The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo, Charles Gibson [most life changing books .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Gibson
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set eyes upon the little rocky islet in mid-stream, upon which stood a
solitary tree. It was the custom of this explorer to name the natural
features he discovered; and it was he who was also responsible for the
names of other places of which, in course of time, we shall have
occasion to tell, such as Solitude Peak and Hippo Pool.
In addition to the Loango boys who composed the crews, the party now
included M’Wané, the Fan chief, and four of his most trusted warriors.
It was on the occasion of this journey on the Upper Kasai that Edward
Harden made one of the mistakes of his life. M’Wané travelled in the
first canoe with themselves, and his four warriors in the other canoe
which followed. Both Harden and Crouch had a natural wish to keep the
object of their journey a secret. Neither knew that one of the boys in
the second canoe could both speak and understand the Fan dialect, and it
was he who told his companions that the Hidden River was their
destination. Still, no one suspected that the secret was out, until
they had unloaded all their supplies and ammunition at Date Palm Island,
where they decided to form their base.
In this district, the general course of the Kasai lies due south-west.
From the mangrove swamp on the southern bank, the valley of the Hidden
River lies, more or less, in a direct line from north to south. M’Wané
had known the Hidden River in the old days, before the Fire-gods came
into the country. He said that there was a good portage across country
from Date Palm Island to Hippo Pool, which was the nearest accessible
point on the Hidden River above the rapids that flowed through the Long
Ravine.
They decided to leave one canoe on the island, in charge of four of the
Loango boys. The remaining natives could be employed in carrying the
lighter of the two canoes, and a sufficiency of stores and ammunition
across country to the Hidden River. The indignation of Crouch may be
imagined when the boys struck in a body and refused to undertake the
portage.
Edward used his greatest powers of persuasion; Crouch threatened and
abused. They answered that word of the Fire-gods had been carried even
as far as the Coast, that they had never bargained to sell their lives
to the Englishmen. None the less, they expressed their willingness to
remain upon the island until the party returned.
Crouch turned to M’Wané.
"And do you, too, go back?" he asked.
The chief shook his head, and smiled.
"My men and I will stand by the White Wizard," he answered. "A Fan
holds to his word."
Crouch slapped the chief upon the back, and then went on to explain to
the boys that if they helped with the portage, they would not be asked
to embark on the Hidden River, but could return to Date Palm Island.
After some discussion, they agreed to this; and as much time had already
been wasted, Harden and Crouch decided not to start until daybreak the
following day.
According to Edward Harden’s diary, the portage lasted two weeks and
three days. They were obliged to force their way through virgin forest.
It was frequently necessary to cut down with axes and billhooks the
tangled undergrowth and creepers that wove themselves amid the trunks of
the trees, in order to make room for the canoe to pass. Some days they
did not cover more than a mile, though they were working from dawn to
sunset. But towards the end of the journey the passage became easier,
by reason of the fact that they found a watercourse, which they
followed, until they finally came forth into the sunlight at Hippo Pool.
When they first looked upon it, it was as if, indeed, there were an air
of mystery in the valley of the Hidden River. The silence that reigned
upon its surface was intense. The atmosphere seemed several degrees
hotter even than the forest. The name Hippo Pool was given because,
immediately on their arrival, Edward Harden, who was leading, shot a
hippopotamus which he found asleep upon the bank. They were glad enough
of the meat for the natives, who would require provisions on their
journey back to the Kasai.
The next morning the Loango boys left in a body. They were glad enough
to be off. And soon afterwards the canoe shot out from the bank.
Their progress was painfully slow. M’Wané and his four followers worked
continually with the paddles, assisted in turn by Harden and his nephew.
As for Crouch, he was always the look-out man. His only eye was quick
and keen as that of a falcon.
Hour by hour they toiled into the Unknown, until the sweat poured from
their faces and their hands were blistered in the sun; and the blisters
would not heal, because of the insects that followed in a crowd. The
jungle grew more magnificent and wild as the river narrowed. The
character of the trees changed, and of the undergrowth--all became more
luxuriant, more profuse, until they found themselves in a land where
Nature was something fantastic and superb.
It was on the third day after they had set out from Hippo Pool that they
turned an angle of the river, and came on a sudden into a cup-shaped
valley where there was but little vegetation. A circle of granite hills
stood all around them, and in the centre on either side of the river was
a plain of sand. Crouch turned in the bows and pointed to something
ahead, and at that moment the sharp crack of a rifle echoed in the
stillness, and a bullet sped into the water a few inches from the bows
of the canoe.
THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER V--(THE STOCKADE)
As the bullet cut into the water Crouch sprang upright in the canoe. His
thin form trembled with eagerness. The man was like a cat, inasmuch as
he was charged with electricity. Under his great pith helmet the few
hairs which he possessed stood upright on his head. Edward Harden leaned
forward and picked up his rifle, which he now held at the ready.
By reason of the fact that the river had suddenly widened into a kind of
miniature lake, the current was not so swift. Hence, though M’Wané and
his Fans ceased to paddle, the canoe shot onward by dint of the velocity
at which they had been travelling. Every moment brought them nearer and
nearer to the danger that lay ahead.
In order to relate what followed, it is necessary to describe the scene.
We have said that the wild, impenetrable jungle had ceased abruptly, and
they found themselves surrounded by granite hills, in the centre of
which lay a plain of glaring sand. To their left, about a hundred paces
from the edge of the river, was a circular stockade. A fence had been
constructed of sharp-pointed stakes, each about eight feet in height.
There was but a single entrance into this stockade--a narrow gate, not
more than three feet across, which faced the river. Up-stream, to the
south, the granite hills closed in from either bank, so that the river
flowed through a gorge which at this distance seemed particularly
precipitous and narrow. Midway between the stockade and the gorge was a
kraal, or large native village, surrounded by a palisade. Within the
palisade could be seen the roofs of several native huts, and at the
entrance, seated cross-legged on the ground, was the white figure of an
Arab who wore the turban and flowing robes by which his race is
distinguished, from the deserts of Bokhara to the Gold Coast. Before
the stockade, standing at the water’s edge, was the figure of a European
dressed in a white duck suit. He was a tall, thin man with a black,
pointed beard, and a large sombrero hat. Between his lips was a
cigarette, and in his hands he held a rifle, from the muzzle of which
was issuing a thin trail of smoke.
As the canoe approached, this man grew vastly excited, and stepped into
the river, until the water had risen to his knees. There, he again
lifted his rifle to his shoulder.
"Put that down!" cried Crouch. "You’re a dead man if you fire."
The man obeyed reluctantly, and at that moment a second European came
running from the entrance of the stockade. He was a little man, of
about the same build as Crouch, but very round in the back, and with a
complexion so yellow that he might have been a Chinese.
The man with the beard seemed very agitated. He gesticulated wildly,
and, holding his rifle in his left hand, pointed down-stream with his
right. He was by no means easy to understand, since his pronunciation
of English was faulty, and he never troubled to take his cigarette from
between his lips.
"Get back!" he cried. "Go back again! You have no business here."
"Why not?" asked Crouch.
"Because this river is mine."
"By what right?"
"By right of conquest. I refuse to allow you to land."
The canoe was now only a few yards from the bank. The second man--the
small man with the yellow face--turned and ran back into the stockade,
evidently to fetch his rifle.
"I’m afraid," said Crouch, "with your permission or without, we intend
to come ashore."
Again the butt of the man’s rifle flew to his shoulder.
"Another yard," said he, "and I shoot you dead."
He closed an eye, and took careful aim. His sights were directed
straight at Crouch’s heart. At that range--even had he been the worst
shot in the world--he could scarcely have missed.
Crouch was never seen to move. With his face screwed, and his great
chin thrust forward, his only eye fixed in the midst of the black beard
of the man who dared him to approach, he looked a very figure of
defiance.
The crack of a rifle--a loud shout--and then a peal of laughter. Crouch
had thrown back his head and was laughing as a school-boy does, with one
hand thrust in a trousers pocket. Edward Harden, seated in the stern
seat, with elbows upon his knees, held his rifle to his shoulder, and
from the muzzle a little puff of smoke was rising in the air. It was
the man with the black beard who had let out the shout, in anger and
surprise. The cigarette had been cut away from between his lips, and
Harden’s bullet had struck the butt of his rifle, to send it flying from
his hands into the water. He stood there, knee-deep in the river,
passionate, foiled and disarmed. It was Edward Harden’s quiet voice
that now came to his ears.
"Hands up!" said he.
Slowly, with his black eyes ablaze, the man lifted his arms above his
head. A moment later, Crouch had sprung ashore.
The little sea-captain hastened to the entrance of the stockade, and, as
he reached it, the second man came running out, with a rifle in his
hands. He was running so quickly that he was unable to check himself,
and, almost before he knew it, his rifle had been taken from him. He
pulled up with a jerk, and, turning, looked into the face of Captain
Crouch.
"I must introduce myself," said the captain. "My name’s Crouch. Maybe
you’ve heard of me?"
The man nodded his head. It appears he had not yet sufficiently
recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.
"By Christopher!" cried Crouch, on a sudden. "I know you! We’ve met
before--five years ago in St. Paul de Loanda. You’re a half-caste
Portuguese, of the name of de Costa, who had a trade-station at the
mouth of the Ogowe. So you remember me?"
The little yellow man puckered up his face and bowed.
"I think," said he, with an almost perfect English accent--"I think
one’s knowledge of the Coast would be very limited, if one had never
heard of Captain Crouch."
Crouch placed his hand upon his heart and made a mimic bow.
"May I return the compliment?" said he. "I’ve heard men speak of de
Costa from Sierra Leone to Walfish Bay, and never once
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