Part 3 (1/2)
”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.”