A TREMENDOUS snow-storm fell upon the mine and drove Jem into his
tent, where he was soon after joined by Jacky, a circumstance in
itself sufficient to prove the violence of the storm, for Jacky loathed
indoors, it choked him a good deal.
The more was Jem surprised when he heard a lamentable howl coming nearer
and nearer, and a woman burst into his tent, a mere pillar of snow, for
she was covered with a thousand flakes each as big as a lady's hand.
“Ochone! ochone! ochone!” cried Mary McDogherty, and, on being asked
what was the matter, she sat down and rocked herself and moaned and
cried, “Ochone--och, captain, avick, what will I do for you? an' who
will I find to save you? an' oh, it is the warm heart and the kind heart
ye had to poor Molly McDogherty that ud give her life to save yours this
day.”
“The captain,” cried Jem, in great alarm. “What is wrong with the
captain?”
“He is lying could and stiff in the dark, bloody wood. Och, the
murthering villains! och, what will I do at all! och, captain, avick,
warm was your heart to the poor Irish boys, but it is could now. Ochone!
ochone!”
“Woman,” cried Jem, in great agitation, “leave off blubbering and tell
me what is the matter.”
Thus blandly interrogated, Mary told him a story (often interrupted with
tears and sighs) of what had been heard and seen yester eve by one of
the Irish boys--a story that turned him cold, for it left on him the
same impression it had left on the warmhearted Irishwoman, that at this
moment his good friend was lying dead in the bush hard by.
He rose and loaded Robinson's double-barreled gun; he loaded it with
bullets, and, as he rammed them fiercely down, he said angrily: “Leave
off crying and wringing your hands; what on earth is the use of that?
here goes to save him or to revenge him.”
“An' och, James, take the wild Ingine wid ye; they know them bloody,
murthering woods better than our boys, glory be to God for taching them
that same.”
“Of course I shall take him. You hear, Jacky, will you show me how to
find the poor dear captain and his mate if they are in life?”
“If they are alive, Jacky will find them a good deal soon--if they are
dead, still Jacky will find them.”
The Irishwoman's sorrow burst out afresh at these words. The savage then
admitted the probability of that she dreaded.
“And their enemies--the cowardly villains--what will you do to them?”
asked Jem, black with rage.
Jacky's answer made Mary scream with affright, and startled even Jem's
iron nerves for a moment. At the very first word of the Irishwoman's
story, the savage had seated himself on the ground with his back turned
to the others, and, unnoticed by them, had rapidly painted his face with
the war-paint of his tribe. Words cannot describe the ghastly terrors,
the fiendish ferocity these traditional lines and colors gave his
countenance. This creature, that looked so like a fiend, came erect into
the middle of the tent with a single bound, as if that moment vomited
forth by hell, and yet with a grander carriage and princelier presence
than he had worn in time of peace; and even as he bounded he crossed
his tomahawk and narrow wooden shield, to signify that his answer was no
vulgar asseveration, but a vow of sacred war.
“KALINGALUNGA WILL KILL THEM, AND DRINK THEIR BLOOD.”
Kalingalunga glided from the tent. Jem followed him. The snow fell in
flakes as large as a lady's hand, and the air was dark; Jem could not
see where the hunter was taking him, but he strode after him and trusted
to his sagacity.
Five hours' hard walking, and then the snow left off. The air became
clear, and to Jem's surprise the bush, instead of being on his right
hand, was now on his left; and there on its skirts, about a mile off,
was the native camp. They had hardly come in sight of it when it was
seen to break from quietude into extraordinary bustle.
“What is up?” asked Jem.
The hunter smiled, and pointed to his own face:
“Kalingalunga painted war.”
“What eyes the beggars must have,” said Jem.
The next minute a score of black figures came tearing up in such
excitement that their long rows of white teeth and the whites of their
eyes flashed like Budelights in their black heads.
Kalingalunga soon calmed them down by letting them know that he was
painted for a private, not a national feud. He gave them no further
information. I suspect he was too keen a sportsman to put others on the
scent of his game. He went all through the camp, and ascertained from
the stragglers that no men answering the description of George and
Robinson had passed out of the wood.
“They are in the wood,” said he
He then ordered a great fire--bade Jem dry his clothes and eat; he
collected two of his wives and committed Jem to their care, and glided
like a panther into the wood.
What with the great heat succeeding to the great cold, and the great
supper the gins gave him, Jem fell fast asleep. It was near daylight
when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and there was Kalingalunga.
“Not a track on the snow.”
“No? then let us hope they are not in the wood.”
The hunter hung his head.
“Me tink they are in the wood,” said he, gravely.
Jem groaned, “Then they are lying under the soil of it or in some dark
pit.”
Kalingalunga reflected. He replied to this effect:
“That there were no more traces of an assassin than of victims,
consequently that it was impossible to know anything, and that it was a
good deal too stupid to speak a good deal knowing nothing.”
All this time Jem's fear and rage and impatience contrasted greatly with
the philosophic phlegm of the Pict, who looked so fierce and took it all
so cool, ending with an announcement that now Kalingalunga would sleep a
good deal.
The chief was soon asleep, but not till he had ordered his gins to wake
him the moment the snow should be melted. This occurred at noon, and,
after snatching a hasty meal, he put a tomahawk into Jem's hands and
darted into the bush.
All the savage's coldness disappeared now he was at work. He took Jem
right across the wood from southeast to northwest. Nothing stopped him.
When the scrub was thick above but hollow below he threw himself on his
belly and wriggled along like a snake. When it was all thick, he hacked
into it with fury and forced a path. When it was impenetrable he went
round it, and by some wonderful instinct got into the same line again.
Thus they cut clean across the wood but found no tracks.
Then the savage, being out in the open, trotted easily down the woodside
to the southwest point; here he entered and took a line straight as an
arrow to the northeast.
It was about five in the afternoon. Kalingalunga was bleeding all over
with scratches, and Jem was torn to pieces and done up. He was just
about to tell the other that he must give in, when Kalingalunga suddenly
stopped, and pointed to the ground:
“Track!”
“What of?”
“A white man's shoe.”
“How many are there?”
“One.”
Jem sighed.
“I doubt it is a bad job, Jacky,” said he.
“Follow--not too close,” was the low reply.
And the panther became a serpent, so smooth and undulating were the
motions with which he glided upon the track he had now discovered.
Jem, well aware that he could not move noiselessly like the savage,
obeyed him and crept after at some distance.
The savage had followed the man's footsteps about half a mile, and
the white man the savage, when suddenly both were diverted from their
purpose. Kalingalunga stood still and beckoned Jem. Jem ran to him, and
found him standing snuffing the air with his great broad nostrils, like
a stag.
“What is it?”
“White fellow burn wambiloa wood.”
“How d'ye know? how d'ye know?”
“Wambiloa wood smell a good way off when him burn.”
“And how do you know it is a white man?”
“Black fellow never burn wambiloa wood; not good to burn that. Keep it
for milmeridien.”
The chief now cut off a few of his long hairs and held them up to
ascertain the exact direction of the wind. This done, he barked a tree
to mark the spot to which he had followed the trail, and striking out
into quite a different direction he hunted by scent.
Jem expected to come on the burning wambiloa very soon, but he
underrated either the savage's keen scent or the acrid odor of the
sacred wood--perhaps both. They had gone half a mile at least before his
companion thought it necessary to show any caution. At last he stopped
short, and then Jem smelled a smell as if “cinnamon and ginger, nutmegs
and cloves,” were all blazing in one bonfire. With some difficulty he
was prevailed on to stand still and let the subtle native creep on, nor
would he consent to be inactive until the other solemnly vowed to
come back for him and give him his full share of the fighting. Then
Kalingalunga went gliding like a shadow and flitted from tree to tree.
Woe be to the enemy the subtle, noiseless, pitiless, remorseless savage
surprises; he has not put on his war-paint in sport or for barren show.