Book Three—Chapter Ten.
“An Eye for an Eye, and a Tooth for a Tooth.”
With a yell that once more scared the sea-birds, and sent them screaming in terror across the waves, a yell that seemed to awaken the echoes in every rock and hill from end to end of the island, the savages sprang to their feet, and rushing towards the palisade, made their first fearful onset.
Not twenty yards away were they when they had given voice. So quickly, too, did they rush across the intervening ground, that scarce was there time to fire a rifle volley, far less to train the gun upon the spear-armed mass, before it was close alongside and had surrounded the stockade.
In their hundreds, these fearsome savages attempted to scale it; but their bodies were frightfully torn with the spikes, and cries of pain now mingled with those of anger. The defenders ran from one part of the stockade to another, firing from the loopholes; and so densely massed together was the foe that every bullet must have found a billet. In spite of all this, several managed to get over, but were immediately shot down with revolvers, or cut down with sword or cutlass.
Small though the loopholes were, spears were several times thrust through, and as each of them was poisoned, a single scratch would have resulted in the agonised death of the receiver.
Dark enough it was, and with nothing now but the stars to direct their aim, yet the little band fought well and determinedly, and at last the foe retired, leaving scores of their dead behind—drew off, dragging the wounded away.
At that black mass, just as it was nearing the woods, and while the rifles still played upon it, the breechloader, grape-loaded, was trained and fired.
So close together were the natives that the carnage must have been terrible.
But twice again ere morning they attacked the fort, receiving the same treatment, and being obliged at last to withdraw.
When morning broke, the defenders were completely wearied out, and so the little garrison, after two sentries were set, lay down to snatch a few hours’ much needed rest. There was no fear of the attack being renewed before sunset, for darkness seemed best to suit the tactics of these sable warriors.
In the afternoon of this first day of siege a sally was made from the great gate, and seven men stood ready with their rifles, while four began to remove the dead. Each was dragged to the edge of the cliff and thrown over into the sea. When all were cleared away the gate was once more shut and barred. But though the burial must have been witnessed, no rush was made by the savages to attack them. The afternoon was spent in taking pot-shots at every figure that could be seen in the burned bush.
The next attack was made at midnight, and in a manner quite as determined as the first.
One of the Sea Flower’s men was killed by a spear. It had been thrust with tremendous force through a loophole, and pierced the poor fellow’s brain.
Tandy himself had a narrow escape. He was about to fire, but, stumbling, fell, and next moment a poisoned arrow whizzed past and over him. There was surely a Providence in this, for only fools believe in blind chance.
With the exception of the death of poor Ross, who was an able seaman, there was no other casualty that night.
The savages withdrew, but when, next day, the men of the Sea Flower sallied forth to remove the enemy’s dead, which they succeeded in doing, it was noticed that many of the spike-nails had, during the fight, been removed. These, however, were easily replaced by others, and many more were added.
There was no attack this evening. The savages had determined to endeavour once more to propitiate their “fiend of war,” and an immense fire could be seen burning at midnight in the centre of their camp, not more than half a mile from the stockade. The big gun was trained upon this, and a shell planted right in the centre of the dusky mob seemed to work great destruction, and quickly put an end to the orgie.
The terrible siege was kept up for three whole weeks, and, harassed beyond measure with the constant night attacks, affairs were becoming very desperate indeed, and the little garrison was already almost worn out. Day after day it was becoming more apparent to all that utter annihilation was merely a question of time.
A council of war was held now, at which every man was present, and various proposals were made, but few indeed were feasible.
The number of the defenders was so small, compared to the hundreds of armed savages opposed to them, that a “sally in force,” as Tom Wilson who proposed this called it, was out of the question.
To attempt to make peace would only be to give themselves away. The savage king would be ready enough to promise anything, but in a few weeks afterwards not one of the poor Crusoes would be left alive.
Should they get the largest boat ready, provision her, and put to sea? Surely the ocean itself would be less cruel at its very wildest than those bloodthirsty savages.
The question had been put by Tandy himself. He was hoping against hope; he was like a drowning man clutching at straws. For himself he had no thought. He was brave almost to a fault, and, like any other brave man, was willing to die, sword in hand, fighting the foe.
“And where can man die better,
Than in facing fearful odds?”
But his children, especially innocent wee Nelda—ah! that was what softened that heart of his.
“My dear Tandy,” said Halcott, “the idea of being once more away out on yonder beautiful and peaceful ocean, even if only in an open boat, is one that commends itself to us all, but, alas, it would in this case be but a choice of death. Even if we should succeed in eluding the savages and escaping, which I believe would be almost impossible, we could never reach the mainland.”
So the council ended, and the little garrison remained precisely as before.
It was evident to all, however, that the end could not be far distant, for not only provisions, but ammunition itself, would soon give out. All hands saving Nelda were therefore put on short allowance. Coals were carefully saved, no more being used than was necessary to make steam to be condensed and used as drinking water; and not an unnecessary shot was to be fired.
But now there came a lull which lasted for three whole days and nights. Two things were evident enough: first, that the enemy were making some change in their mode of warfare; secondly, that the final struggle would soon take place—and indeed, as regards that, many of the men within the little encampment would have preferred to rush forth, cutlass in hand, and finish the fighting at once.
Most of the country was devastated by the fire that had been kindled, with the exception of a patch away south and east at the foot of Observatory Hill, on which the proud ensign was still floating, as if to give the besieged some hope and comfort.
But one day this patch of jungle, like the famous Birnam Wood, seemed to be slowly advancing towards the camp.
Tandy was gazing at it, and looking somewhat puzzled, when Halcott came up.
“That is more of their fiendish tactics,” he said; “and the scheme, I fear, will be only too successful. You see,” he added, “they are piling up heaps of branches; these will defy our rifle bullets, and unfortunately we have no shells left to fire them. Gradually these heaps will be advanced, and under cover of them they will make their next and, I fear, final attack, and it will be made by day.”
Halcott was right, and in a few days’ time the savages were within a hundred yards of the palisade. They no doubt meant to advance as near to it as possible during the hours of darkness, and with might and main attack at sunrise.
It was midnight when the movement on the part of the besiegers began, and the cover was then slowly advanced. A gentle breeze had begun to blow away from the camp, and the night was moonless and dark.
Presently a hand was laid on Halcott’s shoulder. He had been lying near the outer stockade quietly talking with James; while Tandy was in the ship’s state-room keeping his little girl company. The poor child was sadly uneasy to-night, and the father was trying his best to comfort her.
“What! you here, Lord Fitzmantle?” said Halcott.
“I’se heah, sah.”
It was probably well he said so, for excepting his flashing teeth and rolling eyes, there wasn’t much else of him to be seen.
“And you’re pretty nearly naked, aren’t you?”
“I’se neahly altogedder naked, sah. I’se got noddings much on, sah, but my skin. I go on one ’spedition (expedition) all same’s Dabid of old go out to meet de giant Goliah. Dabid hab sling and stone though; Fitz hab no sling, on’y one box ob matches. You open dat gate, sah, and I go crawl, crawl, all same’s one snake, and soon makee one big fire to wahm de hides ob dose black niggahs.”
“Brave and generous little fellow!” cried Halcott, shaking the boy’s hand. “But I fear to risk your life.”
“You no feah foh me, sah, all I do. I jes’ done gone do foh de sake ob dat pooh deah chile Babs.
“Good-night, ge’men. You soon see big fire, and you heah de niggahs fizz. Suppose dey killee me, dey no can kill de soul. Dis chile findee his way to Hebben all the same, plenty quick.”
They let the little lad out.
Whether the acute ears of the savages had heard the bolts drawn or not will never be known. Certain it is, however, that Fitz was discovered and wounded. But wounded as he was, he had the determination to light the pile.
The savages threw themselves at it, and tore at the burning branches, but this only helped to scatter the flames about.
Fitz crawled back, just in time to die inside the stockade.
“I go to Hebben now,” he said faintly to James, who was kneeling beside him holding his hand. “I’se dun my duty I fink—heah below. I see my pooh old mudder to-night—she—she—”
He said no more, and never spoke again. The noble little fellow had indeed done his duty, and doubtless would receive his reward.
James Malone was like a wild man now.
“Brother Halcott,” he cried, “summon all hands to arras, and let us sally forth and give these fiends a lesson. They have done to death this noble little fellow. Come, Halcott, come. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!”
He waved his sword aloft as he spoke.
So sudden and determined was the sally now made by ten resolute men that, taken thus unexpectedly, the savages became at once unmanned and demoralised.
The men of the Sea Flower advanced in a semicircle, and well spread out. After the first volley, the blacks threw a few spears wildly into the darkness, for the terrible conflagration blinded their eyes; but, huddled together as they were, they made an excellent target for the riflemen.
Volley after volley was poured into their midst with terrible effect, increasing their confusion every minute.
“Lay aft here now, lads!” shouted James. “Down with your guns! Charge with cutlass and revolver. Hurrah!”
High above the demoniacal shrieks of the savages and the roaring of the flames rose that wild British cheer. Next moment the revolvers poured upon the foe a rain of death.
Again a cheer. Sword and cutlass flashed in the firelight. Right and left, left and right, the men struck out, and blood flowed like water.
Towering above all was James himself, with flashing eyes and red-stained blade, his long hair streaming behind in the breeze that fanned the flames.
Short but fearful was that onslaught. In the eyes of the terror-stricken savages every man must have seemed a multitude. And no wonder. It was death or victory for the poor Crusoes; and never before did soldier on battlefield, or sailor on slippery battle-deck, fight with greater fury than they did now.
But, lo! James has seen the king himself, with his golden-headed spear, which he tries in vain to poise, so crushed and crowded is he in the midst of his mob of warriors.
“It is I,” shouts James, in the native tongue, “I, whose blood you would have drunk. Drink it now if you dare!”
Nothing can withstand him, and soon he has fought his way towards the chief, and next moment the savage throws up his arms and falls dead where he stands.
As if moved now but by a single thought, the enemy, with a howl of terror, go rushing away and disappear in the darkness. The victors are left alone with the dead!
But, alas! the victory has cost them more than one precious life.
Here, stark and stiff, lies the brave young fellow Sackbut, who had fired the bush on the first landing of the savages.
And not far off poor Tom Wilson himself.
At first they can hardly believe that Tom is dead. He is raised partly on his elbow, and his eyes are fixed on a portrait he has taken from his bosom. Tandy, who found him, had seen that picture before. It was that of his wife.
Ah, well, he had sinned, he had suffered, but his sorrows were all past now.
Another man is wounded—honest Chips himself.
Is this all? Ah, no, for James himself, as he turns to leave the scene of carnage, leans suddenly on his sword, his face looks ghastly pale in the firelight, and Halcott springs forward only in time to prevent him from falling.