"You talked of slavery," said Reinecke one day. "Our niggers were no
better than slaves! Have you seen anything to confirm that rather
scandalous suggestion?" His tone was lightly sarcastic.
"If you mean any signs of positive ill-treatment, none," said Tom. (He
was not aware that Reinecke had given the overseers strict orders not to
use their whips while the Englishman was on the spot). "But I had
always understood that the negro is naturally a cheerful person----"
"Well!" interrupted Reinecke. "Don't they laugh enough? Don't they
make noise enough?"
"The youngsters do make a great row," Tom confessed smiling; "of course
children always are noisy and happy; they don't understand. But the
older men seem rather apathetic. Apart from actual ill-treatment, of
which I do you the justice to say there's no sign, the mere loss of
liberty must be horribly depressing. You admit that they can't leave if
they want to."
"Not at all. Some have at times cut a way through the hedge. They've
repented of it." He smiled grimly. "But now, what would be a
convincing proof to you that things here are after all not so bad?--that
the life has some attractions, even for the freedom-loving negro?"
"The return of one who had escaped, I suppose."
"That's a proof I can hardly give you, because the few who have
escaped--or run away, as I should put it--have either been caught and
brought back or have no doubt come to grief in the forest. But I can
give you an instance of a nigger coming here of his own accord, and
being apparently quite content to remain."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; and, strangely enough, he arrived on the same day as you. You
won't suggest that _you_ are the attraction?"
Tom resented this unmannerly remark, still more the tone in which it was
uttered, but he said nothing.
"As you may imagine," Reinecke went on, "I don't know all the people.
My Arabs look after them. And I shouldn't have known anything about
this voluntary slave but for the fact that I mistook him for Mirambo's
son, and one of the overseers corrected me. It appears that when we
landed our stores from the _Hedwig von Wissmann_ that day, we were one
porter short, and this fellow, a sturdy lad, was hanging about and
appeared to have nothing to do. He was engaged and came up with the
others and stayed on--works well, and is quite cheerful, I'm told. He's
astonishingly like Mirambo's boy. Some of these niggers claim to be
descended from their old kings or chiefs: Mirambo himself does; and it's
quite possible that this youth comes of the same stock. There's a
jotting for your note-book, if you are making notes, and I daresay you
are."
Again there was a covert sneer in the German's tone. Tom felt that he
would soon have to quarrel with his host. As soon as he should have
come to a definite conclusion about the man's integrity he would cut his
visit short.
It seemed, indeed, as if Reinecke was determined to make him feel that
he had overstayed his welcome. Once or twice, when he asked that
Mirambo or his son might accompany him shooting, Reinecke declared that
he could not spare any of the men; it was the busiest time of the year,
not a time for amusement.
"But there's no reason why you shouldn't go alone, if you find idleness
boring," he added once. "There are no dangerous beasts in our immediate
neighbourhood. I'd only warn you not to go too far."
Tom was glad enough to take him at his word. While the fruit-picking was
going on, there was nothing for him to learn, and Reinecke had been so
ungracious lately that companionship was impossible. So he went
occasionally into the woods alone, never straying more than a mile or
two from the plantation, and taking even more pleasure in quietly
watching the smaller animals--the tree-lizards, chameleons,
iguanas--than in shooting pigeons or teal. His hope of big-game hunting
was apparently to remain unrealised.
One day on returning he found Reinecke in a particularly good humour.
"I have had a visit to-day from a high German officer, Major von
Rudenheim," he said: "an excellent soldier. He came on the boat with
you, of course: did you have the pleasure of conversing with him?"
"No. He seemed to me too much of what we call a big pot."
"True: our German officers are very much above civilians. In any case,
however--you are not aware that I hold the rank of Captain of Landwehr?
So we met, as it were, on equal terms, though he is a step higher in
rank. And I have another piece of news for you. Eland have been seen
near that small lake where we shot buck with Captain Goltermann, you
remember. Would you like to add elands' horns to your trophies?"
"I should indeed," replied Tom, again wavering in his estimate of
Reinecke. "He really isn't a bad sort at times," he thought.
Next morning happened to be mail day, and as Reinecke had letters to
write, Tom feared that he was to be disappointed. But the German was
again in excellent temper.
"You can start without me," he said. "I shall be through with my
letters in an hour or so, and I'll follow you and meet you near the edge
of the lake--you remember, by that fallen tree where we ate our lunch.
Don't startle the game away: it will be a little practice in stalking
for you. I'll bring the men along with me."
Tom set off, determined to show that the woodcraft he had picked up
during the past few weeks was not inconsiderable. He reached the
appointed spot, and ventured to cast about in various directions,
without, however, finding any traces of the eland. Returning to the
rendezvous, he was there joined by Reinecke, alone.
"I'm afraid the bird has flown," he said ruefully. "I haven't seen a
sign of them."
"I will show you," replied Reinecke with a smile. "We shall have to
stalk them, and we'll see what we can do without Mirambo's assistance.
He'll bring up some men presently to carry home the game."
He set off along a faint native track, so long disused and so much
overgrown that Tom by himself would hardly have discovered it. They
pushed their way through the vegetation, and after about a quarter of an
hour Reinecke whispered to Tom to stop and be careful to make no noise.
"We ought to find our quarry in a glade just ahead," he said. "I'll go
on: follow when I call."
He disappeared among the undergrowth. In a few minutes Tom heard a
shot, then a faint call, and hurried eagerly on. The track widened a
little, and Tom was quickening his steps when he suddenly felt the earth
give way beneath his feet, and next moment found himself lying at the
bottom of a deep pit, amidst a litter of earth and brushwood, and
conscious of a sharp pain in the calf of his left leg. Almost stunned
by the fall, he lay for a moment or two scarcely able to realise what
had happened. Then he shouted for help.
There was no answer. All was silent except for the hum of insects and
the rustling of some small animals which his sudden descent upon their
lair had disturbed. He shouted again, more loudly; then, supposing that
his voice from the depth of the pit had not penetrated to Reinecke's
ears through the vegetation above, he reached for his rifle, which lay
beside him, and fired a couple of shots into the air. Not yet seriously
uneasy, he stooped to see what caused the pain in his leg, and found
that it had been gashed by one of some half-dozen sharp-pointed stakes
that were planted in the bottom of the pit.
"A native game-pit," he thought. "Reinecke might have warned me."
Standing up, he discovered that his right ankle was sprained.
"They'll have to carry me home," he thought, "and the sooner the better;
the stuff here must have been rotting for years. I wish to goodness
Reinecke would come."
Once more he shouted, then tried to scale the wall of the pit; but this
was perpendicular, and it was evidently a case of cutting notches in
it--a tiresome job to a man who could scarcely stand. It struck him that
he had better bind up the gash in his leg as well as he could. When the
men came he would get them to carry him to the lake and bathe the wound.
How lucky it was that he had escaped with only one wound, and that in no
vital spot! Looking at that ugly array of spikes, he shuddered at the
thought of the hideous injuries they might have inflicted.
While tying his handkerchief tightly round his leg he shouted from time
to time. Was it possible that Reinecke had met with a similar
misfortune? For the first time Tom felt really uneasy. Reinecke's call
to him had been very faint, and had not been repeated. If they were
both in the same predicament there was no hope of relief until the
negroes came up from the plantation. To make sure of their not missing
him, he shouted and fired at intervals, until almost all his cartridges
were gone. Still there was no response.
He looked up the wall of the pit. It was eleven or twelve feet high.
If only he could raise himself high enough to get his arms on the edge,
the rest would be easy. It should not take very long to cut a few
notches in the earth: one of the spikes would form a serviceable tool.
He worked one out of the ground, and rose to his feet, wincing with the
pain that shot through his sprained ankle. To his chagrin, the earth of
the pit wall was friable. It crumbled as he drove the spike into it; so
far from making a hole that would afford him a firm foothold, he
succeeded only in breaking down a part of the wall.
"Fairly trapped," he thought, and sat down again to ease his aching
legs.
His watch announced midday. The men ought to have arrived by this time.
They would carry food and drink, and he was very thirsty. The
rendezvous was well known to them: surely they had not mistaken
Reinecke's instructions. And then at last he was startled by a suspicion
that sprang up suddenly in his mind--a suspicion so horrible that he
strove to crush it. Reinecke might have lied to him about the vouchers;
was he villain enough to have decoyed him deliberately to this cunningly
concealed trap--deliberately schemed to clear finally out of his path
the man whom he regarded as a stumbling-block on his way to fortune, the
discoverer of his crimes?
The thought, terrible as it was, would not be stifled. Tom recalled the
gradual changes in the German's manner--the descent from almost
excessive cordiality to stiffness, sarcasm, positive rudeness: then the
sudden return to geniality, the apparent eagerness to indulge his guest.
For the first time he was struck with the peculiar arrangements for the
day's shooting expedition--the sending him on alone, the absence of
gunbearers. This train of thought, once started, was carried on
remorselessly by Tom's active imagination. Granted the man's intention
of putting him out of the way, how easily one detail fitted into
another! How naturally the Englishman's disappearance could be
explained! It was known to every one on the plantation that he had
sometimes gone shooting alone. Reinecke could say, and his statement
could be corroborated, that his guest had started alone on this morning,
he himself being engaged with correspondence. He had followed later,
according to arrangement, but had failed to meet the Englishman at the
appointed spot. He had searched for him, and after some days had found
the poor fellow's remains at the bottom of an old, long disused
game-pit. How plausible the story would be! Bob, thousands of miles
away, would grieve: the story might get into the papers: people would
read the paragraph, perhaps sigh, and pass on to a scandal nearer home,
or to the latest news of the trouble in Ireland. In a few weeks Tom
Willoughby would be only the shadow of a name.
Impatient with himself at the length his imagination had carried him,
Tom shouted again, fired off another cartridge--the last but one. "I
must keep one for emergencies," he thought. He made another attempt to
cut holes in the wall, and threw the spike from him in disgust at the
second failure. It occurred to him to heap up debris at the foot of the
wall, to form a mounting block; but at the stirring of the putrid mass
innumerable insects, beetles, reptiles, foul nameless things issued
forth, causing him to shudder with loathing, and to shrink at actual
pain from their bites and stings. Overcome with nausea, he retreated to
a far corner where this creeping population had not been disturbed, and
for a time, weary as he was, sickened by his increasing pain, he leant
against the wall, rather than sit down again, until sheer fatigue
compelled him to make an uneasy seat of his slanted rifle.
With the passage of time his thirst became a torture, and the shouts he
uttered ever and anon sounded cracked and harsh from his parched throat.
A sort of lethargy settled upon him: not a stoic resignation, a calm
acquiescence in fate's decree, but a numbness of the senses and the
mind. For a time he was scarcely conscious of pain, of the things
moving at his feet, of the gradual cooling of the air as evening drew
on. Then he roused himself with a start, and heedless of stings and the
loathsome touch of obscene creatures, he gathered up heaps of rotted
leaves and twigs and the litter that had fallen under him, and began
with frantic energy to pile them against the wall. His weight crushed
them into half their former bulk, and he fell exhausted on the futile
pillar.
Night came on. Alternately he dozed, and awoke to a sharpened keenness
of apprehension. Now and then he heard noises above--the harsh
persistent note of the nightjar, the hollow melancholy scale of the
hornbill, the horrid whine of hyenas prowling in quest of prey and
calling to one another with increasing frequency as the night stole
towards dawn. A sudden raucous cry, apparently near at hand, caused him
to seize the spike for defence in case some unwary beast should stumble
into the pit. Once he beheld a pair of eyes, glaring with greenish
light upon him from the brink. He uttered a hoarse cry: the eyes
disappeared: and he seemed to hear a creaking rustle among the trees
above.
Slumber again sealed his senses, and when he awoke, the pale misty light
of dawn threw green rays into his prison. His limbs were numb with
cold. His dry throat gave forth only a whistling croak when he tried to
shout. Scarcely able to move, he watched the mouth of the pit and the
sunlight filtering through the foliage and dispersing the mist.
Listless, unconscious of the flight of time, he was just aware of the
lengthening day as a sunbeam climbed down the side of his prison. All
at once he was shaken into attention by a sound overhead, and while he
was feebly trying to call, a shadow fell across the opening. A man's
form appeared, and with a gasp of unutterable thankfulness he saw
Reinecke peering down upon him. He struggled giddily to his feet:
surely the bitterness of death was past.
But what was Reinecke saying? What words were these, that struck upon
his ear in spasms, as it were?
"You came to spy ... enjoy your visit ... mad English ... war with
Germany ... learn what it means to provoke the German."
He tried to collect his bewildered senses. It was Reinecke. What was
he talking about? "Expedition to conquer Rhodesia ... months before I
return ... a safe resting-place ... gather remains ... nothing but bones
... white bones."
Had Reinecke gone? The voice had ceased; the sunlight fell unchecked:
and Tom, in a last flash of illumination before the darkness of
unconsciousness enshrouded him, realised that Reinecke had betrayed him
and had left him here to die.