Bindloss Harold
Long Odds

CHAPTER XXVII
AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT

Fort San Roque stood, as Father Tiebout sometimes said, on the verge of extinction in the shadow of the debatable land, but its Commandant or Chefe, as he was usually termed, had become accustomed to the fact, and, if he did not forget it altogether, seldom took it into serious consideration. After all, the European only exists on sufferance in the hotter parts of Africa, and as a rule, once he realizes it, ceases to trouble himself about the matter and concentrates his attention on the acquiring of riches by any means available. Dom Erminio was not an exception, and being by no means particular, endeavored to make the most of his opportunities, especially as his term of office was not a long one. It was, perhaps, not astonishing that in his eagerness to do so he became to some extent oblivious of everything else, since those entrusted with authority over a discontented subject people have at other times and in other places acted as though they were a trifle blind to what was going on about them. Dom Erminio was cunning, but, as occasionally happens in the case of cunning men, he was also short-sighted.

The evening meal had been cleared away when he lay in a canvas lounge, yellow in face, as white men often become in that part of Africa, with a cigar in his bony fingers. Darkness had just closed down on the lonely station, but the little rickety residency had lain for twelve hours under a burning sun, and now the big oil lamps raised the already almost insupportable temperature. The Chefe, however, did not seem to feel it. He lay in his chair apparently languidly content, a spare figure in loose and somewhat soiled white uniform, looking at his Lieutenant, who was fingering a glass of red Canary wine. Neither of them troubled themselves about the fact that there were men in that country who regarded them with a vindictive hatred.

"I almost think we may as well call that man in," he said.

The Lieutenant Luiz glanced towards the veranda, where a negro was patiently squatting, as he had, in fact, been doing for most of the day. He brought a message from a Headman of some importance in the vicinity, and there was no reason why he should not have been listened to several hours earlier, except that Dom Erminio preferred to keep him waiting. It was in his opinion advisable that a negro should be taught humbly to await the white man's pleasure, which is a policy that has now and then brought trouble upon the white man. Dom Luiz, who understood his companion's views on that subject, smiled.

"He has, no doubt, complaints to make. They always have," he said. "Considering everything, that is not astonishing. I wonder if the Headman expects us to give them much consideration."

Dom Erminio spread his yellow hands out. "One would have thought we had taught him to expect nothing. He is, it seems, a little slow to understand. Perhaps, we have not put the screw on quite hard enough. I fancy another turn would make him restive."

He looked at his Lieutenant, and both of them laughed. Then the Chefe made a little sign.

"Bring him in," he said.

The negro came in, a big, heavily-built man, with an expressionless face. When Dom Erminio made him a sign not to come too near he squatted down, a huddled object with apathetic patience in its pose, until the Lieutenant signified that he might deliver his message.

"The Headman sends you greeting. He has a complaint to make," he said, and another dusky man who had slipped in softly made his observations plain. "The soldiers have been beating the people in one of his villages, and carrying off things that did not belong to them again. The Headman asks for justice in this matter."

"He shall have it," said the Chefe. "His people have been insolent, and they are certainly getting lazy. We will send him a requisition for more provisions."

Nobody could have told whether the messenger felt any resentment, but, after all, very few white men ever quite understand what the African is thinking. He crouched impassively still, with the lamplight on his heavy face and his oily skin gleaming softly over the great knotted muscles of his splendid arms and shoulders. There was something in his attitude which vaguely suggested dormant force that might spread destruction when it was unloosed, but that naturally did not occur to the Chefe, who indicated by a little gesture that he might continue.

"There is another matter," said the negro. "The Headman can not send in the rubber demanded. Already we have cleared the forest of half the trees. One has to go a long way to find any more. He will do what he can, but he asks that you will be content with a little less than usual."

Dom Erminio shook his head reproachfully. "I have made this man concessions, and this is the result," he said. "There are many duties I have released him from, and I only ask a little rubber and a few other things for the favor."

Then he straightened himself in his chair. "Tell your Headman that not a load of rubber will be excused him, and he must restrain his people from provoking the soldiers. Also, the next time he has a complaint to make let him come himself and lay it before me."

The man stood up, splendid in his animal muscularity, but there was for just a moment a little gleam in his eyes which suggested that hot human passions were at work within him. The white men, however, as usual, did not notice it, and the black interpreter, whose opinion was seldom invited, said nothing.

"I will tell him," said the messenger, and Dom Erminio looked at the Lieutenant Luiz when he went out with the interpreter.

"I think," he said reflectively, "we will give the screw that other turn. It is supposed that our new rulers down yonder" – and he apparently indicated the coast with a stretched out hand – "are in favor of a more conciliatory policy, which is not what we would wish for just now."

"It is clearly out of the question," and Dom Luiz grinned. "I think it would be advisable if I went out with a few files and made some further trifling requisition to-morrow."

"You will go, and do what appears desirable," said the Chefe, who lighted another cigar.

Dom Luiz set out on the morrow with a handful of dusky ruffians in uniform, and left rage and shame behind him in the villages he visited, which, as it happened, had results neither he nor Dom Erminio had anticipated. The Headman did not come to San Roque to make his humble complaint, but he sent an urgent message to the Suzerain of the village Ormsgill was confined in, and at last one morning the old man sent for the latter.

"We march in a few hours, and as we can not leave you here you and the boys you asked me for will come with us," he said. "What our business is does not concern you, and you will go with us as prisoners. Just now I do not know what we will do with you afterwards. It will depend" – and he looked at Ormsgill with a little grim smile – "a good deal upon your own behavior."

Ormsgill, who grasped the gist of what he said, could take a hint, and went back to Nares. The latter listened quietly when he told him what he had heard.

"I believe there is no other way. Their oppressors have brought it upon their own heads," he said.

His comrade noticed the curious hardness of his face, and the glint in his eyes. It was very evident to him that Nares, who had been down again with fever while they lay in the sweltering heat, had changed. He had borne many troubles uncomplainingly for several weary years, and, perhaps because of it, the events of the last few weeks had left their mark on him. After all, there is a subtle concord between mind and body, and in that land, at least, the fever-shaken white man who persists in staggering on under a burden greater than he can reasonably bear is apt to be suddenly crushed by it. Then his bodily strength or mental faculties give way once for all beneath the strain. Ormsgill could not define the change in his companion, but he recognized it. It was a thing which he had seen happen to other men.

They started in the heat of that afternoon, and Ormsgill, marching with his boys, watched the long dusky column wind into the forest in front of him. There were men with Snider rifles, which they were indifferently accustomed to, men with glinting matchets, and men with flintlock guns and spears, besides rows of plodding carriers. They were half-naked most of them, men of primitive passions and no great intelligence, but they had risen at last in their desperation to strike for freedom. Behind them rose a tumultuous uproar of barbaric music, insistent and deafening, that floated far over the forest. Ormsgill smiled a little as it grew fainter.

"I'm not sure there will be any music when they come back again," he said. "Still, I almost think they will accomplish – something."

Nares looked straight in front of him as he plodded on, but there was a curious gleam in his eyes.

"There is no other way," was all he said.

The long dusky column pushed on steadily through dim forest, wide morass, and tracts of hot white sand, and it happened one evening when the advance guard were a considerable distance ahead that Dom Erminio sat alone on the veranda at San Roque. It was then about eight o'clock, and the night was very dark and hot. Now and then a little fitful breeze crept up the misty river, and filled the forest that rose above it with mysterious noises. Then it dropped away again, and left a silence the Chefe commenced to find oppressive behind it. He could hear the oily gurgle of sliding water, and at times a sharp crackle in the crazy building behind him, out of which there drifted a damp mildewy smell, but that merely emphasized the almost disconcerting absence of any other sound. Indeed, it was so still that the soft rustle his duck garments made as he moved jarred on him, and he was glad when the little muggy breeze flowed into the veranda again.

There was nothing in all this to trouble a man who was accustomed to it, but the Chefe was not quite at his ease. Dom Luiz, whom he had sent out a few days earlier, should have been back that afternoon, but there was no sign of him yet, nor had the three or four dusky soldiers who had gone out on some business of their own with his consent as yet made an appearance. There were very few men in the fort, and when nine o'clock came Dom Erminio, who was quite aware that the natives had no great cause to love him, admitted that he was a trifle anxious. Still, he had, with what he considered a more sufficient reason, been anxious rather frequently. It was a thing one became accustomed to in the debatable land, and sitting still he lighted another cigar. He could see the mists that rolled up from the river, and the forest cutting faintly black against the sky, and wondered vaguely what was going on in it. That there was something going on in it he now felt tolerably certain, though he did not exactly know why.

At last the hoarse cry of a sentry rose out of the night, and when it was answered he went down to the gate of the stockade. It was not a gate that opened in the usual fashion, but one that dropped, a stout affair of logs copied from the form adopted by the inhabitants of the plateaux to the south. When he reached it two or three black soldiers were heaving it up, and there was a patter of feet outside. Then a line of shadowy figures grew out of the darkness, and though there did not seem to be as many as he had expected it was with a sense of relief he saw Dom Luiz come in through the gap. The logs clashed down behind the last of his men, and Dom Erminio straightened himself suddenly when a sergeant came up with a lantern.

Two of the row of barefooted men appeared scarcely fit to stand. Their garments were rent to pieces, and there was blood and mire on them, while neither of them carried rifles. Dom Luiz saw the question in the Chefe's eyes, and nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I should have been here earlier. It was these two who detained me. I sent them on to the village in the thicker bush two days ago, and they came back dragging themselves with difficulty – as you see them. It seems the villagers had beaten them, and they did not know what had become of their rifles."

Dom Erminio's face became suddenly intent. "Ah," he said, "they shall be beaten again to-morrow. You will hand them to the guard. I suppose you saw nothing of the Sergeant Orticho?"

"No," said Lieutenant Luiz, who was a trifle puzzled by the sudden change in the Chefe's manner, "I saw no sign of him."

He called to his men, and as they filed by him loaded heavily with miscellaneous sundries, Dom Erminio smiled significantly.

"They have, it seems, been successful, which is fortunate," he said. "I almost think it will be some little time before they make any more requisitions of the kind again."

He turned back towards the house, and was once more sitting on the veranda when the Lieutenant Luiz rejoined him.

"It would no doubt be advisable that I should set out again in the morning with a stronger party and chastise those villagers who have beaten our men?" said the latter.

"No," said the Chefe dryly, "you will probably be busy here. When the natives venture to beat our men it is, I think, wiser to keep every man we have inside the fort."

"Ah," said his companion, "you believe they have courage enough to go further?"

Dom Erminio smiled. "I believe we both admitted that the natives might resent our attitude. We were, I think, for several reasons not unwilling that they should do something to make their resentment evident."

He stopped a moment, and the manner in which he spread out his yellow hands was very expressive. "Now I fancy we have got what we wished for – and, perhaps, a little more than could reasonably have been expected. It is rather a pity that we have lost several men with sickness lately."

Dom Luiz straightened himself in his chair. "There are very few of us, and I am not quite sure that one or two of the fresh draft could be depended on. Still, Orticho has most of them well in hand."

Dom Erminio made a little gesture. "I think we can not count upon Orticho in this affair. It is scarcely likely that he and the men who went out with him will come back again. What he has heard in the bush I do not know, but it is evident that he regards this thing very much as I do. In fact, I fancy he is heading as fast as possible for the coast by now."

"Ah," said Dom Luiz, and looked at his companion inquiringly.

"The business we have in hand is perfectly simple," said Dom Erminio. "We were sent here to hold San Roque, and it must be done. When these bushmen call upon us we shall be ready. With that in view you will set about moving the quick-firing gun from where it is now, and when that is done you will open a loophole for it at the rear of the stockade. It is not quite so strong at that point, and our friends, who know where the gun stood, will probably attack us there. It would be advisable to have it done before the dawn comes."

Dom Luiz rose and set about it. There was no uneasiness in his companion's manner, but there was a look which had not been there for some little time in his eyes. He was, perhaps, in several respects a rogue, but, like other men of that kind, he had his strong points, too, and nobody had ever accused him of being deficient in manhood, which, unfortunately, is not always quite the same thing as humanity. He was also Chefe, Commandant and Administrator, which he never forgot, and he sat on the veranda smoking cigarette after cigarette while Dom Luiz toiled for once very strenuously half the night. It was very dark and hot, the logs he handled were heavy, and the dusky soldiers seemed unusually slow at understanding. Still, when the dawn broke the little quick-firing gun stood at the rear of the stockade, which had been strengthened wherever it was possible.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE CHEFE STANDS FAST

It was an hour after midnight when the Headman sent for Ormsgill, who found him sitting with his overlord beside a little fire that burned redly in the thin mist. The night was almost chilly, and the Suzerain crouched close beside the blaze, huddled in his loose garments, with the uncertain light on his impassive face. It seemed to Ormsgill that he looked worn and old, and he became conscious for the first time of a vague pity for him. The task he had undertaken was, the white man felt, one he could not succeed in. It was merely another futile protest, for the yoke that was being fastened on his people's necks could not be flung off that way. Ormsgill stood silent a moment or two until the old man turned to him.

"You have no cause to love those white men in San Roque," he said. "Well, I will give you forty boys with rifles. We want leaders who know how the white men fight."

Ormsgill shook his head. "No," he said, "I can not lead them. This affair is no concern of mine."

The negro appeared to ponder over his answer, for it was with difficulty they understood each other, though another man crouching in the wood smoke flung in a word or two.

"Are you all against us because we are black?" he said. "Those men at San Roque would shoot you if they could."

"It is very likely," and Ormsgill smiled a little. "Still, I think we are not all against you – though I can not lead your men. There are white men among the Portuguese who know that you have wrongs. Some day they will have justice done."

The negro spread out a dusky hand. "That is what the missionaries tell us, but we have waited a long time, and there is no sign of it yet. We can not wait for ever, and very soon all my people will be at work upon the white men's plantations. They get greedier and greedier. Now at last we strike."

Once more Ormsgill, standing still in the shadow watching him, was stirred by a vague compassion. He knew that revolt was useless, and wondered whether the old belief that there was a ban upon the negro and that he was made to serve the white man was not, after all, founded on more than superstition and self-interested sophistry. Other primitive peoples had, he knew, died off before the white man, but the Africans had thriven in their bondage, filling Brazil and the West Indies and the cotton-growing States. They were prolific, cheerful, adaptable to all conditions, and yet even where liberty had been offered them they remained a subject people, and made no effort to shake off the white man's yoke.

"You may sack San Roque," he said. "Still, I think you will never reach the coast."

The Headman started at this boldness, and there was a vindictive gleam in his eyes, but his overlord sat silent a space, apparently brooding heavily, and gazing at the mist. Then he turned to Ormsgill with a somewhat impressive deliberateness.

"At least," he said, "I go on. You will not lead our men, but you can not warn the white men at San Roque. When we have sacked the fort I will send for you again."

Ormsgill made him a little formal inclination before he turned away, for the attitude of this negro was one he could understand. He had himself attempted things that could not be done, expecting to be defeated, but undertaking them because he felt that, at least, was an obligation laid on him. Nares, and Father Tiebout, and no doubt countless host of others, had also done the same, and Nares the optimist had said that though they failed signally the protest of their futile efforts would be listened to some day. It seemed that the dusky man crouching beside the fire realized how much there was against him, but, as he had said, he was going on. Perhaps it is because men of all creeds and colors have pressed on downwards through the ages to face ax and stake and firing platoon that there are not even more of the overburdened in the world to-day. The cost of progress is heavy, and the upward struggle is very grim and slow.

In the meanwhile Ormsgill went back past the long rows of weary men lying in the sand to where his comrade was sitting in the clammy mist. Nares was a little feverish that night.

"Well?" he said.

"I have been offered a command," said Ormsgill. "Naturally, I refused it. I also ventured to tell our friend that he would fail. It says a good deal for him that I escaped the usual fate of the prophets. He did not even ask me for my reasons."

"You have them?"

"Yes," said Ormsgill. "The thing's quite evident in a general way and to be precise he has to reckon with Dom Clemente. You remember the man our guide fired at? I can't help thinking he has passed on any information he may have picked up to the coast by now, and Dom Clemente is a man who can move to some purpose when it's advisable. Still, I have no doubt we shall sack San Roque before to-morrow. Our friend hinted that measures would be taken to prevent us warning the Chefe."

Nares turned and pointed to several men with rifles who sat half-seen not very far away. Then he seemed to shiver.

"There was a time when I could have warned them in San Roque, though I scarcely think they would have listened to me. Now I do not know that I would do it if I had the opportunity." His voice grew sterner. "They have brought it upon themselves. There are iniquities which can not be borne."

His companion said nothing further, but sat down gnawing at an empty pipe until they started again. The Headman or his Suzerain had drilled his followers into some kind of order, and Ormsgill found something impressive in the silent flitting by of half-seen men. They came up out of the soft darkness with a faint patter of naked feet in sand, and were lost in it again ahead of him. Now and then there was a crackle of undergrowth or a clash of arms, but for the most part the long column went by like a crawling shadow, for these were men accustomed to flit through dim forests thick with perils noiselessly, and they did not proclaim their presence as white troops would have done. When they struck it would be in silence, and Ormsgill fancied that San Roque was not much more than a league away.

Still, it was rough traveling through loose sand and tangled scrub, and several hours had passed when the long sinuous column stopped suddenly. The men in charge of Ormsgill handed him and Nares over to a few others, who had only flintlock guns, and these led them forward to a more open space, where they sat down. The night had grown a trifle clearer, and Ormsgill could see a wide break in the bush in front of him. A broad belt of mist hung about one side of it, and the gurgle of sliding water came out of the vapor, against which there rose a shadowy ridge.

"The stockade," he said. "We have arrived. Dom Erminio has either no vedettes out, or our vanguard has stalked them and cut their throats."

He broke off, but in another moment or two he spoke again with a little tension in his voice. "It's curious, and no doubt in one way unreasonable, but I feel the desire to warn him getting almost too much for me. I don't know how one could do it, and it certainly wouldn't be any use, since I believe our friends are ringing the fort in. Dom Erminio must fight for his life to-night."

The clang of a rifle, a Portuguese rifle, cut him short, and a cry rose out of the vapor. After that there was silence until a crackling commenced in the bush, and the two sat still and waited while the tension grew almost intolerable. Ormsgill, who felt his mouth grow parched and dry, fancied he could see the stockade a trifle more plainly, and the forest seemed to be growing blacker, though the mist was a little thicker than it had been. It was also perceptibly colder.

"It will be daylight in half an hour," he said, and his voice struck on his companion's ears curiously strained and hoarse.

Then another rifle flashed, there was a sudden shouting, and a tumultuous patter of naked feet, and a shadowy mass of running figures hurled themselves at the stockade. A good many of them never reached it, for the dusky barrier blazed with twinkling points of light, and a withering volley met them in the face. Then the drifting smoke was rent by brighter snapping flashes in quick succession, and the jarring thud of heavier reports broke through the crash of the rifles. This lasted for perhaps two minutes, and then there was by contrast a silence that was almost bewildering. It seemed emphasized when once or twice the ringing of a rifle came out of the streaks of drifting vapor that hung about the stockade.

"They're going back," said Ormsgill hoarsely. "The Chefe's men will stand." Then he laughed, a harsh, strained laugh. "They know they have to. Our friends are not likely to have much consideration for any of them who fall into their hands."

Nares, who shivered a little, said nothing, and a minute or two later a crackle of riflery broke out in the bush. It came from the Suzerain's men, for there was no mistaking the crash of the heavy Sniders. Once or twice the jarring thud of the machine gun broke in, and here and there a twinkling flash leapt from the stockade, but with that exception there was no answer from the fort.

"It seems," said Ormsgill, "Dom Erminio has his men in hand. It's a little more than I expected from him. Presumably our friend wishes to keep him occupied while he seizes the canoes. Anyway, his boys will be considerably more dangerous when they've wasted their ammunition."

The fusillade continued, in all probability, harmlessly, for awhile, and then Ormsgill rose to his feet. "I think they'll get in this time. They're trying it again."

Once more vague, shadowy objects flitted out of the bush, and swept towards the stockade. They ran without order, furiously, while more of their comrades emerged from the shadows behind them, until the narrow strip of cleared space was filled with running figures. There appeared to be swarms of them, and Ormsgill held his breath as he watched. He saw them plunge into a crawling trail of low lying mist, that seemed torn apart suddenly when once more the face of the stockade was streaked with little spurts of flame. It closed on them again until all was hidden but the intermittent flashing, and the jarring thud of the machine gun rent the din. One could not tell what was going on, and it was by a tense effort Ormsgill held himself still with every nerve in him quivering. How long the tension lasted he did not know, but at length the ringing of the rifles died away again, and as a little puff of chilly breeze rolled the haze aside it became evident that the space before the stockade was once more empty. He could see the stockade clearly, and the edge of the forest now cut sharply against the sky.

"The Headman can't afford to fail again," he said. "It is breaking day."

Then there was silence for a space, while the light grew clearer until the residency beyond the stockade grew into shape. A smear of pale color widened in the eastern sky, and as Ormsgill turned his eyes towards the house a limp bundle of fabric rose slowly up the lofty staff above it. It blew out once on the faint breeze, and then hung still again, but as he watched it, Ormsgill felt a little thrill run through him.

"Rather earlier than usual. Dom Erminio means to fight," he said.

Just then, however, a negro who came up gasping with haste signed to Nares. "The Headman sends for you," he said. "You are to take a message to those people yonder."

Ormsgill looked at his comrade, who smiled curiously. "Yes," he said, "I shall certainly go. Whether I am in any way responsible for all this I do not know, but I may, perhaps, save a few of them."

He raised himself somewhat stiffly, and turned away, but two negroes held Ormsgill fast when he would have gone with him. He sat down again when they relaxed their grasp, and at last saw Nares appear again on the edge of the bush some distance away. He was alone, and walked quietly towards the stockade with his wide hat in his hand, and a figure in white uniform appeared in the notch where the palisades had been cut down for the quick-firing gun. Just then a ray of brightness struck along the trampled sand, and Ormsgill saw his comrade stop and stand still, spare and gaunt and ragged, with the widening sunlight full upon him. What was said he did not know, but he did not blame Dom Erminio afterwards for what followed. Perhaps, some black soldier's over-taxed nerve gave way, or the man had flung off all restraint and gone back to his primitive savagery, for a rifle flashed behind the stockade, and Nares staggered, recovered his balance, and collapsed into a blurred huddle of white garments on the trampled sand.

Then as Ormsgill sprang to his feet the bush rang with a yell, and a swarm of half-naked negroes poured tumultuously out of it. There was no firing among them. They ran forward with glinting matchets and spears and brandished flintlock guns, and Ormsgill knew that now, at least, they would certainly get in. In another moment he was running furiously towards them, and so far as he could remember afterwards none of the men in whose charge he had been troubled themselves about him. It was some way to the front of the stockade, and when he got there he was hemmed in by a surging crowd. There was smoke in his eyes, and a bewildering din through which he heard the thudding of the quick-firing gun, but where Nares was he did not know. He could only go forward with the press, and he ran on in a fit of hot vindictive fury.

Here and there a man about him screamed, and now and then a half-seen figure collapsed in front of him, but this time no one stopped or turned. They were all crazed with primitive passion, and were going in. Ormsgill, pressing onwards with them, saw that he had now a matchet in his hand, though he had no recollection of how it came there. Then the thudding of the gun ceased suddenly and the air was rent by a breathless gasping yell. The stockade rose right over him, and he went headlong at the gap in it from which there protruded the muzzle of the gun. Somebody behind him hurled him through the opening, and he dropped inside. As he scrambled to his feet he saw a swarm of men running towards the residency, and he went with them, partly because he wished to get there and also because those who poured through the gap behind him drove him along. He had afterwards a fancy that he saw a white man lying not far from the gun, but he could not be certain, for the negroes were thick about him, and he was not in a mood to interest himself in anything of that kind just then. He was possessed by an unreasoning fury, and an overwhelming desire to reach the men who had treacherously shot his comrade.