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

that it was

like a woodstack. The skin upon their hands and faces was scratched

repeatedly by thorns. They were followed by a cloud of insects. They

were unable to see the sky above them by reason of the branches of the

trees, which, high above the undergrowth through which they passed,

formed a vast barrier to the sunlight. And yet it was not dark. There

was a kind of half-light which it is difficult to describe, and which

seemed to emanate from nowhere. Nothing in particular, yet everything

in general, appeared to be in the shade.

 

On a sudden Crouch stopped dead.

 

"He’s not far from here," he said. "Look there!"

 

Max’s eyes followed Crouch’s finger. He saw a place where the long

grass was all crushed and broken as if some animal had been lying down,

and in two places there were pools of blood.

 

Crouch raised both arms. "Open out," said he. "Be ready to fire if he

springs. He’ll probably warn you with a growl."

 

This information was for the benefit of Max. To tell Edward Harden such

things would be like giving minute instructions to a fish concerning the

rudiments of swimming.

 

Max, obeying Crouch’s orders, broke into the jungle on the left, whereas

Edward moved to the right. Keeping abreast of one another, they moved

forward for a distance of about two hundred yards. This time it was

Harden who ordered the party to halt. They heard his quiet voice in the

midst of the thickets: "Crouch, come here; I want you."

 

A moment later Max joined his two friends. He found them standing side

by side: Edward, with eyes turned upward like one who listens, and

Crouch with an ear to the ground. Harden, by placing a finger upon his

lips, signed to his nephew to be silent. Max also strained his ears to

catch the slight sound in the jungle which had aroused the suspicion of

these experienced hunters.

 

After a while he heard a faint snap, followed by another, and then a

third. Then there was a twanging sound, very soft, like the noise of a

fiddle-string when thrummed by a finger. It was followed almost

immediately by a shriek, as terrible and unearthly as anything that Max

had ever heard. It was the dying scream of a wounded beast--one of the

great tribe of cats.

 

Crouch got to his feet.

 

"Fans," said he. "What’s more, they’ve got my leopard."

 

He made the remark in the same manner as a Londoner might point out a

Putney ’bus; yet, at that time, the Fans were one of the most warlike of

the cannibal tribes of Central Africa. They were reputed to be

extremely hostile to Europeans, and that was about all that was known

concerning them.

 

Edward Harden was fully as calm as his friend.

 

"We can’t get back," said he. "It’s either a palaver, or a fight."

 

"Come, then," said Crouch. "Let’s see which it is."

 

At that he led the way, making better progress than before, since he no

longer regarded the spoor of the wounded leopard.

 

Presently they came to a place where the jungle ceased abruptly. This

was the edge of a swamp--a circular patch, about two hundred yards

across, where nothing grew but a species of slender reed. Though Max

had not known it, this was the very place for which the other two were

looking. Backwoodsmen though they were, they had no desire to face a

hostile tribe in jungle so dense that it would scarcely be possible to

lift a rifle to the present.

 

The reeds grew in tufts capable of bearing the weight of a heavy man;

but, in between, was a black, glutinous mud.

 

"If you fall into that," said Crouch, who still led the way, "you’ll

stick like glue, and you’ll be eaten alive by leeches."

 

In the centre of the swamp the ground rose into a hillock, and here it

was possible for them to stand side by side. They waited for several

moments in absolute silence. And then a dark figure burst through the

jungle, and a second later fell flat upon the ground.

 

"I was right," said Crouch. "That man was a Fan. We’ll find out in a

moment whether they mean to fight. I hope to goodness they don’t find

the canoes."

 

In the course of the next few minutes it became evident, even to Max,

that they were surrounded. On all sides the branches and leaves of the

undergrowth on the edge of the swamp were seen to move, and here and

there the naked figure of a savage showed between the trees.

 

The Fans are still one of the dominant races of Central Africa. About

the middle of the last century the tribe swept south-west from the

equatorial regions, destroying the villages and massacring the people of

the more peaceful tribes towards the coast. The Fans have been proved

to possess higher intelligence than the majority of the Central African

races. Despite their pugnacious character, and the practice of

cannibalism which is almost universal among them, they have been

described as being bright, active and energetic Africans, including

magnificent specimens of the human race. At this time, however, little

was known concerning them, and that little, for the most part, was

confined to Captain Crouch, who, on a previous occasion, had penetrated

into the Hinterland of the Gabun.

 

Edward Harden and his friends were not left long in doubt as to whether

or not the Fans intended to be hostile, for presently a large party of

men advanced upon them from all sides at once. For the most part these

warriors were armed with great shields and long spears, though a few

carried bows and arrows. The Fan spear is a thing by itself. The head

is attached but lightly to the shaft, so that when the warrior plunges

his weapon into his victims, the spear-head remains in the wound.

 

Captain Crouch handed his rifle to Edward, and then stepped forward

across the marsh to meet these would-be enemies. He was fully alive to

their danger. He knew that with their firearms they could keep the

savages at bay for some time, but in the end their ammunition would run

out. He thought there was still a chance that the matter might be

settled in an amicable manner.

 

"Palaver," said he, speaking in the language of the Fans. "Friends.

Trade-palaver Good."

 

The only answer he got was an arrow that shot past his ear, and

disappeared in the mud He threw back his head and laughed.

 

"No good," he cried. "Trade-palaver friends."

 

A tall, thin savage, about six feet in height, approached by leaps and

bounds, springing like an antelope from one tuft of grass to another.

His black face, with white, gleaming teeth, looked over the top of a

large, oval shield. With a final spring, he landed on dry ground a few

feet from where Crouch was standing. Then he raised his spear on high;

but, before he had time to strike, Crouch’s fist rang out upon his chin

like a pistol-shot, and he went over backwards into the mud.

There was a strange, sucking noise as the marsh swallowed him to the

chin. For some moments he floundered hopelessly, his two hands grasping

in the air. He laid hold of tufts of grass, and pulled them up by the

roots. Then Crouch bent down, gripped both his hands, and with a great

effort dragged him on to terra firma.

 

His black skin was plastered with a blacker mud, and on almost every

inch of his body, from his neck to his feet, a large water-leech was

glued like an enormous slug. The man was already weak from loss of

blood. Had he remained in the marsh a minute longer, there is no doubt

he would have fainted. Crouch took a knife from his pocket, and,

talking all the time, as a nursemaid talks to a naughty child, one by

one he tore the leeches from the man’s body, and threw them back into

the marsh.

 

The others, who had drawn closer, remained at a safe distance. It seems

they were undecided how to act, since this man was their leader, and

they were accustomed to receive their orders from him. It is impossible

to say what would have happened, had not Crouch taken charge of the

situation. He asked the man where his village was, and the fellow

pointed to the east.

 

"Yonder," said he; "in the hills."

 

"Lead on," said Crouch. "We’re coming home with you, for a cup of tea

and a talk."

 

For a moment the man was too stupefied to answer. He had never expected

this kind of reception from an individual who could have walked under

his outstretched arm. What surprised him most of all was Crouch’s

absolute self-confidence. The Negro and Bantu races are all alike in

this: they are extraordinarily simple-minded and impressionable. The

Fan chieftain looked at Crouch, and then dropped his eyes. When he

lifted them, a broad grin had extended across his face.

 

"Good," said he. "My village. Palaver. You come."

 

Crouch turned and winked at Max, and then followed the chief towards the

jungle.

 

 

THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER III--THE WHITE WIZARD

 

When both parties were gathered together on the edge of the marsh, Max

felt strangely uncomfortable. Both Crouch and Edward seemed thoroughly

at home, and the former was talking to the chief as if he had found an

old friend whom he had not seen for several years. Putting aside the

strangeness of his surroundings, Max was not able to rid his mind of the

thought that these men were cannibals. He looked at them in disgust.

There was nothing in particular to distinguish them from the other races

he had seen upon the coast, except, perhaps, they were of finer physique

and had better foreheads. It was the idea which was revolting. In the

country of the Fans there are no slaves, no prisoners, and no

cemeteries; a fact which speaks for itself.

 

Crouch and the chief, whose name was M’Wané, led the way through the

jungle. They came presently to the body of the wounded leopard, which

lay with an arrow in its heart. It was the "twang" of the bowstring

that Max had heard in the jungle. And now took place an incident that

argued well for the future.

 

M’Wané protested that the leopard belonged to Crouch, since the

Englishman had drawn first blood. This was the law of his tribe.

Crouch, on the other hand, maintained that the law of his tribe was that

the game was the property of the killer. The chief wanted the

leopard-skin, and it required little persuasion to make him accept it,

which he was clearly delighted to do.

 

Crouch skinned the leopard himself, and presented the skin to M’Wané.

And then the whole party set forth again, and soon came to a track along

which progress was easy.

 

It was approaching nightfall when they reached the extremity of the

forest, and came upon a great range of hills which, standing clear of

the mist that hung in the river valley, caught the full glory of the

setting sun. Upon the upper slopes of the hills was a village of two

rows of huts, and at each end of the streets thus formed was a

guard-house, where a sentry stood on duty. M’Wané’s hut was larger than

the others, and it was into this that the Europeans were conducted. In

the centre of the floor was a fire, and hanging from several places in

the roof were long sticks with hooks on them, the hooks having been made

by cutting off branching twigs. From these hooks depended the scant

articles of the chief’s wardrobe and several fetish charms.

 

For two hours Crouch and the chief talked, and it was during that

conversation that there came to light the most extraordinary episode of

which we have to tell. From that moment, and for many weeks afterwards,

it was a mystery that they were wholly unable to solve. Both Crouch and

Harden knew the savage nature too well to believe that M’Wané lied.

Though his story was vague, and overshadowed by the superstitions that

darken the minds of the fetish worshippers,