The attack was a fiasco, the fighting was all over in ten minutes. A
hundred years ago the men of Bekwando, who went naked and knew no drink
more subtle than palm wine had one virtue--bravery. But civilisation
pressing upon their frontiers had brought Oom Sam greedy for ivory and
gold, and Oom Sam had bought rum and strong waters. The nerve of the
savage had gone, and his muscle had become a flaccid thing. When they
had risen from the long grass with a horrid yell and had rushed in upon
the hated intruders with couched spears only to be met by a blinding
fire of Lee-Metford and revolver bullets their bravery vanished like
breath from the face of a looking-glass. They hesitated, and a rain of
bullets wrought terrible havoc amongst their ranks. On every side the
fighting-men of Bekwando went down like ninepins--about half a dozen
only sprang forward for a hand-to-hand fight, the remainder, with
shrieks of despair, fled back to the shelter of the forest, and not one
of them again ever showed a bold front to the white man. Trent, for a
moment or two, was busy, for a burly savage, who had marked him out by
the light of the gleaming flames, had sprung upon him spear in hand, and
behind him came others. The first one dodged Trent's bullet and was upon
him, when the boy shot him through the cheek and he went rolling over
into the fire, with a death-cry which rang through the camp high above
the din of fighting, another behind him Trent shot himself, but the
third was upon him before he could draw his revolver and the two rolled
over struggling fiercely, at too close quarters for weapons, yet with
the thirst for blood fiercely kindled in both of them. For a moment
Trent had the worst of it--a blow fell upon his forehead (the scar of
which he never lost) and the wooden club was brandished in the air for
a second and more deadly stroke. But at that moment Trent leaped up,
dashed his unloaded revolver full in the man's face and, while he
staggered with the shock, a soldier from behind shot him through the
heart. Trent saw him go staggering backwards and then himself sank down,
giddy with the blow he had received. Afterwards he knew that he must
have fainted, for when he opened his eyes the sun was up and the men
were strolling about looking at the dead savages who lay thick in the
grass. Trent sat up and called for water.
“Any one hurt?” he asked the boy who brought him some. The boy grinned,
but shook his head.
“Plenty savages killed,” he said, “no white man or Kru boy.”
“Where's Mr. Davenant,” Trent asked suddenly.
The boy looked round and shook his head.
“No seen Mr. Dav'nant,” he said. “Him fight well though! Him not hurt!”
Trent stood up with a sickening fear at his heart. He knew very well
that if the boy was about and unhurt he would have been at his side. Up
and down the camp he strode in vain. At last one of the Kru boys thought
he remembered seeing a great savage bounding away with some one on his
back. He had thought that it was one of their wounded--it might have
been the boy. Trent, with a sickening sense of horror, realised the
truth. The boy had been taken prisoner.
Even then he preserved his self-control to a marvellous degree. First of
all he gave directions for the day's work--then he called for volunteers
to accompany him to the village. There was no great enthusiasm. To fight
in trenches against a foe who had no cover nor any firearms was rather
a different thing from bearding them in their own lair. Nevertheless,
about twenty men came forward, including a guide, and Trent was
satisfied.
They started directly after breakfast and for five hours fought their
way through dense undergrowth and shrubs with never a sign of a path,
though here and there were footsteps and broken boughs. By noon some of
the party were exhausted and lagged behind, an hour later a long line of
exhausted stragglers were following Trent and the native guide. Yet to
all their petitions for a rest Trent was adamant. Every minute's delay
might lessen the chance of saving the boy, even now they might have
begun their horrible tortures. The thought inspired him with fresh
vigour. He plunged on with long, reckless strides which soon placed a
widening gap between him and the rest of the party.
By degrees he began to recollect his whereabouts. The way grew less
difficult--occasionally there were signs of a path. Every moment the
soft, damp heat grew more intense and clammy. Every time he touched
his forehead he found it dripping. But of these things he recked very
little, for every step now brought him nearer to the end of his journey.
Faintly, through the midday silence he could hear the clanging of copper
instruments and the weird mourning cry of the defeated natives. A few
more steps and he was almost within sight of them. He slackened his
pace and approached more stealthily until only a little screen of bushes
separated him from the village and, peering through them, he saw a sight
which made his blood run cold within him.
They had the boy! He was there, in that fantastic circle bound hand and
foot, but so far as he could see, at present unhurt. His face was turned
to Trent, white and a little scared, but his lips were close-set and he
uttered no sound. By his side stood a man with a native knife dancing
around and singing--all through the place were sounds of wailing and
lamentation, and in front of his hut the King was lying, with an empty
bottle by his side, drunk and motionless. Trent's anger grew fiercer
as he watched. Was this a people to stand in his way, to claim the
protection and sympathy of foreign governments against their own
bond, that they might keep their land for misuse and their bodies for
debauchery? He looked backwards and listened. As yet there was no sign
of any of his followers and there was no telling how long these antics
were to continue. Trent looked to his revolver and set his teeth. There
must be no risk of evil happening to the boy. He walked boldly out into
the little space and called to them in a loud voice.
There was a wild chorus of fear. The women fled to the huts--the men ran
like rats to shelter. But the executioner of Bekwando, who was a fetish
man and holy, stood his ground and pointed his knife at Trent. Two
others, seeing him firm, also remained. The moment was critical.
“Cut those bonds!” Trent ordered, pointing to the boy.
The fetish man waved his hands and drew a step nearer to Trent, his
knife outstretched. The other two backed him up. Already a spear was
couched.
Trent's revolver flashed out in the sunlight.
“Cut that cord!” he ordered again.
The fetish man poised his knife. Trent hesitated no longer, but shot him
deliberately through the heart. He jumped into the air and fell forward
upon his face with a death-cry which seemed to find an echo from every
hut and from behind every tree of Bekwando. It was like the knell of
their last hope, for had he not told them that he was fetish, that his
body was proof against those wicked fires and that if the white men
came, he himself would slay them! And now he was dead! The last barrier
of their superstitious hope was broken down. Even the drunken King sat
up and made strange noises.
Trent stooped down and, picking up the knife, cut the bonds which had
bound the boy. He staggered up to his feet with a weak, little laugh.
“I knew you'd find me,” he said. “Did I look awfully frightened?”
Trent patted him on the shoulder. “If I hadn't been in time,” he said,
“I'd have shot every man here and burned their huts over their
heads. Pick up the knife, old chap, quick. I think those fellows mean
mischief.”
The two warriors who had stood by the priest were approaching, but when
they came within a few yards of Trent's revolver they dropped on their
knees. It was their token of submission. Trent nodded, and a moment
afterwards the reason for their non-resistance was made evident. The
remainder of the expedition came filing into the little enclosure.
Trent lit a cigar and sat down on a block of wood to consider what
further was best to be done. In the meantime the natives were bringing
yams to the white men with timid gestures. After a brief rest Trent
called them to follow him. He walked across to the dwelling of the
fetish man and tore down the curtain of dried grass which hung before
the opening. Even then it was so dark inside that they had to light a
torch before they could see the walls, and the stench was horrible.
A little chorus of murmurs escaped the lips of the Europeans as the
interior became revealed to them. Opposite the door was a life-size
and hideous effigy of a grinning god, made of wood and painted in many
colours. By its side were other more horrible images and a row of human
skulls hung from the roof. The hand of a white man, blackened with age,
was stuck to the wall by a spear-head, the stench and filth of the whole
place were pestilential. Yet outside a number of women and several of
the men were on their knees hoping still against hope for aid from
their ancient gods. There was a cry of horror when Trent unceremoniously
kicked over the nearest idol--a yell of panic when the boy, with a gleam
of mischief in his eyes, threw out amongst them a worm-eaten, hideous
effigy and with a hearty kick stove in its hollow side. It lay there
bald and ugly in the streaming sunshine, a block of misshapen wood
ill-painted in flaring daubs, the thing which they had worshipped in
gloom and secret, they and a generation before them--all the mystery of
its shrouded existence, the terrible fetish words of the dead priest,
the reverence which an all-powerful and inherited superstition had kept
alive within them, came into their minds as they stood there trembling,
and then fled away to be out of the reach of the empty, staring
eyes--out of reach of the vengeance which must surely fall from the
skies upon these white savages. So they watched, the women beating their
bosoms and uttering strange cries, the men stolid but scared. Trent and
the boy came out coughing, and half-stupefied with the rank odour, and a
little murmur went up from them. It was a device of the gods--a sort of
madness with which they were afflicted. But soon their murmurs turned
again into lamentation when they saw what was to come. Men were running
backwards and forwards, piling up dried wood and branches against the
idol-house, a single spark and the thing was done. A tongue of flame
leaped up, a thick column of smoke stole straight up in the breathless
air. Amazed, the people stood and saw the home of dreadful mystery,
whence came the sentence of life and death, the voice of the King-maker,
the omens of war and fortune, enveloped in flames, already a ruined and
shapeless mass. Trent stood and watched it, smoking fiercely and felt
himself a civiliser. But the boy seemed to feel some of the pathos
of the moment and he looked curiously at the little crowd of wailing
natives.
“And the people?” he asked.
“They are going to help me make my road,” Trent said firmly. “I am going
to teach them to work!”