A PASSENGER FOR PENANG
From the information given him by Captain Bunce, Smith hoped to pick
up the lights of Penang without much difficulty. While on the ship's
deck he had noticed that the easterly breeze was very light, so that
even with the slight additional weight he carried, his speed would not
be greatly diminished. With good luck three or four hours would see
him safe in port.
Rodier pulled out his watch soon after they started, and comparing it
with the schedule of the journey, shouted in Smith's ear--
"We are four hours late, mister."
"I know we are," cried Smith. "Confound you, Roddy, you're always
telling me I'm late. If you say anything like that again I'll throw
you out."
Rodier grinned.
"Mademoiselle wouldn't like that," he shouted. "Tout va bien,
mademoiselle?" he said, turning to the lady. "Vous n'avez pas peur?"
"It is terribly fast," said the girl breathlessly, and Rodier came to
the conclusion that Captain Bunce's opinion of his daughter's
linguistic ability was exaggerated.
The moon had set, and the flight was continued in almost total
darkness. At length, shortly before four o'clock in the morning, Smith
caught sight of lights ahead. He had touched at Penang some years
before, when his first ship was on her way out to the Australian
station, and he knew that the most suitable place for alighting was a
large open space, clear of vegetation and buildings, about a mile from
the port. In a few minutes the aeroplane was flying over the sleeping
town. He slackened speed, and circled around for some time, seeking
the spot with the aid of his searchlight. He discovered it with more
ease than he had dared to hope, and bidding Rodier look out for
obstacles, descended to the ground.
"Here we are, Miss Bunce," he said cheerfully, as he stepped out. "I
hope you feel none the worse for your ride."
"It is wonderful," said the girl. "I shall never forget it."
"The question is, what are we to do now? Your father mentioned a
friend of his, but as I have little time to spare I think you had
better come with me to my friend Mr. Daventry. He is in the
administration here, and I am sure Mrs. Daventry will be glad to do
anything she can for you. You see, I can find my way there in the
dark, I think, whereas we should have to wait until daylight to find
your father's friend, and that would be a nuisance in every way."
"I will do whatever you think best."
Leaving Rodier with the aeroplane, the other two set off towards the
town.
"You will try to send help to Father?" said the girl.
"As soon as it's light. This is Sunday morning, by the way. _You_'re
all right, but I'm afraid I look far from Sundayish. Still, no one can
see me, and I shall be off before the people go to church."
"So soon as that? Aren't you very tired?"
"Not so tired as I've been in the manoeuvres. We get a nap in turn,
you know."
"How _can_ you sleep when you're in such terrible danger?"
"Well, you see I'm used to it. We don't think of the danger. Perhaps
it's because I've never had a bad accident. The want of a decent meal
is the worst of it. We haven't had one since Thursday night, but I
daresay we can keep going on light fare for another three or four
days."
"You know I've often wanted to go up in an aeroplane, though I
suspect I should have backed out if I had really had the chance. I'm
very glad Father insisted on my coming, but I wish it had been
daylight; I could only hold on and try not to be afraid."
"I'm sorry we can't take you with us--no, I don't quite mean that,
Miss Bunce; of course you couldn't come careering about; what I mean
is that I shall be very glad to take you a daylight trip one of these
days if you care to come--when we get back home, of course. Captain
Bunce was kind enough to give me an invitation; he said you would give
me a cup of tea--"
"And sing to you! I know exactly what he said; but you mustn't pay too
much attention to Father. He's a dear old man, but quite absurd over
my little accomplishments."
"But I may have a cup of tea?"
"With or without sugar--if you really mean it."
"Of course I mean it. One of these days you will find my aeroplane at
your door--"
"Good gracious! it will be in pieces, then, for our street isn't wide
enough to give it room."
"Well, you'll find _me_ at the door then; and after I have had my cup
of tea, with three lumps of sugar, and you have sung a little
song--just to please your father, of course--we will walk to where my
man is waiting with the aeroplane, two or three streets off, and we'll
take a jaunt to Greenwich Park, or Richmond, or wherever you like."
"That will be very nice," said Miss Bunce, and Smith wished it were
not too dark to see her face, for the tone expressed utter disbelief.
He wanted to assure her that he meant what he said, but, reflecting
that he had better not seem to suggest that she doubted it, he said--
"That's settled, then. I suppose it will be three or four months
before you get home, and I shan't have another leave for I don't know
how long, so we won't fix a date. Now Mr. Daventry's bungalow is in
this direction; I hope I shall be able to find it."
They walked about for some minutes before Smith was able to satisfy
himself that he had discovered the bungalow. They passed through the
compound, looked with a smile at the native servant sleeping on a mat
at the door, and laughed to see him jump when awakened by Smith's
vigorous rapping. At a word from Smith the man went into the dwelling,
but a moment afterwards a window above the entrance was thrown open,
and a loud voice demanded what was the matter.
"That you, Daventry?" Smith called.
"Yes. Who are you? What's the matter?"
"It's Charley Smith. Sorry to disturb you at this unearthly hour, old
chap."
"What in the name of--! All right. I'll come down."
They saw a light struck; in a minute they saw framed in the doorway a
tall man in pyjamas, holding a candle.
"Come in, Smith," he cried. "Why, what the--! Here, I say, I won't be
a minute."
Setting down the candle on the doorstep, he hurriedly fled. Smith
glanced at the girl. She was quite unembarrassed, and when she caught
his eye she frankly smiled. "She's the right sort," he said to
himself. Presently Mr. Daventry returned in trousers and a smoking
jacket.
"Excuse my leaving you. I went to--to waken Mary," he said. "She'll be
down in a minute; come in. Didn't know you were married, old boy," he
whispered, taking Smith by the arm.
"Hush!" said Smith anxiously, hoping that Margaret Bunce had not
caught the words.
Mr. Daventry led them into his dining-room, turned on the lights, and
looked inquiringly at his visitors. The girl was already unpinning her
low cloth hat.
"Why, what on earth--!" exclaimed Mr. Daventry; "what have you been
doing to yourself, Smith?"
"I _am_ a bit of a sweep, no doubt, but you can give me a bath. The
fact is--well, it's plaguey difficult to tell it shortly--but the fact
is I picked up this lady--no, hang it all! Miss Bunce, please help me
out."
"Mr. Smith picked me up, as he says, from a burning ship in mid-ocean,
and was kind enough to bring me here in his aeroplane."
"Sounds simple, don't it?" said Smith, as Mr. Daventry looked from one
to the other in amazement.
"But--I don't understand--mid-ocean--an aeroplane? Mary," he added to
a lady in a dressing-gown who had just entered, "come and listen to
this. You know Charley Smith? Miss--Miss--"
"Margaret Bunce," said the girl, rising.
"My wife. Now, let us all sit down and see if we can make this out. If
I understand aright Miss Bunce was in a burning ship in mid-ocean--"
"Oh, poor thing!" said Mrs. Daventry sympathetically, going to
Margaret and taking her hand.
"And--correct me if I'm wrong--Smith descended out of the clouds,
caught up Miss Bunce, and flew with her to the house of his nearest
friend. Is your aeroplane outside, old man?"
"It's a mile away, in charge of my chauffeur. I think I had better
tell the whole story from the beginning."
"I think so, too; it's rather cloudy at present. Have a cigar--if the
ladies don't mind."
"Well, two days ago I learnt that my father was shipwrecked along
with the company of his survey vessel on one of the Solomons,
practically unarmed, the report says. As the news was taken to
Brisbane by some of the crew in an open boat, they must have been at
the mercy of the savages for a week or more, and probably hard pushed.
Of course a gunboat was to be sent to relieve them, but as every hour
was important I decided to try to get to them in my aeroplane and take
them some ammunition. Last night, coming somewhere south of the
Andamans, we saw a ship on fire; she was adrift, lost her masts and
all boats but one. The captain asked me to send help as soon as I got
here, and Miss Bunce was good enough to accept our escort, and here we
are."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Daventry. "But--I don't understand yet.
How did you come to be by the Andamans? Where did you come from?"
"Left London early Friday morning: came by Constantinople and
Karachi."
"Upon my word, Smith, if I didn't know you I should be inclined to ask
if you are sober. You have come all the way from London since Friday
morning?"
"Exactly. But I know you'll excuse me: I haven't time to tell you any
more. We are already four hours late, and every hour means nearly two
hundred miles. There are two things I want to do. First to arrange
with the port officer to send help to Captain Bunce; then to get the
petrol and lubricating oil ordered for me here. Van Kloof's the man.
You know him, of course."
"Yes, but it's Sunday."
"The better the day, the better the deed. I must have the petrol; I
must start in two hours or less. And I should like a good bath and a
breakfast first."
"You shall have both, but surely you can wait till daylight."
"I'm afraid I can't. It is very awkward, I admit, and I fear I shall
give you and several others a lot of trouble; but needs must when the
devil drives, as they say, and the devil in this case is Father Time.
You see, I've not only got to take some rifles and ammunition to the
shipwrecked party, but I must rejoin my ship by Friday morning, or
there'll be ructions. I've got a name for overstepping the limit, and
my captain warned me that I'd better rejoin promptly this time."
"We mustn't hinder him, Jack," said Mrs. Daventry.
"But, hang it all, Mary, do you understand what it means? He'll kill
himself, rushing round the world like this."
"Not at all; I'm pretty tough," said Smith. "Now, old fellow, what is
the best you can do for me?"
"Go and get your things on, Jack," said Mrs. Daventry practically.
"You can take Mr. Smith down to the harbour and get what he wants.
I'll see about the bath and the breakfast, and I am sure Miss Bunce
will help; I won't disturb the servants. Really, it is quite
exciting."
"Thank you, Mrs. Daventry. It is very good of you. But I'm sure Miss
Bunce ought to go to sleep."
"I am not a bit sleepy," said the girl, "and I shall certainly help
Mrs. Daventry."
"Come along then, my dear," said the hostess. "We will go and see to
things at once."
In five minutes Mr. Daventry was down. He and Smith left the house and
made their way rapidly to the harbour. The port officer complained at
having his beauty sleep disturbed, and when he learnt that his
assistance was wanted for a burning ship near the Andamans he declared
that he wished wireless had never been invented.
"People know too much nowadays," he grumbled. "They'll know what we
think before we think it next."
"Don't undeceive him," whispered Smith to Daventry, anxious to escape
the necessity of lengthy explanations. The port officer agreed to send
a steamer in search of the _Elizabeth_ as soon as it was light. Then,
without losing a minute, Daventry led Smith to the house of Mr. Van
Kloof, of whom the petrol had been ordered.
"He's a bit of a slow-coach," said Daventry, "and will want to know
all about it, so I advise you to tell him everything; or better still,
leave it to me."
"Very well. Anything to save time."
Mr. Van Kloof was hard to awaken. When he was at last aroused by his
servants, he put his head out of his bedroom window, and demanded
gruffly what was the matter.
"Come down, Van Kloof, and I'll explain. It's a matter of life or
death," said Daventry.
"Vat is it? An earthquake?"
"Worse than that. Slip into your breeches, man."
The merchant presently appeared at his door in shirt and breeches, and
carrying a revolver.
"You got a cable from London ordering eighty gallons of petrol to be
held ready for Lieutenant Smith?" said Daventry.
"So. Dat is quite true."
"Well, here is Lieutenant Smith, and he wants the petrol at once."
Mr. Daventry explained where the petrol was to be sent.
"No, it cannot be done, Mr. Daventry. It is Sunday morning. My store
is closed, and I do not understand the hurry."
"Lieutenant Smith is off to the Solomon Islands to save his father
from being eaten by cannibals. There isn't a moment to lose."
"Dat is strange. For vy should I take oil for a motor-boat up country?
You are playing games vid me?"
"Of course not. He's not going by motor-boat, but by aeroplane."
"Oho! Tell dat to the marines."
"Hang it, Van Kloof, listen without interrupting. Mr. Smith has come
by aeroplane from London, and is going on at once. Give me the key of
your store, and we'll go and get the stuff ourselves."
"Veil, of all the--pardon me, gentlemen, but you vill allow me to be
shocked to hear such news at five o'clock on a Sunday morning. I vill
come vid you. I must vake up some coolies to carry the cans. But it
shall be done; I vill myself see to it. I must look vell at dis
aeroplane."
"You're sure we can rely on you?"
"I vill bring all before an hour, you may trust me for dat."
"Then we'll hurry back, Smith, and see about your breakfast. What
about your man, by the way?"
"He's cleaning the engine by searchlight, and eating sardines and
biscuits, or something of the sort."
"Couldn't we fetch him?"
"I'm afraid there isn't time, and besides, he can hardly leave the
aeroplane unattended. It's hard lines, but I'll make it up to him when
we get back."
They returned to the bungalow. A steaming bath was ready. When Smith
had bathed, he found hot coffee and eggs awaiting him. He ate and
drank ravenously, and in a quarter of an hour declared that he must
get back to the aeroplane.
"Nonsense," said Daventry. "The petrol won't be there for half-an-hour
yet. You'll just lie down and rest, and have a comfortable smoke. I'll
go up the hill and take some food to your man."
"You're a good fellow," said Smith, dropping into a capacious
arm-chair. Mrs. Daventry arranged a cushion behind his head, Miss
Bunce placed a stool for him to stretch his legs on, and in
half-a-minute he was fast asleep.
"Don't wake him for an hour," said Mr. Daventry, as he left the house;
"I'll see that all is ready for him."
The sun was rising when Mrs. Daventry, now dressed for outdoors,
wakened the sleeper by lifting his hand. He sprang up with a start.
"Now, don't be agitated," said Mrs. Daventry. "It's just six o'clock.
Jack has gone to see that all is ready for you, and Miss Bunce and I
are coming to see you start. Really, I quite envy her, though I'm sure
I should never have the courage to go up in the air."
"You'll think nothing of it some day. You've been very kind, and I'm
immensely obliged to you. By the way, will you ask Daventry, in case I
forget it, to send a cable to my sister to say that I'm all right?"
"I won't forget. Now shall we go?"
They found that a small crowd had collected round the aeroplane. Mr.
Daventry and Mr. Van Kloof were there, with several other Englishmen,
and a number of Chinese coolies and nondescript natives stood at a
little distance, gazing in wondering silence. Rodier had his watch in
his hand, and looked reproachfully at his employer. Smith pressed
through the crowd, shaking hands with the Englishmen one after
another, but declaring that he had no time for talking. He shook hands
with the Daventrys and Miss Bunce last of all, thanking them very
heartily for their assistance; then, calling for a clear space, he
followed Rodier to his seat. Almost before the onlookers could realize
what was happening, the aeroplane was in action, and while they were
still discussing the extraordinary nature of this means of locomotion,
it had soared into the air, flown humming away from them, and become
a mere speck in the eastern sky.
They were scarcely clear of the ground before Rodier, raising his
voice to a bellow, shouted--
"Mister!"
"Yes. What?" replied Smith, fearing that something was wrong.
"Mister! We are four hours ten minutes late!"
INTERLUDE
"I'm afraid it's all up, doctor."
Day had just broken. Lieutenant Underhill, standing rifle in hand at
his post in a corner of the barricade, addressed Dr. Thesiger Smith,
who had come to relieve him.
"You think we can't hope for relief?" replied the doctor.
"Yes. The boat must have foundered, or got lost, or perhaps has fallen
into the hands of the savages. We've come to our last tin of biscuits;
we've hardly ten rounds of cartridges among us."
"What can we do then?"
"Either fight till we drop, or give in; there's nothing else. The end
will be the same either way, but the first would be the quicker."
The doctor stroked his beard with his thin hand. His son joined them;
not the ruddy, clean-shaven youth that had landed from the wreck
twelve days before, but a gaunt man whose hollow cheeks were dark with
a stubby beard.
"Underhill gives up hope at last," said his father.
"Then I'm ashamed of him," said Tom cheerfully. "Never say die. Go and
have a sleep, old man; it's enough to give any one the blues, keeping
watch in the dark. You'll feel better after a nap. Had any trouble?"
"No, they haven't made a sound. I almost wish they had. Anything would
be better than this eternal keeping watch for an enemy that's afraid
to come on."
"Well, not being a fighting man, I prefer for my part to keep a whole
skin as long as I can. Go and sleep, and the pater and I will talk
things over."
Underhill, who was tired out, withdrew to the centre of the camp, and
throwing himself on a tarpaulin, was soon plunged in an uneasy
slumber.
It was twelve days since the wreck, ten since the boat had put off to
seek assistance. When the storm had subsided, the castaways, drenched
to the skin, had taken stock of their situation. It was a wild and
desolate spot, far from the track of ships; months might pass before a
vessel came in sight. They had only a small store of food, barely
sufficient, even if husbanded with the utmost care, to last a
fortnight. From their position at the foot of rugged cliffs it was
impossible to tell what sustenance the island afforded, and the evil
reputation of the natives did not give promise of peaceful
exploration. While not actually head hunters, like the inhabitants of
the New Georgian group to the south, they were said to be treacherous
and vindictive. At the southern end of the island, as Underhill knew,
there was a Wesleyan mission station, placed in a somewhat
inaccessible spot, and at Tulagi, on Florida Island to the south, was
a Government station and the seat of the Resident. It might be
possible to reach one or the other of these, but even so they would be
compelled to wait indefinitely, there being no telegraphic
communication between either and a civilized port.
Reflections like these did not tend to cheer the castaways; but, now
that the sun shone once more out of a clear sky, the invincible
optimism of the British sailorman displayed itself, and the men began
to scramble up the cliffs with almost light-hearted eagerness. At the
top they found themselves at the edge of a dense and tangled forest.
Underhill sent some of the crew to search for a likely camping place,
while the remainder hauled up the boat's cargo. A comparatively clear
space, about a hundred and fifty yards square, was discovered within a
short distance from the cliffs. A stream running through the midst
ensured a good supply of water, and here Underhill determined to make
his camp.
Great havoc had been wrought in the forest by the storm. Many trees
had been snapped off or uprooted; the ground was strewn with broken
branches; and when the whole party were assembled at the spot, and the
arms and provisions had been covered with a tarpaulin, Underhill sent
all hands to collect broken timber for forming a breastwork.
Fortunately, a good number of tools had been brought from the vessel,
and as the men came in with their loads, Rumbold, the ship's
carpenter, set to work, with the assistance of two or three, to
surround the enclosure with a rough fence. Underhill ordered them to
avoid the use of hammers and axes, the noise of which, carrying far in
these solitudes, might attract the attention of the natives, who, for
all he knew, had a village in the neighbourhood. There was no lack of
tough creepers which were serviceable for binding the logs together,
and a great number of cactus-like plants were cut down to form a
defensive lining to the barricade.
In the course of three or four hours the whole encampment had been
roughly fenced. It would not, in its present condition, prove a very
formidable obstacle to a determined attack; but the day had become
very hot, and Underhill was anxious to avoid overworking the men. The
barricade could be strengthened next day.
Just before nightfall the company ate a spare supper of tinned meat
and biscuit, and then, in a little group apart from the rest,
Underhill, with his officers and the Smiths, held a council to decide
on a course of action. They determined, after brief discussion, that
next day four of the men should take the boat and try to make their
way to Tulagi. The loss of the second boat had rendered it impossible
for the whole party to embark; but no doubt the Resident at Tulagi
would have boats of some sort at his disposal, and in these the
castaways could be taken off. When once at Tulagi, they would have to
wait until the first vessel touched at the island. Four men, including
Venables, volunteered to make the voyage, and were ready to start that
night; but every one was exhausted by the adventures and fatigues of
the day, and Underhill thought it best that they should have a night's
rest before they set off. Having arranged for watches to be kept as on
board ship, he gave the order to turn in, and their clothes and the
ground having been well dried by the afternoon sun, they passed a
comfortable and undisturbed night.
Up at daybreak, they first of all occupied themselves with completing
the barricade; then, about eleven o'clock, when they were preparing to
escort the four men to the boat, which had been anchored at the foot
of the cliff, some one cried out that he saw brown men advancing
through the woods. Underhill instantly ordered the barricade to be
manned, and served out arms and ammunition as far as they would go
round. There were only a dozen rifles, however, among twenty men; the
rest armed themselves with tools and implements of various kinds.
Soon a large body of brown-skinned, fuzzy-headed natives, armed with
spears, clubs, and bows and arrows, came slowly towards the camp.
Their attitude was apparently friendly, but, remembering their
reputation for treachery, Underhill did not trust them, and refused to
leave the shelter of the barricade in answer to their invitation,
expressed by signs, to come forth and palaver with them. It was well
he refrained, for when they were within a few yards of the camp they
suddenly darted forward with a wild whoop. Underhill ordered his men
to fire a volley over their heads, hoping to scare them away without
bloodshed; but the reports of the rifles did not make the astounding
impression it usually produced upon savages, and Underhill could not
but believe that they were not wholly unacquainted with the use of
firearms. They advanced with the more ferocity, and it was not until
several had fallen to another volley from behind the barricade that
they drew back to the shelter of the woods.
It would clearly be unsafe to attempt to reach the boat while the
savages were in view. As time went on they appeared to increase in
numbers, and every now and then they sent a flight of arrows into the
camp. But the garrison kept out of sight behind the barricade nearest
to the enemy, and their missiles either stuck in it, or fell
harmlessly within the enclosure.
So the day passed. The fact that trouble had come so soon impressed
Underhill with the necessity of sending for assistance without delay.
The prospect of a siege, with only a limited supply of ammunition to
repel assaults, and a scarcely greater supply of food, was very
disturbing. He had little fear of being able to beat off attack so
long as ammunition lasted, but when it was all spent, the savages must
overpower the white men by sheer weight of numbers. Venables now
wished to recall his undertaking, and remain in the fighting line; but
Underhill decided that he must go in command of the other men.
Accordingly, at nightfall, the four crept through a small gap made in
the seaward face of the barricade, and clambered down the cliff.
Underhill listened anxiously for a time, wondering whether the men had
been discovered, or whether they had safely reached the boat; but
after an hour of silence he concluded that either the enemy had not
been watching in that quarter, or that the boat had slipped away
unobserved in the darkness.
The night was undisturbed, but with dawn the natives reappeared. The
lesson of the previous day had not proved effectual; they came
resolutely up to the barricade in a vast yelling horde. Underhill
ordered his men to reserve their fire until the enemy was within a few
yards of the enclosure; then two rapid volleys with repeating rifles
and revolvers opened a great gap in the throng, and the survivors,
scared by their losses, once more betook themselves to the woods.
Several times during the day they returned to the attack, pushing it
home each time with more determination, and towards evening with a
rage and frenzy that could only be due to the stimulation of strong
liquor. At this last onset the defenders were almost overwhelmed,
repeated volleys seeming only to inflame the fierce warriors. For some
minutes there was a hand-to-hand fight as they made desperate
endeavours to scale the barricade, and only when a score of their
number lay dead and wounded did they relinquish the contest. They took
away the wounded, but left the dead where they lay, and in the night
the garrison had the gruesome task of carrying the bodies to the edge
of the cliff and casting them into the sea. For some time Dr. Smith
was kept busy in attending to the wounded among his own party, and
next day one of the stokers, struck by a poisoned arrow, succumbed to
blood-poisoning, and his comrades, at dead of night, gave him sailor's
burial.
Some days passed, and no serious attack was made, though the garrison
had to be very wary to avoid the arrows which flew at intervals into
the enclosure. One evening, soon after sunset, one of the men on watch
noticed a small light approaching the barricade, and thought at first
it was one of the phosphorescent insects which abounded in the woods,
and which the garrison had seen every night like little lamps among
the trees. But as it came nearer he perceived that it grew larger and
brighter, and moved from side to side with more regularity than was
probable with an insect, and at length he saw that it was a
smouldering torch held by a native, who was waving it to and fro to
cause a flame. Evidently he was coming to fire the barricade. A
well-directed shot brought him down, but to guard against any more
attempts of the same kind Underhill had the barricade constantly
drenched with water from the stream, a fatiguing job, but one that was
welcome to the men, in that it gave them something to do.
Day after day went by. It was clear that the enemy were trusting to
famine to accomplish their end. Luckily, it never entered their heads
to hasten the inevitable by damming up the stream before it entered
the enclosure. If they had done this the garrison could hardly have
held out for a day. In that hot climate a constant supply of water was
a prime necessity. But water without solid food would not keep them
alive, and as the stock of provisions diminished, and no help came,
they saw the horrors of starvation looming ever nearer. Underhill and
Tom Smith assumed a false cheerfulness before each other and the men,
but on the morning of the twelfth day Underhill was unable to keep up
the pretence any longer.
"I didn't want to show Underhill," said Tom to his father, when the
lieutenant had gone; "but we're just about done, I think."
"I'm afraid so, Tom. Poor Jenkins had a touch of delirium in the
night, and we are all getting so weak that we shall go off our heads."
"Well, I've got an idea. I thought I'd mention it to you before I
spoke to Underhill. The blacks haven't been near us for a day or two,
but you may be sure they are not far off. I fancy they've got a camp
or a village in the woods yonder. They must have food there, and I
don't see why we shouldn't try a night attack on them, and run away
with all we can lay hands upon. If we must, perish, better perish
fighting than starving."
"Yes, but it would be folly to attempt it unless we saw a chance of
success, and I see none. We don't know where their camp is; they may
be constantly on the watch, and could take us in the rear and occupy
our camp before we could get back. Besides, we might have to go a long
way, and how could we find our way back again?"
"One difficulty at a time, Father. As to finding our way back, we
could light small fires at intervals, which would serve as
guide-posts."
"And betray us to the enemy."
"But I shouldn't undertake it unless we discover that the course is
clear. I don't believe these natives ever keep watch by night; we have
seen no sign of them at night since they tried to burn us. The chief
difficulty is that we don't know the exact direction of their camp,
but why shouldn't I go out to-night and locate it?"
"Very dangerous, my boy."
"There's danger anyway," replied Tom, with a shrug. "I should take my
pocket compass; two or three of those insects would be enough to light
it."
"I think we had better remain all together, Tom. Help may yet come.
Why should you imperil your life, perhaps in vain?"
"Well, Father, I think I ought to chance it. I'll be careful! if I'm
seen I can make a bolt for it; and I fancy I can pick up my heels
quicker than the fuzzy-wuzzies, even though they don't wear boots."
Dr. Smith was still loth to acquiesce in the proposal, but Tom
returned to it more than once during the day, and at last obtained his
father's consent. It was scarcely easier to win over Underhill; but
with him Tom cut the matter short.
"You command the men," he said, with a smile. "My father commands
me--in a sense, for I'd have you know I am over age. I'm going to have
a try. Get the men ready to make a dash when I come back, for if I
succeed the sooner we set about it the better."
The knowledge of his intended expedition had a wonderful effect on the
spirits of the men. Their faces brightened: they threw off the
lethargy of despondence which had settled upon them, and discussed
with some animation the chances of success.
An hour after nightfall, having first looked and listened for any sign
of the enemy, Tom was let out through a gap in the barricade. He
caught two or three light-giving insects in the bushes just beyond,
and set off in the direction in which the natives had always retreated
when their attacks were beaten off.
It was pitch dark in the belt of forest. Night insects hummed around;
sometimes Tom heard the rustle made by some small animal as it darted
through the undergrowth; there was no other sound. He was able to
determine his general direction by means of the compass, but as the
forest grew thicker he began to fear that he would find more
difficulty than he had anticipated in retracing his course. The damp
warm air was oppressive; now and then he struck his head against a
low branch, stumbled over a stump or a fallen bough, or found his feet
entangled in the meshes of some creeping plant. He was soon bathed in
perspiration; every new sound made him jump; and with every stumble he
waited and listened with beating heart, wondering if he had betrayed
his presence to the enemy. He thought ruefully that his speed as a
sprinter would avail him little on ground like this; he had his
revolver, but that would be useless against numbers; discovery would
mean death.
Amid so many obstructions his progress was terribly slow. It was seven
o'clock when he started; when it occurred to him to look at his watch
he was startled to find that two hours had passed. He could not tell
how far he had come, nor guess how far he had yet to go. He hesitated;
should he go back? Was there any use in struggling further? What
chance was there in this dense forest of finding what he sought? Might
he not even miss the savages' camp altogether, go beyond it, leave it
either on his right hand or his left, or perhaps stumble upon it
suddenly, and be discovered before he had a chance to flee? But he put
these questions from his mind. He had set out to find the camp; no
harm had befallen him. There was a strain of doggedness in his nature;
he had won his scholarships at school and at Cambridge by sheer grit;
his tutor had declared that Tom Smith was certainly not brilliant,
but he was much better: he was sound and steady; and the same
qualities that had won him successes which more brilliant men envied,
came out in these novel circumstances in which he was placed. Tom
decided to go on.
Presently he came to a break in the woodland; he saw the stars
overhead. He was very wary now, and waited at the edge of the clearing
for a long time, peering all round, turning to listen on every side,
before he crossed and entered another belt of forest beyond. Again he
had to struggle through darkness and dense entanglements, then
suddenly he started; far ahead he thought he discerned amid the
blackness the dull glow of a fire. With infinite caution he picked his
way through the thinning undergrowth; the glow increased; and at
length he found himself on the edge of a wide open space in the midst
of which there was a camp fire, and around it the rude grass huts of
the savages. He saw no one, heard no sound; all were asleep.
Stealthily he crept round the encampment. Here and there he saw
cooking-pots, and caught the faint odour of roasted flesh. Had the
savages any store of food, he wondered. If not, his journey was vain.
The fire did not give light enough for him to see anything very
clearly. At last, however, when he had almost made the circuit of the
camp, he saw a man move out from one of the huts towards the fire, on
which he cast some logs that lay beside it. A flame shot up. As the
man returned to his hut, he put his hand into one of the cooking-pots
and drew out the limb of a small animal, from which he tore the flesh
with his teeth. Tom was satisfied. No doubt each of the pots contained
a quantity of food. Surely if he brought his comrades to the spot, and
they fell upon the camp suddenly, with loud cries and the noise of
firearms, they might strike panic into the savages, and at least have
time to possess themselves of the contents of the pots.
He looked at his watch. It was past ten o'clock.
He could return more quickly than he came, and, if he did not lose his
way, would regain his camp within half-an-hour after midnight. There
would be plenty of time for the whole party to reach the savages'
encampment before the dawn rendered it dangerous. Moving away slowly
until he was out of earshot, he then walked as quickly as he could
back through the forest. But he was not a mariner, and even a mariner
would have been at fault in tracking his course by compass through
dense forest. He judged his general direction accurately, but he
swerved a little too far to the right, and suddenly found himself on
the brink of the cliff. He dared not go back into the forest, lest he
should lose more time in wandering, so he decided to keep as close to
the sea as possible, thinking that he must in time arrive at his camp.
His path was tortuous; once he had to strike inland to avoid a deep,
wooded ravine; but presently he heard the sound of falling water, and,
quickening his steps, came almost suddenly upon the barricade.
The whole company were awake. They had almost given him up for lost.
It was one o'clock. Underhill sternly checked a cheer from the
sailors, when Tom ran up. He told what he had seen.
"Hadn't we better wait till to-morrow night?" suggested Dr. Smith.
"To-night! to-night!" cried the men eagerly. The knowledge that food
was within reach of them was too much for famishing men. Who knew if
they would have strength or sanity for the task after another
sweltering day? Underhill could not refuse them; he gave orders for
the whole company to march at once.
None was left to guard the camp; the little company of sixteen could
not be divided. They set off in single file, Tom leading the way, not
because he had any hope of treading in his former course, but because
he alone had traversed the forest, and he alone had a compass.
The plan of lighting fires to guide them on the return journey was
given up. The forest was so dense that such fires would have been of
little use; further, they might cause an immense conflagration which,
though it would effectually scare the enemy, would destroy what the
famished men so urgently needed, food.
Their progress was even slower than Tom's had been. They had to stop
frequently to make sure that all were together, and, as ill luck would
have it, Tom found that he was leading them through a part of the
forest where the entanglements were more intricate and less penetrable
than those he had formerly encountered. But he plodded on doggedly,
speaking to no one of his anxiety when a glance at his watch told how
time was fleeting. If they did not reach the camp of the savages
before dawn their toil and fatigue would be wasted, and their peril
greater than it had ever been.
Here and there, where the trees grew less close together, he felt a
slight breeze blowing in his face, and at length he detected a faint
smell of wood smoke. He halted, and told the rest, in a whisper, that
they were approaching a settlement. From this point they advanced
still more slowly and cautiously. Then, with a suddenness that took
them aback, they came to the edge of a clearing. At first Tom was not
sure whether it was the same that he had seen before. He had indeed
approached it from a different direction. But a glance around
satisfied him on this point, and the party stood within the shelter of
the trees while Underhill gave his orders. They were to fire one
shot, then rush forward with loud shouts, seize what food they could
lay hands on, and flee back in all haste. There was no time to be
lost, for the sky already gave hint of dawn.
Underhill had scarcely finished speaking when there was a cry from a
point near at hand. They had approached the camp from the wind-yard
side; the breeze had carried either some murmur of Underhill's voice,
low as he had spoken, or some faint scent which the natives, as keen
in their perceptions as wild animals, had detected. Instantly the camp
was in commotion: the dusky warriors poured forth from their little
huts, and swept, a wild, yelling horde, upon the weary company.