Kitabı oku: «Guy in the Jungle: or, A Boy's Adventure in the Wilds of Africa», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XXXVI.
BILDAD TURNS CANNIBAL

All through that day – for such we shall call it – they floated on without a single glimpse of the shores, though a good current still existed.

Their sufferings had now reached a point that was almost unendurable. The emptiness at the stomach and the pangs of hunger had given way to the fierce pains and the appalling weakness that come to those perishing of starvation.

For two days, it must be remembered, they had eaten nothing, and for a week previous three dry crackers apiece had been their daily allowance.

Chutney, with marvelous endurance, retained his strength and affected a hopefulness he was far from feeling, though, if the truth were known, a share of his food for a week past had been secretly given to Sir Arthur, whose illness had roused his compassion.

The colonel was almost too weak to stand – for his previous captivity had undermined his constitution, while Melton and the Greek made no efforts to conceal their sufferings.

Bildad, instead of becoming violent, woke up very weak, and lay helpless on his rug.

It was pitiful to see how they all turned their pockets inside out and drove their fingers into the crannies of the logs, hoping to discover a stray crumb. It was useless to fish, for they had nothing to put on the hook.

After nightfall, as near as Guy could guess, the river became very narrow and the current increased perceptibly in speed. The steep and rocky shores seemed scarcely ten yards apart, and overhead hung masses of stalactite almost close enough to strike with the paddle.

"We are near the end," said Guy, making an effort to speak calmly in spite of his sufferings. "Hold out a little longer. I feel sure that we shall be saved."

"Yes, we are near the end," said the colonel, "very near, Chutney. Our sufferings will soon be over. You deserve a better fate. I wish – "

"No, no, don't talk that way," cried Guy. "You will live to see the sunlight again – I am sure of it."

The colonel turned over on his side without making a reply.

"If we don't reach the mouth of the cavern in twenty-four hours, I for one will never see the light of day," said Melton huskily. "I'd hate to die in this place. It wouldn't be so hard out under the open sky."

"Water! water!" moaned Sir Arthur feebly, and crawling to the edge of the raft Guy filled his helmet and put it to the sick man's lips. He drank deeply and sank back on the rugs.

Guy crept cautiously forward to the front of the raft again – for every motion was a torture – and resumed his watch ahead, straining his eyes to catch the first glimpse of light that he felt sure must come before long.

Faster and faster ran the current now and the shores flitted past like dim specters. The channel became more turbulent and rocky, and the raft tossed and trembled as it swept over brawling rapids and grated over unseen obstructions.

When Guy turned toward his companions again they seemed to be all sleeping, and he envied them their merciful oblivion.

Bildad was muttering excitedly in his own tongue, and as Guy watched him he tossed his arms and sat bolt upright. The ugly face was frightfully distorted and the fever-stricken eyes shone with a baleful light. With an apprehension that he took no pains to disguise Guy watched him sharply. There was no telling what this savage might do in the delirium of illness – a delirium aggravated tenfold by the tortures of hunger.

Guy noted with secret uneasiness that no weapon was lying anywhere near. Melton alone had a revolver, and he was half inclined to waken him and ask him for it.

Bildad, however, made no attempt to leave his place on the rugs. He kept on talking to himself at intervals, his eyes staring vacantly out on the river.

A dingy leopard skin was still bound around his loins, and suddenly seizing the end of it he began to chew it greedily.

Then he noticed the blood still sticking to his fingers, and placing his hand in his mouth he sucked it with a hollow noise that made Guy sick.

Suddenly his eyes became fixed and glaring, his hands dropped to his side, trembling nervously, and his lips parted in a wolfish expression, that displayed two rows of glistening teeth.

A thrill of horror ran through Guy from head to foot as he saw what had unmistakably fascinated Bildad's gaze. Two yards distant, facing the savage, lay Sir Arthur, propped up slightly among the rugs. His head was thrown back, and in the perspiration, caused probably by his slight fever, he had torn loose the fore part of his flannel shirt, so that the throat and part of the breast were fully exposed, and shone clearly in the soft glow from the fire.

To Chutney Bildad's wolfish gaze admitted of no misconstruction. The sight of the white flesh had roused the savage's fiercest instincts. At that moment Bildad was a cannibal at heart!

No words can describe Guy's feelings as he realized the awful truth.

At first a deadly faintness threatened to deprive him of all consciousness. Then came a thrill of strength, and his quick mind sought some plan of action. There was no weapon within reach. He must waken the Greek.

"Canaris," he muttered in a low voice, but the word stuck in his throat and died away in a whisper.

The sound, slight as it was, drew Bildad's attention. A glance at Guy's frightened countenance told him his horrible design was discovered. His thick lips parted in a glare of ferocious hatred – the blind fury of a madman.

He thrust his hand to his side, drew out a long, gleaming knife, and with a demoniacal laugh sprang at Sir Arthur, brandishing his weapon.

At the first flash of the steel Guy uttered a shout that might have wakened the seven sleepers, and threw himself across the raft. He fell short of the African, and staggered to his knees with another wild cry.

The glittering blade wavered a second in mid-air, not ten inches from Sir Arthur's heart, and then, his eyes flashing and his face distorted with passion, Bildad turned and threw himself on the man who had thwarted him.

Guy staggered to his feet in time to meet the shock, and they fell together with a crash, the madman on top. As he blindly threw out his arms in self protection he grasped Bildad's wrist, arresting the course of the descending knife. Before the fiend could snatch the knife with the other hand he twisted the brawny wrist till the bone cracked. The knife dropped from the nerveless fingers, and Bildad shrieked with rage and agony. Guy tried to shout, but the savage's uninjured arm clutched his throat, and he felt himself jerked violently along the raft. He struggled and kicked in vain. A mist swam before his eyes, and he felt the agonies of suffocation. With both hands he tore at the brawny arm, but the grip only seemed to tighten, and then he realized that he was on the edge of the raft. He was powerless. He wondered vaguely why the rest did not come to his assistance. He felt his head and shoulders slip over the edge, and then opening his eyes he saw the madman's leering face, flushed with rage and triumph, staring into his own. His eyes closed with a shudder as he seemed to feel the icy waters close over him. Then the grasp on his throat suddenly relaxed, and he knew nothing more.

When Guy opened his eyes some minutes later, and saw with wonder the familiar faces of his friends bending over him, he felt as a man might who had come back from the grave. He tried to rise, but a firm hand pushed him gently back, and the colonel's voice said softly, "No; lie down. Not a word until you are better."

Gradually memory came back as he rested, and he knew why his throat felt so queer. In the firelight he saw Bildad lying motionless across the logs. The ugly face was smeared with blood, and Forbes and Canaris were binding the brawny arms and legs.

And there lay the knife, flashing back the light from its polished steel.

"You came as near to death, Chutney, as any man can come," said the colonel a little later, when Guy was able to sit up and lean against the fragments of the canoe. "Forbes saved you on this occasion. He got awake just in time, and crawling over the logs – for he was unable to walk – he brought down the butt of the revolver on the fiend's head. He first tried to shoot, but his weapon missed fire."

"Is he dead?" asked Guy.

"No," replied the colonel; "more's the pity. He seems to be only stunned. We've tied him up securely, so he can't do any more harm. But what started him, anyhow?"

Guy, with many a shudder, related the events that led to the attack, and his audience were horror-stricken at the terrible tale. The strangest part of it was that Sir Arthur had slept through it all and was still sleeping.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE END OF THE CAVERN

After that Guy himself fell asleep – a deep, heavy slumber that caused his friends some uneasiness as they listened to his labored breathing and saw the red flush that mounted over his pallid face.

Later on he struggled back to a wretched consciousness of his misery. He made an effort to rise, but such keen pains darted through his body that his head dropped back on the rug. The least movement was an agony, and his head was aching with a fierce intensity that he had never known before.

"I will rise," he muttered between his clinched teeth, and summoning all the power of his iron will he sat up.

The remaining half of the canoe was just behind him, and dragging his body a foot or more over the raft he fell back against it with a groan of agony.

The glowing embers of the fire shed a dim light over the scene. On his right lay Sir Arthur, white and motionless. On the left was Bildad, his arms and legs drawn up about his body in the throes of suffering. Near the front of the raft lay the colonel, face downward on the logs, and close by was the Greek, his white features turned toward the firelight.

One alone showed any signs of life. Melton was leaning over the edge apparently drinking, and presently he raised his head and crawled feebly toward the fire.

"How long have I slept?" asked Guy in a hoarse whisper.

Melton turned in astonishment as though frightened by the sound of a human voice.

"I don't know," he said, speaking with a great effort. "Hours, Chutney, hours. A day and a night must have passed since I cracked that fellow there on the head. I hoped you would never wake. This is like dying a thousand times over. It won't last long now. A few hours at the most – and then – "

"But tell me," interrupted Guy, "the rest, are they – are they – ?"

"Dead?" said Melton. "No, I think not. Very near the end, though. They can't move. They can't even reach the edge of the raft to drink. Water has kept me up a little."

Crawling inch by inch, he drew himself beside Guy and propped his back against the canoe. They sat side by side, too exhausted to speak, mercifully indifferent to their fate.

It is doubtful if they realized their position. The last stages of starvation had blunted their sensibilities, thrown a veil over their reasoning faculties.

Presently Guy observed that the raft had entered upon a most turbulent stretch of water. At frequent intervals he heard dimly the hoarse roar of rapids and felt the logs quiver and tremble as they struck the rocks. The shores appeared almost close enough to touch as they whirled past with a speed that made him close his eyes with dizziness, and the jagged roof seemed about to fall and crush him.

He saw these things as a man sees in a dream. He could no longer reason over them or draw conclusions from the facts. The increasing roar of the water, the cumulative force of the current, told him dimly that a crisis was approaching.

So they drifted on, lost to all passage of time. Presently the last embers of the fire expired with a hiss as a dash of spray was flung on them, and all was dark.

Guy whispered Melton's name, but a feeble groan was the only response. He reached out a trembling arm and found that his friend had slipped down from the canoe and was lying prostrate on the rugs. He alone retained consciousness, such as it was.

Bildad was jabbering in delirium, and Guy could catch broken sentences muttered at intervals by Carrington or the Greek.

He felt that his own reason was fast going, and he conceived a sudden horror of dying in darkness.

A torch was lying under his hand and he had matches.

The effort of striking the light was a prodigious one, but at last he succeeded and the torch flared up brightly over the raft and its occupants.

The sudden transition from darkness to light had a startling effect on the very man whom Guy supposed to be past all feeling. Sir Arthur suddenly sat straight up, his white face lit with a ghastly light.

"Ha, ha!" he shouted, waving his shrunken hands. "The light, the light! We are saved! Do you see it, Carrington; do you see it?"

Then the wild gleam faded from his eyes, and in a quavering voice – a mere ghost of his old pompous manner – he exclaimed:

"To the Guards' Club, Waterloo Place! Do it in twenty minutes, driver, and the half sovereign is yours. Go by way of Piccadilly; it's the near cut."

A moment later he added: "I'll be late. What beastly luck!"

Then a swift change passed over his face.

"Ha! ha! There's the light again," he cried exultantly. "Look, Carrington, look – " His lips trembled over the unfinished sentence, and without another word he dropped back on the logs and lay there perfectly motionless.

This was the last thing that Guy remembered.

The torch still burned beside him, and the raft plunged on its dizzy course, but his mind was wandering far away, and the past was being lived over again.

He was riding through London streets, dining with his old friends at the club, pulling a skiff over the placid current of the Thames, shooting quail on his brother's estate, dancing at a ball at Government House, Calcutta, marching through Indian jungles at the head of his men, plotting the capture of the Rajah, Nana Sahib, in far-away Burma – thus the merciful past stole his mind away from the horrors of the present, and he alternately smiled or shuddered as he recalled some pleasant association or stern reminiscence of peril.

So the hours passed on. The torch faded and dimmed, burned to a charred ember, and then went out.

The water hissed and boiled, crashing on rocks and shoals, beating its fury against the barren shores, and rushing down the narrow channel at an angle that was frightful and appalling.

Guided by an unseen power, the frail raft rose and fell with the current, whirling round and round like an eggshell, creaking, groaning, and straining at its bonds, like a fettered giant; but the wretched castaways, sprawled in careless attitude across the logs, heard nothing, knew nothing – simply lay with their pallid faces turned toward the blackness and the gloom overhead.

Ah, how pitiful! If they could only have known what was close at hand, fresh life would have flowed into their wasted veins. They would have gone mad with joy.

The roar of the water had now become softened and less violent. The rocks had disappeared, the river slipped like an avalanche through the fast narrowing channel, and at such a prodigious speed that a cold blast of air whistled about the raft.

Chutney, still propped against the canoe, caught its full effect on his face. It stirred up the flickering spark of life within him and he opened his eyes; he thought he saw a faint gleam of daylight.

Like the fabled giant that sprang from an uncorked phial, the gray streak expanded with marvelous celerity, growing longer and wider and brighter until it shone like burnished silver on the hurrying tide of the river.

Guy saw it and that was all. It dazzled his eyes and he closed them. When he looked again the raft was trembling on the edge of the silvery sheet, and then, swift as the lightning flash, a flood of brightness sprang up and around it.

He closed his eyes, but the fierce glare seemed to be burning into his very brain. He could not shut it out, though he thrust a trembling arm across his closed eyes.

The next instant something rough and pliable struck his face with stinging force, and he felt the warm blood trickle down his cheeks. Instantly there came a second shock. The canoe was whirled forcibly from under him, and a heavy blow from some unseen object struck him with stunning violence to the hard logs.

An icy wave dashed over the raft, and then another and another. Smarting with pain, the blood dripping from his lacerated face and hands, he staggered to his knees.

He opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing for the dazzling light that was all around him. Then the blindness passed suddenly away, and he saw clearly.

The glorious, entrancing light of day was shining on the raft, on the sparkling water, on his motionless companions – everywhere.

The raft was dancing on the bosom of a vast and mighty stream that rolled in the blessed sunlight between shores of sparkling green. He saw sloping hillsides and mangrove jungles, wind-tossed patches of reeds and waving palm trees, mountains shooting their rugged peaks heavenward, and billows of forest land rolling off into the distant horizon, while overhead was the deep blue vault of the sky, that perfect sky that had haunted his memory in many a dream – the sky that he had never hoped to see again. The air was redolent with perfume and melodious with the sweet notes of countless birds.

Flushed and trembling, Guy staggered, with new-found strength, to his feet.

"Saved! Saved! Saved!" he cried aloud. "Thank God! Melton! Canaris! Do you hear? The blessed sunlight is shining around us. Why don't you answer? Why don't you shout for joy?"

But no response came, and the five ghastly figures on the raft remained as stiff and motionless as before.

A swift change passed over Guy's face.

"Merciful heavens!" he cried. "Can it be? All dead!"

He gasped for breath, beating the air with stiffened fingers, and then dropped like a log.

The warm sunlight still played on the raft, and the yellow tide of the river lapped the roughened logs with a soft and musical murmur.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CAPTAIN BECKER LOSES A WAGER

"No, no, gentlemen. I respectfully beg leave to differ with you. Africa never gives up her white slaves."

Captain Lucius Becker emphasized his words by bringing his fist down heavily on the frail table before him, and replacing his meerschaum between his lips, he glared defiantly at his two companions.

It was a hot and sultry afternoon in March – such a March as only tropical Africa knows – and the place was the German military station of New Potsdam, on the left bank of the river Juba, a few miles from its mouth, in eastern Africa.

On the broad bosom of the river the sun was beating fiercely, and the mangrove jungles and lofty palm trees drooped motionless in the dead calm. Upon the flat roof of the little station, however, the refining touches of civilization had done much to mitigate the severity and discomfort of the heat. An awning of snowy canvas, shaded by the projecting clusters of a group of palms, made a cool and grateful shelter, and under this the three officers had been dining.

Captain Becker continued to blow out great clouds of white smoke as though he had completely squelched all further argument on the subject under discussion.

The silence was broken at last by Dr. Moebius Goldbeck.

"My dear captain," he said, in slow, measured tones, as he adjusted his eyeglass, "I cannot agree with you. Africa has passed through many changes of late years. These men will surely be heard from again, and may even be freed eventually."

"Yes, yes, you are right, doctor; your views are eminently sound," said Lieutenant Carl von Leyden.

Captain Becker removed his meerschaum from his lips, and shook himself in his chair until his sword clanked on the floor.

"Now listen," he cried. "These men of whom we speak, the governor of Zaila, the English colonel, the captain of the Aden steamer, and the other two unfortunate Englishmen, not one of these men will ever come out of Africa alive, I will wager a hundred thalers."

"Done!" cried Lieutenant von Leyden.

"Done!" echoed Dr. Goldbeck.

Hardly had the echoes of their voices died away when the sentry wheeled about hastily and said: "Captain, something comes down the river. It has just rounded the bend. It looks too large for a boat."

Captain Becker rushed down below, hurried back with a pair of glasses, and took a long survey.

"It is a raft," he cried, turning to his companions. "Men are lying on it; whether dead or alive I cannot tell. Man a boat at once. The current runs swift, and we will have barely time to reach it."

The boat was ready almost as soon as they reached the ground, and under the steady movement of four pairs of oars they shot swiftly out on the yellow tide of the Juba.

In silence they approached the drifting object, the boat's prow cutting sharply the opposing waves.

Now it was twenty yards away – ten yards – five yards – then the boat bumped gently on the logs and Dr. Goldbeck boarded the raft, followed quickly by his two companions.

"Mein himmel!" he cried. "What can this mean? Six dead bodies! Horrible! horrible!"

He turned pale for a moment. Then, as his professional instinct asserted itself, he knelt beside the motionless forms, and one by one tore the breast covering away and applied his hand to the heart.

"Ach!" he cried joyfully, rising to his feet, "they still live; there still remains a spark of life! To the shore, quick! lose no time, or all will die!"

A rope was speedily hitched to the raft, and the men began to pull lustily for the bank.

"Captain Becker," exclaimed Lieutenant von Leyden, suddenly smacking his knee, "you are two hundred thalers out of pocket. There lie the lost men now. That is Sir Arthur Ashby with the sandy beard, and the others are no doubt his companions."

"Tausend donner! that is true!" cried the doctor. "You are right, Carl. It is miraculous!"

Captain Becker smiled grimly, but said nothing.

A severe pull of ten minutes brought the raft to the little wharf, and in the strong arms of the German soldiers the rescued men were borne tenderly into the garrison-house and placed on cots that had been made up in readiness for them.

Never did Dr. Goldbeck have a more arduous task, but with medicine chest at his side, and two able assistants to carry out his instructions, he toiled unceasingly for hours.

Then success crowned his efforts, and the patients came slowly back to consciousness. For nearly a week they hovered between life and death, but finally all were pronounced out of danger except Bildad, who was struggling in a high fever.

At first they knew nothing, could remember nothing, but gradually memory returned, and they realized the full measure of their wonderful escape.

Guy was the first to rally, and Sir Arthur was the last, but ten days after their rescue all were able to sit up, and after that they gained strength rapidly.

The marvelous tale of their adventures was discussed over and over with their new friends – for most of the Englishmen could speak German – and from Captain Becker they learned the latest news from Zaila, which was to the effect that the place had been retaken by the English after a brief but desperate struggle. This information had been brought to the station by a German gunboat six weeks before.

Guy was very curious to know how far they had drifted down the Juba before they were rescued, but of course it was impossible to tell.

"It's my opinion," said Captain Becker, "that the exit from that underground river is somewhere in the vicinity of the big falls, fifty miles above here. I have heard that there are caverns along the bank from which the water pours furiously."

"That is probably the place, then," returned Guy, "for the bushes hung so low that they dragged the canoe from the raft and tore the skin from my face. I have a dim recollection of all that, but I remember nothing more."

Guy's companions, however, could not remember even this. The struggle with Bildad was the last tangible recollection. After that all was a blank. Although they had regained a fair share of strength, the awful experiences of the cruise down the underground river had left indelible traces of suffering. Colonel Carrington's hair had turned white, and even Chutney and Forbes had gray locks sprinkled through their dark ones. Their faces were hollow, their bodies lean and emaciated, and, in fact, they were changed beyond all power of recognition. Contrary to expectation, Bildad was now also convalescent.

As soon as their recovery was assured, Captain Becker had very courteously sent to the chief station on the Durnford River, some miles south of the Juba, to obtain, if possible, a steamer; and one morning, four weeks after their arrival at New Potsdam, a noble vessel steamed up the river and anchored before the station.

It was the German steamer Rhine Castle, and was at the disposal of Sir Arthur, who had assumed the expense of chartering it on behalf of his government.

The commander of the vessel, Captain Wassman, brought a piece of news that made Sir Arthur desperately anxious to get back to Zaila, and very considerably stirred up the rest of the party.

A certain Portuguese, he said, was in high favor at Zaila on account of services rendered in retaking the town from the Arabs and Somalis, and it was rumored that the government intended to bestow upon him an influential post.

"That must be Manuel Torres," remarked Sir Arthur to Chutney. "Bless me, we'll make it hot for the scoundrel!"

With many regrets they parted from Captain Becker and his friends, and a few hours after the German flag on the garrison house faded from view the Rhine Castle was beating swiftly up the eastern coast of Africa on her two-thousand-mile trip.