O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921 Part 23

They faced him again; ecstatic, beside himself, he flung at them incoherent words. But the Latin, mysterious as magic, fateful as a charm, had frightened them, and they did not yield to Simpson immediately. Perhaps they would not have yielded to him at all if it had not been for Madame Picard.

From her corner rose an eerie chant in broken minors; it swelled louder, and down the lane her people made for her she came dancing.

Her turban was off, her dress torn open to the b.r.e.a.s.t.s; she held the child horizontally and above her in both hands. Her body swayed rhythmically, but she just did not take up the swing of the votive African dance that is as old as Africa. Up to the foot of the platform she wavered, and there the cripple joined her, laughing as always.

Together they shuffled first to the right and then to the left, their feet marking the earth floor in prints that overlapped like scales.

She laid the baby on the platform, sinking slowly to her knees as she did so; as though at a signal the wordless chant rumbled upward from the entire building, rolled over the platform like a wave, engulfing the white man in its flood.

"Symbolism! Sacrifice!" Simpson yelled. "She offers all to G.o.d!"

He bent and raised the child at arm's length above his head. Instantly the chanting ceased.

"To the grove!" screamed the _mamaloi_. She leaped to the platform, almost from her knees it seemed, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the child. "To the grove!"

The crowd took up the cry; it swelled till Simpson's ears ached under the impact of it.

"To the grove!"

Doubt a.s.sailed him as his mind--a white man's mind--rebelled.

"This is wrong," he said dully; "wrong."

Madame Picard's fingers gripped his arm. Except for the spasms of the talons which were her fingers she seemed calm.

"No, m'sieu'," she said. "You have them now. Atonement--atonement, m'sieu'. You have many times spoken of atonement. But they do not understand what they cannot see. They are behind you--you cannot leave them now."

"But--the child?"

"The child shall show them--a child shall lead them, m'sieu'. They must see a _theatre_ of atonement--then they will believe. Come."

Protesting, he was swept into the crowd and forward--forward to the van of it, into the Grand Rue. Always the thunderous rumble of the mob continued; high shrieks flickered like lightning above it; the name of Christ dinned into his ears from foul throats. On one side of him the cripple appeared; on the other strode the _mamaloi_--the child, screaming with fear, on her hip. A hymn-tune stirred under the tumult--rose above it.

"_Le fils de Dieu se va Pen guerre Son drapeau rouge comme sang_."

Wild quavers adorned the tune obscenely; the mob marched to it, falling into step. Torches came, flaming high at the edges of the crowd, flaming wan and lurid on hundreds of black faces.

"_Il va pour gagner sa couronne Qui est-ce que suit dans son train_?"

"A crusade!" Simpson suddenly shouted. "It is a crusade!"

Yells answered him. Somewhere a drum began, reverberating as though unfixed in s.p.a.ce; now before them, now behind; now, it seemed, in the air. The sound was maddening A swaying began in the crowd that took on cadence, became a dance. Simpson, his brain drugged, his senses perfervid marched on in exultation. These were his people at last.

The drum thundered more loudly, became unbearable. They were clear of the town and in the bush at last; huge fires gleamed through the trees, and the mob spilled into the grove. The cripple and the _mamaloi_ were beside him still.

In the grove, with the drums--more than one of them now--palpitating unceasingly, the dancing became wilder, more savage. In the light of the fire the _mamaloi_ swayed, holding the screaming child, and close to the flames crouched the cripple. The hymn had given place to the formless chant, through which the minors quivered like the wails of lost souls.

The scales fell from Simpson's eyes. He rose to his full height and stretched out his arm, demanding silence; there was some vague hope in him that even now he might guide them. His only answer was a louder yell than ever.

It took form. Vieux Michaud sprang from the circle into the full firelight, feet stamping, eyes glaring.

"_La ch vre_!" he yelled. "_La chevre sans cornes_!"

The drums rolled in menacing crescendo, the fire licked higher. All sounds melted into one.

"_La chevre sans cornes_!"

The _mamaloi_ tore the child from her neck and held it high by one leg. Simpson, seeing clearly as men do before they die, flung himself toward her.

The cripple's knife, thrust from below, went home between his ribs just as the _mamaloi's_ blade crossed the throat of the sacrifice.

"So I signed the death-certificate," Witherbee concluded. "Death at the hands of persons unknown."

"And they'll call him a martyr," said Bunsen.

"Who knows?" the consul responded gravely. "Perhaps he was one."

MARTIN GARRITY GETS EVEN

By COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER and LEO. F. CREAGAN

From _American Magazine_

The entrance of Martin Garrity, superintendent of the Blue Ribbon Division of the O.R.& T. Railroad, had been attended by all the niceties of such an occasion, when Martin, grand, handsome, and magnificent, arrived at his office for the day. True to form, he had cussed out the office boy, spoken in fatherly fashion to the trainmaster over the telephone about the lateness of No. 210, remarked to the stenographer that her last letter had looked like the exquisite tracks of a cow's hoof--and then he had read two telegrams. A moment later, white, a bit stooped, a little old in features, he had left the office, nor had he paused to note the grinning faces of those in his wake, those who had known hours before!

Home, and stumbling slightly as he mounted the steps of the veranda, he faced a person in screaming foulard and a red toque, Mrs. Jewel Garrity, just starting for the morning's a.s.sault upon the market.

Wordlessly he poked forward the first of the telegrams as he pulled her within the hall and shut the door. And with bulging eyes Jewel read it aloud:

Chicago, April 30.

GARRITY, Montgomery City:

Effective arrival successor J.P. Aldrich must dispense your valuable services. Kindly forward resignation by wire confirming this telegram.

W.W. WALKER, Vice-President & General Manager.

"And who is this Walker person?" Jewel asked, with a vindictive gasp.

"'Tis me that never heard of him. Why should he sign hisself vice prisident and giniral manager when the whole world knows Mr. Barstow, bless his soul, is the----"

"Will ye listen?" Martin bellowed with sorrowful asperity. "Somethin's happened. And now:

GARRITY, Montgomery City.

Alabaster abound celebrity conglomerate commensurate const.i.tuency effective arrival successor. Meet me Planters Hotel St. Louis this P.M.

LEMUEL C. BARSTOW."

And while Jewel gasped Martin went on:

"'Tis code it is, from Barstow. It says Walker's taken his place--and I'm out."