A Millionaire of Yesterday
CHAPTER XXIX
The attack was a fiasco, the fighting was all over in ten minutes. Ahundred years ago the men of Bekwando, who went naked and knew no drinkmore subtle than palm wine had one virtue--bravery. But civilisationpressing upon their frontiers had brought Oom Sam greedy for ivory andgold, and Oom Sam had bought rum and strong waters. The nerve of thesavage had gone, and his muscle had become a flaccid thing. When theyhad risen from the long grass with a horrid yell and had rushed in uponthe hated intruders with couched spears only to be met by a blindingfire of Lee-Metford and revolver bullets their bravery vanished likebreath from the face of a looking-glass. They hesitated, and a rain ofbullets wrought terrible havoc amongst their ranks. On every side thefighting-men of Bekwando went down like ninepins--about half a dozenonly sprang forward for a hand-to-hand fight, the remainder, withshrieks of despair, fled back to the shelter of the forest, and not oneof them again ever showed a bold front to the white man. Trent, for amoment or two, was busy, for a burly savage, who had marked him out bythe light of the gleaming flames, had sprung upon him spear in hand, andbehind him came others. The first one dodged Trent's bullet and was uponhim, when the boy shot him through the cheek and he went rolling overinto the fire, with a death-cry which rang through the camp high abovethe din of fighting, another behind him Trent shot himself, but thethird was upon him before he could draw his revolver and the two rolledover struggling fiercely, at too close quarters for weapons, yet withthe thirst for blood fiercely kindled in both of them. For a momentTrent had the worst of it--a blow fell upon his forehead (the scar ofwhich he never lost) and the wooden club was brandished in the air fora second and more deadly stroke. But at that moment Trent leaped up,dashed his unloaded revolver full in the man's face and, while hestaggered with the shock, a soldier from behind shot him through theheart. Trent saw him go staggering backwards and then himself sank down,giddy with the blow he had received. Afterwards he knew that he musthave fainted, for when he opened his eyes the sun was up and the menwere strolling about looking at the dead savages who lay thick in thegrass. Trent sat up and called for water.
"Any one hurt?" he asked the boy who brought him some. The boy grinned,but shook his head.
"Plenty savages killed," he said, "no white man or Kru boy."
"Where's Mr. Davenant," Trent asked suddenly.
The boy looked round and shook his head.
"No seen Mr. Dav'nant," he said. "Him fight well though! Him not hurt!"
Trent stood up with a sickening fear at his heart. He knew very wellthat if the boy was about and unhurt he would have been at his side. Upand down the camp he strode in vain. At last one of the Kru boys thoughthe remembered seeing a great savage bounding away with some one on hisback. He had thought that it was one of their wounded--it might havebeen the boy. Trent, with a sickening sense of horror, realised thetruth. The boy had been taken prisoner.
Even then he preserved his self-control to a marvellous degree. First ofall he gave directions for the day's work--then he called for volunteersto accompany him to the village. There was no great enthusiasm. To fightin trenches against a foe who had no cover nor any firearms was rathera different thing from bearding them in their own lair. Nevertheless,about twenty men came forward, including a guide, and Trent wassatisfied.
They started directly after breakfast and for five hours fought theirway through dense undergrowth and shrubs with never a sign of a path,though here and there were footsteps and broken boughs. By noon some ofthe party were exhausted and lagged behind, an hour later a long line ofexhausted stragglers were following Trent and the native guide. Yet toall their petitions for a rest Trent was adamant. Every minute's delaymight lessen the chance of saving the boy, even now they might havebegun their horrible tortures. The thought inspired him with freshvigour. He plunged on with long, reckless strides which soon placed awidening gap between him and the rest of the party.
By degrees he began to recollect his whereabouts. The way grew lessdifficult--occasionally there were signs of a path. Every moment thesoft, damp heat grew more intense and clammy. Every time he touchedhis forehead he found it dripping. But of these things he recked verylittle, for every step now brought him nearer to the end of his journey.Faintly, through the midday silence he could hear the clanging of copperinstruments and the weird mourning cry of the defeated natives. A fewmore steps and he was almost within sight of them. He slackened hispace and approached more stealthily until only a little screen of bushesseparated him from the village and, peering through them, he saw a sightwhich made his blood run cold within him.
They had the boy! He was there, in that fantastic circle bound hand andfoot, but so far as he could see, at present unhurt. His face was turnedto Trent, white and a little scared, but his lips were close-set and heuttered no sound. By his side stood a man with a native knife dancingaround and singing--all through the place were sounds of wailing andlamentation, and in front of his hut the King was lying, with an emptybottle by his side, drunk and motionless. Trent's anger grew fierceras he watched. Was this a people to stand in his way, to claim theprotection and sympathy of foreign governments against their ownbond, that they might keep their land for misuse and their bodies fordebauchery? He looked backwards and listened. As yet there was no signof any of his followers and there was no telling how long these anticswere to continue. Trent looked to his revolver and set his teeth. Theremust be no risk of evil happening to the boy. He walked boldly out intothe little space and called to them in a loud voice.
There was a wild chorus of fear. The women fled to the huts--the men ranlike rats to shelter. But the executioner of Bekwando, who was a fetishman and holy, stood his ground and pointed his knife at Trent. Twoothers, seeing him firm, also remained. The moment was critical.
"Cut those bonds!" Trent ordered, pointing to the boy.
The fetish man waved his hands and drew a step nearer to Trent, hisknife outstretched. The other two backed him up. Already a spear wascouched.
Trent's revolver flashed out in the sunlight.
"Cut that cord!" he ordered again.
The fetish man poised his knife. Trent hesitated no longer, but shot himdeliberately through the heart. He jumped into the air and fell forwardupon his face with a death-cry which seemed to find an echo from everyhut and from behind every tree of Bekwando. It was like the knell oftheir last hope, for had he not told them that he was fetish, that hisbody was proof against those wicked fires and that if the white mencame, he himself would slay them! And now he was dead! The last barrierof their superstitious hope was broken down. Even the drunken King satup and made strange noises.
Trent stooped down and, picking up the knife, cut the bonds which hadbound the boy. He staggered up to his feet with a weak, little laugh.
"I knew you'd find me," he said. "Did I look awfully frightened?"
Trent patted him on the shoulder. "If I hadn't been in time," he said,"I'd have shot every man here and burned their huts over theirheads. Pick up the knife, old chap, quick. I think those fellows meanmischief."
The two warriors who had stood by the priest were approaching, but whenthey came within a few yards of Trent's revolver they dropped on theirknees. It was their token of submission. Trent nodded, and a momentafterwards the reason for their non-resistance was made evident. Theremainder of the expedition came filing into the little enclosure.
Trent lit a cigar and sat down on a block of wood to consider whatfurther was best to be done. In the meantime the natives were bringingyams to the white men with timid gestures. After a brief rest Trentcalled them to follow him. He walked across to the dwelling of thefetish man and tore down the curtain of dried grass which hung beforethe opening. Even then it was so dark inside that they had to light atorch before they could see the walls, and the stench was horrible.
A little chorus of murmurs escaped the lips of the Europeans as theinterior became revealed to them. Opposite the door was a life-sizeand hideous effigy of a grinning god, made of wood and painted in many
colours. By its side were other more horrible images and a row of humanskulls hung from the roof. The hand of a white man, blackened with age,was stuck to the wall by a spear-head, the stench and filth of the wholeplace were pestilential. Yet outside a number of women and several ofthe men were on their knees hoping still against hope for aid fromtheir ancient gods. There was a cry of horror when Trent unceremoniouslykicked over the nearest idol--a yell of panic when the boy, with a gleamof mischief in his eyes, threw out amongst them a worm-eaten, hideouseffigy and with a hearty kick stove in its hollow side. It lay therebald and ugly in the streaming sunshine, a block of misshapen woodill-painted in flaring daubs, the thing which they had worshipped ingloom and secret, they and a generation before them--all the mystery ofits shrouded existence, the terrible fetish words of the dead priest,the reverence which an all-powerful and inherited superstition had keptalive within them, came into their minds as they stood there trembling,and then fled away to be out of the reach of the empty, staringeyes--out of reach of the vengeance which must surely fall from theskies upon these white savages. So they watched, the women beating theirbosoms and uttering strange cries, the men stolid but scared. Trent andthe boy came out coughing, and half-stupefied with the rank odour, and alittle murmur went up from them. It was a device of the gods--a sort ofmadness with which they were afflicted. But soon their murmurs turnedagain into lamentation when they saw what was to come. Men were runningbackwards and forwards, piling up dried wood and branches against theidol-house, a single spark and the thing was done. A tongue of flameleaped up, a thick column of smoke stole straight up in the breathlessair. Amazed, the people stood and saw the home of dreadful mystery,whence came the sentence of life and death, the voice of the King-maker,the omens of war and fortune, enveloped in flames, already a ruined andshapeless mass. Trent stood and watched it, smoking fiercely and felthimself a civiliser. But the boy seemed to feel some of the pathosof the moment and he looked curiously at the little crowd of wailingnatives.
"And the people?" he asked.
"They are going to help me make my road," Trent said firmly. "I am goingto teach them to work!"