stopped, for they were face to face with the great black veil of mist.
"Now," he said, with his lips close to each one's ear in turn, "you
first, Perry, take a grip of the stock of my gun, and pass your own
backward as I do mine for Cyril to take hold. Then Cyril will do the
same for John Manning to grasp, and we shall be linked together and well
in touch. I shall lead, of course. Courage, boys, and no hesitation.
We shall soon be through. Now, forward."
In half-a-dozen steps the darkness, which had been relieved by the faint
gleaming of the stars peering down into the gorge, became intense, for
they were once more in the mist, and guided only by the gentle drag upon
the guns, as without hesitation the colonel led on, keeping close to the
wall upon his left.
The noise of the water thundering down was more confusing than ever, the
mist more stifling; but the boys gathered confidence as they went on,
and Perry was too much occupied in following his father's steps, to
think much about the horrible slip into the gulf below; while Cyril, as
he stepped on manfully, kept trying to recall how far the way was
through, and calculated that they must be fully half-way.
He had just arrived at this conclusion, when he turned angrily to resent
what he looked upon as absurd behaviour on the part of John Manning, who
suddenly grasped him tightly, pinning his arms down to his sides, and
flinging him up against the rock-wall as far as possible from the edge
of the gulf.
"How stupid!" he cried aloud, though not a word was heard. "I'm all
right. Now you've broken the chain."
He had arrived at this point, when he felt a rope passed rapidly round
him, binding his arms to his sides. Then he was thrown upon his back,
and in spite of his struggles, his legs were treated in the same way,
after which a cloth was bound over his face, so tightly as to be almost
suffocating. Lastly, he felt himself lifted head and heels, and borne
forward, dizzy, confused, and wondering what had happened to his
companions, and finally bound to conclude that they must have been
treated precisely in the same way. He felt that this must be so, and
that the Indian cunning had been too much for the colonel's strategy, a
party having remained in waiting in full knowledge that they were
pursued, and ready to pounce upon them, just in a spot where an attack
would be least expected and surest of success.
All at once, as the boy was borne along, feeling satisfied that it was
useless to struggle and folly to exert himself and shout, it occurred to
him that his bearers were going closer to the edge of the gulf, for the
roar of the water seemed to be more deafening. There could only be one
reason for this, he argued--it was his turn to be thrown in, and the
others must be gone.
The horrible thought made him begin to struggle with all his might, but
at the first writhe a strong additional arm was passed over his body,
gripping him tightly to its owner's side, and in this fashion he became
helpless, and was carried forward, to grow calmer, for he awoke to the
fact that his life was certainly for the present safe.
Then a curious feeling of faintness came over him, the heat of the cloth
over his mouth was suffocating, bright specks of light danced before his
eyes, there was a singing in his ears, and then everything seemed to be
at an end, till the stars were looking down at him from far on high, and
above the low distant booming of the fall he could hear the pleasant
silvery gurgle of water, and the heavy breathing of sleepers close at
hand.
By degrees the boy's head grew clearer, but at the expense of his body,
for as the power of thinking brightened, his limbs grew heavier, numb,
and helpless, and the effort he made to turn over upon one side proved
to be in vain. He felt that the cloth which bound his lips was gone,
but there was no inclination to cry for help, and he lay perfectly
still, wondering whether his companions were near, and then utterly
exhausted, all passed away again, but this time he slept.
It must have been near morning once more, when Cyril awoke with a
feeling of something warm touching his ear, and a voice whispered:
"Careful, my lad. I've cut you free, and I'm going to cut the colonel
and Master Perry clear. Now try and rub your legs gently. We must make
a dash for it, as soon as you're ready. Don't speak."
The lips were removed from his ear, and there was a faint rustling, that
was all.
He tried to obey the orders he had received, but for some minutes there
was scarcely any sense of feeling in his hand, or in the part he
touched, but he worked on, feeling hopeful now. John Manning was
fighting for their freedom, and the others must be close at hand, but he
felt that if they were as helpless as he, they would not be of much use
in an attempt to escape from their captors.
And as Cyril went on softly rubbing circulation into his numbed and
swollen legs once more, a faint point of light high up in the clouds,
where an ice peak was catching the first rays of the coming morn, shone
out like a hopeful sign to tell him that all was not yet lost.
For quite half an hour he kept up the gentle friction, bringing back
circulation, but with it intense pain. Then his heart bounded, and he
forgot his agony, for John Manning crept close to him again.
"Been rubbing?" he whispered.
"Yes."
"Can you fight?"
"I'll try."
"All right then, boy; the others are ready, and I think the Indians are
asleep. We must make a dash for it now, before they make up their minds
to put us out of our misery, for I am afraid it's that they mean."
"What do we do first?" whispered Cyril, who felt the power rapidly
coming back into his legs.
"Wait till the colonel joins us with Master Perry. They're coming as
soon as they feel it safe, and then we dash back for the falls, and
retreat up the gorge. When we jump up, keep together and run. Hit out,
lad, at anybody who tries to stop you. They're only cowards after all,
but the colonel's coming. Now get up softly. Ready?"
"Yes."
At that moment there was a fierce yell, and Cyril was dashed back upon
the ground, three Indians flinging themselves upon him; there was a dull
blow, a groan, and John Manning cried aloud:
"They've done for me, lad; run for it, if you can get free. Tell the
colonel I did my duty to the last."
Almost at the same moment Cyril, as he fiercely struggled, heard a
shrill cry of agony from Perry, a shout from the colonel, and the
reports of half-a-dozen guns fired in rapid succession.
Then all was blank, for a heavy blow on the side of the head made the
lad insensible to what was passing around.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
FATHER AND SON.
When Cyril opened his eyes and began to look about, his head was aching
violently, and a swimming sensation made everything near him look misty
and indistinct. But he was conscious that the sun was shining brightly
all around, and that he was lying in the shade cast by a tree, whose
foliage was so familiar that he closed his eyes again to think and
wonder whether he was dreaming.
For that was unmistakably a cinchona tree, one of those he had thought
about so much of late.
He opened his eyes again, and looked round to see that there were
several mules about grazing on the rich grass, and there was a peculiar
odour in the air which he knew to be caused by burning wood.
A low buzz of conversation was going on, too, somewhere close behind
him, and he tried to look round, but the movement gave him so much pain
that he let his head sink down, uttering a weary sigh, which was
evidently heard, for there was a rustling sound behind him, and some one
came and bent down and took his hand, at the same time laying another
upon his forehead and gazing into his eyes.
For some moments nothing was said; Cyril, with his heart beating
heavily, gazing up into the eyes that looked down into his, while he
wondered more than ever what it all meant.
"Don't you know me, my boy?" was said at last, and a half-hysterical cry
escaped the lad's lips as he clung to the hand which grasped his.
"Yes, father! But--but what does it all mean?"
"That you must lie still and rest for a bit. You have had a nasty blow
on the head, but you will soon be better."
"But--where are we?--where is Perry, and where is the colonel? I can't
think, but I don't understand why you are here."
"You can ask yourself that last question by-and-by, my lad."
Cyril shrank a little, for those words were more potent than any
reproach, and Captain Norton went on:
"You were asking about your friends. They are all here, but have been
hurt more or less. We only came up just in time."
"You came up--just in time? Oh, I remember now. We were fighting and
trying to escape, and somebody fired. Was it you, father?"
"Yes, my lad, my friends and I. If we had not arrived as we did, I'm
afraid that there would have been a tragedy here in this valley, for the
Indians were roused, and I believe that you would none of you have lived
to see another day."
"And the Indians: where are they now?"
"Far away, my lad. They will not face firearms."
"But you came, father--after me?"
"Of course, as soon as I grasped the fact that you had followed Colonel
Campion. At first I would not think it possible that my son could treat
us at home as you had; but when, from a man who had come over the
mountains with a llama train, I learned that he had seen you, I did what
I felt it to be my duty to do for your mother's sake."
Cyril's hands went up to his face for a few moments, and then they were
gently pressed aside.
"This is no time for blaming you, Cyril," said the captain gently; "you
are injured. Get well, my boy. But you asked me how I came here. As
soon as I knew that you were with Colonel Campion, I got the help of two
or three friends, and our servants, and we obtained mules and came on in
search of you. I did so, for, in addition to my duty to you, I repented
letting a brother-officer come upon what I felt more and more was an
exceedingly risky expedition. It has proved so, has it not?"
"I'm afraid so, father," sighed Cyril. "Would the Indians have killed
us?"
"It seems so. You were utterly outnumbered, and from what I can gather,
I suppose they believe you were hunting for and had found some of the
old treasures buried here in the mountains."
"Oh no," cried Cyril; "they were quite wrong."
And he explained the object of the colonel's mission.
"They would not believe that, my boy, though they would have been just
as ready to stop anything of the kind. I found, on tracing you to their
camp, that you had come down in this direction, and the man who acted as
our guide gathered that there was some trouble on the way, and thus made
me hurry on after you. I should have come up with your party sooner,
only three times over we were tricked into following another track, our
guide proving perfectly untrustworthy directly after he had been in
communication with the people at the back camp. However, I came up with
you in time, just as a fierce fight was going on, and your party were
being worsted. A few shots drove the Indians off, and for the present
we are safe."
"And the mules and their loads?"
"There are our mules," said the captain quietly.
"No, no; I mean ours," cried Cyril.
"I have seen no others. There are none here."
"But they've taken the kinia seed that the colonel came to collect. We
must go and attack them at once."
"We must get from here on to the regular track through the mountains as
soon as we can, my boy," said the captain sternly. "We do not know
whether we may not ourselves be attacked by a strong body of the
Indians. I cannot do as I like, for I must study my friends; but if I
could, I would not run any risk in the face of such odds: so if Colonel
Campion can by any possibility sit a mule, we shall begin our retreat at
once. What? Can you stand?"
"Yes, father. Only a little giddy; and I want to see the colonel and
John Manning."
For Cyril had raised himself to his feet, and his father led him at once
to where his companions lay close by, where their rescuers had formed
their temporary camp, and were now making a hearty meal.
Perry was lying back with his head bandaged, John Manning was suffering
from a severe knife wound, and the colonel lay looking very hollow of
cheek, for he also in the fight had received a bad knife thrust, and to
Cyril it seemed that it would be impossible for the party to begin their
retreat for some days to come.
But as soon as he awoke, the colonel declared himself able to sit a
mule, and John Manning insisted upon the hurt he had received being
merely a scratch; so, as the case was urgent, a start was made that same
afternoon, and a few miles made before they were overtaken by night, and
encamped, setting a careful watch in case of attack.
But none came, the lesson given by Captain Norton quelling all present
desire for a closer acquaintance with the firearms; and soon after
daybreak they were once more in motion, the leader retracing the way
taken by his friends in their attempted escape till they were close up
to the cinchona camp, which they found deserted.
A long halt was necessary here on account of the injured party, but two
days later they were on their way again, after a long consultation
between Colonel Campion and their friends.
"Did you hear what was said?" asked Perry, as he and Cyril rode side by
side wherever the track would allow.
"Yes, everything; your father wanted to stay here for a bit and make an
expedition or two in search of the Indians, so as to try and recover the
baggage and mules."
"Of course," said Perry. "It's horrible to go back like this, regularly
beaten. But they wouldn't?"
"No: my father said he was willing, but the rest would not. They said
they had come to help to save all our lives, and bring me back, but they
were not going to risk their own any more to satisfy--"
"Well, satisfy what?" said Perry, for his companion checked himself.
"Like to know?"
"Of course."
"Satisfy your father's mad-brained ideas."
"Mad-brained indeed!" cried Perry indignantly. "And didn't father say
they must go?"
"No," replied Cyril, laughing, "because he had no authority, and he was
perfectly helpless. You see he couldn't go himself."
"I only wish he was strong enough," cried Perry. "He would soon show
some of them."
"Hasn't he shown them enough? My father's right."
"What, in giving up?" cried Perry indignantly.
"No, in behaving like a good soldier, and drawing off his forces when he
is beaten. Father told him that it was folly to go on now in his
helpless state. That, injured as he was, he would kill himself and you
and your man too, for you had neither mules, provisions, nor weapons,
and that the only thing to do was to go back."
"And what did my father say?" cried Perry hotly.
"Nothing. He only held out his hand without speaking, and they stood
for half a minute."
"But it's horrid to be beaten and go back like this, robbed of all our
belongings, and just too when we had succeeded so well. The cowards!
All that party against us. I feel as if I couldn't go back to San
Geronimo."
"So do I," said Cyril dolefully.
"You? What have you got to mind?"
"What have I got to mind? All that my father will say when we get back,
though I don't worry about that so much."
"What, then?"
"I've got to meet my mother."
"Well, but she won't say anything unkind to you."
"No," said Cyril sadly, "not a word; but she'll look at me as I often
seem to see her looking at me now, and asking me how I could behave so
cruelly to her. It half killed her, father says, for my boat was
missing for a fortnight. One of the fishermen had taken it away, and
she thought I had gone out in her, and was drowned."
Perry was silent, and soon after the boys had to separate, and ride in
single file about the middle of the little line, Captain Norton and two
of his friends forming the rearguard, in case of attack.
But though the return journey was very slow, on account of the weakness
of the injured part of the little caravan, and there was every
opportunity for the Indians to fall upon them had they been so disposed,
they went on, day after day, unmolested, and their nights were
undisturbed.
Those long narrow shelves of rock at the sides of the defiles seemed as
if they would never end, but the clear crisp mountain air was wonderful
in its curative effects; and while Perry was quite well again, and Cyril
had about forgotten his injury, Colonel Campion and John Manning, though
both thin of face, and generally a good deal pulled down, were strong
enough to walk down--at the close of the last day's journey--the long
slope which led to Captain Norton's house on its platform high above the
sea.
"Where's Cyril?" said Perry suddenly to Captain Norton. "I haven't seen
him these two hours."
Captain Norton stopped at the edge of the narrow path, and pointed down
to the dry-looking garden at the back of his house, where the tall,
tapering flagstaff stood up, with the British colours fluttering in the
sea-breeze.
Perry shaded his eyes, and through the clear evening air he could
distinctly see his companion standing by a lady, and looking up at the
little mule train filing down the slope.
"Why, he has run on home!"
"Yes," said the captain. "I sent him on to meet his mother alone.
Perry, my lad, for the sake of all who hold you dear, never be guilty of
such a selfish, thoughtless act as his."
"I'll try not," replied the boy thoughtfully; and then in an animated
way: "But, I say, Captain Norton, if it had not been for his thoughtless
act, where would we three have been now?"
The captain smiled and looked at the colonel, who had heard all that had
been said.
"That's a question I would rather not try to answer, my lad. There, no
more: I've promised Cyril to bury the past."
Weak as he still was from his injuries, and smarting from the bitter
disappointment of his failure, Colonel Campion seized the first
opportunity which occurred of getting a passage up to Panama, the two
boys parting with many promises of keeping up a correspondence, which
were none too faithfully fulfilled. Perry wrote from Panama, and again
from Barbadoes on the way home. Then three years elapsed before Cyril
had a letter, though Captain Norton had heard again and again from his
friend the colonel.
Here is a portion of the letter Cyril received:
"I don't suppose they will do it, but I think they ought to make my
father F.L.S. and F.R.S. and F.G.S., and all the rest of it, besides
knighting him. For only think, in spite of all the disappointment of
losing the packages of seed we so carefully made up, the little lots we
had in our pockets, including those you gave me at San Geronimo out of
yours--I mean that day on board the packet, when you said, `You may as
well take these, for they're no use to me--' I say, all these were
distributed and set, and with the exception of one lot, pretty well all
grew, and they have made small plantations in Java, Ceylon, India, and
one or two other places, so that in the course of time there'll be
quinine in plenty in hot places all over the world. Which lot do you
think it was failed? You, in your modesty, will say your own. Not it,
but mine; and I'll tell you how it was--through my fall down into that
horrid place. The seed was of course soaked, and it went off mouldy, I
suppose. At all events, none of it grew."
"Hah!" exclaimed Captain Norton as he heard the letter read. "It was a
daring thing to do--a brave soldier's deed. How many poor wretches in
the future who struggle back from some deadly fever will ever hear of or
bless his name? Hardly one."
"But we shall have the satisfaction, father, of knowing that we helped
to save them all the same."
"Right, boy," cried the captain, bringing his hand heavily down upon his
son's shoulder. "You did your share, and it would be a poor world
indeed if we did all our good actions for the sake of the reward."
"But mine was not a good action, father," said Cyril gravely.
"Ah, well," said his father, "it is a matter of the past. I made you a
promise then, and we will not argue that."
The End.