Trapped by Malays: A Tale of Bayonet and Kris

by George Manville Fenn

The lad was stout-hearted enough, but he could not help feeling that though the building was strong of its kind, it would prove but a frail defence against the mighty arms and tremendous claws of a furiously hungry tiger; and after the first shock he crept cautiously to the hiding-place of one of the spears and drew it out, to plant the butt against one retired foot and hold it with the keen blade about breast-high in the direction of the bamboo uprights and palm lath slats that were woven in and out in duplicate.

That deep-toned roar was followed by a silence that was awe-inspiring in its way, and as Archie listened it seemed to him that he could hear the snuffling breathing of the savage animal that must have scented him during its rounds.

That silence lasted about a quarter of an hour before it afforded some amount of encouragement to the listener. The loneliness was awful, for he was sure that he and his fellow-prisoner were correct in coming to the conclusion that very soon after sunset the sentry had crept silently away, this terrible roar suggesting itself as an explanation of the reason for the elephant-stable with its prisoners being left without a watcher during the night.

Several times over, since he had been sufficiently recovered to sit wakefully chatting with Peter Pegg as to the best way of making their escape, he had heard snarling cries, shrieks that were thrilling enough in themselves, and which the two lads had set down to be the utterances of some ape that had been scented out and pounced upon by one of the cat-like creatures during its nocturnal search for prey. They had heard too, and rightly judged what were the authors of, other night cries, some of which, coming from a large kind of stork or crane that lurked upon the banks of the neighbouring river, were horrible and weird in their intensity. But though the jungle was supposed to contain plenty of tigers, it was only once that the prisoners had heard what they knew for certain to be the huge cat’s roar.

Archie felt that he would not have cared upon the present occasion if Peter Pegg had been by his side, and in imagination, as he stood with the lowered spear, he saw himself taking turns with the young private in stabbing at the savage beast as it was snarling, tearing, and trying to force its way through the tangled side of the big stable. But to do this alone, it seemed to him, would only result in irritating the beast and make it more furious at his efforts to drive the sharp blade into a vital part.

“We might have settled it between us,” he thought; and then, in the midst of the weird darkness, he shivered, for a fresh horrible thought assailed him, which made the palms of his hands grow damp and the moisture gather upon his brow.

What did it mean—this savage monster making its way close up to his prison that night of all those that had passed? Could it be that it had tracked stealthily, after the habit of its kind, and pounced upon poor Peter Pegg, dragged him down, and hidden his body somewhere in the dense thicket, and now, guided by its keen scent, followed the flair to where he stood with the cold perspiration now beginning to trickle from his temples and the sides of his face?

There was not another sound, and after a sturdy battle with his feelings, Archie began to force himself into the belief that it was his weakness that made him imagine that such a catastrophe had occurred. But all thought of sleep had passed away for that night. He felt it would be impossible, and he stood with every sense strained, listening for some movement; but it was quite an hour later, and after he had begun to feel overcome by weariness from standing so long in one position, that he took a deep breath and began to walk lightly up and down the building, fully expecting that the rustle of the palm-leaves would excite the tiger into some fresh demonstration of its proximity.

But the beast made no sign, and beginning to indulge in the hope that after its roar it had crept stealthily and silently away upon its cushioned, velvet paws, he made his way to the stone jar, felt for the cocoa-nut, took a draught, and began to think of what had passed during these many weary days and nights of his struggle back towards recovery.

There was not much to dwell upon, for it had been terribly monotonous, that time, and sadly punctuated with either mental or physical pain. The mental was all embraced in the one painful thought of Minnie Heath and what had been her fate; the physical was mingled with the pain caused during the healing up of the horrible contused wound above his temples; while when he had not been suffering from this he was burdened by a series of wearing headaches, which would wake him from a refreshing sleep somewhere about the middle of the night, and not die out again till just before it was light.