THE BOARDING OF THE KABUNDA
It was a hot and steamy night when trader Redmond sat with his comrade
Gilby in an upper room of their factory perched above a beach swept by
smoking surf, which was even heavier than usual that night. The factory
was not a desirable residence, even for West Africa, where there are not
many places where a fastidious white man would care to live; but neither
Redmond nor his comrade was particular, and so long as they could make a
good percentage on the factory's turnover, they disregarded the dirt,
smells, and insect legions. Redmond was pale and round-shouldered; Gilby
lank and tall; and their speech was usually vivid and their tempers
quick.
Redmond strolled toward the window and swore at the surf. He had some
justification, for the whole heave of the southern ocean hurled itself
thundering upon the hammered beach. The factory windows rattled as each
breaker dissolved into long sheets of foam which surged far up the
trembling sand, while the steamy haze of spray veiled almost to its
summit the lofty bluff behind the edifice.
"No use lighting the signal fire. There's not a surf-boat on the coast
could run a load of produce through. The _Kabunda_ can either blow her
whistle off or go on again," he said. "It's even too bad to venture off
light, and screw an odd bottle of liquor out of her purser."
"It always is when the markets are rising and we have cargo waiting,"
grumbled Gilby. "As to the liquor, you can go yourself if you want it.
I'm not over-keen on playing that game with the _Kabunda_'s new factotum
again. It takes a good deal to stir me, but that man has no sense of
humor, and was positively insulting. 'No cargo in your confounded boat?'
growls he. 'Well, the next time you stop this mailboat just because
you're thirsty, we'll heave you over the rail!'"
Redmond chuckled dryly. The steamboat officials who ply along that coast
have a good deal to ruffle them; and it is exasperating for the master
of a steamer, attracted by flag or fire signal, to anchor off a
dangerous beach expecting several boat-loads of cargo at least, and then
discover that the shipper desires only a piece of ice or gratis liquor.
"Better wait for the old _Luala_. She's the canteen ship. Still, we'll
sit up until we hear the _Kabunda_'s whistle. It sounds homelike," he
said.
Gilby nodded approval, for the coast-hunting steamers were the only link
connecting the two lonely men with civilization, and there were times
when they acquired a childish fear of losing all touch with it.
Redmond sat smoking in silence, while Gilby listlessly turned over an
old English newspaper, and huge brown cockroaches crawled up and down
the mildewed walls.
"Hallo!" Redmond exclaimed suddenly. "There's a man with boots on
crossing the compound. Who, by all that's wonderful, can it be?"
"The Frenchman from Swamp Creek, looking for drinks," suggested Gilby.
"Guyot's dying of fever this time, sure, his nigger said. There's no
other white man within marching distance; but whoever it is is coming up
the stairs!"
Projected against the darkness outside, a strange, bedraggled figure
stood in the door. The man's hair was wet and long, the half-closed eyes
beneath it glittered feverishly, and the bones of the haggard face
showed through the pallid skin. Thorn-rent rags barely decently covered
the bony limbs beneath them, and the mire of many a league of swamp
clung about him to the knees. Behind loomed the figure of a negro
leaning on a rifle.
Moving unevenly, the stranger advanced into the room, and Redmond
positively recoiled before him.
"Who in the name of perdition are you, and where do you come from?" he
gasped.
The newcomer, instead of answering the question, caught at the table as
he asked another:
"What day of the month is this, and have they changed the homeward
mailboat's time bill?"
"The tenth, and the _Kabunda_ should pass to-night," said Gilby, staring
blankly at him.
"Thank heaven!" was the response. "I am just in time! You ought to know
me. I am Maxwell, and have been prospecting for Niven's gold beyond the
Leopards' country."
"Good Lord!" broke from Redmond. "Stir round, Gilby, instead of gaping
there! Fetch out some whisky, and kick up the steward boy! Can't you see
there's a white man starving? Sit down before you fall over, Mr.
Maxwell."
Maxwell gulped down a draught of the spirit forced upon him, and sank
into the chair his host dragged forward, while there was a crash and a
howl on the veranda where Gilby fell over the sleeping steward boy.
"He means well, but can't help having been born clumsy," said the trader
apologetically. "Lie right back there, and don't talk until you've
eaten. Oh, I see--brought a nigger with you. Tell the cook to stuff the
black man, Gilby."
When food was set before him, Maxwell ate ravenously; then leaning
forward in his chair, he looked at his hosts.
"I must thank you for your kindness, and ask another favor," he said.
"It is of vital consequence that I should catch the _Kabunda_ to-night.
I will pay up to twenty pounds for a passage off to her."
The pair stared at him, and there was a sceptical smile on Gilby's lips.
It was clear that he doubted the ragged adventurer's ability to redeem
his promise.
"It can't be done," declared Redmond. "Our surf-boat has a plank badly
split; and if she hadn't there's not a man on all this coast could run
you off to-night."
"Nevertheless, if you will listen a few minutes, and treat what I tell
you in strict confidence, I think one of you will," said Maxwell,
determining to trust them in part.
As he told the story, the incredulous smile faded from the faces of his
listeners.
"You can understand the necessity for my desperate hurry now," he
concluded. "My partner is left alone, save for a handful of sickly
niggers, with the bushmen coming down, and his life may depend upon my
catching that steamer. I will leave this packet of gold dust, which I
had intended to use for traveling expenses, as the price of my passage."
Redmond opened the leather bag tendered him, and Gilby dropped acid upon
part of its contents. Then there was silence, until Redmond spoke with a
naive directness which called up the faintest flicker of amusement into
Maxwell's eyes.
"It is quite genuine, and we believe you. Rideau's a hard case, and we'd
stake a good deal to get even with him after a certain game he played
us; but our folks at home are so confoundedly particular, and you
wouldn't find an agent on the coast willing to speculate in mines beyond
Shaillu's country. You see, if you let us in, the auditors would set off
the sum against our salary. Steady; I haven't quite finished yet. We're
not fastidious, either of us, but we haven't come down to screwing money
out of a countryman's necessity; so we're open to do the best we can for
you. Now take back your gold, and be hanged to you!"
"My sentiments, too!" nodded Gilby. "Redmond can talk sensibly when he
likes. It looks uncommonly like suicide, but as my place down under
can't be much worse than this one, I'm open to chance drowning with you.
I'll go out, and fill my boat boys up with trade gin now. They're
tolerably daring beggars, but they'd never face it sober."
An hour later Maxwell and the two traders stood upon the roaring beach
amidst a crowd of black men. Steamy spray whirled about them, and veiled
half the palm-crowned bluff from whose summit a crimson flame leaped up;
and each time the white haze thinned, two lights reeled wildly through
the blackness out at sea. Between these and the beach a succession of
great rollers reared their crests of phosphorescent flame, and the hoot
of the steamer's whistle was but faintly audible through the roar they
made. A picked crew of brawny negroes chattered about the big surf-boat
they held upright on rollers just clear of the surges which raced up the
sand.
"It does not look nice. In fact, I've seldom seen it worse, but we'll
take our chances when those big ones have run in," said Gilby. "Get into
the boat Maxwell, and take care when the rest of us follow in a hurry
that we don't fall over you. Hyah you Krooboy, all be fit and ready!"
Huge breakers usually run in series, and when the last of the larger
ones had crumbled with a thunderous roar, burying the half-mile sweep of
sand in foam from end to end, there was a heaving of muscular shoulders,
and clamorous black men floundered waist-deep through the backwash
dragging at the boat. She was large and heavy, but thirty pairs of
strong hands made light work, and when a dozen amphibious Kroos had
swung themselves on board the rest toiled almost shoulder-deep in
hissing froth while the sand streamed seaward under them. The craft's
stern alone stuck fast, and Redmond shouted himself breathless as he
braced his shoulders beneath her quarter, knowing that unless they could
drive her clear boat and crew would be rolled over together when the
next sea came in.
"Shove, you black imps, shove before them sharks go chop you!" he cried.
They made a last effort, the boat slid clear. Twelve three-tongued
paddles smote the water together, and Redmond watched the craft rise
almost upright with bows buried in froth and seafire as another
majestic breaker came rolling in. Then he turned and raced shoreward for
his life, with an acre of foam close behind him. When he halted again
the surf-boat had vanished into the hollow of the sea, but the howling
of those who paddled her, and the helmsman's sulphurous encouragement,
rising above the roar of waters, betokened her safety.
"Gilby's no fool in a surf-boat, anyway," he mused, as he went back
dripping to the factory.
Another hour had passed when the boat was flung upon the beach with a
crash which rent her damaged plank from end to end; and the soaked white
man who sprang out of her hurried to the factory with his proud display
of two bottles of claret, and one, partly-empty, of liqueur, besides a
piece of ice in flannel, and a cigar box.
"The time was too short, or I might have done better," he explained.
"Had only a few minutes to tax the skipper and mates in, while the old
man wasn't over-pleased about stopping for one passenger. Boat was
half-full when we got alongside, and Maxwell too weak to climb the
ladder. They hove him on board with the crane, wrong side uppermost, and
half-dazed apparently. The boat was plunging wildly, and Sorrowful Tom
too drunk to fix the sling. Taking things all around, it's a mercy we
didn't drown him."
"You're a good man in a boat," Redmond conceded. "Still, you have very
little sense. Fancy making a run of that kind and coming ashore
with--claret!"
* * * * *
While Dane and Maxwell fought the plague in Africa, Lilian Chatterton
and the young clergyman in charge of that parish walked side by side
down the street of a village in North Britain one afternoon. The village
was neither picturesque nor prosperous just then, for there was a
scarcity of work at the quarries, and for weeks together hard frost had
rendered all stone-cutting impossible. A bitter wind sighed about the
low stone houses which rose dripping in unlovely simplicity from the
muddy street, while an air of stolid, uncomplaining poverty was stamped
upon the faces of the men who lounged idly where they could find a
shelter in the lee of a building. Miss Chatterton had not enjoyed good
health that winter, and the surroundings depressed her. Neither did she
find the vista of bleak hillside, snow-streaked moor, and lowering sky
much more cheerful, and she was glad when her companion broke the
silence.
"It is not exhilarating weather, and this has been a hard winter for the
poor," he said. "Unfortunately, we have had rather more of them than
usual with us of late, and the sick would have suffered considerably if
it had not been for your kindness."
"I have done little," Lilian replied; "but they are somewhat hard to
help."
The Reverend Andrew Rae laughed.
"That is the simple truth. We are not an effusive race, and it sometimes
hurts us to receive a favor. Still, though they would rather perish than
express it, I fancy most of them would on opportunity prove their
gratitude. I have been wondering if the worthy Robert Johnstone's
opinions have been too much for you, having noticed that his house, or
rather, his son's house, is the only one in the village you have not
entered. It surprised me, since his daughter used to sew for you, and
has been ailing lately."
"It is some time since Mary Johnstone did any work for me," said Lilian,
and the clergyman wondered at the coldness of her tone.
"She is a very hard-working girl, and as she has been lying helpless for
several weeks, would it not appear unkind if you made her the one
exception? I want you to come in with me now."
Drawing the girl's arm lightly through his own, he marched her up to the
doorway before she quite grasped his intentions, and halted in front of
the man who lounged there regarding them with undisguised hostility. He
was not an attractive person, and did not look like an abstainer from
alcoholic liquor, but just then he was evidently in the more aggressive
humor because, for the time being, he was wholly sober.
"We are coming in for a few minutes to see your daughter," announced
Rae.
The man did not move an inch, and his person barred the entrance.
"Will ye no wait until ye are invitit?" he inquired sardonically.
"Still, if there is anything good in yon basket ye can leave it with
me."
A grimy hand descended into the basket Rae carried and reappeared
clutching the neck of a bottle, while a derisive grin suffused the
speaker's unwashed countenance.
"I'm thinking I'll just keep it with thanks. It's whiles more comforting
than tracts."
The Reverend Andrew Rae had perhaps studied more than theology at a
certain university, for there was a twinkle in his eyes as he laid one
hand on Johnstone's wrist.
"Not so fast!" he said. "That is Miss Chatterton's property, and I did
not hear you ask her permission."
He used no apparent violence, but his fingers tightened steadily, and
Johnstone gasped with astonishment as he relinquished his hold upon the
bottle.
"Am I to be insulted in my own house?" he cried. "Away with ye! A free
man's dwelling is his castle."
"Havers!" exclaimed a voice behind them; and a neatly dressed young man
joined the group. "If it's anybody's castle it's the man's who pays the
rent, and that's more than Rab Johnstone has done for long, I'm
thinking. If ye an' Miss Chatterton are for stepping in to see Mary we'd
take it kindly, sir."
Johnstone senior slouched away down the street, frowning scornfully.
"I am glad to see you have prospered since you took to honest ways,
Jim," Rae said.
"It's small thanks to any one but Mr. Dane. He was no too particular to
help a poor man, ye see."
"Was that it?" asked Rae, a trifle awkwardly. "You are surely not
turning back, Miss Chatterton!"
Lilian was certainly about to retreat; but being a young woman of
spirit, she determined to make the best of it when the man, opening
another door, announced:
"Miss Chatterton an' the minister to see ye, Mary."
She entered the poorly furnished room the next moment, but saw nothing
of its interior, for her eyes were fixed upon the sick girl, who lay on
a dilapidated sofa. Rae noticed the contrast between his companion and
the seamstress. Miss Chatterton was a very dainty figure in costly furs,
and the slight trace of haughtiness became her. The seamstress was pale,
and hollow in face, with the sign of poverty stamped upon her, for the
faded shawl about her shoulders and the little ragged garment told the
same story.
Rae soon became conscious that there was a latent hostility between the
women, and he felt it incumbent on him to break the silence.
"I am glad to see you better," he said; "but you should not work too
soon. You must lie still and recover completely, because there are a
number of customers waiting for you. Mrs. Gordon told me she was keeping
quite a large order back until you were fit to undertake it."
Lilian had been present when, by dint of dogged persistence, the
reverend gentleman had secured a reluctant promise to employ his
protegee, and she wondered whether all his sex, without exception, could
be deluded by a pretty face. She was forced to admit that men of
uncultivated taste might consider Miss Johnstone pretty.
"Poor folk cannot afford to be idle long, an' my wee sisters cannot go
ragged," replied the sick girl. "Still, I'm no complaining. Jim has
helped me bravely, and we're winning through a hard winter well, thanks
to the gentleman who befriended him."
Rae observed that the speaker flashed a glance at Miss Chatterton, whose
face remained icily indifferent. Feeling that the situation was becoming
strained, he turned toward the boy.
"Being away at the time, I never quite got to the bottom of what
preceded your acquittal. Do you mind telling me, Jim?"
"It's no great secret, an' all to the credit of the man who helped me.
Weel, I was locked up, charged with poaching and wounding."
"Innocently, I hope," said Rae; and there was a trace of Caledonian
dryness in Johnstone's reply.
"Ye will mind the saying about speiring no questions and being telt less
lies. Meanwhile two or three others consultit with Lawyer Davidson, and
he said conviction would be certain if Mr. Dane could swear to me.
Otherwise, he suspectit I would go free. Then Mary would see Mr. Dane
for the sake of the bairns. I was sore against it, but they had me
jailed, an' what could I do? Well, she wrote asking him to meet her by
the Hallows Brig, and Mr. Dane e'en promised to do his best for me, an'
tell nobody. May be he could no be quite certain. Ye will mind there was
no moon just then, and the night was thick, Mr. Rae."
"I have heard that no man is expected to testify against himself," said
the reverend gentleman dryly.
"That's what Davidson telt the fiscal," continued Johnstone, with a
laugh. "Says he, 'It's the business o' your witnesses to convict him';
an' I'm no denying that they did their best, all but Mr. Dane. He just
stuck to his story--it was dark, an' while the man he grappled with was
like to me, he could swear to nobody who had just kicked him hard upon
the knee."
Johnstone added further details, and then looked hard at the clergyman,
as though expecting him to take up the challenge when he concluded, "May
be there are folks who lightly Mr. Dane for what he done, but it was him
an' no other who made an honest man of me, forby a promotit foreman home
on a holiday."
"I am not a lawyer," said Rae. "It is therefore not my business to judge
him; and you need not stare at me. I already believed Mr. Dane to be a
kindly gentleman. I am also open to admit that he did more than either
I or my predecessor could accomplish. We are not, however, all friends
of big contractors, you see."
Johnstone grinned in answer to the last thrust, while Lilian felt
thankful that she sat in a shadowy corner, for the simple story which
bore the truth stamped upon the face of it, had stirred her strangely.
The action narrated was characteristic of the man who was risking his
life in Africa. She knew that he was very generous, and could be loyal
to a pledge, even to his disadvantage. It was equally evident that the
young workman with his unconcealed dislike to his benefactor's class
would be very unlikely to shut his eyes to any intrigue between Dane and
his sister. Yet, though Lilian was angry with herself for the thought,
it was possible that the brother might have been deceived, and she felt
that she must learn the truth. The seamstress said nothing, and it
dawned upon Rae that his presence was superfluous; so, making the first
excuse available, he took his departure, and Johnstone with him.