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[Illustration: THEN THE SPEAR FLASHED IN THE TORCHLIGHT.]
_Guy in the Jungle_
OR
_A Boy's Adventure in the
Wilds of Africa_
BY
_William Murray Graydon._
_Author of "Jungles and Traitors", "In Barracks and
Wigwam", "The Camp in the Snow", Etc._
CHICAGO:
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
Copyrighted 1890,
by FRANK A. MUNSEY
Copyrighted, 1902,
by THOMPSON & THOMAS
The River of Darkness.
PROLOGUE.
It was November in London. The great city was buried under a dank,
yellow fog. Traffic was temporarily checked; foot passengers groped
their way by the light of the street lamps, and the hoarse shouts of the
link boys running before cabs and carriages with blazing torches rang at
intervals above the muffled rumble of countless wheels.
In the coffee-room of a quiet hotel on the Strand a young man stands by
the window, looking pensively out on the misty street. He is quite
young, with light hair that falls half over his forehead, and a
drooping, golden mustache, and in rather startling contrast to these a
deep-bronzed complexion that tells of foreign lands and tropical suns.
"Captain Chutney, sir?"
It is a hotel servant, with a big blue envelope in his hand, and, as the
young man wheels round, he reveals the uniform and bright facings of a
captain of hussars.
"Yes, I am Captain Chutney," he replies to the servant. "Thank you,"
and, taking the blue document, he stands for a moment in deep
thoughtfulness.
Well may he hesitate to break that official seal which glares up at him
so broadly. Were the gift of futurity his, and could he see mirrored
before him the dread panorama of events that are inevitably linked with
that innocent-looking missive, he would fling it with horror-stricken
hands into the coal-fire that burns on the grate beside him.
But no disturbing thought enters his mind. The future looks bright and
cheerful enough just at present, and ripping open the end of the
envelope without breaking the seal, he pulls out a folded paper and
reads:
COLONIAL OFFICE, DOWNING STREET, S. W.
TO CAPTAIN GUY CHUTNEY:
Your immediate presence is requested on urgent affairs.
(Signed) ---- ----
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR COLONIAL AFFAIRS.
Chutney looks with some surprise at the famous signature attached with a
bold hand. He places the letter in his pocket, pushes open a swinging
door at the left, and vanishes up a broad stairway.
In five minutes he reappears, clad in a big mackintosh, and, calling a
cab, he rattles off westward through the fog.
He is not in the best of humors. He had made other plans for the day,
for his furlough is up, and tomorrow he leaves for India to rejoin his
regiment. He had come up yesterday from the country, where he had put in
a week at grouse hunting with his brother, Sir Lucas Chutney, and today
he intended bidding good-by to old friends, and to attend to the making
of a few purchases.
Downing Street is not far away, and presently the cab rolls into
Whitehall and draws up before the big granite building.
Guy makes his way through the spacious corridors thronged with clerks,
civilians, foreigners from every part of the globe, and at last reaches
the private apartments of the chief.
The Right Honorable Lord is deeply engaged, but his private secretary
receives Chutney cordially, and, leading him back into a still more
secluded and stately apartment, motions him to a soft chair and sits
down opposite him.
"Captain Chutney," he begins abruptly, "you leave for India tomorrow?"
"India Mail, eight o'clock in the morning," Guy replies briefly.
"Very well. We are going to intrust you with a very important
commission. You will stop off at Aden, cross the Gulf of Aden in the
semi-weekly steamer, and present these documents to Sir Arthur Ashby,
the Political Resident of Zaila, the fortified town of the Somali Coast
Protectorate."
The secretary hands Guy two bulky envelopes, stamped and sealed with the
government seal.
"They relate to affairs of importance," he continues. "Your gallant
record justifies us in intrusting the papers to your care. You can
return in time to take the next steamer. Perhaps I had better tell you
this much in confidence," the secretary adds:
"We have received from certain sources information to the effect that
the Emir of Harar, on the southern harbor of Abyssinia, contemplates at
no distant date an attack on Zaila. Our garrison there is weak, and, as
you probably know, the Somali country is treacherous and unreliable.
These papers contain necessary instructions for the Political Resident."
The secretary rises, and Guy gladly follows his example.
"I will see that the papers are delivered," he says earnestly.
"Thank you," the secretary responded. "I am sure that you will. I wish
you a safe voyage, Captain Chutney, and fresh Burmese laurels, for you
will no doubt take part in the Chittagong expedition."
They shake hands warmly, and in five minutes Guy is rattling cityward
again through the increasing fog. Long afterward he looks back on that
morning as the most memorable day of his life. At present his commission
sits lightly on his mind. He attends to all his duties in London,
catches the India Mail, and two days later is steaming across the
Mediterranean on board the P. and O. steamship Cleopatra.
CHAPTER I.
THE STOLEN DESPATCHES.
Steadily the Cleopatra had traversed the Mediterranean, passed through
the Suez Canal, plowed the burning waters of the Red Sea, and now, on
this bright, sultry day, Aden was left behind, and with smoking funnels
she was heading swiftly and boldly for the Indian Ocean.
A smaller steamer, a mere pigmy beside this gigantic Indian liner, had
left the harbor of Aden at the same time, and was beating in a
southwesterly direction across the gulf with a speed that was rapidly
increasing the distance between the two vessels.
On the upper deck stood Guy Chutney, straining his eyes through a pair
of field-glasses to catch a last glimpse of the Cleopatra, and to
distinguish, if possible, the figures grouped under the white awnings.
He had only arrived at Aden last night, and now he was bound for the
dreary African coast, while all the gay friends he had made on board the
Cleopatra were steaming merrily off for Calcutta without him.
It was by no means a comforting state of affairs, and Guy's spirits were
at their lowest ebb as the steamer finally faded into the horizon. He
put up the glasses and strode forward. From the lower deck came a
confused babel of sounds, a harsh jabbering of foreign languages that
grated roughly on his ear.
"This is a remarkably fine day, sir."
It was the captain who spoke, a bluff, hearty man, who looked oddly out
of place in white linen and a solar topee.
"It is a grand day," said Guy. "May I ask when we are due at Zaila?"
"At Zaila?" repeated the captain, with a look of sudden surprise. "Ah,
yes. Possibly tomorrow, probably not until the following day."
It was now Guy's turn to be surprised.
"Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that it takes two or three days to
cross the Gulf of Aden?"
"No," replied the captain briskly. "You are surely aware, my dear sir,
that we proceed first to Berbera, and thence up the coast to Zaila."
"Then you have deceived me, sir," cried Guy hotly. "You told me this
morning that this steamer went to Zaila."
"Certainly I did," replied the captain. "You didn't ask for any more
information, or I should have told you that we went to Berbera first.
The great annual fair has just opened at Berbera, and I have on board
large stores of merchandise and trading properties. On other occasions I
go to Zaila first, but during the progress of the fair I always go
direct to Berbera and unload. I supposed that fact to be generally
understood," and, turning on his heel, the captain walked off to give
some orders to his men.
Guy was half inclined to be angry at first, but on reflection he
concluded he was just as well satisfied. Besides, it would give him a
chance to see that wonderful African fair, which he now remembered to
have heard about on different occasions.
But one other person was visible on the deck, a short, chunky man, with
a dark complexion, and crafty, forbidding features.
A Portuguese or a Spaniard Guy put him down for at once, and he
instantly conceived a deep mistrust of him. The fellow, however, was
inclined to be sociable.
"Ah, an Englishman," he said, coming up to Guy and holding out his hand,
an action which Guy professed not to see.
"You are going to Berbera, perhaps," he went on, nowise discomfited by
the rebuff.
"No," said Guy shortly. "To Zaila."
"Ah, yes, Zaila! You have friends there, perhaps? I, too, am acquainted.
I know very well Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor at Zaila."
His keen eyes scanned Guy's face closely, and noted the faint gleam of
surprise at this information.
But Guy was too clever to be thrown off his guard.
"Yes," he said. "I know some people here. I have not the pleasure of Sir
Arthur's acquaintance."
He would have turned away at this point, but the man pulled a card from
his pocket and presented it to him. Guy glanced it over with interest:
C. MANUEL TORRES,
_Trader at Aden and Berbera_.
"A vile Portuguese slave-hunter," he thought to himself.
"Well, Mr. Torres," he said. "I am sorry that I have no cards about me,
but my name is Chutney."
The Portuguese softly whispered the name once or twice. Then, without
further questioning, he offered Guy a cigar, and lit one himself.
Manuel Torres proved to be quite an interesting companion, and gave Guy
a vivid account of the wonders of the fair.
As they went below at dinner time he pointed out on the corner of the
dock a great stack of wooden boxes.
"Those are mine," he said. "They contain iron and steel implements for
the natives and Arabs."
"They look like rifle cases," Guy remarked carelessly; and, looking at
the Portuguese as he spoke, he fancied that the dark face actually
turned gray for an instant. In a moment they were seated at the table,
and the brief occurrence was forgotten.
All that afternoon they steamed on across the gulf, overhead the blue
and cloudless sky, beneath them waters of even deeper blue, and at
sunset the yellow coast line of the African continent loomed up from the
purple distance.
Guy had been dozing under an awning most of the afternoon, but now he
came forward eagerly to get his first glimpse of eastern Africa.
To his great disappointment, the captain refused to land.
It was risky, he said, to make a landing at night, and it would be dark
when they entered the harbor. They must lie at anchor till morning.
Most of the night Guy paced up and down the deck sleeping at brief
intervals, and listening with eager curiosity to the strange sounds that
floated out on the air from the shore, where the flickering glare of
many torches could be seen.
Stretched on a mattress, the Portuguese slept like a log, without once
awakening.
Before dawn the anchors were lifted, and at the captain's suggestion Guy
hastened down to his cabin to gather up his scanty luggage, for most of
his traps had gone on to Calcutta in the Cleopatra.
He buckled on his sword, put his revolvers in his pocket, clapped his
big solar topee on his head, and then reached down for the morocco
traveling case which he had stored away for better security under his
berth.
A cry of horror burst from his lips as he dragged it out. The lock was
broken, and the sides were flapping apart. For one brief second he
stared at it like a madman, and then, with frantic haste, he fell on his
knees, and, plunging his hands inside, began to toss the contents
recklessly out upon the floor. Toilet articles, linen, cigars,
writing-paper, jewelry, and various other things piled up until his
finger nails scraped the bottom. He turned the case bottom up and shook
it savagely, shook it until the silver clasps rattled against the sides,
and then he sank back with a groan, while the drops of perspiration
chased each other down his haggard cheeks.
The precious despatches were gone.
For the time being Guy was fairly driven out of his senses by the horror
of the calamity. Ruin stared him in the face. What madness it was to
leave those papers in his cabin! He had foolishly hesitated to carry
them on his person for fear the perspiration would soak them through and
through, and now they were hopelessly lost. The cabin door had been
locked, too. The thief must have had a key.
The first shock over, his manliness asserted itself, and he took a
critical view of the situation. He hardly suspected any person as yet.
The despatches must be recovered. That was the first step.
He flew up the stairs, three at a time, and rushed panting and
breathless upon deck.
All about him was the hurry and bustle of preparation. The shore was
close at hand, and the steamer was moving toward the rude wharf. Manuel
Torres was leaning over the rail, coolly smoking a cigar. The captain
stood near by, gazing intently at the shore. He looked up with wonder as
Guy appeared, crying out in hoarse tones:
"I have been robbed, captain, treacherously robbed. Documents of the
greatest importance have been stolen from my cabin, and not a soul shall
leave this steamer till every inch of it has been searched. I demand
your assistance, sir!"