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’"
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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?