It was quite a formidable expedition
that departed from Berande at
break of day next morning in
a fleet of canoes and dinghies.
There were Joan and Sheldon,
with Binu Charley and Lalaperu,
the eight Tahitians, and the
ten Poonga-Poonga men, each proud
in the possession of a bright
and shining modern rifle. In
addition, there were two of the
plantation boat's-crews of six
men each. These, however, were
to go no farther than Carli,
where water transportation ceased
and where they were to wait with
the boats. Boucher remained behind
in charge of Berande.
By eleven in the morning the
expedition arrived at Binu, a
cluster of twenty houses on the
river bank. And from here thirty
odd Binu men accompanied them,
armed with spears and arrows,
chattering and grimacing with
delight at the warlike array.
The long quiet stretches of river
gave way to swifter water, and
progress was slower and more
dogged. The Balesuna grew shallow
as well, and oftener were the
loaded boats bumped along and
half-lifted over the bottom.
In places timber-falls blocked
the passage of the narrow stream,
and the boats and canoes were
portaged around. Night brought
them to Carli, and they had the
satisfaction of knowing that
they had accomplished in one
day what had required two days
for Tudor's expedition.
Here at Carli, next morning,
half-way through the grass-lands,
the boat's-crews were left, and
with them the horde of Binu men,
the boldest of which held on
for a bare mile and then ran
scampering back. Binu Charley,
however, was at the fore, and
led the way onward into the rolling
foot-hills, following the trail
made by Tudor and his men weeks
before. That night they camped
well into the hills and deep
in the tropic jungle. The third
day found them on the run-ways
of the bushmen--narrow paths
that compelled single file and
that turned and twisted with
endless convolutions through
the dense undergrowth. For the
most part it was a silent forest,
lush and dank, where only occasionally
a wood-pigeon cooed or snow-
white cockatoos laughed harshly
in laborious flight.
Here, in the mid-morning, the
first casualty occurred. Binu
Charley had dropped behind for
a time, and Koogoo, the Poonga-
Poonga man who had boasted that
he would eat the bushmen, was
in the lead. Joan and Sheldon
heard the twanging thrum and
saw Koogoo throw out his arms,
at the same time dropping his
rifle, stumble forward, and sink
down on his hands and knees.
Between his naked shoulders,
low down and to the left, appeared
the bone-barbed head of an arrow.
He had been shot through and
through. Cocked rifles swept
the bush with nervous apprehension.
But there was no rustle, no movement;
nothing but the humid oppressive
silence.
"Bushmen he no stop," Binu
Charley called out, the sound
of his voice startling more than
one of them. "Allee same damn
funny business. That fella Koogoo
no look 'm eye belong him. He
no savvee little bit."
Koogoo's arms had crumpled
under him, and he lay quivering
where he had fallen. Even as
Binu Charley came to the front
the stricken black's breath passed
from him, and with a final convulsive
stir he lay still.
"Right through the heart," Sheldon
said, straightening up from the
stooping examination. "It must
have been a trap of some sort."
He noticed Joan's white, tense
face, and the wide eyes with
which she stared at the wreck
of what had been a man the minute
before.
"I recruited that boy myself," she
said in a whisper. "He came down
out of the bush at Poonga-Poonga
and right on board the Martha
and offered himself. And I was
proud. He was my very first recruit--"
"My word! Look 'm that fella," Binu
Charley interrupted, brushing
aside the leafy wall of the run-way
and exposing a bow so massive
that no one bushman could have
bent it.
The Binu man traced out the
mechanics of the trap, and exposed
the hidden fibre in the tangled
undergrowth that at contact with
Koogoo's foot had released the
taut bow.
They were deep
in the primeval forest. A dim
twilight prevailed,
for no random shaft of sunlight
broke through the thick roof
of leaves and creepers overhead.
The Tahitians were plainly awed
by the silence and gloom and
mystery of the place and happening,
but they showed themselves doggedly
unafraid, and were for pushing
on. The Poonga-Poonga men, on
the contrary, were not awed.
They were bushmen themselves,
and they were used to this silent
warfare, though the devices were
different from those employed
by them in their own bush. Most
awed of all were Joan and Sheldon,
but, being whites, they were
not supposed to be subject to
such commonplace emotions, and
their task was to carry the situation
off with careless bravado as
befitted "big fella marsters" of
the dominant breed.
Binu Charley took the lead
as they pushed on, and trap after
trap yielded its secret lurking-place
to his keen scrutiny. The way
was beset with a thousand annoyances,
chiefest among which were thorns,
cunningly concealed, that penetrated
the bare feet of the invaders.
Once, during the afternoon, Binu
Charley barely missed being impaled
in a staked pit that undermined
the trail. There were times when
all stood still and waited for
half an hour or more while Binu
Charley prospected suspicious
parts of the trail. Sometimes
he was compelled to leave the
trail and creep and climb through
the jungle so as to approach
the man-traps from behind; and
on one occasion, in spite of
his precaution, a spring-bow
was discharged, the flying arrow
barely clipping the shoulder
of one of the waiting Poonga-Poonga
boys.
Where a slight run-way entered
the main one, Sheldon paused
and asked Binu Charley if he
knew where it led.
"Plenty bush fella garden he
stop along there short way little
bit," was the answer. "All right
you like 'm go look 'm along."
"'Walk 'm easy," he cautioned,
a few minutes later. "Close up,
that fella garden. S'pose some
bush fella he stop, we catch
'm."
Creeping ahead and peering
into the clearing for a moment,
Binu Charley beckoned Sheldon
to come on cautiously. Joan crouched
beside him, and together they
peeped out. The cleared space
was fully half an acre in extent
and carefully fenced against
the wild pigs. Paw-paw and banana-trees
were just ripening their fruit,
while beneath grew sweet potatoes
and yams. On one edge of the
clearing was a small grass house,
open-sided, a mere rain-shelter.
In front of it, crouched on his
hams before a fire, was a gaunt
and bearded bushman. The fire
seemed to smoke excessively,
and in the thick of the smoke
a round dark object hung suspended.
The bushman seemed absorbed in
contemplation of this object.
Warning them not to shoot unless
the man was successfully escaping,
Sheldon beckoned the Poonga-Poonga
men forward. Joan smiled appreciatively
to Sheldon. It was head-hunters
against head- hunters. The blacks
trod noiselessly to their stations,
which were arranged so that they
could spring simultaneously into
the open. Their faces were keen
and serious, their eyes eloquent
with the ecstasy of living that
was upon them--for this was living,
this game of life and death,
and to them it was the only game
a man should play, withal they
played it in low and cowardly
ways, killing from behind in
the dim forest gloom and rarely
coming out into the open.
Sheldon whispered the word,
and the ten runners leaped forward--for
Binu Charley ran with them. The
bushman's keen ears warned him,
and he sprang to his feet, bow
and arrow in hand, the arrow
fixed in the notch and the bow
bending as he sprang. The man
he let drive at dodged the arrow,
and before he could shoot another
his enemies were upon him. He
was rolled over and over and
dragged to his feet, disarmed
and helpless.
"Why, he's an ancient Babylonian!" Joan
cried, regarding him. "He's an
Assyrian, a Phoenician! Look
at that straight nose, that narrow
face, those high cheek-bones--and
that slanting, oval forehead,
and the beard, and the eyes,
too."
"And the snaky locks," Sheldon
laughed.
The bushman was in mortal fear,
led by all his training to expect
nothing less than death; yet
he did not cower away from them.
Instead, he returned their looks
with lean self-sufficiency, and
finally centred his gaze upon
Joan, the first white woman he
had ever seen.
"My word, bush fella kai-kai
along that fella boy," Binu Charley
remarked.
So stolid was his manner of
utterance that Joan turned carelessly
to see what had attracted his
attention, and found herself
face to face with Gogoomy. At
least, it was the head of Gogoomy--the
dark object they had seen hanging
in the smoke. It was fresh--the
smoke-curing had just begun--and,
save for the closed eyes, all
the sullen handsomeness and animal
virility of the boy, as Joan
had known it, was still to be
seen in the monstrous thing that
twisted and dangled in the eddying
smoke.
Nor was Joan's horror lessened
by the conduct of the Poonga-Poonga
boys. On the instant they recognized
the head, and on the instant
rose their wild hearty laughter
as they explained to one another
in shrill falsetto voices. Gogoomy's
end was a joke. He had been foiled
in his attempt to escape. He
had played the game and lost.
And what greater joke could there
be than that the bushmen should
have eaten him? It was the funniest
incident that had come under
their notice in many a day. And
to them there was certainly nothing
unusual nor bizarre in the event.
Gogoomy had completed the life-cycle
of the bushman. He had taken
heads, and now his own head had
been taken. He had eaten men,
and now he had been eaten by
men.
The Poonga-Poonga men's laughter
died down, and they regarded
the spectacle with glittering
eyes and gluttonous expressions.
The Tahitians, on the other hand,
were shocked, and Adamu Adam
was shaking his head slowly and
grunting forth his disgust. Joan
was angry. Her face was white,
but in each cheek was a vivid
spray of red. Disgust had been
displaced by wrath, and her mood
was clearly vengeful.
Sheldon laughed.
"It's nothing to be angry over," he
said. "You mustn't forget that
he hacked off Kwaque's head,
and that he ate one of his own
comrades that ran away with him.
Besides, he was born to it. He
has but been eaten out of the
same trough from which he himself
has eaten."
Joan looked at him with lips
that trembled on the verge of
speech.
"And don't forget," Sheldon
added, "that he is the son of
a chief, and that as sure as
fate his Port Adams tribesmen
will take a white man's head
in payment."
"It is all so ghastly ridiculous," Joan
finally said.
"And--er--romantic," he
suggested slyly.
She did not answer, and turned
away; but Sheldon knew that the
shaft had gone home.
"That fella boy he sick, belly
belong him walk about," Binu
Charley said, pointing to the
Poonga-Poonga man whose shoulder
had been scratched by the arrow
an hour before.
The boy was sitting down and
groaning, his arms clasping his
bent knees, his head drooped
forward and rolling painfully
back and forth. For fear of poison,
Sheldon had immediately scarified
the wound and injected permanganate
of potash; but in spite of the
precaution the shoulder was swelling
rapidly.
"We'll take him on to where
Tudor is lying," Joan said. "The
walking will help to keep up
his circulation and scatter the
poison. Adamu Adam, you take
hold that boy. Maybe he will
want to sleep. Shake him up.
If he sleep he die."
The advance was more rapid
now, for Binu Charley placed
the captive bushman in front
of him and made him clear the
run-way of traps. Once, at a
sharp turn where a man's shoulder
would unavoidably brush against
a screen of leaves, the bushman
displayed great caution as he
spread the leaves aside and exposed
the head of a sharp-pointed spear,
so set that the casual passer-by
would receive at the least a
nasty scratch.
"My word," said Binu Charley, "that
fella spear allee same devil-
devil."
He took the spear and was examining
it when suddenly he made as if
to stick it into the bushman.
It was a bit of simulated playfulness,
but the bushman sprang back in
evident fright. Poisoned the
weapon was beyond any doubt,
and thereafter Binu Charley carried
it threateningly at the prisoner's
back.
The sun, sinking behind a lofty
western peak, brought on an early
but lingering twilight, and the
expedition plodded on through
the evil forest--the place of
mystery and fear, of death swift
and silent and horrible, of brutish
appetite and degraded instinct,
of human life that still wallowed
in the primeval slime, of savagery
degenerate and abysmal. No slightest
breezes blew in the gloomy silence,
and the air was stale and humid
and suffocating. The sweat poured
unceasingly from their bodies,
and in their nostrils was the
heavy smell of rotting vegetation
and of black earth that was a-crawl
with fecund life.
They turned aside from the
run-way at a place indicated
by Binu Charley, and, sometimes
crawling on hands and knees through
the damp black muck, at other
times creeping and climbing through
the tangled undergrowth a dozen
feet from the ground, they came
to an immense banyan tree, half
an acre in extent, that made
in the innermost heart of the
jungle a denser jungle of its
own. From out of its black depths
came the voice of a man singing
in a cracked, eerie voice.
"My word, that
big fella marster he no die!"
The singing stopped, and the
voice, faint and weak, called
out a hello. Joan answered, and
then the voice explained.
"I'm not wandering.
I was just singing to keep
my spirits up.
Have you got anything to eat?"
A few minutes saw the rescued
man lying among blankets, while
fires were building, water was
being carried, Joan's tent was
going up, and Lalaperu was overhauling
the packs and opening tins of
provisions. Tudor, having pulled
through the fever and started
to mend, was still frightfully
weak and very much starved. So
badly swollen was he from mosquito-bites
that his face was unrecognizable,
and the acceptance of his identity
was largely a matter of faith.
Joan had her own ointments along,
and she prefaced their application
by fomenting his swollen features
with hot cloths. Sheldon, with
an eye to the camp and the preparations
for the night, looked on and
felt the pangs of jealousy at
every contact of her hands with
Tudor's face and body. Somehow,
engaged in their healing ministrations,
they no longer seemed to him
boy's hands, the hands of Joan
who had gazed at Gogoomy's head
with pale cheeks sprayed with
angry flame. The hands were now
a woman's hands, and Sheldon
grinned to himself as his fancy
suggested that some night he
must lie outside the mosquito-netting
in order to have Joan apply soothing
fomentations in the morning.
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