The Road to
Freedom!
By Murray Roberts
Part 10 of 12
in The Castaways serial. Published
in The Modern Boy magazine. This
from 14 Sept. 1934, Vol. 14 No. 345.
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!
Time to Say Good-bye!
“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.
“My friends—”
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—”
“
Hurrah-ah-ah!”
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 Lake Tchad
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.
“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 Lake
Tchad, says that he was
hopelessly lost, and there were mountains ahead—these mountains!”
“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 Lake Tchad,
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—”
"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 Nigeria—which
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 village of Giants. “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?”
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 & Co.
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.
“A Frenchman!”
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!
“The blacks!”
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.
Crack!
Pow-ooooh!
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 Lagos, Nigeria?
I have an agent there!” snapped Justice, and slapped his thigh delightedly as
De Vissac nodded.
“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!
Next
A chapter from
The Triskelion by Edward Butts,
1925. Digitized by Doug Frizzle, October 2014.
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.
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:
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.
