The Red Derelict Part 42

"I won't go any further, thanks," he said. "I don't want to see that place again."

"But you must," replied the other in a tone that was perfectly fiendish in its menace. "You've no choice. I'm G.o.d here, remember."

What could he do? He was unarmed; therefore, to that extent, at everybody's mercy. He had others to think of beside himself--one other especially. So he steeled himself.

The dreadful place of slaughter was thronged, it seemed, with the whole population of the town. Through these a word from his guide cleared a prompt way. Several wooden blocks were let into the ground, and upon one of these a victim was being bound down in such wise that the body, turned face upwards, formed an arc, the head being fixed so as to draw the upturned throat to the fullest tension. And the horrified, blood-chilled spectator observed that the victim was a large stalwart black very much akin in aspect to the one he had seen struck down by the mysterious blow in that eerie temple of devil-wors.h.i.+p within the heart of the forest.

"I've let them have a little compensation for killing one of themselves just now," broke in his companion's voice with hideous callousness. "It was a biggish man among them--as far as I allow any of them to be big.

So I've stood them a feed. These belong to another breed, and they like them, and I can get plenty more. See?"

"But, you'll never allow this?" cried Wagram. "Stop it, do you hear?

Stop it, man--devil--or whatever you are. Stop it, or I will."

Without waiting for any reply he sprang forward. A tall black fiend armed with a great curved knife had stepped to the side of the victim, whose agonised, livid, terror-stricken face was sufficient to haunt Wagram to his dying day. It was done in a moment. Quick as thought Wagram had s.n.a.t.c.hed the murderous implement from the grasp of the savage, at the same time dealing him a straight-out blow behind the ear which sent him staggering, and had cut through the bonds which held the wretched victim, who rolled heavily to the ground. A howl, as of a pack of famished wolves balked of its prey, arose from the crowd. A rush was made. But somehow the sight of this man--who had never shed human blood in his life--standing there at bay, a new and entirely whole-hearted Berserk rage blazing from his eyes as he rolled them around, holding the formidable weapon ready, seemed to tell, and they hesitated, still mouthing and yelling like h.e.l.l let loose. Then great, heavy-hafted spears were raised, ready for casting. But a word from the other white man checked the decisive throw, though still unwillingly. They growled and muttered like dogs, looking from one to the other.

"Give me your promise that he shall be spared," cried Wagram.

"Otherwise not a man comes near him while I am alive."

"You fool. Are you prepared to stand there for the rest of the day?"

was the answer. "After you are dead, will it be any the better for anybody else?"

"I shall die while doing my duty at any rate. As for you--why, the most loathsome savage here is not so loathsome as you."

"Ha--ha! That's all gas. Well, it doesn't suit me that your life shall be taken, Wagram--at least not until I choose. So I'll give you my promise. Like yourself, I'm not a liar, whatever I may be."

He harangued the a.s.sembled fiends, and in the result the wretched man, still livid with the fears of death, was allowed to slip away, while the crowd sullenly dispersed--Wagram, of course, being totally unaware that he was promising them another victim, whom they might despatch and feast upon at their leisure, when there should be n.o.body present to interrupt.

Thus his promise was kept--in the letter.

"I thought I'd just let you see where I come in," he said as they walked away together. "Man, you think you have done something blasted heroic, don't you?--but let me tell you that a word from me would have seen you strapped down to one of those blocks too. You don't suppose you could have kept them off with that knife for many minutes, do you?"

Wagram did not answer. His disgust and repulsion for the other had reached such a pitch that he did not deem it advisable to speak, for fear of betraying it.

"You'd better hug your own quarters for a day or two after this," went on the latter. "None too safe to be prowling around. You understand?"

"Yes; I understand."

Hope, raised once more, had fallen to the ground. For some reason or other this white savage had seen fit to detain him prisoner--probably with the object of extracting more in the way of ransom. Indeed, now it dawned upon him that in forcing him to behold all the more horrible side of the life of these barbarians the other was working to bring his mind up to such a pitch that he would be glad to purchase emanc.i.p.ation at any price, however great.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE ALTERNATIVE.

"Well? And have you now come round to a sweet and reasonable frame of mind?"

Wagram looked his persecutor steadily in the face. He was not secured, but two stalwart blacks stood on each side, ready to antic.i.p.ate any aggressive movement on his part.

"You've not, eh? That'll come; only the longer you hold out the more personal inconvenience you'll lay yourself open to. I give you fair warning."

"You intend to murder me, I suppose," answered Wagram. "Why not do it at once? I won't agree to your perfectly outrageous proposal."

"Outrageous?" sneered the white fiend. "Let's go over the ground again.

A month ago I invited you to make a protracted stay with me. I further asked you to send for your son, thinking that a little wild bush life would make a wholesome change for a schoolboy, and we would have been as jolly as sandboys together. You began to make excuses. Now, I don't like excuses. I'm not accustomed to them, as you must have learnt since you've been here. Then you refused point-blank, saying this was no place to bring a boy to. You yourself couldn't refuse my hospitality, which I'm afraid I shall have to extend to you for an indefinite time.

But your son and heir--I'm dying to make his acquaintance. See?"

"Yes; I see. And I give you the answer straight: I have no intention that you should make his acquaintance or he yours. Now--is that straight enough?"

"Oh, quite. Only have you reflected that in that case you yourself will never set eyes on him again? Hasn't that struck you?"

"As a possibility, not as a probability. Look here! you are a white man, not a savage. For some purpose you are trying to frighten me.

What is it? Is it that you want a larger price? If so, name it."

"Trying to frighten you? Why, I haven't even begun to frighten you yet.

You told me one day you thought I must be the devil. Well, I am--for all purposes as far as you are concerned. Make up your mind to that."

There was no great eagerness in Wagram's mind to dispute this statement.

He had spent a month in the power of this fiend, and scarcely a day had pa.s.sed without some proof that if he were not already within the infernal regions he was at any rate well within the antechamber thereto.

Apart from the fact that the conditions of his captivity had been more and more those of every conceivable harshness, he had been compelled to witness the most ghastly and horrifying sights, of which the blood tragedies of the cannibal slaughter-yard were not the worst. Other fiendish rites, hideous and obscene--hardly imaginable, in fact--he had been thrust into the very midst of; and now within that brief month it seemed that he must have lived for years in h.e.l.l, and all at the bidding of this devil--his fellow-countryman. His health had suffered, his mind and spirit alike were becoming broken, and every moment he besieged high Heaven with supplications that deliverance--even through the gate of death--might be granted him. So far his tormentor had confined his malice to tortures that were mainly mental. He had been careful, too, to afford him no clue whatever as to the locality in which he was, or even as to the very name of this savage race. His own ident.i.ty, of course, was undivulged.

"You have the whole situation in your own hands," went on the latter.

"You have only to place in mine the necessary letters that will bring your son and heir here. I'll take care of the way of doing it, never fear, once I have your indisputable authority. Now--are you going to give it me?"

Something of the martyr's resolution shone in Wagram's face. Even the brutal savages who guarded him were struck by it, and uneasily stirred.

They thought to descry some strange resemblance at that moment between the faces of the two men, between their dreaded oppressor and his--and their--helpless captive.

"No; I am not--not now, nor ever," came the steadfast answer. "I will die first."

Then that glaring paroxysm of rage swept over the other's features, and his eyes seemed to start from his purpling face as he bent down and hissed rather than whispered:

"Then you shall. By G.o.d, you shall!" At a sign the two savages pounced upon their prisoner, and flung him face downwards upon the ground. They were muscular ruffians, and he was weakened by ill-treatment and anxiety. Others flocked into the hut in obedience to a call, and in a moment he was pinioned with thongs, his feet being left free enough to enable him to walk with short steps. They dragged him forth into the open, and he found himself staggering along in their midst. Then he realised what his doom was to be. He had travelled this way before, to his horror and sorrow. They were taking him to the human slaughter-yard.

There was the palisade, the stunted trees, and the horrible heads impaled upon them. The effluvium was acrid, sickening. Many hands gripped him, and before he could offer the slightest resistance he was bound down upon one of the blood-stained blocks, with throat upturned, distended, ready for the murderous knife.

In that terrible moment, expecting death amid every circ.u.mstance of agony and ignominy, a vista of his past life opened to his brain--opened with a quick flash. This, then, was what his quest had brought him to-- his quest which, following the strong voice of conscience, he had undertaken and had prosecuted to his own detriment. Well, what mattered it? His son--his only son--had been left in strong and careful hands.

He would carry on his life duties as he himself would have had him do.

Then more sacred thoughts succeeded. He trusted he was ready.

A black fiend stood over him, and had already raised the horrible crooked knife; already he seemed to feel it shearing through nerve and artery. But it was stayed.

"One more chance," cried the voice of his arch-tormentor. "Will you do what you have no option but to do? Remember, this is no swift death--no beheading at one blow--as you have seen. A nasty sort of butchering death for a man of your birth and breeding to end up with, eh?"

"Do your butcher work; my mind is unchanged."

At a sign the demon with the knife lowered it. Wagram felt a slash upon his throat, and the blood flowed. In reality it was but a skin cut.

The black fiend, instructed by the white arch-fiend, was but playing with him; yet the mind acting upon the strained nerves rendered the torture actual, horrible. Except a quick gasp no sound escaped the sufferer. In the concentration of the suspense every detail was stamped upon the retina of his brain--the b.e.s.t.i.a.l, black faces, staring and bloodthirsty; the scarcely less repulsive countenance of his-- fellow-countryman, and a strange, vivid scar round the outside of the right eye defacing this. Detail is curiously to the front in moments of extreme tensity. The willing executioner looked again at his superior for the final signal. After a moment of deathly silence--to the sufferer a very lifetime of suspense--it came.

But, what was this? He had been quickly unbound, and rolled to the ground, and as he lay there, dazed with the sudden revulsion, the voice of his arch-tormentor fell once more upon his ears.