Pryce did not wait to dress. Thrusting his feet into a pair of
slippers, he hurried into the garden. There on the terrace the King
stood, pointing downward and seaward. But there was no need to point.
Far below, amid the dark of the trees, a giant flame leaped hungry and
quivering into the air. A column of smoke rose vertically, the head
of the column spreading out in all directions against a grey sky; it
looked like some monstrous swaying mushroom.
“Good God!” said Pryce. “It’s the club.”
“Scarcely fifteen minutes ago; and now look. I’m going down there
directly, taking all the men here with me.” The King spoke in a quiet,
even voice.
Pryce shook his head. “No good,” he said. “You can save nobody. The men
who are not out of that place already are dead. The whole show will
be burned to the ground in less than half-an-hour--you know how it’s
built. Wonder what started it. Some careless boozer, I suppose.”
The King put one hand on his arm. “No,” he said. “The fire started
in two places at once, at either end of the building. It has come at
last--the rising of my people.”
From below came faintly the sound of a crash, and for a moment the
stalk of that swaying mushroom was spangled high with a million sparks.
“I had seen signs, but I thought I held them still. The leaders I
know--three brothers--men who--”
A shrill cry came up from the dark trees by the burning house, followed
by a roar of voices; and then, short and sharp, the bark of the
revolvers. For a moment the King lost all his self-possession. He wrung
his hands. He flung his arms wide. “O my people, my people!” he cried.
“Yes,” said Pryce, grimly, “your people seem to have left you out of
this bean-feast. They’ve forgotten you, Smith.”
The King turned on him savagely. “And they must be made to remember.
That is why I go. If need be, of ten men nine must die, that the tenth
may remember for ever.”
“If that was Hanson shooting just now, you’ll find some of the nine
dead already. But you’re taking all the patrol with you--well, what’s
left for this place?”
“This place is taboo. They dare not come.”
“Yesterday you would have told me that they dare not burn down the club
and murder the white men. There’s liquor in the club, any amount of it,
and you may bet your life your precious people have looted it. They
respect the taboo when they’re sober, but they’ll respect nothing when
they’re mad with drink.”
“What am I to do? As it is, I have only seventy-five men against many
hundreds.”
“But they’re the only seventy-five who have rifles and can use them.
There’s your own prestige too, and all the hocus-pocus and mummery that
you know how to work on them.”
“I need all. I must win to-night and at once. If I fail, the prestige
is gone and we are all dead men to-morrow. Besides, I shall be between
this house and the rebels. How many of them will get past me? Very few.
And you shoot well, Pryce.”
“Oh, I’m not going to shoot any worse than I can help. But I can’t be
at fifty different points at once.”
“Well, yes,” the King admitted, “there is a risk. And, whatever
happens, I cannot lose Lechworthy.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Pryce. “Valuable man, Lechworthy.”
“Look here, Pryce. I cannot stay another moment. I leave you six men
with rifles. You must do the best you can.”
Pryce shrugged his shoulders. Six were not enough, he thought, not
nearly enough. But he could see that the King was right. Unless the
rebels were overawed and crushed at once, all would be lost.
“Very well,” he said. “Pick out six that can shoot better than they can
run.”
“You shall have six good men. You’ll see Lechworthy and put as good a
face on it as you can. Ah, they’re bringing my horse. Good-bye, Pryce.”
“Good-bye and luck to you,” said Pryce, and turned back to the house.
As he dressed, he could hear voices in the big room at the front of
the house, and was not surprised; the noise had been enough to waken
anybody. The sound of firing had ceased now, but that vague tumultuous
roar of voices went on continuously, mingling with the sound of the
surf.
He was rolling a cigarette as he entered the big room. It had struck
him that white drill might be inconveniently conspicuous and he wore
a suit of dark flannel. He carried no weapon, and his movements were
rather slower and more leisurely than usual.
Tiva and Ioia cowered in a corner and wept. Hilda, in a dressing-gown
with her hair loose, sat on the table and nursed a morocco-covered
case. Pryce knew what was in it. They had practised shooting together.
Lechworthy, fully dressed, paced the room, his hands locked behind him.
“Noisy crowd down there, ain’t they?” said Pryce, cheerily.
“What on earth is happening, Pryce?” asked Lechworthy. “It’s--it’s
terrific.”
“Some of the natives seem to have turned a bit unruly--started bonfires
and crackers, and little jokes of that kind. Disgraceful behaviour.
Smith has gone down with the patrol to check their enthusiasm. They’ll
all be quiet enough presently. They’re in a mortal funk of the King.”
“I’ve been out on the verandah,” said Lechworthy, “and it seemed much
worse than you say. There was the sound of firing quite undoubtedly.”
“Very likely,” said Pryce. “Some of these chaps are fond of loosing
off their guns when they get excited. I daresay it looked and sounded
far worse than it really is. By the way, Hilda, I thought your medical
attendant told you to go to bed not later than half-past ten.”
“So I did,” said Hilda. “I--I was disturbed.”
“Well, this little picnic won’t last long, and really it’s not worth
sitting up for. You ought to be in bed, you know.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance the rioters will come this way?”
asked Lechworthy.
“No,” said Pryce, boldly. “We’re taboo. The ordinary native would
sooner stand up and be shot at than set foot inside this garden.
Besides, Smith will hold them. And if by any chance a few should be
lucky enough to get through and mad enough to come this way, Smith has
not taken all the men; he’s left a small army to protect this place
with myself as their general, and I wonder what funny job I shall take
on next. Come, I don’t want to hurry anybody. But you can all sleep
peacefully in your beds, and the sooner you go to them the sooner I can
look after my chaps.”
Lechworthy seemed quite reassured. He said good-night to Pryce and
Hilda, and went off, taking Hilda with him.
Pryce turned on Tiva and Ioia. He laughed heartily at them. He made
comic imitations of their wailing and lament. They ceased to weep,
and became very angry. And suddenly Dr Pryce became very serious. He
spoke to them in the native tongue. He gave them various instructions.
There were some simple things which he wanted them to do, but they were
things that might make a good deal of difference. They were quick to
understand. They had great faith in Dr Pryce, even if he sometimes made
them very angry. As he sent them off, Hilda came back into the room
again.
“What were you saying to them?” she asked.
“Oh--telling them not to be silly.”
She clutched his arm. “I want to come with you, dear. Let me. You know
that I can shoot.”
He was very gentle with her. “Yes,” he said, as he caressed her hair,
“you’re a good shot, and this is splendid of you. Well, it will only
be waiting and watching for a long, long time yet. And if you were
there, I’m afraid I should be watching you most of the time, instead
of--other things. Most probably there’ll be nothing happening at all,
and you’d be up all night to no purpose, and I should feel bad about
it. But if the very worst did happen, and one of these idiots did get
past me and up to the house, it would be a great comfort to know that
there was a revolver there waiting for him, and waiting where he would
least expect it.”
He managed to persuade her that it was in the house that she would be
of the greatest help. “I wish you could get to sleep,” he said.
She shook her head. “I would if I could,” she said simply. “I like to
do everything you say.”
“Well, lie down at any rate.”
“I will. You know my window. You might come there sometimes, if you get
a chance, to tell me how things are going.”
“Right. I expect there’ll be nothing to tell. Good-night, darling.” For
one moment he held her in his arms and kissed her, and then hurried
out, picking up his revolvers as he went.
He found his six men waiting for him. One of them held a torch, and
Pryce made him put it out at once. Then he stationed his men at the
different points from which they were to keep a look-out, not far from
one another, along the hedge-crowned bank at the foot of the garden.
Of course an attack from some other direction was quite possible, but
the place was too large and the men at his disposal too few to keep a
watch all round. It would have been impossible, even if he had made
use of the boys who acted as house-servants, and he had decided not to
use them for this purpose at all. They had no training and too much
temperament; they would have been certain to see what was not there,
and to make a noise at the critical moment when silence was essential.
He kept them within the house, where under the direction of Tiva and
Ioia they filled buckets and soaked blankets in order that they might
deal at once with any attempt to fire the place. This being done, Tiva
and Ioia, as Pryce had directed, extinguished every light in the house.
On the whole, Pryce was not ill-satisfied. The rebels, he could see
now, had lit torches; a hundred points of light circled among the dark
trees below him. If they came carrying torches, they would be a clear
mark. Also, if they came at all, they would be mad with liquor, and
the strategy of the drunken is not to be feared. They would take the
shortest and nearest road, and make a frontal attack at the point where
Pryce’s men kept watch. Here between the high bank and the plantations
beyond was a broad belt clear of cover, and there was plenty of
reflected light at present; it seemed unlikely that any party of the
rebels could get across the clearing without being seen. Pryce was
pleased, too, with the six men that Smith had left him. They were very
keen, and they were quick to understand what was expected of them.
Going off by himself to see that all was right at the back of the
house, Pryce was a little surprised to encounter Lechworthy, wearing
his semi-clerical felt hat and calmly enjoying his briar pipe.
“Hullo!” said Pryce. “Thought you were in bed.”
“No,” said Lechworthy. “You don’t mind, do you? I said nothing just
now, because I didn’t want to make Hilda nervous, but I should like
to be in this. I can’t shoot, but I can keep a look-out for you. My
eyesight’s good and I can do what I’m told.”
“Right,” said Pryce. “I’m glad to have you. I was just thinking that I
could do with another man. Come along with me and I’ll place you. By
the way, you might knock that pipe out. There’s a breath of wind got up
and those beggars have keen noses. You see, my idea is that if they do
come they shall think we are quite unprepared--all in bed and asleep,
trusting to Smith and the men with him. Gives us a better chance, eh?”
Lechworthy’s pipe was already back in his pocket. “I see,” he said.
“Quite sound, I think. Is this my place?”
“Yes. You watch the road. Neither to right nor to left--just the road.
If they come at all, I hope they’ll come by the road. It’ll mean
they’re being pretty careless. If you see anything on the road, don’t
shout. Move along the bank to your left till you come to one of the
men of the patrol, and tell him; he knows what to do. It’s rather dull
work, but don’t go to sleep; the thing one’s looking for generally
comes ten seconds after one has stopped looking.”
“Quite so,” said Lechworthy. “I do not think I shall go to sleep.”
The rebels constituted about three-quarters of the native male
population of Faloo. But, as the three brothers who led them were
well aware, they were very little to be depended on. And for this
reason the leaders had not dared to disclose the whole of their plan.
The Exiles’ Club was to be burned down, and those who escaped from
the flames were to be slaughtered. The leaders found it expedient to
declare that no attack on the King or the King’s property was intended,
and that although in this destruction of the white men they would be
disobeying the King’s orders, they would really be carrying out his
secret wishes, and would readily be forgiven. The feeling against the
men of the Exiles’ Club was immensely strong, and so far the leaders
felt confident.
The second part of their plan they did not venture yet to disclose, for
only in the excitement induced by victory and by liquor looted from the
club could they hope to find followers to take part in its execution.
It was proposed then to attack the King’s house; the two white men
there were to be killed, and an exact vengeance was to be taken on the
white woman. The King’s safety was to depend on the terms that he would
make with the rebels. Now the taboo was a real thing to the natives,
and equally real was their loyalty to the King and their superstitious
fear of his powers; even their hatred of the men of the Exiles’ Club
would not have led them to enter upon its attack at all, if they had
known what sequel to it was intended.
The first part of the plan was not well executed, and with prompt
action it is probable that many of the members of the club would have
escaped. Had any precautions against fire been taken, it is possible
that even the club-house, in spite of the inflammable material used
in its construction, might have been saved. The task of firing the
club-house had been entrusted to natives who were club-servants, and
in their eagerness they started the two fires at least an hour before
the time agreed upon, and before the cordon of armed natives had closed
round the club-grounds. Several of the members had not yet gone to
bed and were still in the card-room; Sir John Sweetling and Hanson
were among the number. But though the fires were discovered almost
immediately, there was no fire-extinguishing apparatus and no adequate
water-supply. The attempts made to beat out the fire failed completely
and only wasted time. With such rapidity did the flames spread that,
although the alarm was given at once, there were still men in the
bedrooms when the sheet of fire swept up the flimsy staircase. Most of
them made a jump from the windows and escaped. One, a little man who
had passed by the name of Pentwin, broke his leg in his fall and lay
fainting with agony in the long grass at the back of the house.
Those who had escaped wasted much time in saving such furniture and
stores as they could, dragging it on to the lawn. And there they stood
around it stupidly, wondering what would happen next. Half of them did
not know how the fire had originated, and did not realise that the
native rising, so long talked of, had taken place at last. Mast knew
perhaps, but he was demented and useless. Sir John and Hanson knew, but
they were chiefly concerned in seeing that all had escaped safely from
the fire.
It was bright as day on the lawn. There was a card-table, brought
out just as it was, with loose cards and used glasses on it. There
were heaps of Standard oil-tins. There were casks of spirits and rows
of bottles with gold-foil round their necks. There was a jumble of
bent-wood chairs and lounges, with legs shot cataleptically outwards
and cushions shed abroad. There were piles of table-linen and full
plate-baskets, mirrors in gold frames and a mezzotint of “The Soul’s
Awakening.” Lord Charles Baringstoke went from one man to another,
displaying a small square box of plaited grass with some exultation.
“See that?” he said. “That’s my lizard. I saved the little beggar.
He lost me half a quid only last night, but I saved him--damn him.”
Nobody took much notice of him. Most of them stood quite still, without
word or movement, staring at the fire as if under a spell. Some were
bare-footed and in pyjamas, just as they had come from their beds.
They were equally unmoved when Mast, his eyes blazing with insanity,
climbed up on a chair, flung his arms wide and raved. “The judgment of
God is upon us,” he shouted, “the judgment of God! This is the day of
Tyre and Sidon. Not with hyssop but with fire must we be made clean of
our sins--this is the commandment revealed to me. Come then to the
baptism of fire!” He stepped down and would have thrown himself into
the burning building, but Sir John flung him roughly to the ground, and
he lay there weeping. Sir John had a club-list in his hand and Hanson
at his shoulder. Together they checked the list to see if any were
missing. A little distance away the parrot jumped and fluttered on its
perch, rattling its chain furiously, drawing innumerable corks.
“Five not here,” said Hanson, “and all men who slept in the house. I’ll
run round to the back to see if I can find any of them.”
There he found a little man with a broken leg, moaning with pain. A
canvas envelope had jerked out of the man’s pocket as he fell. It lay
on the grass with the contents half out of it. Amongst them was a
visiting-card printed in blue, and by the light of the fire Hanson read
it. The maimed man made a clutch for the other papers but it was Hanson
who got them. He glanced through them quickly, neglecting those that
were written in cypher, and then flung them into the fire.
“You’ve not played a bad game,” he said, “Mr Parget of the C.I.D.”
Parget lay still now with closed eyes, breathing hard.
“You might have won,” said Hanson, “or again you might not, for I had
my doubts about you. Anyhow, our friends have pitched the board over,
and it can’t be played out. I bear no malice. We can’t take you with
us with that broken leg, and I don’t like to leave you to the natives.
Better put you to sleep, eh?”
Parget nodded his head twice. There was blood on his lower lip, as he
bit hard on it.
“Keep your eyes shut,” said Hanson. He took his revolver from his
pocket and shot the man through the head. The crash of a falling floor
drowned the sound of the shot. A volley of sparks flew skyward.
Hanson rejoined Sir John. “Only one man there, and he’s dead--Pentwin.
We’d better get together, go round to the back and make a dash for it.
We might be able to get through.”
A few minutes before, this might have been done, but it was too late
now. The fire had given the signal, and the whole place was surrounded.
Before Hanson and Sir John could get their men together, there was one
loud yell and then an answering roar of voices, as from all sides out
of the dark of the trees the natives poured in upon the white men.
Some of the natives had antiquated firearms, but the greater number
were armed with knives and spears. They were without discipline; they
fired almost at random, and in consequence native killed native. Rotten
barrels burst at the first shot. But numbers prevailed; a few revolvers
could do little against this great tide of maddened humanity.
Yet, with no chance for their lives, the exiles fought desperately.
Hanson, who had dropped on one knee behind a barrel, emptied his
revolver twice and effectively before he went down, stabbed from behind
in the neck. Sir John had already fallen, passing his weapon as he fell
to an unarmed man behind him. Lord Charles Baringstoke was the last to
go, and for a few minutes he seemed to bear a charmed life. He stood
erect and smiling, his eyes alert and watchful; he never wasted a shot,
and never missed a chance to reload. Possibly for the first time in his
life he had realised his situation; certainly there was a nobility in
his bearing that none had seen there before. His personal degradation
seemed to have slipped from him, leaving only an ancestral inheritance
of quiet and courage in the face of death. He was quick, quick as
light; three times he swung round rapidly and dropped the native whose
knife was almost on him. Then all around him came a gleam of white
teeth and lean brown arms dragging at him. He was surrounded and went
down. His smoke-grimed hands clutched hard at the ground. “How could I
help it?” he gurgled as he died, and spoke maybe his fitting epitaph.
Now torches were lit from the burning building. The casks of liquor
were set flowing, and a dense crowd gathered round them, treading the
dead men under foot, stretching out cups made of the half-shell of a
cokernut. The noise was terrific, and the leaders were powerless to
restrain the men who had followed them. The three brothers stood apart
and conferred together, quarrelling violently. So far they had won,
but two of them thought that nothing further could be done with this
disorganised mob. The youngest was for marching immediately on the
King’s house. He had a small personal following on whom he thought he
could depend. His elder brothers shrugged their shoulders. Of what use
would those few be against the King and his well-armed men?
They did not know that even as they spoke the King was not a hundred
yards away from them. The reckless victors had kept no watch of any
kind, and the King had been able to bring his men into the orange-grove
unperceived.
Suddenly into the great mob that sang and struggled round the casks
on the lawn, there poured a volley from sixty-nine rifles. The noise
of shout and song stopped abruptly; there were moans from the wounded
on the ground and no other sound at all. Scarcely knowing what had
happened, astounded and helpless, the survivors looked to their
leaders. But before they could speak there came a rush of big-built men
from the trees. Two of the leaders were bound hand and foot; the third,
the youngest of the brothers, managed to escape.
And now the King himself rode out on to the lawn. He worked his
horse in and out through the crowd, speaking to them as he went. If
they wished to live, he told them, they must remain where they were.
They shrank from him in shame, turning their eyes away, like unruly
schoolboys caught by their master. As he passed they squatted down on
the earth and watched to see what he would do. He rode to the upper
end of the lawn. The building had burned low now; there was a great
mass of red-hot embers over the surface of which a light flame skipped,
dropping down and bobbing up again. Here, in front of the fire, the two
leaders were brought to him. He dismounted and looked at them long,
till they grew afraid of his eyes. Then he gave the order and four men
of the patrol took one of the brothers, swung him rhythmically and
hurled him into the red-hot furnace.
With the other brother the King dealt differently. As he looked at him,
he began to loosen the cord on the man’s wrists, speaking softly as he
did so. “See,” he said, “what has happened to you. You can no longer
move except as I will it. There, your hands are no longer bound; I have
taken off the cord; but one wrist clings to the other and you cannot
get them apart. Your feet also are no longer bound, but they are stuck
tight to the earth so that you cannot raise them. The fingers of your
hands are cramped and useless--quite useless. Here is a knife to kill
me; you cannot grasp it and it falls to the ground.”
The crowd watched breathlessly. They saw the proffered knife, and their
leader’s failure to hold it.
The King spoke to the man again. He told him that he was a very fine
man and a great house should be prepared for him. “Turn round and you
will see it.”
The man turned, expressionless, his eyes wide open; he stared at the
pile of glowing timber.
“A beautiful house with many lights,” said the King, softly, and the
man’s face smiled now in response. “They wait for you there. You are
tired, and they will spread soft mats for you that you may sleep. Go
quickly. You must.”
The man ran forward, floundered for a few steps among the red-hot
embers, then threw up his arms and fell full length. The flakes of
burning wood closed over him like a wave of crimson sea; a gross and
yellow smoke rose where he had fallen.
The King mounted his horse and called aloud. “You have seen--remember
it well, remember it well! To those who throw down their arms and go
back forthwith to their huts, I grant their lives.”
Helped or driven by the men of the patrol, they threw down their knives
and spears and slunk away down to the huts that were massed in a
straggling street on the shore.