MY LAST SIGHT OF THE REVEREND JOHN LAPUTA
It was dark before I got into the gorge of the Letaba. I passed many
patrols, but few spoke to me, and none tried to stop me. Some may have
known me, but I think it was my face and figure which tied their
tongues. I must have been pale as death, with tangled hair and fever
burning in my eyes. Also on my left temple was the splash of blood.
At Main Drift I found a big body of police holding the ford. I splashed
through and stumbled into one of their camp-fires. A man questioned me,
and told me that Arcoll had got his quarry. “He’s dead, they say. They
shot him out on the hills when he was making for the Limpopo.” But I
knew that this was not true. It was burned on my mind that Laputa was
alive, nay, was waiting for me, and that it was God’s will that we
should meet in the cave.
A little later I struck the track of the Kaffirs’ march. There was a
broad, trampled way through the bush, and I followed it, for it led to
Dupree’s Drift. All this time I was urging the _schimmel_ with all the
vigour I had left in me. I had quite lost any remnant of fear. There
were no terrors left for me either from Nature or man. At Dupree’s
Drift I rode the ford without a thought of crocodiles. I looked
placidly at the spot where Henriques had slain the Keeper and I had
stolen the rubies. There was no interest or imagination lingering in my
dull brain. My nerves had suddenly become things of stolid, untempered
iron. Each landmark I passed was noted down as one step nearer to my
object. At Umvelos’ I had not the leisure to do more than glance at the
shell which I had built. I think I had forgotten all about that night
when I lay in the cellar and heard Laputa’s plans. Indeed, my doings of
the past days were all hazy and trivial in my mind. I only saw one
sight clearly—two men, one tall and black, the other little and sallow,
slowly creeping nearer to the Rooirand, and myself, a midget on a
horse, spurring far behind through the bush on their trail. I saw the
picture as continuously and clearly as if I had been looking at a scene
on the stage. There was only one change in the setting; the three
figures seemed to be gradually closing together.
I had no exhilaration in my quest. I do not think I had even much hope,
for something had gone numb and cold in me and killed my youth. I told
myself that treasure-hunting was an enterprise accursed of God, and
that I should most likely die. That Laputa and Henriques would die I
was fully certain. The three of us would leave our bones to bleach
among the diamonds, and in a little the Prester’s collar would glow
amid a little heap of human dust. I was quite convinced of all this,
and quite apathetic. It really did not matter so long as I came up with
Laputa and Henriques, and settled scores with them. That mattered
everything in the world, for it was my destiny.
I had no means of knowing how long I took, but it was after midnight
before I passed Umvelos’, and ere I got to the Rooirand there was a
fluttering of dawn in the east. I must have passed east of Arcoll’s
men, who were driving the bush towards Majinje’s. I had ridden the
night down and did not feel so very tired. My horse was stumbling, but
my own limbs scarcely pained me. To be sure I was stiff and nerveless
as if hewn out of wood, but I had been as bad when I left Bruderstroom.
I felt as if I could go on riding to the end of the world.
At the brink of the bush I dismounted and turned the _schimmel_ loose.
I had brought no halter, and I left him to graze and roll. The light
was sufficient to let me see the great rock face rising in a tower of
dim purple. The sky was still picked out with stars, but the moon had
long gone down, and the east was flushing. I marched up the path to the
cave, very different from the timid being who had walked the same road
three nights before. Then my terrors were all to come: now I had
conquered terror and seen the other side of fear. I was centuries
older.
But beside the path lay something which made me pause. It was a dead
body, and the head was turned away from me. I did not need to see the
face to know who it was. There had been only two men in my vision, and
one of them was immortal.
I stopped and turned the body over. There was no joy in my heart, none
of the lust of satisfied vengeance or slaked hate. I had forgotten
about the killing of my dog and all the rest of Henriques’ doings. It
was only with curiosity that I looked down on the dead face, swollen
and livid in the first light of morning.
The man had been strangled. His neck, as we say in Scotland, was
“thrawn”, and that was why he had lain on his back yet with his face
turned away from me. He had been dead probably since before midnight. I
looked closer, and saw that there was blood on his shirt and hands, but
no wound. It was not his blood, but some other’s. Then a few feet off
on the path I found a pistol with two chambers empty.
What had happened was very plain. Henriques had tried to shoot Laputa
at the entrance of the cave for the sake of the collar and the treasure
within. He had wounded him—gravely, I thought, to judge from the amount
of blood—but the quickness and marksmanship of the Portuguese had not
availed to save his life from those terrible hands. After two shots
Laputa had got hold of him and choked his life out as easily as a man
twists a partridge’s neck. Then he had gone into the cave.
I saw the marks of blood on the road, and hastened on. Laputa had been
hours in the cave, enough to work havoc with the treasure. He was
wounded, too, and desperate. Probably he had come to the Rooirand
looking for sanctuary and rest for a day or two, but if Henriques had
shot straight he might find a safer sanctuary and a longer rest. For
the third time in my life I pushed up the gully between the straight
high walls of rock, and heard from the heart of the hills the thunder
of the imprisoned river.
There was only the faintest gleam of light in the cleft, but it
sufficed to show me that the way to the cave was open. The hidden
turnstile in the right wall stood ajar; I entered, and carelessly swung
it behind me. The gates clashed into place with a finality which told
me that they were firmly shut. I did not know the secret of them, so
how should I get out again?
These things troubled me less than the fact that I had no light at all
now. I had to go on my knees to ascend the stair, and I could feel that
the steps were wet. It must be Laputa’s blood.
Next I was out on the gallery which skirted the chasm. The sky above me
was growing pale with dawn, and far below the tossing waters were
fretted with light. A light fragrant wind was blowing on the hills, and
a breath of it came down the funnel. I saw that my hands were all
bloody with the stains on the steps, and I rubbed them on the rock to
clean them. Without a tremor I crossed the stone slab over the gorge,
and plunged into the dark alley which led to the inner chamber.
As before, there was a light in front of me, but this time it was a
pin-point and not the glare of many torches. I felt my way carefully by
the walls of the passage, though I did not really fear anything. It was
by the stopping of these lateral walls that I knew I was in the cave,
for the place had only one single speck of light. The falling wall of
water stood out grey green and ghostly on the left, and I noticed that
higher up it was lit as if from the open air. There must be a great
funnel in the hillside in that direction. I walked a few paces, and
then I made out that the spark in front was a lantern.
My eyes were getting used to the half-light, and I saw what was beside
the lantern. Laputa knelt on the ashes of the fire which the Keeper had
kindled three days before. He knelt before, and half leaned on, a rude
altar of stone. The lantern stood by him on the floor, and its faint
circle lit something which I was not unprepared for. Blood was welling
from his side, and spreading in a dark pool over the ashes.
I had no fear, only a great pity—pity for lost romance, for vain
endeavour, for fruitless courage. “Greeting, Inkulu!” I said in Kaffir,
as if I had been one of his indunas.
He turned his head and slowly and painfully rose to his feet. The
place, it was clear, was lit from without, and the daylight was
growing. The wall of the river had become a sheet of jewels, passing
from pellucid diamond above to translucent emerald below. A dusky
twilight sought out the extreme corners of the cave. Laputa’s tall
figure stood swaying above the white ashes, his hand pressed to his
side.
“Who is it?” he said, looking at me with blind eyes.
“It is the storekeeper from Umvelos’,” I answered.
“The storekeeper of Umvelos’,” he repeated. “God has used the weak
things of the world to confound the strong. A king dies because a
pedlar is troublesome. What do they call you, man? You deserve to be
remembered.”
I told him “David Crawfurd.”
“Crawfurd,” he repeated, “you have been the little reef on which a
great vessel has foundered. You stole the collar and cut me off from my
people, and then when I was weary the Portuguese killed me.”
“No,” I cried, “it was not me. You trusted Henriques, and you got your
fingers on his neck too late. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You warned me, and I will repay you. I will make you rich, Crawfurd.
You are a trader, and want money. I am a king, and want a throne. But I
am dying, and there will be no more kings in Africa.”
The mention of riches did not thrill me as I had expected, but the last
words awakened a wild regret. I was hypnotized by the man. To see him
going out was like seeing the fall of a great mountain.
He stretched himself, gasping, and in the growing light I could see how
broken he was. His cheeks were falling in, and his sombre eyes had
shrunk back in their sockets. He seemed an old worn man standing there
among the ashes, while the blood, which he made no effort to staunch,
trickled down his side till it dripped on the floor. He had ceased to
be the Kaffir king, or the Christian minister, or indeed any one of his
former parts. Death was stripping him to his elements, and the man
Laputa stood out beyond and above the characters he had played,
something strange, and great, and moving, and terrible.
“We met for the first time three days ago,” he said, “and now you will
be the last to see the Inkulu.”
“Umvelos’ was not our first meeting,” said I. “Do you mind the Sabbath
eight years since when you preached in the Free Kirk at Kirkcaple? I
was the boy you chased from the shore, and I flung the stone that
blacked your eye. Besides, I came out from England with you and
Henriques, and I was in the boat which took you from Durban to Delagoa
Bay. You and I have been long acquaint, Mr Laputa.”
“It is the hand of God,” he said solemnly. “Your fate has been twisted
with mine, and now you will die with me.”
I did not understand this talk about dying. I was not mortally wounded
like him, and I did not think Laputa had the strength to kill me even
if he wished. But my mind was so impassive that I scarcely regarded his
words.
“I will make you rich,” he cried. “Crawfurd, the storekeeper, will be
the richest man in Africa. We are scattered, and our wealth is
another’s. He shall have the gold and the diamonds—all but the Collar,
which goes with me.”
He staggered into a dark recess, one of many in the cave, and I
followed him. There were boxes there, tea chests, cartridge cases, and
old brass-ribbed Portuguese coffers. Laputa had keys at his belt, and
unlocked them, his fingers fumbling with weakness. I peered in and saw
gold coin and little bags of stones.
“Money and diamonds,” he cried. “Once it was the war chest of a king,
and now it will be the hoard of a trader. No, by the Lord! The trader’s
place is with the Terrible Ones.” An arm shot out, and my shoulder was
fiercely gripped.
“You stole my horse. That is why I am dying. But for you I and my army
would be over the Olifants. I am going to kill you, Crawfurd,” and his
fingers closed in to my shoulder blades.
Still I was unperturbed. “No, you are not. You cannot. You have tried
to and failed. So did Henriques, and he is lying dead outside. I am in
God’s keeping, and cannot die before my time.”
I do not know if he heard me, but at any rate the murderous fit passed.
His hand fell to his side and his great figure tottered out into the
cave. He seemed to be making for the river, but he turned and went
through the door I had entered by. I heard him slipping in the passage,
and then there was a minute of silence.
Suddenly there came a grinding sound, followed by the kind of muffled
splash which a stone makes when it falls into a deep well. I thought
Laputa had fallen into the chasm, but when I reached the door his
swaying figure was coming out of the corridor. Then I knew what he had
done. He had used the remnant of his giant strength to break down the
bridge of stone across the gorge, and so cut off my retreat.
I really did not care. Even if I had got over the bridge I should
probably have been foiled by the shut turnstile. I had quite forgotten
the meaning of fear of death.
I found myself giving my arm to the man who had tried to destroy me.
“I have laid up for you treasure in heaven,” he said. “Your earthly
treasure is in the boxes, but soon you will be seeking incorruptible
jewels in the deep deep water. It is cool and quiet down there, and you
forget the hunger and pain.”
The man was getting very near his end. The madness of despair came back
to him, and he flung himself among the ashes.
“We are going to die together, Crawfurd,” he said. “God has twined our
threads, and there will be only one cutting. Tell me what has become of
my army.”
“Arcoll has guns on the Wolkberg,” I said. “They must submit or
perish.”
“I have other armies ... No, no, they are nothing. They will all wander
and blunder and fight and be beaten. There is no leader anywhere ...
And I am dying.”
There was no gainsaying the signs of death. I asked him if he would
like water, but he made no answer. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, and
I thought I could realize something of the bitterness of that great
regret. For myself I was as cold as a stone. I had no exultation of
triumph, still less any fear of my own fate. I stood silent, the
half-remorseful spectator of a fall like the fall of Lucifer.
“I would have taught the world wisdom.” Laputa was speaking English in
a strange, thin, abstracted voice. “There would have been no king like
me since Charlemagne,” and he strayed into Latin which I have been told
since was an adaptation of the Epitaph of Charles the Great. “_Sub hoc
conditorio_,” he crooned, “_situm est corpus Joannis, magni et
orthodoxi Imperatoris, qui imperium Africanum nobiliter ampliavit, et
multos per annos mundum feliciter rexit._”[1] He must have chosen this
epitaph long ago.
He lay for a few seconds with his head on his arms, his breast heaving
with agony.
“No one will come after me. My race is doomed, and in a little they
will have forgotten my name. I alone could have saved them. Now they go
the way of the rest, and the warriors of John become drudges and
slaves.”
Something clicked in his throat, he gasped and fell forward, and I
thought he was dead. Then he struggled as if to rise. I ran to him, and
with all my strength aided him to his feet.
“Unarm, Eros,” he cried. “The long day’s task is done.” With the
strange power of a dying man he tore off his leopard-skin and belt till
he stood stark as on the night when he had been crowned. From his pouch
he took the Prester’s Collar. Then he staggered to the brink of the
chasm where the wall of green water dropped into the dark depth below.
I watched, fascinated, as with the weak hands of a child he twined the
rubies round his neck and joined the clasp. Then with a last effort he
stood straight up on the brink, his eyes raised to the belt of daylight
from which the water fell. The light caught the great gems and called
fires from them, the flames of the funeral pyre of a king.
Once more his voice, restored for a moment to its old vigour, rang out
through the cave above the din of the cascade. His words were those
which the Keeper had used three nights before. With his hands held high
and the Collar burning on his neck he cried, “The Snake returns to the
House of its Birth.”
“Come,” he cried to me. “The Heir of John is going home.” Then he leapt
into the gulf. There was no sound of falling, so great was the rush of
water. He must have been whirled into the open below where the bridge
used to be, and then swept into the underground deeps, where the
Labongo drowses for thirty miles. Far from human quest he sleeps his
last sleep, and perhaps on a fragment of bone washed into a crevice of
rock there may hang the jewels that once gleamed in Sheba’s hair.
[1] “Under this stone is laid the body of John, the great and orthodox
Emperor, who nobly enlarged the African realm, and for many years
happily ruled the world.”