The Fire Trumpet Part 3

"There! Won't you listen?" And the Englishman stands between the miserable wretch and his smiter. With a growl like a wild beast, the latter springs up.

"Stand off, Sharkey!" cries his companion in a firm, warning tone. Too late. With features working in fury, and foaming at the mouth, the other rushes upon him knife in hand.

"Stand off, I say, or--"

Crack!

The savage makes one spring and rolls over and over at his slayer's feet, digging his knife into the hard earth in his death-throes.

"Dog! You would have it!" observes the Englishman, calmly reloading the discharged chamber of his still smoking revolver. "You won't bite again. Now then, you fellows, do as I told you just now--pick up that chap and--march."

They obey apathetically; and, with many a furtive glance backward, the slaves move wearily on, leaving the body of their late oppressor to the vultures and jackals of the desert.

And now, after a march of several miles further, the melancholy _cortege_ arrives at its destination. In a natural clearing, surrounded by dense jungle, stand a few thatched shanties. In the centre is a large barrac.o.o.n, and into this the miserable human herd is turned. The last rays of the sun have disappeared, and here and there in the open s.p.a.ce a fire glows redly. Several men are standing about; awful-looking cut-throats, villainy personified. Half-a-dozen of them are Portuguese, the rest Arabs and negroes. They crowd up to inspect the slaves.

"Well, Lidwell," says one of the first nationality in good English, addressing the new arrival. "You've brought in a poor-looking lot. How many did you lose?"

"Two. Both died."

"And Sharkey--wasn't he with you? Where's he?"

"Dead."

"Dead? Nonsense! What killed him?" And the first speaker stares in amazement.

"A pistol ball, regulation calibre."

A gleam of triumphant malice flits across the other's swarthy features.

He is young, and by no means bad-looking but for a chronic scowl.

"Comrade," he replies, "you have done a good thing in ridding us of that beast." But the man addressed as Lidwell has marked that exultant expression, and he knows that it means mischief. Sharkey has relatives in the camp who will certainly do their utmost to revenge his death, and it is doubtful whether the ruffianly European element will have either the strength or resolution to stand out against these should they clamour for his slayer's blood. It is more than doubtful if they have the will; for this Englishman is both hated and feared by them. His coolness and daring in the pursuit of their lawless traffic has not only been the means of quadrupling their gains, but has twice saved the whole party from capture red-handed, for of late the Union Jack has been--to them--unpleasantly active in Zanzibar waters. Yes, they hate him bitterly. He has won largely from them at play, for they are great gamblers, and can they once get him into their power they are fully determined to make him yield up--by torture if necessary--the large sums which they know him to keep concealed somewhere. But then, his revolver is ever ready, and they are most of them cowards at heart.

Sternly he now looks the young Portuguese in the face.

"Juarez," he says, in a very significant tone. "Do you know, I always think I can never have enough revolver practice. It makes a man invulnerable, does this little bit of wood and iron."

The other turns away with an oily smile. He has his own reasons for not being fond of the Englishman.

The latter strolls leisurely into one of the huts, keeping his eyes about him, though, un.o.btrusively. Arrived there, he sits down for a few minutes to rest and think out his plans. For he is determined to take leave of his repulsive surroundings; and the sooner the better. Nearly two years of his life have been spent in this detestable traffic, and how sick he is of it, he himself hardly knows. He has ama.s.sed wealth with a rapidity little short of marvellous; but not for the ransom of an empire would he go through the experiences of those two years over again. Many and many a scene of human suffering has it been his lot to witness during that period--for he is a slave-dealer, a trafficker in human flesh. But he is guiltless of any single act of brutality or wanton oppression towards the unfortunate wretches who have pa.s.sed through his hands. In his eyes mere cattle, yet he would never allow them to be tortured or ill-treated. More than once has he stood between the victim and the lash, occasionally at the risk of his life--as we have seen--or interfered to save some worn-out wretch from being abandoned to the beasts of the desert. More than once, even, during a long desert march when water was worth its weight in gold, has he shared his scanty stock of the priceless fluid with some toiling, parched, and exhausted slave, who, with tongue swollen and protruding, could hardly drag one foot after the other. Yet, what is he but a hard-hearted, self-seeking slave-dealer, coining money out of suffering flesh and blood?

The gloom deepens. Lidwell, sitting there in his hut, can make out a knot of his rascally confederates talking earnestly together by one of the fires. A strange instinct warns him. Unless he leaves this place to-night he will never leave it alive. Quickly he stows away a flask and some biscuits in his pockets. Already his gains are secured about his person, carefully sewn up in his clothes--a large sum, partly in gold, partly in the paper currency of several nationalities. For some time past he has been prepared for a sudden flight, and he has a canoe snugly concealed in a convenient place on the river bank. To-night he will cut the whole concern for ever, and woe betide the man who shall try to stop him.

He looks out of the doorway, carelessly. All seems quiet enough, and it is now quite dark. His sheath-knife is ready to his hand in case of need; so, too, is the brace of revolvers without which he never moves.

"Now for a start," he muses; "but--hang it--I must go round and say good-bye to Anita. Can't leave without seeing the little one again."

Down a narrow path through the shadowy forest a few hundred yards, and he reaches a small thatched dwelling, more substantially built than the rest. Within all is silence. But for a lamp burning in one of the windows the place would seem deserted. He imitates the cry of a jackal twice. A moment, and then a dark figure glides swiftly round the corner of the house and stands beside him.

"At last! I wondered when you were coming to see me. You have been back hours, and never came near me." The voice is low, soft, and musical; but there is resentment in it.

"Didn't I? Well, I came as soon as I could. Don't scold me to-night, little one."

And he looks down at her with a queer expression. Every moment lost is a nail in his coffin; yet he is wasting those precious moments gazing into a pair of dark eyes.

She nestles close to his side. "I hate it so when you are away. And I am always afraid you may get killed, or catch that terrible fever over there, and never come back to me at all."

"Listen now, Anita," he says, gravely. "I must go away again--now-- to-night, or my life is not worth a pebble, and I don't feel inclined to throw it away for the benefit of those brutes." Then he tells her about the fate of Sharkey, and the unmistakable signs he had read among his a.s.sociates of their deadly intentions towards him.

The girl trembles with horror and apprehension as she listens.

"You must indeed go, and immediately. You can do nothing against them, and there are so many of them; and--Ah, I may as well die," she breaks off in a wail of despair.

"Don't say that, little one. You will soon learn to do without me; but I am afraid you will forget all your English. And you were getting on with it so nicely, too."

The girl is silent; but looks up at him with a stricken, hopeless expression that goes to his heart. She is very lovely, standing there in the starlight, lovely in the rich, southern, voluptuous type. She is quite young--barely sixteen--but the delicate arched features are fully formed. As regards education or mental culture, Anita de Castro is a wild flower indeed. Her father is the head of this slave-dealing colony. Formerly a merchant in the Portuguese settlement of Delagoa Bay, his rascalities have landed him in outlawry, and he has taken his daughter with him into exile. Such is the girl who had attracted the attention of the Englishman Lidwell, who in her had found the one redeeming feature in his present reckless life. He had to a certain extent, and in a desultory sort of way, educated this girl; at any rate had moulded her into something better than a mere mental blank; and the process had been to him a real recreation, a refuge from the disgust which he increasingly felt for his cold-blooded and lawless occupation.

And she? Here, on the threshold of budding womanhood, this stranger, who looked upon her as a mere plaything, possessed her whole heart. How it was she could not tell, even had she asked herself the question.

Juarez, her sworn admirer, was softer of speech and far more deferential; whereas Lidwell sometimes seemed to ignore her very existence. Yet she would with a heavy heart antic.i.p.ate the absence of the latter on long and perilous expeditions, and look forward so anxiously and so joyfully to his return. And now he has returned only to leave again immediately, and well she knew that she would see him no more. Suddenly she throws herself on his breast in a fit of pa.s.sionate weeping.

"Ah, love! I shall never see you again. Never--never."

A wave of wild temptation sweeps over the man. Why should he not take her with him? She is beautiful enough in face and form, and it suddenly strikes him that she is not the child he has. .h.i.therto been wont to consider her. She is in his arms now. He has only to say the word and she will stay there. But Lidwell is gifted with a cool head, and a strong one. He knows the world well enough, and he also knows his own nature. He will not sacrifice this girl to a pa.s.sing impulse, however powerful. So he resists the momentary temptation, and--it is the saving of his life.

He strokes back the soft hair from her forehead. "Anita, child--you must not grieve like this for me--I don't say forget the times we have spent together. What I do say is, you are, made for something better than this kind of life; leave it as soon as you are able, and--"

"Hush!"

She has heard something. With a quick gesture she draws herself from him, and stands erect and listening intently. A glow suffuses the sky, and the golden moon peeps above the tree-tops. And now the sound of stealthy footsteps and smothered voices may be heard approaching.

"Go!" exclaims the girl, imprinting a shower of kisses upon his lips.

"Go--quick. They are coming. You shall not die here. Good-bye, love.

I shall never see you again. Go." And, as she pushes him from her, the advancing voices are very near indeed. She has barely time to regain the house before several men are knocking at the door. Feigning to be half asleep, she opens.

"Well, father, what has gone wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, Anita. Has Lidwell been here? We want him down at the camp. He promised to help us through with the wine," answers De Castro.

"The Englishman? No, he hasn't been here. He must be in his own hut."

A glance goes round the group.

"But he must have been here, senorita," replies Juarez. "He was seen to come in this direction."

A thought strikes the girl. She must gain time. So with an admirably-feigned glance of uneasiness at a side door leading into another room, she reiterates that she has not seen him.

"Ah, well, comrades, I have some old wine in here," says her father, advancing towards this door. "We will try it." He turns the handle; but the door is locked. "The key, Anita, the key!"

"The key? Oh, here it is," and after a pretended search she finds the key. They throw open the door suddenly, and stand staring in stupid surprise into an empty room.

"Juarez," said the girl, calling him apart from the rest--"keep quiet now. Do you want the Englishman? You shall take him."