"Idiot! Don't you see that the poor devil can't move an inch further to
save his wretched life. Leave him alone. You're the greatest brute
even in this bestial land?"
"Am I? And if I am, what's that to you?" is the defiant reply.
The first speaker is a young Englishman, whose face, tanned to a coppery
brown by exposure to a torrid sun, bears a stamp of recklessness and
determination. His bearded lips are set firm as he confronts the other,
a powerful, savage-looking mulatto, and his eyes are ablaze with
wrathful contempt. Around stretches a wide, sun-baked desert in Central
Africa. A few palms, dotted about here and there, throw a faint
pretence of a shadow, and not far from the cloudless horizon hangs the
now declining sun. A gang of black men and women, weary and emaciated,
and a few of them tied together, are standing wearily contemplating one
of their number who lies prone upon the earth, sick, footsore, and
unable to move another step. It is a slave-gang on the march.
"Here, you two," goes on the first speaker, addressing a couple of the
strongest-looking among the slaves, "pick him up and carry him along."
The two fellows designated pause, and look hesitatingly from one to the
other of their drivers. They stand in mortal fear of the ruffianly
mulatto, and prefer to chance the wrath of the Englishman.
"Do you hear what I say? Let him alone, Sharkey," repeats the latter in
a warning tone.
For all answer the ruffian addressed advances upon the fallen slave, and
with a frightful grin, disclosing two pointed, shark-like teeth--whence
his hideous _sobriquet_--curls his raw-hide lash round the naked body of
the emaciated wretch. But a terrific blow full in the face sends him
reeling half-a-dozen paces.
"There! Won't you listen?" And the Englishman stands between the
miserable wretch and his smiter. With a growl like a wild beast, the
latter springs up.
"Stand off, Sharkey!" cries his companion in a firm, warning tone. Too
late. With features working in fury, and foaming at the mouth, the
other rushes upon him knife in hand.
"Stand off, I say, or--"
Crack!
The savage makes one spring and rolls over and over at his slayer's
feet, digging his knife into the hard earth in his death-throes.
"Dog! You would have it!" observes the Englishman, calmly reloading the
discharged chamber of his still smoking revolver. "You won't bite
again. Now then, you fellows, do as I told you just now--pick up that
chap and--march."
They obey apathetically; and, with many a furtive glance backward, the
slaves move wearily on, leaving the body of their late oppressor to the
vultures and jackals of the desert.
And now, after a march of several miles further, the melancholy
_cortege_ arrives at its destination. In a natural clearing, surrounded
by dense jungle, stand a few thatched shanties. In the centre is a
large barracoon, and into this the miserable human herd is turned. The
last rays of the sun have disappeared, and here and there in the open
space a fire glows redly. Several men are standing about; awful-looking
cut-throats, villainy personified. Half-a-dozen of them are Portuguese,
the rest Arabs and negroes. They crowd up to inspect the slaves.
"Well, Lidwell," says one of the first nationality in good English,
addressing the new arrival. "You've brought in a poor-looking lot. How
many did you lose?"
"Two. Both died."
"And Sharkey--wasn't he with you? Where's he?"
"Dead."
"Dead? Nonsense! What killed him?" And the first speaker stares in
amazement.
"A pistol ball, regulation calibre."
A gleam of triumphant malice flits across the other's swarthy features.
He is young, and by no means bad-looking but for a chronic scowl.
"Comrade," he replies, "you have done a good thing in ridding us of that
beast." But the man addressed as Lidwell has marked that exultant
expression, and he knows that it means mischief. Sharkey has relatives
in the camp who will certainly do their utmost to revenge his death, and
it is doubtful whether the ruffianly European element will have either
the strength or resolution to stand out against these should they
clamour for his slayer's blood. It is more than doubtful if they have
the will; for this Englishman is both hated and feared by them. His
coolness and daring in the pursuit of their lawless traffic has not only
been the means of quadrupling their gains, but has twice saved the whole
party from capture red-handed, for of late the Union Jack has been--to
them--unpleasantly active in Zanzibar waters. Yes, they hate him
bitterly. He has won largely from them at play, for they are great
gamblers, and can they once get him into their power they are fully
determined to make him yield up--by torture if necessary--the large sums
which they know him to keep concealed somewhere. But then, his revolver
is ever ready, and they are most of them cowards at heart.
Sternly he now looks the young Portuguese in the face.
"Juarez," he says, in a very significant tone. "Do you know, I always
think I can never have enough revolver practice. It makes a man
invulnerable, does this little bit of wood and iron."
The other turns away with an oily smile. He has his own reasons for not
being fond of the Englishman.
The latter strolls leisurely into one of the huts, keeping his eyes
about him, though, unobtrusively. Arrived there, he sits down for a few
minutes to rest and think out his plans. For he is determined to take
leave of his repulsive surroundings; and the sooner the better. Nearly
two years of his life have been spent in this detestable traffic, and
how sick he is of it, he himself hardly knows. He has amassed wealth
with a rapidity little short of marvellous; but not for the ransom of an
empire would he go through the experiences of those two years over
again. Many and many a scene of human suffering has it been his lot to
witness during that period--for he is a slave-dealer, a trafficker in
human flesh. But he is guiltless of any single act of brutality or
wanton oppression towards the unfortunate wretches who have passed
through his hands. In his eyes mere cattle, yet he would never allow
them to be tortured or ill-treated. More than once has he stood between
the victim and the lash, occasionally at the risk of his life--as we
have seen--or interfered to save some worn-out wretch from being
abandoned to the beasts of the desert. More than once, even, during a
long desert march when water was worth its weight in gold, has he shared
his scanty stock of the priceless fluid with some toiling, parched, and
exhausted slave, who, with tongue swollen and protruding, could hardly
drag one foot after the other. Yet, what is he but a hard-hearted,
self-seeking slave-dealer, coining money out of suffering flesh and
blood?
The gloom deepens. Lidwell, sitting there in his hut, can make out a
knot of his rascally confederates talking earnestly together by one of
the fires. A strange instinct warns him. Unless he leaves this place
to-night he will never leave it alive. Quickly he stows away a flask
and some biscuits in his pockets. Already his gains are secured about
his person, carefully sewn up in his clothes--a large sum, partly in
gold, partly in the paper currency of several nationalities. For some
time past he has been prepared for a sudden flight, and he has a canoe
snugly concealed in a convenient place on the river bank. To-night he
will cut the whole concern for ever, and woe betide the man who shall
try to stop him.
He looks out of the doorway, carelessly. All seems quiet enough, and it
is now quite dark. His sheath-knife is ready to his hand in case of
need; so, too, is the brace of revolvers without which he never moves.
"Now for a start," he muses; "but--hang it--I must go round and say
good-bye to Anita. Can't leave without seeing the little one again."
Down a narrow path through the shadowy forest a few hundred yards, and
he reaches a small thatched dwelling, more substantially built than the
rest. Within all is silence. But for a lamp burning in one of the
windows the place would seem deserted. He imitates the cry of a jackal
twice. A moment, and then a dark figure glides swiftly round the corner
of the house and stands beside him.
"At last! I wondered when you were coming to see me. You have been
back hours, and never came near me." The voice is low, soft, and
musical; but there is resentment in it.
"Didn't I? Well, I came as soon as I could. Don't scold me to-night,
little one."
And he looks down at her with a queer expression. Every moment lost is
a nail in his coffin; yet he is wasting those precious moments gazing
into a pair of dark eyes.
She nestles close to his side. "I hate it so when you are away. And I
am always afraid you may get killed, or catch that terrible fever over
there, and never come back to me at all."
"Listen now, Anita," he says, gravely. "I must go away again--now--
to-night, or my life is not worth a pebble, and I don't feel inclined to
throw it away for the benefit of those brutes." Then he tells her about
the fate of Sharkey, and the unmistakable signs he had read among his
associates of their deadly intentions towards him.
The girl trembles with horror and apprehension as she listens.
"You must indeed go, and immediately. You can do nothing against them,
and there are so many of them; and--Ah, I may as well die," she breaks
off in a wail of despair.
"Don't say that, little one. You will soon learn to do without me; but
I am afraid you will forget all your English. And you were getting on
with it so nicely, too."
The girl is silent; but looks up at him with a stricken, hopeless
expression that goes to his heart. She is very lovely, standing there
in the starlight, lovely in the rich, southern, voluptuous type. She is
quite young--barely sixteen--but the delicate arched features are fully
formed. As regards education or mental culture, Anita de Castro is a
wild flower indeed. Her father is the head of this slave-dealing
colony. Formerly a merchant in the Portuguese settlement of Delagoa
Bay, his rascalities have landed him in outlawry, and he has taken his
daughter with him into exile. Such is the girl who had attracted the
attention of the Englishman Lidwell, who in her had found the one
redeeming feature in his present reckless life. He had to a certain
extent, and in a desultory sort of way, educated this girl; at any rate
had moulded her into something better than a mere mental blank; and the
process had been to him a real recreation, a refuge from the disgust
which he increasingly felt for his cold-blooded and lawless occupation.
And she? Here, on the threshold of budding womanhood, this stranger,
who looked upon her as a mere plaything, possessed her whole heart. How
it was she could not tell, even had she asked herself the question.
Juarez, her sworn admirer, was softer of speech and far more
deferential; whereas Lidwell sometimes seemed to ignore her very
existence. Yet she would with a heavy heart anticipate the absence of
the latter on long and perilous expeditions, and look forward so
anxiously and so joyfully to his return. And now he has returned only
to leave again immediately, and well she knew that she would see him no
more. Suddenly she throws herself on his breast in a fit of passionate
weeping.
"Ah, love! I shall never see you again. Never--never."
A wave of wild temptation sweeps over the man. Why should he not take
her with him? She is beautiful enough in face and form, and it suddenly
strikes him that she is not the child he has hitherto been wont to
consider her. She is in his arms now. He has only to say the word and
she will stay there. But Lidwell is gifted with a cool head, and a
strong one. He knows the world well enough, and he also knows his own
nature. He will not sacrifice this girl to a passing impulse, however
powerful. So he resists the momentary temptation, and--it is the saving
of his life.
He strokes back the soft hair from her forehead. "Anita, child--you
must not grieve like this for me--I don't say forget the times we have
spent together. What I do say is, you are, made for something better
than this kind of life; leave it as soon as you are able, and--"
"Hush!"
She has heard something. With a quick gesture she draws herself from
him, and stands erect and listening intently. A glow suffuses the sky,
and the golden moon peeps above the tree-tops. And now the sound of
stealthy footsteps and smothered voices may be heard approaching.
"Go!" exclaims the girl, imprinting a shower of kisses upon his lips.
"Go--quick. They are coming. You shall not die here. Good-bye, love.
I shall never see you again. Go." And, as she pushes him from her, the
advancing voices are very near indeed. She has barely time to regain
the house before several men are knocking at the door. Feigning to be
half asleep, she opens.
"Well, father, what has gone wrong?"
"Oh, nothing, Anita. Has Lidwell been here? We want him down at the
camp. He promised to help us through with the wine," answers De Castro.
"The Englishman? No, he hasn't been here. He must be in his own hut."
A glance goes round the group.
"But he must have been here, senorita," replies Juarez. "He was seen to
come in this direction."
A thought strikes the girl. She must gain time. So with an
admirably-feigned glance of uneasiness at a side door leading into
another room, she reiterates that she has not seen him.
"Ah, well, comrades, I have some old wine in here," says her father,
advancing towards this door. "We will try it." He turns the handle;
but the door is locked. "The key, Anita, the key!"
"The key? Oh, here it is," and after a pretended search she finds the
key. They throw open the door suddenly, and stand staring in stupid
surprise into an empty room.
"Juarez," said the girl, calling him apart from the rest--"keep quiet
now. Do you want the Englishman? You shall take him."
The other started, and his eyes lit up with savage triumph.
"How? Where? Where is he?"
"You shall have him. Listen, Juarez. He has been here, but if you try
to find him now you will fail. I promised to meet him two hours after
midnight at the corner of the cane planting. He thinks I love him, but
I hate him," she went on, working herself into a state of
admirably-feigned fury. "He laughed at me and treated me as a
plaything--now I shall have revenge. But listen. Go back to the camp.
He is suspicious of you already; but he will come to me two hours after
midnight. Then be in waiting, and you shall take him as easily as a
leopard in a net. Don't tell the others about it until the time comes,
only get them away now."
If Juarez felt a qualm of suspicion, she acted her part so well, that he
fell headlong into the trap. With difficulty, he persuaded his fellow
ruffians to abandon their quest for the present. He trusted Anita
implicitly; and, full of elation at the speedy vengeance which would
overtake his rival, he returned with the others to their carousals.
The hours drag their length, and silence reigns in the tropical forest.
A damp, unwholesome mist rises from the river and spreads over the
tree-tops. Now and again the shout of the revellers breaks upon the
silence, or the deep bass of a bloodhound is raised in dismal bay at the
moon. Still Anita sits there, gazing out upon the forest, and following
in spirit every step of him whose life she has saved, further and
further as each step takes him from her. At last she falls fast asleep,
worn out with the excitement and tension of the past few hours. Then
comes a loud, angry knocking at the door.
Opening it, she is confronted with her father. He is shaking with
wrath, and behind him are nine or ten others all armed to the teeth.
"Where is the Englishman?" he roared. "Have you fooled us? It is
nearly daybreak--and two hours after midnight we were to take him!
Where is he?"
"Where is he?" echoed Anita, her voice as clear as a bell. "Where is
he? Safe. Far away--leagues and leagues. You will never see him
again. He is safe." And her large eyes flashed upon the enraged and
astonished group in scornful defiance as she stood in the doorway.
With the yell of a wild beast baffled of its prey, the old ruffian
sprang at his daughter. She never moved. But his clenched hand was
seized in a firm grasp before it could descend.
"Softly--softly, patron!" said Juarez. "You would not strike the
senorita!"
De Castro struggled in the grasp of the younger man and yelled the most
awful curses upon Lidwell, his daughter, and all present; but Juarez was
firm. He was not all bad, and a glow of admiration went through him at
Anita's daring, and the shrewd way in which she had outwitted them.
Moreover, rivalry apart, he had rather liked Lidwell. The latter they
would never see again, for had not Anita herself said as much. On the
whole, therefore, it was just as well that he had escaped, and saved
them the necessity of killing a former brave comrade. So he tried to
pacify the old man.
"Patron," he said, "be reasonable. We are well rid of this English
devil. Certainly, he has won a lot of our dollars; but then he will
lose his share in the profits of the last expedition." Then, in a low
tone: "And he has rid us of that turbulent beast, Sharkey. He is a
determined devil, and while he was with us he served us well. Let him
go."
The old slave-dealer fumed and raved, then fell in with things as they
were. "Ah well," he said at last, "what is--is, and we can't help it.
We will empty another skin of wine." Then they withdrew to drown their
discomfiture in drink, though some of the party, less easily pacified,
would fain have started in pursuit of the fugitive, but that they knew
it would be useless.
Six weeks later the mail steamer from Zanzibar was securely docked in
the port of London, and Lidwell, bidding farewell to a few fellow
passengers, stepped ashore, and in a moment was lost among the busy
crowd in the great restless city. He was now in easy circumstances for
life.