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.