Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Hot Swamp
Chapter Seven
Converse and Adventures by the Way
Day was just beginning to break in the east when the prince raised his head from the bundle of leaves that had formed his pillow, and looked sleepily around him.
His companions lay still, sound asleep and sprawling, in all the abandon characteristic of the heroes of antiquity.
Some of these characteristics were wonderfully similar to those of modern heroes. For instance, the captain lay flat on his back with his mouth wide open, and a musical solo proceeding from his nose; while Maikar lay on his side with his knees doubled up, his arms extended at full length in front of him, and his hands tightly clasped as if, while pleading with some one for mercy, he was suddenly petrified and had fallen over on his side.
Rising softly, Bladud took up his bow and quiver, and, buckling on his sword, left the encampment without disturbing the sleepers. He had not proceeded more than a mile when he startled several wild turkeys or birds of that species from their rest. One of these he instantly brought down. Following them up he soon shot another, and returned to camp, where he found his comrades as he had left them—the musical nose being if anything more emphatic than before.
Although naturally a grave man, Bladud was by no means destitute of a sense of humour, or disinclined on occasion to perpetrate a practical joke. After contemplating the sleepers for a moment he retired a few paces and concealed himself in the long grass, from which position he pitched one of the huge birds into the air, so that it fell on the captain’s upturned visage. The snore changed at once into a yell of alarm, as the mariner sprang up and grasped his sword, which, of course, lay handy beside him.
Electrified by the yell, Maikar also leaped to his feet, sword in hand.
“What d’ye mean by that?” cried the captain, turning on him fiercely.
“What mean you by it?” replied Maikar with equal ferocity.
He had barely uttered the words, when the second turkey hit him full in the face and tumbled him over the ashes of the fortunately extinguished fire.
“Come, come!” interposed the prince, stepping forward with a deprecating smile; “there should be no quarrelling among friends, especially at the beginning of a long journey. See, I have fetched your breakfast for you. Instead of tumbling on the fire and putting it out, Maikar, I think it would be wiser to see if there is a spark left and blow it into a flame. Quick! I am hungry.”
It need hardly be said that these orders were received with a laugh and a prompt obedience on the part of the little man.
“Yes—there is fire,” he said, blowing with tremendous energy until flame was produced. “And, do you know, there is something within me that has a loud voice, but only utters one word—‘Food! food! food!’ There, now, you may get the birds ready, for the fire will be ready for them in two winks.”
There was no occasion, however, to give this advice to his friends, for already the birds had been plucked, split open at the breast, laid flat, and their interiors scraped out in a summary manner. The plucking was not, indeed, all that could be wished, but what fingers failed to do a singe in the flames accomplished to the perfect satisfaction of men who were in no way particular. Sharp-pointed sticks were then thrust through the expanded carcases, and they were stuck up in front of the blaze to roast.
Underdone meat is an abomination to some, a luxury to others—reminding one of that very ancient proverb, “Tastes differ.” We cannot say whether on this occasion the uniformity of action in our heroes was the result of taste or haste, but certain it is that before the fowls were only half-roasted on one side, they were turned over so as to let the fire get at the other, and breakfast was begun while the meat was yet frightfully underdone.
Thereafter the three men arose, like giants refreshed—if we may say so, for Maikar was indeed mentally, though not physically, a giant—buckled on their swords, slung bows and quivers on their backs, along with the turkey remains, and took up shields and javelins. Having laid their course by the stars the night before, they set out on their journey through the unknown wilderness.
The part of the country through which they passed at the beginning of the march was broken and diversified by hill and dale; in some places clothed with forests, in others covered with grass, on which many wild animals were seen browsing. These, however, were remarkably timid, and fled at the first sign of the approaching travellers, so that it was impossible to get within bow-shot of them.
“From this I judge that they are much hunted,” said Bladud, halting on a ridge to note the wild flight, of a herd of deer which had just caught eight of them.
“If so, we are likely to fall in with the hunters before long, I fear,” remarked the captain.
“Why do you fear?” asked Maikar.
“Because they may be numerous and savage, and may take a fancy to make slaves of us, and as we number only three we could not resist their fancy without losing our lives.”
“That would be a pity,” returned Maikar, “for we have only one life to lose.”
“No; we have three lives to lose amongst us,” objected the captain.
“Which makes one each, does it not?” retorted the seaman.
“True, Maikar, and we must lose them all, and more if we had them, rather than become slaves.”
“You are right, captain. We never, never shall be slaves,” said Bladud.
They say that history repeats itself. Perhaps sentiment does the same. At all events, the British prince gave utterance that day to a well-known sentiment, which has been embalmed in modern song and shouted by many a Briton with tremendous enthusiasm—though not absolute truth.
“Captain Arkal,” said the little seaman, as they jogged quietly down the sunny slope of a hill, at the bottom of which was a marsh full of rushes, “how do you manage to find your way through such a tangled country as this?”
“By observing the stars,” answered the captain.
“But I have observed the stars since I was a little boy,” objected Maikar, “and I see nothing but a wild confusion of shining points. How can these guide you? Besides, there are no stars in the daytime.”
“True, Maikar; but we have the sun during the day.”
Maikar shook his head perplexedly.
“Listen,” said the captain, “and I will try to enlighten your dark mind; but don’t object else you’ll never understand. All stars are not alike—d’ye understand that?”
“Any fool could understand that!”
“Well, then, of course you can understand it. Now, you have noticed, no doubt, that some stars are in groups, which groups may alter their position with regard to other groups, but which never change with regard to each other.”
“Each other,” repeated Maikar, checking off each statement with a nod and a wave of his javelin.
“Well,” continued the captain, “there’s one group of stars—about six—plainly to be seen on most fine nights, two stars of which are always pretty much in a line with a little star a short way in front of them—d’ye see?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that star shows exactly where the cold regions lie—over there (extending his arm and pointing), and of course if you know that the cold regions lie there, you know that the hot regions must lie at your back—there, and it follows that the Pillars of Hercules lie there (pointing west), and home lies somewhere about there (pointing eastward).”
“Stop!” cried Maikar in great perplexity—for although a seaman he was densely ignorant. “Hot regions, there, cold, there, home and the Pillars, there, and there, and there (thrusting his arms out in all directions). I’ve no more idea of where you’ve got me to now than—than—”
“Oh, never mind,” interrupted the captain, “it doesn’t matter, as you are not our guide. But, ho! look! look! down in the hollow there—among the rushes. What’s that?”
“A boar!” said Bladud, in a low whisper, as he unslung his bow. “Come, now, it will take all our united force to slay that brute, for, if I have not lost my power of judging such game, I’m pretty sure that he’s a very big old boar with formidable tusks.”
While the prince was speaking, his comrades had also prepared their weapons, and looked to their guide for directions.
These were hastily but clearly given. As the boar was evidently asleep in his lair, it was arranged that the three friends should stalk him, as the broken ground was specially favourable for such a mode of attack.
“We will advance together,” said Bladud, “with our bows ready. I will lead; you follow close. When we get within range you will do as you see me do, and be sure that you aim at the brute’s side—not at his head. Send your arrows with all the force you can. Then drop the bows and get your javelins ready.”
With eager looks the captain and little sailor nodded assent. They were much excited, having often heard tales of boar-hunting, though neither of them had ever taken part in that work.
A few minutes’ walk brought them to the edge of the rushes, where they had a fair view of the monstrous animal as it lay fully extended on its side, and not more than thirty yards distant.
“Take him just behind the fore-leg,” whispered Bladud, as he drew his bow. His companions followed his example. Two of the bows twanged simultaneously, but the third—that of Maikar—was pulled with such vigour that it broke with a crash that would have awakened the sleepiest of wild boars, had there been nothing else to arouse him. As it was, other things helped to quicken his sensibilities. Bladud’s unfailing arrow went indeed straight for the heart, but a strong rib caught and checked its progress. The captain’s shaft, probably by good luck, entered deep into the creature’s flank not far from the tail.
To say that the forest was instantly filled with ear-splitting shrieks is to express the result but feebly. We might put it as a sort of indefinite question in the rule of three, thus—if an ordinary civilised pig with injured feelings can yell as we all know how, what must have been the explosion of a wild-boar of the eighth century B.C., in circumstances such as we have described? Railway whistles of the nineteenth century, intermittently explosive, is the only possible answer to the question, and that is but an approximation to the truth.
For one instant the infuriated creature paused to look for its assailants. Catching sight of them as they were fitting arrows to their bows, it gave vent to a prolonged locomotive-express yell, and charged. Bladud’s arrow hit it fair between the eyes, but stuck in the impenetrable skull. The shaft of the captain missed, and the javelin of Maikar went wildly wide of the mark.
By order of Bladud the three had separated a few yards from each other. Even in its rage the monster was perplexed by this, for it evidently perceived the impossibility of attacking three foes at the same moment. Which to go for was the question. Like an experienced warrior it went for the “little one.”
Maikar had drawn his last weapon—the short sword of bronze—and, like a brave man as he was, “prepared to receive boarelry.” Another instant and the enemy was upon him. More than that, it was over him, for, trusting to his agility—for which he was famed—he tried to leap to one side, intending to make a vigorous thrust at the same moment. In doing so his foot slipped; he fell flat on his side, and the boar, tripping over him, just missed ripping him with its fearful tusks. It fell, with a bursting squeak, beyond.
To leap up and turn was the work of an instant for the boar, and would have been the same for the man if he had not been partially stunned by the fall. As it was, the captain, who was nearest, proved equal to the emergency, for, using his javelin as a spear, he plunged it into the boar’s side. But that side was tougher than he had expected. The spear was broken by a sharp twist as the animal turned on its new foe, who now stood disarmed and at its mercy. Bladud’s ponderous sword, however, flashed in the air at that moment, and fell on the creature’s neck with a force that would have made Hercules envious if he had been there. Deep into the brawn it cut, through muscle, fat, and spine, almost slicing the head from the trunk, and putting a sudden stop to the last yell when it reached the windpipe. The boar rolled head over heels like a shot hare, almost overturning Bladud as it wrenched the sword from his hand, and swept the captain off his legs, carrying him along with it in a confusion of blood and bristles.
It was truly a terrific encounter, and as the prince stood observing the effect of his blow, he would probably have burst into a fit of laughter, had he not been somewhat solemnised by Captain Arkal’s fearful appearance, as he arose ensanguined, but uninjured, from the ground.
Chapter Eight
Discovery and Flight
Being now provided with material for making shields, they resolved to spend a day in camp. This was all the more necessary, that the shoes or sandals which they had worn at sea were not well suited for the rough travelling which they had now to undertake.
Accordingly they selected a spot on the brow of a hill from which the surrounding country could be seen in nearly all directions. But they were careful also to see that several bushes shielded themselves from view, for it was a matter of uncertainty whether or where natives might make their appearance.
Here, bathed in glorious sunshine, with a lovely prospect of land and water, tangled wood and flowery plains, to gladden their eyes, and the savoury smell of pork chops and turkey to tickle their nostrils, they spent two days in manufacturing the various necessary articles. Captain Arkal provided himself with a new javelin.
Maikar made another bow, and both fabricated tough round shields with double plies of the boar’s hide. Out of the same substance Bladud made a pair of shoes for each of them.
“The sandals you wear at home,” he said, “are not so good as those used by us in Albion. They don’t cover the feet sufficiently, and they expose the toes too much. Yet our sandals are easily and quickly made. Look here—I will show you.”
His companions paused in their labour and looked on, while the prince took up an oblong piece of boar-hide, over a foot in length and six inches broad, which had been soaking in water till it had become quite soft and limp. Placing one of his feet on this he drew the pattern of it on the skin with a pointed stick. Around this pattern, and about a couple of inches from it, he bored a row of holes an inch or so apart. Through these holes he rove a thong of hide, and then rounded away the corners of the piece.
“There,” said he, placing his foot in the centre of it and drawing the thong, “my sandal is ready.”
The tightening of the thong drew up the edges of the shoe until they overlapped and entirely encased his foot.
“Good,” said the captain, “but that kind of sandal is not new to me. I’ve seen it before, not only in your country, but in other lands.”
“Indeed? Well, after all, it is so simple, and so likely to hit the minds of thoughtful men, that I doubt not it is used wherever travelling is bad or weather cold. We shall need such sandals in this land, for there is, no doubt, great variety of country, also of weather, and many thorns.”
While our travellers were thus labouring and commenting on their work, unseen eyes were gazing at them with profound interest and curiosity.
A boy, or youth just emerging from the state of boyhood, lay low in a neighbouring thicket with his head just elevated sufficiently above the grass to enable his black eyes to peer over it. He was what we of the nineteenth century term a savage. That is to say, he was unkempt, unwashed, and almost naked—but not uneducated, though books had nothing to do with his training.
The prince chanced to look round, and saw the black eyes instantly, but being, as we have said, an adept in woodcraft—including savage warfare—he did not permit the slightest evidence of recognition to escape him. He continued his gaze in the same direction, allowing his eyes slowly to ascend, as if he were looking through the tree-tops at the sky. Then turning his head quietly round he resumed his work and whistled—for whistling had been invented even before that time.
“Comrades,” he said, after a few minutes, “don’t look up from your work, but listen. We are watched. You go on with your occupations as if all was right, and leave me to deal with the watcher.”
His comrades took the hint at once and went quietly on with their labours, while the prince arose, stretched himself, as if weary of his work. After a few minutes of looking about him, as though undecided what to do next, he sauntered into the bush at the side of their encampment opposite to that where the watcher lay.
The moment he got out of range of the boy’s eyes, however, his careless air vanished, and he sped through the underwood with the quietness and something of the gait of a panther—stooping low and avoiding to tread on dead twigs. Making a wide circle, he came round behind the spot where the watcher was hid. But, trained though he had been in the art of savage warfare, the boy was equal to him. From the first he had observed in Bladud’s acting the absence of that “touch of nature which makes the whole world kin,” and kept a bright look-out to his rear as well as in his front, so that when Bladud, despite his care, trod on a dry stick the boy heard it. Next moment he was off, and a moment after that he was seen bounding down the hill like a wild-cat.
The prince, knowing the danger of letting the boy escape and carry information to his friends, dashed after him at full speed—and the rate of his running may be estimated when it is remembered that many a time he had defeated men who had been victors at the Olympic games. But the young savage was nearly his match. Feeling, however, that he was being slowly yet surely overtaken, the boy doubled like a hare and made for a ridge that lay on his left. By that time the chase was in full view of the two men in camp, who rose and craned their necks in some excitement to watch it.
“He’s after something,” said the captain.
“A boy!” said Maikar.
“Ay, and running him down, hand over hand.”
“There seems to be no one else in sight, so we don’t need to go to his help.”
“If he needs our help he’ll come for it,” returned the captain with a laugh, “and it will puzzle the swiftest runner in the land to beat his long legs. See, he’s close on the lad now.”
“True,” responded the other, with a sigh of disappointment, “but we shan’t see the end of it, for the boy will be over the ridge and out of sight before he is caught.”
Maikar was right. Even while he spoke the youthful savage gained the summit, where his slim, agile figure was clearly depicted against the sky. Bladud was running at full speed, not a hundred yards behind him, yet, to the amazement of the spectators, the boy suddenly stopped, turned round, and waved his hand with a shout of defiance. Next moment he was over the ridge and gone. A few seconds later the prince was seen to halt at the same point, but instead of continuing the pursuit, he remained immovable for a few minutes gazing in front of him. Then he returned toward the encampment with a somewhat dejected air.
“No wonder you look surprised,” he said, on arriving. “The other side of that ridge is a sheer precipice, down which I might have gone if I had possessed wings. There was no track visible anywhere, but of course there must have been a well-concealed one somewhere, for soon after I reached the top I saw the young wild-cat running over the plain far below. On coming to the edge of a long stretch of forest, he stopped and capered about like a monkey. I could see, even at that distance, that he was making faces at me by way of saying farewell. Then he entered the woods, and that was the end of him.”
“I wish it was the end of him,” observed the captain, with something like a growl—for his voice was very deep, and he had a tendency to mutter when disturbed in temper. “The monkey will be sure to run home and tell what he’s seen, and so bring all his tribe about our ears.”
“Ay, not only his tribe,” remarked Maikar, “but his uncles, brothers, fathers, nephews, and all his kin to the latest walkable generation.”
“Are your weapons ready?” asked Bladud, taking up his sword and putting on his helmet.
“All ready,” answered the captain, beginning to collect things—“I have just finished two head-pieces out of the boar-hide for myself and Maikar, which will turn an arrow or a sword-cut, unless delivered by a strong arm. Don’t you think them handsome?”
“They are suitable, at any rate,” said Maikar, “for they are as ugly as our faces.”
“Come, then, we must make haste, for wild men are not slow to act,” rejoined Bladud. “By good fortune our way does not lie in the direction the boy took. We shall get as far away from them as possible, and travel during the night.”
In a few minutes the little party—by that time fully equipped for the chase or war—were hurrying down the hillside in the direction of the setting sun. It was growing late in the evening, and as they reached the bottom, they had to cross a meadow which was rather swampy, so that their feet sank in some parts over the ankles.
“I say, guide,” observed Maikar, who, like his nautical commander, had small respect for rank, and addressed the prince by what he deemed an appropriate title, “it has just come into my head that we are leaving a tremendous trail behind us. We seafaring men are not used to trouble our heads on that score, for our ships leave no track on the waves, but it is not so on the land. Won’t these naked fellows follow us up and kill us, mayhap, when we’re asleep?”
“Doubtless they will try,” answered Bladud, “but we land-faring men are in the habit of troubling our heads on that score, and guarding against it. Do you see yonder stream, or, rather, the line of bushes that mark its course?”
“Ay, plainly.”
“Well, when we reach that, you shall see and understand without explanation.”
On reaching the stream referred to, they found that it was a small, shallow one, with a sluggish current, for the plain through which it flowed was almost flat.
“You see,” said Bladud, pausing on the brink, “that it flows towards the sea in the direction we have come from. Now step into the water and follow me down stream.”
“Down?” exclaimed the captain in surprise, and with some hesitation. “We don’t want to return to the sea whence we have just come, do we?”
“Captain Arkal,” returned Bladud, sternly, “when you give orders on board ship, do you expect to have them questioned, or obeyed?”
“Lead on, guide,” returned the captain, stepping promptly into the water.
For about a quarter of a mile the prince led his followers in silence and with much care, for it was growing very dark. Presently they came to a place where the banks were swampy and the stream deep. Here their guide landed and continued to walk a short distance down the bank, ordering his followers to conceal their track as much as possible, by closing the long grass over each footprint. The result, even to the unpractised eyes of the seamen, did not seem satisfactory, but their leader made no comment. After proceeding about fifty yards further, he re-entered the stream and continued the descent for about a mile. Then he stopped abruptly, and, turning round, said, “Now, comrades, we will land for a moment, then re-enter the stream and ascend.”
The astonishment of Captain Arkal was so great, that he was again on the point of asking an explanation, for it seemed to him that wandering down the bed of a stream for the mere purpose of turning and wandering up it, when haste was urgent, could only be accounted for on the supposition that the prince had gone mad. Remembering his previous rebuff, however, he kept silence.
On reaching the swampy part of the bank their leader did not land, but held straight on, though the water reached nearly to their armpits. They were somewhat cooled, but not disagreeably so, for the night was warm.
In course of time they reached the spot where they had first entered the stream. Passing it, without landing, they held on their course for a considerable distance, until they came to a place where the stream was not more than ankle-deep. Here Bladud paused a few moments and turned to his companions.
“Now, captain,” he said, with a smile that may be said to have been almost audible though not visible, “do you understand my proceedings?”
“Not quite, though, to say truth, I begin to think you are not just so mad as you seemed at first.”
“Don’t you see,” continued the prince, “that when we first came to the stream, I entered it so that our footprints on the bank would show clearly that we had gone downwards. This will show our pursuers, when they arrive here, that, though we are wise enough to take to the water because it leaves no footprints, we are not experienced enough to be careful as to concealing the direction we have taken. When they reach the swampy bank and deep water, they will be led to think we did not like getting wet, and the effort made to cover our footprints, will make them think that we are very ignorant woodsmen. Then, with much confidence, they will continue to follow down stream, looking on the banks now and then for our footprints, until they begin to wonder whether we intend to make a highroad of the river all the way to the sea. After that they will become perplexed, astonished, suspicious as to our stupidity, and will scurry round in all directions, or hold a council, and, finally they will try up stream; but it will be too late, for by that time we shall be far away on our road towards the setting sun.”
“Good!” ejaculated Maikar, when this explanation was finished.
“Good!” echoed the captain, with an approving nod. “You understand your business, I see. Shove out your oars. We follow.”
Without further remark Bladud continued his progress up stream. It was necessarily slow at first, but as night advanced the moon rose, in her first quarter, and shed a feeble but sufficient light on their watery path.
At last they came to a place where the leader’s sharp eye observed signs of the presence of man. Stopping short and listening intently, they heard subdued voices not far from the spot where they stood.
“Stay where you are,” whispered Bladud. “Don’t move. I’ll return immediately.”
He entered the bushes cautiously and disappeared. Standing there without moving, and in profound silence, under the dark shadow of an overhanging bush, it is no wonder that the captain and his comrade began to think the time very long, yet it was only a few minutes after he had left them that their guide returned.
“Only a single family,” he whispered—“three men, two women, and four children. We have nothing to fear, but we must pass on in silence.”
The discovery of those natives obliged them to continue the march up the bed of the stream much longer than they had intended, and the night was far advanced before they thought it prudent to leave the water and pursue the journey on dry land.
Fortunately the country was open and comparatively free from underwood, so that they made progress much more rapidly; nevertheless, it was not thought safe to take rest until they had placed many a mile between them and the natives, who, it was thought probable, would be started in pursuit of them by the youth to whom Bladud had given chase.
Much wearied, and almost falling asleep while they advanced, the travellers halted at last in a dense thicket, and there, lying down without food or fire, they were soon buried in profound repose.
