DESPERATION
No, the peril was none the less to any of the villagers, and greatly
increased to the Englishmen, for the natives began to look darkly at
them.
Kirke had made them all leave their inflammable houses, perched like
dovecots high upon poles, and had encamped in a little clearance at the
edge of the jungle.
This he insisted upon enlarging to the best of their ability, cutting
down all cover beneath which the dacoits could steal upon them
unperceived. So dense was the scrub that this was hard work, and the
Burman hates hard work.
Kirke, with British energy, set the example himself, hacking, hewing,
and felling, with promptitude which was far from being seconded. He
caused the débris to be built up around a circle, within which he
entrenched the women and children, with all the household effects that
could be gathered together, and would fain have thrown up earthworks to
the best of his ability, but the Burmans would not dig them out.
He insisted upon the houses which remained being cut down from their
elevations, lest the dacoits should succeed in mounting to them, and
firing down upon the camp; and this annoyed the short-sighted owners
more than anything else.
"Why should we destroy our houses?" they said. "The dacoits are gone
now. We have given them the fire to eat, and they have had enough of it.
We wear the charm against fire and sword, the blessed nats will protect
us, ours are stronger than theirs; and the houses must be put up again
before the next flood-time comes."
"True," argued Kirke, "but meantime you may be all killed. The dacoits
are certain to return, perhaps in much greater force. They will come
determined to avenge the deaths of their friends, and they also wear
charms. You must take measures for your own safety. Cannot you get help
from any neighbours strong enough to protect you? Is there no English
station within reach? Could no scout be sent to any British
police-station, to tell them of our need and beg assistance? There must
be some such place. Cannot we send word to Rangoon?"
The Burmans looked at each other. They knew well enough that there was a
police-station within twenty miles of them, but they had concealed the
fact from Kirke because they wanted his money. He had brought prosperity
to them, and they did not want to lose him. He had proved to be a
perfect godsend to them hitherto; but it was plain to them that the
reputation of this very prosperity had partly caused the dacoits to
assail them.
Would it be best for them now to keep the Englishmen with them longer,
and fight the robbers themselves, or to make capital out of helping them
to return to their friends, who, out of gratitude, would come and kill
the dacoits for them?
The question was hotly debated in the village conclave.
Moung Shway Poh was jealous of Kirke's ascendency. He felt his authority
tottering on its throne. Kirke spoke to him in a dictatorial tone, and
ordered him about just as if he had been the veriest child, still
untattooed; and the old man hated him.
"We have the strangers with us," said he, "just as much as if we sent to
the station and had the officers, who would bring good guns, big guns,
kill the thieves, and save our houses. They would give us rewards for
helping their countrymen; pay for the dacoits' heads--be a revenue to us
for all next year. We should have plenty of rice, plenty of smoke,
plenty of everything from them. This man has spent all he has now, he
cannot have much left; and the boy has nothing at all, though he must
eat and be clothed."
But the other side was represented by the sons of the man who was cut
down and mutilated by the cruel dahs of the dacoits,--by the children of
the poor woman who, with her infant, had shared in her husband's fate,
and whose grandmother and little sister had been saved by Ralph.
Other victims had also fallen, and their relations thirsted to avenge
blood by blood. They were eager to kill the dacoits themselves. To them,
in that case, would belong the glory; to them would the butterfly
spirits of the victims be grateful; to them would the price of the
dacoits' heads be paid, which would be lost to them if the police shot
them instead.
Kirke, having superintended all the defences which he could prevail upon
the Burmans to make, sat by the side of Ralph, who was sleeping
profoundly on his mat, and watched the council--debating at a little
distance--with great anxiety.
He knew well what issues were under discussion; he had gauged the
characters of these men accurately during his residence with them, and
was convinced that they would treat him like an orange which had been
sucked dry, and of which the rind was only flung away.
He could have escaped by himself, and his resources, though nearly
exhausted, were not yet quite at an end. He had enough left to hire or
purchase a tat,[3] or pay for a passage in the big rice boat, and so
make his way to an English settlement, where he could take his chance of
punishment for his conduct on board the _Pelican_, and await remittances
from home.
Since meeting with Denham, his apprehensions of the consequences of his
crime had dwindled down. No lives had been lost, much time had elapsed,
and he had been of material service to Ralph. He was assured by Ralph
that Mr. Gilchrist wished him no harm, and would prove placable.
But it would be better for him to give himself up, rather than to be
taken prisoner by English police; he would much prefer making his own
way to Rangoon to being sent there as a captive.
Yet he could not abandon Ralph, who was in no state for a hurried
journey taken under the difficulties which must attend an escape. Even
now the boy was muttering and rambling in his sleep, the fever was
rising higher with the approach of nightfall, and the wound in his leg
was terribly inflamed. Kirke changed the dressing, bathed it and Ralph's
head and face with cool water, and changed his hot pillow. Ralph looked
gratefully up at him as he woke up completely.
"You are very good to me, old fellow," said he. "I am sorry to be such a
nuisance; but, somehow, I feel very stiff and queer, and my head rages."
"All right," said Kirke, a lump rising in his throat as he gazed upon
his friend, so dear to him now. "All right, we will win through this
worry soon. You are better."
"Yes, I'm better," said Ralph, with a mighty effort at cheerfulness.
"Drink this," said Kirke, offering some water to him; "go to sleep
again, there is nothing else to be done, and I'm watching."
Ralph drank the water, and soon fell into a calmer, more refreshing,
slumber.
Kirke went to examine his store of ammunition, and became graver than
ever, for he found that it was running extremely short. There was no
method by which he might replenish his powder; but the dacoits, with the
whole country behind them, could get practically inexhaustible supplies.
Kirke heaved a sigh, and sat down once more by the sleeping boy.
It was growing dark, but the council still argued and disputed at a
little distance from the circle entrenched, and words were running high
among its members.
All at once a shot was heard, and a bullet tore its way from the gloom
of the trees, crashed through Kirke's stockade, and buried itself in the
ground.
"Ameh!" shrieked the women, springing to the farthest corners.
The men leapt from their haunches, upon which they were crouching, and
jumped over into the circle, glad enough now of the protection afforded
them by Kirke's foresight, and once more willing to accept his gallant
leadership.
Whiz!--ping!--went a second shot; followed by a third--a fourth. Kirke
caught up his gun, and blazed back a return fire, aimed in the direction
from which the assault came. "But," thought he, "this is of little
avail, for we cannot take aim at the wretches, whereas the blaze of our
lamps makes us so many marks to them."
But the firm resistance offered had an effect; the dacoits' shots
lessened, then ceased. What did this mean? They must have some new
scheme on foot.
The besieged stood in line, facing the jungle, with the women and
children behind. Suddenly, wild shrieks from them announced danger. Two
of the dacoits had crept around, under cover of the long grass, crawling
like snakes close to the ground, and were prepared to leap into the
fence, dahs in hand.
With one bound, Kirke sprang to that side with clubbed gun, and struck
one man down from a swinging blow on the head. Ralph was at his side in
the same instant, with a native spear in his hand, the first weapon
which he could catch up. One of the women, who was engaged in cooking
the supper, flung the pot of boiling rice at the intruders in the same
moment of time. It hit another fellow right in his face, and the
scalding contents ran down all his naked body, at which he uttered a
demoniacal howl of pain.
"Bravo, Miss Pretty!" called out Kirke. "Have at them! There's a plucky
girl."
Were it not for the women, who came gallantly to the aid of the men, the
fight would have been a short and hopeless one, for the dacoits
evidently had been reinforced in numbers. They assailed the little camp
on all sides,--there was no spot from which a terrible face did not
gleam and disappear. They tore at the defences with their hands,--they
tugged at the stakes with feet and teeth,--they hurled darts, they fired
shots,--now from this side, now from that. The villagers fought like
wild animals,--both they and the dacoits uttering fierce yells and
shrieks; only the two young Englishmen set their teeth, and silently
struggled, side by side, with their doom. One--two dacoits more fell
dead, but the rest were fiercer than ever.
The ammunition was exhausted, their strength failing them, it was but
desperation which enabled them to maintain the combat, but they fought
on and on.
Daylight broke at last; the short night was over, and the assailants
retreated once more beneath the cover of the jungle. Kirke reckoned up
his men.
Two of them were wounded seriously, one by a cut on the head from a dah,
the other by a gun-shot in the chest. One of the girls was thrust
through the shoulder by a spear, and a child had been killed.
All the powder was gone, but there were spears, dahs, and clubs in
sufficient quantity,--also food,--and there were a good many musket
balls still left.
Moung Shway Poh had found a shelter beneath the thickest part of the
stockade, where he was found, squatted on his heels, under the shade of
the strongest umbrella that had been saved.
"You old coward!" cried Kirke. "I missed you in the night, and wasted
compassion upon you, fearing you were wounded or killed. Have you been
hiding there all this time, while we others have been fighting for you?"
"Don't be rude, Englishman," said the old sinner, with all the dignity
which he could assume; "what would have become of my people if their
grandfather were hurt. It was for their sake that I took care of myself;
the royal self's lord should think what would become of all without the
experience of my years to guide them."
"Bosh!" cried the irreverent Kirke. But perhaps the ancient Burman did
not understand English vernacular language.
There was one missing whose disappearance caused both the young men much
concern. Little Miss Sunshine, the pretty little village belle, the
merry child of whom both had made such a pet, was nowhere to be found.
They searched up and down, they called, they questioned everyone, but
all fruitlessly. No one had seen her since Ralph had helped her to
escape from the blazing hut. So imminent had been the peril, so hot the
fighting, so much had there been to do in the intervals, so anxious was
Kirke about Ralph, that it was not until he put the people into a sort
of review, and counted them over, that the little girl was missed.
It was Ralph who thought of her then. "Where is Miss Sunshine?" asked
he.
No one knew, no one had seen her, no one had thought about her. That she
had fallen a victim to the dacoits in their ambush among the jungle was
the most likely fate to have befallen her. She was gone, and had left no
sign.
With heavy hearts Kirke and Ralph set themselves to prepare for the
inevitable renewal of the enemy's attack when darkness once more covered
their approach.
Kirke sharpened the spears and knives, and Ralph caused the women to tie
up musket balls at either end of long pieces of cloth, such as they wore
girded around their loins for clothing. These made excellent weapons,
and the Burmese quickly mastered the knack of using them.
Rice was prepared, water-pots refilled, fuel brought in, stones piled in
heaps,--some of the people slept while others watched. All was put into
the best order possible.
A sorrowful event occurred in the course of the day, which fired the
English breasts with indignation.
One of the children in the village owned a pretty cat, which was the
beloved of her heart, and responded to the petting which it received
with all the love a cat can feel and show.
The house in which this child lived was one of those destroyed by fire,
and, though the inhabitants had escaped the intended massacre, no one
had thought of the household pet. Little Golden-leaf had sobbed herself
to sleep, fretting for its loss the night before; and her mother
consoled her by saying that pussie had gone mousing into the jungle, and
would come home when she had caught enough.
About the middle of the day, a prolonged feline wail was heard, and the
little one called out, "My puss, my puss, I hear her crying for me!"
In another moment the poor cat was seen limping painfully along, leaving
a track of blood along its path. Each of her four paws was cut off, and
the wretched creature was trying to crawl back to its friends upon its
stumps of legs, with the fillet from a dacoit's head tied to its neck,
to which a sharp stone was attached. It made its tortured way through a
tiny gap in the stockade, and tried to rub itself against its little
mistress's legs in the old affectionate manner, in joy at having found
her again.
Little Golden-leaf burst into pitiful grief.
"Your father will put it out of its pain," said her mother.
"No, no, no!" sobbed the child, "he shall not put his soul in danger for
me or my puss. The good Englishman will cure my puss, and its little
paws shall grow again. Won't they?" cried she, turning to Ralph.
"No, my pretty; it would be kinder to kill poor pussie at once," said
he.
"No, no!" reiterated the tender-hearted little girl,--"No, no! I cannot
bear it. Make pussie well, good kind man."
Ralph had not the heart to distress her further. He felt very sick as he
looked at the maimed animal, and thought what the message with which it
had been sent might mean.
What had been the fate of pretty Little Miss Sunshine, when the wretches
could have exercised such cruelty upon a helpless dumb animal! He tied
up the mangled legs of the poor cat, and it tried to purr as it lay in
its little friend's arms while the operation went on. The child then
carried it to the fire, and sat down to nurse and cuddle it, while Kirke
built up a sort of rampart over and around her, to serve as a shelter as
well as possible.
"They meant that as a hint of what they will do to any of us if they
catch us alive," said he to Ralph.
"They _must_ catch none of us alive," replied Denham.
"May God help us all," sighed Kirke.
"In Him do I put my trust," replied Ralph firmly.
"If anything goes wrong with me," resumed Kirke, after a few moments,
"you will send word to my father, won't you, Denham? and tell him I wish
I had been a better son to him, and a better man, which I would have
tried to be had I been spared."
"I will," said Ralph, "if I am spared myself, but there is little chance
for either of us."
"I fear not," said Kirke; and neither of them spoke more for a long
time.