FATE STABS
We went back to the others whom we found crouched on the ground among
the coffins, looking distinctly depressed. No wonder; night was closing
in, the thunder was beginning to growl and echo through the forest and
rain to fall in big drops. In short, although Stephen remarked that
every cloud has a silver lining, a proverb which, as I told him, I
seemed to have heard before, in no sense could the outlook be considered
bright.
“Well, Allan, what have you arranged?” asked Brother John, with a faint
attempt at cheerfulness as he let go of his wife’s hand. In those days
he always seemed to be holding his wife’s hand.
“Oh!” I answered, “I am going to get the canoe so that we can all row
over comfortably.”
They stared at me, and Miss Hope, who was seated by Stephen, asked in
her usual Biblical language:
“Have you the wings of a dove that you can fly, O Mr. Allan?”
“No,” I answered, “but I have the fins of a fish, or something like
them, and I can swim.”
Now there arose a chorus of expostulation.
“You shan’t risk it,” said Stephen, “I can swim as well as you and I’m
younger. I’ll go, I want a bath.”
“That you will have, O Stephen,” interrupted Miss Hope, as I thought in
some alarm. “The latter rain from heaven will make you clean.” (By now
it was pouring.)
“Yes, Stephen, you can swim,” I said, “but you will forgive me for
saying that you are not particularly deadly with a rifle, and clean
shooting may be the essence of this business. Now listen to me, all of
you. I am going. I hope that I shall succeed, but if I fail it does not
so very much matter, for you will be no worse off than you were before.
There are three pairs of you. John and his wife; Stephen and Miss Hope;
Mavovo and Hans. If the odd man of the party comes to grief, you will
have to choose a new captain, that is all, but while I lead I mean to be
obeyed.”
Then Mavovo, to whom Hans had been talking, spoke.
“My father Macumazana is a brave man. If he lives he will have done his
duty. If he dies he will have done his duty still better, and, on the
earth or in the under-world among the spirits of our fathers, his name
shall be great for ever; yes, his name shall be a song.”
When Brother John had translated these words, which I thought fine,
there was silence.
“Now,” I said, “come with me to the water’s edge, all of you. You will
be in less danger from the lightning there, where are no tall trees.
And while I am gone, do you ladies dress up Hans in that gorilla-skin
as best you can, lacing it on to him with some of that palm-fibre string
which we brought with us, and filling out the hollows and the head with
leaves or reeds. I want him to be ready when I come back with the canoe.
Hans groaned audibly, but made no objection and we started with our
impedimenta down to the edge of the estuary where we hid behind a clump
of mangrove bushes and tall, feathery reeds. Then I took off some of my
clothes, stripping in fact to my flannel shirt and the cotton pants I
wore, both of which were grey in colour and therefore almost invisible
at night.
Now I was ready and Hans handed me the little rifle.
“It is at full cock, Baas, with the catch on,” he said, “and carefully
loaded. Also I have wrapped the lining of my hat, which is very full of
grease, for the hair makes grease especially in hot weather, Baas, round
the lock to keep away the wet from the cap and powder. It is not tied,
Baas, only twisted. Give the rifle a shake and it will fall off.”
“I understand,” I said, and gripped the gun with my left hand by the
tongue just forward of the hammer, in such a fashion that the horrid
greased rag from Hans’s hat was held tight over the lock and cap. Then
I shook hands with the others and when I came to Miss Hope I am proud to
add that she spontaneously and of her own accord imprinted a kiss upon
my mediaeval brow. I felt inclined to return it, but did not.
“It is the kiss of peace, O Allan,” she said. “May you go and return in
peace.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but get on with dressing Hans in his new clothes.”
Stephen muttered something about feeling ashamed of himself. Brother
John put up a vigorous and well-directed prayer. Mavovo saluted with the
copper assegai and began to give me _sibonga_ or Zulu titles of praise
beneath his breath, and Mrs. Eversley said:
“Oh! I thank God that I have lived to see a brave English gentleman
again,” which I thought a great compliment to my nation and myself,
though when I afterwards discovered that she herself was English by
birth, it took off some of the polish.
Next, just after a vivid flash of lightning, for the storm had broken in
earnest now, I ran swiftly to the water’s edge, accompanied by Hans, who
was determined to see the last of me.
“Get back, Hans, before the lightning shows you,” I said, as I slid
gently from a mangrove-root into that filthy stream, “and tell them to
keep my coat and trousers dry if they can.”
“Good-bye, Baas,” he murmured, and I heard that he was sobbing. “Keep a
good heart, O Baas of Baases. After all, this is nothing to the vultures
of the Hill of Slaughter. _Intombi_ pulled us through then, and so she
will again, for she knows who can hold her straight!”
That was the last I heard of Hans, for if he said any more, the hiss of
the torrential rain smothered his words.
Oh! I had tried to “keep a good heart” before the others, but it is
beyond my powers to describe the deadly fright I felt, perhaps the worst
of all my life, which is saying a great deal. Here I was starting on one
of the maddest ventures that was ever undertaken by man. I needn’t put
its points again, but that which appealed to me most at the moment
was the crocodiles. I have always hated crocodiles since--well, never
mind--and the place was as full of them as the ponds at Ascension are of
turtles.
Still I swam on. The estuary was perhaps two hundred yards wide, not
more, no great distance for a good swimmer as I was in those days. But
then I had to hold the rifle above the water with my left hand at
all cost, for if once it went beneath it would be useless. Also I was
desperately afraid of being seen in the lightning flashes, although to
minimise this risk I had kept my dark-coloured cloth hat upon my head.
Lastly there was the lightning itself to fear, for it was fearful and
continuous and seemed to be striking along the water. It was a fact that
a fire-ball or something of the sort hit the surface within a few yards
of me, as though it had aimed at the rifle-barrel and just missed. Or so
I thought, though it may have been a crocodile rising at the moment.
In one way, or rather, in two, however, I was lucky. The first was the
complete absence of wind which must have raised waves that might have
swamped me and would at any rate have wetted the rifle. The second was
that there was no fear of my losing my path for in the mouth of the cave
I could see the glow of the fires which burned on either side of the
Motombo’s seat. They served the same purpose to me as did the lamp of
the lady called Hero to her lover Leander when he swam the Hellespont
to pay her clandestine visits at night. But he had something pleasant to
look forward to, whereas I----! Still, there was another point in common
between us. Hero, if I remember right, was a priestess of the Greek
goddess of love, whereas the party who waited me was also in a religious
line of business. Only, as I firmly believe, he was a priest of the
devil.
I suppose that swim took me about a quarter-of-an-hour, for I went
slowly to save my strength, although the crocodiles suggested haste. But
thank Heaven they never appeared to complicate matters. Now I was quite
near the cave, and now I was beneath the overhanging roof and in the
shallow water of the little bay that formed a harbour for the canoe. I
stood upon my feet on the rock bottom, the water coming up to my breast,
and peered about me, while I rested and worked my left arm, stiff with
the up-holding of the gun, to and fro. The fires had burnt somewhat low
and until my eyes were freed from the raindrops and grew accustomed to
the light of the place I could not see clearly.
I took the rag from round the lock of the rifle, wiped the wet off the
barrel with it and let it fall. Then I loosed the catch and by touching
a certain mechanism, made the rifle hair-triggered. Now I looked again
and began to make out things. There was the platform and there, alas! on
it sat the toad-like Motombo. But his back was to me; he was gazing
not towards the water, but down the cave. I hesitated for one fateful
moment. Perhaps the priest was asleep, perhaps I could get the canoe
away without shooting. I did not like the job; moreover, his head was
held forward and invisible, and how was I to make certain of killing him
with a shot in the back? Lastly, if possible, I wished to avoid firing
because of the report.
At that instant the Motombo wheeled round. Some instinct must have
warned him of my presence, for the silence was gravelike save for the
soft splash of the rain without. As he turned the lightning blazed and
he saw me.
“It is the white man,” he muttered to himself in his hissing whisper,
while I waited through the following darkness with the rifle at my
shoulder, “the white man who shot me long, long ago, and again he has a
gun! Oh! Fate stabs, doubtless the god is dead and I too must die!”
Then as if some doubt struck him he lifted the horn to summon help.
Again the lightning flashed and was accompanied by a fearful crack of
thunder. With a prayer for skill, I covered his head and fired by the
glare of it just as the trumpet touched his lips. It fell from his hand.
He seemed to shrink together, and moved no more.
Oh! thank God, thank God! in this supreme moment of trial the art of
which I am a master had not failed me. If my hand had shaken ever so
little, if my nerves, strained to breaking point, had played me false
in the least degree, if the rag from Hans’s hat had not sufficed to keep
away the damp from the cap and powder! Well, this history would never
have been written and there would have been some more bones in the
graveyard of the Kalubis, that is all!
For a moment I waited, expecting to see the women attendants dart from
the doorways in the sides of the cave, and to hear them sound a shrill
alarm. None appeared, and I guessed that the rattle of the thunder had
swallowed up the crack of the rifle, a noise, be it remembered, that
none of them had ever heard. For an unknown number of years this ancient
creature, I suppose, had squatted day and night upon that platform,
whence, I daresay, it was difficult for him to move. So after they had
wrapped his furs round him at sunset and made up the fires to keep him
warm, why should his women come to disturb him unless he called them
with his horn? Probably it was not even lawful that they should do so.
Somewhat reassured I waded forward a few paces and loosed the canoe
which was tied by the prow. Then I scrambled into it, and laying down
the rifle, took one of the paddles and began to push out of the creek.
Just then the lightning flared once more, and by it I caught sight of
the Motombo’s face that was now within a few feet of my own. It seemed
to be resting almost on his knees, and its appearance was dreadful. In
the centre of the forehead was a blue mark where the bullet had entered,
for I had made no mistake in that matter. The deep-set round eyes were
open and, all their fire gone, seemed to stare at me from beneath the
overhanging brows. The massive jaw had fallen and the red tongue hung
out upon the pendulous lip. The leather-like skin of the bloated cheeks
had assumed an ashen hue still streaked and mottled with brown.
Oh! the thing was horrible, and sometimes when I am out of sorts, it
haunts me to this day. Yet that creature’s blood does not lie heavy on
my mind, of it my conscience is not afraid. His end was necessary to
save the innocent and I am sure that it was well deserved. For he was a
devil, akin to the great god ape I had slain in the forest, to whom, by
the way, he bore a most remarkable resemblance in death. Indeed if their
heads had been laid side by side at a little distance, it would not have
been too easy to tell them apart with their projecting brows, beardless,
retreating chins and yellow tushes at the corners of the mouth.
Presently I was clear of the cave. Still for a while I lay to at one
side of it against the towering cliff, both to listen in case what I
had done should be discovered, and for fear lest the lightning which was
still bright, although the storm centre was rapidly passing away, should
reveal me to any watchers.
For quite ten minutes I hid thus, and then, determining to risk it,
paddled softly towards the opposite bank keeping, however, a little
to the west of the cave and taking my line by a certain very tall tree
which, as I had noted, towered up against the sky at the back of the
graveyard.
As it happened my calculations were accurate and in the end I directed
the bow of the canoe into the rushes behind which I had left my
companions. Just then the moon began to struggle out through the
thinning rain-clouds, and by its light they saw me, and I saw what for
a moment I took to be the gorilla-god himself waddling forward to seize
the boat. There was the dreadful brute exactly as he had appeared in the
forest, except that it seemed a little smaller.
Then I remembered and laughed and that laugh did me a world of good.
“Is that you, Baas?” said a muffled voice, speaking apparently from the
middle of the gorilla. “Are you safe, Baas?”
“Of course,” I answered, “or how should I be here?” adding cheerfully,
“Are you comfortable in that nice warm skin on this wet night, Hans?”
“Oh! Baas,” answered the voice, “tell me what happened. Even in this
stink I burn to know.”
“Death happened to the Motombo, Hans. Here, Stephen, give me your hand
and my clothes, and, Mavovo, hold the rifle and the canoe while I put
them on.”
Then I landed and stepping into the reeds, pulled off my wet shirt and
pants, which I stuffed away into the big pockets of my shooting coat,
for I did not want to lose them, and put on the dry things that,
although scratchy, were quite good enough clothing in that warm climate.
After this I treated myself to a good sup of brandy from the flask, and
ate some food which I seemed to require. Then I told them the story, and
cutting short their demonstrations of wonder and admiration, bade them
place the Holy Flower in the canoe and get in themselves. Next with the
help of Hans who poked out his fingers through the skin of the gorilla’s
arms, I carefully re-loaded the rifle, setting the last cap on the
nipple. This done, I joined them in the canoe, taking my seat in the
prow and bidding Brother John and Stephen paddle.
Making a circuit to avoid observation as before, in a very short time
we reached the mouth of the cave. I leant forward and peeped round the
western wall of rock. Nobody seemed to be stirring. There the fires
burned dimly, there the huddled shape of the Motombo still crouched
upon the platform. Silently, silently we disembarked, and I formed our
procession while the others looked askance at the horrible face of the
dead Motombo.
I headed it, then came the Mother of the Flower, followed by Hans,
playing his part of the god of the forest; then Brother John and Stephen
carrying the Holy Flower. After it walked Hope, while Mavovo brought up
the rear. Near to one of the fires, as I had noted on our first passage
of the cave, lay a pile of the torches which I have already mentioned.
We lit some of them, and at a sign from me, Mavovo dragged the canoe
back into its little dock and tied the cord to its post. Its appearance
there, apparently undisturbed, might, I thought, make our crossing of
the water seem even more mysterious. All this while I watched the doors
in the sides of the cave, expecting every moment to see the women rush
out. But none came. Perhaps they slept, or perhaps they were absent; I
do not know to this day.
We started, and in solemn silence threaded our way down the windings
of the cave, extinguishing our torches as soon as we saw light at its
inland outlet. At a few paces from its mouth stood a sentry. His
back was towards the cave, and in the uncertain gleams of the moon,
struggling with the clouds, for a thin rain still fell, he never noted
us till we were right on to him. Then he turned and saw, and at the
awful sight of this procession of the gods of his land, threw up his
arms, and without a word fell senseless. Although I never asked, I think
that Mavovo took measures to prevent his awakening. At any rate when I
looked back later on, I observed that he was carrying a big Pongo spear
with a long shaft, instead of the copper weapon which he had taken from
one of the coffins.
On we marched towards Rica Town, following the easy path by which we had
come. As I have said, the country was very deserted and the inhabitants
of such huts as we passed were evidently fast asleep. Also there were no
dogs in this land to awake them with their barking. Between the cave and
Rica we were not, I think, seen by a single soul.
Through that long night we pushed on as fast as we could travel, only
stopping now and again for a few minutes to rest the bearers of the Holy
Flower. Indeed at times Mrs. Eversley relieved her husband at this
task, but Stephen, being very strong, carried his end of the stretcher
throughout the whole journey.
Hans, of course, was much oppressed by the great weight of the gorilla
skin, which, although it had shrunk a good deal, remained as heavy as
ever. But he was a tough old fellow, and on the whole got on better than
might have been expected, though by the time we reached the town he
was sometimes obliged to follow the example of the god itself and
help himself forward with his hands, going on all fours, as a gorilla
generally does.
We reached the broad, long street of Rica about half an hour before
dawn, and proceeded down it till we were past the Feast-house still
quite unobserved, for as yet none were stirring on that wet morning.
Indeed it was not until we were within a hundred yards of the harbour
that a woman possessed of the virtue, or vice, of early rising, who
had come from a hut to work in her garden, saw us and raised an awful,
piercing scream.
“The gods!” she screamed. “The gods are leaving the land and taking the
white men with them.”
Instantly there arose a hubbub in the houses. Heads were thrust out of
the doors and people ran into the gardens, every one of whom began to
yell till one might have thought that a massacre was in progress. But as
yet no one came near us, for they were afraid.
“Push on,” I cried, “or all is lost.”
They answered nobly. Hans struggled forward on all fours, for he was
nearly done and his hideous garment was choking him, while Stephen and
Brother John, exhausted though they were with the weight of the great
plant, actually broke into a feeble trot. We came to the harbour and
there, tied to the wharf, was the same canoe in which we had crossed
to Pongo-land. We sprang into it and cut the fastenings with my knife,
having no time to untie them, and pushed off from the wharf.
By now hundreds of people, among them many soldiers were hard upon and
indeed around us, but still they seemed too frightened to do anything.
So far the inspiration of Hans’ disguise had saved us. In the midst of
them, by the light of the rising sun, I recognised Komba, who ran up, a
great spear in his hand, and for a moment halted amazed.
Then it was that the catastrophe happened which nearly cost us all our
lives.
Hans, who was in the stern of the canoe, began to faint from exhaustion,
and in his efforts to obtain air, for the heat and stench of the skin
were overpowering him, thrust his head out through the lacings of the
hide beneath the reed-stuffed mask of the gorilla, which fell over
languidly upon his shoulder. Komba saw his ugly little face and knew it
again.
“It is a trick!” he roared. “These white devils have killed the god and
stolen the Holy Flower and its priestess. The yellow man is wrapped in
the skin of the god. To the boats! To the boats!”
“Paddle,” I shouted to Brother John and Stephen, “paddle for your lives!
Mavovo, help me get up the sail.”
As it chanced on that stormy morning the wind was blowing strongly
towards the mainland.
We laboured at the mast, shipped it and hauled up the mat sail, but
slowly for we were awkward at the business. By the time that it began
to draw the paddles had propelled us about four hundred yards from the
wharf, whence many canoes, with their sails already set, were starting
in pursuit. Standing in the prow of the first of these, and roaring
curses and vengeance at us, was Komba, the new Kalubi, who shook a great
spear above his head.
An idea occurred to me, who knew that unless something were done we
must be overtaken and killed by these skilled boatmen. Leaving Mavovo
to attend to the sail, I scrambled aft, and thrusting aside the fainting
Hans, knelt down in the stern of the canoe. There was still one charge,
or rather one cap, left, and I meant to use it. I put up the largest
flapsight, lifted the little rifle and covered Komba, aiming at the
point of his chin. _Intombi_ was not sighted for or meant to use at this
great distance, and only by this means of allowing for the drop of the
bullet, could I hope to hit the man in the body.
The sail was drawing well now and steadied the boat, also, being still
under the shelter of the land, the water was smooth as that of a pond,
so really I had a very good firing platform. Moreover, weary though I
was, my vital forces rose to the emergency and I felt myself grow rigid
as a statue. Lastly, the light was good, for the sun rose behind me, its
level rays shining full on to my mark. I held my breath and touched the
trigger. The charge exploded sweetly and almost at the instant; as
the smoke drifted to one side, I saw Komba throw up his arms and fall
backwards into the canoe. Then, quite a long while afterwards, or so it
seemed, the breeze brought the faint sound of the thud of that fateful
bullet to our ears.
Though perhaps I ought not to say so, it was really a wonderful shot
in all the circumstances, for, as I learned afterwards, the ball struck
just where I hoped that it might, in the centre of the breast, piercing
the heart. Indeed, taking everything into consideration, I think that
those four shots which I fired in Pongo-land are the real record of my
career as a marksman. The first at night broke the arm of the gorilla
god and would have killed him had not the charge hung fire and given
him time to protect his head. The second did kill him in the midst of
a great scrimmage when everything was moving. The third, fired by the
glare of lightning after a long swim, slew the Motombo, and the fourth,
loosed at this great distance from a moving boat, was the bane of that
cold-blooded and treacherous man, Komba, who thought that he had trapped
us to Pongo-land to be murdered and eaten as a sacrifice. Lastly there
was always the consciousness that no mistake must be made, since with
but four percussion caps it could not be retrieved.
I am sure that I could not have done so well with any other rifle,
however modern and accurate it might be. But to this little Purdey
weapon I had been accustomed from my youth, and that, as any marksman
will know, means a great deal. I seemed to know it and it seemed to know
me. It hangs on my wall to this day, although of course I never use it
now in our breech-loading era. Unfortunately, however, a local gunsmith
to whom I sent it to have the lock cleaned, re-browned it and scraped
and varnished the stock, etc., without authority, making it look almost
new again. I preferred it in its worn and scratched condition.
To return: the sound of the shot, like that of John Peel’s horn, aroused
Hans from his sleep. He thrust his head between my legs and saw Komba
fall.
“Oh! beautiful, Baas, beautiful!” he said faintly. “I am sure that the
ghost of your reverend father cannot kill his enemies more nicely down
there among the Fires. Beautiful!” and the silly old fellow fell to
kissing my boots, or what remained of them, after which I gave him the
last of the brandy.
This quite brought him to himself again, especially when he was free
from that filthy skin and had washed his head and hands.
The effect of the death of Komba upon the Pongos was very strange. All
the other canoes clustered round that in which he lay. Then, after a
hurried consultation, they hauled down their sails and paddled back to
the wharf. Why they did this I cannot tell. Perhaps they thought that
he was bewitched, or only wounded and required the attentions of a
medicine-man. Perhaps it was not lawful for them to proceed except under
the guidance of some reserve Kalubi who had “passed the god” and who was
on shore. Perhaps it was necessary, according to their rites, that the
body of their chief should be landed with certain ceremonies. I do not
know. It is impossible to be sure as to the mysterious motives that
actuate many of these remote African tribes.
At any rate the result was that it gave us a great start and a chance
of life, who must otherwise have died upon the spot. Outside the bay the
breeze blew merrily, taking us across the lake at a spanking pace, until
about midday when it began to fall. Fortunately, however, it did
not altogether drop till three o’clock by which time the coast of
Mazitu-land was comparatively near; we could even distinguish a speck
against the skyline which we knew was the Union Jack that Stephen had
set upon the crest of a little hill.
During those hours of peace we ate the food that remained to us, washed
ourselves as thoroughly as we could and rested. Well was it, in view of
what followed, that we had this time of repose. For just as the breeze
was failing I looked aft and there, coming up behind us, still holding
the wind, was the whole fleet of Pongo canoes, thirty or forty of them
perhaps, each carrying an average of about twenty men. We sailed on
for as long as we could, for though our progress was but slow, it was
quicker than what we could have made by paddling. Also it was necessary
that we should save our strength for the last trial.
I remember that hour very well, for in the nervous excitement of it
every little thing impressed itself upon my mind. I remember even the
shape of the clouds that floated over us, remnants of the storm of the
previous night. One was like a castle with a broken-down turret showing
a staircase within; another had a fantastic resemblance to a wrecked
ship with a hole in her starboard bow, two of her masts broken and one
standing with some fragments of sails flapping from it, and so forth.
Then there was the general aspect of the great lake, especially at a
spot where two currents met, causing little waves which seemed to fight
with each other and fall backwards in curious curves. Also there were
shoals of small fish, something like chub in shape, with round mouths
and very white stomachs, which suddenly appeared upon the surface,
jumping at invisible flies. These attracted a number of birds that
resembled gulls of a light build. They had coal-black heads, white
backs, greyish wings, and slightly webbed feet, pink as coral, with
which they seized the small fish, uttering as they did so, a peculiar
and plaintive cry that ended in a long-drawn _e-e-é_. The father of the
flock, whose head seemed to be white like his back, perhaps from age,
hung above them, not troubling to fish himself, but from time to
time forcing one of the company to drop what he had caught, which he
retrieved before it reached the water. Such are some of the small things
that come back to me, though there were others too numerous and trivial
to mention.
When the breeze failed us at last we were perhaps something over three
miles from the shore, or rather from the great bed of reeds which at
this spot grow in the shallows off the Mazitu coast to a breadth of
seven or eight hundred yards, where the water becomes too deep for them.
The Pongos were then about a mile and a half behind. But as the wind
favoured them for a few minutes more and, having plenty of hands, they
could help themselves on by paddling, when at last it died to a complete
calm, the distance between us was not more than one mile. This meant
that they must cover four miles of water, while we covered three.
Letting down our now useless sail and throwing it and the mast overboard
to lighten the canoe, since the sky showed us that there was no more
hope of wind, we began to paddle as hard as we could. Fortunately the
two ladies were able to take their share in this exercise, since they
had learned it upon the Lake of the Flower, where it seemed they kept
a private canoe upon the other side of the island which was used for
fishing. Hans, who was still weak, we set to steer with a paddle aft,
which he did in a somewhat erratic fashion.
A stern chase is proverbially a long chase, but still the enemy with
their skilled rowers came up fast. When we were a mile from the reeds
they were within half a mile of us, and as we tired the proportion of
distance lessened. When we were two hundred yards from the reeds they
were not more than fifty or sixty yards behind, and then the real
struggle began.
It was short but terrible. We threw everything we could overboard,
including the ballast stones at the bottom of the canoe and the heavy
hide of the gorilla. This, as it proved, was fortunate, since the thing
sank but slowly and the foremost Pongo boats halted a minute to recover
so precious a relic, checking the others behind them, a circumstance
that helped us by twenty or thirty yards.
“Over with the plant!” I said.
But Stephen, looking quite old from exhaustion and with the sweat
streaming from him as he laboured at his unaccustomed paddle, gasped:
“For Heaven’s sake, no, after all we have gone through to get it.”
So I didn’t insist; indeed there was neither time nor breath for
argument.
Now we were in the reeds, for thanks to the flag which guided us, we had
struck the big hippopotamus lane exactly, and the Pongos, paddling
like demons, were about thirty yards behind. Thankful was I that those
interesting people had never learned the use of bows and arrows, and
that their spears were too heavy to throw. By now, or rather some time
before, old Babemba and the Mazitu had seen us, as had our Zulu hunters.
Crowds of them were wading through the shallows towards us, yelling
encouragements as they came. The Zulus, too, opened a rather wild fire,
with the result that one of the bullets struck our canoe and another
touched the brim of my hat. A third, however, killed a Pongo, which
caused some confusion in the ranks of Tusculum.
But we were done and they came on remorselessly. When their leading boat
was not more than ten yards from us and we were perhaps two hundred from
the shore, I drove my paddle downwards and finding that the water was
less than four feet deep, shouted:
“Overboard, all, and wade. It’s our last chance!”
We scrambled out of that canoe the prow of which, as I left it the last,
I pushed round across the water-lane to obstruct those of the Pongo. Now
I think all would have gone well had it not been for Stephen, who after
he had floundered forward a few paces in the mud, bethought him of his
beloved orchid. Not only did he return to try to rescue it, he also
actually persuaded his friend Mavovo to accompany him. They got back to
the boat and began to lift the plant out when the Pongo fell upon them,
striking at them with their spears over the width of our canoe. Mavovo
struck back with the weapon he had taken from the Pongo sentry at the
cave mouth, and killed or wounded one of them. Then some one hurled
a ballast stone at him which caught him on the side of the head and
knocked him down into the water, whence he rose and reeled back, almost
senseless, till some of our people got hold of him and dragged him to
the shore.
So Stephen was left alone, dragging at the great orchid, till a Pongo
reaching over the canoe drove a spear through his shoulder. He let go of
the orchid because he must and tried to retreat. Too late! Half a dozen
or more of the Pongo pushed themselves between the stern or bow of our
canoe and the reeds, and waded forward to kill him. I could not help,
for to tell the truth at the moment I was stuck in a mud-hole made by
the hoof of a hippopotamus, while the Zulu hunters and the Mazitu were
as yet too far off. Surely he must have died had it not been for the
courage of the girl Hope, who, while wading shorewards a little in front
of me, had turned and seen his plight. Back she came, literally bounding
through the water like a leopard whose cubs are in danger.
Reaching Stephen before the Pongo she thrust herself between him and
them and proceeded to address them with the utmost vigour in their own
language, which of course she had learned from those of the albinos who
were not mutes.
What she said I could not exactly catch because of the shouts of the
advancing Mazitu. I gathered, however, that she was anathematizing them
in the words of some old and potent curse that was only used by the
guardians of the Holy Flower, which consigned them, body and spirit,
to a dreadful doom. The effect of this malediction, which by the way
neither the young lady nor her mother would repeat to me afterwards, was
certainly remarkable. Those men who heard it, among them the would-be
slayers of Stephen, stayed their hands and even inclined their heads
towards the young priestess, as though in reverence or deprecation, and
thus remained for sufficient time for her to lead the wounded Stephen
out of danger. This she did wading backwards by his side and keeping her
eyes fixed full upon the Pongo. It was perhaps the most curious rescue
that I ever saw.
The Holy Flower, I should add, they recaptured and carried off, for I
saw it departing in one of their canoes. That was the end of my orchid
hunt and of the money which I hoped to make by the sale of this floral
treasure. I wonder what became of it. I have good reason to believe that
it was never replanted on the Island of the Flower, so perhaps it was
borne back to the dim and unknown land in the depths of Africa whence
the Pongo are supposed to have brought it when they migrated.
After this incident of the wounding and the rescue of Stephen by the
intrepid Miss Hope, whose interest in him was already strong enough
to induce her to risk her life upon his behalf, all we fugitives were
dragged ashore somehow by our friends. Here, Hans, I and the ladies
collapsed exhausted, though Brother John still found sufficient strength
to do what he could for the injured Stephen and Mavovo.
Then the Battle of the Reeds began, and a fierce fray it was. The Pongos
who were about equal in numbers to our people, came on furiously, for
they were mad at the death of their god with his priest, the Motombo,
of which I think news had reached them and at the carrying off of the
Mother of the Flower. Springing from their canoes because the waterway
was too narrow for more than one of these to travel at a time, they
plunged into the reeds with the intention of wading ashore. Here their
hereditary enemies, the Mazitu, attacked them under the command of old
Babemba. The struggle that ensued partook more of the nature of a series
of hand-to-hand fights than of a set battle. It was extraordinary to see
the heads of the combatants moving among the reeds as they stabbed at
each other with the great spears, till one went down. There were few
wounded in that fray, for those who fell sank in the mud and water and
were drowned.
On the whole the Pongo, who were operating in what was almost their
native element, were getting the best of it, and driving the Mazitu
back. But what decided the day against them were the guns of our Zulu
hunters. Although I could not lift a rifle myself I managed to collect
these men round me and to direct their fire, which proved so terrifying
to the Pongos that after ten or a dozen of them had been knocked over,
they began to give back sullenly and were helped into their canoes by
those men who were left in charge of them.
Then at length at a signal they got out their paddles, and, still
shouting curses and defiance at us, rowed away till they became but
specks upon the bosom of the great lake and vanished.
Two of the canoes we captured, however, and with them six or seven
Pongos. These the Mazitu wished to put to death, but at the bidding
of Brother John, whose orders, it will be remembered, had the same
authority in Mazitu-land as those of the king, they bound their arms and
made them prisoners instead.
In about half an hour it was all over, but of the rest of that day I
cannot write, as I think I fainted from utter exhaustion, which was not,
perhaps, wonderful, considering all that we had undergone in the four
and a half days that had elapsed since we first embarked upon the Great
Lake. For constant strain, physical and mental, I recall no such four
days during the whole of my adventurous life. It was indeed wonderful
that we came through them alive.
The last thing I remember was the appearance of Sammy, looking very
smart, in his blue cotton smock, who, now that the fighting was over,
emerged like a butterfly when the sun shines after rain.
“Oh! Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “I welcome you home again after arduous
exertions and looking into the eyes of bloody war. All the days of
absence, and a good part of the nights, too, while the mosquitoes hunted
slumber, I prayed for your safety like one o’clock, and perhaps, Mr.
Quatermain, that helped to do the trick, for what says poet? Those who
serve and wait are almost as good as those who cook dinner.”
Such were the words which reached and, oddly enough, impressed
themselves upon my darkening brain. Or rather they were part of the
words, excerpts from a long speech that there is no doubt Sammy had
carefully prepared during our absence.