He made no sign; the fires of Hell were round him,
The Pit of Hell below.
“About as bad as they can be, sir. That's how things is.” Joseph set
down his master's breakfast on the rough table that stood in front of
his tent and looked at Jack Meredith.
Meredith had a way of performing most of his toilet outside his
tent, and while Joseph made his discouraging report he was engaged in
buttoning his waistcoat. He nodded gravely, but his manner was not that
of a man who fully realised his position of imminent danger. Some men
are like this--they die without getting at all flustered.
“There's not more nor two or three out of the whole lot that I can put
any trust in,” continued Joseph.
Jack Meredith was putting on his coat.
“I know what a barrack-room mutiny is. I've felt it in the hatmosphere,
so to speak, before now, sir.”
“And what does it feel like?” inquired Jack Meredith, lightly arranging
his watch-chain.
But Joseph did not answer. He stepped backwards into the tent and
brought two rifles. There was no need of answer; for this came in the
sound of many voices, the clang and clatter of varied arms.
“Here they come, sir,” said the soldier-servant--respectful, mindful of
his place even at this moment.
Jack Meredith merely sat down behind the little table where his
breakfast stood untouched. He leant his elbow on the table and watched
the approach of the disorderly band of blacks. Some ran, some hung back,
but all were armed.
In front walked a small, truculent-looking man with broad shoulders and
an aggressive head.
He planted himself before Meredith, and turning, with a wave of the
hand, to indicate his followers, said in English:
“These men--these friends of me--say they are tired of you. You no good
leader. They make me their leader.”
He shrugged his shoulders with a hideous grin of deprecation.
“I not want. They make me. We go to join our friends in the valley.”
He pointed down into the valley where the enemy was encamped.
“We have agreed to take two hundred pounds for you. Price given by our
friends in valley--”
The man stopped suddenly. He was looking into the muzzle of a revolver
with a fixed fascination. Jack Meredith exhibited no haste. He did not
seem yet to have realised the gravity of the situation. He took very
careful aim and pulled the trigger. A little puff of white smoke floated
over their heads. The broad-shouldered man with the aggressive head
looked stupidly surprised. He turned towards his supporters with a
pained look of inquiry, as if there was something he did not quite
understand, and then he fell on his face and lay quite still.
Jack Meredith looked on the blank faces with a glance of urbane inquiry.
“Has anybody else anything to say to me?” he asked.
There was a dead silence. Some one laughed rather feebly in the
background.
“Then I think I will go on with my breakfast.”
Which he accordingly proceeded to do.
One or two of the mutineers dropped away and went back to their own
quarters.
“Take it away,” said Meredith, indicating the body of the dead man with
his teaspoon.
“And look here,” he cried out after them, “do not let us have any more
of this nonsense! It will only lead to unpleasantness.”
Some of the men grinned. They were not particularly respectful in their
manner of bearing away the mortal remains of their late leader. The
feeling had already turned.
Joseph thought fit to clench matters later on in the day by a few
remarks of his own.
“That's the sort o' man,” he said, more in resignation than in anger,
“that the guv'nor is. He's quiet like and smooth-spoken, but when he
does 'it he 'its 'ard, and when he shoots he shoots mortal straight.
Now, what I says to you Christy Minstrels is this; we're all in the same
box and we all want the same thing, although I admit there's a bit of
a difference in our complexions. Some o' you jokers have got a fine
richness of colour on your physiognimies that I don't pretend to
emulate. But no matter. What you wants is to get out of this confounded
old Platter, quick time, ain't it now?--to get down to Loango and go out
on the bust, eh?”
The Christy Minstrels acquiesced.
“Then,” said Joseph, “obey orders and be hanged to yer.”
It had been apparent to Meredith for some weeks past that the man
Nattoo, whom he had just shot, was bent on making trouble. His prompt
action had not, therefore, been the result of panic, but the deliberate
execution of a fore-ordained sentence. The only question was how to make
the necessary execution most awe-inspiring and exemplary. The moment was
well chosen, and served to strengthen, for the time being, the waning
authority of these two Englishmen thus thrown upon their own resources
in the heart of Africa.
The position was not a pleasant one. For three months the Plateau had
been surrounded by hostile tribes, who made desultory raids from time to
time. These, the little force on the summit was able to repulse; but a
combined attack from, say, two sides at once would certainly have been
successful. Meredith had no reason to suppose that his appeal for help
had reached Msala, infested as the intervening forests were by cannibal
tribes. Provisions were at a low ebb. There seemed to be no hope
of outside aid, and disaffection was rife in his small force. Jack
Meredith, who was no soldier, found himself called upon to defend a weak
position, with unreliable men, for an indefinite period.
Joseph had a rough knowledge of soldiering and a very rudimentary notion
of fortification. But he had that which served as well--the unerring eye
for covert of a marksman. He was a dead shot at any range, and knowing
what he could hit he also knew how to screen himself from the rifle of
an enemy.
Above all, perhaps, was the quiet influence of a man who never flinched
from danger nor seemed to be in the least disconcerted by its presence.
“It seems, sir,” said Joseph to his master later in the day, “that
you've kinder stumped them. They don't understand you.”
“They must be kept in check by fear. There is no other way,” replied
Meredith rather wearily. Of late he had felt less and less inclined to
exert himself.
“Yes, sir. Those sort o' men.”
Meredith made no answer, and after a little pause Joseph repeated the
words significantly, if ungrammatically.
“Those sort o' men.”
“What do you mean?”
“Slaves,” replied Joseph sharply, touching his hat without knowing why.
“Slaves! What the devil are you talking about?”
The man came a little nearer.
“Those forty men--leastwise thirty-four men--that we brought from
Msala--Mr. Durnovo's men, that cultivate this 'ere Simiacine as they
call it--they're different from the rest, sir.”
“Yes, of course they are. We do not hire them direct--we hire them from
Mr. Durnovo and pay their wages to him. They are of a different tribe
from the others--not fighting men but agriculturists.”
“Ah--” Joseph paused. “Strange thing, sir, but I've not seen 'em
handling any of their pay yet.”
“Well, that is their affair.”
“Yessir.”
Having unburthened himself of his suspicion, the servant retired,
shaking his head ominously. At any other time the words just recorded
would have aroused Jack Meredith's attention, but the singular
slothfulness that seemed to be creeping over his intellect was already
acting as a clog on his mental energy.
The next morning he was unable to leave his bed, and lay all day in a
state of semi-somnolence. Joseph explained to the men that the leader
was so disgusted with their ungrateful conduct that he would not
leave the tent. In the evening there was a slight attack made from
the southern side. This Joseph was able to repulse, chiefly by his own
long-range firing, assisted by a few picked rifles. But the situation
was extremely critical. The roll of the big war-drum could be heard
almost incessantly, rising with weird melancholy from the forest land
beneath them.
Despite difficulties the new crop of Simiacine--the second within twelve
months--had been picked, dried, and stored in cases. Without, on
the Plateau, stood the bare trees, affording no covert for savage
warfare--no screen against the deadly bullet. The camp was placed near
one edge of the tableland, and on this exposed side the stockade was
wisely constructed of double strength. The attacks had hitherto been
made only from this side, but Joseph knew that anything in the nature
of a combined assault would carry his defence before it. In his
rough-and-ready way he doctored his master, making for him such soups
and strength-giving food as he could. Once, very late in the night, when
it almost seemed that the shadow of death lay over the little tent,
he pounded up some of the magic Simiacine leaves and mixed them in the
brandy which he administered from time to time.
Before sunrise the next morning the alarm was given again, and the
little garrison was called to arms.
When Joseph left his master's tent he was convinced that neither of them
had long to live; but he was of that hard material which is found in its
very best form in the ranks and on the forecastle--men who die swearing.
It may be very reprehensible--no doubt it is--but it is very difficult
for a plain-going man to withhold his admiration for such as these. It
shows, at all events, that Thomas Atkins and Jack are alike unafraid of
meeting their Maker. It is their duty to fight either a living enemy or
a cruel sea, and if a little profanity helps them to their duty, who are
we that we may condemn them?
So Joseph went out with a rifle in each hand and a fine selection of
epithets on his tongue.
“Now, you devils,” he said, “we're just going to fight like hell.”
And what else he said it booteth little.
He took his station on the roof of a hut in the centre of the little
stockade, and from thence he directed the fire of his men. Crouching
beneath him he had a disabled native who loaded each rifle in turn; and
just by way of encouraging the others he picked off the prominent men
outside the stockade with a deadly steadiness. By way of relieving the
tension he indulged in an occasional pleasantry at the expense of the
enemy.
“Now,” he would say, “there's a man lookin' over that bush with a green
feather on his nut. It's a mistake to wear green feathers; it makes a
body so conspicuous.”
And the wearer of the obnoxious feather would throw up his arms and
topple backwards, down the hill.
If Joseph detected anything like cowardice or carelessness he pointed
his rifle with a threatening frown towards the culprit, with instant
effect. Presently, however, things began to get more serious. This
was not the sudden assault of a single chief, but an organised attack.
Before long Joseph ceased to smile. By sunrise he was off the roof,
running from one weak point to another, encouraging, threatening,
fighting, and swearing very hard. More than once the enemy reached the
stockade, and--ominous sign--one or two of their dead lay inside the
defence.
“Fight, yer devils--fight!” he cried in a hoarse whisper, for his voice
had given way. “Hell--give 'em hell!”
He was everywhere at once, urging on his men, kicking them, pushing
them, forcing them up to the stockade. But he saw the end. Half-dazed,
the blacks fought on in silence. The grim African sun leapt up above
the distant line of forest and shone upon one of the finest sights to be
seen on earth--a soldier wounded, driven, desperate, and not afraid.
In the midst of it a hand was laid on Joseph's shoulder.
“There,” cried a voice, “THAT corner. See to it.”
Without looking round, Joseph obeyed, and the breached corner was saved.
He only knew that his master, who was almost dead, had come to life
again. There was no time for anything else.
For half an hour it was a question of any moment. Master and man were
for the time being nothing better than madmen, and the fighting frenzy
is wildly infectious.
At last there was a pause. The enemy fell back, and in the momentary
silence the sound of distant firing reached the ears of the little band
of defenders.
“What's that?” asked Meredith sharply. He looked like one risen from the
dead.
“Fighting among themselves,” replied Joseph, who was wiping blood and
grime from his eyes.
“Then one of them is fighting with an Express rifle.”
Joseph listened.
“By God!” he shouted, “by God, Mer--sir, we're saved!”
The enemy had apparently heard the firing too. Perhaps they also
recognised the peculiar sharp “smack” of the Express rifle amidst the
others. There was a fresh attack--an ugly rush of reckless men. But the
news soon spread that there was firing in the valley and the sound of a
white man's rifle. The little garrison plucked up heart, and the rifles,
almost too hot to hold, dealt death around.
They held back the savages until the sound of the firing behind them was
quite audible even amidst the heavy rattle of the musketry.
Then suddenly the firing ceased--the enemy had divided and fled. For a
few moments there was a strange, tense silence. Then a voice--an English
voice--cried:
“Come on!”
The next moment Guy Oscard stood on the edge of the Plateau. He held up
both arms as a signal to those within the stockade to cease firing, and
then he came forward, followed by a number of blacks and Durnovo.
The gate was rapidly disencumbered of its rough supports and thrown
open.
Jack Meredith stood in the aperture, holding out his hand.
“It's all right; it's--all right,” he said.
Oscard did not seem to take so cheerful a view of matters. He
scrutinised Meredith's face with visible anxiety.
Then suddenly Jack lurched up against his rescuer, grabbing at him
vaguely.
In a minute Oscard was supporting him back towards his tent.
“It's all right, you know,” explained Jack Meredith very gravely; “I am
a bit weak--that is all. I am hungry--haven't had anything to eat for
some time, you know.”
“Oh, yes,” said Oscard shortly; “I know all about it.”