The effect of this apparition was tremendous. The negroes turned and crushed through the narrow entrance screaming and shrieking with terror. The bats, no less alarmed than the men, and half suffocated with smoke, fled out of the cave like a whirlwind, flapping their wings on the heads of the negroes in their flight, and adding, if that were possible, to their consternation. The negroes ran as never men ran before, tumbling over each other in their mad haste, dashing against trees and crashing through bushes in their terror, while Peterkin stood leaping in the cave’s mouth, smoking and blazing and spurting, and unable to contain himself, giving vent to prolonged peals of demoniacal laughter. Had the laugh been that of negroes it might have been recognised; but Peterkin’s was the loud, violent, British guffaw, which, I make no doubt, was deemed by them worthy of the fiends of the haunted cave, and served to spur them on to still greater rapidity in their wild career.
Returning into the cave’s innermost recess, we lighted one of the torches dropped by the savages, and placing it in a sort of natural niche, seated ourselves on several pieces of rock to rest.
Our first act was to look earnestly in each other’s faces; our next to burst into peals of laughter.
“I say, comrades,” I exclaimed, checking myself, “don’t we run some risk in giving vent to our feelings so freely?”
“No fear,” cried Peterkin, who was still smoking a little from unextinguished sparks. “There is not a man in the whole crew who will draw rein till he is sitting, with the teeth still chattering in his head, at his own fireside. I never saw men in such a fright since I was born. Depend upon it, we are safe enough here from this day forth.—Don’t you think so, Mak?”
Our guide, who was now trying to reassure his trembling bride, turned, with a broad grin on his sable countenance, and said—
“Safe? ho! yis, massa. Dere not be a man as’ll come to dis yere cuvern for de nix tree hun’r year or more. Massa Peterkin be de most horriboble ghost dey ever did saw, an’ no mistake. But, massas, we mus’ go ’way quick an’ git to our camp, for de king sure to go dere an’ see if you no hab someting to do wid it all. Him’s a bery clebber king, am Jambai—bery clebber; him’s no be bughummed bery easy.”
“Humbugged, you mean,” said Jack, laughing. “You’re right, Mak; we must set off at once. But what are we to do with poor Okandaga, now that we have got her?”
This was indeed a puzzling question. It was impossible to take her to our camp and account to the negroes for her appearance in a satisfactory manner; besides, if Jambai took it into his head to pursue us, in order to ascertain whether we had had anything to do with the rescue, our case would be hopeless. It was equally impossible to leave her where she was, and to let her try to make her escape through the woods alone was not to be thought of. While we pondered this dilemma an idea occurred to me.
“It seems to me,” said I, “that men are seldom, perhaps never, thrown into a danger or difficulty in this world without some way of escape being opened up, which, if they will but grasp at it promptly, will conduct them at last out of their perplexities. Now, it has just occurred to me that, since everything else seems to be impossible, we might send Okandaga into the woods, with Makarooroo to guide and defend her and to hunt for her. Let them travel in a line parallel with the river route which we intend to follow. Each night Mak will make a secure shelter for her, and then return to our camp as if he had come in from hunting. Each morning he will set off again into the woods as if to hunt, rejoin Okandaga; and thus we will journey together, as it were, and when we reach the next tribe of natives we will leave the girl in their charge until we return from the gorilla country. What do you think of that plan?”