The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo - Charles Gibson (short novels in english .TXT) 📗

cut short

like a tooth-brush, and a tuft of hair beneath his nether lip. His

eyebrows were exceedingly dark, and met on the bridge of his nose. His

skin was the colour of parchment, and wrinkled and creased in all

directions. He had a large hook nose, and a chin of excessive

prominence. Though he appeared entirely bloodless, there was something

about him that suggested extreme vital energy--the kind of vitality

which may be observed in a rat. He was an aggressive-looking man.

Though he walked with a pronounced limp, he was quick in all his

movements. His mouth was closed fast upon a pipe in which he smoked a

kind of black tobacco which is called Bull’s Eye Shag, one whiff of

which would fumigate a greenhouse, killing every insect therein from an

aphis to a spider. He reeked of this as a soap-factory smells of fat.

In no other club in London would its consumption have been allowed; but

the Explorers were accustomed to greater hardships than even the smell

of Bull’s Eye Shag.

 

"Well, Ted," said Crouch, "what’s this?"

 

One eye, big and staring, was directed out of the window; the other,

small, black and piercing, turned inwards upon Max in the most appalling

squint.

 

"This is my nephew," said Harden; "Max Harden--Captain Crouch, my

greatest friend."

 

Max held out a hand, but Crouch appeared not to notice it. He turned to

Edward.

 

"What’s the matter with him?" he asked.

 

"He’s suffering from a complaint which, I fancy, both you and I

contracted in our younger days--a desire to investigate the Unknown. In

a word, Crouch, he wants to come with us."

 

Crouch whipped round upon Max.

 

"You’re too young for the Coast," said he. "You’ll go out the moment

you get there like a night-light."

 

"I’m ready to take my chance," said Max.

 

Crouch looked pleased at that, for his only eye twinkled and seemed to

grow smaller.

 

Max was anxious to take advantage of the little ground he might have

gained. "Also," he added, "I am a medical man--at least, I’m a medical

student. I am making a special study of tropical diseases."

 

And no sooner were the words from his lips than he saw he had made a

fatal mistake, for Captain Crouch brought down his fist so violently

upon one of the little smokers’ tables with which the room was

scattered, that the three legs broke off, and the whole concern

collapsed upon the floor.

 

"Do you think we want a medical adviser!" he roared. "Study till you’re

black in the face, till you’re eighty years old, and you won’t know a

tenth of what I know. What’s the use of all your science? I’ve lived

on the Coast for thirty years, and I tell you this: there are only two

things that matter where fever is concerned--pills and funk. Waiter,

take that table away, and burn it."

 

It is probable that at this juncture Max’s hopes had been dashed to

earth had it not been for his uncle, who now put in a word.

 

"Tell you what, Crouch," said he, in the quiet voice which, for some

reason or other, all big men possess; "the boy might be useful, after

all. He’s a good shot. He’s made of the right stuff--I’ve known him

since he was a baby. He’s going out there anyhow, so he may as well

come with us."

 

"Why, of course he may," said Crouch. "I’m sure we’ll be delighted to

have him."

 

Such a sudden change of front was one of the most remarkable

characteristics of this extraordinary man. Often, in the breath of a

single sentence, he would appear to change his mind. But this was not

the case. He had a habit of thinking aloud, and of expressing his

thoughts in the most vehement manner imaginable. Indeed, if his

character can be summed up in any one word, it would be this one word

"vehemence." He talked loudly, he gesticulated violently, he smashed

the furniture, and invariably knocked his pipe out in such a frantic

manner that he broke the stem. And yet Edward Harden---who knew him

better than any one else in the world--always protested that he had

never known Crouch to lose his temper. This was just the ordinary

manner in which he lived, breathed and had his being.

 

"I’m sure," said Captain Crouch, "we will be delighted to take you with

Ted, what are you going to do this afternoon?"

 

"I am going to get some exercise--a turn in the Park."

 

"I’ll come with you," said Crouch.

 

So saying, he stumped off to fetch his cap which he had left in the

inner room. No sooner was he gone than Max turned to his uncle.

 

"Uncle Ted," said he, "I can’t thank you sufficiently."

 

The big man laid a hand upon the young one’s shoulder.

 

"That’s nothing," said he. "But I must tell you this: if you are coming

with us to the Kasai, you must drop the ’uncle.’ Your father was

considerably older than I was--fifteen years. You had better call me by

my Christian name--Edward. ’Ted’s’ a trifle too familiar."

 

By then they were joined by Crouch, who carried a large knotted stick in

one hand, and in the other--a paper bag.

 

"What have you got there?" asked Harden, pointing to the bag.

 

"Sweets," said Crouch. "For the children in the Park."

 

And so it came about that they three left the Explorers’ Club together,

Max in the middle, with his gigantic uncle on one hand, and the little

wizened sea-captain on the other.

 

They created no small amount of interest and amazement in Bond Street,

but they were blissfully ignorant of the fact. The world of these men

was not the world of the little parish of St. James’s. One was little

more than a boy, whose mind was filled with dreams; but the others were

men who had seen the stars from places where no human being had ever

beheld them before, who had been the first to set foot in unknown lands,

who had broken into the heart of savagery and darkness. Theirs was a

world of danger, hardship and adventure. They had less respect for the

opinion of those who passed them by than for the wild beasts that prowl

by night around an African encampment. After all, the world is made up

of two kinds of men: those who think and those who act; and who can say

which is the greater of the two?

 

 

 

THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER II--ON THE KASAI

A mist lay upon the river like a cloud of steam. The sun was invisible,

except for a bright concave dome, immediately overhead, which showed

like the reflection of a furnace in the midst of the all-pervading

greyness of the heavens. The heat was intense--the heat of the

vapour-room of a Turkish bath. Myriads of insects droned upon the

surface of the water.

 

The river had still a thousand miles to cover before it reached the

ocean--the blazing, surf-beaten coast-line to the north of St. Paul de

Loanda. Its turgid, coffee-coloured waters rushed northward through a

land of mystery and darkness, lapping the banks amid black mangrove

swamps and at the feet of gigantic trees whose branches were tangled in

confusion.

 

In pools where the river widened, schools of hippopotami lay like great

logs upon the surface, and here and there a crocodile basked upon a

mud-bank, motionless by the hour, like some weird, bronze image that had

not the power to move. In one place a two-horned rhinoceros burst

through the jungle, and with a snort thrust its head above the current

of the stream.

 

This was the Unknown. This was the World as it Had Been, before man was

on the earth. These animals are the relics that bind us to the Past, to

the cave-men and the old primordial days. There was a silence on the

river that seemed somehow overpowering, rising superior to the ceaseless

droning of the insects and the soft gurgling of the water, which formed

little shifting eddies in the lee of fallen trees.

 

A long canoe shot through the water like some great, questing beast.

Therein were twelve natives from Loango, all but naked as they came into

the world. Their paddles flashed in the reflected light of the furnace

overhead; for all that, the canoe came forward without noise except for

the gentle rippling sound of the water under the bows. In the stern

were seated two men side by side, and one of these was Edward Harden,

and the other his nephew Max. In the body of the canoe was a great

number of "loads": camp equipment, provisions, ammunition and cheap

Manchester goods, such as are used by the traders to barter for ivory

and rubber with the native chiefs. Each "load" was the maximum weight

that could be carried by a porter, should the party find it necessary to

leave the course of the river.

 

In the bows, perched like an eagle above his eyrie, was Captain Crouch.

His solitary eye darted from bank to bank. In his thin nervous hands he

held a rifle, ready on the instant to bring the butt into the hollow of

his shoulder.

 

As the canoe rounded each bend of the river, the crocodiles glided from

the mud-banks and the hippopotami sank silently under the stream. Here

and there two nostrils remained upon the surface--small, round, black

objects, only discernible by the ripples which they caused.

 

Suddenly a shot rang out, sharp as the crack of a whip. The report

echoed, again and again, in the dark, inhospitable forest that extended

on either bank. There was a rush of birds that rose upon the wing; the

natives shipped their paddles, and, on the left bank of the river, the

two-horned rhinoceros sat bolt upright on its hind-legs like a sow, with

its fore-legs wide apart. Then, slowly, it rolled over and sank deep

into the mud. By then Crouch had reloaded.

 

"What was it?" asked Harden.

 

"A rhino," said Crouch. "We were too far off for him to see us, and the

wind was the right way."

 

A moment later the canoe drew into the bank a little distance from where

the great beast lay. Harden and Crouch waded into the mire, knives in

hand; and that rhino was skinned with an ease and rapidity which can

only be accomplished by the practised hunter. The meat was cut into

large slices, which were distributed as rations to the natives. Of the

rest, only the head was retained, and this was put into a second canoe,

which soon after came into sight.

 

After that they continued their journey up the wide, mysterious river.

All day long the paddles were never still, the rippling sound continued

at the bows. Crouch remained motionless as a statue, rifle in hand,

ready to fire at a moment’s notice. With his dark, overhanging brow,

his hook nose, and his thin, straight lips, he bore a striking

resemblance to some gaunt bird of prey.

 

A second shot sounded as suddenly and unexpectedly as the first, and a

moment after Crouch was on his feet.

 

"A leopard!" he cried. "I hit him. He’s wounded. Run her into the

bank."

 

The canoe shot under a large tree, one branch of which overhung the

water so low that they were able to seize it. Edward Harden was ashore

in a moment, followed by his nephew. Crouch swung himself ashore by

means of the overhanging bough. Harden’s eyes were fixed upon the

ground. It was a place where animals came to drink, for the soft mud

had been trampled and churned by the feet of many beasts.

 

"There!" cried Harden. "Blood!"

 

Sure enough, upon the green leaf of some strange water plant there was a

single drop of blood. Though the big game hunter had spoken in an

excited manner, he had never raised his voice.

 

It was Crouch who took up the spoor, and followed it from leaf to leaf.

Whenever he failed to pick it up, Harden put him right. Max was as a

baby in such matters, and it was often that he failed to recognize the

spoor, even when it was pointed out to him.

 

They had to break their way through undergrowth so thick