Volume Three—Chapter Nine.
Another Escape.
“The Inche Maida need have someone to drill and discipline her men,” whispered Chumbley to his companion, as, after walking up and down for a few minutes, they saw the two Malays, whose duty it evidently was to guard their prison, light their pipes and then stroll away, their course being for a time indistinctly made out by the faint glow of one of the bowls.
Mutually regretting that they had not made an attempt to escape sooner, since they were finding the task so easy, Hilton led the way, going cautiously step by step upon their blind quest of a path which should lead them to the river.
That such a path would exist they felt pretty sure, the river being the great highway of the land; and paths were so few, that they were pretty certain of its being the right one if they should hit upon a track.
In spite of their efforts, though, first one and then the other leading, no path was found; and at last, in utter despair, after being driven back again and again by the density of the jungle, they were compelled to sit down amongst the bushes edging the forest to wait for day.
It was a grievous disappointment after escaping from the house and evading the guards. They had hoped to be miles away towards the river before daybreak, whereas now the chances were that they would hardly place to their credit a hundred paces even if they avoided the guards.
Day seemed as if it would never come, and yet so persevering had been their efforts that the first streaks of dawn began to appear in less than an hour after they had seated themselves in what proved to be a very fair hiding-place; and almost as they made their first step to reconnoitre, there was a flash of orange and gold in the sky.
Chumbley pressed his companion’s hand, pointing as he did so to what was evidently the pathway they had sought for; and after a glance round they were about to step out into the open, and then run as quickly as they could into the shelter, pushing rapidly on to make the best of their way into the depths of the jungle.
Hilton gave his companion a glance, and they were about to start off when a couple of spear-armed Malays took up their position on one side of the Inche Maida’s house, a couple more starting up from beneath a tree where they had been sleeping, and so near that the officers must have nearly trodden upon them as they passed.
Had the two young men not sunk down in their hiding-place they must have been seen, and it was evident now that the Inche Maida’s followers watched a part of the night, after which they lay down to sleep, and rose again at daybreak to continue their guard.
Regrets were unavailing, and it was as useless to wish themselves back in their comfortable prison, there to rest till night, when they could have easily got away with the knowledge they possessed.
Hilton uttered a weary sigh as he lay there trying to devise some means of escape; and meanwhile the sun rose higher, lighting up the dark places beyond where they lay, and showing them more and more that the slightest movement meant being seen and offering themselves as marks to the Malays’ spears.
They exchanged glances and lay perfectly still, with one of the Malays coming to and fro past them as he kept guard, and so near, that had he looked in their direction at the right moment, he must have seen them.
A couple of hours had passed away when the outcry that the fugitives had been expecting arose, the Inche Maida herself giving the alarm and furiously bidding her people to join pursuit.
Quite twenty well-armed men darted off through the opening into the jungle, the Princess following them at the end of a few minutes with half a dozen more of her followers, leaving the palm and bamboo edifice apparently deserted, and the way free.
“Now is our time, Chum!” whispered Hilton, and cautiously rising, they began to look for another path—one that would lead them to the water by a different route.
They ran round the house twice, and then gazed at each other in despair.
There was but one path, which led right to the opening in which the house was built. All around was impassable jungle; and the only way to escape was to follow the Inche Maida and her men.
The place was a regular trap, and could have been defended by a few resolute fellows against hundreds if there was an attack.
“What’s to be done, Chum?” said Hilton.
“Go in and hide somewhere, and wait till night.”
“With those women to tell the Princess where we have hidden ourselves!” said Hilton, angrily, pointing to a group of half a dozen women standing in the doorway and watching their movements.
Chumbley made a few steps as if to go to them, when they scuttled off like so many rabbits in an English warren; and there were but two courses open to them—either to follow their would-be pursuers, or to calmly go back and wait for the Inche Maida’s return.
“It will be taking trouble for nothing to go after them,” said Chumbley, wearily. “Let’s go back to our room and order the women to bring us some breakfast.”
“What? And give up without making an effort?” cried Hilton. “I’d sooner die!”
“I wouldn’t. But all right,” said Chumbley. “I’m with you; but we may as well be armed.”
He ran into the house, and as he expected, had no difficulty in finding a couple of krisses and spears, one of each of which he handed to his friend; and then they struck boldly into the jungle, following the path taken by their enemies hour after hour; and, though momentarily expecting to hear them returning, continuing their course in the most uninterrupted way.
It was always the same; a dense wall of verdure to right and left; tall trees shutting out the sunshine, and the greatest care necessary to keep from falling into one or other of the great elephant holes.
At last they came upon a place where the pathway forked; and after a moment’s hesitation they chose the path to the right, that to the left being the one most likely to bring them nearer to their friends, and, therefore, probably the one their pursuers had taken.
In fact, hardly had they gone a hundred yards down the way they had chosen, before they heard voices across the jungle, evidently those of their returning pursuers.
This lent fresh wings to their feet, and they hurried on, finding to their dismay that the enemy had turned into this path, and were now following them fast.
It was a race for liberty, perhaps for life; and whither the path led they could not tell. Whenever they paused for a moment to listen, they could hear the voices of their pursuers; and at last, panting, streaming with perspiration, their faces bleeding from contact with thorns, they glanced at each other, when, by mutual consent, they made another effort. The path took a turn, and Hilton uttered a cry of joy, for at the end of a long green tunnel there was the brilliant sunshine upon the river.
This put new life into them; and racing onward, they reached the water’s edge just as a couple of Malay fishermen were securing their sampan to a post.
The sight of the weapons, and the threatening words used by the desperate fugitives, silenced any opposition the fishermen might have made; and as the two officers sprang aboard, the men loosened the rope, took their paddles, and the boat was round the bend of the river and out of sight before the Inche Maida’s followers reached the water’s edge.
Before night the Residency island was in sight.
Hilton had been very silent for some time, but at last he spoke:
“Chum, old fellow,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about what we are to say.”
“Hilton, old fellow, I’ve been thinking the very same thing.”
“It would be too ridiculous to say that we had been carried off by a woman.”
“We should be roasted to death!” said Chumbley.
“But she ought to be punished.”
“Can’t go and carry sword and fire into the woman’s home because she took a fancy to you.”
“What are we to say, then? I dare not own to this affair!”
“I swear I won’t!” said Chumbley.
“Then what is to be done?”
“The only thing seems to me to be that we had better say we were carried off by the Malays.”
“Which is a fact,” said Hilton.
“And we were taken to a place that we had never seen before.”
“Another fact,” said Hilton.
“And kept prisoners.”
“Which is another fact.”
“I think that’s best,” said Chumbley. “It would be horrible to go and take revenge upon this woman.”
“But she deserves to be well punished.”
“Well, we are punishing her,” said Chumbley, “by coming away, and leaving her in a horrible stew, for she is safe to imagine that we shall go back with a company, and destroy her place. Besides, she will never dare to show her face at the settlement again.”
“Well, let the matter rest for the present,” said Hilton. “Only let us thank our stars that we have escaped.”
“To be sure!” said Chumbley, with a sigh of relief. “Poor woman, I should not like her to be hurt, she behaved so well; and—Hurrah! there’s Harley! Row, you ruffians—row! There—to that landing-stage!”
Then, as the men, who were in a great state of dread as to whether they should be allowed to depart, tremblingly placed the boat alongside the bamboo landing-stage, Hilton sprang out, Chumbley following, after placing some silver coin in the men’s hands, and sending them rejoicing away.
“What’s that?” cried Chumbley, as he caught part of a sentence and the Resident’s hand at the same moment. “Miss Perowne missing?”
“Yes; carried off, I suppose now,” said the Resident, between his teeth. “The same brain must have contrived your absence, though for what I don’t know, unless it was for ransom.”
Hilton and Chumbley exchanged glances. “Only one brain here could have plotted this,” cried the Resident, as he mastered the fact of his friends having been made prisoners in some out-of-the-way place; “and the brain was that of the doubly-dyed, treacherous scoundrel who has all along professed to be our friend. I always suspected it: Helen Perowne is a prisoner in Rajah Murad’s hands.”