THE CALENDAR STONE
Saturday, 6 December 2014
The great “calendar stone,” for such it is accepted, unquestionably, by the most learned writers of ancient America and, also, those of the present generation, is a mass of basaltic porphyry weighing, it is estimated, twenty-four tons; its carved circular surface is eleven feet eight inches in diameter, all, of which, are devoted, fundamentally, to utilities of an astronomical character.
This “relic of barbarism” Friar Alonso de Montufar caused to be buried some time between the years 1551 and 1559, and thus the “scandalizing thing,” practically, ceased to exist more than two hundred years. While excavating, during the year 1790, in the Plaza Mayor, the workmen unearthed this valuable historical specimen and placed it against the wall of the cathedral tower where it remained several years and, subsequently, it was placed where it is now conspicuously located, in the Mexican National Museum.
The calendar stone brings to us some valuable information relative to one particular branch of the Aztec government; otherwise, it would not come in such an elaborate form of such enormous weight, as its quarry must have been miles away.
Figure 3 is an Aztec calendar wheel after Veytia giving the names of the weeks and names of the days of the week in their sequence for all time.
In the calendar stone we have an authentic work executed by an ancient Aztec artisan, before any European set foot on the American continent, hence we must consider it as reliable as possible in what it represents.
Fig. 2 is a photographic copy of the illustration used by Doctor Valentini, in his lecture relative to the calendar stone, delivered before the Antiquarian Society of New York City in 1878.
Fig. 3. The Aztec calendar wheel, after Yeytia, giving the weeks and days of the week for each season of the year as was generally used, and in its simplest form, showing the names of the thirteen days of each week in the season, numbered with dots, according to their use, from one to thirteen, inclusive; also the names of the seven weeks in each of the four seasons of the year, numbered with dots from one to seven, inclusive, according to their use.
These twenty representations occupy the most prominent circle on the calendar stone. (Fig. 2).
The central picture, (Fig. 3), indicates to us a calendar, as a first consideration, pertaining to the sun, also, the same, as a second consideration, relating to the moon. The stars are a third consideration, giving us to understand that this form of a wheel is to be used once, complete, during each four of the annual seasons—in other words, go over the wheel four time for one year and repeat, similarly, for all succeeding years.
To use this wheel, start with the first day of the year in the compartment presenting the picture of a porcupine and one dot, in the daily sequence, this day is also the first day of the week represented by a tiger and one dot in the weekly sequence; retain this identified week till all the daily sequence is passed over from one to thirteen, inclusive; then pass to the second week which is identified by the eagle and two dots, in the weekly sequence and repeat the daily sequence of this week as used in the first instance. If something happened on the sixth day of the third week of the first season of the year, it happened on the day represented by the skeleton, in the daily sequence with six dots, in the weekly sequence, the week of the bird with three dots; this would be two whole weeks plus six days into the third week, making a total of thirty-two days from the first day or starting day, or from the first day of the year.
When all the weeks in the season are thus exhausted the count will be ninety-one days, the total number of days, by the wheel for each season of the year. This process described pertaining to the first season is repeated for the three remaining seasons of the year, and distinguished from each other by the following names:
Acatl, meaning reed
Tochtli, meaning rabbit
Calli, meaning house
Tecpatl, meaning flint knife
The reader, naturally, inquires why the two series of dots presented in figure three are not, likewise, presented on the calendar stone. These dots distinguishing the movement of time, by the earth’s rotation, being omitted on the calendar stone is responsible for many authors of Aztec history falling into the serious error that the Aztec year was composed of eighteen months, each containing twenty-days, from Humboldt down, with Gama and Prescott included. The reason for the calendar stone artist leaving dots off the stone was, the sequence of dots, as presented in figure two, is not the same as the dots in the wheels pertaining more particularly to the moon, and both these sets need separate wheels to include their utility, while the names of the seasons, weeks and days of the weeks are, it will be noted, the same in all cases.
As to a correct presentation of the days and weeks given in figures 4 and 5, after Duran, these may be verified by the calendar stone as follows.
Table No. 1. Giving the result of operating the wheel during one season, as explained relative to its simplest form, Fig. 3.
TABLE NO. 1
Assuming the reader’s right and left applies to the stone, the first day of the week given by figure 4 occupies the first compartment on the left of the center at the top; then proceeding from this compartment to the left, with the circle, to the thirteenth compartment we have the thirteen days of the week which are repeated seven times during each season of the year.
The remaining compartments in the circle represent the seven weeks of the season as the same is arranged in figure 5. The first week starts with the first compartment adjacent to the thirteenth compartment of the daily count as above considered, and proceeds with the circle, regularly to the seventh week located on the right of the center at the top, thus closing the whole circle containing a total of twenty compartments.
The part of the calendar stone we have utilized in this comparison measures one season of the year, the remaining three seasons of the year are treated like the first season above described and are distinguished from each other by name.
Saturday, 29 November 2014
CAPTAIN JUSTICE in Unexplored
A serial; part 12 of 12 of The Castaways; from The Modern Boy magazine, Sept. 22, 1934, No. 346 Vol. 14.
Digitized by Doug Frizzle for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Com, November 2014.
Besieged by Cannibals!
CRAA-AA-ACK!! Brr-rannngg! Across the sun-dappled waters of
N’Gako, the desolate inland sea on the
wild border of the French South-East Cameroons, in Africa,
rippled the crackle of rifle-fire. The sharp report of a quick-firing gun
followed, and a shrill cheer went up.
Jets of flame flickered along both canvas-covered rails of the French river-patrol launch as the sturdy white vessel zigzagged across the centre of the lake, and her whistling bullets tore into the horde of black canoes that circled around her.
Before the echoes died, back from the squat gorilla-like savages in the canoes zipped answering volleys of arrows, and the circle closed in a little tighter. The launch, for all her defiant thunder, was trapped— hopelessly snared on the great lake!
Aboard her were Captain Justice, the Gentleman Adventurer, and his four comrades—Professor Flaznagel, Dr. O’Mally, Len Connor, and Midge.
Cast away in unexplored
Africa by Xavier Kuponos, Justice’s
bitter enemy, they had fallen in with a race of unknown Giants. Later, with an
escort of those huge natives, they had set out on the road back to
civilisation—to be attacked by black cannibals just as they had sighted the
French launch and clambered aboard.
Already one of the boat’s two white officers and many of the crew were out of the fight, killed or wounded by the deadly shafts. And the black cannibals, fearless as they were fiendish, were gradually hemming the ship in.
“But they haven't got us yet! Screech away, you coal-black sons of mud, and share this amongst you!”
Crack! Midge, the red-haired, ever-chirpy junior member of Captain Justice’s band, uttered a piping cheer as he cuddled down to his rifle and let drive at the steersman of the nearest canoe. The brawny painted cannibal dropped his paddle and collapsed, clutching convulsively at his right arm. A howl of fury from his fellows drew yet another whoop from the snub-nosed marksman.
“Hark at the dicky-birds singing!” he scoffed, winking at the bunch of French askaris—native soldiers—who crouched against the rail beside him. Big, tough, ebony-hued fellows they were, clad in soiled white drill. And they grinned back at Midge wholeheartedly—not because there was anything to grin at, but because it was their nature to do so when a “white boss” winked and spoke to them.
“Birdie him sing fine, little baas!” chuckled one, in broken English, yanking back his rifle-bolt. Midge noticed that two of the askaris, after vainly exploring the loops of their bandoliers, retired from the rail to squat stolidly in the shelter of the deckhouse, with their empty rifles across their knees.
“H’m!” grunted Midge. “Not so good! Bullets running short.”
He squeezed trigger again, then started as the vicious smack of the quickfirer stung his eardrums once more. But that was the last shell! As Midge glanced for’ard, he saw the gun crew leaving the useless weapon, crawling aft in search of a rifle or revolver apiece.
“No, not nearly so blinkin’ good!” Midge wagged his fiery head pensively. “Now that pea-shooter’s packed up the bloomin’ party will get rough, and—Hallo! Sufferin' snakes, if it isn’t Patty O’Mally! What-cheer, sawbones! Polished off all the wounded below?"
The grin returned to his cheeky freckled face as out of the deckhouse lumbered stout, bald-headed Dr. O’Mally, Justice’s Irish second-in-command.
Ignoring Midge’s sarcastic reference to his medical skill, the doctor snorted, picked up a bucket, and emptied the contents all over himself, the water steaming as it ran down his bare shoulders and chest.
“Brr-rr! Faith, I needed that! ’Tis like an oven down in the sickbay!" he grunted, casting bloodshot eyes over the lake. Now that the dreaded quickfirer was silent, the black cannibals were closing in faster. Their canoes skimmed the water in dense flotillas, war-bows twanged, and arrows whined through the air like angry mosquitoes.
“Bedad, ’tis a plaguey tight spot we’re in, right enough!” O’Mally muttered. “How long’ve we been at it now, ye rusty-haired tintack?”
“Close on five hours, I reckon, Irish! Though it seems like five years!" Midge, screwing up his eyes against the glare, looked long and anxiously at the dazzling sky.
“Have you heard anything more from Len about the Flying Cloud?” he asked quietly. “I know he’s in touch with her by wireless—and, moanin’ moggies, what a slice of jam it was to hear that she was still searching for us in
East Africa! But, gummy, if the old airship doesn’t get here soon,
we stand a lively chance of handing in our dinner-pails! The rifle ammunition’s
running short, and the quickfirer’s declared her innings closed!”
“We haven’t fought our way out of all those jungles an’ mountains just to be eaten by a pack o’ cannibals!" retorted O’Mally. “Gimme that rifle!”
With the light of battle in his eyes, O’Mally snatched Midge’s weapon, wincing as the hot barrel burned his hand.
A high-prowed, thirty-foot canoe, packed with yelling archers, shot past within a hundred yards of the launch. But before the arrows could fly O’Mally fired. There was a screech as the steersman went overboard—then another as the canoe yawed, charging full-tilt into a second war vessel. Both turned over and sank, to the sound of hoarse cheering from the launch.
“Cigars or nuts, doc!” jeered Midge. “Who did you aim at?”
“The beggar I got, ye saucy shrimp!” O’Mally growled, slipping a fresh cartridge into the breech.
“Let me have another before I—Hallo, here’s Justice, safe and sound!”
Captain Justice was looking grim and war-worn. He had volunteered to take charge of the askari riflemen for’ard, after Lieutenant la Salle had been wounded, and since then his comrades had seen little of him.
Now he came hurrying towards them, threading his way calmly through the jabbering black soldiers. He wore a battered pith helmet canted jauntily over one ear, while from the corner of his lips jutted the stump of a cigar, the fifth he had borrowed from Lieutenant de Vissac, the commander of the launch. Quickly he ducked down into cover between Midge and O’Mally, and slapped the Irishman on the shoulder.
“Good shooting, doc! Keep your head down, Midge, you imp!” he jerked. “How’s Lieutenant la Salle, O’Mally?”
“Bad! He’ll fight no more for some months to come, poor lad!” the doctor grunted. “I’ve given him and the rest of the serious casualties a dose of morphine to keep ’em peaceful, but I'll be goin’ down again in a moment. ’Tis a real hot corner we’re in, Justice!”
“Ay! And, by James, it’ll get hotter yet!” was the ominous reply. “We’re down to the last of our ammunition for’ard.”
“Weepin’ willows! So are we, skipper!” exclaimed Midge.
Captain Justice shrugged, and shot a glance over the canvas at the serried lines of canoes, still circling round and creeping closer.
“The yelling scum! By Jove, it looks as though the whole infernal tribe has rallied from every part of the hinterland. We certainly sailed into a trap! Thank heavens the launch was here, or we’d have been scuppered hours ago! But if the Flying Cloud doesn’t arrive soon—”
He shrugged again, his teeth biting deeper into the cigar.
“She’ll come!” repeated O’Mally sturdily. “Where’s Flaznagel?”
“Down in the engine-room, rigging up steam-pipes in ease these swabs get close enough to board us. I suggested it, and De Vissac agreed!” said Justice. “Poor beggar! He’s a brave youngster, but he doesn’t know which way to turn now to save his ship. As the first French commander to penetrate into this howling wilderness, he’s done us a mighty good turn, but—Hallo, that’s him calling me now!”
A Fatal Mistake!
GIVING Midge a last warning to keep under cover, Justice rose in response to a hail from the bridge. As he stole away with head and shoulders bowed low, Len Connor dashed out of the tiny house that served as the wireless cabin, and caught him by the arm.
Len’s face, body, and limbs were streaming with perspiration. His lips and tongue were parched, his eyes glazed with weariness. For the interior of that cabin was reminiscent of the Black Hole of Calcutta, and Len had been stewing in there since the action started. Without ceremony he twisted his leader round, shouting to make himself heard above the mad din of battle.
“Captain! The Flying Cloud!” he cried; and Justice’s lips tightened as he listened to the rest of the young wireless operator’s message concerning the great airship. He nodded coolly, however, snapped an order that sent Len lurching back into the cabin, and carried on.
Up on the low bridge, beneath an arrow-riddled awning, Lieutenant de Vissac, the tall, angular commander, drooped limply over the wheel, glaring out across the shimmering waters at his frenzied attackers. As Justice sprang up the ladder and saluted him, the young Frenchman surveyed him for a moment with haggard eyes.
“It grows hot!” he muttered, licking his lips. “Captain, have you no news? You assured me that your famous airship was hastening to our aid, but——”
Justice eyed him narrowly. The young officer, he could see, was becoming distinctly rattled.
“When we first got in touch with the Flying Cloud, lieutenant,” he said quietly, “she was farther off than you gave us to understand. Seventeen hundred miles, in fact. And it took time to get hold of her.”
“Ye-es, captain. Our wireless, I know, is not good, and M’sieur Connor, he has done marvels! But—”
Then Captain Justice smiled—a smile that suddenly stiffened De Vissac’s backbone and sent renewed hope surging through his heart.
“Mr. Connor is still doing marvels,” Justice drawled. “Lieutenant, I have the honour to inform you that the Flying Cloud will be here in under the hour!”
But if Justice expected De Vissac to share in what was undoubtedly a triumph of wireless telegraphy and terrific flying-speed, he was disappointed.
“An hour, you say—an hour?” Lieutenant de Vissac’s shoulders sagged again. So far from encouraging him, the news seemed to come as the final blow to his hopes.
“An hour!” he repeated thickly. “But, captain, we cannot possibly last an hour! We have no shells, and but a few rounds of ammunition left! Regard these black cannibals! See how they creep in on us! Ignorant dogs that they are, they are beginning to realise that we are helpless now! An hour—bah! Why not a thousand hours? It will be all the same!”
“Rot!” Captain Justice dropped his formal politeness and descended to some good, plain Navy talk. “By, James, that’s no way for a sailor to talk!” he snapped aggressively. “Listen, De Vissac! My comrades and I have managed to survive all these months in the wilderness, and no cannibal rats are going to trample on us now! Besides, I didn’t say an hour. I said under the hour! And, by James, sir, we’ll hold these beggars off until then, and wring their black necks afterwards!
“Now, look, lieutenant,” he continued persuasively. “Don’t worry! Pull yourself together! I’m an older man than you, and I’ve been in tighter corners. Save your ammunition by ordering your men to cease volley firing. Tell ’em to snipe the cannibal steersmen instead. And, meanwhile, keep the launch zigzagging as she is!”
“What you say about saving bullets is right, captain—I will give the order!” snapped De Vissac, and he did so. “But for me—bah, I am sick of the zigzag, and I am sick of waiting! If we have few bullets, we still have one 'big' weapon—the launch itself! I will put on all speed and ram these vile canoes to—what you say?—to blazes!”
Justice snatched the cigar from his mouth.
"Do nothing of the kind, man!” he cried sharply. “Don’t you sec that by continually altering course and swerving you’re keeping these demons guessing—as well as giving them a shifting target to aim at?”
Justice made a vehement gesture. “In any case,” he went on rapidly, “your vessel isn’t powerful enough to ram through all the canoes out there. All you’ll do is to ram two or three, perhaps, and get your bows all cluttered up with wreckage. Then the rest of the swabs will board us while you’re trying to barge your way clear! You might as well shove the launch’s nose into the nearest bank and be done with it !”
All this twisting and dodging irked Lieutenant de Vissac sorely. It was as acid to his pride to be harried and hunted by a pack of cannibals, and he had stood it long enough. Drawing himself erect, the angry and worried officer looked Justice squarely in the eye.
"Captain Justice, I am a French officer—not a cur to be hounded by black cannibals!" he said shortly. "My tactics are my own responsibility. I would remind you that I am the commander of this vessel!”
“I see!” Justice forced himself to swallow the snub, realising De Vissac’s desperate state of mind. Nevertheless, he did not expose himself to another by continuing the fruitless argument.
“Quite true, lieutenant. I beg your pardon!” he said evenly, and saluted. “Very well, then! If you need me, I’ll be among the men for’ard.
“Brave young idiot!” he murmured to himself as, next instant, he went hot-foot down the ladder. “Pray Heaven the Flying Cloud gets here on time! We’re in for it now!” Amidships, lying flat on the deck, huddled old N’Urru and a score of his fellow Giants—all that remained of the escort that had guided Justice & Co. out of the vast, unexplored mountain-country. Dazed and deafened by hours of incessant firing, the tawny-skinned goliaths lay motionless, gripping their terrible, three-pronged spears and glaring savagely at the foe.
But their dark brown eyes softened as Justice clapped N’Urru on the shoulder and flicked the veteran's glittering trident.
"Cheer up, boys! You're going to get a chance to use these soon!" he said. And though the Giants did not understand his words, Justice’s expression was enough.
INSTANTLY their handsome faces lighted up with the joy of battle. And as their deep war-cry thundered across the waters the French launch gathered speed. Lieutenant de Vissac’s ramming operations had commenced!
“Gummy!” grunted Midge, as the launch trembled to the violent throb of the engine and swung round sharply on the nearest flotilla of canoes. “What’s this game?”
Risking arrows at every stride, the reckless youngster ran forward to where Captain Justice knelt among the askaris.
“Skipper,” he panted, “what’s the stunt now? Surely De Vissac isn’t going to try to ram these slippery beauties? Has he gone scats?” Justice turned his head.
“That’s no way to talk about your commander,” he said curtly. “As for you, my son, get below out of it! We’re in for some work—too warm for a hop-o’-my-thumb like you!”
“Oh!” Midge screwed up his freckled face. “Oh yeah?” he murmured. And, aware that Justice was watching him, he ducked down into the deckhouse—and out the other side!
"N'Urru, old cockalorum," he said severely, as he wriggled in cautiously among the wondering Giants, "we're going to ram some canoes—if we can catch ’em! And when we’ve rammed a few and can’t move for wreckage, we’re goin’ to have umpteen billion big black beggars piling over the rails to chop us into small bits. Ain’t life grand? Wow, hold your hat on! Here we go!”
Suddenly there sounded a raucous blare from the siren. The launch swerved again as De Vissac spun the wheel, and, with sparks flying from its single funnel, it bore down swiftly on the enemy. The foremost canoe swung aside in the nick of time, and a dozen spears came whizzing over among the askaris along the starboard rail. But the next three canoes were unlucky!
Crash! At headlong speed the French vessel smashed into the first—smashed into it and over it. Havoc and confusion followed.
Into the air whirled splinters and fragments of riven planking, while yells of rage and alarm rang out from the other blacks. But the launch quivered. From stem to stern it shuddered under the grinding impact, recovering just in time to catch the second canoe.
In vain the third strove to escape. The gunboat, lurching on, rammed its prow half-way through the doomed craft—and then stuck fast!
With the partially sundered canoe dragging under her bow, her screws and rudder fouled by drifting wreckage, the launch stopped dead. She began to roll and toss uneasily, like some snared creature struggling to win free but lacking the strength to do so.
Again the siren bawled; bells clanged, and water churned under the stern. But before the frantic De Vissac could back out of the mess, the cannibals rallied.
One bloodcurdling yell of glee shrieked across the lake. The blacks had sized up the situation in the blink of an eye. Their elusive prey was caught in a trap of her own making! Like sharks swarming to the kill, the canoes skimmed through the water, converging upon her from all quarters.
“And that’s that!”
Captain Justice, his heard bristling, cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth, cocked a cold eye up at the bridge.
"Stand to it now, my braves!” he roared in French to the askaris around him, and scarcely had he spoken when the leading canoes bumped alongside.
For a nightmare second Justice had a glimpse of rolling eyeballs and hideous painted faces upturned to his. Then the fight for the launch began!
COVERED by a shower of arrows, over the rail poured the black cannibals, to be met and flung back by a bristling hedge of bayonets. Shots cracked viciously. Steel clashed against copper and iron, men grappled with each other and went down, fighting like furies.
But more and more canoes were racing to the attack. More and more frenzied warriors slashed and hacked their way aboard as fast as their friends were hurled off.
At the first onset, Midge had been brushed aside as N’Urru and the Giants sprang up and surged to the rail. Breathlessly the boy scrambled to his feet, but was promptly flattened again as Dr. O'Mally erupted into the open and went careering down the sloping deck, brandishing a ten-inch spanner.
By this time the launch was rocking and tilting over dangerously as the number of invaders increased. And suddenly the askaris in the stern broke under the pressure, reeling back before the invaders.
Back they were forced, fighting with the courage of despair. The yelling and shouting rose higher. For a few dread moments the fate of the launch trembled in the balance. Then high above the din rose O’Mally’s wild Irish whoop.
Simultaneously, he, with N’Urru and his herculean figliting-men, charged down into the stern, sweeping the triumphant raiders overside again in one glorious irresistible rush. At the same time, Captain Justice and his party launched a rousing counterattack that cleared the foredeck.
Thus, for a brief space, the hard-pressed defenders won a breather for themselves. And during that respite, Professor Flaznagel took a hand in the game.
Coolly, almost disdainfully, the lanky old scientist emerged from the engine-room, dragging a length of flexible steel tubing behind him. His hand went swiftly to the brass nozzle on the tubing, and the next instant:
“Hurrah! Attaboy, Flapwoggle! How d'ye like your eggs boiled, blackies!” shrilled Midge, as with a hissing roar, a jet of scalding white steam shot out from Flaznagel’s tubing, straight on the target. In a flash, a mob of determined raiders clambering over the port rail seemed to vanish into thin air before the deadly blast.
“Oh, good man, professor!”
Captain Justice, gripping a revolver by the barrel, came sliding down the slippery deck, ducking as a spear whizzed overhead.
“Keep the hose playing, Flaznagel!” he jerked, grabbing the disobedient Midge by the arm. “That’s our best weapon now as long as the steam lasts! De Vissac—Oh, great Scott!”
Justice, shooting a glance aloft, stiffened. Then, dragging Midge along helter-skelter, he tore up on to the bridge. Lieutenant de Vissac lay there slumped beside the wheel, with a javelin buried in his thigh.
“No, no! Leave it—do not trouble about me!” gasped the wounded commander, as Justice bent over him. “It is not serious—yet! I am paid out for being a fool!” A spasm of pain contorted his face. “You were correct, captain,” he whispered. “It is the finish, yes?”
“It will be—when the Flying Cloud gets here!” gritted Justice. “Try to take it easy, De Vissac! By James, we’ve still got a kick or two left! Shall I take charge?”
“I thank you!” The Frenchman grasped his hand feebly. Then, in response to a sharp question, he shook his head. “No, there is no chance of breaking clear now. We have no steam left! Your friend, he is using it all —very fast. I think it will not last—A-ah!”
His voice broke in a groan of dismay as Professor Flaznagel’s “weapon” suddenly gave vent to a gurgling splutter. The steam petered out in curling wisps.
Fiercely the cannibal warriors rallied, rushing the port rail again as Flaznagel beat a hasty retreat. De Vissac sighed and collapsed. Captain Justice, commander of a French river-patrol in action, drew a deep, rasping breath.
“Backs to the wall now!” he muttered; and whirled, with hands cupped to his mouth. “O’Mally! Get your fellows back to the deckhouse! Make a stand there! Midge, you stay here—do what you can for the lieutenant. If you poke your red head into danger again, my lad, I’ll smack it!” And Justice was down the bridge-ladder in one flying leap, running on to rally his own squad on the foredeck.
As the captain sped past, Len, wildly excited, suddenly darted out of the wireless cabin, a message trembling on his lips. But justice neither saw nor heard him. A spear plunked into the deck between the youngster’s legs, tripping him headlong. And before he could recover from the heavy toss, Justice was up for’ard, plunging into the thick of the scrimmage again.
And a terrible scrimmage it was—a roaring, raging melee, with no quarter asked or given.
SAFE now from burning lead or blistering steam, the blacks came swarming in from all sides, skipping across the banked canoes, hurling themselves at the rolling launch. They poured over the stem and over the bows. Others scrambled over both rails, agile as tigers and as ferocious.
It was the final onslaught, with the maddened attackers gaining ground every minute. Even Justice had to admit to himself that the end was now in sight!
Weary defenders, outnumbered and outweighted, could withstand the savage assaults no longer. And still there was no sign of the Flying Cloud. With bayonet and rifle-butt Justice fought like a demon on the foredeck, while O’Mally more than held his own among the fighting-men aft. But in spite of gallant leadership, askaris and Giants gradually began to falter. Slowly but surely both squads were being pressed backwards, and hemmed in, when—
Br-ooo-ooom! In the moment of victory, defeat swept down upon the blacks in a terrifying, overwhelming wave of sound!
Out of a clear sky, something fell—something long, sleek, and slender, something that landed squarely among a huge raft of canoes, banked gunwale to gunwale. Then it burst, and seemed to rock the whole universe with its devastating thunder!
All fighting aboard the launch ceased, because hardly a man there, black, brown, or white, remained on his feet within the next few seconds of terror.
The terrific explosion, appalling as it was unexpected, smote them like a giant fist. Just for an instant, cannibals and native soldiers froze in attitudes of suspended animation, then men of both sides went down in heaps as the launch heaved and rolled in the wash of leaping billows.
Away to starboard, a mighty pillar of water and debris was rising high into the air, dissolving in seething foam and spray.
“The Flying Cloud!” Midge yelled—a yell that nearly cracked his throat—as he looked overhead.
Len, who had received his last signal from the dirigible some ten minutes back, grinned weakly, clutched at his aching head, and slumped to the deck again with a thud.
From the cannibals arose the low, gurgling wail of men rendered witless by ghastly fear. The battle was forgotten! With eyes bulging and limbs shaking as with palsy, the stupefied savages gazed aloft at the great shining monster that had materialised so uncannily out of nowhere, and dropped a bomb on their canoes.
Silvery-blue, the beautiful airship hung motionless against the gleaming sky, the strangest, most dreadful sight they ever had beheld. Then majestically it sank lower under spinning helicopters. A staccato rattle of machine-guns spraying the outlying canoes shattered the stillness.
“The Flying Cloud! She's here! Come on! One last drive!”
Tossing up his rifle, Justice let out a hoarse shout as he charged. And though his askaris were scarcely less bewildered than the foe, they followed him instinctively, venting their joy in delirious howls. But there was no need to drive the blacks away now. Their brute courage had snapped.
Faster than ever they had come aboard, the fear-crazed cannibals fled, hurtling over the rails, diving into the swirling waters, or fighting each other like rats in a mad scramble for the boats. The weapons of the defenders, aided by a few more machine-gun bursts from above, sped them on their frantic way. The launch was saved. The surface of
became dotted with
hard-driven canoes, black bobbing heads, and floating wreckage. Lake
AND then, at the height of the confusion, the Flying Cloud came to rest two hundred feet above the launch, casting a protective shadow over the stricken boat. Meanwhile, Captain Justice & Co. had gathered on the bridge, worn out, dishevelled, dripping with perspiration.
Justice had sustained an ugly cut across one cheekbone and another down his forearm; O’Mally’s brawny left arm hung limp as the result of a knobkerry stroke; and Flaznagel was almost overcome by heat and excitement.
But no one cared. It was good to feast their eyes on their splendid airship again after all these months of separation, good to see the familiar observation-cage dropping steadily down from the open hatch. And suddenly, as Justice’s own standard, the big black flag with its white “J,” broke out from the after-deck railing, the five castaways lifted their husky voices in a cheer.
“Sufferin’ cats!” exclaimed the exultant Midge. "Is she a sight for sore eyes, or isn’t she? I’d sooner look at her than at a ten-course banquet—and goodness knows I could chew O’Mally’s right leg this minute.”
“Good boys—good boys! I knew they’d get here!” said Justice, deeply moved. Then, remembering that he was in command of the launch, the celebrated adventurer pulled himself together.
Beckoning to a grinning askari sergeant in tattered uniform, Justice ordered the man to collect a squad and bring the wounded aft.
“More work for you, I’m afraid, doc—more work for us all as soon as we get hold of some first-aid kit!” he growled, and turned to see how N’Urru and the Giants were getting on. A surprise awaited him.
For N’Urru and company had seen enough and heard enough of white men’s fighting methods. They were on their way back home!
Of the thirty giant natives who had started out into the wilderness only fourteen were left, and already these had collared one of the abandoned canoes. Fifty yards from the launch they stopped paddling in answer to Justice’s hail, and old N’Urru rose from the stern, lifting his arm high in a last salute. Then broad backs gleamed again as they swung to and fro in the sunshine. Without pause for rest, without any more delay whatever, fourteen Giant heroes were off on the long journey back to their secret land.
“And may the saints protect ’em all the way!” muttered O’Mally, in a tremulous voice. “ ’Tis some marvellous tales they’ll have to tell Chief Buktu and the rest of the boys when they get back home. What men they are, Justice. And, faith, what friends they’ve been to us!”
Justice nodded sombrely.
“The best ever!” he cried—and wheeled hastily as a well-known voice greeted him from above:
With a slight jar, the Flying Cloud’s observation-cage, swaying at the end of a cable, landed on the afterdeck, the door slid open, and John Rigg, attended by Aircraftman Baker, sprang out. His eyes widened at sight of the five torn and gory scarecrows limping eagerly towards him, and then he, too, ran forward with both hands outstretched. Followed a tumultuous spell of cheers, laughter, numbing handclasps, and back-slappings; while Midge literally hurled himself upon Baker’s massive bosom.
“What, the old Tiny!” he carolled, pounding his staring friend in the ribs. “How are you, you poor weak invalid?”
Aircraftman Baker, burliest and toughest of all the Flying Cloud’s crew, did not answer. He could not. Humbly he reached out for Midge’s hand.
“You, you big ape!” squawked the diminutive youngster as the tremendous palm engulfed his and nearly pulped it. Then Aircraftman Baker found his tongue in a wholehearted roar that floated up to the Flying Cloud—a roar that told the anxious men there that Captain Justice & Co. were safe.
Squaring the Account!
TWO hours later the castaways were not only safe, but comfortably seated in the sunny dining-saloon of the Flying Cloud, their wounds dressed, and pangs of hunger appeased. Warm baths and cold showers, good food, and freshly laundered linen had worked wonders already. It was a grand reunion.
Once again Captain Justice was his old spruce self, immaculate in white drill, his beard trimmed to a dapper point, and one of his own special cigars perfuming the air. Only the deep hollows under his eyes and the strip of plaster across his cheek bore witness to recent harrowing experiences.
A smile of content crinkled his keen brown face as he surveyed the crowd of silent men who had forgathered in the saloon to listen to his brief but enthralling story.
“And that’s how it went, my lads,” Justice said, after a short pause. “It was a bad time for us all—and I wouldn’t go through it again for untold gold! But I want to say here and now that the professor, Dr. O’Mally, Connor, and that red-haired scallawag yonder with his mouth full of pineapple stuck it out like heroes. And, as you’ve seen, we’ve managed to pull through in the end, thanks to the Giants—”
“And you!” Dr. O’Mally interrupted suddenly. The portly Irishman rose and solemnly lifted his glass.
“Gentlemen, before we go further, ’tis meself has the honour to propose a toast!” he cried. “A toast to Captain Justice—the only man who could go empty-handed into a howlin’ wilderness and come out to lead his own bunch o’ wild fighting men to victory! Come on, ye spalpeens!”
“Captain Justice!” was the shout that rang joyously through the saloon when the doctor finished.
A deep flush of pleasure dyed the captain’s cheeks as he raised his own glass in acknowledgement.
“Thank you, men—and thank you for the way you rushed to our aid,” he said quietly. “But now to work! First, how are the wounded, O’Mally?”
“Och, fair to middling,” replied the doctor, preparing for another visit to the sick-bay. “
La Salle’s still sleeping, and De Vissac’s suffering
chiefly from loss of blood and exhaustion. But never fear! Begorrah, I’m
looking after them all right!”
“Right, carry on, doctor,” said Justice. “Now, Mr. Rigg, I want you to send a squad below and put that Frenchman into trim once more. We’ll have to stand by, too, until she and her crew are safe. Connor has wirelessed the news to French headquarters, so I expect they’ll rush an air-squadron out to relieve us. In any case,” he added dryly, “I doubt if we’ll have any more trouble from those black villains now!”
“Very good, sir!” John Rigg stood up. As he did so, a subtle change came over his face, as though some icy wind had stiffened the muscles.
“Talking of villains, captain,” he burst out fiercely, “what about this Greek villain, Xavier Kuponos—the cur who dumped you five into the wilds without a weapon between you? What are we going to do about him? Isn’t the brute to pay for all this?”
“Most decidedly he will pay!” Professor Flaznagel declared emphatically, amid a chorus of growls and threats. “The miscreant not only kidnapped and exposed me to a great deal of inconvenience and danger, but, confound him, he has seriously interfered with my work! Justice, I insist that this rascal be punished without delay!”
Captain Justice inspected the glowing tip of his cigar. It was a full minute before he replied.
“We shall attend to the matter,” he drawled then, “just as soon as we have discovered the gentleman’s whereabouts. In due course, my friends, Monsieur Xavier Kuponos is going to wish with all his heart that he had never been born.”
ON a starlit night, three weeks after the battle of
N’Gako, Xavier Kuponos sat in camp
near the headwaters of a little lost river in the depths of Abyssinia.
He was smoking his after supper cigarette, musing on life, and finding it good.
Outlawed from all the “white” countries in
Africa, the Greek
slaver and gun-runner nevertheless felt that he was sitting pretty—very pretty
indeed. He had with him at this moment three score of his heftiest Ethiopian
raiders, and a large mule-train of smuggled arms and ammunition—American
weapons that would fetch their weight in gold nuggets when delivered to a
certain troublesome brigand-chief on the morrow.
Last, but not least, he had squared accounts with the only man who had ever laid him by the heels—Captain Justice!
Not once during the past three months had the wily Greek heard so much as a rumour concerning the fate of Captain Justice & Co. As far as Xavier Kuponos knew, the jungle had swallowed his enemies without trace. He was safe from Captain Justice—safe from suspicion, too.
“Which is very good, I think,” decided Xavier Kuponos, baring his teeth in a slow smile as he rolled another cigarette. He was still smiling when an airship’s observation-cage dropped out of the night and landed neatly in the circle of watch-fires.
Kuponos’ Ethiopian ruffians were bold men. But they were not nearly bold enough to stand up to the sudden warning rattle of machine-guns from the skies, or the soundless arrival of that weird object in their midst. One petrified stare they took at the cage, then took to their heels. By the time Xavier Kuponos recovered from his own stupor of surprise, he found himself all alone save for a trim, dapper man in white.
This intruder, as the paralysed Greek presently observed, wore a torpedo-shaped beard cocked at a truculent angle, and a most unpleasant smile. Kuponos scarcely noticed the revolver that was gripped firmly in a strong brown hand. His eyes, glassy with fear, were riveted to the intruder’s hawk-like face.
“Justice—Captain Justice!” he choked.
“Back from the jungle, Kuponos!” came the level voice in reply, and Xavier Kuponos saw red. Blindly he sprang to his feet and rushed at the man he feared and hated worse than anyone in
Captain Justice took one quick pace forward and hit him.
When next he regained his senses, the most notorious outlaw south of
Suez was a prisoner on board the Flying
Cloud. With bleary eyes half-open, Kuponos gazed around—to find four other “ghosts”
regarding him impassively. He groaned, and Captain Justice himself stepped
forward to offer him a glass of water.
“Oh, you—you hound!” Kuponos gasped, his olive-lined face convulsed. “Justice! All of you—alive! You fiends, you can’t be human! How—how—”
“How did we trace you?” Justice said coolly. “That wasn’t difficult, my friend. You left a pretty wide trail for men who can hunt, and I’ve had plenty of hunters at work. As to how we escaped the death you sent us to, that’s a different matter. It’s a long story, Kuponos, and I don’t propose to repeat it again.
“Well, Kuponos, your game is up! You sent my friends and me into a villainous hole, and now it’s your turn. Professor Flaznagel here has need of as much molybdenum for his work as he can obtain, and we own one of the loneliest quarries in
South America. You’re going there—to stay—and to work. If
you value your skin, you’ll not attempt to escape!”
Xavier Kuponos panted. There were flecks of foam on his lips as he screeched:
“Hang you, you can’t do it! Take me back to
me over to the police! I demand a fair trial!”
“You’ve had it! Kuponos, you were tried and sentenced three months ago!” Justice cut in icily. "And thank your lucky stars we did not decide to pay you back in your own coin and maroon you, foodless and weaponless, in the jungle.
“As it is, you’ll be in no danger and sure of your food so long as you work. And my men will see to that!” he added grimly. He strode to the telephone as Xavier Kuponos broke down and wept.
“Main-deck, there! Quartermaster? Steady on your course. Full speed for
the captain ordered. Then he turned, took a last glance at the prisoner, and
swept his satisfied comrades from the cabin. Justice Island
The African venture was finished at last. With effortless power, the Flying Cloud increased her speed, soaring across the
And in due course, in the sultry climate of South America, Monsieur Xavier Kuponos did wish, with all his heart, first that he had never tackled Captain Justice & Co., secondly that he had never been born! For Xavier Kuponos had to work—hard, very hard—in those lonely quarries!
A NEW SERIES of CAPTAIN JUSTICE stories starts in Next Saturday's GREAT FREE GIFT issue of MODERN BOY—uncanny and gloriously thrilling!!!
Friday, 28 November 2014
To Part 1.
Part 10 of 12 in The Castaways serial. Published in The Modern Boy magazine. This from 14 Sept. 1934, Vol. 14 No. 345.
Digitized by Doug Frizzle, for the blog Stillwoods.Blogspot.Com; Nov. 2014.
Castaways in Unexplored Africa, Captain Justice & Co, say farewell to their friends, the Golden Giants, and set off into the Unknown—grimly determined to struggle back to Civilisation and Safety!
“OUR last day among the Giants—eh?” Captain Justice spoke softly, musingly. “The last day among some of the finest fellows I’ve ever met! And now the wilderness, and goodness knows what else, ahead of us once more!”
A smile that held more than a trace of wistfulness crossed the famous Gentleman Adventurer’s tanned face as he gazed pensively across the village of the Golden Giants.
“Well, we’ve had a great time!” he murmured, and meant it.
Slowly his eyes roved from the lines of thatched, high-peaked huts to the chief’s “palace.” Then to the oily stream that wound across the village, and thence to the lofty, cave-riddled hill that once had been the domain of the brutal witch-doctor of the Giants. From there his gaze scaled the eastern cliffs. On the top lay all that remained of the wrecked plane of an Italian airman who had crashed all alone in this unexplored quarter of Darkest Africa.
Every inch of this upland hollow among the wild mountains recalled some stirring adventure that had befallen the five white castaways during the two months they had dwelt among the Giants. Indeed, everything connected with those virile, golden-brown Goliaths was stamped indelibly on Justice’s memory.
Great fellows they had been—great in every sense of the word, and brave, kindly, hospitable. It was, as Justice frankly confessed, hard to leave such friends and hosts.
But the call of civilisation was more insistent still. After weeks of living in the wilds, Justice & Co. were seizing their chance at last to set forth on the long, perilous trail which, they hoped, would lead eventually to civilisation.
Buktu, who had become the new chief of the Giants after the old chief’s death in the fighting which had wiped out the witch-doctor and his followers, had been reluctant to let them go. But, at long last, he had given way, and the road to freedom was open to them.
Now all preparations for departure were made, and only awaiting the captain’s final inspection. Justice dragged his eyes from the village and the long lines of stalwart, motionless Giants, and turned to his comrades —stout Dr. O’Mally, Professor Flaznagel, Len Connor, and red-headed young Midge.
All four stood ready among the wicker food-baskets, the water-bags, and native blankets their generous friends had given them, looking fit and eager for the arduous journey ahead.
“Well, O’Mally,” said Justice, “food and stores all set?”
“All set, Justice!” returned the genial Irishman. “Faith, our friends have done us proud! We’ve salted meat and fish, with enough yams, ground nuts, and mealie grain to last us a month!”
“Good!” said Justice. “You seem to have a pretty hefty collection of pots and skin-bags there,” he added, turning to the professor. “What is in them, please?”
“Specimens of all the minerals I have found whilst prospecting beyond the cliffs yonder and along the river-bank,” replied the famous scientist and inventor, blinking proudly through his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Truly, Justice, as I prophesied in the first place, this region is a veritable Eldorado! By Jove, When I publish my account of this venture, as I shall do on our return to civilisation, it will cause a sensation! There are certain so-called scientists of my acquaintance who—”
“Sorry, professor!” Justice interrupted him. “But you’ll have to leave those specimens behind—and keep your reminiscences to yourself, too! This region is unexplored. It will remain so, as far as your rival scientists arc concerned!”
The captain drew in a deep breath. His voice was very earnest as he continued:
“We came here empty-handed, without food, weapons, or hope, and all thanks to that Greek ruffian, Xavier Kuponos, who dumped us in the wilderness in our pyjamas. Now, thanks to Buktu, we’re going out fully equipped, with guides and escort. Well, once you’ve published your account, how long will it be before the Giants’ territory is overrun by scientific and hunting expeditions—by get-rich-quick traders and adventurers? No, professor. This is a secret country, where the Giants have lived their own lives for goodness knows how many centuries! It would be a dirty trick on our part to give the secret away!”
"But—but, Justice,” Flaznagel expostulated, “in the interests of science—”
“Sorry, professor! Nothing doing!” repeated Justice, more firmly than over. “In the interests of the Giants, we’ll leave ’em in peace. That’s not an order, Flaznagel; it’s a personal request. I hope you’ll agree to it.”
PROFESSOR FLAZNAGEL swallowed hard. Ruefully he glanced from his precious collection to the captain’s inflexible face and shrugged. It was like parting with his eye-teeth to leave behind the specimens that had cost him so much labour, and to suppress the notes that would gain him fresh laurels in the realms of science. But when Captain Justice spoke in that tone, even a headstrong, ambitious man like Professor Flaznagel knuckled down.
“Very well, Justice!” he sighed. “I would be the last to show ingratitude to these natives, either by word or act. Since you make this request, I suppose I must grant it.”
Midge patted the old man encouragingly on the arm.
“Spoken like a gent, Whiskers!” cried the red-haired youngster. “Let’s not tell anyone about old Buck and his tribe, or—Hallo! Here comes his nibs in person!”
To a man the castaways turned, smiles of welcome breaking across their faces, as Buktu strode slowly towards them.
Buktu, intelligent as he was huge, had picked up a few words of English. Moreover, he had grasped the castaways’ names—or, at least, his own version of them!
To him, Midge was “Mish.” The doctor had become “Omalee,” and “Yen K’nor” was the title bestowed upon that youthful wireless operator. The name Justice, however, had twisted Buktu’s tongue hopelessly, so he called the leader of the castaways “Kapen.” And, prompted by the spritely Midge, he respectfully addressed Flaznagel as “W’ickers,” to the intense annoyance of that bearded and peppery person.
As he halted in front of the comrades the young chief’s handsome face was clouded with sorrow, which he made no attempt to hide. The morning breeze rustled the feathers of liis headdress, and the early sun made his tawny, magnificently muscled body shine like burnished copper. He leaned heavily' on his glittering trident, surveying the castaways steadily with sad, dark eyes. Then at last he spoke—and it was odd to hear broken “baby sentences” issuing from the lips of such a Titan.
“You—go!” he muttered. “You— go—’ome!”
Justice nodded soberly. Riglit up to the last, he saw, Buktu was hoping that his guests would change their minds.
“Yes, old chap, we go home. White man’s home—savvy?”
Buktu’s swelling chest rose and fell beneath the gorgeous leopard-skin he wore. Then, with grave dignity, he lifted Justice’s hand and placed it on his own bowed head, repeating the ceremony all down the line.
“Kapen, Mish, Yen K’nor, Omalee, W’ickers—good f’lems!” he said quietly, yet with a tinge of pride. “W’ite f’lems go ’ome. Buktu——” And he sighed again, laying a hand over his heart. It was a simple gesture, but one that expressed his deep sorrow more finely than any words.
Midge and Len gulped, eyeing each other awkwardly; and Dr. O’Mally, of the impulsive nature and tender heart, stared fixedly at the ground. But Captain Justice, no less moved, hastened to end the painful pause by slapping his stalwart ally on the shoulder.
“Come along—cheer up, old lad!” he cried. “It’s better this way, you know. White men and brown don’t mix—which is why we’re going to keep the location of your land a secret, and a thundering deep one. Now, my sons,” he added, with a significant frown at his comrades, “the sun’s getting higher. It’s time to say good-bye—and shift!”
So saying, the captain wheeled and mounted the rocky parapet of the hollow, while Buktu suddenly drew himself erect. At once a party of young men, nimble as cats, fell upon the castaways’ gear and hurried off down the outer slope to the river, where the canoes were moored. Another party of picked men, who were to escort Justice & Co. to the boundary of their mountainous land, followed.
Thus Captain Justice began his simple speech of farewell. And the sound of his voice sent a sudden ripple of expectation through guards, warriors, and villagers, massing silently in the background.
“You can’t understand what I’m about to say,” continued the captain huskily. "But I’m going to say it, for all that! You are the finest people it has been our luck to meet—white, brown, black, or red. May you live in peace and kindness for ever. Good-bye—and thank you!” Reaching out, he caught Buktu’s hand in a clasp that made even that man of iron wince. Then, sweeping off his rush hat, he waved it on high.
“Come on, my lads—three cheers for our friends the Giants ! Hip—hip—hip—”
With right good will the castaways responded, the hollow echoing again to the sound of that stirring British cheer. Flashes of light gleamed and flickered as the Giants flourished their tridents in answer. And then, with deafening suddenness, their own deep-chested roar thundered forth, rising up and up to the heights.
Standing stiffly at attention, Justice & Co. saluted them, then turned away and descended the hill to where their own special canoe bobbed at its moorings beneath the trees.
Into the Unknown!
A STOUT but slender thirty-footer, Buktu himself had handed the canoe over to them as a parting gift. And forthwith Professor Flaznagel had taken it upon himself to improve it. With his genius for invention, plus material salvaged from the wrecked plane, the Wizard of Science had devised means and ways to save his comrades from much hard toil under the broiling sun.
Through holes bored amidships, just above the water-line, a long axle had been inserted athwart the canoe, with big, many-bladed paddle-wheels attached to either end.
In the dead centre of the axle was a greased hub, which Len Connor had patiently turned out of native hardwood, cutting deep grooves in it for the two driving-hands. These had been made out of the flying-wires, and they led forward to a larger gearwheel, mounted on a crankshaft beneath the “driver’s” seat. And this, in turn, was revolved by two wooden levers that jutted up on either side of the driver’s thighs.
The whole, in fact, was reminiscent of a railwayman’s hand-car, and both Flaznagel and Len had carried out exhaustive tests before passing it fit for service. Further, they had proved that the motive power obtained would, at the cost of far less energy, shoot the canoe through the water just as fast as one propelled by six hefty Giants.
Justice noted with approval that the native youths had already loaded and trimmed the canoe like the experts they were. Then he, turned, raising a hand to the escort of thirty picked warriors, who, under the leadership of a veteran hunter named N’Urru, were only awaiting the signal to embark.
With a yell, these stalwarts took to their canoes, while the castaways went aboard their own craft. Len settled himself between the driving levers, and Midge crawled for’ard among the food-bags. Justice began to unfurl the tapa-cloth awning that had been rigged on hooped canes the whole length of the boat.
“Steady, all! Cast off, O’Mally!” he ordered—and in ten seconds white water came churning over the paddle-wheels as Len pulled the levers slowly to and fro. Steadily the canoe glided out into the current. And it was then that a sudden fanfare of horns made everyone look up hastily—and gasp!
Every man, woman, and child among the Golden Giants had flocked to the village parapet to bid their white friends a last God-speed!
All along the crown of the hill they stood, like a frieze of graceful bronze statues, sculptured by some master-hand. Their right hands were raised high in salute. And as the castaways waved their hats again in reply, a song of farewell, sweet and haunting, broke from the lips of the women.
“Good-bye, me bonnie brave people! The saints preserve ye!” muttered O’Mally—a sentiment in which all his comrades joined fervently as the canoe gathered way and sped down the river. Five minutes later a high, tree-clad bluff loomed up on a bend of the river, and as it swam nearer a single deep hail from the village made the voyagers turn their heads once more.
Half-way down the slope a majestic figure stood all alone, gazing steadfastly after them.
For the last time, Buktu, the Giant chief, swung his trident aloft in a glittering arc. For the last time a rousing fanfare rang down from the heights. Then the canoe rounded the tiny headland—and the village of the Golden Giants vanished from sight for ever!
“And that, I’m sorry to say, is that!"
Captain Justice’s voice held a note of sincere regret as he stood up, looking back over his shoulder. For a few minutes no one else spoke. But then, with a little shake of his head, the captain took a pull on himself and settled down to the business in hand.
And a grim business it was—one that might well have dismayed hearts less stout than those of the five castaways.
How far they had to travel, what perils and adventures bestrewed their path, they had yet to learn. Nor had Justice much more than a bare inkling of where they were at present. All that lay ahead was vague: the country, the climate, and, most important of all, the other tribes in that unexplored region. It was indeed a voyage into the unknown, and heavy was the load of responsibility on Justice’s shoulders.
“However, that’s nothing particularly new!” the captain thought wryly—grateful, nevertheless, for the presence of those two boatloads of guards and hunters, gliding easily along on either hand. “We’ll come through all right, providing we dodge fever, crocs, and those infernal black cannibals! Thank goodness even Flaznagel is fit and well so far!
“Now, my lads, council of war!” he said aloud, picking up a small wicker-basket from between his feet. Out of this he took a pair of binoculars, a limp, leather-covered notebook (the flying log of the luckless Italian airman), and an aero-compass, whose triplex face, fortunately, had withstood the crash.
“As you know,” Justice continued, “I’ve been through the airman's notes, but—well, the information they give us is pretty slight, to put it mildly! He definitely went off his course during a storm, about an hour after sighting
on the Nigerian border. And after that, instead of beating back, which he
probably couldn’t do, he flew on for roughly four and a half hours, heading
south and trying to reach British territory. Lake Tchad
“But he seems to have been forced off his course again into the southeast—which means, he simply blundered deeper into a worse wilderness! His last note, jotted down about eight hours after leaving
, says that he was
hopelessly lost, and there were mountains ahead—these mountains!” Lake
“The finish, poor lad!” sighed Dr. O’Mally.
But Professor Flaznagel reached for the log, peering shortsightedly at the Italian flyer’s notes, and justice’s translations below.
“You say this was written eight hours after that unfortunate and very gallant gentleman left
Justice? Then, since he did not turn off into the south-east until five and a
half hours later, that leaves a balance of two and a half hours, during which he
was flying towards the mountains. Well, surely that—” Lake Tchad
"Doesn’t help us much!” Justice interrupted. “I know what you're trying to say, professor, that we’re somewhere south-east of the Nigerian border, which is a mighty large and lonesome stretch of land. Well, that may be. But how far off are we?
“The Italian’s air speed varied between 100 and 120, and two and a half hours of flying across an African wilderness may well mean two and a half months of travelling by canoe and shank’s pony!”
“Sufferin’ cats!” groaned Midge, having digested this last ominous remark. “Why, dash it, we're just as badly lost, then, as when Kuponos heaved us into the jungle?”
“Not quite, my lad!” retorted Justice. “I’ve just told you the professor’s right, or nearly right. Myself, I’m pretty sure we’re somewhere near the border of the French Cameroons, south-east of
is why we’re heading nor’-west now. And we’re going to keep on heading into the
nor’-west, too! Because, if I’m right, all we’ve got behind us are the wastes
of the Middle Congo, which anyone can have for my part. I certainly don’t
propose finding a way back through that tangle!”
Briskly the captain replaced the log-book and compass, then gave his companions a steady look.
“Nor’-west it is, my lads! We’ll steer by compass, and check up by the sun and stars. It’s possible that old N’Urru, the hunter, and his crowd intend to take us to some French outpost, but I’m not going to rely on that. The Giants seem pretty coy about leaving their own land.
“So it’s up to us now—all of us. O’Mally, you and Ben and I will take turns at the paddles, and Midge is hereby elected cook! And sooner or later, if the cannibal blacks who hang out around here don’t get us, we stand some chance of bumping into a trading-post or river patrol!”
Thus commenced the voyage back to civilisation. For over five weeks it lasted; five of the most heart-breaking, gruelling weeks they had ever known. But it would be idle to pretend that even the experienced captain, even Len, of the retentive memory and methodical eye for detail, could afterwards recall half the furious adventures, the hairbreadth escapes and manifold perils the devoted band passed through during that time.
Each day before dawn saw the little fleet well under way. Sunset found them encamped near the river bank, guarded by blazing night-fires. To the dull slop-slop of the paddle wheels, they chugged out of the great valley to the north of the Giants’ village. They entered others that twisted, twined, and cut their way even deeper into the vast mountain solitudes.
Huge lakes, inland seas that were the haunt of inquisitive and dangerous herds of hippopotami, had to be negotiated. Sandbars and submerged snags did their best to wreck the frail craft. And once, for a whole nerve-racking hour, white men and brown sat rigidly on their thwarts, while the sluggish current bore them slowly through a stretch of yellow river that was aswarm with ravening crocodiles.
But slop, slop, slop! So it went on, crawling ever northwards. Day followed day, each bringing its full tale of troubles and fatigue, till the succession of events grew blurred, jumbled. So many miles covered, so many dangers avoided—that was all! It was like passing through a gigantic furnace—a fiercely hot world of eye-aching green, blue, and gold, always changing, yet always the same.
Gradually, too, the castaways lost their look of health and fitness. Their weary minds ceased to register impressions, hardening, instead, into a sort of stolid apathy. The pitiless sun grilled them in spite of the awning. The steamy night, bringing forth invisible marauders and winged pests, merely addetl to their torments.
Dr. O’Mally’s tattered clothes soon began to hang slack upon him; Justice became more gaunt and grim, more a figure of wire and whipcord every day. Len fell silent, working like a nigger, but rarely speaking from dawn to dusk. Midge, with no energy left for wrangling or chaff, slumped listlessly in the bows, buoying himself up by inventing marvellous “feeds” to be ordered when—and if—he ever reached a white man’s land.
Professor Flaznagel went down with fever during the second week out, and for six days lay on the bottom of the canoe babbling of world-shaking inventions.
The Cannibal Blacks.
THE chain of fertile but desolate valleys ended at last under an enormous hog-backed mountain. Then the jungles began, league after league of brilliant, close-meshed vegetation and creeper-hung trees, divided by reedy creeks, quagmires, and stretches of bare virgin rock. At times the great river broadened out into a glassy yellow flood, two miles wide or more. At others, it forked and narrowed, pouring its flow through dim canyons whose lofty walls blocked out the sun.
But still, slop, slop, slop! The paddles churned the water of that and other rivers, great and small; of narrow streams, converted into tunnels of soft green twilight by the dense foliage arching overhead. And sometimes, when spouting rapids barred the way, the lion-hearted party took to the “bush”—stumbling through moist heat and thorny undergrowth with their canoes and gear, until it was safe to return to the less-turbulent water lower down.
These portages were the hardest work of all—killing work for the diminutive Midge and Professor Flaznagel. Yet they stuck it to the bitter end, with Captain Justice always in the lead, ever cool, over patient and indomitable. While as for the grizzled N’Urru and his fellow Giants, never once did they falter or complain, either by word or act.
On three occasions, however, the keen old hunter spotted signs of his tribe’s ancient foes, the terrible man-eating blacks. And then quivers and bows were placed ready, as the three canoes shot far out into mid-river, with the sweating paddlers plying their blades at racing pace until the danger-zone was passed.
But always, after one of these alarms, Justice noticed that the veteran giant remained restless and alert for days on end. Also, that N’Urru’s uneasiness increased the farther north they travelled. Midge was another who perceived this somewhat alarming change. Unlike his leader, however, the snub-nosed youth eventually gave vent to his own qualms aloud.
“Old Hooroo’s got the breeze up, if you ask me,” the lad commented, while the party were making camp one evening, about a month and a week after quitting the
. “Getting wind of those black
scuts again yesterday has properly given the old boy the willies! And the same
applies to the rest. It looks to me as if they’re expecting some big trouble
any old time now! What d'you think, skipper?” village of Giants
For the moment, Captain Justice did not reply.
Camp had been pitched as usual, near the bank, at the head of a long, straight river-reach; and from where the captain stood, with binoculars glued to his eyes, he could make out glimpses of silver-blue water through breaks in the foliage about a mile away. It looked to him as if another lake lay ahead; a large one at that, for the shimmering patches spread out on either hand over a wide area. He observed also that the eternal mountains no longer ringed the voyagers round. The majestic peaks and slopes were falling away, opening out to form a colossal gateway to the north.
“H’m! I fancy you’re right, Midge!” Justice answered at length. “Either N’Urru’s men suspect real trouble brewing, or else that lake yonder is as far as they’re willing to go with us. Anyway, we’ll know more about it in the morning. But, somehow—”
The famous adventurer gnawed his underlip worriedly.
“Somehow,” he murmured, “I’ve quite a strong hunch that we’re just about coming to the critical point of this trip.”
And that “hunch” was correct!
Next morning, Captain Justice heard mysterious rifle shots!
If a heavy artillery shell had exploded on the river bank then, its effect could scarcely have been more shattering!
Through the stillness of dawn, the two reports came suddenly, crisp, yet hollow, like the popping of corks. So faint were the sounds that none of the other castaways heeded them as they clambered aboard. But Justice in the act of seating himself between the paddle-levers, stiffened as though a red-hot blade had jabbed him.
“My great James!” It was an exclamation that brought his comrades up all-standing.
“What on earth?” he gasped. “Listen! Listen, for the love of Mike!”
Astonished and alarmed by his outburst, the rest obeyed, straining their ears. While, over in their own canoes, the Giants began to murmur among themselves in their deep, resonant voices. Imperiously Justice waved them to silence. And, as he did so—pop!—another flat report from somewhere in the far distance smacked on their eardrums.
Midge nearly fell overboard!
“A—a rifle!” he stuttered, while Justice, without another word, drove the levers forward. “Sufferin' snakes in syrup! Someone’s firing a rifle out on the lake!”
“Och, stop your blatherin’!” snapped O’Mally scornfully. “Who’d be using a rifle in this blighted land o’ bows and arrows and spears? Sure, ’tis more like a beaver slapping his tail on the water, or something of that sort.”
“Beaver, my uncle’s left foot!” snorted Midge. “This isn’t
Canada! I'll bet you what you like—”
“It’s a rifle—and there she goes again!” Justice barked. “Stop arguing, you two, and signal N’Urru’s men to keep pace! They’re scared—but don’t let ’em lag behind. By gad, this is where we make time!”
Wild with excitement now, the castaways crouched low, the nose of the canoe lifting higher as Justice warmed to his work.
Away down the straight stretch it sped under the full drive of the paddle-wheels, with the Giants cutting in close alongside. They hesitated a moment on approaching the mouth of a tortuous creek, but Justice &
spared it never a glance. Ahead, the river swirled over greasy mud-banks before
flowing on into the deep blue lake. With unerring judgment, Justice picked out
the one safe channel.
“Steady all! No shifting as we go through!” he rapped, and next instant muddy water kicked high into the air as the canoe shot the channel at reckless speed. There was a brief moment of tension as trailing weeds fouled the starboard wheel; another when something that looked like a log but wasn’t dodged beneath the bows in the nick of time, and the ivory-fanged jaws of a crocodile snapped at the canoe and missed.
Then, triumphantly the castaways and their escort glided out into the vast sheet of open water.
“Now who was right about the rifles, Fatty O’Mally!” howled Midge, leaping up suddenly and clawing at the awning, heaving it back higher on its supports. But. his words were drowned by the involuntary roar that burst then from all three canoes.
For the mystery of the rifle-shots was a mystery no longer! Out on the bosom of the lake, a full mile from the river mouth, a sturdy, white-painted launch was steaming southwards at half-speed!
“Justice! Is it a boat? My eyes—confound them—”
“It’s a steam launch, professor!” gasped Len. “River-patrol— Oh, my giddy aunt!”
“Och, I’m sorry, Justice! I apologise, Midge!”
“Take the paddles, doc—never mind the apologies! Quick, someone! The binoculars—here!”
It was one of those frenzied moments when everyone speaks at once! A launch—a white man’s launch—after all these weeks of wilderness! Midge nearly danced himself out of the canoe, O’Mally seized the paddle-levers, while Len and Flaznagel solemnly shook hands. But Justice, after stilling the Giants’ fears with a swift, genial gesture, stood erect, focusing his glasses on the distant vessel.
That was the first thing he saw—that the launch was flying the French tricolour. The next was that her canvas-covered foredeck was full of black askaris—native soldiers—armed with repeating-rifles. Two white officers in drill uniforms stood on the tiny bridge, studying the canoes through their own binoculars. And suddenly smoke belched thicker from the launch’s single stack, and naked steel glittered brightly as deft hands stripped the vicious quick-firer in her bows.
“Phew!” Captain Justice sobered down rapidly at that.
“Avast paddling, O’Mally!” he ordered. “Off with the awning, lads, then stand straight up and show yourselves! She’s coming right towards us, cleared for action! By James, we haven't come all this way just to get a French shell in the eye by mistake!”
All together the castaways tackled the awning. They rolled it right up, then stood erect, waving their arms as the French launch came steadily on.
A sudden bellow of warning from the Giants—a yell that deepened next instant with murderous rage and hatred—startled the comrades out of their wits. They twisted their heads round—and ducked in a flash!
Midge’s voice rattled in his throat as he tumbled down below the gunwale. Captain Justice felt icy fingers suddenly clutching at his heart. His eyes widened slowly for an instant, shock paralysed his nerve-centres. All he could do was to stand and stare at the river-mouth—at the horrifying spectacle unfolding itself before him!
The blacks—the cannibal fiends, whose malignant influence had brooded over the canoe-party for so long—were there in the flesh at last!
With their customary cunning, they had floated down-river behind the castaways, stealing out of the reedy creek, silent as prowling wolves, until their quarry was sighted. Now their canoes were winding through the mudbank channel— long war vessels, packed with squat, gorilla-like savages. And suddenly, as the Giants roared again and snatched up their bows, an awful yell screamed forth in reply.
Surrounded by Foes!
SOMETHING seemed to snap inside Justice’s head. The moment of helplessness passed away amid the uproar.
“Get to work, doc!” he yelled. “Paddle, man, for your life! By James, we’ll give the beggars a race before we go under!”
Quick as thought, he bundled the burly Irishman into the driving-seat. O’Mally’s huge hands gripped the levers. The canoe leapt convulsively, shooting ahead to meet the oncoming launch. Instantly another outburst of rabid yells burst from the rear, followed by a whistling hail of arrows.
Justice and Len, exposing themselves fearlessly, coolly dropped the awning again so that it protected the stern. Behind them, too, the Giants were gallantly covering the castaways’ retreat, returning the cannibals’ fire as fast as muscular arms could bend a bow. But still the black brutes came on, and others came hurrying to the attack with them. “Gallopin’ ghosts!”
Midge’s sudden sharp exclamation of dismay brought Justice crawling forward to where the boy crouched, his outstretched hand swinging from south to west.
“Gummy, skipper, look yonder!” he panted. “More canoes, dozens of ’em, creeping out from the banks! Palsied parrots, it’s an army! It’s a last blinkin’ round-up for us and the French launch, too!”
Justice stared, wincing as he made out the lines of black canoes converging from all quarters. Midge was right! It was a muster of the whole vile tribe—a net thrown out to catch castaways and river patrol. And well the French officers aboard the launch knew it now.
All at once the air quivered to a spiteful report. A shell droned overhead; a column of hissing water spurted up just short of the river-mouth. The blacks in pursuit of Justice & Co. had sprung their ambush a shade too late. Apparently, they knew nothing of the range and power of white men’s weapons.
Crack! Again the quickfirer barked—and this time one of the long, black war-canoes seemed to leap from the water of its own accord, shedding torn planks and limp men as it did so. The rest of the hunters sheered off in a panic, harried by crashing volleys from the askari riflemen. That was O’Mally’s opportunity for a last spurt.
He grasped it.
Summoning up all his great strength, the Irishman fairly lifted the canoe along on its paddle-wheels. The French vessel had heaved to by now, and her officers, leaning out over the bridge rail, were staring down in amazement at the five white scarecrows racing towards them. Justice stood up, saluting the tricolour. Then he turned, waving both hands on high.
“Good man, doc! Bound t’other side—quick! N’Urru! N’Urru!” he shouted, beckoning the loyal Giants to follow.
And they, trusting him as always, ceased fire and sped to safety under the cover of the rifles, what time O’Mally swung round under the sheltering lee of the launch.
THERE a bunch of grinning, ebony-faced askaris greeted the fugitives with throaty yells, only to be silenced instantly by a fierce order from the bridge. Then a rope was tossed overside. Five minutes later Captain Justice & Co.— ragged, dripping with perspiration, but safe—stood facing two of the most bewildered officers in the French Colonial Service.
“White men! White men! Out here!”
It seemed at first as if neither of the young Frenchmen could believe his own eyes.
“A million thunders! It is true! You are white! But how do you come here? Who are you?” spluttered one, a tall, angular lieutenant.
And he started back like a man who sees a ghost when Justice saluted again, and told him.
“Captain Justice! You are the famous Captain Justice, and these are your comrades?” he cried in English, shouting to make himself heard above the cracking of rifles, the screams and howls from the lake. “But you are dead, captain! You have been reported missing or dead these last two months or more! Half the governments of
Africa have had their police and native
trackers searching for you! And the men in your celebrated airship, the— the—
what is it?—Flying Cloud, are still cruising over the whole of British East
Africa, Egypt, and the Sudan seeking you everywhere! And now you—”
“Sorry, lieutenant!” Justice smiled grimly, though his lips twitched at mention of the great Flying Cloud. “I haven’t any passports or papers, but you can take it from me that I am Captain Justice, and I’m very much alive! I'm free to confess, though,” he added, glancing bitterly over his shoulder at the lake, whose surface was now crawling with cannibal canoes, “that the chances are we shall all be dead pretty soon if we don’t act smartly! Whom have I the honour of addressing?”
“I am Lieutenant Henri de Vissac. Allow me to introduce my second-in-command, Sous-Lieutenant Jacques la Salle!” returned the officer, adding proudly: “And we are the first river-patrol company to penetrate so deeply into this territory, captain!”
“Moanin’ moggies, you look like being the last, then, moosoo!” chirped the irrepressible Midge.
But Justice frowned him to silence. The captain’s eyes were fixed on the launch’s wireless aerial, and his eyes were gleaming.
“What is the name of this territory—
Lake N’gako, South-East Cameroons,
eh? Right!” Justice’s voice deepened suddenly. “Now, lieutenant, we haven’t
time to tell you much, but there’s this much. I know these blacks, and, believe
me, we’ve all got to fight like blazes if we’re to get out of this trap alive!
What help can you summon? What is the range of your wireless?"
Lieutenant de Yissac shrugged.
“The wireless? It is not—what you say—so hot, my captain! I could perhaps summon aid from the seaplane station on the coast, but—”
“Useless! Tell me, is your wireless powerful enough to reach the British station in
I have an agent there!” snapped Justice, and slapped his thigh delightedly as
De Vissac nodded. Lagos, Nigeria
“Then listen, lieutenant! For certain reasons, I don’t want it broadcast yet that we’re still alive. But I do want to send a code message—a vital message—to my agent in
Lagos. My comrade here,
Mr. Connor, is an expert wireless operator. If I promise to bring help that is
worth a hundred seaplanes, will you grant him permission to use your set?”
Justice clenched his fists anxiously while he waited for the reply. His request, he knew, was contrary to all the rules of the French Service. But Lieutenant de Vissac hesitated a moment only. He was in the very toughest spot of his young and ambitious career, and, rules or no rules, was ready to seize any chance of getting clear.
“Captain Justice, I have heard much of you!” he answered, with a salute. “The wireless cabin is at your service!”
“Thank you, sir!” And Justice wheeled, gripping Len’s elbow. “Now, Len, you know what to do!” he whispered tensely. “You heard that the Flying Cloud is still cruising over
East Africa. So go to it, lad! Get the
latitude and longitude of this lake from the sous-lieutenant, then get in touch
with the Flying Cloud via Lagos.
Use Code B. Tell the boys we want ’em out here, if they burn up the skies! In
fact, tell ’em to burn up the skies, or we’re sunk!” Len nodded. He was off in
a flash, his fingers itching to get at. a transmitter-key once more. And as he
tore aft De Vissac turned to Justice again.
“I have to return to the bridge, captain! Ha, we shall yet show these cannibals what fighting means!” he growled. “But first, my friends, is there anything else you require?”
“Yes!” Justice smiled at the warlike Frenchman. “A rifle apiece for all of us, please—and a cigar for me! And you might take care of those big, golden-brown fellows down below—they’re great scouts!"
“It shall be done!”
DE VISSAC laughed shortly, and rapped out an order, at the same time producing a cigar-case and lighter. Tenderly Justice drew out a long black cheroot, and carefully he snapped the flame to its blunt end. Then, with the cigar jutting from his mouth at the old jaunty angle, and fragrant smoke trickling luxuriously from his nostrils, he sighed long and contentedly, and gazed out over the lake.
The man-eating blacks had received a sharp lesson, but they were recovering. At a rough estimate, nearly a hundred canoes were circling out there on the sun-spangled waters, and arrows were zipping through the air in constant streams. True, most of them plopped harmlessly into the lake, but the range was gradually and steadily dwindling, in spite of rifle bullets and quick-firing gun. It was going to be a fight, mused Justice—a long and bitter fight until—An eager voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Is the Flying Cloud coming, captain? Gosh, isn’t it wonderful to think of her still being out here?” Midge, carrying a rifle nearly as long as himself, slipped in beside his leader, and Justice grinned down at the boy’s eager face.
“Yes, lad—or, at least, Connor is trying hard to reach her. But she’ll have something like sixteen hundred miles to cross—nearly six hours of flying from the time our SOS gets through. And, at all costs, we’ve got to hold on here until she does arrive!”
“She’ll do it! And we’ll hold on till then all right!” Midge declared confidently. “As for you, you black windbags—”
Crack! his rifle flashed at that moment, and out on the lake a screeching cannibal dropped his bow and sank down.
“You hold on to that till I get another one ready!” whooped the red-haired marksman. “Yah! Think you’ve got us, don’t you? But Captain Justice & Co. aren’t dead yet!”
Surrounded by cannibal foes, the Castaways fight as they’ve never fought before, in Next Saturday’s story! Don’t YOU Miss the Thrills!
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- As an armed forces brat, we lived in Rockcliff (Ottawa), Namao (Edmonton), Southport (Portage La Prairie), Manitoba, and Dad retired to St. Margaret's Bay, NS.
Working with the Federal Govenment for 25 years, Canadian Hydrographic Service, mostly. Now married to Gail Kelly, with two grown children, Luke and Denyse. Retired to my woodlot at Stillwater Lake, NS, on the rainy days I study the life and work of A. Hyatt Verrill 1871-1954.