The Fire Trumpet Part 85

How long he lay he could not tell. Slowly and confusedly consciousness began to rea.s.sert itself. He half opened his eyes, and quickly closed them again. It was dark; there was a cold, earthy smell. Stars floated before his vision, and indefinite shapes, with dull, far-away echoes.

He was dead, and they had buried him. He could hear the spadefuls of earth being thrown upon his coffin. The sound was growing fainter and fainter; they had nearly finished. And Lilian--she was standing weeping over his grave. Ah, Lilian, it is too late to weep now! Yes, she was weeping as if her heart would break, and the horrible weight of the earth, with its cold, damp, mouldy smell, kept him down; he could not reach her. Only seven feet of earth--oh, G.o.d! and it might as well be seven hundred! Then he heard Truscott's voice--as the voice of a smooth, insidious demon--whispering words of love to her, and claiming the fulfilment of her promise. Fiend, traitor, murderer! He would burst his grave now, and rend him limb from limb! Not the weight of a thousand worlds could hold him down! And, with a mighty effort he raised himself into a sitting posture and looked around.

A puff of cool air fanned his brow. It was dark--no, not quite. A beam of light, shooting through from the outer world like a dart of flame, dazzled his eyes; then another and another, losing themselves in the further gloom. Is he not dead after all? How can that be? Yes, he is dead, and this is the world of spirits.

Again he closes his eyes. A few moments more, and the suspended faculties become clearer. He looks forth again. He is alive, and in a cave, and the shafts of light are as much of that indispensable element as can penetrate a thick ma.s.s of creepers which falls over its entrance.

But how came he there?

Instinctively, as he felt himself falling, Claverton had kicked his feet free of the stirrups; and instinctively again, and without being aware of it, he had clutched at the first substance which had come in his way--a trailing ladder of creepers hanging from the rock--and this it was which had made him feel as if he was supporting the whole weight of the globe in his hands. But the jerk had been too great. For a fraction of a second he thus hung, then fell--fell clean through a dense network of creepers which closed over him with a spring, thus shutting him into the cave, or rather hole, in which he awoke to find himself.

And now the spark of hope rekindled darts through his frame with an electric thrill. He is still alive and unhurt, in the more serious sense of the word, that is, for no bones are broken, though he is stiff and sore and shaken by his fall. He will yet live--live to destroy his enemy, and to possess himself once more of Lilian's love, free from the possibility of any further disturbing influence. He looks round his present quarters--truly an ark of refuge--but can make out nothing save the shadowy rock overhead. Then, cautiously approaching the entrance, he listens.

No; it will not do to look out just yet. The Kafirs are still beneath, and he can hear distinctly the deep ba.s.s hum of their voices, can even catch their exclamations of surprise at his unaccountable disappearance.

He is unaware of the exact position of his hiding-place, and the faintest movement on his part might lead to his instant detection. So he restrains his anxiety to peep forth, and, as he lies _perdu_, even chuckles over the supernatural theories set forth by the Kafirs to account for his disappearance.

For upwards of an hour he remains perfectly still; long after he has heard the voices of his enemies grow fainter and fainter, and ultimately cease to be audible as they give up the search. Then, thrusting his head through the network of trailers, he peers cautiously out. The sun has set, and a peaceful evening stillness lies upon the forest beneath, and there is no sign of the enemy. Then Claverton begins seriously to take account of his position. He cannot see the brink of the precipice overhead, but he judges from its height further along, that he has fallen about forty feet, and that the network of creepers, yielding to his weight, alone had saved him from certain death. But, meanwhile, how is he to get down, or up? One way is about as practicable as the other.

Beneath, the rock falls, with here and there a rugged pinnacle projecting from its face, but sheer; while above, its surface for long intervals is perfectly smooth. A terrible fear chills his heart. He has only escaped from a sudden and swift death, to meet with a lingering one by starvation; here, in this hideous, lonely cave, beyond the possibility of human aid. A rope from the summit might reach him, but was it in the least likely that any friendly patrol would visit this wild fastness, haunted, as it was, by hostile bands? And even if it did, how improbable that its members would have a rope, or be able to improvise one long enough and strong enough to reach him; even were he not too weak from the effects of starvation to use it if they did. No.

He must look for no succour that way.

Then his thoughts recur to the day that he and Lilian climbed up to that other cave during the fishing picnic four years ago. But for the inaccessibility of the place, some holiday party, in years to come, might make their way up here and find his crumbling bones, and recoil with loathing horror from his whitened skull, even as she had done from the grisly remains in that other cavern. And the grey rocks stand forth beneath and around, waxing greyer in the fading light; bright-eyed conies peep forth from their holes, and scamper along the ledges; a night-jar darts noiselessly on soft wing in pursuit of its prey; bats flit and circle in the gloaming; beneath, the green bush has changed to a sombre blackness; while floating upon the stillness of desolation, the weird voices of the forest begin their mysterious concert. And there, upon that narrow ledge, poised in mid-air, beyond the reach of all human aid--lost, forgotten and alone--stands this man, with death before him at last.

Carefully he looks over the ledge, narrowly scrutinising the rock beneath and around; but the first glance convinces him that it is useless. No creepers grow on the face of the cliff; even the tops of the highest trees are at a dizzy distance below. There is no foothold, even for a baboon. Ah! The cave itself! He has not explored that.

Re-entering, he strikes a match--a knife, a box of matches, and a bit of _reimpje_ being the proverbial contents of a frontiersman's pockets, even though they contain nothing else--and begins his exploration.

There is no outlet that way. Overhead the rock slopes down to the back of the cave, and here and there it is wet with ooze. He can but dimly make out the outlines in the gloom by the flicker of his wax vesta.

Suddenly the flame goes out, extinguished by a puff of cold air which blows up into the explorer's face. He lights another. Yawning at his very feet is a hole--a long, jagged hole, just wide enough to admit his body; one step more and he would have fallen in. Tearing a bit of paper from his pocket he lights it and throws it in. At first it will not fall: quite a strong current of air holds it up. This, in itself is a good sign, and Claverton begins to feel hopeful as he watches it sink, down, down, lighting up the chasm, and throwing a wet gleam on the slippery sides eloping down into unknown depths.

He sits down and begins to ponder over the situation. A strong current such as comes up this hole betokens an outlet somewhere, and the only way of finding that outlet is _to go down the hole_. He can get down, for the sides are near enough together for a man to descend by using his hands and knees freely. But once down, can he get up again? A natural thrill of horror runs through him at the idea of burying himself away down in the very bowels of the earth. To remain where he is means death, but it is to die in the full, open light of day, with the air of heaven breathing around him. To descend into that dark, slimy pit, and perhaps find no outlet after all, and not even be able to retrace his steps; to die in that frightful _oubliette_, amid who can tell what noisome horrors! It is an alternative enough to appal the stoutest heart, and no wonder Claverton's brain sickens at the thought. But it is his only chance. He rises, goes out on the ledge once more, and stands for a few moments drinking in the fresh cool breaths of the fast-gathering night; then, returning to the chasm, begins his descent.

A lighted match in his hand, and with pieces of paper torn up in his pocket ready to kindle at intervals, he lets himself down, working his way cautiously with his knees against the opposite rock, but the task is a far more difficult one than it appears. Once or twice he slips several feet, and the skin is worn from his hands and knees in several places. At length he stops; panting violently and nearly exhausted; and as he holds himself wedged against the sides of the crevice to rest, it strikes him that those sides are getting wider. By the light of another match he looks down. Oh, horror! Two yards deeper--he has already descended ten--and the chasm widens out to a breadth of at least twenty feet. A cold perspiration breaks from every pore. Great beads stand upon his forehead and his brain is on the whirl. It is frightful; there, in the pitchy darkness. His blood curdles in every vein. His strength can hold out no longer; in a moment he will yield, and disappear for ever from the sight of humankind, immured, self-entombed in the rocky heart of the earth. Rushing noises are in his ears, hands touch him, wings sweep over him; then he slips, slides with the rapidity of lightning; he is being torn in pieces, flayed alive. Then, with a shock, his descent ceases. He is on his feet. But where?

During the fall he has retained consciousness, and now, as he opens his eyes in the pitchy darkness, it seems that he can hear the sound of running water. Is it, too, a delusion? No, there it is distinctly, a mere runnel, but echoing with a cavernous boom through that grim silence. And the sound is as the music of hope. The water must have an outlet somewhere. Again Claverton lights a match. He is on comparatively level ground, sloping away in the form of a conduit, down which the water is trickling, while above, the rocks lose themselves in gloomy distance. With a new-born joy at his heart, he follows the course of this subterranean stream, guided by the sound of the water, now falling headlong over a boulder, now knocking his head against the roof, for he must husband his matches, as they are drawing near the end.

Oh, G.o.d! Will this awful, rayless night never cease--this thick blackness, this horrible silence? His heart dies again within him as the atmosphere becomes more and more heavy and oppressive.

Header, have you ever stood within a disused mine, or any other cavern, artificial or natural, far beneath the surface of the earth? Have you then extinguished your light and caused your companions to do the same, keeping perfect silence for a few minutes? If you have you will remember the intense longing that came over you for one spark of light, the sound of a voice to break the frightful stillness, for one breath of the upper air, so shut out do you seem from the rest of humankind even as in the nethermost shades. What must be the feelings, then, of one to whom it is probable that the light of day will never again be vouchsafed?

Claverton puts out his hand. It encounters something cold and writhing.

With a thrill of shuddering horror he recoils, and his fingers shake-- he can hardly strike a match. At length he does so, and lo, by the red, flickering light he can see two or three great, dark, hideous shapes, whose mult.i.tudinous legs cling to the rock as the shining, creeping things wind their lengths along. Oh, G.o.d--what is to be the end of this? Will he go mad? Entombed in that pitchy darkness, with these frightful creatures crawling around him--upon him. It happened that Claverton had an exaggerated horror of anything creeping, and now in this h.e.l.l-pit, alone with those loathsome creatures, the man who has just faced death with perfect calmness in two of its most appalling forms--the spears of five hundred merciless foes in front, a giddy height behind--trembles and shudders like a woman. For a dozen yards he dashes forward as fast as his legs can carry him, and, coming violently against the wall of the cavern, sinks down panting and breathless upon a rock. Something falls into the water at his feet with a splash. Light!

Air! This den of darkness seems swarming with noisome reptiles. The legs of some creeping thing pa.s.s swiftly across his cheek, and again he shudders, and his heart throbs as if it would burst.

A faint rustle just above his ear. He looks up with a start, prepared for fresh horrors. What does he see that causes the blood to course and bound through his veins with such a wild thrill? It is a star. Yes, a star--bright, beautiful, and twinkling--only one solitary star, piercing the blackness of this frightful h.e.l.l-cave, telling of light and air--the free air of heaven--and--he dare not add--possible deliverance. A cool breeze fans his brow, wafted through a crevice in the rock, and through the crevice he can just see that one solitary star. Even if he must die now he can still keep his gaze fixed upon that one shining eye of heaven, looking in upon him from the outer air--the sweet, blessed outer air. But no. That star is there to cheer him, to encourage him--not to doom him. With hope rekindled he advances a few steps and lights a match. It will hardly burn, so strong is the draught which blows in.

He continues his way. Every now and again he can see more stars through the holes which become more frequent and larger, and he can see that he is in a fissure which runs along beneath the face of the rock, and which now begins to slant rapidly downwards. Everything is forgotten now; deliverance is at hand; for a rush of wind, which can come through no smaller an aperture than one wide enough to admit the body of a man, blows up into the tunnel. Patience! Care! He can hear the rustle of trees against the cliff on a level with his ear, and he guesses that he must be near the base of the precipice. A slide of a few feet--a dozen yards along a rocky ledge crawling on his hands and knees, the cavern widens, and, with such a feeling of relief as he has seldom, if ever, experienced before in the course of his life, Claverton steps forth from his subterranean prison-house and stands looking out into the moonlit valley, drinking in the fresh, cool night air in grateful draughts.

How delicious is that refreshing breeze after his terrible immurement!

How beautiful the silvery hue of the sprays of the unending bush, sleeping beneath the stars, how soft their rustle as they quiver in the night wind! A pointed moon hangs in the sky nearly at half, and the Southern Cross rivals in its flashing brilliance the whole complement of the rolling planets. Then comes a reaction, and Claverton begins to feel stiff and battered, for he has been badly bruised in both his falls, and his nerves have been sorely shaken by the events of the last few hours; moreover, he has eaten next to nothing that day, and a faintness begins to creep over him. The prostration of body extends to his mind. What does it matter if he dies here alone in the wilderness?

he thinks. Lilian has cast him off; she could never really have loved him. Better die and save all further trouble. In health such thoughts would never have occurred to him; now--bruised, shaken, and prostrate--a languorous feeling of fatality takes hold of his mind, and, shutting his eyes, he sits down at the foot of the great cliff, and the cool air plays upon his brow.

Ha! what is that? Cautiously he raises his head and listens. Is it a patrol? Aid--succour? No; the tread is of light feet--naked feet. It draws near, and Claverton has just time to step back within the gloom of his late prison-house as a large band of warriors glides swiftly past, and the moonlight gleams on the red, naked shoulders and on the gun-barrels and a.s.segai blades, as the savages flit silently like spectres through the bush. They have not seen him, it is true, but can it be that they are still hunting for him? In the morning they will find his spoor, and then it will be the work of an hour or two to run him down--enfeebled, nearly exhausted, and quite unarmed as he is; for in his fall his belt broke and got lost, and with it his revolver and sheath-knife. An unarmed and half-starved man, alone in an unknown country, with bands of fierce savages quartering the forest like hounds in his pursuit. What chance had he?

But whatever chance he has must not be thrown away. He will start at once; yet not at once, for sound travels an enormous distance in the bush at night, and it is indispensable that the party which has just gone by shall be allowed sufficient time to get out of hearing. So he waits and waits, till at last he can wait no longer. Emerging from his shelter he glances at the stars, and, guided by those friendly lamps of heaven, steps boldly forth into the bush.

"Never say die," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, half aloud. "I shall live to talk over this fix yet."

A low mocking laugh at his very elbow breaks the silence of the night.

Starting, as if he had been shot, he turns, and, as he does so, he is violently seized from behind. With a spring he shakes himself free. A dozen Kafirs are upon him, and their uplifted a.s.segais flash in the moonlight. A straight, neat hit from the shoulder, and the foremost goes down like a ninepin; but they see that he is unarmed, and fearlessly throw themselves upon him. A rapid struggle, a fall--and in a moment Claverton is lying on the ground, securely bound and helpless as a log.

"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the tall barbarian who had set his face against the abandonment of the search. "The white man is a wizard. He can melt into air, and then rise up again out of the earth, but we have been too knowing for him this time. Ha--ha--ha!"

"Oh, d.a.m.n you, do your worst, and the sooner the better," retorted the prisoner, in a tone of weary, hopeless disgust.

"Ha!" jeered the savage. "Lenzimbi is a skilled wizard. He can disappear into the solid rock. He can light his magic candle and walk through the heart of the earth; but his G.o.d has quarrelled with him, and has deserted him at last. Yes, Lenzimbi is a great wizard, a valiant fighting man; but now _the black goat lives and the white goat dies_.

Ha!"

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"...IN EVER CLIMBING UP THE CLIMBING WAVE."

Claverton looked sharply at the speaker. The voice seemed familiar to him, but the features less so. And then, the other had addressed him by the name given him by the natives at the time he was living at Seringa Vale. Not only that. He had uttered words which sounded familiar. In a moment the floodgates of memory were opened; Claverton remembered the midnight meeting at Spoek Krantz, and the oracle with which its proceedings closed. Now his captor had repeated the words of that augury, but had reversed them with grim significance. Still, he thought he saw a glimmer of light.

"Stand up?" said the savage, peremptorily.

"Needs must where literally the devil drives," was the prisoner's reply, given with all his wonted coolness, as he obeyed. Resistance would be worse than useless, for it would only subject him to further indignity.

He was absolutely in their power.

"Now walk," was the next order.

"Which way?"

"_Hamba-ke_!" ["Walk, then," or "Go on."] repeated the tall Kafir--who seemed to be the chief of the gang--and the command, uttered in a fierce and threatening tone, was emphasised by a prod with his a.s.segai.

Not by word or sign did the prisoner show that he even felt the sharp dig of the weapon, though the blood was running freely down his leg.

Then they started in single file, with the prisoner in the middle, a _reim_ fastened to his bound hands being held by the man immediately behind him. Thus they made their way out of that moonlit valley, and the strange procession wended on through the still, beautiful night.

The Kafirs, for the most part, kept perfect silence as they walked, and now even Claverton was surprised by the readiness with which they got through the dense bush, picking out the most unlikely paths, and threading them with an ease and rapidity that savoured of the marvellous; but although they hit upon the smoothest paths, the prisoner's powers were sorely tried, for he had undergone no slight strain within the last twenty-four hours, and his footsteps began to drag in spite of himself. The first sign of this, however, met with encouragement in the shape of a dig from the a.s.segai of the man behind him, accompanied by a brutal laugh. There was no help for it--he was entirely in their hands.

"The white man is a very great warrior," remarked the Kafir whom he had knocked down. "He can turn his hand into a club when he has no other weapon. He is made of iron; but even iron will bend and melt in the fire--in the fire. Whaow!" repeated the savage, with a dark, meaning look; and Claverton knew that the reference was to his probable fate.

His probable?--nay, his certain fate.

"Look here, you fellows," said the prisoner coolly. "You're rather a skulking lot, when all's said and done. Here you've got me in your power--me whom you've fought fairly and openly in the field--and you think it immense fun to give me a quiet dig now and then with your a.s.segais, like a lot of old women's spiteful pinches. That's not the way in which warriors of the Amaxosa should behave, even to a prisoner."

A laugh, not wholly an ill-natured one, greeted this remonstrance.

"If you intend to cut my throat, as no doubt you do, cut it and have done with it; but, hang it, until you do you might give a fellow a little peace," he went on.

"Peace, peace? No, it's war now, white man--war," they replied. "Why should we give you any peace until the time comes to roast you? That's what we are going to do with you."

"Are you? Well, that's for the Great Chief to decide. Meanwhile, if you were decent fellows, you'd fill me up a pipe and let me have a smoke as we go along."

His coolness staggered them. But it stood him in good stead, for among these people a bold and fearless mien always commands respect. The tall chief stepped back to the prisoner's side, and filling up a pipe from Claverton's own tobacco pouch, lighted it and gave it to him, or rather stuck it into his mouth, with a grim laugh.