACK TO THE UNKNOWN
CHAPTER XIV--"BLACK IVORY"
CHAPTER XV--CHOLERA
CHAPTER XVI--THE OPEN CHEST
CHAPTER XVII--THE TABLES TURNED
CHAPTER XVIII--FREEDOM
CHAPTER XIX--THE PHANTOM CANOE
CHAPTER XX--THE RATS ESCAPE
CHAPTER XXI--BACK AT THE "EXPLORERS’"
————
ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
BY GEORGE SOPER
"Max leaned forward to examine the face of the rock; and as he did so,
he was seized suddenly from behind" . . . _Frontispiece_
"Crouch’s fist rang out upon his chin like a pistol-shot, and he went
over backwards into the mud"
"The Great Dane sprang straight at the throat of the young Englishman"
"The lash of the whip rose and fell, until Cæsar shrieked for mercy"
THE FIRE-GODS
CHAPTER I--THE EXPLORERS’ CLUB
The Explorers’ Club no longer exists. To-day, as a matter of fact, it
is a tea-shop in Old Bond Street--a small building, wedged between two
greater ones, a fashionable milliner’s and a famous Art Establishment.
Towards the end of the last century, in what is known as the
mid-Victorian era, the Explorers’ Club was in the heyday of its glory.
The number of its members was limited to two hundred and fifty-one. In
the inner smoking-room, through the green baize doors, where guests were
not admitted, both the conversation and the company were at once
remarkable and unique. The walls were adorned with the trophies of the
chase: heads of elk, markhor, ibex, haartebeest and waterbuck; great
lions and snarling tigers; mouflon from Cyprus, and the white leopard of
the Himalayas. If you looked into the room through the glass peep-hole
in one of the green baize doors, you might have thought at first that
you beheld a menagerie, where the fiercest and the rarest beasts in the
world were imprisoned in a single cage. But, presently, your attention
would have been attracted by the great, sun-burnt men, sprawling in the
leather chairs, dressed in tweeds for the most part, and nearly every
one with a blackened briar pipe between his lips.
In those days, Africa was the "Dark Continent"; the source of the Nile
and the Great Lakes were undiscovered, of the Congo nothing was known.
Nor was this geographical ignorance confined to a single continent: in
every part of the world, vast tracts of country, great rivers and
mountains were as yet unexplored. And the little that was known of
these uttermost parts of the earth never passed the green baize doors of
the inner smoking-room of the Explorers’ Club.
There, in an atmosphere blue with smoke, where a great fire roared in
winter to keep the chill of the London fog from the bones of those who,
time and again, had been stricken with the fevers of the equatorial
parts, a small group of men would sit and talk by the hour. There great
projects were suggested, criticised and discussed. A man would rise
from his seat, take down a map of some half-discovered country, and
placing his finger upon a blank space, announce in tones of decision
that that was the exact spot to which he intended to go. And if he
went, perhaps, he would not come back.
At the time our story opens, Edward Harden was probably the most popular
member of the Explorers’ Club. He was still a comparatively young man;
and though his reputation rested chiefly upon his fame as a big game
shot, he had rendered no mean service to the cause of science, as the
honours heaped upon him by the Royal Geographical Society and kindred
institutions fully testified.
It was early in June, and the height of the London season, when this six
foot six of explorer walked up St. James’s Street on the right-hand
side. Somehow he felt that he was out of it. He was not one of the
fashionable crowd in the midst of which he found himself. For ten years
he had been growing more and more unaccustomed to the life of cities.
It was a strange thing, he could break his way through the tangled
thicknesses of an equatorial forest, or wade knee-deep in a mangrove
swamp, but he could never negotiate the passage of Piccadilly.
As he stood on the "island" in the middle of the street, opposite
Burlington House, he attracted a considerable amount of attention. He
was probably the tallest man at that moment between St. Paul’s and the
Albert Memorial. His brown moustache was several shades lighter than
his skin, which had been burnt to the colour of tan. His long limbs,
his sloping shoulders, and the slouch with which he walked, gave him an
appearance of looseness and prodigious strength. Also he had a habit of
walking with his fists closed, and his arms swinging like pendulums. He
was quite unconscious of the fact that people turned and stared after
him, or that he was an object of exceeding admiration to small boys, who
speculated upon the result of a blow from his fist.
He had not gone far along Bond Street when he cannoned into a young man,
who received a ponderous blow in the chest from Harden’s swinging fist.
The explorer could hardly have been expected to look where he was going,
since at that moment he was passing a gunsmith’s where the latest
improvement of elephant gun was on view in the window.
"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed in eager apology.
"It’s nothing," said the other, and then added, with a note of surprise,
"Uncle Ted, by all that’s wonderful! I might have known it was you."
Edward Harden seldom expressed surprise. He just took the young
gentleman by the arm and walked him along at the rate of about five
miles an hour. "Come and have lunch," said he.
Now Max Harden, in addition to being the explorer’s only nephew, was a
medical student at one of the London hospitals. As a small boy, he had
regarded his uncle as one of the greatest men in the universe--which, in
a physical sense, he was.
A week before Max had come of age, which meant that he had acquired the
modest inheritance of a thousand pounds a year. He had also secured a
commission from the Royal Academy of Physicians to make sundry inquiries
into the origin of certain obscure tropical diseases in the district of
the Lower Congo. This was precisely the part of the world to which
Edward Harden was about to depart. Max knew that quite well, and his
idea was to travel with his uncle. He had been to the Explorers’ Club,
and had been told by the hall porter that Mr. Edward Harden was out, but
that he would probably return for lunch. It was about two minutes later
that he collided with his uncle outside the gunsmith’s shop.
To lunch at the Explorers’ Club was in itself an achievement. That day
several well-known men were there: Du Cane, the lion hunter; Frankfort
Williams, back from the Arctic, and George Cartwright, who had not yet
accomplished his famous journey into Thibet. Upon the walls of the
dining-room were full-length pictures of the great pioneers of
exploration: Columbus, Franklin and Cook. It was not until after
luncheon, when Max and his uncle were seated in the outer
smoking-room--through the green baize doors, it will be remembered, it
was forbidden for guests to enter--that Max broached the topic that was
nearest to his heart.
"Uncle Ted," said he, "tell me about this expedition? As yet I know
nothing."
"We’re going up the Congo," answered Harden simply; "and it’s natural
enough that you should know nothing about it, since practically nothing
is known. Our object is big game, but we hope to bring back some
valuable geographical information. The mouth of the Congo was
discovered by the Portuguese in the fifteenth century. Since then
several trading-stations have sprung up on the river, but no one has
penetrated inland. It is known that about five hundred miles from the
mouth of the river, a tributary, called the Kasai, flows from the south.
Of the upper valley of that river absolutely nothing is known, except
that it consists of the most impenetrable forests and is inhabited by
cannibal tribes. It is there we propose to go."
"Who goes with you?" asked Max.
"Crouch," said Harden; "Captain Crouch. The most remarkable man on the
Coast. Nobody in England has ever heard of him; but on the West Coast,
from Lagos to Loango, he is either hated like sin or worshipped like a
heathen god. There’s no man alive who understands natives as well as
Crouch. He can get more work out of a pack of Kru-boys in a day than a
shipping-agent or a trader can in a week."
"How do you account for it?" asked Max.
"Pluck," said Harden, "and perseverance. Also, from the day he was
born, a special providence seems to have guarded him. For many years he
was captain of a coasting-packet that worked from St. Louis to Spanish
Guinea. He fell overboard once in the Bight of Biafra, and lost a
foot."
"How did he do that?" asked Max, already vastly interested in the
personality of Captain Crouch.
"Sharks," said Harden, as if it were an everyday occurrence. "They swim
round Fernando Po like goldfish in a bowl. Would you believe it? Crouch
knifed that fish in the water, though he’ll wear a cork foot to his
dying day. He was one of the first men to force his way up the Niger,
and I happened to be at Old Calabar when he was brought in with a
poisoned arrow-head in his eye. At that time the natives of the
interior used to dip their weapons in snake’s poison, and no one but
Crouch could have lived. But he pulled through all right. He’s one of
those small, wiry men that can’t be killed. He has got a case full of
glass eyes now, of all the colours in the rainbow, and he plays Old
Harry with the natives. If they don’t do what he wants, I’ve seen him
pull out a blue eye and put in a red one, which frightens the life out
of them. Crouch isn’t like any one else I’ve ever met. He has the most
astonishing confidence in himself; he’s practically fever-proof; he can
talk about twenty West African dialects, and he’s a better shot than I
am. I believe the only person he cares for in the world is myself. I
would never dream of undertaking this expedition without him."
"I suppose," said Max, a trifle nervously, "you wouldn’t think of
including a third member in your party?"
Edward Harden looked at his nephew sharply. "What do you mean?" he
asked.
"I mean," said Max, "that I have undertaken to investigate certain
tropical diseases, such as sleeping sickness and malarial typhoid, in
the very districts to which you are going. I thought you might not
object if I came with you. I didn’t know I had Captain Crouch to deal
with."
Edward Harden rose to his feet and knocked out his pipe in the grate.
"For myself," said he, "I should be pleased to have you with me. Are
you ready to start at once? We hope to sail next week."
Max nodded.
"H’m," said the explorer, "I must ask Crouch. I think he’s in the
club."
He went to one of the green baize doors at the other end of the room,
opened it, and looked in.
"Crouch," said he, "do you mind coming here a moment. There’s something
I want to ask you."
He then came back to his seat and filled another pipe. As he was
engaged in lighting this, a green baize door swung back and there
entered one of the most extraordinary men that it was ever the lot of
the young medical student to behold.
As we have said, the Explorers’ Club was in Bond Street, and Captain
Crouch was dressed after the fashion of a pilot; that is to say, he wore
a navy-blue suit with brass buttons and a red tie. He was a very small
man, and exceedingly thin. There seemed nothing of him. His head was
almost entirely bald. He wore a small, bristling moustache, cut short
like a tooth-brush, and a tuft of hair beneath his nether lip. His
eyebrows were exceedingly dark, and met on the bridge of his nose. His
skin was the colour of parchment, and wrinkled and creased in all
directions. He had a large hook nose, and a chin of excessive
prominence. Though he appeared entirely bloodless, there was something
about him that suggested extreme vital energy--the kind of vitality
which may be observed in a rat. He was an aggressive-looking man.
Though he walked with a pronounced limp, he was quick in all his
movements. His mouth was closed fast upon a pipe in which he smoked a
kind of black tobacco which is called Bull’s Eye Shag, one whiff of
which would fumigate a greenhouse, killing every insect therein from an
aphis to a spider. He reeked of this as a soap-factory smells of fat.
In no other club in London would its consumption have been allowed; but
the Explorers were accustomed to greater hardships than even the smell
of Bull’s Eye Shag.
"Well, Ted," said Crouch, "what’s this?"
One eye, big and staring, was directed out of the window; the other,
small, black and piercing, turned inwards upon Max in the most appalling
squint.
"This is my nephew," said Harden; "Max Harden--Captain Crouch, my
greatest friend."
Max held out a hand, but Crouch appeared not to notice it. He turned to
Edward.
"What’s the matter with him?" he asked.
"He’s suffering from a complaint which, I fancy, both you and I
contracted in our younger days--a desire to investigate the Unknown. In
a word, Crouch, he wants to come with us."
Crouch whipped round upon Max.
"You’re too young for the Coast," said he. "You’ll go out the moment
you get there like a night-light."
"I’m ready to take my chance," said Max.
Crouch looked pleased at that, for his only eye twinkled and seemed to
grow smaller.
Max was anxious to take advantage of the little ground he might have
gained. "Also," he added, "I am a medical man--at least, I’m a medical
student. I am making a special study of tropical diseases."
And no sooner were the words from his lips than he saw he had made a
fatal mistake, for Captain Crouch brought down his fist so violently
upon one of the little smokers’ tables with which the room was
scattered, that the three legs broke off, and the whole concern
collapsed upon the floor.
"Do you think we want a medical adviser!" he roared. "Study till you’re
black in the face, till you’re eighty years old, and you won’t know a
tenth of what I know. What’s the use of all your science? I’ve lived
on the Coast for thirty years, and I tell you this: there are only two
things that matter where fever is concerned--pills and funk. Waiter,
take that table away, and burn it."
It is probable that at this juncture Max’s hopes had been dashed to
earth had it not been for his uncle, who now put in a word.
"Tell you what, Crouch," said he, in the quiet voice which, for some
reason or other, all big men possess; "the boy might be useful, after
all. He’s a good shot. He’s made of the right stuff--I’ve known him
since he was a baby. He’s going out there anyhow, so he may as well
come with us."
"Why, of course he may," said Crouch. "I’m sure we’ll be delighted to
have him."
Such a sudden change of front was one of the most remarkable
characteristics of this extraordinary man. Often, in the breath of a
single sentence, he would appear to change his mind. But this was not
the case. He had a habit of thinking aloud, and of expressing his
thoughts in the most vehement manner imaginable. Indeed, if his
character can be summed up in any one word, it would be this one word
"vehemence." He talked loudly, he gesticulated violently, he smashed
the furniture, and invariably knocked his pipe out in such a frantic
manner that he broke the stem. And yet Edward Harden---who knew him
better than any one else in the world--always protested that he had
never known Crouch to lose his temper. This was just the ordinary
manner in which he lived, breathed and had his being.
"I’m sure," said Captain Crouch, "we will be delighted to take you with
us. Ted, what are you going to do this afternoon?"
"I am going to get some exercise--a turn in the Park."
"I’ll come with you," said Crouch.
So saying, he stumped off to fetch his cap which he had left in the
inner room. No sooner was he gone than Max turned to his uncle.
"Uncle Ted," said he, "I can’t thank you sufficiently."
The big man laid a hand upon the young one’s shoulder.
"That’s nothing," said he. "But I must tell you this: if you are coming
with us to the Kasai, you must drop the ’uncle.’ Your father was
considerably older than I was--fifteen years. You had better call me by
my Christian name--Edward. ’Ted’s’ a trifle too familiar."
By then they were joined by Crouch, who carried a large knotted stick in
one hand, and in the other--a paper bag.
"What have you got there?" asked Harden, pointing to the bag.
"Sweets," said Crouch. "For the children in the Park."
And so it came about that they three left the Explorers’ Club together,
Max in the middle, with his gigantic uncle on one hand, and the little
wizened sea-captain on the other.
They created no small amount of interest and amazement in Bond Street,
but they were blissfully ignorant of the fact. The world of these men
was not the world of the little parish of St. James’s. One was little
more than a boy, whose mind was filled with dreams; but the others were
men who had seen the stars from places where no human being had ever
beheld them before, who had been the first to set foot in unknown lands,
who had broken into the heart of savagery and darkness. Theirs was a
world of danger, hardship and adventure. They had less respect for the
opinion of those who passed them by than for the wild beasts that prowl
by night around an African encampment. After all, the world is made up
of two kinds of men: those who think and those who act; and who can say
which is the greater of the two?
CHAPTER II--ON THE KASAI
A mist lay upon the river like a cloud of steam. The sun was invisible,
except for a bright concave dome, immediately overhead, which showed
like the reflection of a furnace in the midst of the all-pervading
greyness of the heavens. The heat was intense--the heat of the
vapour-room of a Turkish bath. Myriads of insects droned upon the
surface of the water.
The river had still a thousand miles to cover before it reached the
ocean--the blazing, surf-beaten coast-line to the north of St. Paul de
Loanda. Its turgid, coffee-coloured waters rushed northward through a
land of mystery and darkness, lapping the banks amid black mangrove
swamps and at the feet of gigantic trees whose branches were tangled in
confusion.
In pools where the river widened, schools of hippopotami lay like great
logs upon the surface, and here and there a crocodile basked upon a
mud-bank, motionless by the hour, like some weird, bronze image that had
not the power to move. In one place a two-horned rhinoceros burst
through the jungle, and with a snort thrust its head above the current
of the stream.
This was the Unknown. This was the World as it Had Been, before man was
on the earth. These animals are the relics that bind us to the Past, to
the cave-men and the old primordial days. There was a silence on the
river that seemed somehow overpowering, rising superior to the ceaseless
droning of the insects and the soft gurgling of the water, which formed
little shifting eddies in the lee of fallen trees.
A long canoe shot through the water like some great, questing beast.
Therein were twelve natives from Loango, all but naked as they came into
the world. Their paddles flashed in the reflected light of the furnace
overhead; for all that, the canoe came forward without noise except for
the gentle rippling sound of the water under the bows. In the stern
were seated two men side by side, and one of these was Edward Harden,
and the other his nephew Max. In the body of the canoe was a great
number of "loads": camp equipment, provisions, ammunition and cheap
Manchester goods, such as are used by the traders to barter for ivory
and rubber with the native chiefs. Each "load" was the maximum weight
that could be carried by a porter, should the party find it necessary to
leave the course of the river.
In the bows, perched like an eagle above his eyrie, was Captain Crouch.
His solitary eye darted from bank to bank. In his thin nervous hands he
held a rifle, ready on the instant to bring the butt into the hollow of
his shoulder.
As the canoe rounded each bend of the river, the crocodiles glided from
the mud-banks and the hippopotami sank silently under the stream. Here
and there two nostrils remained upon the surface--small, round, black
objects, only discernible by the ripples which they caused.
Suddenly a shot rang out, sharp as the crack of a whip. The report
echoed, again and again, in the dark, inhospitable forest that extended
on either bank. There was a rush of birds that rose upon the wing; the
natives shipped their paddles, and, on the left bank of the river, the
two-horned rhinoceros sat bolt upright on its hind-legs like a sow, with
its fore-legs wide apart. Then, slowly, it rolled over and sank deep
into the mud. By then Crouch had reloaded.
"What was it?" asked Harden.
"A rhino," said Crouch. "We were too far off for him to see us, and the
wind was the right way."
A moment later the canoe drew into the bank a little distance from where
the great beast lay. Harden and Crouch waded into the mire, knives in
hand; and that rhino was skinned with an ease and rapidity which can
only be accomplished by the practised hunter. The meat was cut into
large slices, which were distributed as rations to the natives. Of the
rest, only the head was retained, and this was put into a second canoe,
which soon after came into sight.
After that they continued their journey up the wide, mysterious river.
All day long the paddles were never still, the rippling sound continued
at the bows. Crouch remained motionless as a statue, rifle in hand,
ready to fire at a moment’s notice. With his dark, overhanging brow,
his hook nose, and his thin, straight lips, he bore a striking
resemblance to some gaunt bird of prey.
A second shot sounded as suddenly and unexpectedly as the first, and a
moment after Crouch was on his feet.
"A leopard!" he cried. "I hit him. He’s wounded. Run her into the
bank."
The canoe shot under a large tree, one branch of which overhung the
water so low that they were able to seize it. Edward Harden was ashore
in a moment, followed by his nephew. Crouch swung himself ashore by
means of the overhanging bough. Harden’s eyes were fixed upon the
ground. It was a place where animals came to drink, for the soft mud
had been trampled and churned by the feet of many beasts.
"There!" cried Harden. "Blood!"
Sure enough, upon the green leaf of some strange water plant there was a
single drop of blood. Though the big game hunter had spoken in an
excited manner, he had never raised his voice.
It was Crouch who took up the spoor, and followed it from leaf to leaf.
Whenever he failed to pick it up, Harden put him right. Max was as a
baby in such matters, and it was often that he failed to recognize the
spoor, even when it was pointed out to him.
They had to break their way through undergrowth so thick that it was
like a woodstack. The skin upon their hands and faces was scratched
repeatedly by thorns. They were followed by a cloud of insects. They
were unable to see the sky above them by reason of the branches of the
trees, which, high above the undergrowth through which they passed,
formed a vast barrier to the sunlight. And yet it was not dark. There
was a kind of half-light which it is difficult to describe, and which
seemed to emanate from nowhere. Nothing in particular, yet everything
in general, appeared to be in the shade.
On a sudden Crouch stopped dead.
"He’s not far from here," he said. "Look there!"
Max’s eyes followed Crouch’s finger. He saw a place where the long
grass was all crushed and broken as if some animal had been lying down,
and in two places there were pools of blood.
Crouch raised both arms. "Open out," said he. "Be ready to fire if he
springs. He’ll probably warn you with a growl."
This information was for the benefit of Max. To tell Edward Harden such
things would be like giving minute instructions to a fish concerning the
rudiments of swimming.
Max, obeying Crouch’s orders, broke into the jungle on the left, whereas
Edward moved to the right. Keeping abreast of one another, they moved
forward for a distance of about two hundred yards. This time it was
Harden who ordered the party to halt. They heard his quiet voice in the
midst of the thickets: "Crouch, come here; I want you."
A moment later Max joined his two friends. He found them standing side
by side: Edward, with eyes turned upward like one who listens, and
Crouch with an ear to the ground. Harden, by placing a finger upon his
lips, signed to his nephew to be silent. Max also strained his ears to
catch the slight sound in the jungle which had aroused the suspicion of
these experienced hunters.
After a while he heard a faint snap, followed by another, and then a
third. Then there was a twanging sound, very soft, like the noise of a
fiddle-string when thrummed by a finger. It was followed almost
immediately by a shriek, as terrible and unearthly as anything that Max
had ever heard. It was the dying scream of a wounded beast--one of the
great tribe of cats.
Crouch got to his feet.
"Fans," said he. "What’s more, they’ve got my leopard."
He made the remark in the same manner as a Londoner might point out a
Putney ’bus; yet, at that time, the Fans were one of the most warlike of
the cannibal tribes of Central Africa. They were reputed to be
extremely hostile to Europeans, and that was about all that was known
concerning them.
Edward Harden was fully as calm as his friend.
"We can’t get back," said he. "It’s either a palaver, or a fight."
"Come, then," said Crouch. "Let’s see which it is."
At that he led the way, making better progress than before, since he no
longer regarded the spoor of the wounded leopard.
Presently they came to a place where the jungle ceased abruptly. This
was the edge of a swamp--a circular patch, about two hundred yards
across, where nothing grew but a species of slender reed. Though Max
had not known it, this was the very place for which the other two were
looking. Backwoodsmen though they were, they had no desire to face a
hostile tribe in jungle so dense that it would scarcely be possible to
lift a rifle to the present.
The reeds grew in tufts capable of bearing the weight of a heavy man;
but, in between, was a black, glutinous mud.
"If you fall into that," said Crouch, who still led the way, "you’ll
stick like glue, and you’ll be eaten alive by leeches."
In the centre of the swamp the ground rose into a hillock, and here it
was possible for them to stand side by side. They waited for several
moments in absolute silence. And then a dark figure burst through the
jungle, and a second later fell flat upon the ground.
"I was right," said Crouch. "That man was a Fan. We’ll find out in a
moment whether they mean to fight. I hope to goodness they don’t find
the canoes."
In the course of the next few minutes it became evident, even to Max,
that they were surrounded. On all sides the branches and leaves of the
undergrowth on the edge of the swamp were seen to move, and here and
there the naked figure of a savage showed between the trees.
The Fans are still one of the dominant races of Central Africa. About
the middle of the last century the tribe swept south-west from the
equatorial regions, destroying the villages and massacring the people of
the more peaceful tribes towards the coast. The Fans have been proved
to possess higher intelligence than the majority of the Central African
races. Despite their pugnacious character, and the practice of
cannibalism which is almost universal among them, they have been
described as being bright, active and energetic Africans, including
magnificent specimens of the human race. At this time, however, little
was known concerning them, and that little, for the most part, was
confined to Captain Crouch, who, on a previous occasion, had penetrated
into the Hinterland of the Gabun.
Edward Harden and his friends were not left long in doubt as to whether
or not the Fans intended to be hostile, for presently a large party of
men advanced upon them from all sides at once. For the most part these
warriors were armed with great shields and long spears, though a few
carried bows and arrows. The Fan spear is a thing by itself. The head
is attached but lightly to the shaft, so that when the warrior plunges
his weapon into his victims, the spear-head remains in the wound.
Captain Crouch handed his rifle to Edward, and then stepped forward
across the marsh to meet these would-be enemies. He was fully alive to
their danger. He knew that with their firearms they could keep the
savages at bay for some time, but in the end their ammunition would run
out. He thought there was still a chance that the matter might be
settled in an amicable manner.
"Palaver," said he, speaking in the language of the Fans. "Friends.
Trade-palaver Good."
The only answer he got was an arrow that shot past his ear, and
disappeared in the mud He threw back his head and laughed.
"No good," he cried. "Trade-palaver friends."
A tall, thin savage, about six feet in height, approached by leaps and
bounds, springing like an antelope from one tuft of grass to another.
His black face, with white, gleaming teeth, looked over the top of a
large, oval shield. With a final spring, he landed on dry ground a few
feet from where Crouch was standing. Then he raised his spear on high;
but, before he had time to strike, Crouch’s fist rang out upon his chin
like a pistol-shot, and he went over backwards into the mud.
[Illustration: "CROUCH’S FIST RANG OUT UPON HIS CHIN LIKE A PISTOL-SHOT,
AND HE WENT OVER BACKWARDS INTO THE MUD."]
There was a strange, sucking noise as the marsh swallowed him to the
chin. For some moments he floundered hopelessly, his two hands grasping
in the air. He laid hold of tufts of grass, and pulled them up by the
roots. Then Crouch bent down, gripped both his hands, and with a great
effort dragged him on to terra firma.
His black skin was plastered with a blacker mud, and on almost every
inch of his body, from his neck to his feet, a large water-leech was
glued like an enormous slug. The man was already weak from loss of
blood. Had he remained in the marsh a minute longer, there is no doubt
he would have fainted. Crouch took a knife from his pocket, and,
talking all the time, as a nursemaid talks to a naughty child, one by
one he tore the leeches from the man’s body, and threw them back into
the marsh.
The others, who had drawn closer, remained at a safe distance. It seems
they were undecided how to act, since this man was their leader, and
they were accustomed to receive their orders from him. It is impossible
to say what would have happened, had not Crouch taken charge of the
situation. He asked the man where his village was, and the fellow
pointed to the east.
"Yonder," said he; "in the hills."
"Lead on," said Crouch. "We’re coming home with you, for a cup of tea
and a talk."
For a moment the man was too stupefied to answer. He had never expected
this kind of reception from an individual who could have walked under
his outstretched arm. What surprised him most of all was Crouch’s
absolute self-confidence. The Negro and Bantu races are all alike in
this: they are extraordinarily simple-minded and impressionable. The
Fan chieftain looked at Crouch, and then dropped his eyes. When he
lifted them, a broad grin had extended across his face.
"Good," said he. "My village. Palaver. You come."
Crouch turned and winked at Max, and then followed the chief towards the
jungle.
CHAPTER III--THE WHITE WIZARD
When both parties were gathered together on the edge of the marsh, Max
felt strangely uncomfortable. Both Crouch and Edward seemed thoroughly
at home, and the former was talking to the chief as if he had found an
old friend whom he had not seen for several years. Putting aside the
strangeness of his surroundings, Max was not able to rid his mind of the
thought that these men were cannibals. He looked at them in disgust.
There was nothing in particular to distinguish them from the other races
he had seen upon the coast, except, perhaps, they were of finer physique
and had better foreheads. It was the idea which was revolting. In the
country of the Fans there are no slaves, no prisoners, and no
cemeteries; a fact which speaks for itself.
Crouch and the chief, whose name was M’Wané, led the way through the
jungle. They came presently to the body of the wounded leopard, which
lay with an arrow in its heart. It was the "twang" of the bowstring
that Max had heard in the jungle. And now took place an incident that
argued well for the future.
M’Wané protested that the leopard belonged to Crouch, since the
Englishman had drawn first blood. This was the law of his tribe.
Crouch, on the other hand, maintained that the law of his tribe was that
the game was the property of the killer. The chief wanted the
leopard-skin, and it required little persuasion to make him accept it,
which he was clearly delighted to do.
Crouch skinned the leopard himself, and presented the skin to M’Wané.
And then the whole party set forth again, and soon came to a track along
which progress was easy.
It was approaching nightfall when they reached the extremity of the
forest, and came upon a great range of hills which, standing clear of
the mist that hung in the river valley, caught the full glory of the
setting sun. Upon the upper slopes of the hills was a village of two
rows of huts, and at each end of the streets thus formed was a
guard-house, where a sentry stood on duty. M’Wané’s hut was larger than
the others, and it was into this that the Europeans were conducted. In
the centre of the floor was a fire, and hanging from several places in
the roof were long sticks with hooks on them, the hooks having been made
by cutting off branching twigs. From these hooks depended the scant
articles of the chief’s wardrobe and several fetish charms.
For two hours Crouch and the chief talked, and it was during that
conversation that there came to light the most extraordinary episode of
which we have to tell. From that moment, and for many weeks afterwards,
it was a mystery that they were wholly unable to solve. Both Crouch and
Harden knew the savage nature too well to believe that M’Wané lied.
Though his story was vague, and overshadowed by the superstitions that
darken the minds of the fetish worshippers, there was no doubt that it
was based upon fact. As the chief talked, Crouch translated to his
friends.
The chief first asked what they were doing on the Kasai, and Crouch
answered that they were there for big game--for rhinoceros, buffalo and
leopard. The chief answered that there was certainly much game on the
Kasai, but there was more on the "Hidden River." That was the first
time they ever heard the name.
Crouch asked why it was called the "Hidden River"; and M’Wané answered
that it would be impossible for any one to find the mouth. On the
southern bank of the Kasai, about two days up-stream, there was a large
mangrove swamp, and it was beyond this that the "Hidden River" lay.
"Can you pass through the swamp in a canoe?" asked Crouch.
The chief shook his head, and said that a canoe could pass the mangrove
swamp, but it could not penetrate far up the river, because of a great
waterfall, where the water fell hundreds of feet between huge pillars of
rock.
"One can carry a canoe," said Crouch.
"Perhaps," said M’Wané, as if in doubt. "But, of those that pass the
cataract, none come back alive."
"Why?" asked Crouch.
"Because of the Fire-gods that haunt the river. The Fire-gods are
feared from the seacoast to the Lakes."
Crouch pricked up his ears like a terrier that scents a rat. The little
man sat cross-legged, with his hands upon his ankles; and as he plied
the Fan chief with questions, he positively wriggled where he sat.
He found out that the "Fire-gods" were white men--a fact that astonished
him exceedingly. He was told that they were not white men like himself
and his friends, but wicked spirits who controlled the thunder and who
could make the earth tremble for miles around. Even the Fans feared
them, and for several months none of the tribes had ventured into the
valley of the "Hidden River."
"They’re men with rifles," said Harden. "These people have never seen a
firearm in their lives."
At that he led M’Wané from the hut, and, followed by Max and Crouch, he
walked a little distance from the village. There, in the moonlight, he
picked up a stone from the ground, and set this upon a branch. From a
distance of about twenty paces, with M’Wané at his side, he lifted his
rifle to his shoulder, and struck the stone with a bullet, so that it
fell upon the ground.
"There," said he, "that is what your Fire-gods do; they are armed with
rifles--like this."
But M’Wané shook his head. He had heard of rifles. Tribes they had
raided upon the coast had spoken of the white men that could slay at a
distance. But the Fire-gods were greater still. Every evening, in the
valley of the Hidden River, loud thunder rent the air. The birds had
left the valley--even the snakes had gone. The Fire-gods were kings
over Nature. Moreover, they were merciless. Hundreds of natives--men
of the Pende tribe, the Pambala and the Bakutu--had gone into the
valley; but no one had returned.
At that Crouch set off towards the hut without a word. The others,
following, found him seated cross-legged at the fire, tugging at the
tuft of hair which grew beneath his lip. For some minutes the little
wizened sea-captain spoke aloud to himself.
"I’ll find out who these people are," said he. "White men may have gone
up the river to trade; but it’s bad for business if you get a reputation
for murder. I don’t understand it at all. I’ve heard of a white race
in the centre of the continent; maybe it’s they. I hope it is. At any
rate, we’ll go and see."
For a few brief moments he lapsed into silence. Then he tapped M’Wané
on the arm.
"Will you take us to the Hidden River?" he asked.
M’Wané sprang to his feet, violently shaking his head. He protested
that he dared do nothing of the sort. They could not disbelieve him,
for the man was actually trembling in his limbs.
Crouch turned to Harden.
"I’ve a mind to look into this," said he.
"I, too," said the other.
"He won’t take us," said Max.
"I’ll make him," said Crouch. "For the present, I’m going to sleep. The
boys will stick to the canoes. We must get back to the river to-morrow
afternoon. Good-night."
So saying, he curled himself up like a hedgehog, and, resting his head
upon his folded arms, immediately fell asleep.
It was already three months since they had left Banana Point at the
mouth of the Congo. They had journeyed to the foot of the rapids by
steamboat, and thence had carried their canoes across several miles of
country. They had enjoyed a good deal of mixed shooting in the lower
valley, and then they had said good-bye to the few trading stations, or
factories, which lay scattered at wide intervals upon the banks of the
great river, and which were the last links that bound them to such
civilization as the wilds of Africa could show. Max had already gained
much experience of life in the wilds of tropical Africa. This was not
the first time that he had found himself obliged to sleep upon the
ground, without pillow or blankets, or that which was still more
necessary--a mosquito-net.
When he opened his eyes it was daylight, and the first thing that he
beheld was Captain Crouch, seated cross-legged at the fireside, with his
pipe between his teeth. His one eye was fixed in the glowing embers.
He appeared to be deep in thought, for his face was all screwed up, and
he never moved. Thin wreaths of smoke came from the bowl of his pipe,
and the hut reeked of his foul tobacco. Suddenly he snatched the pipe
from his lips, and banged the bowl so viciously upon the heel of his
boot that he broke it in twain. "I have it!" he cried. "I’ve got it!"
Max asked what was the matter.
"I’ve got an idea," said Crouch. "I’ll make this fellow take us to the
Hidden River, whether he wants to or not. They are frightened of these
Fire-gods, are they! By Christopher, I’ll make them more frightened of
me, or my name was never Crouch!"
He got to his feet, and crossed the hut to M’Wané, who still lay asleep.
He seized the chief by the shoulders and shook him violently, until the
man sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Your people," said he. "Big palaver. Now. Be quick."
M’Wané seemed to understand, for he got up and left the hut. Edward
Harden was now awake.
The life that is lived by these Central African tribes finds a parallel
in the ancient history of nearly all races that we know of. Government,
for the most part, is in the hands of the headman of every village. The
maintenance of law and order, the giving of wives, the exchange of
possessions, is settled by "palaver," which amounts to a kind of meeting
of the entire population, presided over by the chief. Near every village
is a regular palaver-ground, usually in the shade of the largest tree in
the neighbourhood.
It was here, on this early morning, that M’Wané summoned all the
inhabitants of the village--men, women and children. They seated
themselves upon the ground in a wide circle, in the midst of which was
the trunk of a fallen tree. Upon this trunk the three Europeans seated
themselves, Crouch in the middle, with his companions on either side.
When all was ready, M’Wané rose to his feet, and announced in stentorian
tones that the little white man desired to speak to them, and that they
must listen attentively to what he had to say. Whereupon Crouch got to
his feet, and from that moment onward--in the parlance of the
theatre--held the stage: the whole scene was his. He talked for nearly
an hour, and during that time never an eye was shifted from his face,
except when he called attention to the parrot.
He was wonderful to watch. He shouted, he gesticulated, he even danced.
In face of his limited vocabulary, it is a wonder how he made himself
understood; but he did. He was perfectly honest from the start.
Perhaps his experience had taught him that it is best to be honest with
savages, as it is with horses and dogs. He said that he had made his
way up the Kasai in order to penetrate to the upper reaches of the
Hidden River. He said that he had heard of the Fire-gods, and he was
determined to find out who they were. For himself, he believed that the
Fire-gods were masters of some kind of witchcraft. It would be madness
to fight them with spears and bows and arrows. He believed, from what
he had heard, that even his own rifle would be impotent. High on a
tree-top was perched a parrot, that preened its feathers in the
sunlight, and chattered to itself. Crouch pointed this parrot out to
the bewildered natives, and then, lifting his rifle to his shoulder,
fired, and the bird fell dead to the ground. That was the power he
possessed, he told them: he could strike at a distance, and he seldom
failed to kill. And yet he dared not approach the Fire-gods, because
they were masters of witchcraft. But he also knew the secrets of magic,
and his magic was greater and more potent than the magic of the
Fire-gods. He could not be killed; he was immortal. He was prepared to
prove it. Whereat, he re-loaded his rifle, and deliberately fired a
bullet through his foot.
The crowd rushed in upon him from all sides, stricken in amazement. But
Crouch waved them back, and stepping up to Edward, told the Englishman
to shoot again. Harden lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and sent a
bullet into the ankle of Crouch’s cork foot. Thereupon, Crouch danced
round the ring of natives, shouting wildly, springing into the air,
proving to all who might behold that he was a thousand times alive.
They fell down upon their faces and worshipped him as a god. Without
doubt he had spoken true: he was invulnerable, immortal, a witch-doctor
of unheard-of powers.
But Crouch had not yet done. Before they had time to recover from their
amazement, he had snatched out his glass eye, and thrust it into the
hands of M’Wané himself, who dropped it like a living coal. They rushed
to it, and looked at it, but dared not touch it. And when they looked
up, Crouch had another eye in the socket--an eye that was flaming red.
A loud moan arose from every hand--a moan which gave expression to their
mingled feelings of bewilderment, reverence and fear. From that moment
Crouch was "the White Wizard," greater even than the Fire-gods, as the
glory of the sun outstrips the moon.
"And now," cried Crouch, lifting his hands in the air, "will you, or
will you not, guide me to the Hidden River where the Fire-gods live?"
M’Wané came forward and prostrated himself upon the ground.
"The White Wizard," said he, "has only to command."
CHAPTER IV--THE HIDDEN RIVER
It is not necessary to describe in detail the passage up the Kasai, from
the place where the leopard had been wounded to Date Palm Island, which
was where M’Wané decided to disembark. During that voyage, which
occupied two and a half days, they passed a mangrove swamp upon the
southern bank, which the Fan chief pointed out as the place where the
Hidden River joined the Kasai.
No one would have guessed it. The short, stunted trees were packed so
close together that their branches formed a kind of solid roof which
appeared to extend for miles. Underneath, there was darkness as of
night. There was nothing to suggest that another river here joined the
larger stream. The Kasai did not narrow above the swamp, nor was there
any change in the colour of the water or the strength of the current.
Date Palm Island lay a day’s journey by canoe above the mangrove swamp.
The name of Date Palm Island was given by Edward Harden the moment he
set eyes upon the little rocky islet in mid-stream, upon which stood a
solitary tree. It was the custom of this explorer to name the natural
features he discovered; and it was he who was also responsible for the
names of other places of which, in course of time, we shall have
occasion to tell, such as Solitude Peak and Hippo Pool.
In addition to the Loango boys who composed the crews, the party now
included M’Wané, the Fan chief, and four of his most trusted warriors.
It was on the occasion of this journey on the Upper Kasai that Edward
Harden made one of the mistakes of his life. M’Wané travelled in the
first canoe with themselves, and his four warriors in the other canoe
which followed. Both Harden and Crouch had a natural wish to keep the
object of their journey a secret. Neither knew that one of the boys in
the second canoe could both speak and understand the Fan dialect, and it
was he who told his companions that the Hidden River was their
destination. Still, no one suspected that the secret was out, until
they had unloaded all their supplies and ammunition at Date Palm Island,
where they decided to form their base.
In this district, the general course of the Kasai lies due south-west.
From the mangrove swamp on the southern bank, the valley of the Hidden
River lies, more or less, in a direct line from north to south. M’Wané
had known the Hidden River in the old days, before the Fire-gods came
into the country. He said that there was a good portage across country
from Date Palm Island to Hippo Pool, which was the nearest accessible
point on the Hidden River above the rapids that flowed through the Long
Ravine.
They decided to leave one canoe on the island, in charge of four of the
Loango boys. The remaining natives could be employed in carrying the
lighter of the two canoes, and a sufficiency of stores and ammunition
across country to the Hidden River. The indignation of Crouch may be
imagined when the boys struck in a body and refused to undertake the
portage.
Edward used his greatest powers of persuasion; Crouch threatened and
abused. They answered that word of the Fire-gods had been carried even
as far as the Coast, that they had never bargained to sell their lives
to the Englishmen. None the less, they expressed their willingness to
remain upon the island until the party returned.
Crouch turned to M’Wané.
"And do you, too, go back?" he asked.
The chief shook his head, and smiled.
"My men and I will stand by the White Wizard," he answered. "A Fan
holds to his word."
Crouch slapped the chief upon the back, and then went on to explain to
the boys that if they helped with the portage, they would not be asked
to embark on the Hidden River, but could return to Date Palm Island.
After some discussion, they agreed to this; and as much time had already
been wasted, Harden and Crouch decided not to start until daybreak the
following day.
According to Edward Harden’s diary, the portage lasted two weeks and
three days. They were obliged to force their way through virgin forest.
It was frequently necessary to cut down with axes and billhooks the
tangled undergrowth and creepers that wove themselves amid the trunks of
the trees, in order to make room for the canoe to pass. Some days they
did not cover more than a mile, though they were working from dawn to
sunset. But towards the end of the journey the passage became easier,
by reason of the fact that they found a watercourse, which they
followed, until they finally came forth into the sunlight at Hippo Pool.
When they first looked upon it, it was as if, indeed, there were an air
of mystery in the valley of the Hidden River. The silence that reigned
upon its surface was intense. The atmosphere seemed several degrees
hotter even than the forest. The name Hippo Pool was given because,
immediately on their arrival, Edward Harden, who was leading, shot a
hippopotamus which he found asleep upon the bank. They were glad enough
of the meat for the natives, who would require provisions on their
journey back to the Kasai.
The next morning the Loango boys left in a body. They were glad enough
to be off. And soon afterwards the canoe shot out from the bank.
Their progress was painfully slow. M’Wané and his four followers worked
continually with the paddles, assisted in turn by Harden and his nephew.
As for Crouch, he was always the look-out man. His only eye was quick
and keen as that of a falcon.
Hour by hour they toiled into the Unknown, until the sweat poured from
their faces and their hands were blistered in the sun; and the blisters
would not heal, because of the insects that followed in a crowd. The
jungle grew more magnificent and wild as the river narrowed. The
character of the trees changed, and of the undergrowth--all became more
luxuriant, more profuse, until they found themselves in a land where
Nature was something fantastic and superb.
It was on the third day after they had set out from Hippo Pool that they
turned an angle of the river, and came on a sudden into a cup-shaped
valley where there was but little vegetation. A circle of granite hills
stood all around them, and in the centre on either side of the river was
a plain of sand. Crouch turned in the bows and pointed to something
ahead, and at that moment the sharp crack of a rifle echoed in the
stillness, and a bullet sped into the water a few inches from the bows
of the canoe.
CHAPTER V--THE STOCKADE
As the bullet cut into the water Crouch sprang upright in the canoe. His
thin form trembled with eagerness. The man was like a cat, inasmuch as
he was charged with electricity. Under his great pith helmet the few
hairs which he possessed stood upright on his head. Edward Harden leaned
forward and picked up his rifle, which he now held at the ready.
By reason of the fact that the river had suddenly widened into a kind of
miniature lake, the current was not so swift. Hence, though M’Wané and
his Fans ceased to paddle, the canoe shot onward by dint of the velocity
at which they had been travelling. Every moment brought them nearer and
nearer to the danger that lay ahead.
In order to relate what followed, it is necessary to describe the scene.
We have said that the wild, impenetrable jungle had ceased abruptly, and
they found themselves surrounded by granite hills, in the centre of
which lay a plain of glaring sand. To their left, about a hundred paces
from the edge of the river, was a circular stockade. A fence had been
constructed of sharp-pointed stakes, each about eight feet in height.
There was but a single entrance into this stockade--a narrow gate, not
more than three feet across, which faced the river. Up-stream, to the
south, the granite hills closed in from either bank, so that the river
flowed through a gorge which at this distance seemed particularly
precipitous and narrow. Midway between the stockade and the gorge was a
kraal, or large native village, surrounded by a palisade. Within the
palisade could be seen the roofs of several native huts, and at the
entrance, seated cross-legged on the ground, was the white figure of an
Arab who wore the turban and flowing robes by which his race is
distinguished, from the deserts of Bokhara to the Gold Coast. Before
the stockade, standing at the water’s edge, was the figure of a European
dressed in a white duck suit. He was a tall, thin man with a black,
pointed beard, and a large sombrero hat. Between his lips was a
cigarette, and in his hands he held a rifle, from the muzzle of which
was issuing a thin trail of smoke.
As the canoe approached, this man grew vastly excited, and stepped into
the river, until the water had risen to his knees. There, he again
lifted his rifle to his shoulder.
"Put that down!" cried Crouch. "You’re a dead man if you fire."
The man obeyed reluctantly, and at that moment a second European came
running from the entrance of the stockade. He was a little man, of
about the same build as Crouch, but very round in the back, and with a
complexion so yellow that he might have been a Chinese.
The man with the beard seemed very agitated. He gesticulated wildly,
and, holding his rifle in his left hand, pointed down-stream with his
right. He was by no means easy to understand, since his pronunciation
of English was faulty, and he never troubled to take his cigarette from
between his lips.
"Get back!" he cried. "Go back again! You have no business here."
"Why not?" asked Crouch.
"Because this river is mine."
"By what right?"
"By right of conquest. I refuse to allow you to land."
The canoe was now only a few yards from the bank. The second man--the
small man with the yellow face--turned and ran back into the stockade,
evidently to fetch his rifle.
"I’m afraid," said Crouch, "with your permission or without, we intend
to come ashore."
Again the butt of the man’s rifle flew to his shoulder.
"Another yard," said he, "and I shoot you dead."
He closed an eye, and took careful aim. His sights were directed
straight at Crouch’s heart. At that range--even had he been the worst
shot in the world--he could scarcely have missed.
Crouch was never seen to move. With his face screwed, and his great
chin thrust forward, his only eye fixed in the midst of the black beard
of the man who dared him to approach, he looked a very figure of
defiance.
The crack of a rifle--a loud shout--and then a peal of laughter. Crouch
had thrown back his head and was laughing as a school-boy does, with one
hand thrust in a trousers pocket. Edward Harden, seated in the stern
seat, with elbows upon his knees, held his rifle to his shoulder, and
from the muzzle a little puff of smoke was rising in the air. It was
the man with the black beard who had let out the shout, in anger and
surprise. The cigarette had been cut away from between his lips, and
Harden’s bullet had struck the butt of his rifle, to send it flying from
his hands into the water. He stood there, knee-deep in the river,
passionate, foiled and disarmed. It was Edward Harden’s quiet voice
that now came to his ears.
"Hands up!" said he.
Slowly, with his black eyes ablaze, the man lifted his arms above his
head. A moment later, Crouch had sprung ashore.
The little sea-captain hastened to the entrance of the stockade, and, as
he reached it, the second man came running out, with a rifle in his
hands. He was running so quickly that he was unable to check himself,
and, almost before he knew it, his rifle had been taken from him. He
pulled up with a jerk, and, turning, looked into the face of Captain
Crouch.
"I must introduce myself," said the captain. "My name’s Crouch. Maybe
you’ve heard of me?"
The man nodded his head. It appears he had not yet sufficiently
recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.
"By Christopher!" cried Crouch, on a sudden. "I know you! We’ve met
before--five years ago in St. Paul de Loanda. You’re a half-caste
Portuguese, of the name of de Costa, who had a trade-station at the
mouth of the Ogowe. So you remember me?"
The little yellow man puckered up his face and bowed.
"I think," said he, with an almost perfect English accent--"I think
one’s knowledge of the Coast would be very limited, if one had never
heard of Captain Crouch."
Crouch placed his hand upon his heart and made a mimic bow.
"May I return the compliment?" said he. "I’ve heard men speak of de
Costa from Sierra Leone to Walfish Bay, and never once have I heard
anything said that was good."
At that the half-caste caught his under-lip in his teeth, and shot
Crouch a glance in which was fear, mistrust and anger. The sea-captain
did not appear to notice it, for he went on in the easiest manner in the
world.
"And who’s your friend?" he asked, indicating the tall man with the
black beard, who was now approaching with Edward Harden and Max.
"My friend," said he, "is a countryman of mine, a Portuguese, who has
assumed the name of Cæsar." The half-caste had evidently not forgotten
the insult which Crouch had hurled in his teeth; for now his demeanour
changed, and he laughed. "If Captain Crouch finds it necessary to
meddle in our affairs," said he, "I think he will find his equal in
Mister Cæsar."
Crouch paid no more attention to him than he would have done to a
mosquito; and before the man had finished speaking, he had turned his
back upon him, and held out a hand to the Portuguese.
"I trust," said he, "you’ve expressed your gratitude to Ted Harden, who,
instead of taking your life, preferred to extinguish your cigarette."
"I have already done so," said Cæsar, with a smile. "I hope to explain
matters later. The mistake was natural enough."
Crouch, with his one eye, looked this man through and through. He had
been able to sum up the half-caste at a glance. Cæsar was a personality
that could not be fathomed in an instant.
The man was not unhandsome. His figure, in spite of its extreme height
and thinness, was exceedingly graceful. The hair of his moustache and
beard, and as much as was visible beneath the broad-brimmed sombrero
hat, was coal-black, and untouched with grey. His features were
aquiline and large. He bore some slight resemblance to the well-known
figure of Don Quixote, except that he was more robust. The most
remarkable thing about him was his jet-black, piercing eyes. If there
was ever such a thing as cruelty, it was there. When he smiled, as he
did now, his face was even pleasant: there was a wealth of wrinkles
round his eyes.
"It was a natural and unavoidable mistake," said he. "I have been
established here for two years. You and your friends are, perhaps,
sufficiently acquainted with the rivers to know that one must be always
on one’s guard."
Unlike de Costa, he spoke English with a strong accent, which it would
be extremely difficult to reproduce. For all that, he had a good
command of words.
"And now," he went on, "I must offer you such hospitality as I can. I
notice the men in your canoes are Fans. I must confess I have never
found the Fan a good worker. He is too independent. They are all
prodigal sons."
"I like the Fan," said Edward.
"Each man to his taste," said Cæsar. "In the kraal yonder," he
continued, pointing to the village, "I have about two hundred boys. For
the most part, they belong to the Pambala tribe. As you may know, the
Pambala are the sworn enemies of the Fans. You are welcome to stay with
me as long as you like, but I must request that your Fans be ordered to
remain within the stockade. Will you be so good as to tell them to
disembark?"
"As you wish," said Edward.
At Crouch’s request, Max went back to the canoe, and returned with
M’Wané and the four Fans. Not until they had been joined by the natives
did Cæsar lead the way into the stockade.
They found themselves in what, to all intents and purposes, was a fort.
Outside the walls of the stockade was a ditch, and within was a
banquette, or raised platform, from which it was possible for men to
fire standing. In the centre of the enclosure were three or four
huts--well-constructed buildings for the heart of Africa, and
considerably higher than the ordinary native dwelling-place. Before the
largest hut was a flag-staff, upon which a large yellow flag was
unfurled in the slight breeze that came from the north.
It was into this hut that they were conducted by the Portuguese. As the
Englishman entered, a large dog, which had been lying upon the floor,
got up and growled, but lay down again on a word from Cæsar. The
interior of the hut consisted of a single room, furnished with a bed, a
table and several chairs, all of which had been constructed of wood cut
in the forest. As there were only four chairs, the half-caste, de
Costa, seated himself on a large chest, with three heavy padlocks, which
stood against the wall farthest from the door.
Cæsar crossed to a kind of sideboard, made of packing-cases, whence he
produced glasses and a bottle of whisky. He then drew a jug of water
from a large filter. These he placed upon the table. He requested his
guests to smoke, and passed round his cigarette-case. His manner, and
the ease with which he played the host, suggested a man of breeding.
Both Edward Harden and his nephew accepted cigarettes, but Crouch filled
his pipe, and presently the hut was reeking, like an ill-trimmed lamp,
of his atrocious "Bull’s Eye Shag."
"I owe you an apology," said Cæsar; "an apology and an explanation. You
shall have both. But, in the first place, I would like to hear how it
was that you came to discover this river?"
It was Edward Harden who answered.
"We were shooting big game on the Kasai," said he, "when we heard
mention of the ’Hidden River.’"
"Who spoke of it?" said Cæsar. His dark eyes were seen to flash in the
half-light in the hut.
"A party of Fans," said Edward, "with whom we came in contact. We
persuaded them to carry our canoe across country. We embarked upon the
river three days ago, and paddled up-stream until this afternoon, when
we sighted your camp, and nearly came to blows. That’s all."
Cæsar leaned forward, with his arms folded on the table, bringing his
dark face to within a few inches of the cigarette which Edward held in
his lips.
"Were you told anything," said he, in a slow, deliberate voice; "were
you told anything--of us?"
Edward Harden, being a man of six foot several inches, was one who was
guileless in his nature. He was about to say that the Fans had spoken
of the "Fire-gods," when an extraordinary occurrence came to pass.
Crouch sprang to his feet with a yell, and placing one foot upon the
seat of the chair upon which he had been sitting, pulled up his trousers
to the knee. In his hand he held a knife. All sprang to their feet.
"What is it?" they demanded, in one and the same breath.
"A snake," said Crouch. "I’m bitten in the leg."
CHAPTER VI--CROUCH ON THE WAR-PATH
Both Cæsar and Edward hastened to the captain’s side. Sure enough, upon
the calf of his leg, were two small drops of blood, about a quarter of
an inch apart, where the fangs of the reptile had entered.
Crouch looked up at Cæsar. His voice was perfectly calm.
"Where’s the kitchen?" he demanded.
The tall Portuguese appeared suspicious.
"The kitchen is quite near at hand," said he. "Do you want to go
there?"
"Yes," said Crouch. "Lead the way. There’s no time to lose."
They passed out and entered a smaller hut, from which a column of smoke
was rising through a hole in the roof. In the centre of the floor was a
large charcoal brazier, at which a man was squatting in the
characteristic attitude of the East. Crouch lifted his eyebrows in
surprise when he saw that this man was an Arab.
"Tongs," said he in Arabic. "Lend me a pair of tongs."
The man, expressionless, produced the article in question.
Crouch took a piece of charcoal from the brazier, that was white-hot,
and, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust this upon the place where
the poison had entered his flesh. As he underwent that agony, his
sallow face turned a trifle paler, his lips grew thinner, and his only
eye more bright; but never a groan, or even a sigh, escaped him.
At last he threw the charcoal back into the fire.
"That’s all right," said he. "It isn’t a pleasant remedy, but it’s
sure." Then he turned to Cæsar. "I should like a little whisky," said
he. "I feel a trifle faint."
He asked for Edward’s arm to assist him on his way, and no sooner were
they clear of the kitchen than he whispered in Harden’s ear--
"There’s nothing to worry about," said he. "I’m as right as rain. I
was never bitten at all. But I had to stop you somehow, or you would
have told that fellow what we heard of the Fire-gods. Mind, he must
know nothing."
When they got back to the hut, Cæsar gave Crouch half a tumblerful of
neat whisky, which the captain drained at a gulp. Needless to say,
their efforts to find the snake proved fruitless. Then Crouch again
complained of faintness, and asked permission to lie down upon the bed.
No sooner was he there than he closed his eyes, and soon afterwards was
sound asleep--if one was entitled to judge by his heavy breathing. Once
or twice he snored.
But, already, we have seen enough of Captain Crouch to know that, in his
case, it would not be wise to go by appearances. He was no more asleep
than he had been throughout those long hours when he had kept watch in
the bows of the canoe.
Cæsar motioned to Edward to be seated at the table, and Max took the
chair which had been formerly occupied by Crouch. De Costa remained
seated upon the chest.
"Let me see," said Cæsar; "of what were we speaking? Ah, yes, I
remember. I was asking if the natives had made any mention of us."
"We asked many questions," said Harden, "but they knew little or nothing
of the Hidden River. For some reason or other, they seemed to fear it."
Cæsar regarded Edward intently for a few seconds; and then, seeming
satisfied, he shrugged his shoulders.
"Their minds are filled with superstitions," said he. "And now it
remains for me to explain myself. I came to this valley two years ago.
I had already journeyed some distance up the Congo, in search of ivory.
I discovered that in the jungle in this valley elephants abound;
moreover, these elephants are finer than any others I have ever seen in
any part of Africa, even those of the East Coast, whose tusks are stored
at Zanzibar. I made this place my headquarters. I regard the whole
country as my own happy hunting-ground. I naturally resent all
new-comers, especially Europeans. I look upon them as trespassers. Of
course, I have no right to do so; I know that quite well. But you must
understand that here, in the heart of Africa, the laws of civilized
nations hardly apply. To all intents and purposes this country is my
own. In the kraal yonder I have two hundred of the finest elephant
hunters between the Zambesi and the Congo. I pay them well. I have
already a great store of ivory. In another two years I hope to retire
to Portugal, a wealthy man. That is all my story."
"How do you kill your elephants?" asked Edward. The hunting of big game
was the foremost interest of his life.
Cæsar smiled.
"You will not approve of my methods," said he. "You are a sportsman; I
am only a trader. I send my natives into the jungle, in the direction
in which a herd of elephants has been located. These fellows creep on
all-fours amid the undergrowth. They are as invisible as snakes. They
are armed with long knives, with which they cut the tendons of the
elephants’ hind-legs, just below the knee. If an elephant tries to walk
after that tendon has been severed, it falls to the ground and breaks
its leg. The great beasts seem to know this, for they remain motionless
as statues. When all the finest tuskers have been thus disposed of, I
come with my rifle and shoot them, one after the other. Thus it is that
I have collected a great store of tusks."
Edward Harden made a wry face.
"I have heard of that manner of hunting," said he. "It is much
practised on the East Coast. I consider it barbarous and cruel."
Cæsar smiled again.
"I told you," said he, "you would not approve."
Harden swung round in his chair, with a gesture of disgust.
"I would like to see the ivory trade stopped," he cried, in a sudden
flood of anger, very rare in a man naturally prone to be unexcitable and
mild. "I regard the elephant as a noble animal--the noblest animal that
lives. I myself have shot many, but the beast has always had a chance,
though I will not deny the odds were always heavily on me. Still, when I
find myself face to face with a rogue elephant, I know that my life is
in danger. Now, there is no danger in your method, which is the method
of the slaughter-house. At this rate, very soon there will be no
elephants left in Africa."
"I’m afraid," said Cæsar, with a shrug of the shoulders, "we would never
agree, because you’re a sportsman and I’m a trader. In the meantime, I
will do all I can to make you comfortable during your stay at Makanda."
"Is that the name of this place?" asked Max.
"Yes," said the Portuguese. "There was a native village when I came
here--just a few scattered huts. The natives called the place Makanda,
which, I believe, means a crater. The hills which surround us are
evidently the walls of an extinct volcano. But, to come back to
business, I can provide a hut for your Fan attendants, but they must be
ordered not to leave the stockade. You have noticed, perhaps, that I
employ a few Arabs. I am fond of Arabs myself; they are such excellent
cooks. An Arab is usually on sentry at the gate of the stockade. That
man will receive orders to shoot any one of the Fans who endeavours to
pass the gate. These methods are rather arbitrary, I admit; but in the
heart of Africa, what would you have? It is necessary to rule with an
iron hand. Were I to be lax in discipline, my life would be in danger.
Also, I must request you and your friends not to leave the stockade,
unattended by either de Costa or myself. The truth is, there are
several hostile tribes in the neighbourhood, and it is only with the
greatest difficulty that I can succeed in maintaining peace."
"I’m sure," said Harden, "you will find us quite ready to do anything
you wish. After all, the station is yours; and in this country a man
makes his own laws."
"That is so," said Cæsar; and added, "I’m responsible to no one but
myself."
This man had an easy way of talking and a plausible manner that would
have deceived a more acute observer than Edward Harden. As he spoke he
waved his hand, as if the whole matter were a trifle. He ran on in the
same casual fashion, with an arm thrown carelessly over the back of his
chair, sending the smoke of his cigarette in rings towards the ceiling.
"Most of us come to Africa to make money," said he; "and as the climate
is unhealthy, the heat unbearable, and the inhabitants savages, we
desire to make that money as quickly as possible, and then return to
Europe. That is my intention. For myself, I keep tolerably well; but
de Costa here is a kind of living ague. He is half consumed with
malaria; he can’t sleep by night, he lies awake with chattering teeth.
Sometimes his temperature is so high that his pulse is racing. At other
times he is so weak that he is unable to walk a hundred paces. He looks
forward to the day when he shakes the dust of Africa from his shoes and
returns to his native land, which--according to him--is Portugal,
though, I believe, he was born in Jamaica."
Max looked at the half-caste, and thought that never before had he set
eyes upon so despicable an object. He looked like some mongrel cur. He
was quite unable to look the young Englishman in the face, but under
Max’s glance dropped his eyes to the floor.
"And now," said Cæsar, "there is a hut where I keep my provisions, which
I will place at your disposal."
At that he went outside, followed by the two Hardens. De Costa remained
in the hut. Crouch was still asleep.
Cæsar called the Arab from the kitchen, and, assisted by this man and
the five Fans, they set to work to remove a number of boxes from the hut
in which it was proposed that the three Englishmen should sleep.
Blankets were spread upon the ground. The tall Portuguese was most
solicitous that his guests should want for nothing. He brought candles,
a large mosquito-net, and even soap.
Supper that evening was the best meal which Max had eaten since he left
the sea-going ship at Banana Point on the Congo. The Portuguese was
well provided with stores. He produced several kinds of vegetables,
which, he said, he grew at a little distance from the stockade. He had
also a great store of spirits, being under the entirely false impression
that in tropical regions stimulants maintain both health and physical
strength.
After supper, Cæsar and Captain Crouch, who had entirely recovered from
his faintness, played écarté with an exceedingly dirty pack of cards.
And a strange picture they made, these two men, the one so small and
wizened, the other so tall and black, each coatless, with their
shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, fingering their cards in the
flickering light of a tallow candle stuck in the neck of a bottle.
Crouch knew it then--and perhaps Cæsar knew it, too--that they were
rivals to the death, in a greater game than was ever played with cards.
They went early to bed, thanking Cæsar for his kindness. Before he left
the hut, Edward Harden apologized for his rudeness in finding fault with
the trader’s method of obtaining ivory.
"It was no business of mine," said he. "I apologize for what I said."
No sooner were the three Englishmen in their hut, than Crouch seized
each of his friends by an arm, and drew them close together.
"Here’s the greatest devilry you ever heard of!" he exclaimed.
"How?" said Edward. "What do you mean?"
"As yet," said Crouch, "I know nothing. I merely suspect. Mark my
words, it’ll not be safe to go to sleep. One of us must keep watch."
"What makes you suspicious?" asked Max. Throughout this conversation
they talked in whispers. Crouch had intimated that they must not be
overheard.
"A thousand things," said Crouch. "In the first place, I don’t like the
look of Arabs. There’s an old saying on the Niger, ’Where there’s an
Arab, there’s mischief.’ Also, he’s got something he doesn’t wish us to
see. That’s why he won’t let us outside the stockade. Besides,
remember what the natives told us. The tribes the whole country round
stand in mortal fear of this fellow, and they don’t do that for nothing.
The Fans are a brave race, and so are the Pambala. And do you remember,
they told us that every evening there’s thunder in the valley which
shakes the earth? No, he’s up to no good, and I shall make it my
business to find out what his game is."
"Then you don’t believe that he’s an ivory trader?" asked Max.
"Not a word of it!" said Crouch. "Where’s the ivory? He talks of this
store of tusks, but where does he keep it? He says he’s been here for
two years. In two years, by the wholesale manner in which he has been
killing elephants, according to his own account, he should have a pile
of ivory ten feet high at least. And where is it? Not in a hut; not
one of them is big enough. I suppose he’ll ask us to believe that he
keeps it somewhere outside the stockade."
"I never thought of that," said Harden, tugging the ends of his
moustache. "I wonder what he’s here for."
"So do I," said Crouch.
Soon after that, at Crouch’s request, Harden and Max lay down upon their
blankets, and were soon fast asleep. As for the captain, he also lay
down, and for more than an hour breathed heavily, as if in sleep. Then,
without a sound, he began to move forward on hands and knees across the
floor of the hut.
When he reached the door he came into the moonlight, and had there been
any one there to see, they would have noticed that he carried a
revolver, and there was a knife between his teeth.
As quick as a lizard he glided into the shade beneath the walls of the
hut. There he lay for some minutes, listening, with all his senses
alert.
This man had much in common with the wild beasts of the forests. He was
quick to hear, quick to see; it seemed as if he even had the power to
scent danger, as the reed-buck or the buffalo.
His ears caught nothing but the varied sounds of wild, nocturnal life in
the jungle. The stockade was not more than a hundred paces distant from
the skirting of the forest. Somewhere near at hand a leopard growled,
and a troop of monkeys, frightened out of their wits, could be heard
scrambling through the branches of the trees. Farther away, a pair of
lions were hunting; there is no sound more terrible and haunting than
the quick, panting noise that is given by this great beast of prey as it
follows upon the track of an antelope or deer. Then, far in the
distance, there was a noise, so faint as to be hardly audible, like the
beating of a drum. Crouch knew what it was. Indeed, in these matters
there was little of which he was ignorant. It was a great gorilla,
beating its stomach in passion in the darkness. And that is a sound
before which every animal that lives in the jungle quails and creeps
away into hiding; even the great pythons slide back into the depths of
silent, woodland pools.
But it was not to the forest that Crouch’s ear was turned. He was
listening for a movement in the hut in which slept the Portuguese
trader, who went by the name of Cæsar. After a while, seeming
satisfied, he crawled on, in absolute silence, in the half-darkness,
looking for all the world like some cruel four-footed beast that had
come slinking from out of the jungle.
He reached the door of the hut, and crept stealthily in. Inside, he was
not able to see. It was some little time before his eye grew accustomed
to the darkness.
Then he was just able to discern the long figure of the Portuguese
stretched upon his couch. Half-raising himself, he listened, with his
ear not two inches from the man’s mouth. Cæsar was breathing heavily.
He was evidently fast asleep.
Still on hands and knees, as silently as ever, Crouch glided out of the
hut.
Instead of returning by the way he had come, he turned in the opposite
direction, and approached another hut. It was that which belonged to
the half-caste, de Costa, whom he had met five years before in St. Paul
de Loanda.
Once again he passed in at the door, silently, swiftly, with his knife
still in his teeth.
This hut was even darker than the other, by reason of the fact that the
door was smaller. Crouch sat up, and rubbed his eyes, and inwardly
abused the universe in general because he was not able to see.
Suddenly there was a creaking noise, as if some one moved on the bed.
Crouch was utterly silent. Then some one coughed. The cough was
followed by a groan. De Costa sat up in bed. Crouch was just able to
see him.
The little half-caste, resting his elbows on his knees, took his head
between his hands, and rocked from side to side. He talked aloud in
Portuguese. Crouch knew enough of that language to understand.
"Oh, my head!" he groaned. "My head! My head!" He was silent for no
longer than a minute; then he went on: "Will I never be quit of this
accursed country! The fever is in my bones, my blood, my brain!"
He turned over on his side, and, stretching out an arm, laid hold upon a
match-box. They were wooden matches, and they rattled in the box.
Then he struck a light and lit a candle, which was glued by its own
grease to a saucer. When he had done that he looked up, and down the
barrel of Captain Crouch’s revolver.
CHAPTER VII--THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN
Before de Costa had time to cry out--which he had certainly intended to
do--Crouch’s hand had closed upon his mouth, and he was held in a grip
of iron.
"Keep still!" said Crouch, in a quick whisper. "Struggle, and you die."
The man was terrified. He was racked by fever, nerve-shattered and
weak. At the best he was a coward. But now he was in no state of
health to offer resistance to any man; and in the candle-light Crouch,
with his single eye and his great chin, looked too ferocious to
describe.
For all that the little sea-captain’s voice was quiet, and even
soothing.
"You have nothing to fear," said he. "I don’t intend to harm you. I
have only one thing to say: if you cry out, or call for assistance, I’ll
not hesitate to shoot. On the other hand, if you lie quiet and silent,
I promise, on my word of honour, that you have nothing whatsoever to
fear. I merely wish to ask you a few questions. You need not answer
them unless you wish to. Now, may I take my hand from your mouth?"
De Costa nodded his head, and Crouch drew away his hand. The half-caste
lay quite still. It was obvious that he had been frightened out of his
life, which had served to some extent to heighten the fever which so
raged within him.
"Come," said Crouch; "I’ll doctor you. Your nerves are all shaken. Have
you any bromide?"
"Yes," said de Costa; "over there."
He pointed in the direction of a shelf upon the wall, which had been
constructed of a piece of a packing-case. On this shelf was a multitude
of bottles. Crouch examined these, and at last laid hands upon one
containing a colourless fluid, like water, and handed it to the patient
to drink. De Costa drained it at a gulp, and then sank back with a sigh
of relief.
Crouch felt his pulse.
"You’re weak," said he, "terribly weak. If you don’t get out of this
country soon you’ll die. Do you know that?"
"I do," said de Costa; "I think of it every day."
"You don’t wish to die?" said Crouch.
"I wish to live."
There was something pitiful in the way he said that. He almost whined.
Here was a man who was paying the debt that the white man owes to
Africa. In this great continent, which even to-day is half unknown,
King Death rules from the Sahara to the veld. A thousand pestilences
rage in the heart of the great steaming forests, that strike down their
victims with promptitude, and which are merciless as they are swift. It
seems as if a curse is on this country. It is as if before the advance
of civilization a Power, greater by far than the combined resources of
men, arises from out of the darkness of the jungle and the miasma of the
mangrove swamp, and strikes down the white man, as a pole-axe fells an
ox.
De Costa, though he was but half a European, was loaded with the white
man’s burden, with the heart of only a half-caste to see him through.
Crouch, despite the roughness of his manner, attended at his bedside
with the precision of a practised nurse. There was something even
tender in the way he smoothed the man’s pillow; and when he spoke, there
was a wealth of sympathy in his voice.
"You are better now?" he asked.
"Yes," said de Costa; "I am better."
"Lie still and rest," said Crouch. "Perhaps you are glad enough to have
some one to talk to you. I want you to listen to what I have to say."
Crouch seated himself at the end of the bed, and folded his thin,
muscular hands upon his knee.
"I am not a doctor by profession," he began, "but, in the course of my
life, I’ve had a good deal of experience of the various diseases which
are met with in these parts of the world. I know enough to see that
your whole constitution is so undermined that it is absolutely necessary
for you to get out of the country. Now I want to ask you a question."
"What is it?" said de Costa. His voice was very weak.
"Which do you value most, life or wealth?"
The little half-caste smiled.
"I can see no good in wealth," said he, "when you’re dead."
"That is true," said Crouch. "No one would dispute it--except
yourself."
"But I admit it!" said de Costa.
"You admit it in words," said the other, "but you deny it in your life."
"I am too ill to understand. Please explain."
Crouch leaned forward and tapped the palm of his left hand with the
forefinger of his right.
"You say," said he, "that you know that you’ll die if you remain here.
Yet you remain here in order to pile up a great fortune to take back
with you to Jamaica or Portugal, wherever you intend to go. But you
will take nothing back, because you will die. You are therefore
courting death. I repeat your own words: what will be the use of all
this wealth to you after you are dead?"
De Costa sat up in his bed.
"It’s true!" he cried in a kind of groan.
"H’sh!" said Crouch. "Be quiet! Don’t raise your voice."
De Costa rocked his head between his knees.
"It’s true--true--true!" he whined. "I know it. I shall die. I don’t
want this money. I want to live. I--I fear to die." His voice
trembled. He was pitiful to see.
"You shall not die," said Crouch; "I’ll make it my business to see that
you live. I can’t cure you, but I can keep you alive till we reach the
coast. There, one week on the sea will restore your health."
"That’s what I want," said de Costa, "the sea air. Oh, for a breath of
the sea!"
"I’ll take you down with us," Crouch ran on. "I’ll doctor you on the
way. Max Harden is a young man of science. He has studied these
things, and with his knowledge and my experience we’ll pull you through.
In three months from now, I promise you, you shall set eyes upon the
ocean."
"How glorious!" the poor man cried. He looked into Crouch’s face, and
there were large tears in his eyes.
"Stay," said Crouch; "I’ve not come here for philanthropic purposes. If
I do this for you, you must do something for me. Otherwise you can stay
here--and die."
"What is it you want?"
Crouch bent forward and whispered in the man’s ear, speaking distinctly
and with great deliberation.
"I want to know what’s inside the padlocked chest that Cæsar keeps in
his hut. Come, out with the truth!"
On the instant the man sprang out of bed and seized Crouch by the
wrists. He was so little master of himself that hot tears were
streaming down his cheeks. He was shaking in every limb. It was as if
his neck was not strong enough to support his head, which swung round
and round.
"Not that!" he screamed. "For pity’s sake, not that!"
"Come," said Crouch; "the truth."
De Costa drew back. "I daren’t," said he.
"Why?"
"Because he--would kill me."
"Look here, you have to choose between two men," said Crouch: "Cæsar and
myself. Trust me, and I’ll see you through. You told me you had heard
of me before. You may have heard it said that I’m a man who sticks to
his word through thick and thin, once it has been given."
As Crouch said this he noticed a remarkable change that came on a sudden
upon de Costa’s face. The man’s complexion turned livid; his jaw
dropped; his eyes were staring hard over Crouch’s shoulder, in the
direction of the door.
Crouch whipped round upon his heel, his revolver in his hand, and found
that he stood face to face with Cæsar.
"By Christopher," said he, "you’re mighty silent!"
"And may I ask," said Cæsar, "what you are doing here?"
Crouch made a motion of his hand towards de Costa, who had sunk down
upon the bed.
"This man’s ill," said he; "in fact, he’s dying."
"He is always dying," said Cæsar, "and he never dies. He has the
vitality of a monkey."
"It doesn’t seem to distress you much," said Crouch. "Since you have
lived together for two years, in a forsaken spot like this, I should
have thought that you were friends."
Cæsar threw out his hand.
"Ah," he cried, "we are the best friends in the world--de Costa and
myself."
He stood looking down upon Crouch, with his white teeth gleaming between
his black moustache and his beard. In that light it was difficult to
see whether he smiled or sneered. There was something mysterious about
the man, and something that was fiendish.
"And so," he ran on, "Captain Crouch has taken upon himself the duties
of medical officer of Makanda? I’m sure we are much obliged."
"I have some experience of medicine," said the captain.
"Indeed," said Cæsar. "And do you always operate with a revolver?"
For once in his life, Crouch had been caught off his guard.
"In this country," he said, "I am seldom without one."
"You are wise," said Cæsar. "I myself am always prepared."
With a man like Crouch, this kind of verbal sword-play could never last
for long. He was too much a creature of impulse. He liked to speak his
mind, and he hated and mistrusted this thin Portuguese as a mongoose
hates a snake.
"There are no laws in this country," said he, "and there are certain
times when it’s not a bad principle to shoot at sight. In the civilized
world, a man goes about with his reputation on the sleeve of his coat,
and all men may know him for what he is. But here, in the midst of
these benighted forests, one must often act on instinct. To kill at
sight, that’s the law of the jungle; and when men come here, they’d do
well to leave behind them what they know of other laws respecting life
and property and rights. If I’m wise to carry a revolver, perhaps I’m a
fool because I hesitate to use it."
Here was a plain speaking, an outright honesty that quite disarmed the
Portuguese. If, hitherto, Cæsar had held the upper hand, Captain Crouch
had now turned the tables. Whether warfare be carried on by words or
amid the clash of arms, the victory lies with him who best knows his
mind. And Captain Crouch did that. It was as if he had thrown a
gauntlet at the tall man’s feet, and defied him to pick it up.
But Cæsar was never willing to fight. His was a quick, calculating
brain, and he knew that the odds would be against him. Listening
outside the hut, he had overheard the greater part of the conversation
which had taken place between Crouch and the fever-stricken half-caste.
His secret, which he kept under lock and key in the strong chest at the
foot of his bed, he was prepared to guard at every cost. He saw now
that Crouch was an adversary not to be despised. It was necessary for
him to take steps to seal de Costa’s lips.
Though the man no longer showed it in his face, Cæsar was by no means
pleased at the appearance of the Englishmen. Though he was affable and
polite, all the time he was scheming in his mind how to get rid of them
as quickly as he could. For the present, he decided to bide his time,
hoping that, sooner or later, Fate might play into his hands. Whatever
happened, he was determined that they should not suspect him of any
sinister intention, and on that account it behoved him to keep up an
appearance of friendship. He answered Crouch with all the pleasantry of
manner he had at his command.
"Captain Crouch," said he, "you are a man after my own heart. I also
respect the laws of the jungle. I have shaken the dust of civilization
from my feet. It is only the strong man who can do so. In you I
recognize an equal."
In his heart, Crouch stigmatized such talk as this as high-falutin’
nonsense. Still, he thought it unwise to hatch a quarrel with the man,
and answered with a kind of grunt.
"I suppose you’re right," said he.
"And what of our poor invalid?" said Cæsar, turning to de Costa.
Side by side, these two men, who were already sworn enemies in secret,
bent over the prostrate figure of the half-caste. De Costa lay with one
arm hanging listlessly over the side of the bed. His eyelids were
half-closed, and underneath the whites of his eyes could be seen. When
a man sleeps like that, he is in a bad way. The sands of life are
running down.
"He’s asleep," said Crouch. "That’s all he wants. The fever has
subsided. He’ll be much better to-morrow. Let us leave him."
Together they went out. The little sea-captain walked back to his hut,
and threw himself down upon his blankets. As for Cæsar, he remained
standing in the moonlight, with his long fingers playing in his beard.
For some minutes he remained quite motionless. The silence of the night
was still disturbed by the strange sounds that came from out of the
forest. The man seemed plunged in thought. Presently a soft, moist
nose was thrust into the palm of his hand, and looking down, he beheld
his great dog, which, unable to sleep by reason of the heat, had
followed her master into the moonlight.
"Gyp," said he, in a soft voice--"Gyp, old friend, how are we to get rid
of these accursed Englishmen?"
The dog looked up, and licked her master’s hand.
"Come, Gyp," said Cæsar; "come and think it out."
He entered his hut, and sat down upon the great, padlocked chest. There,
he took the dog’s head between his knees. She was a Great Dane, and
even larger and more powerful than the majority of her kind.
"Do you know this, Gyp," said he: "de Costa can’t be trusted?
Fortunately, you and I, Gyp, know a way to make him hold his tongue."
At that, the man laughed softly to himself.
Meanwhile, in the other hut, the quick brain of Captain Crouch was not
idle. He had learnt much that night; but the secret was still unsolved.
He had not been slow in discovering the weak point in Cæsar’s line of
defence: the little half-caste could be induced to speak the truth.
That the man was not an ivory trader, Crouch was fully convinced.
Indeed, he could be no sort of trader at all, because there was no
direct line of communication from Makanda to the Coast. Try as he might,
Crouch could find no answer to the riddle; and in the end, like Cæsar,
he resolved to bide his time.
Before he went to sleep, he awakened Max.
"Max," said he, "I want you to keep watch till daybreak. Keep your eyes
open, and if any one enters the hut, give him ’hands up’ on the spot."
"Have you discovered anything?" asked Max.
"Nothing," said Crouch, "except that de Costa’s our friend’s weak point.
Given half a chance, I will find out the truth from him. But Cæsar
suspects us, as much as we suspect him; and, from what I have seen of
the man, I’m inclined to think that he’ll stick at nothing. We must
never cease to be on our guard. Keep on the alert, and wake me up if
you see or hear anything suspicious."
At that Crouch turned over on his side, and this time actually fell
asleep.
Max Harden sat with his back to the wall of the hut, his loaded revolver
in his hand. Through the doorway, above the rampart of the stockade, he
could see the march of the tropical stars, as the Southern Cross dropped
lower and lower in the heavens. As it drew nearer to daybreak, the
sounds of the jungle ceased. Even in these latitudes there is a time,
about an hour before the dawn, when all Nature seems hushed and still;
the great beasts of prey retire to rest, foodless or with their
appetites appeased--more often the first, and it is not before the first
streaks of daybreak are visible in the eastern sky that the large minor
world, of beast and bird and reptile, awakens to the day.
Max obeyed his orders to the letter. Hour by hour, he remained
perfectly motionless, with every sense on the alert. He was beginning
to think that the fears and suspicions of Crouch were entirely baseless,
when, on a sudden, the eternal stillness was broken by a shriek,
piercing and unearthly, that was lifted from somewhere near at hand.
Springing to his feet, he rushed forth from the hut. And as he did so,
the shriek was repeated, louder than before.
CHAPTER VIII--LEAVE TO QUIT
Max had no difficulty in recognizing whence came these appalling sounds;
for, as he hastened forward, they were repeated, again and again. It
was as if the night were filled with terror, as if some wild, tormented
spirit had been let loose upon the stillness of the jungle.
From the opened doorway of de Costa’s hut a bright light shone forth,
making a wide, diverging pathway to the foot of the stockade. And in
this pathway two shadows danced like fiends. They were here, there and
everywhere, whilst time and again that piercing shriek went forth.
Max dashed into the hut, and there was brought to a standstill by the
sight that he beheld.
On one knee upon the floor, with an arm upraised as if in
self-protection, was the half-caste, de Costa, with abject fear stamped
upon every feature of his face. Still yelping like a cur, flinching
repeatedly for no ostensible reason, he looked up furtively, and into
the face of the man who stood above him.
This was Cæsar, with the Great Dane snarling at his side. His right arm
was bare to the elbow, and in his hand he held a whip. It was a cruel
whip, if ever there were such a thing. The handle was short, but the
lash was long and tied in many a knot.
"Drop that!" cried Max; and, without a moment’s thought, he lifted his
revolver and directed the muzzle full at the head of the Portuguese.
At that the dog crouched low, as if about to spring, and filled the hut
with a growl.
What happened in the next brief moments cannot be told in a word. The
Great Dane sprang straight at the throat of the young Englishman, who
was borne headlong through the doorway, to fall at full length upon the
ground. Simultaneously, Max’s revolver went off, and the bullet flew
high into the roof. The next thing that he knew of was that both his
hands were pressed tight into the throat of the huge beast that had
pinned him to the ground. Strive as he might, he was not able to rise.
By sheer weight and strength Gyp held him down.
[Illustration: "THE GREAT DANE SPRANG STRAIGHT AT THE THROAT OF THE
YOUNG ENGLISHMAN."]
Then the hound was lifted bodily into the air. Max struggled to his
feet, and beheld his uncle, whose great hands grasped the dog by the
scruff of the neck. Harden was holding the animal so that it stood
upright on its hind-legs, and in that position Gyp was little shorter
than he. The dog was almost mad; it snarled like a wild animal, and its
white fangs gleamed in the light.
The voice of Cæsar sounded sharp, but calm and collected, in the midst
of this turmoil and confusion.
"Gyp," he cried, "come here!"
Edward let go his hold, and immediately the dog lay down, growling at
the feet of her master.
"I should like to know," said Edward, "the cause of this disturbance."
"A private matter," said Cæsar, "which concerns no one but de Costa and
myself."
But Max, though he had been overthrown by the dog, who had come upon him
so unexpectedly, was in no mind to let the matter drop. He was so hot
in anger, and his indignation so great, that his lips trembled when he
spoke.
"Why did you strike that man?" he demanded, pointing to the half-caste.
"That, I repeat," said the other, "is my affair--and his."
"Understand," said Max, "that I make it mine. When I entered this room,
this poor wretch was on the floor, and you stood over him, whip in
hand."
For the first time since they had entered the stockade, they saw the
real man under the calm, black mask that the Portuguese habitually wore.
Setting his brows in a frown, he whipped round upon Max, and spoke in
much the same manner as a cat spits at a dog.
"You have yet to learn," he cried, "that in this place I am master. I
take orders from no one. In Makanda my word is law. This half-bred cur
is my servant. He knows it, as well as I. He knows, also, that if he
serves me faithfully he will be rewarded. But if he dares to disobey my
orders, he incurs the penalty I choose to inflict. There is my answer;
and I ask you, who are you to come here and presume to dictate to me?"
"I have no more special mission," answered Max, "than any other who
knows the difference between what is right and wrong. You may be master
here--for all I care you may be master of the whole of Africa--but I am
not going to stand by and see one man flog another for any cause. Raise
that whip again on peril of your life."
Max dared the man on purpose. The fact was, he would have been glad
enough to shoot. As for Edward, though all this time he had stood by in
silence, his finger had never left the trigger of his revolver. But,
Cæsar was not such a fool as to give either of them the chance they
waited for. He cast his whip upon the ground.
"After this," said he, "I presume you will avail yourselves of my
hospitality no longer. I shall be glad to see your backs."
"We shall be only too glad to go," said Max.
"I put no obstacle in your way," said Cæsar. "It is almost daylight
now."
Max turned and left the hut, followed by his uncle. Each asked himself
the same question the moment he got out into the open air: where was
Captain Crouch?
Crouch must have heard the disturbance. The shrieks of the half-caste,
the growling of the dog and the firing of Max’s revolver had been enough
to have awakened the dead. Yet he had never put in an appearance. When
they entered their hut they found him seated cross-legged on the floor,
with his pipe between his teeth. The atmosphere was tainted with the
smell of Bull’s Eye Shag.
"Where have you been?" asked Edward.
Crouch never deigned to reply, but, taking his pipe from his lips, asked
a question himself.
"Did you come to blows?" he said.
"Practically," said Max, with a shrug of the shoulders. "I found him
thrashing that half-caste within an inch of his life. I threatened him,
and his dog flew at me, and, had it not been for Edward, would have torn
me to bits. We had a kind of an argument, and in the end he told us to
clear out, which we said we were perfectly ready to do."
Crouch returned his pipe to his mouth.
"I was afraid of that," said he.
"Why?"
"I would like to have stayed here just a little longer. I haven’t
probed the mystery yet. When I saw you two run into de Costa’s hut, I
knew there was going to be trouble. I knew you wouldn’t come out for
some minutes, and I had the chance of a lifetime."
"Where did you go?" asked Harden.
"Into Cæsar’s hut," said Crouch, winking with his only eye. "I searched
everywhere, but could find nothing. As I told you before, this man has
a secret, and that secret is locked up in his chest. In Central Africa
a man doesn’t have a chest like that to keep his clothes in. It’s
iron-bound, and locked with three padlocks, and I suppose he keeps the
key in his pocket. It would have been sheer waste of time to have tried
to open it. I couldn’t lift it. It’s as heavy as if it were filled
with lead. That’s why I’m sorry we’ve got to clear out. I mean to
discover what that chest contains."
"We’ve got to go," said Max. "I wouldn’t stay here another hour for all
the secrets in the universe."
"You’re quite right," said Crouch. "As the natives say on the Ogowe, ’a
bad man’s bread is poison.’ We’ll sheer off at once."
Edward went out, and returned in a few minutes with M’Wané and the four
Fans.
"M’Wané," said Crouch, still seated on the ground, "we’re going back to
Hippo Pool."
M’Wané smiled as though he were glad to hear it.
"That is good news," said he. "I do not like this place."
"Why?" asked Crouch, looking up.
"We have been told," said M’Wané, "that if we try to leave the camp, we
shall be shot by the Arab men."
"Have you found out anything?" asked Crouch.
M’Wané shook his head.
"I have seen no one," said he. "I know nothing. To speak the truth, I
am afraid."
In the half-light of morning, the party left the stockade. Their canoe
was moored to the bank of the river, in the place where they had left it
on the afternoon of the day before. They clambered into their places:
Max and his uncle to the stern seat, and Crouch to his old place in the
bows. Then the canoe shot out into mid-stream, and it was not until a
month later that any one of them looked again upon the mysterious
settlement of Makanda.
CHAPTER IX--A THIEF BY NIGHT
It will be remembered that it had taken two and a half days to make the
journey to Makanda from Hippo Pool. They returned in seven and a half
hours, and even then the natives did little work with their paddles.
The fact was that, from the granite hills that almost surrounded the
station of the Portuguese, a number of small tributaries joined the
Hidden River. In consequence, a great volume of water flowed down to
Hippo Pool. The current became stronger every mile, since the banks
grew nearer together, and several jungle streams joined forces with the
river. The largest of these was the tributary which flowed into Hippo
Pool, along which had lain the latter part of the portage they had made
from Date Palm Island on the Kasai. Harden named this stream
Observation Creek, for a reason which we are just about to explain.
They camped on the east bank of Hippo Pool, at a place selected by
Crouch. Two courses lay open to them: they had either to remain here
indefinitely, or, leaving their canoe on the Hidden River, to return to
Date Palm Island by the route of their former portage. Never for a
moment had they had any intention of returning to the Kasai until they
had discovered something more definite concerning the mystery of
Makanda. That night, seated around their camp-fire, by the waters of
Hippo Pool, they held a council of war.
With this place as their base, they were resolved to operate against
Cæsar’s position farther up the river. That afternoon, M’Wané had
climbed to the top of a gigantic cocoanut-tree, some little distance
from the right bank of Observation Creek. Thence he had surveyed the
surrounding country, and it was largely on the information supplied by
M’Wané that Edward Harden drew up the sketch-map which proved so useful
to them throughout the eventful days that followed.
[Illustration: EDWARD HARDEN’S MAP OF THE COUNTRY OF THE FIRE-GODS.]
From that tree-top the broad course of the Kasai had been visible, its
gleaming waters showing here and there, white in the sunlight, to the
north and to the east. To the north-west, the course of the Hidden
River lay comparatively straight to the mangrove swamp where it joined
the larger stream. The rapids began three miles or so below Hippo Pool,
and there, according to M’Wané, the river was foaming white. Lower
still, it entered the Long Ravine, where great bare cliffs rose upright
on either side, and at the end of which was the waterfall of which the
Fans had spoken. On some days, when the wind was from the north, they
could hear the dull roar of the cataract, like thunder in the distance.
To the south-west, above the tree-tops of the forest, M’Wané had been
able to observe the crest-line of the red granite hills which enclosed
the station of Makanda. Almost due south, from out of the midst of the
forest, like a giant in a stubble-field, a great mountain towered into
the sky. On the northern slopes of this mountain the Fan chief had been
able to discern a little village, lying like a bird’s nest in a
declivity, thousands of feet above the dark, inhospitable forest. One
night, by firelight, on the banks of Hippo Pool, Edward Harden drew the
map on a piece of cartridge paper, though many of the features thus
shown were not filled in until further facts had come to light.
Their plan of campaign was evolved in the fertile mind of Crouch, though
Max, and even Edward, made several suggestions which the little
sea-captain was only too glad to accept. They named the mountain
Solitude Peak, and it seemed probable that it was in this direction that
the creek found its source.
They desired, if possible, to reach Makanda without the knowledge of
Cæsar and his Arabs. They did not doubt that they would be able to
overlook the stockade from some eminence in the eastern granite hill.
Now, since it was two and a half days’ journey up the river, it would
take them months to force their way through the jungle to the south.
They decided, therefore, to follow Observation Creek to its source,
which, they hoped, would be somewhere in the vicinity of the mountain.
There they might be able to glean some knowledge at the native village
which M’Wané had seen in the distance. At any rate, they would be able
to survey the surrounding country, and take the most accessible route in
the direction of Makanda.
However, neither Crouch nor Harden was the man to undertake anything
rashly. Each knew that in Cæsar they had an adversary who was not to be
despised. Before they set forth upon their expedition, they decided to
secure more ammunition and supplies from Date Palm Island, and for this
purpose it was decided that Edward Harden should return to the Kasai
with M’Wané and the Fans.
Accordingly, the next day the explorer set out, following the route of
their old portage along Observation Creek, and thence through the jungle
to the left bank of the great river opposite Date Palm Island. Edward
thought that he would be able to persuade the Loango boys to carry the
"loads" back to the base-camp at Hippo Pool. Then, if they still feared
to remain in the valley of the Hidden River, they could return to the
Kasai. That night, Crouch and Max were the only two who remained at the
little camp at Hippo Pool.
The next three days were by no means idle. Game had to be shot in the
forest; there was cooking to be done; they even carried the canoe ashore
and repaired a small leak which had been sprung in her bows. Moreover,
Crouch insisted that one or other of them should always be on watch.
With a good fire burning throughout the night, they had little to fear
from wild beasts. Even the leopard, which is a far more courageous
animal than the lion, must be well-nigh starving before it dares to
approach a camp-fire. What Crouch feared most was a raid on the part of
Cæsar. He knew enough of the tall Portuguese to suspect that the man
would not stay idle whilst the three Englishmen remained in the valley
of the Hidden River. In one of the many canoes they had seen tied up to
the river bank at Makanda, Cæsar could shoot down-stream in the space of
a few hours. There was therefore not an hour of the day or night that
one or the other of them was not seated on the river-bank, rifle in
hand, with his eyes turned towards the southern extremity of Hippo Pool.
Three days passed, and nothing of importance occurred. It was on the
third night that something happened which was so much in the nature of a
mystery as to be fully in keeping with the character of the whole valley
and the rumours they had heard. Though Captain Crouch had only one eye,
that eye was as the eye of a lynx; and the matter in question is all the
more worthy to relate, since the event first occurred by night, when
Crouch himself was on guard.
That day Max had shot his first buffalo, about half a mile from camp, on
the southern side of Observation Creek. The meat had been cut into
steaks, and one of these was cooked that night for breakfast in the
morning. Crouch relieved Max on sentry at twelve o’clock, with the
intention of keeping watch till daybreak. As Max turned over to go to
sleep, he distinctly remembered having seen the buffalo-steak on a tin
plate, a few inches from the fire. In the morning this steak was gone.
Crouch had seen nothing. He was prepared to swear that he had never
been to sleep. Throughout the morning the matter seemed to worry him a
good deal.
"I can’t make it out," he said, talking to himself, as was his wont. "I
don’t believe any leopard would do it. The beasts are terrified of
fire. A starving leopard might; but no leopard could very well starve
in a valley like this, which positively abounds in game." At various
intervals throughout the day he gave expression to the same opinion.
That night Max took the first watch, from seven o’clock to twelve.
During that period never once did he relax his vigilance. He sat, hour
by hour, with the fire at his elbow, and his face turned towards the
river. He was thinking that it was nearly time to awaken Crouch, and
had pulled out his watch, when he heard the sound of a breaking twig a
few feet behind him.
He turned sharply, and was just in time to discern the shadow of some
great beast disappearing into the jungle. His eyes shot back to the
fire, and there he beheld to his amazement that once again their
breakfast had disappeared. He immediately awoke the little sea-captain,
and told him what had happened.
"Did it look like a leopard?" asked Crouch.
"No," said Max, "I think it was a lion."
Crouch got to his feet.
"I don’t believe it," said he. "The king of beasts is the greatest
coward I know. The most courageous animal in the world is the African
buffalo, and after him come the peccary and the wild boar. All the cats
are cowards, and the lion the biggest of all. Once I was shooting
buzzard on the Zambesi, when I came face to face with a lion, not
fifteen paces from me. I had no one with me, and was armed only with a
shot-gun. What do you think I did?"
Max laughed. "Ran for it?" he suggested.
"Not a bit!" said Crouch. "That would have been sheer folly; it would
have showed the brute I feared him. I just dropped down on all-fours,
and walked slowly towards him."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Max, unable to restrain his admiration.
"That lion," said Crouch, "looked straight at me for about three
seconds, and then quietly turned round and walked away, swishing the
flies from his body with his tail. As soon as he thought he was out of
sight, he broke into a gallop. It was beneath his dignity, I suppose,
to let me see he was frightened. He had got to live up to his
reputation."
"Is that actually true?" asked Max.
"As true as I’m standing here. All lions are naturally frightened of
anything they can’t understand. That particular animal couldn’t make me
out, didn’t like the look of me; so he just walked away. The lions in
this valley can have had little or no experience of white men. I
therefore refuse to believe that our breakfast has been stolen by a
lion. Shall I tell you who I believe is the culprit?"
"Who?" asked Max.
"Gyp," said Crouch; "Cæsar’s dog. Cæsar himself could hardly have got
here by now. Yesterday afternoon I reconnoitred some way up the river,
and saw no signs of a canoe. But the dog could have found its way
through the jungle. It seems improbable, no doubt; but I can think of
no better explanation."
Indeed, this was the only solution of the matter, and they resolved to
be upon their guard.
The following day they determined to explore the rapids. They were
already acquainted with the river-valley between Hippo Pool and Makanda,
but as yet they knew nothing of the country which lay between their camp
and the mangrove swamp on the Kasai. M’Wané, from the cocoanut-tree,
had caught sight of the Long Ravine, which ended in the waterfall of
which the natives had told them, the dull roar of which was frequently
audible at Hippo Pool when the wind was in the right direction. They
did not expect Edward back for some days, and each was of the
disposition that chafes under the restraint of inaction.
Accordingly, soon after daybreak they launched the canoe, and taking
with them three days’ supplies and a quantity of ammunition, they shot
down-stream to the north. The descent of the river was easy enough.
Throughout the journey Crouch kept his eye on the current. Since this
grew stronger and stronger as they progressed, he did not desire to go
too far, knowing full well that the return journey would be by no means
easy to accomplish.
At a place where the river was exceedingly narrow, and the jungle on
either bank even more dense and tangled than usual, they heard, on a
sudden, the crashing of undergrowth in the forest, as if some great
beast were flying for its life. A moment later a leopard sprang clear
from the river bank. For a second the beast was poised in mid-air, its
legs extended at full length, its ears lying back, its superb coat
dazzling in the sunlight. Then it came down into the water with a
splash.
For a few strokes it swam straight for the canoe. Max carried his rifle
to the shoulder and fired. The beast was hit, for it shivered from head
to tail, and then turned round and swam back to the bank whence it had
come. As it crawled forth, dripping, with its head hanging low between
its fore-legs, the great snout of a crocodile uprose from out of the
water, and the huge jaws snapped together.
Crouch, who was steering, ran the canoe into the bank, and a moment
later both he and Max, their rifles in their hands, had set out into the
semi-darkness of the jungle.
They had no difficulty in following the leopard’s spoor. The beast was
badly wounded and very sick. Every hundred yards or so it lay down to
rest, and when it heard them approaching, rose and went on with a growl.
Presently it led them into a marsh--which Edward Harden afterwards
called Leopard Marsh--where they sank knee-deep in the mud. There were
no trees here. In the middle of the marsh, lying in a few inches of
water, was the wounded leopard, wholly unable to rise.
"He’s yours," said Crouch. "I’ll stand by in case you miss."
Max lifted his rifle, took careful aim, and fired. On the instant, with
a savage screech, the leopard rose with a jerk. For a moment it stood
upon its hind-legs, rampant, its fore-feet fighting in the air. Then it
came down, as a stone drops, and lay quite still.
Max felt the flush of triumph that every hunter knows. His blood
tingled in his veins. He was about to rush forward, to gloat upon his
prize, when from somewhere near in the forest a shot rang out, and a
bullet splashed into the moist ground at Max’s feet.
CHAPTER X--THE BACK-WATER
Crouch’s voice was lifted in a shout. "Run for your life!" he cried.
Together they went floundering through the mire. They had to run the
gauntlet for a distance of little more than a hundred paces; but, by
reason of the nature of the ground, their progress was necessarily slow,
and before they had gained the cover afforded by the jungle, several
bullets had whistled past them, and Crouch was limping badly.
"Are you hurt?" asked Max.
"Hit in the leg," said the little captain, as if it were a trifle.
"There ’re no bones broken, but I’m bleeding like a pig."
"Let me look at it," said Max. "The artery may be cut."
They were now well screened by trees. It was impossible that any one
could come upon them unawares. Max took his knife from his pocket,
ripped open the seam of the captain’s trousers, and examined the wound.
The artery was untouched, but there was an ugly wound in the thigh,
which had evidently been made by an enormously heavy bullet.
"Cæsar’s elephant-gun," said Crouch. "By Christopher, I’ll make him pay
for this!"
"Are you sure of that?" said Max.
"Yes," said Crouch. "I caught sight of something white moving among the
trees. I knew at once that Cæsar was there with his Arabs."
Meanwhile, with quick fingers, Max was folding his handkerchief
lengthwise for a bandage.
"Wait a bit," said Crouch. "I’ll soon stop that flow of blood. I’ve a
special remedy of my own." Whereupon he produced his tobacco-pouch; and
before Max could stop it, he had taken a large plug of his vile, black
tobacco, dipped it into a puddle of water, and thumbed the lot into the
open wound, as a man charges a pipe.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Max, with memories of his hospital days.
"You’ll get septic poisoning! You can’t do that!"
Crouch looked up. There was a twinkle in his only eye.
"So much for science," said he. "When you get back to London, you can
tell the doctors they’re wrong. If it amuses ’em to play with
antiseptics--and they’re fond of the smell of carbolic--they’re welcome
to do what they like. As for me, I’ve used this remedy for twenty
years, and I’m not inclined to try another."
Max looked worried. He was convinced that Crouch would die of
blood-poisoning, and was beginning to wonder how, in that benighted,
tropical forest, he was going to amputate the captain’s leg.
"Don’t you fret," said Crouch, tying the bandage himself. "Maybe, one
brand of tobacco’s not so good as another. It’s my belief that if they
cut off your head, you could stick it on again with Bull’s Eye Shag." By
then he had got to his feet. "Come on," said he; "this man won’t let us
get away if he can help it. Follow me."
So saying, he plunged into the jungle, and though he was now limping
like a lame dog, it was all Max could do to keep up with him.
Time and again he dived through what had looked like impenetrable
thickets. He seemed to know by instinct where to go. He avoided
quagmires. He sprang over fallen trees. He wormed his way through
creepers, the branches of which were thick as ropes.
Frequently he stopped to listen, and sometimes placed his ear to the
ground.
"They’re after us!" he cried once. He pulled out his compass and looked
at it. "We must get back to the canoe," he said. "The river’s to the
east."
Soon after they struck what to all intents and purposes was a path. It
was, in fact, the "run" of some wild animals, and doubtless led to the
place where they were in the habit of drinking. It was no more than two
feet across; and about four feet from the ground the undergrowth from
either side met in a kind of roof; so that they found themselves in a
tunnel, along which, if they stooped sufficiently, they were able to
make good headway.
Suddenly Crouch, who was still leading, stopped dead, and held his rifle
at the ready. Max stopped, too, and listened.
Something was moving in the jungle. They heard distinctly a quick,
panting sound, coming nearer and nearer.
"There!" cried Crouch. "Shoot!"
He pointed down the tunnel, in the direction they had come. Max turned,
and beheld the head of a great beast thrust through the leaves of some
creeping plant that bound the trunks of two trees together in a kind of
lattice-work.
It is unfortunate that the mind cannot retain a complete recollection of
scenes that have momentarily impressed us. Most of us, when asked to
describe in every detail even the most familiar objects, fall very short
of the mark. How much more so must this be the case when we look upon
something for no longer than a second, and then it is no more.
Max will never forget that moment. He remembers the main features of
the scene, but there were a thousand and one details, which impressed
him at the time, that he is no longer able to remember.
The semi-darkness of the jungle; the moist ground whereon he stood,
where multi-coloured orchids showed like little evil faces in the
twilight; the tangled undergrowth; and in places, like peep-holes
through which the daylight streamed, the shadows of the tall trees
towering high above. The scene, in its luxury and darkness, stood for
all that is savage, for all that is Africa--the country where the white
man ventures at his peril. And if anything were needed to complete this
strong suggestion of the wild, it was the great head and white, gleaming
fangs of the unknown beast which, half invisible, seemed as if it were
the unholy spirit of the place. On the spur of the moment, Max lifted
his rifle and fired.
"Well done!" cried Crouch, who brushed past his elbow.
A moment later they found themselves kneeling on either side of the
prostrate and lifeless figure of Gyp.
"There lies our thief," said Crouch; "and the thief’s master ’s not so
far away."
Max felt profoundly sorry in his heart that he had killed so magnificent
a creature. If the dog had hunted them, she had been told to do so by
her master. The only crime which could be laid to the account of the
Great Dane was obedience to Cæsar.
They remained by the body of the dog no longer than a few seconds, and
after that they pushed on upon their way, still following the course of
the tunnel, or "run." At length, when least they expected it, they
found themselves at the water’s edge, at the place where the rapids were
inordinately swift.
The water foamed and swirled upon its way, lashing the banks, forming
little whirlpools in mid-stream, and bounding in waves over the trunks
of trees which had fallen into the river.
"Sit down," said Crouch. "There’s no hurry. We may as well talk
matters out."
Max looked at his companion. Now that they were in the sunlight, he was
able to see Crouch’s face. He was alarmed to notice that the little
captain looked haggard and drawn. His lips were pressed together, as
though he were in pain, and his only serviceable eye was puckered and
screwed up. Seeing Max’s anxiety, he did his best to smile.
"The Bull’s Eye ’s beginning to work," said he.
"How do you mean?" asked Max.
"After a bit it begins to smart. It smarts for about three days, and
then the blamed thing’s healed. Sit down, my boy. This man Cæsar
annoys me. I want to think it out."
They seated themselves at the river bank, and Crouch kept an ear towards
the jungle, in order to be warned if any one should approach.
"What about the canoe?" asked Max.
"It’s up-stream," said the other, with a nod of the head. "If we work
our way along the bank, we can’t miss it. To tell you the truth, I want
a rest; I feel queer. And, besides, I want to think."
Max asked him what was on his mind.
"Cæsar," said he. "I should like to know how the man managed to get
here." Then he went on, thinking aloud, as was his custom. "There may
be a path through the jungle; but I doubt if even then he would have
been able to come this distance on foot. And yet his canoe never passed
Hippo Pool, or we should have seen it--that’s sure enough." Then, on a
sudden, he slapped his knee. "By Christopher," he cried, "I have it! I
remember!"
"You remember what?" asked Max.
"About half-way between the Pool and Makanda I remember seeing the
entrance of a little back-water, on the left bank of the river. That
back-water probably rejoins the river somewhere about here. It’s all as
plain as a pikestaff. He has come north by the back-water, which
accounts for us not having seen him pass through Hippo Pool. The end of
that back-water is either between here and the place where we left the
canoe, or else farther down-stream. Come," said Crouch, "we’ll get the
better of this rascal. Perhaps, for once, Fortune will play into our
hands."
He struggled to his feet, but immediately turned pale, and was obliged
to support himself against the trunk of a tree.
"I feel mighty dizzy," he said. "I’ve lost a deal of blood."
"You had better stay here," said Max; "I’ll work along the bank until I
find the canoe, and then come back to you. I don’t like leaving you,
but there’s nothing else to be done. Perhaps the canoe is not far
away."
"It’s farther than you think," said Crouch; "that tunnel took us almost
due north. Besides, I can tell by the water. The rapids are pretty
strong; we can’t be far from the ravine."
"Will we be able to paddle against it, do you think?" asked Max.
Crouch looked at the river.
"Yes," said he. "My arms are all right, though I’ve gone wrong in the
leg. You get off, and come back here as quickly as you can. If you see
Cæsar, shoot."
At that Max set off alone. He soon found it impossible to make any
progress on the actual bank of the river, since here, by reason of the
moisture that was in the ground, the vegetation was so dense and tangled
that a weasel would have found some difficulty in making any headway.
He soon found, however, that by moving about thirty yards from the river
bank, he could make his way southward with tolerable ease. From time to
time he forced his way to the river’s edge, and looked both up-stream
and down, to note if he could see any sign of the canoe.
The sun was in the mid-heavens, and the heat intense. The jungle was
alive with sounds. The evening before there had been a heavy shower of
rain, and now the vapour rose like steam, and the moisture dropped from
the trees. To his left he could hear the roar of the rapids as the
river plunged upon its way, and this served to guide him, making it
possible for him to hold his course parallel to the river bank. He was
followed by a swarm of insects that droned and buzzed in his ears. The
perspiration fell from his forehead in great drops, and frequently he
found himself caught and held fast by strong, hook-like thorns.
Presently the forest opened. It was like coming out of a darkened room
into the light. For a moment he was unable to see. During that moment
he fancied he heard a sound quite near to him--a sound of something that
moved. Looking about him, he discovered that he was standing in long
reeds which reached almost to his chest. To his right, the trees of the
forest were extended in a kind of avenue, and at their feet was a
narrow, swiftly-flowing stream.
He had discovered Cæsar’s back-water. Moreover, he had discovered
Cæsar’s canoe, for there it was, its bows just visible, peeping through
the reeds.
CHAPTER XI--IN THE LONG RAVINE
Max took in the situation at a glance. If Cæsar had come north from
Makanda by way of the back-water, he had not passed their canoe on the
Hidden River. Two courses lay open to Max: he might cross the
back-water in Cæsar’s canoe, and pursue his journey on foot; or he might
take this canoe and go down to Crouch, about whom he was anxious. The
latter was undoubtedly the wiser course to pursue. In the heart of
Africa, one canoe is as good as another; and, besides, by taking Cæsar’s
canoe he would be paying off old scores.
Having come to this conclusion, he looked about him for a suitable way
by which to approach the canoe. He had not taken one step in the right
direction, when he discovered to his dismay that the reeds were growing
in a bog, into which one leg sank deep before he was able to recover his
footing on dry land.
Still, he had every reason to be hopeful. If the Portuguese and his
party had disembarked at this place, there was clearly a way of getting
into the canoe. For all that, search as he might among the reeds, he
could not find it, and at last he retired to the top of the bank.
No sooner had he got there than he discovered that for which he had been
looking. A tall tree had fallen in the forest, and the roots were half
in the water. The canoe had been moored under the lee of this. On each
side of the fallen tree the reeds grew so high that the trunk was half
hidden from view.
This tree formed a sort of natural pier, or landing-stage, along which
it was possible to walk. Max stepped upon the trunk, and walked towards
the canoe. Fearing that if he jumped into it he would knock a hole in
the bottom, he lowered himself to a sitting position, and then
remembered that he had not untied the painter at the bows. He always
looks upon his next action as the most foolish thing he ever did in his
life. He left his rifle in the canoe, and returned along the tree-trunk
to untie the bows.
It was then that he was seized from behind. Some one sprang upon him
from out of the reeds. Two strong arms closed about his chest, and he
was lifted bodily from off his feet.
Putting forth his strength, he managed to twist himself round, seizing
his adversary by the throat.
He had been set upon by one of Cæsar’s Arabs. The Portuguese himself
was doubtless still searching in the jungle for Crouch and Max, and no
doubt he had left this fellow in charge of his canoe. Fortunately, the
man was not armed; otherwise, Max would have been murdered. As it was,
he realized from the start that his life was in imminent danger.
The man was possessed of the strength of all his race. His arms, though
thin, were sinewy, and his muscles stood out like bands of whip-cord as
he strove to gain the upper hand. Max was at a disadvantage, since he
wore boots; whereas the Arab with his bare feet had the better foot-hold
on the trunk of the fallen tree. Still, even he could not retain his
balance for long, with the young Englishman flying at his throat like a
tiger. The man had a beard, and Max, laying hold of this, forced his
head backwards, so that they both fell together into the mud.
During that fall Max’s head struck the bows of the canoe. For a moment
he was dazed, half stunned. He relaxed his hold of his opponent, and
thereafter he lay at the mercy of the Arab.
If we make an exception of the Chinese, the Arab is in all probability
the cruellest man we know of. He is possessed of an almost fiendish
cunning. His courage no one will dispute. To his children he is a kind
father; to those who know and understand him he is a good friend; he is
one of the most hospitable men in the world. But to his enemies he is
relentless. He has none of the barbarity of the savage races, like the
Zulus or the Masai. He is refined, even in his cruelty. Above all, he
is a man of brains.
Because of their craftiness, their cunning and their courage, the Arab
races have existed from the very beginnings of time. We read in the
most ancient history that exists--in the history of the Pharaohs--of how
the Egyptian towns in the valley of the Nile were walled against the
incursions of the Arabs. Long before the Persians came to Egypt, no man
dared venture far into the desert because of the Bedouin bands. And that
was when the world was in its cradle, when just the valleys of two
rivers--the one in Asia and the other in Egypt--were able to produce the
rudiments of the civilization of the future. That was, perhaps, eight
thousand years ago.
Since then--and before then--the Arab has been feared. The Negro races
have bowed down before him, as dumb animals obey a superior
intelligence. In this, above all things, had the Portuguese been wise;
he had formed his bodyguard of those men who for centuries have been the
stern, implacable rulers of the great, mysterious continent.
Max never lost possession of his senses; he was only dazed. And, whilst
in that condition, he was lifted in the strong arms of the Arab, and
thrown bodily into the canoe. When he was sufficiently recovered to
endeavour to rise to his feet, he found that he was in mid-stream,
drifting rapidly towards the river. He looked about him for a paddle,
and seeing none, turned his eyes to the bank. And there stood the Arab,
in his mud-stained garments, his white teeth showing in his swarthy face
in a broad, unholy grin. Moreover, in both hands, he held the paddles
which he had taken from the canoe.
Max recognized, as in a flash, that his fate was in the hands of a
greater Power than himself. He snatched up his rifle, and endeavoured
to steer with the butt. That had the effect of turning the canoe a
little, but the current was too strong, and he was borne onwards.
Twenty yards farther, and the canoe would turn the corner and shoot out
into the river, where the rapids foamed and lashed. At one time the
bows brushed the tall reeds which were growing from the water. Max,
dropping his rifle, seized the only one of these that was within his
grasp. He held it for no longer than a second--an agonizing moment that
seemed eternity--and then the reed was drawn out by its roots from the
soft mud beneath the water.
The canoe was launched into the rapids at a bound. The current struck
it sideways, and sent it round like a top. For a moment it was like
some blind, excited animal that knows not whither it means to go, and
then it shot down-stream like an arrow from the bow.
Max became aware of a kind of singing in his head. This may have been
caused by the blow which he had received, or else by the manner in which
the canoe was now whirled round and round upon the tide. The whole
scene about him became blurred and indistinct. The great, white-hot sky
above him was like a sheet of fire. He saw the trees on either bank fly
past like armies of dark, gigantic spectres. At such times as this, it
is as if the brain becomes unhinged; we think of strange, and often
foolish things, of no consequence soever. Max saw a large dragonfly, of
all the colours in the rainbow. Even then he admired its beauty and
coveted its wings. The latter thought was natural, but the first was
strange. And the next thing he knew of was Crouch shouting and waving
his arms upon the bank. In a few moments Max had shot down the river to
the place where he had left the little captain, though it had taken him
more than two hours to force his way to the back-water through the
density of the jungle.
"Paddle!" Crouch was crying. "Paddle for your life! Bring her in to
the bank."
Just then the canoe was steady, shooting downward like a dart. Max
raised his hands to his lips and shouted back.
"I’ve no paddles!" he cried.
He saw Crouch break into the jungle. The little sea-captain threw
himself into the thickets like a madman. Once again, only for an
instant, Max caught sight of him. He was fighting his way down-stream
along the river bank like some ferocious beast. The long arm of a
creeper barred his way, and Crouch wrenched it from the tree to which it
clung with a strength that was almost superhuman. And then he was lost
to view.
Max looked down into the water, and saw at once that it would be
impossible to reach the bank by swimming. He had never been a strong
swimmer, and in such a current as this no one could hope to prevail. On
hands and knees, he crawled to the other end of the canoe, and
immediately the thing swung round again, like a gate upon its hinges.
He was now calm enough to think the matter out. If he tried to swim to
the shore the odds would be a hundred to one against him. There was
still a chance that the canoe might be driven into the bank. He was
determined to keep his head, to be ready to spring ashore, should the
opportunity occur, and lay hold upon the first thing that fell to his
reach.
As he sat and waited, whilst the seconds flew, his heart sank within
him. The river narrowed. Black, ugly-looking rocks sprang up, like
living things in mid-stream, and before him opened the ravine.
He saw its great walls rising, smooth and sheer, on either side of the
river, and fading away in the distance, in the thick haze of the
steaming, tropic day. He was fascinated by the rocks. He marvelled
every instant that the canoe was not dashed to atoms. The surface of
the water was now white with foam, in the midst of which the black rocks
glistened in the sunlight. The canoe would rush towards one of these,
as some swift beast of prey hurls itself upon its victim; and at the
eleventh hour it would be whipped aside to go dancing, leaping on.
The ravine was like one of the pits we read of in Dante’s _Inferno_. Its
walls were precipitous and white, glaring in the sunshine. This was the
gate that guarded the Hidden Valley.
Max had a sensation of passing through a railway-cutting in an express
train. Little objects upon the steep banks--perhaps straggling plants,
sprung from seeds which had fallen from above--were blurred and
indistinct, flashing past like may-flies in the sunlight. There was the
same rattling noise in his ears, quite distinguishable from the roar of
the water beneath his feet.
For a moment he buried his face in his hands. A hundred thoughts went
galloping through his brain, not one of which was complete. One gave
place to another; there was no gap between them; they were like the
films on a cinematograph.
And then came a murmuring in his ears which was something apart from the
rattling sound we have mentioned, and the loud roar of the rapids. He
looked up, with a white face, and listened. It seemed his heart had
ceased to beat, and breathing consisted of inspiration only. The
murmuring grew into a roar, and the roar into a peal of thunder--the
cataract was ahead!
CHAPTER XII--WHEN HOPE DIES OUT
As the canoe rushed forward, Max Harden recognized himself for lost; he
realized there was no hope. Resolved to meet his fate with all the
fortitude he could command, he was yet sufficiently unnerved to stand
upright in the canoe, which so rocked and swayed that he balanced
himself with difficulty.
It was then that he looked down upon what seemed certain death. The
river ended abruptly, as a cliff falls sheer to the sea. The walls of
the ravine were folded back to the east and to the west, and between,
the water went over the cataract in one long, unbroken wave.
Far below, extending to the north, was a broad plain, dotted here and
there with trees which, in the haze of the tropic heat, appeared
indistinct and restless, like weeds and pebbles at the bottom of deep,
discoloured water. Beyond that were the broad, gleaming waters of the
Kasai, rolling north-westward to the Congo.
Max looked up to the wide, burning sky. In that mad, headlong moment he
offered up a prayer. The roar of the waters thundered in his ears. The
canoe over-shot the crest of the cataract, as a swallow dips upon the
wing. Max was conscious of a bursting in his head. There was a noise
in his ears as if all chaos were rushing in upon him; it was as if he
were an atom in the midst of an upheaval of the worlds. And then he
remembered no more.
————
Now that the Hidden Valley has been explored, and is even shown upon
some of the large scale maps that have recently been issued by the Royal
Geographical Society, those whose pleasure it is to study such matters
are well acquainted with the formation of the country.
The river finds its source in the unknown mountains to the south of
Makanda; thence it flows due north towards the Kasai. South of the
waterfall the basin consists of a hard, impervious rock. In the region
of the jungle, this rock is covered by about ten feet of fertile
subsoil: in some places a black, glutinous mud; in others, a red, loamy
clay, containing a super-abundance of plant food. At the Long Ravine
the rock rises to the surface, in what geologists call an "out-crop."
North of the cataract lies a great plain of mud.
This phenomenon is merely what is found in every waterfall in the world.
The river at the top of the falls flows over hard, impermeable rock; at
the foot is found a softer stratum--such as chalk or clay--which is
easily washed away. Originally, far back in the centuries, there was no
waterfall at all. The river flowed on an even course from Makanda to
the Kasai. Very soon, however, the current swept away vast tracts of
mud to the north of the waterfall. This mud was carried by the Kasai to
the Congo, and thence to the sea. In consequence, a tract of country,
many square miles in area, gradually descended lower and lower. On the
other hand, in the hard rock of the ravine, the river worked more
slowly, so that, at last, the cataract was formed.
At the foot of the falls is a great pool in which the water is
exceedingly deep, and round which the current spends its fury in many
whirlpools, such as may be seen in a mill-pond when the flood-gates are
opened to their full extent.
Having thus briefly explained the conformation of the country in the
lower valley of the Hidden River, it is now necessary to return to
Captain Crouch. The effort made by the little wizened sea-captain upon
that eventful morning is worthy to rank with anything that was ever told
by the poets of classic days. Had it not been for his indomitable will,
he could never have accomplished a feat that was almost superhuman.
Edward Harden had said that he believed that he was the only person whom
Crouch cared for in the world. That might have been true at the time,
but certain it is that the captain thought well of Max, else he had
never accomplished what he did.
He was already wounded; even he himself had owned he was in pain. And
yet, mile upon mile, he broke his way through the jungle, fighting
onward amid the profusion of the forest, like one who was raving mad.
Often he sank to his waist in marsh. His clothes were torn to shreds by
thorns. His face and hands were red with blood which had mingled with
the perspiration that streamed from every pore. When he came forth from
the forest, at the head of the ravine, he looked hardly human--the most
desperate being it were possible to picture.
For all that he dashed on, across the bare rocks, in the blazing heat of
the sun. There was nothing now to impede him, and he raced upon his
way, never pausing for breath. He was half-naked; he had left the
greater part of his clothes upon the thorn-trees in the jungle. His
pith helmet was askew, and battered and out of shape. He had used his
Remington rifle as a club to beat his way through the thickets, had
broken it off at the small of the butt, and now held the barrel in his
hand. His legs were bare to the knee, like those of an urchin, and so
clotted with blood that he looked like a savage who had dyed his skin.
Sometimes he stumbled, and seemed in danger of falling; but each time he
braced himself up, struck himself upon the chest, and went on even
faster than before.
When he came to the end of the ravine he turned to the west, and there
found a place where he could climb down to the low-lying flats. It was
then approaching sunset. The heat of the day was past.
At about half-way down the incline he paused, and lifted the palm of his
hand to screen his only eye. For some minutes he scanned the plain, and
then on a sudden he gave vent to a loud cry of exultation, and bounded
down the hill. Far in the distance, high and dry upon a mud-bank, he
had caught sight of a small speck, which he knew for a human being.
It took him more than half an hour to reach this place. By then it was
nearly dusk. Bending down over the drenched, motionless form, he
thought at first that Max was dead. He could feel no beating of the
heart.
Still, Crouch was not the man to despair. Moreover, in the days when he
had sailed the seas, he had had experience in the resuscitation of the
drowned.
Without delay he set to work. He lifted the body so that the water
poured from the mouth of the unconscious man. He then seated himself
upon the ground at Max’s head, and worked both arms like the handles of
a pump.
The sun set and a full moon arose, which traced a silvery pathway across
the great wasteland that extended both to the east and to the west, as
far as the eye could reach. Here and there lonely, stunted trees showed
like sentinels upon the plain. The only sound that disturbed the
stillness of the night was the dull, continuous roar of the cataract to
the south. Here was no sign of animal life. In the daytime the
marshland was thronged with birds, but these now were silent. It would
be impossible to imagine a place more desolate and weird. It seemed not
of the world, or, if it were, of some forgotten country, buried for ever
beyond the reach of progress and the influence of man.
Hour after hour Crouch held to his task. The sweat poured from his
forehead, the blood still issued from his wounds, but never for a moment
did he cease.
At last he stopped, and placed an ear to Max’s chest. Thereupon, he
went on again, more feverishly than ever.
Soon after that, a quick cry escaped his lips. He had looked into Max’s
face, and seen the eyelids flicker; and presently, two eyes were staring
in his face. And at that the little man just toppled forward in a
faint, and lay upon his face across the body which his efforts had
brought back to life.
Without doubt, the mind is master of the body, and the will is king of
the mind. One had but to glance into the face of Captain Crouch to see
that he was possessed of a will of iron. The strong brows, the firm
mouth, the great hatchet chin--these had not been given him for naught.
He may have had the strength of Hercules; yet he had never accomplished
his journey down the river, had it not been for the indomitable strength
of his mind. And now that he realized that the victory was his, that
his efforts had been crowned with success, the will, on a sudden,
relinquished its task, as a helmsman gives way to his successor at the
wheel--and Crouch fell forward in a faint.
At dawn, the sun found them lying together on the mud, and by the warmth
of its rays set the blood coursing more freely in their veins.
Max was the first to revive. He tried to lift himself, but found that
he was not able to do so, because of the weight of Crouch’s body on his
chest. He fell back again, and lay for some time with opened eyes,
staring upward at the sky.
He saw the colours change in the heavens. He heard the cries of the
birds upon the marsh. Then, once again, he struggled to an elbow.
With difficulty he lifted Crouch; and then, looking into the captain’s
face, he wondered where he was, and how it had come about that they two
were stranded, side by side, in the midst of surroundings with which he
was wholly unfamiliar.
Then he remembered, by degrees. The struggle with the Arab in the
back-water--his headlong rush throughout the length of the rapids--the
vision he had had of Crouch, frantic on the bank. And then--the ravine,
and at the end, the cataract--the thunder of the water--the rushing in
his ears.
The truth was not difficult to guess; indeed, there was no other
explanation. He tried to rise to his feet, but could not do so. At
that, he lay back again, to rest, and gave silent thanks in his heart to
Divine Providence by means of which he had been saved as by a miracle.
He had undergone the sensations of death, and yet he lived.
He had lain quite still and motionless, it may have been for an hour,
when Crouch sat up and looked about him. And when he had taken in the
scene, he let fall the following irrelevant remark--
"I’ve lost my pipe," said he.
He then got to his feet, and walking to the water’s edge--which was but
a few feet distant--he knelt down, scooped the water in his hands, and
drank.
Then he returned to Max, and seated himself by his side.
"Feeling queer?" he asked.
Max answered that he was very weak.
"Your strength ’ll return," said Crouch; "but you must have some cover
for your head."
He took off his coat, which was nothing but a bundle of tatters, and
rolling this into a kind of turban, he placed it upon Max’s forehead to
protect him from the heat of the sun. Then he went back to the water’s
edge, washed the blood from his face and hands, and bathed the back of
his neck. As he returned, he found the barrel of his broken rifle, and
stooped and picked it up.
"Look at that!" said he. "That was once the best rifle in this forsaken
continent. Not worth its weight as scrap-iron!"
"I suppose," said Max, "you’ll be offended if I try to thank you?"
"You suppose right," said Crouch. "Do you feel able to walk?"
"I think so."
"You don’t," said the captain. "There’s no hurry." Then he began to
think aloud. "If we work up-stream," said he, "we’ll be on the wrong
side of the river. By now Cæsar will have found our canoe. We’re not
armed; we have no food. There are precisely three ways in which we
might die: first, starvation; second, Cæsar; third, a buffalo. The
first’s a certainty. Both of us are too weak to swim the river at Hippo
Pool--to say nothing of crocodiles. On the other hand, if we go
down-stream, walking will be easy till we get to the mangrove swamp.
Have you got a knife?"
Max felt in his pockets, and produced the article in question. Crouch
looked at it.
"That’ll do," said he. "With this we should be able to dig out a canoe,
and make a couple of paddles. If we don’t die at the job, we ought to
work our way up to Date Palm Island. As soon as you’re ready, we’ll
start."
"I’m ready now," said Max.
"Then come along," said Crouch.
The mud lay in ridges, which had been baked hard by the sun. Between
these the water lay in long pools which, as they progressed farther to
the north, became more and more still, less disturbed by the current
that issued from the falls. Crouch patted his clothes as he limped
along.
"I’ve lost every blamed thing," said he; "pipe, pouch and baccy,
compass, knife and ammunition."
Max answered nothing. He thought it would not be wise to sympathize.
Crouch was a peculiar man in many ways.
Soon after midday they came to the mangrove swamp; and the crossing of a
mangrove swamp is a thing that most African explorers have accomplished.
The roots of the short, stunted trees stand out upon the surface of the
water. It is necessary to pass by way of these, stepping from one root
to another; and some knowledge of the art of balancing is utterly
essential. If you lose your foothold, you fall into the swamp, and
there you are set upon by leeches. Some of these are large--sometimes
as large as snails--but the kind generally met with is an animal so
small that it can work its way through the eye-holes of your boots.
Once this creature has laid hold upon your skin, and begun to suck your
blood, it begins to swell until it has attained the size of a cherry.
At the edge of the mangrove swamp Crouch and Max took off their boots,
and hung these across their shoulders. With bare feet they could get a
better footing upon the twisted roots of the trees.
For three hours they journeyed through the swamp, which was buried in
semi-darkness. It was far darker than the jungle. It is in these
swamps that the mosquitoes swarm in myriads, and all the deadly diseases
of the country are engendered. To pitch a standing camp in the vicinity
of a mangrove swamp, is to court a certain death from malaria or
typhoid.
They were weary, faint, and aching in their bones when they came upon
the banks of the Kasai. No wonder this had been named the "Hidden
River." It joined the great tributary of the Congo in a thousand little
streams, all flowing silently through darkness beneath the close-packed
trees.
Crouch turned to the right. He had been bearing to the east throughout,
and in a little while they were clear of the swamp, on terra firma.
Seating themselves, they put on their boots.
"By Christopher," said Crouch, "I’m weak! I don’t fancy making that
canoe with a jackknife."
"Nor I," said Max. "But we’ll do it."
Crouch laughed.
"We will," said he, but his face was white as a ghost. Then he sat bolt
upright and listened. "What’s that?" he cried.
Faint in the distance was a gentle, scraping sound, which grew louder
and louder as the minutes passed. Max at first could not believe the
evidence of his ears. He waited expectantly, and at last heard a
rippling sound, that was like the laughter of a child. He sprang to his
feet, and rushing to the water’s edge, looked up-stream, shading his
eyes with his hand. It was, indeed, the truth--a long canoe was
swinging down upon the tide.
CHAPTER XIII--BACK TO THE UNKNOWN
A minute later they saw that the canoe was manned by six of their own
Loango boys, who made the blades of the paddles flash in the sunlight;
and, moreover, they recognized the canoe as the one they had left at
Date Palm Island.
Max lifted his voice and shouted from the bank. Whereat the boys ceased
to paddle, and regarded them amazed. Then, recognizing their masters,
they raised a shout in chorus, and drew in towards the bank.
Had these natives desired proof of the omnipotence of the Fire-gods,
they could have wished for nothing more. Had they searched Central
Africa from the Equator to the Zambesi, they could have found no two
people more wretched-looking and forlorn. Max was utterly exhausted,
and so faint that he could scarcely stand. As for Crouch, he might have
been mauled by a lion.
One of the boys flung himself upon the ground, then rose to a kneeling
position, and lifted his arms as in prayer.
"Master," he cried, "what did we tell you? We warned you of the
Fire-gods! We told you the valley was bewitched! We implored you not
to go!"
As the boy ran on in the same strain, Crouch gathered himself together,
growing purple in the face. With his tattered garments, which resembled
ruffled feathers, he looked like an infuriated turkey-cock. And then,
without warning, he landed the boy such a kick as lifted him bodily into
the air.
"Fire-gods be hanged!" he shouted. "These are jungle marks. If the
valley ’s bewitched, it’s bewitched by thorns. Look here! See for
yourselves!" So saying, he lifted his bare leg, in which the thorns
were sticking like so many pins in a pin-cushion. "I’ve seen the
Fire-gods," he ran on. "You blithering fools, I’ve taken tea with ’em.
I’ve doctored one with a dose of medicine, and I’ve played cards with
the other. And I’ve not done with them, yet--mind that! I’m going
back, by Christopher! and there’ll be the biggest war-palaver you ever
heard of in your lives. Come, get up, and get a move on! But, first,
what are you doing here?"
The boys answered that they had come down-stream to shoot hippopotami
for food. They said that about a mile farther down the river there was
a great grassy bank where many of these animals were to be found. Crouch
ordered them to get back into the canoe, saying that as soon as they
arrived at the island he would open a case of supplies--bully beef and
sardines, of which the Loango boys cherished the empty tins. Also, he
promised that in a day or so he would shoot a buffalo, and they would
not want for provisions. There was a certain amount of hippo meat in
the canoe, and that night Crouch and Max partook of the same food as the
boys. It was not until the afternoon of the following day that they
arrived at Date Palm Island.
They did not expect Edward Harden for some days. He was still forcing
his way towards the Kasai by way of the portage. In the meantime, not
only were they glad enough of a rest, but this was altogether essential.
It took Crouch some days to rid himself of the thorns which had attached
themselves to his skin. He refused all medical assistance from Max; and
the wonder of it was, that the wound in his thigh was healing rapidly
under his "Bull’s Eye treatment." This was wholly incomprehensible to
the young medical student, who beheld the theories he had studied at
hospital, and on which he had placed such store, dissipated to the
winds. In all probability, the fact was that Crouch had such firm
belief in his own remedy that his cure was an example of "faith
healing"; it is generally admitted in these days that "attitude of mind"
affects the health and can even bring about organic changes, for better
or for worse. At any rate, in three days he was sufficiently recovered
to set forth into the forest of rubber trees on the right bank of the
river in search of the buffalo he had promised the boys. Max--although
on this occasion he remained in camp--had by now completely recovered
his strength.
There were few things they carried with them to the Hidden River of
which they had not duplicates at Date Palm Island. Crouch had been able
to secure a new suit of clothes, tobacco and another pipe. As for
rifles, both Edward and Crouch were experienced explorers, and knew that
if a fire-arm was lost or broken, they could not buy a new one in the
heart of Africa. They had therefore equipped themselves with a battery
of several rifles, including Remingtons, Expresses and Winchester
repeaters, besides several shot-guns and revolvers.
On the evening of that day, when he was expecting Crouch’s return at any
moment, Max walked to the northern extremity of the island. When there,
his ears caught the sound of a shot in the forest, on the left bank of
the river.
Now, since Crouch had landed on the other side, there could be no
question as to whence came this shot; and in a few minutes Max had run
to the canoe, jumped in and paddled to the bank. There, he picked up
his rifle and fired twice into the air.
Almost immediately his two shots were answered, and there came a second
answer--from Crouch on the northern bank. A quarter of an hour later,
Max, who had hastened forward on the line of the portage, had grasped
the hand of his uncle, who was amazed to see him.
Crouch returned at nightfall. He had killed his buffalo, far in the
interior of the forest, and the following morning the boys set out to
cut it up. That night the three friends were seated around the
camp-fire on Date Palm Island. Edward’s journey had been uneventful,
except that one of his Fan attendants had been mauled badly by a wounded
leopard.
It was Max who related the story of all that had happened since his
uncle left Hippo Pool. The big man listened in silence; and when the
story was ended he said nothing, and never once did he look at Crouch.
He knew the captain far too well to thank him. With old friends who
have been through thick and thin together, who have stood side by side
throughout many a danger, words are at a discount--a kind of mutual
understanding exists between them that makes conversation a sheer waste
of time. Still, though Edward said nothing, Max knew well enough that
he thanked the little, wizened captain in his heart, and was conscious
of the debt he owed him.
They remained on the island for another week, and it took them all that
time to persuade a dozen of the boys to accompany them upon the portage
in the capacity of carriers. It was only on the understanding that they
would not be asked to embark upon the dreaded river of the "Fire-gods"
that, at last, they consented to go.
Indeed, this time, they had no intention of advancing as far as the
river. They proposed to follow the portage to Observation Creek, and
thence to strike up-stream, due south, until they found a suitable
camping-ground. Here they would establish their base, sending the boys
back to the island with orders to wait for their return.
The Loango boys could be trusted; most of them had faithfully served
either Crouch or Edward in the past. Besides, they were a thousand
miles from their home, and dared not make the passage of the Congo by
themselves, because of the hostile tribes that, in those days, abounded
to the east of Stanley Falls. When Crouch and Edward Harden were on the
river their reputation went before them; their friends came forth to
meet them--grinning cannibals with necklaces of monkeys’ teeth suspended
round their necks, and little else besides by way of clothing--and their
enemies, those who had broken their faith with Harden or fallen foul of
Crouch, deserted their villages and took to the jungle, to let the two
great white men pass, whose fame had reached to the very heart of the
continent, and who, it was said, were spoken of even by the pigmies who
lived in the dark, unknown country west of the Lakes.
When they set out with their carriers for Observation Creek, the three
Europeans were sanguine of success, and even the four Fans (the one who
had been injured by the leopard had been left behind on the island)
shared their expectations. The riddle of the valley was yet unsolved.
The Portuguese still guarded well his secret. In his fortress by the
river, encompassed upon every hand by the dark, inhospitable jungle, he
had every reason to think himself secure. Moreover, he had cause to
believe that both Max and Crouch were dead--the former drowned at the
cataract, the latter lost in the jungle. Half the victory is gained
when one can take one’s adversary by surprise. Cæsar had lost Gyp, his
most accomplished scout. He might patrol the river, but he would find
no trace of the Englishmen from Makanda to the rapids. He might search
their old camp at Hippo Pool, where he would find, perhaps, a box of
ammunition, cooking utensils and a few days’ provisions--to say nothing
of Crouch’s case of glass eyes--but he would gain no clue to the fact
that his enemies had returned to the valley.
From their base camp on Observation Creek they had decided to move
up-stream towards the mountain. They hoped to make friends with the
natives of the Pambala village that M’Wané had seen in the distance.
Thence they could approach Makanda from the east.
Each time they traversed the portage progress was more easy. It was no
longer necessary to cut a way through the thickets with bill-hooks and
axes, and to "blaze" the trees. Besides, they were now familiar with
the road, knew where to look for water and the bitter roots of wild
manioc, or cassava--from which tapioca is manufactured--and upon which,
to a large degree, they were obliged to subsist in the jungle. Also
they no longer carried a canoe.
In consequence, they reached the Creek in four and a half days. After
halting for an hour, they continued their journey to the south, turning
to the left from the route which led direct to Hippo Pool. They
followed the course of the stream till sunset, and then camped for the
night. Another day’s march brought them to an open place by the side of
the Creek, where the ground was too rocky for vegetation to flourish.
They had been conscious throughout the day’s journey of going up-hill,
and this was doubtless the foot of one of the spurs of the mountain they
wished to gain. It was here they decided to camp.
They pitched their tent, and gathered a supply of firewood in the
forest. The water of the stream was clear and good to drink. They were
much pestered by insects of all descriptions, but this is inevitable in
the heart of an equatorial forest, and not even the smoke of Crouch’s
tobacco served to keep away the millions of flies, mosquitoes and ants,
to say nothing of less disagreeable companions, such as the most
gorgeous butterflies and gigantic dragon-flies and moths.
The following day the Loango boys departed upon their return journey to
the Kasai. As had been the case before, they showed great eagerness to
return. It seems that they could not rid their minds of the tales they
had heard of the Fire-gods, and neither Crouch nor Edward could persuade
them that the valley was not haunted by evil spirits.
During the days that followed the party suffered from want of meat. They
had deemed it advisable not to shoot. Though they were still some
distance from Makanda, there was always a chance that Cæsar and his
Arabs were somewhere abroad in the forest, and they did not wish the man
to suspect that they had returned. In the forest they found nothing to
eat but manioc, and a continual diet of the tubers of this peculiar
plant is somewhat monotonous and is apt to set up a kind of blood
poisoning, to which some people are more liable than others. Edward,
whose large carcass required a considerable amount of nourishment, began
to suffer from some kind of bilious fever.
After a day’s rest they set out upon their southward journey. Day by
day as they progressed, the nature of the vegetation changed. The
forest trees became thinner and not so large. The atmosphere became
cooler and more rarefied. The slope grew steeper and steeper, until at
last they were confronted by a sharp, rocky bluff which enclosed the
jungle like a wall. They followed this to the left, and came presently
to a gully, a dried-up watercourse, up which it was possible to climb.
At the top they found themselves upon a hillock--one of those bare,
flat-topped eminences which are scattered throughout the whole continent
of Africa. Hence it was possible to obtain a bird’s-eye view of the
country.
To the north, as far as the eye could reach, extended the forest through
which they had passed. About twenty miles to the eastward they could
see the Kasai above Date Palm Island. To the west there was no sign of
the Hidden River, which, being narrower and flowing in a direction
almost due south to north, was hidden among the trees. To the south a
magnificent panorama was extended to their view. The foreground fell
away in a valley which, to some extent, had been given over to
cultivation; and beyond, in rugged majesty, arose Solitude Peak. The
great mountain towered into the sky, its crest wrapped in clouds; and
over the valley hung a thin blue mist, above which some great bird of
prey hung like a gnat, with outstretched wings, in the very midst of
space.
It was Max who was the first to see the village, half-way up the
mountain slope, lying--as M’Wané had described it--like a bird’s nest in
the forked branches of a tree. He pointed it out to his companions, and
then the party began to descend into the valley, one behind the other in
single file, following a track which had been made by elephants. An
elephant trail can never be mistaken; however hard the ground, the
imprints of their great feet remain, and they have a habit of tearing
branches from the trees as they pass, not so much for food, as from pure
love of destruction.
It took them several hours to cross the valley, and then they began the
steep ascent of the mountain. Suddenly M’Wané, who was leading, came to
an abrupt standstill, and stood upon a sharp pinnacle of rock, pointing
to the east. There was something noble in his dark, savage figure,
standing upright, straight as a larch, in the midst of these wild
surroundings. A moment later he was joined by the two Hardens and
Crouch.
There, in the distance, they could discern the broad waters of the lake
before Makanda. They could see the granite hills, which were red in the
glow of the setting sun. They could see, also, the narrow gorge in the
south, and far in the distance was a great range of undiscovered
mountains. As they looked, a sound issued from the valley, which, like
a long peal of distant thunder, rolled away to the north upon the wind,
echoing through the forest.
CHAPTER XIV--"BLACK IVORY"
"The Fire-gods’ thunder!" said M’Wané, in a kind of hushed whisper, with
his lips parted and his eyes staring in the direction of the Hidden
River.
It was obvious that the man was afraid. He belonged to a wild race that
for centuries has roamed the jungle, catching fish in baskets at the
waterfalls and setting traps in the forest. Until a few days before he
had never seen a firearm in his life. He had heard tales of white men
who were traders on the Coast, but he had never associated these with
the Fire-gods who inhabited the Hidden Valley, whom he regarded as
superhuman.
Crouch looked at Edward. "What do you make of it?" he asked.
Harden was frowning in the direction of the valley. His fingers tugged
at the end of his moustache. He was a man of few words, as we know.
"Dynamite," said he.
"I think so, too," said Crouch. "I wonder what his game is!"
In their immediate neighbourhood was a narrow stretch of grass--the
coarse, thin grass that is usually to be met with on the lower slopes of
mountains. It was at this moment that Crouch’s eye became fixed in the
centre of this. He remained motionless for some seconds, and then on a
sudden grasped Edward by the arm.
"There’s a man there!" said he. "Look out!"
Simultaneously a black form sprang out of the grass and ran up the hill
in the direction of the village. Crouch whipped round upon M’Wané and
his Fans.
"After him!" he cried. "A reward if you catch him alive."
The four Fans set off as fast as they could go. The race lasted no
longer than five minutes at the most. The fugitive seemed possessed of
the agility of an antelope when startled from its midday slumber; he
sprang over boulders, he dodged right and left like a snipe. But the
Fans were fleeter of foot than he; at every stride they gained upon him,
and in the end he was overtaken.
They brought him back to Crouch--a woeful, terrified object who had not
the courage to lift his head. Crouch tried him with five languages, but
he seemed not to understand, and only gave utterance to a few incoherent
grunts. Then Crouch tried the "blood-bond," and this is not pleasant to
describe. He took a knife from his pocket, opened a vein in his hand,
and the native licked the wound. At that Crouch gave his knife to the
man, who in turn inflicted a wound upon himself, and Crouch went through
his part of the business with a heroism that Max was bound to admire.
They were now "blood-brothers," and that is a bond which is inviolable
in the region of the Congo. Crouch made the man understand him by means
of signs, in the art of which he was a master.
"I have one heart," said he, by which he conveyed the fact that he was
no traitor, that his word could be relied on. "I wish to speak with the
people of your village."
The man, pointing in the direction of Makanda, wanted to know whether
Crouch and his companions were allies of the Fire-gods.
"No," said Crouch. "We are come to make war upon the Fire-gods."
The man but half believed that. None the less, he agreed to take them
to the village. They urged him to set forward without delay, since it
had already grown dark.
It was past nightfall when they arrived at a narrow street of small,
rounded huts, constructed of bamboo stems and palm leaves. Despite the
fact that they came with one of the villagers, the majority of the
inhabitants fled at their approach. This wild people were timid, shy as
animals; also, as we shall see, they stood in a mortal fear of Cæsar and
his Arabs.
As they approached the village, Crouch managed to gain the confidence of
their captive. Where natives were concerned the little sea-captain had
a way with him. The man promised that if they would wait till the
morning he would persuade his friends to attend a palaver.
That night they had the village to themselves. The inhabitants--men,
women and children--had disappeared into the valley, where they spent
the night in fear and trembling. This is the common behaviour of many
uncivilized peoples when, for the first time in their lives, they behold
the indomitable white man. And these villagers had the greater reason
to be fearful, since they associated the explorers with the Fire-gods.
Fortunately, they had fled in such haste that they had left most of
their provisions in their huts. Crouch and his companions enjoyed a
change of diet. That night they dined upon the flesh of a goat, which
they resolved to pay for on the morrow, besides plantains and Indian
corn.
They took turn and turn about to keep watch throughout the night, but
there was no alarm. At daybreak they stationed themselves upon an
eminence above the village, hoping that the inhabitants would summon up
courage to return. Below them was the cultivated ground through which
they had passed the previous evening. The greater part had been given
over to the culture of ground-nuts; but there were also small patches of
Indian corn and banana groves. The explorer who wishes to succeed with
the untutored savage must possess his soul in patience by the hour.
Crouch sat down and lit his pipe.
Shortly before midday, several dusky figures appeared from out of the
jungle, and made their way to the plantation. There they remained in a
body, frightened to come nearer; and by the aid of his field-glass, Max
was able to make out the figure of Crouch’s "blood-brother" who,
gesticulating wildly, endeavoured to persuade his friends and relations
to return.
Seeing that this was going to be a long business, Crouch suggested that
they should walk down to the village and partake of food. Since their
hosts were unwilling to entertain them, it only remained for them to
help themselves. This they did with liberality, for they had the
appetites of lions.
They were in the middle of their repast when they heard the sound of
running feet and a great commotion. Looking up they beheld one of the
women of the village running towards them well-nigh panic-stricken, and
filling the air with screams. This woman rushed into a hut, and came
out again with all her portable belongings.
By then the little street was crowded with old men, women and children,
wringing their hands in desperation, and uttering such moans and
supplications as were heartrending to listen to. It was remarkable that
among the crowd there were not more than five young men at the most; the
majority were women, and of the children there were few who were not
three years of age.
Crouch looked about him, and caught sight of his "blood-brother," who
was no less distracted than the rest. He laid hold of this fellow by
the arm, and with great difficulty managed to discover what had
happened.
The "blood-brother" had just persuaded his relatives to return to the
village; he had explained, at last, to their satisfaction that the new
white men were not the servants of the Fire-gods, when suddenly the
Fire-gods themselves had been seen approaching up the valley. At that,
the whole population had taken to their heels. They knew not where they
were going, for it was the custom of the Fire-gods to come upon them
from both sides at once, and if they tried to escape they were shot
without mercy. The great Fire-god was there himself--the tall, white
man with the black beard--and it was he whom they feared even more than
the Arabs.
Crouch looked at Edward. There was a twinkle in his eye.
"There’s going to be fun," said he.
"It will come to a fight," said Edward; "and I’m not sorry for that."
"I hope it won’t," said Crouch. "There are many things we ought to find
out before we come to blows. As far as I can understand from my worthy
’blood-brother,’ Cæsar is coming here for palaver. They’ll hold palaver
in the street; and if we hide in a hut we ought to overhear what the
advertisements in the newspapers call ’something to our advantage.’"
"I see," said Edward; "and if we’re discovered, we fight."
"Exactly," said Crouch. "That’s the idea."
It so happened that they had placed their "loads" in one of the huts
where they would not be seen by Cæsar as he entered the village. It was
all Crouch could do to explain to his "blood-brother" that they desired
to hide, that the Fire-gods must not be told of their presence in the
village. After a while, the man seemed to understand; but, indeed, he
stood in such dread of the Portuguese that it was extremely doubtful
whether he was wholly responsible for what he was saying.
Crowded together in one of the small huts the three Englishmen and the
four Fans awaited the arrival of the Fire-gods. They were astonished at
what they beheld--the abject consternation and alarm of the villagers,
who now appeared a cowered and servile race. Never for one moment did
it seem to occur to the few men among them to take up arms, in spite of
the fact that the Pambala--to whom they were obviously related--are a
warlike and courageous people.
The reason for their cowardice was obvious. They did not fear the
Portuguese without a cause. They had learnt to their cost that Cæsar
was a man to be dreaded.
Crouch made a little eye-hole in the wall of the hut, whence he obtained
a good view of the street. It was through this that he caught sight of
Cæsar and de Costa, the moment they entered the village.
It was Cæsar himself who led the way. He strolled forward, with his
rifle under his arm, and his black eyes shooting in all directions, as
if he were doing no more than taking an afternoon walk in a
neighbourhood where there was much to be observed. He was followed by
four Arabs, in robes of flowing white; and the last of these conducted a
negro, of the same tribe as the villagers, who wore an iron collar round
his neck which was made fast to a chain. The rear of the party was
brought up by de Costa, slinking forward like some mongrel cur,
fever-stricken and afraid.
The party halted in the village street, some little distance from the
hut where the three Englishmen were hiding, but not so far away as to
make it impossible for Crouch to overhear the conversation that ensued.
The chained negro was brought forward by the Arab who had charge of him;
and it was this man who acted as interpreter. Cæsar spoke to him in
Portuguese, and he translated. Crouch made a mental note of every word,
for he had a far better knowledge of the Portuguese language than the
interpreter himself.
"As you know," said Cæsar, "it is my custom to state my business in a
few words. I come here to give orders. I expect those orders to be
obeyed."
He lifted his sombrero hat and mopped the perspiration from his
forehead, for the afternoon was hot, and he walked up hill. The four
Arabs stood around him--proud, arrogant, handsome men, upon whose
features were stamped an unmitigated contempt for the simple savages who
stood in awe before them. It was the headman of the village who
answered, an old man, with a short, grey beard, who wore a helmet made
of a monkey’s skin, and surmounted by the green covert feathers of a
parrot.
"The great Fire-god," said he, "has but to speak."
"Good," said Cæsar. "You know who I am. You know my power. You know
that to disobey me is death."
The old man bowed his head.
"I trade in ivory," said Cæsar, "black ivory. You understand what I
mean. Now, listen to my command. I desire twenty more slaves, of your
youngest and most able-bodied men. They must be ready to return with me
to Makanda before the setting of the sun."
At that the headman threw himself upon the ground.
"It is impossible!" he cried. "Only last moon the great Fire-god took
away all the men of the village. No one remains but those who are old,
and women and children. The Fire-god can see for himself."
"I do not choose to look," said Cæsar. "As I have said, it is my
business to give orders. There is sickness in my camp, and many of my
people have died, and more are dying every day. I require others to
take their places. If you have no more men, I will take women and
children. But I will require two women, or three boys over twelve and
under sixteen years of age, for every man. You can please yourself as
to which you give me. It is all the same to me."
"It is impossible!" repeated the native.
"Impossible or not," said the Portuguese, "I give you till sunset. If
these people are not ready then, the consequence is on your own head.
You know how I treated the villages on the other side of the mountain?
Your fate will be the same. I will attack by night; I will set fire to
every hut; and I will take every one of you to be my slaves."
"Mercy!" cried the native. But Cæsar turned upon his heel, and led the
way from the village, followed by his Arabs, who smiled in heartless
satisfaction.
Crouch gave time for Cæsar to be well away from the village. Then he
crawled out of the hut, and seizing his "blood-brother" by the hand,
swore that he would save them all.
At first, he quite failed to gain their confidence. They were convinced
in their minds that the Fire-gods were greater than all men, as the
strength of the elephant exceeds that of other beasts of the forest.
But Crouch would not take that for answer. He commanded them to light a
fire, and they obeyed. When the flames were burning brightly he
executed a war-dance round and round the fire. His antics were
extraordinary to see.
They may have thought him mad; but at all events he gained his object:
he drew them round him in a ring. They stood open-mouthed and
open-eyed, amazed at his contortions. They were children of the minute.
To all intents and purposes they had already forgotten the Portuguese
and his threats.
Crouch sang, and never was there such singing. His voice was cracked
and out of tune. It was all Max could do to prevent himself exploding
into laughter. The words of Crouch’s song had nothing to do with the
matter; in point of fact they were concerned with "Nuts and May." For
all that, he impressed the natives hugely. And when they had gathered
closer he took the boot from his foot, and thrust his toes into the
fire. And all the time he continued to sing of "Nuts and May," whilst
the atmosphere was tainted with the pungent smell of burning cork.
The silence was so great that Edward Harden could hear the ticking of
his watch. The villagers stood around, breathless and amazed. Then
Crouch spoke to them; and the following was the argument he used.
He admitted that the slave-dealer was master over fire; hence he was
called the "Fire-god." But he (Crouch) had proved to them that fire
could not affect him. Near-by a pitcher of water was standing outside a
hut, and into this he thrust his foot. There was a sizzling sound, and
steam was given off. He made the natives place their hands into the
water, to see for themselves that it was warm. He finished up by saying
that, if they would put themselves under his command, he would show them
how to face the Fire-god’s anger.
With reluctance they agreed. In the space of a few minutes it was
impossible for Crouch to efface the result of two long years of
persecution. The headman of the village, Crouch’s "blood-brother," and
one or two others, came forward on behalf of their relations, their
children and their wives. Crouch turned to Harden.
"Can we defend this place?" said he.
Edward had already thought of that.
"Yes," said he. "They can only advance by two paths. Elsewhere the
slope is too steep. There is an hour before sunset. If you make these
people build a wall of the small boulders which lie everywhere about, we
should be able to keep the rascals at bay."
"I’ll do my best," said Crouch. And thereupon he set to work.
It took the natives some time to understand his meaning; but when he had
shown them what he wanted done they worked with a will, the women
carrying enormous stones, and even the little children lending aid.
The parapet of stone grew like the walls of Rome, until, at last, it
formed a semi-circle around the village, joining the mountain-side at
either end. Then the women and children were placed under cover, and
ordered not to move. Edward posted himself at the head of the path
which led from the west, and Max on the other side of the village. At
the feet of each was a box of ammunition. As for Crouch, he hobbled
here and there on the charred stump of his foot, giving instructions up
to the last minute, when, in the dying light of day, Cæsar and his Arabs
were observed advancing up the valley.
CHAPTER XV--CHOLERA
As before, it was Cæsar who led the way; and the stone wall warned him
that danger was ahead. He guessed the truth in a flash. He knew well
enough that the natives themselves would never have dared to offer him
resistance.
He stopped dead upon the path, and pointed out the wall to the Arab who
accompanied him. The man shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand, for
the mists of evening were rising from the valley, and the light was bad.
After a while the Arab disappeared from view, and then returned with his
comrades. They came up the path as men stalk game, creeping from
boulder to boulder. It was impossible to see them from the village.
Flat upon the ground, they glided from place to place like snakes. And
every minute the light was getting worse.
One man, more daring than his comrades, had gained the cover of a large
rock about two hundred yards from the village.
His eyes were sharp as those of a vulture. He was descended from the
sons of the desert. Peering round the angle of the rock behind which he
was hiding, he caught sight of Edward Harden’s helmet, moving behind the
wall.
In a second, the butt of his rifle was at his shoulder, and his left eye
was closed. He took in a deep breath, and aimed. At that moment, there
was a sharp crack from the wall, whence nothing of the Arab was visible
but the upper part of his head. And Edward Harden’s bullet drilled a
hole in the centre of the man’s forehead; so that his head just dropped
like a broken toy, and he lay still and lifeless, with his loaded rifle
in his hand. Son of a warlike race, that for centuries had oppressed
the ignorant and the weak, he had gone to make his peace with God, the
Giver of Life and Death.
Cæsar, from some distance behind, with a pair of field-glasses to his
eyes, had watched this tragedy of seconds; and he knew at once with whom
he had to reckon. He drew a whistle from his pocket, and blew a long,
shrill note, which was the signal to retreat. His three remaining Arabs
came back to him, retiring even more cautiously than they had advanced.
Night fell, as a curtain is rung down upon a stage. The natives of the
village, the old men and women and children, who had sat huddled and
shivering under cover of the wall, came forth and marvelled that a
Fire-god had been turned back by a single shot. Crouch’s authority
increased by leaps and bounds. The villagers, like children, desired to
celebrate the occasion with inconsequent rejoicing. They set about
beating large, wooden drums, but Grouch cast these away. They lit
fires, but Crouch stamped them out.
Only the babies were allowed to rest that night; the little sea-captain
kept the others working until long after midnight, when a new moon
arose. He improved the defences. He had all the provisions and the
water-jars carried to the hut which he had made his own headquarters,
whilst the two Hardens stood as sentries on either side of the village.
At about two o’clock in the morning, Max, on the eastern side of the
village, heard the noise of a loosened stone rolling down the
mountain-side. That put him on his guard. And a moment after, another
stone bounded into the valley.
At that, he sent back M’Wané to tell Crouch that some one was
approaching, and remained at his post alone.
There is nothing more majestic in the whole range of Nature than
moonlight in the mountains. The white mists drift in the valleys; and,
here and there, the great, ragged peaks blot out the stars. Midnight is
ever silent in the higher altitudes. The slightest sound--the hoot of
an owl or the bubbling of a spring--is magnified by echo, and carried
far upon the breeze.
Max, with his rifle at the ready, waited with his heart thumping against
his ribs. He heard a noise, quite near to him, but so faint that he
could never have heard it had not every sense been on the alert. He saw
something white, moving like a ghost in the moonlight. Then, a loud
shout was uplifted in the stillness. "Allah Akbar! Strike for God and
the Prophet!"
Three white figures rushed in upon him from the darkness. He fired, and
one went down. And then, reversing his rifle, he used it as a club,
swinging the butt around him in a kind of mad delight.
The two men who remained pressed him close. He saw knives flash in
their hands. And then a third figure appeared, and a revolver spat like
a cat. Cæsar himself was there.
The Portuguese called back the two Arabs, spoke a few words which Max
was not able to hear; and then all three abreast endeavoured to rush the
wall. Max fired, but missed. He was attacked from three sides at once,
and must have been overpowered had not Crouch hastened to his rescue.
It was no more than a scuffle at the best. Crouch emptied his revolver;
but it was too dark to shoot straight. Max used his fist, and sent one
of the men rolling backwards; whilst Crouch flew like a leopard at
Cæsar’s throat. It was all over in an instant. Cæsar and his men drew
off as suddenly and quickly as they came, taking with them the Arab whom
Max had wounded or killed.
Crouch took out his pipe and filled it.
"I wish I had had the luck to hit that rascal," said Max, "instead of
one of the Arabs."
Crouch grunted as he lit his pipe.
"When I shoot that man," said he, "I don’t want it to be due to luck.
Nothing’s too bad for a slave-dealer, if that’s what he is--which I
doubt."
It was then that they were joined by the Fan whom they had left with
Edward. He presented a note to Crouch, written in pencil on a leaf torn
from a note-book.
"_How goes it?_" was all it said.
Crouch scribbled a reply: "_He’s gone to bed. But remain at your post
till daybreak._"
Sunrise brought their vigil to an end. No sign of the Portuguese was to
be seen; and presently news was brought to the village by a man who had
been setting traps in the forest, and who had known nothing of the
alarm. This man stated that he had seen Cæsar returning to Makanda,
followed by two Arabs, who carried the body of a third.
The delight of the natives exceeded anything that Max Harden had ever
seen in his life. They beat their wooden drums, and sang and danced in
jubilation. They realized that, at last, after two years of oppression,
the yoke of the Fire-gods had been lifted from their shoulders. They
regarded Crouch and his companions as angels who had dropped from the
skies to deliver them from bondage.
That evening the three Englishmen held a council of war. They regretted
that Cæsar had learnt of their return to the valley. But that was
inevitable; they had been in duty bound to help the natives. Though the
mystery of Makanda was by no means solved, they had, at least, an
inkling of the truth. The explosion they had heard in the valley was
undoubtedly the blasting of rock; and there was no question that it was
for this purpose that Cæsar required the services of slaves. That
explained why he had been unwilling for either the Europeans or the Fans
to leave the stockade. The kraal, fenced around by high palisades, and
guarded by Arab slave-drivers, contained the slave gangs; and who can
say what cruelty was perpetrated therein? The slave trade had been
abolished; but at that time, in the heart of Africa, it still flourished
in all its blackest colours, with utter disregard for the equality of
all men, who--whatever the colour of their skin may be--are equal in the
sight of God. Edward Harden was a man in whose big heart a sense of
justice burned like a living flame. When he considered the innate
cruelty of the Portuguese, who was willing to enslave even women and
little children, his wrath rose within him and the blood flew to his
face. He felt that he could not rest until the fortress of Makanda had
been taken, the slaves set free, and Cæsar brought to his account.
Still, Edward was no fool. He knew well enough that it would be madness
for three of them to endeavour to attack a defensive position held by a
determined man and, at least, half a dozen Arabs. It was then that they
decided to arm M’Wané and his Fans. They had with them six rifles and a
shot-gun; a great quantity of reserve ammunition had been left at the
camp on Observation Creek. Crouch and Max undertook to teach the Fans
to shoot; whilst Edward, with a party of villagers, made his way back to
the camp in the jungle, to bring up all their supplies.
The following morning Edward Harden set out upon his journey, and it was
a strange crowd that followed him into the forest. The majority of them
were women; but the African woman is accustomed to manual labour. At
Zanzibar, sea-going ships are coaled by great buxom wenches, who can
lift a hundredweight as though it were a trifle. With many inland
tribes, between Mombasa and the West Coast, the work in the fields is
conducted almost exclusively by women. The men pride themselves upon
being warriors, hunters of big game and setters of traps. They consider
it beneath their dignity to dig and delve and hoe the ground, since such
employment entails no personal danger. Edward, therefore, was well
contented to have women as his servants; and before he started he
bargained to pay them in beads, cloth and cowrie shells.
Whilst he was absent, Crouch and Max became drill-sergeants for the
nonce. The Fans were first taught the mechanism of the rifle, and how
to clean it. They were then instructed in aiming drill. Though Crouch
had now a fair working knowledge of their language, for the most part he
taught them by demonstration; and they proved most promising recruits.
At last a target was set up in the valley; and rifle practice took place
daily both in the morning and the evening.
By the time Edward returned, though the Fans were not yet marksmen, it
seemed probable that they would be ready to take the field in another
day or so. Still, both Crouch and Edward desired to run no risks. They
did not intend to operate against Makanda, until they could do so with
every chance of success. It was Edward’s suggestion that they should
reconnoitre the settlement before they advanced. They desired to
discover the quickest route to the granite hills, and some position
thereon--within striking distance of Makanda--where they could establish
their headquarters. It was also necessary to find out the strength of
Cæsar’s garrison. At the time of their visit, they had not been able to
ascertain how many Arabs were secreted in the kraal. De Costa, they
knew, need not be taken into account; the man was an arrant coward. But
the Arab is a foe who can never be despise
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/39255