_The Fate Awaiting Mr. Vancouver. We Play a Trick on the Natives. My
Nerves Give Way. A Ghastly Hint from Christopher. A Perilous Place._
THE drenching, thunder-ridden storm was so favoring that I determined
to investigate Mr. Vancouver’s circumstances, and, if possible,
ascertain the plans focusing in him; for since the discovery of Beela’s
sex, her horror and timidity concerning those intentions were explained.
I must now take the lead, since the work was not fitted to a woman.
No guards were outside Mr. Vancouver’s hut when we arrived, and the
wetting of the ground silenced our footfalls. My impulse was to enter,
and cautiously ascertain the truth; but I realized that the risk was
great. In creeping round the hut we overheard two native men talking
near the rear wall.
“Hush!” continued one of the voices. “He is groaning again, and may
wake.”
In a little while the other remarked, “He is asleep. What were you
telling me?”
“The king is very uneasy. The people all know that the white man is
here.”
“Is there dry wood?”
“Yes. It is stored in a thatch hut on the east side of the clearing. The
people are clamoring for the white man to be taken to the stone.”
“That can’t be done while the storm rages.”
“No; but the first hurricane never lasts long. The king has promised
Gato that the white man shall be sent to the fire as soon as this storm
passes. That may be tomorrow.”
“Does the white man suspect?”
“Undoubtedly. He frets and groans.”
“What are these stories about the Black Face?”
“The scouts sent by Gato say that it looks more ferocious than ever.”
“Does the king realize that the people will rise unless he consents to
the offering?”
“I don’t know. He is silent and deeply troubled. Danger stops any
direction that he can take. But Gato is ready.”
A horror that I felt rather than understood came over me, and, fearing
that I should betray our presence by some rash act, I was creeping away,
when I discovered that Christopher, moving similarly, had started before
me. Every tree-branch was a tempting club with which to break a savage
head and free the prisoner.
Instead of returning to our hut, we went to the summit of the wall
enclosing our valley. Clearly Christopher required no explanation to
understand my purpose. With slow, sure caution we took an eastwardly
course, parallel with the brink of the precipice and at a safe distance
from any men that might be patrolling it. From time to time we would
stop, creep nearer the edge, make a careful inspection, return in
silence, and go on. The violence of the storm abated somewhat, thus
making our progress swifter, but more risky.
With true instinct Christopher went straight to what we had been
seeking,--the opening in the forest on the top of the wall fronting the
Face. The clear space was smooth, level rock. One segment of the nearly
circular opening was cut off by the sheer drop of the precipice. Near
that edge was an exquisitely built circular stone platform some four
feet high and ten in diameter. As we worked round for a nearer view, we
discovered on its top old marks of fire which the rains had not washed
off. I recognized it as the object that I had seen from the valley,
opposite the Face. There was a moon, but only a faint glow from it
filtered through the clouds; occasional flashes of lightning gave us
clearer seeing. The air was stifling.
We edged nearer to the cliff, and stood peering across the valley as we
waited for light. It came, and revealed the Face. The sodden, sordid,
worse than bestial mask, more repulsive than ever in the gloom of
the storm, held its gaze fixed upon us. We were upon the scene of the
unthinkable tragedy awaiting Mr. Vancouver.
We circled the eastern edge of the clearing. Soon we found a squat
structure of thatch, half hidden in the edge of the forest. It was
filled with neatly piled firewood. No surprise showed in Christopher’s
face.
After further exploration of the vicinity, and satisfied that the place
was unguarded, we loaded ourselves with wood from the hut, and plunged
into the thicket. A short distance away I had discovered a deep cleft.
We threw our loads into it; the fall was long before the sound came from
the bottom. Thus, after many trips, we disposed of all the fuel, and
hastened back to our hut for sleep. The night was far gone.
The storm broke afresh, and I lay sleepless, and listened to the
elemental furies at play. Every nerve ached, and sleep was a sore need.
Contingencies riding the hurricane would likely offer still heavier work
for tomorrow. Whatever innocent pranks Beela might indulge, her
profound seriousness and her appreciation of the dangerous risks in this
undertaking were genuine.
With the swirl and dash of the rain came the roar of the tearing wind
and the mighty bellow of thunder. Flash, peal, and boom rended the
firmament. Our cabin braced itself and strained under the tug, as though
digging its claws into the ground to hold firm. Large trees on the slope
behind us fell crashing.
This was more than a hurricane: it was a tornado; perhaps worse yet,
a typhoon. Many ships ride out the worst of these; but mentally I saw
brown men being told off to man the promontories of the bight, and
to watch for staggering, heart-broken specks on the sea as the wind
following the hurricane urged them on slowly to a pleasant beach, five
hundred swordsmen, an oily savage king and a feast, and a march over
the mountain to a guarded paradise; thence to be “sent away” to their
homes--their eternal homes--one at a time! one at a time! So far as
civilization had reached, it had strangled an unspeakable practice in
these seas.
Not even the churn of the storm in my veins could check the cold that
ran in my blood. Was the father of Annabel to be only the first? Were we
waiting as fattening hogs, instead of being out and afield, fighting a
way to liberty, and dying, if we must, as men should?...
I found myself off the pallet and rolling on the floor.
“Christopher?” I called, staggering to my feet.
“Sir?”
I knew by the nearness of his voice that he was already beside me, but
invisible in the blackness.
“Light the lamp. We are going to dress.”
He obeyed without a word. I was feverishly rummaging for my clothes.
“There, sir,” he said, pointing to my moccasins, but neglecting to fetch
them to me.
I had forgotten that my dress was Senatra and that moccasins were the
only part of it I had removed. I made a blundering affair of putting
them on, for the clutch of my hand was shaped better for a bludgeon just
then. Christopher was observing me with a mild, exasperating patience.
“Put yours on,” I roughly commanded.
He made still denser the stupidity in his stare, and stood still.
“Hurry!” I cried.
“Sir?”
“Hurry, I say! You are going too.”
“Me?”
“Yes! We are going to take Mr. Vancouver away from those beasts.”
Without a change of expression he made a pretense of preparation. In
doing so, he edged up to the barred door, placed his wide back against
it, and calmly faced me.
“What do you mean by that?” I demanded in a fury.
“Sir?”
“Stand aside, Christopher!”
“Me, sir?”
In exasperation I seized the copper vessel and advanced upon him. Not a
muscle of his body moved; his ape-like arms hung loose; his hands were
open. But it was not his defenselessness that stayed me. Far more potent
was the deep devotion in his eyes, which held a profounder sadness than
usual. It was a dash of cold water on my heat, but not my determination.
In all kindness I would reason with him.
“Christopher,” I asked, “do you know what they are going to do with Mr.
Vancouver?”
He omitted his formula, and simply gazed at me.
Then I told him, in raw, sore words. It was the first time they had been
spoken by a member of the colony.
I was astonished at his placidity on hearing them.
“Do you understand?” I had to thunder the question above the outer din.
But he was listening to sounds that the storm did not make. I waited
impatiently.
“They won’t him, sir, if they get you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re younger ‘n’ fatter.”
Like most other of Christopher’s remarks, this one dealt in a conclusive
terminal, omitting postulate and explication; but I understood. He
had told a long and dramatic story in those halting words--our blind
assault, our being beaten down and secured, and then the awful end. I
wondered at that, and longed for the power to see into the working of
his strangely luminous mind, its far light behind its frontal darkness.
“And there ain’t no dry wood, sir.”
The last of the ice in my blood broke and ran melting before him. I was
very tired, and found myself shifting on my feet like a drunken man.
Tongues of flame began to slip through the hut and dart hither and
thither with curious dips and turns. Some of them were purple, but the
most were crimson. A luminous vapor crept in. The boom of a waterfall
rumbled; and then came a crashing subterranean detonation. Christopher
was a gigantic ape floundering in a drowning sea of steam.
“Christopher!” I cried, trying to catch the wall as it swung past.
A firm, gentle arm went round me--an arm of a strength so great that
my most desperate struggles could not break its hold, yet I was a very
strong man. Slowly I was borne down on my pallet, and a thin, soothing
voice came with a hand that tenderly closed my eyes and held the lids
down. My breathing came easier.
*****
It was daylight, and Christopher was standing in the open door, looking
out. The rain had ceased, but the morning brightness was smothered under
the overhead lowering. The pleasant odor of coffee perfumed the hut.
Without appearing to notice my waking, Christopher served my breakfast,
but said nothing. A dull lassitude made the straw bed more inviting than
my feet.
Beela’s cheery good-morning an hour later was checked in alarm when she
entered and found me prone; but her electric vitality palpitated through
me and brought me smiling to a sitting posture. Her inquiring look
at Christopher read nothing in the bland face. A shadow of uneasiness
drifted through her eyes, but she drove it away.
“Good!” she said. “I’m glad you are resting. Lie down again.” She
dropped to a seat beside me on the straw, and pushed my head down.
“That’s better,--Choseph.” Her hand was on my forehead.
“Joseph,” I insisted.
“You don’t like the way I talk, Ch--Dzhoseph?” banteringly, stealing sly
hands to mine and pretending to stare mockingly at me while peering into
my eyes.
“Very well, Beelo. Did you square yourself with the king and have a good
rest last night?”
“Of course. Do you think any king------”
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“Trying to see if I’m sick. Even though I were dead, your coming would
bring me to life.”
“My! Did you hear that, Christopher?”
The sensible man did not answer, nor even look at her. She made a mouth
at his back, withdrew her hand, and edged away a few inches. Had I made
a slip after that confidence and caution from Lentala? I roused myself.
“What’s the news, little brother? What game and what killing today?”
Her face fell grave. “Something has happened with you since I saw you
last night, Choseph.”
I told her all, and she held her breath over the audacity of our work.
“I--I shouldn’t have dared to suggest it,” she said with charming
helplessness as she gave Christopher and me a look of wondering
admiration. “It was splendid, Choseph!” Her dear leaning girlishness, so
natural and unconscious, started a tumult in me, and it was hard for
me to keep the deception of her sex at work. “Now,” she went on, “Mr.
Vancouver is safe so long as the weather is bad; and when it clears,
time will be needed to gather dry wood. We’ll do nothing for the
present.”
“But we must be ready,” I firmly protested, sitting up. “This matter is
in my hands and Christopher’s now, not yours, my lad, for this is work
that only men can plan and do.”
The timidity in her look was new, but not less charming than her
surrender.
“What are you going to do, Choseph?” she inquired with a mocking
exaggeration of a helpless reliance that was quite genuine.
“We shall be ready to take Mr. Vancouver by stealth or force the moment
that actual danger comes near him. We will bring him to this hut and
hide him here. But a man from the colony will be needed to guard him. I
am going immediately to bring one out for that purpose.”
Her eyes kindled with alarm. “No, no, Choseph! That would be impossible.
You couldn’t find the way nor pass the guard. I will go.” Argument and
persuasion were equally useless; she knew when to be firm. “I will
go,” was her answer to everything, and she came to her feet. “You and
Christopher come with me to the summit of the wall, and there you’ll
hide near the guard, and wait. I’ll bring the man nearly to the place
and send him ahead, and give you a signal. You must trick the guard out
of the way, and meet him; I will follow. It would ruin everything for me
to be seen.”
I agreed, and told her to bring Hobart.
“Beelo,” I said, “you understand that we have accomplished one of the
tasks for which you brought us out of the valley, and in doing so have
learned the fate awaiting our colony.”
Her face at once grew pinched. “Don’t speak of it, Choseph!” she cried.
“I don’t know whether you have or not, and I don’t know what is in your
mind. Simply think of saving Mr. Vancouver.”
“Of course, dear lad,” I agreed; “but we must be planning also for means
to leave the island, since only something awful awaits us here. You
must tell me all that I should know. I won’t dance any longer to your
mysteries and concealments.”
It was as though I had struck her. She stared, her eyes flooding, her
lips trembling.
“Choseph,” she answered, “there are things that you must see and
hear for yourself, and they will come tonight and tomorrow. I’ll take
you----”
“I must know now,” I demanded, not realizing the harshness of my tone.
“Choseph, I----”
“Did you speak to me, sir?” came from Christopher, standing behind her.
“No, Christopher. We’ll wait, dear little brother.” The sunshine came
swimming into her eyes again, and she made a grimace of triumph in which
was an understanding that Christopher had disciplined me.
“You’ll be good now, won’t you, Choseph?” It was said in her most
teasing manner, and I smiled.
We started under an angry sky through which heavy cloud-masses tumbled.
It was a cautious journey. The very air seemed filled with expectancy.
On the way we formulated a plan for tricking the guard.
In approaching the point of egress from the valley, Beela practiced the
slyness of a lynx and the silence of a serpent. Every step was studied
lest a twig snap; the leaves on the ground had been softened by the
rain. Presently we sighted the guard--a draggled lot, unused to exposure
and dispirited by the weather. There Beela left us in hiding. I now
understood the perils that she had breasted in every trip to the valley.
If they were so difficult under these conditions, how much more they
must have been when fair weather made the guard alert and the ground
noisy under foot!
Beela was to warn us of Hobart’s coming by giving a certain bird-call
thrice. Christopher’s answering signal would be notice to Beela that
Hobart was safe.
The savages, not twenty paces away--at least two dozen stalwart
men--were variously squatting, sitting, and lounging. They were in a
compact group, and were talking in low voices, but with an animation
unusual to the race. I motioned Christopher to follow, and we crept
nearer.
Some important news had just been brought by the relief guard.
“And so the king isn’t going to wait for night,” said one, as though the
news was surprising.
“That is true,” came the answer. “He fears that the ground will shake
at any time. Besides, the storm will likely come again tonight, and the
great fire would be impossible then.”