“_They seem’d long hours._”
In the west, ominous clouds were banked, lurid and luminous,
splashed and barred by the deep flaming crimson of the setting sun
that lay, a pool of fiery red, in the midst of them. Sullen heaving
waves ran right up to the land, if such it could be called; stretch
upon stretch of haunting, mysterious mangrove swamp, broken only by
the mouth of a river, the thick, muddy waters of which drained
greasily down to the sea.
It was the scenery of the Bight of Biafra--mangroves, foul lagoons and
pestilential mud. A fetid waste that was neither land nor water, all
matted and grown together with rank, tangled creepers, so dense that
it seemed nature’s one desire was to keep any ray of light from
filtering through into the dark depths.
The scene was neither beautiful nor cheering, but it had a grim
fascination as it lay there, sullen and secretive, lighted just on the
edge with somber liana-slung passages leading away into darkness.
On the upper deck of the _Batava_, Lebrassa stood with his eyes on the
scene. He might have been studying the wild waste of swamp, or
listening to voices that were wafted across the awning-covered deck.
A fortnight had passed since Leslie had made friends with Fletcher.
Since that night her acquaintances had increased, at one time
numbering fully half a dozen. When the _Batava_ reached African waters
they had decreased as the vessel put in at the various ports. Now, as
it lay anchored off the mouth of the Calabar River, her friends on
board were reduced to two, not counting Lebrassa.
One was Captain Fletcher, the other a Major Harding. The latter was a
man of about forty-eight, moreover a father, as Leslie discovered
before she had known him half an hour, with a daughter in England
about her own age.
In spite of her new friends the girl did not altogether avoid the
mulatto. He was a pariah. She had been one for a while; her own
experience of the position had given her a keen sympathy for him, and
a certain amount of time she still spent in his company.
Lebrassa did not appear to notice any change in her manner. He was the
same as ever, except that he was anxious she should make the most of
her new friends. So much so, that the fears Fletcher’s lecture had
roused were speedily lulled.
A voice speaking at Lebrassa’s elbow made him turn round in his usual
bored, indifferent manner.
“I can quite believe your tale about the Bight of Benin,” it said.
“Which tale, Miss Graham?” he asked.
“About the forty who didn’t come out,” she answered.
Then she glanced again at the forbidding scene.
“I wonder what goes on inside that dark landscape,” she added.
“It’s an abode of wickedness. The essence of all the evil that oozes
out from the black heart of Africa.”
“It’s your country, and you oughtn’t to say horrid things about it.”
“So you consider it my country,” he remarked, smiling slightly. “In
your opinion I’m more in my element here than I was, say--the night I
had the pleasure of meeting you?”
Leslie was sorry she had spoken. She tried to avoid all topics that
would make his black burden any heavier. But in his ways and speech he
was so like a white man that sometimes she forgot the mixed blood in
him.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly, a look of distress on her
face. “But from something you once said, I imagined you’d lived out
here nearly all your life.”
“I’ve spent more than half my life out here,” he replied. “I came when
I was about as old as you are now, quite twenty years ago. By now, I
suppose you’re right in calling it ‘my country’,” he added, the
bitterness she now knew in his voice.
With curiosity she glanced at him. He interested her deeply, this big
strange man whom nobody liked, for no reason at all so far as she
could see, except an accident of birth.
Often she had wanted to ask him about himself, who he really was and
where he came from. And this seemed an opportunity.
“Were you born in England?” she asked, rather nervously.
Leslie knew she ought not to display so much interest in him, but
somehow she could not help it. At times too, she had the queer feeling
of there being a link between them, but she put this down to the fact
of their both being pariahs.
“No,” he said. “I was born in Africa. In a country deep in the
wilds--my mother’s country. When I was a baby, my father took me to
England. At eighteen I came back to Africa. But, during the interval
I’d become too civilized. I couldn’t settle down in my mother’s
country--couldn’t quite break away from the white side. So I came down
to Calabar, just to stay on the edge of it.”
“But didn’t you like England?”
“It wasn’t that so much as that England didn’t like me,” he said
rather grimly.
He changed the conversation.
“You’ve been asking me questions, Miss Graham, so I’m going to
retaliate, and ask you one.”
“What is it?”
“I often wonder what your mother was like, and why you weren’t called
after her, instead of after--your father.”
“My mother died when I was a baby. But my father always said I was
just like her, and not a bit like him. And I am named after her,
too--Leslie Sylvia.”
“Why did you discard Sylvia in favor of the masculine Leslie?” he
asked. “I much prefer Sylvia.”
On Lebrassa’s face was the quiet, well-bred smile that occasionally
came now when they were together.
“I thought Leslie sounded more capable of looking after itself. Sylvia
has such a frail sound, as if it ought to be kept at home in
cotton-wool with some mere male to look after it. After I left school
and went to live with my father, he always treated me as if I were a
boy. He said I had my own way to make and I must get used to knocks.
It was a bit strenuous at first, but I got used to it.”
“Poor little Sylvia! Does she always do just what this strong-minded
Leslie tells her?”
“Now you’re laughing at me.”
“Indeed I’m not,” he said gravely, his mouth twitching with amusement.
“In all seriousness I ask you--at a critical moment would ‘Sylvia’ or
‘Leslie’ come uppermost?”
“I won’t answer such a silly question. I’ll go and do my packing and
leave you to laugh alone.”
When she left, Lebrassa’s gaze went again to the gloomy landscape, and
stayed there in a fixed, brooding manner.
It was nearly midnight when the vessel anchored off Duke
Town--haunting, tropical midnight, pitch-dark, close, and breathless.
A thick fog hung over the river, deadening every sound, shutting out
every light of the settlement on the near bank.
On the boat all was bustle and confusion, but when the noise died down
a little, weird sounds came drifting in from the surrounding darkness.
Voices out on the river were shouting and singing in a guttural
language. In a soft, sickly manner the thick, muddy water lapped on
the vessel’s side. Through the darkness came the snort and whistle of
a wandering steam launch trying to locate the steamer.
In even quieter lulls, strange sounds from the distant bank were
heard. The splashes and heaving sighs of uncouth monsters gamboling;
hoarse bellows and soft slithering noises as of heavy bodies sliding
over mud; uncanny moans and grunts and screams, mingled and mixed
together in a mysterious, whispering whole by the all-enveloping fog.
Everything loomed big and haunting, wild and ghostly, distorted out of
all proportion by the dense mist.
Near the gangway Leslie stood with Lebrassa, looking about her with
rather nervous eyes. This uncanny land of fog and darkness was not the
scented, moonlit, tropic Africa Molly’s letter had led her to expect.
This fact, combined with the strangeness of everything, the eerie
night and the unknown awaiting her there, made the girl a trifle
hysterical.
With a triumphant snort, the wandering steam launch reached its
destination. Leslie leant over the rail, straining through the murky
atmosphere to get a glimpse of the occupants, hoping to see her
friend. Only one person came up the gangway; an Englishman, parched
and sun-dried, with the bloodless look of a grasshopper. With some
surprise he glanced at her and Lebrassa, then he went along the deck
to a spot some yards away where Fletcher and Major Harding were
standing.
Presently, out of the shrouded gloom, came the muffled splash of oars.
The sound made Leslie move nearer the gangway, thinking that, at last,
Molly was coming.
A big boat loomed up, manned by half a dozen savages, naked but for a
wisp of cloth round their loins. Black figures with faces like
grotesque masks, skins that steamed in the faint yellow lamplight,
blood-shot eyes that rolled and glistened, and mouths, big, loose and
red, that jabbered in a horrible manner.
Fascinated, Leslie watched them.
For whom were they coming? To whom were they calling, with awful
beast-like voices?
They were calling to--Mr. Lebrassa! And he was answering in the same
way! It was Molly’s hell. Molly’s hell that she was going to!
A sweet, wild laugh just beside him took Lebrassa’s attention quickly
from the boatmen.
“What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.
“Shall I… shall I get like them if I stay out here?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Leslie said in an hysterical manner.
“Where’s Molly? Why doesn’t she come?”
“My men have just brought a message saying she’s not well enough to
come and meet you.”
Tightly Leslie’s hands clutched the rail, all hysteria knocked out of
her at the thought of Molly being ill.
“Where’s Mr. Cooper?” she asked, scanning the boatload of savages.
“He couldn’t leave her.”
“I must go to Molly at once,” Leslie said, everything forgotten but
her friend.
“We’ll start now, if you wish,” Lebrassa replied. “I’ll send my men
back for your luggage.”
“I must just say good-by to Captain Fletcher and Major Harding,”
Leslie answered, turning in their direction.
It was very evident the group had been watching her, for her first
movement in their direction brought Fletcher towards her.
“Where’s Mrs. Cooper?” he demanded.
“She’s too ill to come.”
“Then you mustn’t think of landing to-night.”
“But I must go to her,” Leslie replied.
“You can’t leave the vessel at this time of night, all alone.”
“I shan’t be alone. Mr. Lebrassa is going with me.”
“Good heavens, child, you’re not in England now, or dealing with an
Englishman. If you must go, let me take you up in Atherley’s launch. I
know where the place is.”
Leslie’s mouth set in the obstinate way it did on those rare occasions
when Fletcher’s temper got the better of his judgment and he said
anything in the least degree disparaging about Lebrassa.
“I won’t insult Mr. Lebrassa by refusing to go with him.”
Leslie left him wrathful and gloomy and went along to Harding.
“I’m going, now,” she said, “so this will be good-by.”
“Hardly ‘good-by’ as yet, Miss Graham. Dr. Atherley has kindly placed
his launch at our disposal, so you’ll let us have the pleasure of
seeing you to the end of your journey.”
“It’s very thoughtful of you, but Mr. Lebrassa’s boat has just come.”
Harding glanced at Fletcher. He had noted the other’s interview with
the girl, and he had made a final effort to keep her in safe custody.
“Good-by,” Leslie said, holding out a hand to Harding.
With fatherly tenderness he took it.
“You mustn’t desert me altogether, Miss Graham. I miss my own little
girl dreadfully, so will you promise to bring Mrs. Cooper to my
bungalow sometimes and pour tea for me?”
“I don’t think Molly would care to go anywhere.”
“Well, if you can’t persuade her to come with you, come alone.”
Gratefully Leslie smiled at him.
“It’s awfully decent of you to try to make things easier for me, but I
knew just what I was coming to. Molly didn’t try to deceive me. And I
shall be very pleased to come and see you sometimes.”
With a pleasant smile at the Major and a cold nod to Fletcher, Leslie
joined Lebrassa.
Fletcher watched the two as they disappeared down the gangway. Then he
went to the rail in time to see the big boat, with its crew of
savages, swallowed up in darkness.
To Leslie, as she left the _Batava’s_ side, there came a sensation of
all known things gliding away--an uncanny feeling that made her
shiver. She cast a quick glance back at the steamer, and stifled a
desire to ask Lebrassa to stop and take her back to the world she
knew. With an effort she suppressed the wish and tried to interest
herself in her surroundings.
When one of the negroes struck a match, the sharp scratch made her
heart give a choking jump. A moment later a lantern flared up in the
bow. The combination of flickering light and curling miasma caused
wild, distorted shapes to dance in the shrouded gloom, and cast weird
shadows over the savage crew.
With hands clasped tightly together, Leslie watched the negroes.
Occasional grunts broke from them as they pulled and sweated at the
oars to the accompaniment of a low, whining chant. To any one fresh
from civilization, they were very unlike human beings. This Leslie
realized as she watched them, horror-stricken at the thought of Molly
being married to one of their race.
A movement at the tiller brought her mind back from the naked crew to
Lebrassa.
The fitful light rendered his swarthy face darker than usual, and the
negro in him showed more as he sat gazing intently ahead, picking out
a difficult passage by sounds and signs that only senses attuned to
the slightest noise and shadow could have noticed.
Leslie watched him. Never had she seen him look quite so dark, quite
so much like a negro before.
“I’d like to give him a coat of black paint and a covering no bigger
than a handkerchief, and see what I thought of him then.”
Fletcher’s words, accidentally overheard that night in the hotel, came
back to her mind.
What _would_ she think of him then?
A thrill of horror went through her.
All Fletcher had said concerning Lebrassa’s sort and color returned
with an appalling rush. With it came a sudden realization of the
loneliness of her present position, and the terrifying knowledge that
she really knew nothing at all about Lebrassa.
With fearsome speculation she watched him, noting, as she had never
done before, every line and flaw on his face, the latent savagery in
his eyes, the cruel set of his mouth, the whole stamped with the
unmistakable seal of reckless dissipation.
What if she had been wrong all the time? What if he _were_ the Hyena?
Leslie tried to crush this thought back. But it would come uppermost.
During the voyage out she had heard many terrible tales about this
mysterious rebel chieftain, the mere recollection of which made her
shiver.
Lebrassa must have noticed the shudder that ran through her, for he
glanced sharply at her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked quickly.
Trying to stifle her terror, she looked at him.
“Have--we much further to go?”
He must have noticed the break of fear in her voice, for he smiled at
her gently.
“There’s nothing _you_ need be afraid of,” he said softly. “Fifteen
minutes from now you’ll be with your friend.”
His cultivated voice comforted her. It made her remember he was very
different from the creatures rowing the boat.
Almost as he spoke, a faint luminous light appeared in the darkness
ahead, and grew bigger and redder and more lurid as they approached
it.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The light of my wharf. The end of your river journey.”
The oars were shipped, and black, weed-grown piles loomed up. Some of
the crew leant over and pawed along the slimy wood until steps were
reached.
As Leslie mounted them, she experienced the uncomfortable feeling of
some one’s gliding away at her approach, of unseen eyes watching her
from out of the darkness. She was glad of Lebrassa’s company, and
stayed close beside him while the negroes went to the trading factory
to fetch a hammock in which she was to be carried up to the villa on
the hill.
As they stood together, out from the night came the sudden throb of a
native drum, a roll of wild music with little intermittent taps.
Another answered it, a faint echo in the distance.
The sound startled the girl. Major Harding had told her how the
African tribes signalled to each other in this fashion, sending
messages from place to place with amazing rapidity. She wondered what
the drums were saying, and why, the moment she landed, they should
roll their wild music through the night.
The sound left Lebrassa tense and listening.
In the faint light of a dying lamp overhead Leslie glanced at him. The
look on his face was one she had never seen before: an expression of
tigerish ferocity.
“What are they making that noise about?” she asked nervously.
“It’s in honor of your landing.”
He laughed, in a manner both savage and tender. For the message of the
drums was--that he had returned, and with him was his enemy’s
daughter!
His look and laugh made the girl shrink from him. The lamp overhead
flared up wildly. In the sudden glare she saw a pair of eyes watching
her intently. Then all light died away as the last roll of a drum came
echoing down like a faint sigh from the unknown.
Leslie remained in the darkness, conscious some one was creeping
stealthily up to her. She could see nothing, but she could feel an
unknown and hostile presence.
A voice came out of the night, a wild jabber, loud and coarse, with a
note of the beast in it, and the sound sapped Leslie’s last remaining
scrap of courage.
“Are you there, Mr. Lebrassa?” she asked nervously.
At her question he laughed.
He was there. So was she. And Kallu knew it!
The depths of savagery in his tone made her shudder. All the fears
that had assailed her on the river returned four-fold. Fearsomely she
touched the arm of the man who loomed, solid, in the surrounding
darkness.
“You’re not the Hyena, are you?” she asked in a hysterical manner.
“If I said ‘yes,’ would you believe me?”
“Please, please don’t make a joke of it when I’m here all--alone.”
The terrified, imploring note in her voice made him draw her arm
through his, where he held it carefully. And Leslie was glad of the
feeling of safety that came with him.
“So in a critical moment it would be Sylvia,” he said teasingly.
“Would be Sylvia!” she echoed.
Then in a shaky manner she laughed.
“What made _you_ think I might be the Hyena?” he went on. “Am I so
very savage when we’re together? Or are you afraid that now I’ve got
you far away from your own sort that I shall fall on you and gobble
you up, as the wolf did little Red Riding Hood?”
“It was all this strange haunted night,” she confessed. “I… I think I
had a sudden attack of nerves. It was stupid of me to say such a
thing. You’re not angry, are you?” she finished anxiously.
“Do I sound as if I were?”
“You sound as if you were laughing at me, but then you’re very good at
hiding what you really feel.”
Lebrassa made no reply. He remained silent, her arm tucked through his
until the arrival of the hammock and lanterns broke the darkness
again.
The party was soon stirring. Leslie lay in her litter trying to see
something of her surroundings. Only indistinct trunks of trees were
visible. In her ears was the sound of dripping moisture, an occasional
rustle in the undergrowth, far-away, moaning howls, the stealthy pad
of unshod feet, and the comforting sound of a firm, louder tread that
denoted a civilized presence.
“Here’s your destination,” Lebrassa said, at length.
His words made her sit up. She saw nothing but mist and trees and a
vicious thorny hedge lost either way in the darkness. There was the
sound of a gate opening. More mist and trees, and, finally, a halt at
the bottom of broad, wooden steps leading up to a wide, creeper-grown
balcony.
The noise of their arrival brought some one along the veranda. A negro
loomed up, a man of about forty, of medium height and black as any one
of her bearers. Only his European dress and the look of intelligence
on his face marked him out as in any way differing from them.
Before Lebrassa’s brief introduction, Leslie guessed he was Molly’s
husband.
A desire to scream aloud seized her. With an effort she pulled herself
together. She must shake hands with him. For Molly’s sake she must
behave just as if he were a white man.
“I’m sorry I could not come to meet you, Miss Graham,” Cooper said.
“But my wife is dangerously ill.”
His words stunned Leslie.
Lebrassa’s voice reached her.
“Let me take you to the dining-room. You must have something to eat
after your tiring journey.”
Impatiently she turned from him.
“I must go to Molly at once. Will you take me?” she asked, looking at
Cooper.
She had a vague idea of walking up the steps and along the balcony
with some one who, in stilted, foreign English was imploring her to
save Molly.
Then she was taken into a lighted room.
In the faint illumination of a shaded lamp she saw a trio of black
faces leaning over a bed where a girl lay moaning--two men and one
woman.
Leslie had eyes only for the girl on the bed. Molly was there. Molly
who had done this dreadful thing for _her_ sake! Molly with her pretty
golden hair and sweet, gentle face, staring wildly at the figures
clustered around her.
As Leslie crossed the room, she felt a sudden hatred for everybody
with a dark skin. Leaning over the bed, she tried to block out from
Molly’s poor wild eyes those terrifying black faces.
“What are these people doing here?” she demanded, looking at Cooper.
“They are two doctors and a nurse, Miss Graham.”
“Send them away. I can manage quite well alone. I’ve nursed and
doctored Molly through several illnesses.”
Leslie’s only idea was to clear the room of black people.
There was some demur on the part of the negro physicians. In an
insolent, aggressive, patronizing manner they questioned Leslie’s
right to dismiss them.
Pale and haughty, she faced them.
“You will do as I tell you. Mr. Cooper has put his wife in my care.”
She was of the dominant race and the room cleared.
When the doctors and nurse had gone, Leslie turned to Cooper.
“Will you see if Mr. Lebrassa is still here? And if he is, will you
say I’d like to speak to him for a moment?”
He left immediately.
Turning from the bed, Leslie took off her hat with trembling hands.
She was bending over Molly again, crooning little words of sympathy
and understanding, when a light tap disturbed her.
Crossing the room, she drew aside the reed blind screening the
doorway.
Outside Lebrassa stood. In his hands was a tray with coffee and
sandwiches.
With an air of proud humility, as if he were more accustomed to be
waited on than waiting on others, he put the tray on a table just
inside the door.
“You sent for me, so I took the liberty of bringing you some supper at
the same time,” he remarked as he put the tray down.
“That was thoughtful of you,” she said, looking at him with eyes full
of gratitude. “I really wanted you to tell Mr. Cooper not to come in
here again to-night. I didn’t like to tell him myself. But… but Molly
will be much better just alone with me. I sent the doctors away too,
and I’m afraid I offended them, but they were only frightening her.”
“I’ll see that Cooper and the rest of them keep out of here,” he
assured her.
He half-turned to go, but Leslie’s hand on his sleeve kept him where
he was.
“You’ll think me very silly,” she said quickly, in a nervous,
apologetic tone, “but I wonder if you’d mind waiting here for a bit.
I… I’d like to think you were here, that I’m not quite alone with--all
these strange people.”
“I’ll gladly stay all night if it’s going to save you one moment’s
worry.”
“I would like you to stay until it’s light again. Everything seems so
fearfully dark, everybody so… so different from what I’ve been used
to. It will be comforting to think I have a friend within hailing
distance.”
In a peculiar manner Lebrassa laughed.
“Friend, you call me?”
All Leslie saw in his laughter and his remark was the fact that he had
once told her he had no friends.
“Why not?” she asked. “You’ve always been a good friend to me.”
“And you to me, Miss Graham,” he answered with a touch of feeling in
his usually indifferent voice.
He changed the conversation.
“But you mustn’t make yourself ill, looking after Mrs. Cooper. Let me
send the nurse back.”
“Molly will be much better just with me, and I can manage quite all
right, especially now I know you’ll be here. Good-night, and thank you
so much.”
From sheer gratitude Leslie held out her hand.
Until now she had avoided shaking hands with him. In fact she had
avoided all personal contact, except on the occasions when her
sympathy had been aroused, or when sudden fear of the strange life she
had been plunged into had made her turn to him.
Very cordially she gave her hand, for in her mind was the knowledge of
the suspicions that had assailed her during the boat journey from the
steamer.
Lebrassa took it carefully.
“This seals our compact,” he said, smiling at her, the quiet,
well-bred smile Leslie now knew and liked. “We are no longer enemies,
but friends.”
“What nonsense you do talk at times. We’ve never been enemies.”
“What about those bloodthirsty battles over the chess-board?”
Leslie laughed.
“Oh, those!” she exclaimed.
For a moment Lebrassa held her hand.
“Good-night, little friend,” he said, watching her closely.
Freeing her hand he turned away rather sharply and went from the room.
Once outside, for some minutes he stood, thoughtful and motionless, by
the reed blind, as if on sentry there. Then, with a sudden, fierce
movement, he went along to the dining-room, where Cooper was.
“Who sent that message up to Kallu?” he asked in a peremptory manner.
The question set Cooper fidgeting uneasily.
“I sent no message,” he answered.
“Who did then?” Lebrassa asked savagely.
“Yoni must have.”
“What made that woman interfere?”
“She had some mad notion that you’d gone to England to get married,
and she sent word up to Nanza to that effect. He came down here
threatening to expose everything unless he knew exactly what was
happening. To keep him quiet I had to tell him it was Lionel de
Tourville’s daughter you had gone to fetch.”
The reply left Lebrassa thoughtful.
“What made you connect Miss Graham with Lionel de Tourville?” he asked
at length.
“From what you told me that night in Harrogate, and from what I learnt
from my wife about her friend. I congratulate you on the clever way
you got the girl out here.”
In a strangely unpleasant manner, Lebrassa laughed--a laugh that might
have been caused by his minions running foul of his orders, or his own
delight at having captured his enemy so neatly.