Chapter Thirty.
Concerning a Terror.
A dark, comparatively cool, and restful retreat—a blaze of outside sunshine glimpsed through the aperture of a low doorway. A sense of awaking to yet another phase of passage through the shades; of a weird kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria which represents a wholly or partially suspended consciousness of days or even weeks; of the stirred, uneasy rest of supposed death—such were the first gropings of the mind of him who lay there.
Where was he? A recollection of the battered hulk, heaving to the oily swell; of hunger and thirst—especially thirst; of a furious sun pouring its rays down upon him in molten streams; of a fierce, maddening desire for shade—almost equal to that for cool, liquid drink; for blessed shade, to shut out, if even for one moment, that awful blinding glare—these were the recollections that came upon his mind with the first glimmerings of returning consciousness.
Others followed—a sense of movement, of being borne helplessly onward, through mysterious tracts, to the accompaniment of strange, mysterious voices, and glimpses of weird, dark shapes. Then oblivion—again to be followed by fitful awakenings—but ever to sink again into the same lethargy, the same utter indifference to all things that ever had been, that ever would be—in short, to life itself. And now—and now—Where was he?
He stared upward. A large cockroach dropped from the palmetto ceiling, and scurried away, almost over his face; but he heeded it not. He stared around. The circular wall of the place was uneven and rough. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, or rather the gloom, he made out that it was the interior of a large hut constructed of grass and withes. Two poles supported the centre, and on these were hung sundry implements of fantastic make and appearance—such as he had seen in museums and private collections representing barbaric trophies of far-off lands. A hum of voices—utterly unintelligible—came from without; and there was that in the very tones which savoured of the scarcely human—at any rate to one whose lines had been cast hitherto exclusively within those of civilisation.
He tried to rise, tottered, and then fell back. He was very weak, far too weak to rise unaided. Things grew dizzy around him. Then the sun strip which cut the gloom was darkened. Somebody had entered; and then he became aware of the presence of two beings—black, and of ferocious aspect, with wool standing out from their heads in stiff, rolled-out spikes, and the white of their eyeballs glistened when the ray of light coming in through the low doorway fell upon it. They bent over him; and having peered into his face for a moment one of them raised his head with no gentle touch, while the other put a calabash to his lips and poured its contents into his mouth. This at any rate was not an unacceptable operation. The stuff was cool, and had a combination of sweet and acid taste. What it was he had no notion, but he drank gratefully.
“That’s good,” he ejaculated faintly.
For answer they uttered a clucking sound, and grinned; but the grin was not a genial one—it was hideous, ghastly, showing rows of filed teeth. It reminded him of the shark which had risen to seize him, and had seized the deck-chair instead. As they stood over him, watching him, he took them in—their appearance, their demeanour, their stature. The latter was tall and muscular. For the rest, they looked a pair of about the most ferocious and bloodthirsty savages the imagination could by any possibility conjure up. And yet—they had just been engaged in a distinct work of mercy.
Wagram’s brain power began to return. How he had got off—or been got off—the derelict he had not the faintest conception; but obviously he had, since here he was. Then came back to him the captain’s pronouncement as to what would happen to anybody unfortunate enough to be stranded on the coast they were then off. “We’d very likely be eaten,” had been the dictum. So this “work of mercy” was, in reality, nothing of the sort. It was equivalent to that of doctoring an ailing ox or sheep. He was being brought back into fitting condition for butchery. He was to supply the material for a cannibal feast. And these two ruffians looked the part—every inch.
They had squatted down on the floor, and were watching him, keeping up the while a subdued conversation in a kind of guttural hum. One carried a formidable-looking native axe, and both had big, broad-bladed knives, with a curious crook inward, on the edge side, towards the point. The demoniacal aspect of the pair—the hungry expression of their revolting countenances, as they sat like a pair of evil beasts watching their expected prey—was too much for Wagram’s nerves, all defenceless as he was, and absolutely in their power. He tried asking them questions, but, of course, they did not understand one word he said. They did not even shake their heads, but sat staring at him as before. So he gave it up, and made signs that he wanted to go to sleep. This seemed intelligible, and they rose, and with an evil, snarling chuckle left the place.
This was a relief at any rate. Where was he? speculated the castaway. Where was he, and how far from the sea-coast? What would be his fate—alone, unarmed, helpless, in the power of such as these? Even if he were not to be butchered immediately—all sorts of visions rose before his mind, of lifelong slavery in the interior, or figuring prominently in some ghastly and hideous human sacrifice on a gigantic scale. Heaven help him! And then Heaven did help him to this extent. Whether due to the effects of the potion that had been administered to him, or to the weakness following upon all that he had gone through, a lassitude came over him, and, forgetful of surroundings—of present or future peril—he fell fast asleep.
While he slept, in another part of the native town things were happening. The two who had entered the hut were haranguing others of their kind—all of similarly hideous aspect; but, on the other hand, it might have been observed that this race, whatever it was, Nature had exceptionally favoured in thews and stature. Low howls, and beast-like, of savage delight greeted the words, echoed more shrilly by women hanging on to the outskirts of the gathering. These began to produce knives and examine the edges; then the whole rout moved with one consent towards a hut rather larger and more important-looking than the rest on the outskirts of the town. Into this one of the number entered—one of the two, it may be remarked, who had just come away from “tending” Wagram on his awaking to consciousness.
But if he entered he could not have remained there long, and his method of egress must have been artificially hastened, for in a moment he shot forth again, half stumbling, half running. Behind him, beneath the low verandah, now appeared another man.
From this man’s lips there rolled forth thick and fast a very torrent of imprecation, and that in about six of the different dialects understood in those parts. Anyhow, it was intelligible to these, for they shrank back for the moment quiet and abashed. And, in truth, this was not without justification, for there was something in the man’s aspect that was absolutely terrific as he stood there confronting the savage mob with the aspect of a slave-master, whip in hand, standing over a mob of cowering slaves. Yet these were not cowering, far from it. He was very tall and athletic. His face, strong and hawk-like, half covered by a heavy beard, was working with passion; but it was in his eyes, bright and piercing beneath the shaggy brows, that the charm seemed to lie. They were absolutely snake-like in their flash of demoniacal cruelty—eyes of one who delighted to look upon all that against which human nature revolts; eyes that, when moved to wrath, blasted; eyes of a very fiend, in short. Yet among those who crowded before him were eyes every whit as cruel, among those before him were frames every whit as sinewy and athletic—and all these were armed, and he to all appearance was not. But—he was a white man.
They stood sullenly while he invoked every mysterious and terrible imprecation of sorcery upon themselves and their fathers and mothers, upon their children unto the third and fourth generations—dooming them to awful and mysterious forms of dissolution for daring to invade his privacy and disturb his rest. They waited through it all; for quite a new and unwonted form of hideous enjoyment lay now before them. Then their clamour broke forth afresh.
This white stranger they had taken from the water, whom they had borne carefully over this weary distance in order to bring to life again. He was alive again, and could see and hear and talk. Him now they must have. The feast to which they had been looking forward must now begin.
And the ghastly proposal was confirmed with a roar, whose vibrating savagery was sufficient to have appalled the most iron-nerved who should set himself to withstand this clamouring of fiends.
This one, however, must have been iron-nerved beyond the ordinary, for he did set himself to withstand it and that deliberately. He laughed—an evil, sneering, yet wholly mirthful laugh. What? Did they not know him yet, to think that they were in a position to come and lay commands upon him? Upon him? The stranger was not to be touched—for the present; no, not until he should give the word—and death should fall upon whoever laid a hand upon him; yes, and upon the whole town for that matter.
They hesitated. Perhaps the qualification “for the present” may have had something to do with determining their attitude. It was only a joy postponed, then. But their awful appetites had been whetted, and needed some appeasing. A murmur—soon growing to a shout—arose among the group. Atonement ought to be made for the feast they were not to have. He who refused it to them had plenty of slaves; he would give them one of them. And then they named one of his favourite female slaves.
He, for answer, looked at them, and laughed again—the same sneering, contemptuous laugh. Then he called aloud a name.
In a moment there came hurrying round from the back of the palisades a woman—a young woman, tall and finely formed, with rather a pleasing countenance, and lighter in colour than those here. She stood in an attitude of obeisance. Then the man—the white man—said:
“Take her.”
A howl went up; ferocious, beast-like, as the howl of a pack of wolves. The crowd surged forward, and a score of hands were laid upon the wretched creature. She struggled and screamed at sight of the fiend-like faces and brandished knives, wailing forth despairing entreaties to her master, who, not one whit less fiend-like than these black barbarians, looked stolidly on, finally repeating “Take her.” Then he turned and re-entered the hut, to fling himself down and resume in a moment his disturbed sleep.
The sun was dipping lower and lower, flooding the tree tops with his hot, steamy, but golden light. One wretched victim would behold it no more—one more wretched victim whom human-shaped demons were dragging off to the accustomed shambles to furnish them with one more awful, indescribable feast.