Those who have fallen among barbarians have seldom been without the
experience of their detainers desiring to hold some kind of converse
with them, however hostile the burden of such might be. Wagram,
however, was absolutely without this experience, for these people were
not only totally unable to communicate with him by word of mouth but
showed absolutely no inclination to do so.
He had tried to communicate with them by signs, but found that he might
as well have been signalling to the surrounding trees. They stared at
him but made no sort of response. His physical wants were mechanically
attended to, and that was all. They eyed him with stony indifference,
not as another human being out of whom they might or might not extract
material advantage, but simply as an ox being fattened for the shambles.
This, however, fortunately, he did not know.
The night following upon the horrible event he had witnessed in the
forest was one of the most fearful experiences he had ever known.
Closer and more miasmatic than ever the atmosphere seemed to weigh him
down; and alone in the darkness of the hut, with loathsome insects
scurrying around and over him, the whole scene came back in all its
vivid ghastliness, and again he saw those dreadful eyes glowering at
him, the quick, sudden stab out of nowhere, and the limbs of the
stricken savage quivering and contorting on the stone which was
spattered with his blood. He groped his way to the door and went
outside. Anything would be better than this consciousness of being
penned up with these awful memories, to say nothing of the long-legged
horrors which rendered rest impossible. He drank in the outer air--
heavy, fever-laden as it was--with infinite relief, but not for long.
Clouds of stinging insects, mosquitoes and others, soon found him out,
and forced him to the conclusion that the legged horrors within, being
harmless, were at any rate more tolerable. But it was a wearied wreck
of a man, indeed, upon which the second morning dawned.
He was about to set forth upon another round of exploration--no matter
what he might discover anything was better than the fearful mental
strain involved by sitting still--when he became conscious of an unusual
stir among those around, as near akin to excitement as those morose,
repellent savages seemed able to reach. A man was coming towards him;
and now every fibre of his being thrilled with joy, with an
indescribable sense of relief. It was a white man!
A white man, a European! No matter what low outcast from his colour
this might be he was a white man--and already Wagram looked upon him as
a brother. And yet--and yet--as the man came up Wagram could not but
realise that his first estimate of him was likely to be the true one,
and his hopes sank somewhat.
They sank still more--in fact, to zero--as the new-comer stood
confronting him. He was a tall man, as tall as himself, but his hard,
bearded face was repellent in the extreme, and the fierce glare of his
rolling eyes did not inspire confidence.
"Well, pard, are they making you comfortable here?" he began shortly.
"I don't know about comfortable; but if it's a little rough I've no
cause for complaint," answered Wagram pleasantly. "At any rate I've
escaped with life--though how I got off that waterlogged hulk I haven't
the faintest idea."
"I know all about that," interrupted the other roughly. "What I want to
know is, how did you get on to her? Eh? How the devil did you get on
to her?"
The fierce eyes played upon Wagram's face as though they would penetrate
his brain. Decidedly this man was a rough customer--very; still, he was
a white man, and might not be so bad at bottom. At any rate he would be
susceptible to a very substantial reward. So he told the story of the
wreck of the _Baleka_, and how he himself had nearly gone down with the
ship in trying to save a child that had been lost below.
"Serves you devilish well right for interfering in what doesn't concern
you," was the reassuring comment on this piece of information. "Look
here. Have you the remotest sort of notion as to where you are?"
"A very faint one: somewhere on the west coast of Africa, I take it."
The other laughed harshly.
"That's near enough," he said. "Let me tell you this, then. You're
among the most devilish set of cannibal niggers this world ever
produced. You'd have been eaten body and bones before this if--it
hadn't been for me."
"In that case I cannot be too grateful for your interference; and, as a
fellow-countryman, I am going to make further demands upon your kindness
by entreating you to show me the way out, to facilitate my return to
civilisation. And, I assure you, you will not find me ungrateful."
These last words he pronounced with some diffidence. In the man's very
ferocity of roughness Wagram's ear had not been slow to detect a refined
accent of speech. Whatever the other might have come to he was certain
that he was of gentle birth, and therefore hesitated to offer him
material reward. The next words convinced him that he need have felt no
such misgiving.
"What'll you make it worth my while to land you--say at Sierra Leone,
this day month?"
"Anything in reason. You shall name your own price."
"Suppose I say ten thousand pounds, not a shilling less? How's that?"
It was an enormous sum, remembering the resources probably at the
stranger's command; yet if Wagram hesitated momentarily it was less on
that account than because a misgiving shot across his mind that if he
agreed too readily this desperado, from whom he inwardly recoiled more
and more, once he had reason to believe he was dealing with a rich man,
would hold him captive until he had drained him to the bottom of even
his resources; so he answered:
"It's a stiff figure--very stiff; still, I think I might even promise
that."
"You think, do you? Well, come this way."
He turned abruptly, Wagram following. As they passed between the
palmetto huts the forbidding inhabitants raised their heads to stare for
a moment, then dropped them stolidly again. They walked on in dead
silence, for the stranger uttered no further word. They passed into the
forest, still quite close on the outskirts of the town, and came
suddenly upon a strong stockade. Before the gate of this several
savages stood as though mounting guard. They were fully armed with
large, wicked-looking spears, axes, and great curved-bladed knives.
"I don't allow them any rotten gaspipe guns," said the stranger grimly;
"only things they know how to use. And they do know how to use these,
by God! Look there."
Wagram looked. They had reached the gate by this time. Within the
enclosure were clustered a number of human beings chained together in
couples by the leg. The place was in a state of indescribable filth,
and the personal appearance of its occupants recalled to Wagram that of
the wretched victim of yesterday.
"Prisoners?" he said.
The other nodded, then led the way on again. Soon a hum of voices
greeted Wagram's ears, and at the same time a horrible acrid odour
assailed his nostrils.
"Takes a little getting used to, doesn't it?" said his guide. "Look!"
Wagram looked, and then felt as if he must be sick. They had reached an
open space; in it several men were at work--at work on the most
congenial occupation of all to savages--that of butchery.
"This is their slaughter-house," went on the stranger. "What's the
matter?"
For, with an exclamation of horror and disgust, Wagram had turned away,
had turned his back upon what he had momentarily glimpsed. No mere
glimpse of an ordinary slaughter-house had this been, repulsive and
revolting as such a sight might be. In this case the victims were
human.
"Good heavens!" he ejaculated, glaring at the other with loathing. "And
you allow this--you--a white man?"
"I'm not going to interfere with the harmless little customs of my
people--not likely," was the reply, accompanied by a hideous laugh.
"Well, if it's too much for your weak nerves, come away. But--what do
you say to my offer now?"
"I'll take it. I don't care how soon I leave this place; in fact, I'll
even increase the figure if you get me out at once."
"I thought so. Well, it'll be worth your while. You may take that from
me--and the sooner the better. Shall we say fifteen thousand if you
start to-morrow?"
"Yes; but you know you will have to trust me. I have no means of
identification nearer than England."
The other nodded.
"Seems strange, doesn't it?" he said, "but I felt I could do that from
the very first. I've had no fool of an experience in my time, you see,
and I know one man from another when I see him. Now, I knew you weren't
a liar directly I clapped eyes on you; I knew, too, you were a coiny
chap, never mind how--there's something I can read these things by. See
here, I don't want to rush you through this business; think it over.
I'll look round at sundown, and then we'll draw up our little
agreement."
This sounded well. If he were rough the man seemed not without a sense
of fair dealing. Wagram was duly impressed; yet he need not have been,
for the stranger's real motive was a very different one. He had
purposely taken Wagram to see one of "the sights" of the place which he
knew would revolt and horrify him; now his object was to give him time
to think about it; time and solitude could not fail to work the horror
deeper into his system--so would his own terms meet with readier
acceptation.
At the hut Wagram had occupied the stranger left him; and now, alone
once more, the revulsion of feeling was well-nigh oppressive. He would
soon be away from here, would soon be back in the home that he loved,
and among those who loved him. This horrible experience--well, it,
coming as the culminating point to his wanderings, had effected a
certain sort of mental cure. Looking back, it seemed as if he had
needed a mental shaking-up and--he had got it. Yes; he had been making
an idol of "the pride of life," and that pride had received a sudden,
perhaps necessary, fall. What act of thanksgiving could he make for
this unlooked-for deliverance? was his first thought as he found himself
alone once more. The dank shades of the tropical forest, the repulsive
picturesqueness of the savage town, the acrid odour of blood which still
seemed to hang upon the air--all had faded now--had given way to the
hawthorn hedges and running streams around Hilversea Court, as the
splendid old pile arose against its background of embowering elms; the
wholesome, clear English sunlight instead of the sickly tropical glare;
the scent of innumerable wild flowers and the glad shout of the cuckoo,
and, with it all, deeper and holier thoughts, enshrined amid the
associations of the dearly-loved place; and then--he started wide awake.
"Here I am!" was saying the strong, harsh voice of the stranger. "Been
asleep? Well, you'll feel the better for it."
"I believe I have," said Wagram, sitting up. "Well, have you brought
the draft of our agreement?"
"Ay, ay! here it is. Look through it and see if it's all ship-shape."
Wagram read the document carefully. It was short, even to conciseness,
and set forward how the undersigned was to pay the bearer the sum of
fifteen thousand pounds, within fifteen days of being landed at Sierra
Leone, in consideration of having been landed there within one month
from date.
"You have a code cable with your solicitors, of course?" said the
stranger. "You can have the cash cabled there?"
"Yes; I have a code cable. But you say `the bearer.' Why not have it
paid in to your own name?"
"That's my business," was the answer. "For the rest, is it all
ship-shape?"
"Certainly. But it's only fair to warn you that I doubt if it's
particularly sound from a legal point of view. It isn't witnessed, for
one thing."
"Legal point of view be damned. Didn't I tell you you don't look like a
liar--and I know men? It'll be good enough if you sign it."
"Thanks," said Wagram pleasantly. "You won't find yourself far out in
that deduction."
"Got a wife perhaps, who's anxious about you, eh?"
"No; I haven't got a wife--not now."
"Ah! had, then. Family you want to get back to?"
"Only one son--a boy at school. But he won't have heard of the wreck,
and if he did wouldn't connect it with me fortunately. I took passage
in the _Baleka_ at the last moment, and didn't even cable it home. By
the way, some of these amiable people have relieved me of my
pocket-book, and there were some notes in it. I don't know whether they
can be persuaded to disgorge."
"Perhaps. But if we start from here to-morrow there'll hardly be time."
"No; I suppose not. Never mind, then," was the easy answer, for the
starting to-morrow had a soothing ring, beside which the loss was a mere
trifle. But the speaker little thought how his listener had already
made up his mind to have those notes in his own possession before the
dawning of another day--incidentally, it might be, at the cost of a life
or two.
The smoky rays of the sinking tropical sun shot in through the open
doorway, illumining the gloomy interior. The stranger had brought a pen
and ink with him--strange accessories of civilisation in that remote
haunt of barbarous man-eaters. A wooden native stool did duty as a
desk, and Wagram, squatted on the floor, proceeded to affix his
signature: "Wagram Gerard Wagram."
"Will that do?" he said, glancing up. Then he started in amazement, not
undashed with alarm; for the other, who had been standing over him,
emitted a sort of gasp. His face seemed to contract, then harden as he
glared at the paper, then at the man who held it.
"That your name?" he said, and his voice took on a sort of growl.
"Yes; of course," was the wondering answer.
"That's your name--your real name?" repeated the stranger, and the growl
in his voice and the stare of his eyes seemed full of menace and hate.
"Yes; that's my name, and there it is," answered Wagram firmly, yet not
without a dire foreboding over the extraordinary effect it seemed to
produce.
"Yes--of course. Ho-ho! That's your name--Wagram Gerard Wagram! Of
course it is--of course. Ho-ho!" And, snatching up the paper, the
other went out of the hut, leaving behind him the echo of his mocking
tones and savage, sneering laughter.