THE MAN-EATERS
On the fifth day they turned from the mighty Congo into a tributary
that threaded the dark mysterious forest, whose depths had never
been trodden yet by white men, whose dark retreats and sombre
avenues, into which no ray of sunlight struggled, were the haunt of
the gorilla, of pigmies, and of cannibals, dreaded most of all.
After the broad Congo this was a mere thread, no more than a few
hundred yards across, a gloomy opening in the gloomy woods that
marched right down to its shores; that sent out huge branches in a
leafy roof over the water near the banks, making dark retreats, in
which lurked watchful crocodiles. The stir and bustle of the great
river found no echo in this silent byway. Nowhere was there any
trace of man. The forest seemed impenetrable, beyond all his puny
efforts to make a footing.
There seemed no room enough for a man to set his foot, so close was
the foliage from the ground to the topmost bough of the tallest
tree. Mile after mile they went on, without a sign of life, then
from the shore an arrow whistled, pierced the awning, and rang on
the metal deck.
Compton put the wheel over, and the Okapi slid away from that
dangerous screen. Then they slowed up and looked, but there was no
sound and no sign from the hidden enemy. Doubtless, fierce eyes were
glaring out upon them, but they could see nothing, and with a long
uneasy look all around they kept on for a mile or so, when they came
upon a clearing that spoke of man. It spoke of man, but there was
nothing living in the few acres that had been hewn out of the woods.
A ring of black embers showed where huts had stood, a dug-out canoe
lay half in, half out the waters, a broken clay pot, a rusty hoe,
and a litter of bones were gathered forlornly in one spot, and a
strip of cloth fluttered from a scarred post. They ran the Okapi in,
and Muata, with his jackal, leapt ashore to decipher what this
writing in the forest meant. The jackal showed none of the delight
that a dog would have shown under similar conditions, but at once
vanished into the wood, with his nose to the ground, bent on the
serious business of life--that of nosing out the enemy, while his
master, with his favourite Ghoorka knife in his hand, rapidly
inspected the ground.
Instinctively they all felt the need for caution. The boys had the
edge taken off their rash ardour long before, but that sinister
warning from the forest in the shape of the arrow had driven home
again the lesson that it was necessary to be always on guard.
The forest, in its silence and in its gloom, was menacing. They
glanced up the river. It stretched away like an avenue cut out of a
solid mass of vegetation, and all the length to the spot where the
banks seemed to run together, as if the river had ended, there was
no sign of living thing.
Suddenly an animal darted across the clearing and crouched behind
Muata. It was the jackal, the hair on its neck erect, and its body
quivering with fear, or excitement. Then a branch snapped with a
startling report, there was a violent shaking of leaves, a short
bark-like roar, and then a noise of shaking gradually decreasing.
Muata had fallen back to the river's brink at the roar, but now he
turned his attention once more to the clearing.
"What was that?"
"Man-monkey," he said quietly.
"Gorilla! By Jove!" and the boys stared into the forest, and then at
each other. "Perhaps he's gone to call up the others. Will he come
back, Muata?"
"Not he," said Mr. Hume. "He's just about as frightened as we were.
What are the signs, Muata?"
"Wow! Bad--bad signs. These be the bones of men;" and he turned over
the ashes with his foot. "They were few who made a home here, and
the man-eaters marked them for their own. In the night they fell on
the village, killed the men, and rested here while they feasted--
rested till the last was eaten; then with the women and the children
they went back. That much the signs tell me."
"Does he mean," asked Venning, in horror, "that they were
cannibals?"
Mr. Hume nodded his head.
"The brutes," muttered Compton, turning white.
"I don't wonder," said Venning, in a whisper. "This place is enough
to breed any horror."
"It will be safe to land," said the chief, quietly.
"But what of the arrow?"
"That was not shot by a man-eater. It was the arrow of a river-man;
maybe the same man loosened it as tied the fetish cloth to the pole,
for one has been here since the man-eaters left."
He put two fingers in his mouth and produced a shrill whistle.
There was no answer; and after a time they all landed to stretch
their legs, but the associations of the place, with those grim
remains of the cannibal feast, were too terrible, and they did not
stay long. As the Okapi resumed her voyage up the sombre defile, a
faint whistle sounded on the opposite bank. Muata replied in the
same fashion, and called out.
Back from the shadows came a quavering answer. Muata called again,
and out from under the roof of leaves, formed by the overhanging
branches, shot a tiny craft, with two men in her. The Okapi slowed
down, and the little canoe, with many a halt, timidly drew near till
the occupants could be clearly seen. One--he who wielded the paddle
--was a young man, black as soot, with a shaggy head of frizzled
wool, and wild, suspicious eyes. The other, who appeared to be
urging the other to more speed, was an old man, whose head was
covered by an Arab fez.
"Peace be with you," said Mr. Hume, in Arab.
"And with you, also," replied the old man, in a thin voice. "Haste,
my son!"--this to the paddler. "They are white men, such as I have
spoken of."
The canoe gradually drew near, and the old man held out a shaking
hand to be helped on board the larger boat; but the wild man
remained in his dug-out. The old man told his story slowly in a
strange dialect understood by Muata, and the purport of it was that
the cannibals had surprised the village at dawn, killed all the men
with the exception of themselves, and had gone off with the women.
It was a familiar story to Muata, and he related it coldly; but his
indifference did not last very long. It was plain that the old man
was not of the same race as his companion, and when the two had
eaten, Compton asked the old chap how he came to wear a fez and
speak Arabic.
"It is the speech of my fathers, effendi," he said, turning his
smoke-bleared eyes on the young face.
"And how came it that an Arab was dwelling with the river-people?"
asked Muata. "Sooner would I have looked for an old wolf living at
peace with the goats."
The Arab withdrew his gaze from Compton and fastened it on the otter
outlined on the chiefs breast. With a skinny finger he pointed at
the chief.
"Allah is great," he said. "This is his work; and you will follow on
the track of the man-eaters."
"Save your speech, old man, for we work not for river-people; and
you forget the arrow that was loosed at us."
"This one loosed it in rage at the loss of his wife, mistaking you
for wolves; but, even so, it was as Allah willed, for the arrow
warned you of our presence."
"You speak in circles, my friend," said Compton. "Show us the finger
of Allah in this matter?"
"This," said the old man, solemnly, placing his finger on Muata's
breast, "is he they call the River Wolf, the son of the wise woman,
the warrior who will follow the track of the man-eaters."
"What know ye of the wise woman?" demanded the chief.
"We talked together, she and I, at the village that is burnt, of the
days when Muata was a babe in her arms, when these limbs of mine
were strong to do service for a white man, whose voice was the voice
of the young effendi."
"And where now is the wise woman, old man?"
"It is four days since the cannibals left. Tell me where they would
be, O warrior, for the forest is your hunting-ground."
Muata lowered his eyelids, and took the news of his mother's capture
by the cannibals in silence; but Compton was burning with excitement
at the reference to the white man.
"What white man was that you spoke of? I look for such a one."
"Men search not for the dead, effendi."
"But for signs of the dead--for the place of his burial, for the
book he wrote, for the things he left."
The old man nodded. "Allah is great. Is it not as I said; you have
been guided hither?"
"But tell me of the white man," said Compton, impatiently.
"We two, the wise woman and I, talked of the white man; and she
knows all. See, I am old, and the past is like a mist, through which
old memories pass quickly like shadows; but the wise woman can blow
the mist away. Find her, and you will learn all of my white man."
More than this the old man could not say, and presently he fell
asleep; but from the wild man Muata learnt that his mother had
indeed been at the village.
"And you will want to leave us, chief?" said Mr. Hume, when the
story had been straightened out.
"Ow aye. Shall a son leave the mother who bore him through the
dangers of the wood? I will follow;" and his eyes lingered on the
Ghoorka knife.
"The knife you can take, chief, and food; but we will miss you. Put
him up some biltong, Venning."
Venning hesitated.
"Put up some for me too," said Compton, peremptorily.
Mr. Hume raised his brows.
"I mean it so, sir. You will remember that my great hope was to find
some trace of my father; and who can this white man be if he is not
my father? Will you take me with you, chief?"
The chief shook his head. "This river-man and I go together on the
trail."
Compton stormed and begged; but the chief remained silent, with his
eyes on Mr. Hume.
"What's all the fuss about?" put in Venning. "We have come here to
explore and hunt, not to crawl for ever up a river. What is to
prevent us all from following on the track of the cannibals?"
"If Compton had made that suggestion," said Mr. Hume, "we could at
least have considered it calmly in the interest of the whole party;
but he has thought only of himself."
"I am awfully sorry," said Compton, firing up. "I did not think."
"No," said the hunter, drily; "otherwise you would have known that I
would not permit you to leave us."
"Of course I could not break up the party," said Compton, eagerly;
"but you will think over Venning's proposal, won't you, sir? We have
come to explore the forest. Let us begin now when we have such a
good reason."
"Do you hear, Muata; the young men say that we should all follow on
the trail?"
"It is my quarrel," said the chief, not jumping at the offer.
Mr. Hume smoked in silence.
"Yet the man-eaters are strong," Muata said presently.
"They have also guns given by the man-stealers. The great one and
the young lions would be worth many men; but the forest is dark, the
way is hard, and not fit for white men."
Mr. Hume grunted.
"When Muata goes on the war-path, he fights his own way, on his own
plan. On the war-path Muata is chief."
The hunter turned his calm eyes on the wild river-man.
"Chief of one."
"Of one or none, it does not matter, great one; since to be chief is
to do what is best."
"Your plans are your own. Consider. If we go, we will do nothing to
spoil those plans; but, in the end, if you want help to rescue the
wise woman--your mother--then we will be ready to help you."
"It is a good word; but consider also, great one, that those who
walk the forest must know the forest, and those who know the forest
must lead, lest there be divided counsels, and wanderings that lead
nowhere but to death."
"Am I, then, a boy at this work?"
"Wow! That was not my thought; but the lion hunts in the open land,
the tiger in the bush. If the lion roared in the forest, see, the
evil ones would hear and prepare a trap for him."
"Well, chief, hear this. In all things I will take your advice. If
it is good, we will follow it; if bad, you can go your own way."
"It is well," said the chief, slowly. "I and this man will follow on
the trail to find whither it leads. Tomorrow we will return, and if
the great one is then of the same mind, we will start."
"Good. In the mean time we will find a place where we can leave the
boat, with such things as we do not need."
Muata glanced at the old Arab, then said softly, "When you have
found your hiding-place, see that ye three only know of it." He
nodded his head. "I would trust no man with the secret. I should not
like to know of it myself, for the things you have would make one of
us rich."
With a little packet of food, his Ghoorka knife, and his jackal,
Muata entered the dug-out, and landed again on the clearing. They
waved their hands to him, and then turned their attention to the old
Arab, who was sipping a cup of coffee with every sign of
satisfaction.
"Old man, we go soon on the trail of the cannibals into the forest
where you could not follow. What shall we do with you?"
"As Allah wills," was the resigned reply.
"Think. Is there any village where you would be safe until we
return?"
"Few who enter the forest ever return. A day's journey in a canoe
there is a path in the wood that leads to a village. If I could
reach the path, it would do; but----"
The Okapi straightway continued up the dark river, through the
silence of the sombre woods, and the old man drank his coffee, and
then gave himself up to the pleasure of tobacco, with his dull eyes
fixed on Compton.
In the afternoon he pointed to a palm-tree. "There is a path," he
said.
"Is there anything you would like?" asked Compton.
"Coffee is good, and tobacco is a great comforter."
They made him up a packet of these luxuries, and added a blanket.
"Allah is good," he muttered.
"After we have recovered the wise woman, maybe we will search you
out, for we look, then, for the Garden of Rest."
"Ay, so he called it. The Garden of Rest, and the gates thereof.
Ay, I would see the place again."
"You know it?" Compton said eagerly. "Then you must have known my
father."
"A white man I knew, effendi. The good white man, many years ago;
and my old eyes told me that you were of his blood. If the forest
gives you up, search for this path and follow it; and if I be alive,
I would go to that place in the clouds. Allah be with you."
"And with you."
The Okapi was driven into the bank, and the old man stepped ashore.
"See that you keep your counsel, my friend," Said Mr. Hume. "We
want no prowlers about our camp."
They turned the Okapi down-stream again, and considered where they
should hide her, for that was a thing to be done with the utmost
care. It was, however, very difficult to decide; for in the screen
of the wood, all along the banks, every spot seemed the same, and
there were many reasons against tying up in some dark retreat and
leaving the precious craft to its fate, at the mercy of the rising
or falling water, and at the risk of discovery by prowling
fishermen.
"We must get her aground," said Mr. Hume; and they poked into the
banks here and there in search of a likely landing, ultimately
finding a spot where a huge tree had fallen bodily into the river,
dragging away with its roots a mass of earth. They marked the place,
and returned to the clearing to camp for the night. By the light of
a fire and of the lamps they went through the stores, and made up
five packages, one for each man to carry. Sheets of oiled canvas
were left out, rubber boots, and oilskin coverings for their hats
and shoulders. In the morning Compton was left behind in the
clearing in charge of the packages, while the other two took the
Okapi down to her berth, which was about half a mile down on the
same side. They drove the boat into the little natural dock, then
with their Ghoorka knives cleared a little place in the forest, and
next, with a small pioneer spade, dug a trench in the soft mould
more than large enough to hold the boat. Then a foundation was laid
of saplings; the walls were also lined with tough wood, and the
Okapi, lightened of her cargo and steel deck, was bodily dragged up,
and, after a long effort, safely lowered into the dry dock.
Everything was made trim, a layer of branches placed over all, then
the leaf-mould restored, and all leveled down. Working unceasingly,
the job took them till well on into the afternoon, when they rested
a while; then, with their knives in hand, set off to work their way
back to the clearing. All they had to do was to follow the river. It
was simple enough in theory, but in practice it was a tough job, as
they had to struggle every foot of the way, squirming and crawling.
When they heard Compton's hail they had come to the conclusion that
the forest was a trap, its mysteries a delusion, and its general
qualities altogether disgusting.
"You have been a time!" shouted Compton, as the two, hot, red-faced,
and tattered, stepped out and straightened themselves up with hands
to the small of the back.
"I'm as hungry as three, and have been under a terrific strain to
keep from eating the finest and fattest baked 'possum you ever saw.
Come on."
"'Possum?" said Venning, hurrying forward. "There are no 'possums in
Africa."
"Well, it's something."
"Smells nice."
"Sit down--sit down, and we'll find out what it is afterwards."
They sat down with sighs of relief, and the "'possum" disappeared
without a word being spoken.
"Beggar was eating earth-nuts over there, and I bowled him over with
a stick. See, there's his skin--long tail and sharp face."
"Monkey," said Mr. Hume.
"Prehensile tail," muttered Venning, examining that appendage.
"Anyway, it was good. See anything more?"
"Lots. One crocodile, and about one million ants and insect things.
Finished your job?"
"We buried the boat on the bank, and you youngsters had better be at
great pains to take your bearings, in case anything happens; and for
a sign we'll lash that pole and its bit of rag to the top of a tree.
Up you go, Venning, and make it fast."
The pole with its dirty flag was lashed to a tall tree, and then
they waited for Muata. The jackal was the first to make its
appearance, but the chief was not long after, and the river-man, a
few minutes later, looking quite exhausted. The chief first ate,
then he washed, then at last he condescended to take notice of
things, and then to give particulars. He had followed the trail of
the cannibals. It led straight into the forest. They could follow in
the morning.
With the morning came a heavy white mist that made travelling
impossible, and all they could do was to wait in the mugginess
until, through a window in the sluggish clouds which hung low
overhead, the sun shot its rays and sucked up the moisture. Then
they started, and a minute later they were in the silence and the
gloom of the most tremendous extent of unbroken wood on the face of
the earth--a Sahara of leaves, stretching away to the east for five
hundred miles, and reaching over the same extent north and south.
Trackless, the forest was, to any one not acquainted with its
secrets; but there were paths through it, and the villagers had made
their own approaches to the main system of thoroughfares, so that
the going was not difficult, especially as the direction up to a
certain distance had been decided upon by the previous day's
tracking.
They had, however, to walk in single file, with much care to their
steps, for the obstacles were ceaseless in the way of trailing
vines, saplings, and fallen trees. The narrow and tortuous avenue
they threaded was gloomy in the extreme, affording scarcely any
glimpse of the sky, and opening out no vistas between the serried
ranks of steins, each clothed in a covering of velvet moss, and all
looped together by the parasitical vines, whose boles were often as
thick as cables.
As they plunged deeper into the woods over a yielding surface of
leaf-mould, which sent up a warm smell, the silence was as the
silence of a huge cavern, into which is borne the hollow rumbling of
the waves, the sound in place of that being the continual murmur of
the sea of leaves moved by a breeze ever so slight, so soft that no
chance breath of it found its way below.
Yet the place was not really silent, and by-and-by, as their ears
grew attuned to the new surroundings, the boys detected the sounds
made by living things large and small, far and near--sounds which
seemed a part of the silence, because they were all soft and a
little mysterious, with a pause in between, as if the insect or
creature which made them was listening to find if any enemy had
heard him. They were little detached sounds, as if an insect would
start out to sing its song, and then suddenly think better of it;
and even when some large animal made its presence known by the
snapping of a branch, or a sudden scurry in the undergrowth, the
noise ceased almost as soon as it began.
"It gives me the creeps," muttered Venning, after a long silence.
"That's just it," said Compton; "everything appears to be creeping."
"Even the trees. They seem to watch and whisper and wait, and the
news of our coming has been carried right away for miles. Shouldn't
wonder if the trees were to close in and shut us up."
"Oh, come, now; that's a bit too fanciful."
They shifted their loads to relieve aching shoulders, and kept on
through the unending avenues in another long spell of silence.
"Reminds me of the reeds again," said Compton; "only this is worse."
"By Jenkins! just imagine the blaze and the scorch if this forest
caught afire like your reeds."
"Couldn't--too damp. We've been tramping for two hours, and I have
not seen a bird, or an animal, or a reptile; nothing but snails and
ants. Don't see where the game comes in."
"We're not after game; we're after cannibals."
"By Jove! yes, I suppose we are--that is, if they are cannibals. I
thought the species had died out."
"It will be a long time before cannibalism dies out," said Mr. Hume,
who was bringing up the rear, "particularly in those parts where
the people find a difficulty in getting flesh-food; but, at the same
time, scarcity of flesh-food does not always turn a tribe to
cannibalism. What does happen is this--that people who live in a
poor district become small In the Kalihari you find the bushmen, in
the forest you find the pigmies."
"Then the forest is poor in animals?"
"It has its types, but I should say they must be very few. You see,
animals want sun, And where would they find it here? No! what
animals haunt the forest will not be found on the ground."
"I see," said Compton, with a grin; "they fly."
"I know," interposed Venning, triumphantly; "they live in the tree-
tops."
Compton looked up at the matted roof of leaves and branches.
"Well, all I hope is that a tall giraffe will not fall through on
top of me."
"There is one thing that should give you comfort," said Venning,
solemnly.
"What is that?"
"It would be the giraffe who would suffer."
"Wait till I have got rid of these parcels, young 'un," said
Compton. "Are you getting tired?"
"Well, I am," said Venning--"tired and stuffy."
"Glad to be back on the boat again--eh? Well, if it's any comfort to
you, I'm tired too. Haven't got my land-legs yet."
Mr. Hume cried a halt, to their great content, and though there were
some hours yet to evening, he set them to work to make the camp. The
work was the same they undertook each evening they were in the
forest. First they cleared a circle about twenty feet in diameter,
with an outer ring of large trees, and, using the trunks as posts,
built a fence with the saplings and young trees. A hole was dug in
the soft ground for the fireplace, and another fence built round to
screen the glare of the fire. Next their waterproof sheets were
arranged, the sheet of canvas stretched overhead, and, when all was
shipshape, the three white members of the party went through a
course of massage, which prepared them for the one good meal of the
day. Then they overhauled their clothing, repaired any tears, oiled
the rifles, and entered up the log-books. There was always something
to do, and according to the man-of-war discipline observed, every
man had to do his share of work--a rule which gave the mind
employment, and kept it from dwelling on the monotony and the
depressing silence of the woods. While the camp was springing into
existence out of the tangled woods, the jackal kept guard, circling
at a distance, like a well-trained collie herding a flock of sheep.
The first night was a repetition of many others. When the night came
down, as it did long before darkness set in on the wide river, where
the afterglow was reflected from the waters, it was black beyond
thought, so black that a few yards from the fire the sharpest pair
of eyes could not see a hand held a foot away. And with the darkness
came a sense of mystery, a hollow murmur as of the surf heard a long
way off, which intensified the brooding stillness; and at times the
groaning of the trees.
"What noise is that?" asked Venning, hearing the sound.
"The trees talk," said Muata, gravely.
"Eh? The trees talk! Wonderful!" muttered Compton, sarcastically;
but, nevertheless, he listened with open mouth and staring eyes.
"What do they say, chief?"
"The young ones ask for room; they shove and push to reach up into
the air, to feel the touch of the rain, to enjoy the warmth of the
sun."
"And the big trees?"
"They cry out against the young, who come thrusting their branches
up from below, who crowd in upon the old people."
"And the squeaking noise?"
"That is made by one branch rubbing against another. Wow! It is
nothing. Hear them talk when a wind is blowing; then it is as if all
the great ones were gathered together roaring to the four comers,
with the voice of the storm booming from the skies, and the
bellowing of a great herd of bulls, and in between the cries of
women in fear and the screaming of tigers. Mawoh! It is then a man
would hide in a hole. Now it is quiet; they but whisper among
themselves half asleep, but in the morning they will stretch their
limbs."
"Of course," said Compton, "and yawn!"
"How will a tree grow if it does not stretch? It bends this way and
that, to loosen the bark, to make its body and its arms supple and
tough, so that it can bend to the blast and yet spring back straight
again. Tell me what would happen if the young tree were bark-bound.
It would die--as these old ones die smothered by the creeping arms
around them. Ow aye, they stretch in the morning and grow."
So they talked in the night, and listened to the strange sounds that
came mysteriously out of the brooding silence.