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."