Book 4--CHAPTER TWO.
WEARY WANDERINGS--PRISONER IN A SAVAGE LAND--THE ESCAPE BY NIGHT--DOWN
WITH FEVER IN THE MARSH.
Nearly a whole year has passed away since the events described in last
chapter, and the wayward, wandering Harry has seen many strange sights,
had many a wild adventure, and been among many strange tribes and
peoples.
He would hardly have travelled so far, he would have returned much
sooner towards the east had he not been following up a will-o'-the-wisp.
For again and again he was told by natives with whom he came in contact
of white men who were held captive by kings of tribes, sometimes it
would be to the north, at other times to the south or to the west.
He hoped against hope, and never failed to hunt up these tribes, but
disappointment had always been his lot.
So, tired and disheartened at last, he had determined to return, and to
strike once more for the lake of the hundred isles.
This returning, however, was not such an easy matter as he had
anticipated. For in journeying westwards he found the chiefs with whom
he came in contact not unwilling to let him go onwards because he
assured them he was coming back. This, and gifts of buttons, etc,
procured him liberty to advance, though several times he had to fall
back on his rifle, and usually succeeded in scaring warlike chieftains
out of their wits.
But on his way back every effort was made to detain him as a slave till
he should die, or, as the kings phrased it, "for ever and for ever."
All this resulted in very slow progress indeed in his backward journey,
and constituted a far greater danger than even that from wild beasts.
As an instance of how quickly an African chief can change his tactics, I
may tell you of a really warlike tribe whom Harry encountered, who dwelt
among the hills in the middle of a vast forest land.
At first the chief of this clan hardly knew how kind to be to Harry and
his people. He feted them and feasted them, brought presents of roasted
goat-flesh, of honey, fruit, and of cocoanut beer. Harry much preferred
the feasts to the fetes, for these hardly ever passed without a human
sacrifice. He could not tell whether the victims were political
offenders or not.
However that may be, had the doomed wretches been simply beheaded it
would not have been so awful, but they were first tortured.
In one instance a living chain was made by tying seven unhappy beings
head to heels. The tallest branch of a kind of lithe poplar tree was
then by great force bent to the ground. To this the living, writhing
chain was attached; the branch was then let suddenly free, and up the
victims swung.
It is to be hoped they did not suffer long, but they appeared to.
I would not horrify my young readers by describing the orgies that took
place at some of those dreadful fetes. The little I have said will
surely suffice to make them thank God they are born in a favoured land,
and to pray the Father to hasten the time when the dark continent shall
be opened up to commerce, and all such dreadful scenes become things of
the gloomy past.
But this chief, when he found that Harry was determined to go, turned
his back upon him, and went and shut himself up for a whole day in his
tent.
The wanderer well knew what this meant. He knew the chief would send
for him next day and give him an ultimatum, and on his refusing
compliance therewith would at once slay his followers and put Harry in
chains.
But Harry determined to take time by the forelock, and to escape that
very evening.
He communicated his intentions to his people, and all were ready. No
one slept, though all pretended to.
The night was very dark; a storm was brewing; the sky was covered with a
deep, solid canopy of slowly moving clouds, but never a star was
visible.
About midnight, when all was still in the camp, Harry arose and touched
his men. They knew the signal. He then crawled to the back of the tent
and with his knife cut a hole in it and crept out. On their hands and
their knees they glided along till they came to the palisade, which they
proceeded to mount one by one.
Here lay the greatest danger, and this was soon apparent enough, for the
last man stumbled, and slight though the sound he made was, it was quite
sufficient to awake the whole camp.
As the fugitives bounded away to the forest Harry thanked Heaven for the
darkness of that dismal night.
They could soon hear the yells of the foe as they pressed onwards in
pursuit.
They would reach the shelter of the trees in another minute, but one
dark form was before all the rest, and was nearing on the guide when
Harry fired.
It was a random shot, but the savage fell: the first man that Harry had
killed in Africa, and he felt grieved, but still it was in self-defence.
They found themselves in a ravine, and crossed the stream at a place
where, from the noise it made among the stones, they could tell it was
not deep.
Now the road lay along this glen--such road as it was--but the fugitives
went straight on up the mountain side. The hills here were fully three
thousand feet high, but they reached the top at last, and felt safe, for
far down beneath them, but well up the glen, they heard the shouts of
the chief's people and knew they were off the scent. Then the storm
came on, and such a storm! From hill to hill and from rock to rock the
thunder rattled and reverberated, while as for the lightning the whole
world seemed to be on fire.
Down below them in the forest the scene was singularly grand, for by the
light of the flashes they could see each moment the giant tree-tops
stand out as clear and distinctly as at midday. Anon they would find
themselves blinded or dazzled for a moment, everything about them being
either a dark bright blue, dotted with sparks, or a blood-red or
crimson.
The very hills on which they stood appeared to shake beneath their feet.
Then came the rain; it descended in streams, and made every one shiver,
so ice-cold was it.
But in less than an hour this strange but fearful storm had passed away
on the wings of a moaning wind, and the stars shone forth.
They found a cave in which to rest that night, and next day continued
the journey through the forest.
To his change of raiment, despite the modest demands of many a savage
chief or king, Harry had resolutely stuck, so he did not suffer from the
drenching.
Yes, he had a change of raiment, but not one single button or inch of
gold lace on his uniform jackets.
Both buttons and lace had long since been gifted away.
About this stage of his wanderings Harry was as tough in muscle as if he
had been made of guttapercha, while his hands and face were of a colour
somewhat between brick-dust and bronze.
Another month found the little band back once more in the village of the
dismal swamp.
The poor creatures there seemed, if anything, glad to see them. On
making inquiry, it was found that no more lions had sought to molest
them since the man-eater had been shot.
Harry rested here a night, resolving to push on next day, and by a
forced march get quite clear of the marsh.
But lo! next day not only the swamp but the village itself was enveloped
in a dark, wet mist, and the day wore away without the sun once
appearing.
"No good, no good," was the answer of the guide to Harry's repeated
queries whether it was not possible to make straight headway in spite of
the fog.
"No good, no good."
And the next day showed no improvement nor the next week even.
The outlook was now very dreary indeed.
To make matters worse, the hopelessness of his situation brought a
prostration of mind and body, and the hardships and privations he had
undergone in his wanderings began to tell upon Harry.
Besides, there was the dread marsh miasma to be breathed day after day,
while the very appearance and dejectedness of the people he found
himself among was not calculated to mend matters. He found himself
growing ill, he struggled against it with all the force of his mind.
But alas! a struggle of this kind is like that of floundering in a miry
bog--the more you struggle the deeper you sink.
One morning, after a restless night of pained and dreamful slumber,
Harry found himself unable to rise from his couch of grass under the
flower-clad, creeper-hung baobab tree.
He was sick at heart, racked with pain in every limb, and oh, _so_ cold.
The cold was worse to bear than anything, yet his pulse was bounding
along, his skin was hot, and his brow was burning.
Before night he was delirious--dreaming of home, raving in his waking
moments about his father, his mother, about Andrew, and Eily, the forest
of Balbuie, and the far-off Highland hills.
No nurse could have been kinder to Harry than Somali Jack, no one more
attentive than he and Raggy.
Even in this strange swamp-island Jack managed to find herbs, and
exercised all his native skill to bring his patient round.
But nights went by, and days that were like nights to Harry, and he grew
worse and worse.
At last even Somali Jack gave up all hope.
"Master will never speak again. Master will never shoot and never fight
again," he said, mournfully, "till he shoots and fights in the land
beyond the clouds."
Jack sat down and gazed long and intently at Harry, whose jaw had
dropped, and whose breath came in long-drawn sighs or sobs.
He lay on his back, his knees half drawn up, and his hands extended on
the grass.
For a long, long time Somali Jack sat looking mournfully at his master;
then he seemed to lose all control of himself: he threw out his arms,
fell down on his face on the ground, and sobbed as though his heart were
breaking.
Book 4--CHAPTER THREE.