Chapter Nineteen.
The Dark Way.
“They’ve missed us,” said Cyril excitedly. “Shall I run to the leader, sir, and hurry him on?”
“No, my lad,” said the colonel, “we shall do nothing by hurrying. Our retreat must be carried out slowly. We can get on no faster than the mules will walk. Keep on as we are.”
He left them after listening for a few minutes, and hurried forward to reach his place again by the leading mule, for the sagacious beast had gone steadily on, followed by the others, acting as if it knew its duty as well as a human being—that duty being to follow the easiest course offered by the valley, which ran parallel with one of the outer ranges of foot-hills, there being no track whatever to act as guide.
“Sounds quite reviving,” said John Manning in a whisper. “We’ve had so much dull do-nothing times, that it quite freshens one up.”
“How long will it be before they overtake us?” said Perry anxiously.
“How long have we been coming here, sir?” replied the old soldier.
“I don’t know—an hour, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir, an hour. Well, if they knew the way we came and followed on, it would take them hours more than it has taken us.”
“Why?” said Cyril sharply.
“Why, sir? because,” said John Manning, with one of his dry chuckles, “they’ll have to come along very slowly, searching among the trees as they come, for fear of overrunning the scent; for as it’s dark, they’ve got nothing to guide ’em, and I hope they won’t find much when it’s light, for the sun will soon dry up the dew which shows the marks made by brushing it off. We’re all right till they hit the track we’ve come, and that won’t be till some time to-morrow, if they hit it then.”
“Oh, they’ll know the way we’ve come,” said Perry, who was breathing hard from excitement.
“They must be very clever then, sir,” said John Manning drily. “I should say they’ll think we’ve made for the way we came.”
“Speak lower,” said Cyril. “Why?”
“Because, says they, these white fellows haven’t got any guides now, and they only know one road, so they’re sure to take it.”
“Yes, that sounds likely,” said Perry sharply; “but how was it we could hear them shouting?”
“I know that,” said Cyril. “The air is so clear right up here in the mountains, and the wind is this way. It’s like seeing. You know how close the peaks seem when they’re twenty miles away.”
“Yes, sir, and sounds run along a hollow like this wonderfully. Why, I remember in one of the passes up in India, we in the rearguard could hear the men talking right away in the front as easily as if we were close to them.”
“But look here,” said Cyril. “Diego or the other fellow must have seen which way we came.”
“They must have been very sharp then, sir, for I took care to tie a little biscuit bag over each of their heads, only I left holes for their noses to come out and breathe. Don’t you fret, young gentlemen; we’ve got the start, and I don’t believe the fight ’ll begin ’fore to-morrow evening, if it do then.”
“You know, then, that it will come to a fight,” said Perry.
“Well, say a skirmish, sir. We in the rearguard ’ll have to be divided into three companies, and keep on retiring one after the other, and taking up fresh ground to protect the baggage-train. It’s all right, gentlemen, and it’ll be quite a new experience for you both. You’ll like it as soon as the excitement begins.”
“Excitement?” cried Perry. “Suppose one of us is shot.”
“Ah, we don’t think of that, sir, in the army,” said John Manning. “We think of the enemy getting that. But, if one of us is so unlucky, why, then, he’ll be clapped on a mule’s back and go on with the baggage-train.”
The two boys stopped then to listen, but all was silent save the faint rustling made by the mules in front as they went steadily onward in their leader’s track. The night was dark, but the stars glittered brilliantly overhead in a broad strip which showed how deep down the valley had grown, and how wall-like the sides rose in their blackness.
“I say,” whispered Perry, stopping short. “Doesn’t it make you feel shivery?”
“No,” said Cyril. “Shuddery. We seem to be going on, down and down, as if this were a slope leading right underground. I shall be glad when the daylight comes, so that we can see where we are going.—Hear any one coming?”
“No, but let’s go on, or we may be left behind.”
“Well, we are left behind now.”
“But suppose we missed the others. It would be horrible.”
“No fear,” said Cyril; “the valley’s getting narrower and narrower, and if we keep on, we’re sure to overtake the mules.”
Cyril was right, for in a few minutes they heard the faint patter of the hoofs again, and were glad to keep close in the rear, for instinctively the patient beasts picked out the easiest way. And now from being a smooth, grassy, park-like, open valley, the route they followed began to contract into a gorge, from whose wall-like sides masses of stone had been tumbled down in the course of ages, till the bottom was growing more difficult to traverse every mile they passed; while, for aught they knew in the darkness, they might be skirting precipice and pitfall of the most dangerous kind, depending, as they were, entirely upon the mules.
They had suggestions of there being unknown depths around, for to their left there was the gurgling, rushing sound of water, apparently deep down beneath the fallen stones, sometimes louder, sometimes dying away into a murmur; till all at once, as they turned a corner into sudden, complete darkness—for the long band of starry light overhead was now shut out—they were startled by a deep echoing, booming roar, and a chilling damp air smote them in the face as it came down, evidently from some gorge to their right, which joined the one along which they had travelled.
It needed no explanation. Light failed, but they knew as well as if they were in broad sunshine that they were face to face with a huge cascade which came gliding down from far on high into some terrific chasm far below, while the change from the calm silence of the valley they had traversed to the deafening sound which rose from below, was confusing and strange to such a degree, that they came to a stand.
It was not that the noise was so great, as that it seemed, paradoxical as it may sound, so huge and soft, and to pervade all space, to the exclusion of everything else. As Cyril said afterwards, it was a noise that did not pierce and ring in your ears, but stopped them up and smothered all speech; while the darkness was so deep, that no one felt the slightest desire to take a step forward.
Perry was the first to make any move, for all at once he felt for Cyril, placed his lips close to his ear, and said excitedly:
“My father: can you hear him?”
“No,” replied his companion, after a pause. “I can only hear the water.”
“Then he must have fallen in.—Here, John Manning. Where is the lantern?”
“Tied to the first mule’s pack, sir.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Perry excitedly, and then he shouted “Father!” as loudly as he could, but the cry seemed to be driven back in his face.
“I’ll light a match, sir,” cried Manning, and after a few moments there was a flash, the gleam of a light, and the shape of the old soldier’s hands, with the tiny flame gleaming ruddily between his fingers; but, save that the boys saw the familiar rugged features of the man’s face for a few moments, they saw nothing more, and the darkness grew painful as the match went out.
John Manning struck another light, got the splint well in a blaze, and tossed it from him; but there was nothing to be seen but mist. The boys now shouted together, but without result, and a chilling sensation of dread came over them as they grasped each other’s wet cold hand, not daring to stir, and with the horrible feeling increasing upon them that some terrible tragedy must have happened to their leader.
Just when the sensation of horror was at its height, John Manning’s voice was heard.
“What had we best do, gentlemen—go forward or go back?”
“We ought to go forward,” said Cyril.
“Yes, that’s what I feel, sir,” shouted the man; “but next step may be down into the pit.”
“We must go on,” said Perry excitedly; “my father wants help. He’s in danger, I’m sure, or he would have made some sign.”
As he spoke, he snatched his hand from Cyril’s grasp, and took a step or two forward into the black darkness.
“Perry!” shouted Cyril, in a voice which sounded like a faint whisper, as he felt himself seized by the shoulder, John Manning’s great hand closing upon it like a vice, and holding it firmly.
“Where’s Master Perry?”
No answer escaped Cyril’s lips for a minute. He felt suffocated, and it was not until John Manning had shaken him violently and repeated his question twice, that he panted out the single word, “Gone.”
“Can you see where—has he fallen in?” was panted in his ear.
“No; he stepped from me to help the colonel, and then he was gone.”
John Manning groaned, and Cyril felt the strong man’s hand trembling, and the vibration thrilled through the boy’s frame until every nerve quivered with the horrible dread which assailed him.
All at once he felt the lips at his ear again.
“Let’s shout together, sir,” was whispered, and they tried hard to make their voices heard, calling together with all their strength, but they did not seem to be able to pierce the roar which pressed, as it were, upon them; and though they repeated the cry at intervals and listened for a reply, none came.
“It’s no good, Mr Cyril, sir,” groaned John Manning. “I’m ready, sir, to do anything to try and save my poor colonel and Master Perry; what can I do? It’s like chucking away my life and yours, sir, to stir a step.”
“Yes, and I’d help you,” said Cyril despairingly; “but we dare not move in this terrible darkness.”
“Shall we try to go back, sir?”
“No,” shouted Cyril firmly. “We must not do that.”
“What then, sir? What can we do?”
“Wait for daylight,” Cyril shouted back in the man’s ear. Then softly to himself: “And pray.”