RELIEF
Hilton Dane sat with a fouled rifle across his knees in an angle of the
stockade protecting what had been the hospital camp. It was, however, a
hospital no longer, for some of the sick had recovered, and the rest had
died. Dane considered that he might have saved more of them had he been
more skilled in medicine, but he had done his best according to his
abilities; and none of the poor wretches seemed to blame him. Still,
there were times when he felt like a murderer as some unfortunate
sufferer's eyes turned in his direction, beseeching help, and he could
do nothing but watch him die. They died, for the most part, as
apathetically as they had lived, the heathen with the uncomplaining
stolidity which had carried them through much hardship and cruelty, and
those who followed the prophet testifying that it was Allah's will.
Dane remembered it all that morning as he looked round upon the remnant
left him, for it seemed hardly possible that any would see another day.
When the pestilence relaxed its grip he had resumed the mining, until
the tribesmen hemmed them in. Once the foe tried to storm the camp, and
failed so signally that beyond creeping up and firing into it, they had
not repeated the attempt until the preceding night, when a few succeeded
in passing the defenses. These, however, did not survive very long. On
the other hand, the garrison could not get out, and though they had no
lack of water, one cannot subsist upon fluid alone, and there was very
little else.
The men lay about the stockade with their rusty guns beside them, the
negro, Bad Dollar, filing his matchet, as he did continually. The man
Dane called Monday, however, crouched close beside him. A curious
friendship had sprung up between the two, and they would talk long
together with mutual satisfaction, though neither of them fully
understood his companion.
A ravine cut the camp off from the forest in the rear, and beyond the
front stockade the ground fell steeply to the river. There was forest
across it, but only the tops of the higher trees rose out of the mist
which shrouded all the plain below.
"You tink Cappy Maxwell perhallups come to-day, sah?" asked Monday.
"He will certainly come some day," Dane answered with a cheerfulness he
found it hard to assume. "It would be opportune if he came just now,
especially as he might be too late to-morrow. A miss is rather better
than a mile in the present case, but you let too many of your black
friends get in last night, Monday."
The dusky man, for he was not a negro, looked up at the speaker
doubtfully and shook his head.
"I no savvy all them palaver, sah, but Cappy Maxwell too much fine white
man. All them black boy tink each morning they go look him. Cappy
Maxwell say he lib for heah, and them boy believe him."
Dane glanced at the dejected objects, even then staring down expectantly
into the drifting mist, then at the tally of days that would never be
wholly forgotten which he had scored on a post of the stockade. A
deeper notch marked each seventh, and after many calculations he had
gashed a few across to indicate the probable date of Maxwell's departure
from Little Mahu. The black men did not understand the meaning of those
scores and regarded the making of them as a religious ceremony, but Dane
fancied that Maxwell might understand if he reached the camp too late.
Then, perhaps because he was overwrought, he became conscious of an
extravagant pride in his friend. Those half-naked Africans had waited,
trusting in Maxwell's promise patiently and long, and trusting it
implicitly still. This, it seemed to him, was no small testimony.
"I tink we look Cappy Maxwell one time, sah," Monday began again.
"If he is alive, you will," Dane answered as sturdily. "Stop those boys'
chattering. Something is going on down yonder now."
Monday stood up staring at the mist.
"Them parrot scream, sah, and them monkey talk. I tink them dam bushmen
lib for come back again."
"Then don't let your boys start shooting until they crawl close in,"
Dane answered, with an indifference assumed to reassure the rest "Some
of those fellows can't hit anything with a gun, and you had better keep
a few as a standby in case they come in with a run. Let them wait until
the bushmen lib for climb the stockade, and then split their heads with
the matchets. You understand me?"
Monday apparently did so, for he moved off with a grin which betokened
nothing pleasant for the bushmen; and Dane sat still with his eyes fixed
on the forest. Something was evidently happening, but the mist was
thick, and he could not see into its dim recesses. His few men were worn
down by hunger and continuous watching, and he feared that if the foe
pushed the attack with vigor they would certainly get in. There was no
doubt that the garrison would make a grim last stand if they did, but
that appeared at the best a poor consolation, and Dane became sensible
of a coldly murderous indignation against the bushmen.
There was a crackle of undergrowth far below, then a sound as of men
splashing through the river which ran high and swollen; but Dane was
short of ammunition, and did not consider it advisable to fire blindly
into the mist. He felt himself quivering with suspense. Staring down the
steep face of the bluff, he waited, ready to drive a bullet through the
head of the first assailant who rose out of the vapor. Then the noise
ceased altogether, and the ensuing silence became maddening. How long
this lasted Dane could never tell, but he grew cold and hot by turns as
he waited, until a sound that was wholly unexpected became faintly
audible. It was not the rustle made by the passage of a stealthy foe,
but more resembled the approach of men marching in some order. While the
blood pulsed within him he saw that the camp boys glanced from him to
the vapor under the influence of an overwhelming excitement. But though
the sound came nearer, the mist, which was thicker than ever, still hid
all below, until a negro's head rose out of it, and Dane saw that he
carried a hammock pole. Then a wild shout went up, and Monday's yell
rang through all the rest:
"Cappy Maxwell lib!"
There was an end of all discipline. Weapons went down clattering, and
famishing men, who during many weary days had vainly scanned the
forest, poured out through the stockade gate and raced madly down the
slope to welcome those who had brought them the long expected help. For
a moment Dane stood stupidly still, almost too dazed to realize what had
come about, vacantly wondering how Maxwell had forced a passage without
firing a shot. Then the contagion seized him and, leaping down from the
stockade, he followed the rest. His perceptions were yet clouded by a
bewildering sense of relief, but it struck him that the hammock-bearers
came on in an ominous silence. When he reached them, Amadu looked at him
curiously, as though he would have spoken, but, brushing past, Dane tore
the wet matting aside.
Then he stepped suddenly backward, breathless and aghast. Maxwell lay
huddled in a limp heap upon the drenched canvas, almost unrecognizable.
His face was distorted and shrunken, his jacket reddened in patches, and
his lips were cracked and black. His eyes had grown dim and glassy, and
when he spoke his very voice seemed changed.
"Have I altered so much that you don't know me, comrade?"
"You have brought us our lives, Carsluith, but God knows I would rather
have stayed on here forever than to see you come like this," said Dane.
Maxwell moved a little, and there was the ghost of a smile in his
half-dosed eyes.
"I really couldn't help it. I hardly think I shall trouble you long. A
bushman back in the forest shot me."
"Don't!" Dane answered hoarsely. "It can't be so bad as that. I won't
believe it!"
Maxwell let his hand fall into his comrade's palm as though to convince
him.
"I am afraid it is. I have been holding on to my life
desperately--because I wanted to see you before I went," he said
brokenly.
The touch of his clammy hand struck a cold chill through Dane, who,
turning abruptly, bade the hammock boys carry their burden with all
speed to the tent. What he saw there convinced him that Carsluith
Maxwell had made his last adventurous march, and that the best to be
hoped for him was a painless passing to his rest. Maxwell also knew it,
and though Dane could say nothing because of the choking sensation in
his throat, he looked up at him and nodded.
"Hopeless, isn't it? This case is beyond your skill," he said faintly.
"We have been good comrades, but even the best partnership can't last
forever. Still, you might do what little you can, for there are things I
want to tell you."
Dane went out to seek for his case of drugs, and just then, as if in
mockery, a blaze of sunshine beat down on clustering negroes and
rain-beaten camp. Swayed by a sudden gust of grief and passion, the man
shook his fist at the river and cursed what lay beneath it. It seemed to
his overwrought fancy that the stain of blood was on the gold, the blood
of the staunchest comrade any man ever starved or fought beside. Though
their friendship had been neither lengthy nor demonstrative, the
hardships and perils undergone had woven a bond between them that knit
them as close as brothers. Nevertheless, Dane had yet to learn all that
his comrade had done for him.
Maxwell slept or lapsed into unconsciousness all afternoon, but he
revived a little by nightfall, and beckoned his comrade near him. The
night was black and hot. Because Dane had given stringent orders, no
negro's voice reached them, and they seemed utterly alone, hemmed in by
the darkness of Africa. Dane could hear only the river moan below, and
he found it necessary to cough huskily, for again, as he remembered one
other night when they sat there together filled with bright hopes for
the future, an obstruction gathered in his throat. Maxwell told him of
his journey, in a low, strained voice, halting for breath at frequent
intervals, and every word burned itself into the listener's memory.
Maxwell always put things vividly and tersely.
"It was a wonderful march; but I have let you talk too much," said Dane,
when he concluded. "So it was by Lilian's help you fitted out the
expedition, and she rode all night across the mountains to warn
Chatterton. It was what one might have expected. God bless her!"
"Amen," said Maxwell, with full solemnity. "The talking can't make much
difference now--I shall have a long rest to-morrow. There is still
something I must say, and even if I am blundering it seems best to
speak. We are very blind when we think we see most clearly, Hilton."
Dane looked at the speaker with some bewilderment as he let his head
fall back on the matting, and lay still gasping. Five long minutes
passed before he spoke again.
"Will you raise me a little, Hilton? My breath comes short."
Dane slipped one arm beneath his shoulder before Maxwell continued.
"It is strange that neither of us guessed; but all was for the best,
maybe. The knowledge might have severed our friendship--I hardly think
much more than that would part us now. Though twice I came near doing
so, I never told you that I asked Miss Chatterton to marry me."
It was only by an effort that Dane held his arm motionless so that it
still supported the dying man. It seemed the strangest of all the
strange happenings that they two should have braved so much together for
the love of the same woman.
Maxwell saw his blank surprise, and smiled feebly.
"You asked Lilian Chatterton to marry you?" Dane repeated dazedly.
"Very foolish of me, was it not? But there is no reason for such
surprise that I should desire it; and I promptly discovered my folly. I
also gathered there was somebody who might please her better. Now you
have the simple fact, but as there is an inference you must listen
still. How could I have guessed the truth--after what I saw at the
Hallows Brig? It appeared impossible to me that any man who had won Miss
Chatterton's approval could find pleasure in----"
"Stop!" cried Dane, striving to hold his excitement in check. "You were
mistaken, Carsluith. It was only out of pity, and because the
imprisonment of her brother would bring destitution upon her, that I met
that girl."
"I can take your word," Maxwell said quietly. "That was the one point
which troubled me. Strange, isn't it, that on my last night I should
talk in this fashion; but when one's grasp on material things grows
feeble the others assume their due value. Yes, I loved Lilian
Chatterton--as I love her still--though it was madness to think that
she, fresh and bright with innocent light-heartedness, could stoop to
mate with a somber man like me. But raise me a little. I can't see you
clearly, Hilton."
Dane did as he was bidden, and Maxwell continued:
"I want you to remember that it was my fault, Hilton. Miss Chatterton
never suspected until I spoke that night we passed you at Hallows Brig.
I had a suspicion you admired her before that time, but it vanished
completely then. You see how each trivial incident fitted in. She was
very gentle, but I knew her decision was final--and still I did not see
the truth."
As Maxwell looked into his comrade's eyes a quiver ran through Dane.
"I am bewildered, and it seems brutal to ask you questions now," he said
huskily. "But you have more to tell."
Maxwell's eyes signified assent, but he paused to gather breath.
"It is only because I am dying. Otherwise, you would never have heard
this from me, but it seems best for both that you should know. It was
naturally not for--my--sake Miss Chatterton made that midnight journey."
Maxwell smiled wistfully as he let his head sink back again; and Dane,
drawing his arm away, said nothing for a few minutes. It was wonderful
news he had heard, but the price which had been paid for his safety was
unbearably heavy.
"You are a very staunch friend--and this makes it the harder for me to
lose you. If only there was anything a man could do to prevent it!
Carsluith, rouse yourself! I can't lose you!"
"It makes it the easier for me to go," said Maxwell. "If what I hope for
happens, you will always be kind to her, Hilton. Just moisten my lips
with the brandy."
There was silence afterward, for Maxwell lay breathing unevenly with his
eyes closed, and Dane was swayed in turn by satisfaction and a crushing
sense of loss. He suffered from remorse as well. Maxwell dying had
revealed a side of his nature his comrade now knew he should have seen
manifested in his actions if not in his words.
It was the sufferer who first spoke again.
"It was Rideau who brought misfortune upon us from the beginning, and to
judge by the rifle the bushman left, he was the instigator of the last
attack."
"May worse befall me if I do not repay him fully before I leave Africa!"
Dane said, solemnly.
Maxwell appeared to smile as he had always done when his partner was
unusually emphatic.
"He had excuses, Hilton, and I am past all desire for vengeance now. For
one thing he recognized the senorita's gift to you. Still, for the sake
of Miss Castro--and she promised to help me--I would advise you not to
let him go free to continue his persecution of Dom Pedro. We both owe
her a good deal, and I would like you, if possible, to tell her so. You
might add my respectful remembrance, too. There is yet another point.
Whatever my share of this gold may be, I bequeath it to you, with my
blessing, on condition that you send the boys back happy, with as much
cloth as they can carry, to wherever they came from. The poor devils
served us faithfully. When I have rested, I would like to see Amadu.
Then I think my work will be finished, and I can only await the summons
to answer for what I have failed in. It will come before sunrise,
Hilton."
An hour passed slowly while Dane listened to the ticking of his watch;
then Maxwell opened his eyes again, and Dane beckoned to Amadu, who
stood waiting without. He came in, still wearing the straight blade
which had struck the murderer down, and stood like a bronze statue
beside his master.
"I want to thank you for faithful service, Amadu," Maxwell said weakly.
"You shall have the gun--you have won it--and whatever else you wish
besides. We made two great journeys together, but I cannot take you with
me now."
The big man bent until Maxwell's thin hand rested on his head. What they
said Dane failed to comprehend, but Amadu seemed to do him homage, and
when he rose, he moved slowly, with raised palms and head bent, backward
out of the tent. Then as Maxwell's eyes closed he crouched in the
entrance, with the steel, which caught the lamplight, lying naked across
his knee.
"Often I lib for watch them white man so," he said softly. "No djinn or
devil go near him now."
Maxwell said little further. He slept or lay unconscious for some time,
and then just smiled for a moment as his eyes rested on the grim
sentinel with the bronze limbs and raw blue draperies, guarding the
entrance. When he next roused himself he laid his chilly hand on one of
Dane's, and showed a faint sign of pleasure when his comrade's fingers
closed upon it. Once again he murmured, but it was rather by the
movements of his lips than by audible sound that Dane gathered the
message:
"You will tell her I kept my promise."
That was his last effort, for when the night was almost gone the fingers
which lay limp in Dane's grew rigid. Then Dane stood up stiffly,
desolate, knowing that the spirit of Carsluith Maxwell had passed to
find such rest as may be reserved for the souls of loyal gentlemen. But
the dust claims that which sprang from it quickly in that land, and the
comrade he left to mourn over him found his own endurance heavily taxed
before the aliens who had helped him at his task took up their stations
with weapons girt about them, a barbaric guard of honor, at the dead
man's head and feet. It was Amadu who strapped the big revolver by its
lanyard to his master's wrist, when, scattering a few of the
heavy-scented lily blossoms, Dane folded the tired hands. Then they kept
their vigil together, and it did not seem incongruous that dusky cattle
thief and soldier of fortune should watch beside the English adventurer.
Humanity is greater than color and creed, and it was as those who had
suffered together they did their dead due honor.
The rain had ceased and a dazzling sunrise flamed across the forest when
Dane stooped for a last glance at Carsluith Maxwell. The pain had faded
from his face, and he lay in impressive serenity as one who rested with
his work well done. Then the lonely survivor went out into the
brightness of the morning with a grief that found no expression mingled
in his heart with the lust of vengeance.