The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo, Charles Gibson [most life changing books .txt] 📗

there was no doubt that it

was based upon fact. As the chief talked, Crouch translated to his

friends.

 

The chief first asked what they were doing on the Kasai, and Crouch

answered that they were there for big game--for rhinoceros, buffalo and

leopard. The chief answered that there was certainly much game on the

Kasai, but there was more on the "Hidden River." That was the first

time they ever heard the name.

 

Crouch asked why it was called the "Hidden River"; and M’Wané answered

that it would be impossible for any one to find the mouth. On the

southern bank of the Kasai, about two days up-stream, there was a large

mangrove swamp, and it was beyond this that the "Hidden River" lay.

 

"Can you pass through the swamp in a canoe?" asked Crouch.

 

The chief shook his head, and said that a canoe could pass the mangrove

swamp, but it could not penetrate far up the river, because of a great

waterfall, where the water fell hundreds of feet between huge pillars of

rock.

 

"One can carry a canoe," said Crouch.

 

"Perhaps," said M’Wané, as if in doubt. "But, of those that pass the

cataract, none come back alive."

 

"Why?" asked Crouch.

 

"Because of the Fire-gods that haunt the river. The Fire-gods are

feared from the seacoast to the Lakes."

 

Crouch pricked up his ears like a terrier that scents a rat. The little

man sat cross-legged, with his hands upon his ankles; and as he plied

the Fan chief with questions, he positively wriggled where he sat.

 

He found out that the "Fire-gods" were white men--a fact that astonished

him exceedingly. He was told that they were not white men like himself

and his friends, but wicked spirits who controlled the thunder and who

could make the earth tremble for miles around. Even the Fans feared

them, and for several months none of the tribes had ventured into the

valley of the "Hidden River."

 

"They’re men with rifles," said Harden. "These people have never seen a

firearm in their lives."

 

At that he led M’Wané from the hut, and, followed by Max and Crouch, he

walked a little distance from the village. There, in the moonlight, he

picked up a stone from the ground, and set this upon a branch. From a

distance of about twenty paces, with M’Wané at his side, he lifted his

rifle to his shoulder, and struck the stone with a bullet, so that it

fell upon the ground.

 

"There," said he, "that is what your Fire-gods do; they are armed with

rifles--like this."

 

But M’Wané shook his head. He had heard of rifles. Tribes they had

raided upon the coast had spoken of the white men that could slay at a

distance. But the Fire-gods were greater still. Every evening, in the

valley of the Hidden River, loud thunder rent the air. The birds had

left the valley--even the snakes had gone. The Fire-gods were kings

over Nature. Moreover, they were merciless. Hundreds of natives--men

of the Pende tribe, the Pambala and the Bakutu--had gone into the

valley; but no one had returned.

 

At that Crouch set off towards the hut without a word. The others,

following, found him seated cross-legged at the fire, tugging at the

tuft of hair which grew beneath his lip. For some minutes the little

wizened sea-captain spoke aloud to himself.

 

"I’ll find out who these people are," said he. "White men may have gone

up the river to trade; but it’s bad for business if you get a reputation

for murder. I don’t understand it at all. I’ve heard of a white race

in the centre of the continent; maybe it’s they. I hope it is. At any

rate, we’ll go and see."

 

For a few brief moments he lapsed into silence. Then he tapped M’Wané

on the arm.

 

"Will you take us to the Hidden River?" he asked.

 

M’Wané sprang to his feet, violently shaking his head. He protested

that he dared do nothing of the sort. They could not disbelieve him,

for the man was actually trembling in his limbs.

 

Crouch turned to Harden.

 

"I’ve a mind to look into this," said he.

 

"I, too," said the other.

 

"He won’t take us," said Max.

 

"I’ll make him," said Crouch. "For the present, I’m going to sleep. The

boys will stick to the canoes. We must get back to the river to-morrow

afternoon. Good-night."

 

So saying, he curled himself up like a hedgehog, and, resting his head

upon his folded arms, immediately fell asleep.

 

It was already three months since they had left Banana Point at the

mouth of the Congo. They had journeyed to the foot of the rapids by

steamboat, and thence had carried their canoes across several miles of

country. They had enjoyed a good deal of mixed shooting in the lower

valley, and then they had said good-bye to the few trading stations, or

factories, which lay scattered at wide intervals upon the banks of the

great river, and which were the last links that bound them to such

civilization as the wilds of Africa could show. Max had already gained

much experience of life in the wilds of tropical Africa. This was not

the first time that he had found himself obliged to sleep upon the

ground, without pillow or blankets, or that which was still more

necessary--a mosquito-net.

 

When he opened his eyes it was daylight, and the first thing that he

beheld was Captain Crouch, seated cross-legged at the fireside, with his

pipe between his teeth. His one eye was fixed in the glowing embers.

He appeared to be deep in thought, for his face was all screwed up, and

he never moved. Thin wreaths of smoke came from the bowl of his pipe,

and the hut reeked of his foul tobacco. Suddenly he snatched the pipe

from his lips, and banged the bowl so viciously upon the heel of his

boot that he broke it in twain. "I have it!" he cried. "I’ve got it!"

 

Max asked what was the matter.

 

"I’ve got an idea," said Crouch. "I’ll make this fellow take us to the

Hidden River, whether he wants to or not. They are frightened of these

Fire-gods, are they! By Christopher, I’ll make them more frightened of

me, or my name was never Crouch!"

 

He got to his feet, and crossed the hut to M’Wané, who still lay asleep.

He seized the chief by the shoulders and shook him violently, until the

man sat up and rubbed his eyes.

 

"Your people," said he. "Big palaver. Now. Be quick."

 

M’Wané seemed to understand, for he got up and left the hut. Edward

Harden was now awake.

 

The life that is lived by these Central African tribes finds a parallel

in the ancient history of nearly all races that we know of. Government,

for the most part, is in the hands of the headman of every village. The

maintenance of law and order, the giving of wives, the exchange of

possessions, is settled by "palaver," which amounts to a kind of meeting

of the entire population, presided over by the chief. Near every village

is a regular palaver-ground, usually in the shade of the largest tree in

the neighbourhood.

 

It was here, on this early morning, that M’Wané summoned all the

inhabitants of the village--men, women and children. They seated

themselves upon the ground in a wide circle, in the midst of which was

the trunk of a fallen tree. Upon this trunk the three Europeans seated

themselves, Crouch in the middle, with his companions on either side.

 

When all was ready, M’Wané rose to his feet, and announced in stentorian

tones that the little white man desired to speak to them, and that they

must listen attentively to what he had to say. Whereupon Crouch got to

his feet, and from that moment onward--in the parlance of the

theatre--held the stage: the whole scene was his. He talked for nearly

an hour, and during that time never an eye was shifted from his face,

except when he called attention to the parrot.

 

He was wonderful to watch. He shouted, he gesticulated, he even danced.

In face of his limited vocabulary, it is a wonder how he made himself

understood; but he did. He was perfectly honest from the start.

Perhaps his experience had taught him that it is best to be honest with

savages, as it is with horses and dogs. He said that he had made his

way up the Kasai in order to penetrate to the upper reaches of the

Hidden River. He said that he had heard of the Fire-gods, and he was

determined to find out who they were. For himself, he believed that the

Fire-gods were masters of some kind of witchcraft. It would be madness

to fight them with spears and bows and arrows. He believed, from what

he had heard, that even his own rifle would be impotent. High on a

tree-top was perched a parrot, that preened its feathers in the

sunlight, and chattered to itself. Crouch pointed this parrot out to

the bewildered natives, and then, lifting his rifle to his shoulder,

fired, and the bird fell dead to the ground. That was the power he

possessed, he told them: he could strike at a distance, and he seldom

failed to kill. And yet he dared not approach the Fire-gods, because

they were masters of witchcraft. But he also knew the secrets of magic,

and his magic was greater and more potent than the magic of the

Fire-gods. He could not be killed; he was immortal. He was prepared to

prove it. Whereat, he re-loaded his rifle, and deliberately fired a

bullet through his foot.

 

The crowd rushed in upon him from all sides, stricken in amazement. But

Crouch waved them back, and stepping up to Edward, told the Englishman

to shoot again. Harden lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and sent a

bullet into the ankle of Crouch’s cork foot. Thereupon, Crouch danced

round the ring of natives, shouting wildly, springing into the air,

proving to all who might behold that he was a thousand times alive.

 

They fell down upon their faces and worshipped him as a god. Without

doubt he had spoken true: he was invulnerable, immortal, a witch-doctor

of unheard-of powers.

 

But Crouch had not yet done. Before they had time to recover from their

amazement, he had snatched out his glass eye, and thrust it into the

hands of M’Wané himself, who dropped it like a living coal. They rushed

to it, and looked at it, but dared not touch it. And when they looked

up, Crouch had another eye in the socket--an eye that was flaming red.

 

A loud moan arose from every hand--a moan which gave expression to their

mingled feelings of bewilderment, reverence and fear. From that moment

Crouch was "the White Wizard," greater even than the Fire-gods, as the

glory of the sun outstrips the moon.

 

"And now," cried Crouch, lifting his hands in the air, "will you, or

will you not, guide me to the Hidden River where the Fire-gods live?"

 

M’Wané came forward and prostrated himself upon the ground.

 

"The White Wizard," said he, "has only to command."

 

 

THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER IV--THE HIDDEN RIVER

 

It is not necessary to describe in detail the passage up the Kasai, from

the place where the leopard had been wounded to Date Palm Island, which

was where M’Wané decided to disembark. During that voyage, which

occupied two and a half days, they passed a mangrove swamp upon the

southern bank, which the Fan chief pointed out as the place where the

Hidden River joined the Kasai.

 

No one would have guessed it. The short, stunted trees were packed so

close together that their branches formed a kind of solid roof which

appeared to extend for miles. Underneath, there was darkness as of

night. There was nothing to suggest that another river here joined the

larger stream. The Kasai did not narrow above the swamp, nor was there

any change in the colour of the water or the strength of the current.

 

Date Palm Island lay a day’s journey by canoe above the mangrove swamp.

The name of Date Palm Island was given by Edward Harden the