The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo by Charles Gibson (classic books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

set eyes upon the little rocky islet in mid-stream, upon which stood a

solitary tree. It was the custom of this explorer to name the natural

features he discovered; and it was he who was also responsible for the

names of other places of which, in course of time, we shall have

occasion to tell, such as Solitude Peak and Hippo Pool.

In addition to the Loango boys who composed the crews, the party now

included M’Wané, the Fan chief, and four of his most trusted warriors.

It was on the occasion of this journey on the Upper Kasai that Edward

Harden made one of the mistakes of his life. M’Wané travelled in the

first canoe with themselves, and his four warriors in the other canoe

which followed. Both Harden and Crouch had a natural wish to keep the

object of their journey a secret. Neither knew that one of the boys in

the second canoe could both speak and understand the Fan dialect, and it

was he who told his companions that the Hidden River was their

destination. Still, no one suspected that the secret was out, until

they had unloaded all their supplies and ammunition at Date Palm Island,

where they decided to form their base.

In this district, the general course of the Kasai lies due south-west.

From the mangrove swamp on the southern bank, the valley of the Hidden

River lies, more or less, in a direct line from north to south. M’Wané

had known the Hidden River in the old days, before the Fire-gods came

into the country. He said that there was a good portage across country

from Date Palm Island to Hippo Pool, which was the nearest accessible

point on the Hidden River above the rapids that flowed through the Long

Ravine.

They decided to leave one canoe on the island, in charge of four of the

Loango boys. The remaining natives could be employed in carrying the

lighter of the two canoes, and a sufficiency of stores and ammunition

across country to the Hidden River. The indignation of Crouch may be

imagined when the boys struck in a body and refused to undertake the

portage.

Edward used his greatest powers of persuasion; Crouch threatened and

abused. They answered that word of the Fire-gods had been carried even

as far as the Coast, that they had never bargained to sell their lives

to the Englishmen. None the less, they expressed their willingness to

remain upon the island until the party returned.

Crouch turned to M’Wané.

"And do you, too, go back?" he asked.

The chief shook his head, and smiled.

"My men and I will stand by the White Wizard," he answered. "A Fan

holds to his word."

Crouch slapped the chief upon the back, and then went on to explain to

the boys that if they helped with the portage, they would not be asked

to embark on the Hidden River, but could return to Date Palm Island.

After some discussion, they agreed to this; and as much time had already

been wasted, Harden and Crouch decided not to start until daybreak the

following day.

According to Edward Harden’s diary, the portage lasted two weeks and

three days. They were obliged to force their way through virgin forest.

It was frequently necessary to cut down with axes and billhooks the

tangled undergrowth and creepers that wove themselves amid the trunks of

the trees, in order to make room for the canoe to pass. Some days they

did not cover more than a mile, though they were working from dawn to

sunset. But towards the end of the journey the passage became easier,

by reason of the fact that they found a watercourse, which they

followed, until they finally came forth into the sunlight at Hippo Pool.

When they first looked upon it, it was as if, indeed, there were an air

of mystery in the valley of the Hidden River. The silence that reigned

upon its surface was intense. The atmosphere seemed several degrees

hotter even than the forest. The name Hippo Pool was given because,

immediately on their arrival, Edward Harden, who was leading, shot a

hippopotamus which he found asleep upon the bank. They were glad enough

of the meat for the natives, who would require provisions on their

journey back to the Kasai.

The next morning the Loango boys left in a body. They were glad enough

to be off. And soon afterwards the canoe shot out from the bank.

Their progress was painfully slow. M’Wané and his four followers worked

continually with the paddles, assisted in turn by Harden and his nephew.

As for Crouch, he was always the look-out man. His only eye was quick

and keen as that of a falcon.

Hour by hour they toiled into the Unknown, until the sweat poured from

their faces and their hands were blistered in the sun; and the blisters

would not heal, because of the insects that followed in a crowd. The

jungle grew more magnificent and wild as the river narrowed. The

character of the trees changed, and of the undergrowth--all became more

luxuriant, more profuse, until they found themselves in a land where

Nature was something fantastic and superb.

It was on the third day after they had set out from Hippo Pool that they

turned an angle of the river, and came on a sudden into a cup-shaped

valley where there was but little vegetation. A circle of granite hills

stood all around them, and in the centre on either side of the river was

a plain of sand. Crouch turned in the bows and pointed to something

ahead, and at that moment the sharp crack of a rifle echoed in the

stillness, and a bullet sped into the water a few inches from the bows

of the canoe.

As the bullet cut into the water Crouch sprang upright in the canoe. His

thin form trembled with eagerness. The man was like a cat, inasmuch as

he was charged with electricity. Under his great pith helmet the few

hairs which he possessed stood upright on his head. Edward Harden leaned

forward and picked up his rifle, which he now held at the ready.

By reason of the fact that the river had suddenly widened into a kind of

miniature lake, the current was not so swift. Hence, though M’Wané and

his Fans ceased to paddle, the canoe shot onward by dint of the velocity

at which they had been travelling. Every moment brought them nearer and

nearer to the danger that lay ahead.

In order to relate what followed, it is necessary to describe the scene.

We have said that the wild, impenetrable jungle had ceased abruptly, and

they found themselves surrounded by granite hills, in the centre of

which lay a plain of glaring sand. To their left, about a hundred paces

from the edge of the river, was a circular stockade. A fence had been

constructed of sharp-pointed stakes, each about eight feet in height.

There was but a single entrance into this stockade--a narrow gate, not

more than three feet across, which faced the river. Up-stream, to the

south, the granite hills closed in from either bank, so that the river

flowed through a gorge which at this distance seemed particularly

precipitous and narrow. Midway between the stockade and the gorge was a

kraal, or large native village, surrounded by a palisade. Within the

palisade could be seen the roofs of several native huts, and at the

entrance, seated cross-legged on the ground, was the white figure of an

Arab who wore the turban and flowing robes by which his race is

distinguished, from the deserts of Bokhara to the Gold Coast. Before

the stockade, standing at the water’s edge, was the figure of a European

dressed in a white duck suit. He was a tall, thin man with a black,

pointed beard, and a large sombrero hat. Between his lips was a

cigarette, and in his hands he held a rifle, from the muzzle of which

was issuing a thin trail of smoke.

As the canoe approached, this man grew vastly excited, and stepped into

the river, until the water had risen to his knees. There, he again

lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

"Put that down!" cried Crouch. "You’re a dead man if you fire."

The man obeyed reluctantly, and at that moment a second European came

running from the entrance of the stockade. He was a little man, of

about the same build as Crouch, but very round in the back, and with a

complexion so yellow that he might have been a Chinese.

The man with the beard seemed very agitated. He gesticulated wildly,

and, holding his rifle in his left hand, pointed down-stream with his

right. He was by no means easy to understand, since his pronunciation

of English was faulty, and he never troubled to take his cigarette from

between his lips.

"Get back!" he cried. "Go back again! You have no business here."

"Why not?" asked Crouch.

"Because this river is mine."

"By what right?"

"By right of conquest. I refuse to allow you to land."

The canoe was now only a few yards from the bank. The second man--the

small man with the yellow face--turned and ran back into the stockade,

evidently to fetch his rifle.

"I’m afraid," said Crouch, "with your permission or without, we intend

to come ashore."

Again the butt of the man’s rifle flew to his shoulder.

"Another yard," said he, "and I shoot you dead."

He closed an eye, and took careful aim. His sights were directed

straight at Crouch’s heart. At that range--even had he been the worst

shot in the world--he could scarcely have missed.

Crouch was never seen to move. With his face screwed, and his great

chin thrust forward, his only eye fixed in the midst of the black beard

of the man who dared him to approach, he looked a very figure of

defiance.

The crack of a rifle--a loud shout--and then a peal of laughter. Crouch

had thrown back his head and was laughing as a school-boy does, with one

hand thrust in a trousers pocket. Edward Harden, seated in the stern

seat, with elbows upon his knees, held his rifle to his shoulder, and

from the muzzle a little puff of smoke was rising in the air. It was

the man with the black beard who had let out the shout, in anger and

surprise. The cigarette had been cut away from between his lips, and

Harden’s bullet had struck the butt of his rifle, to send it flying from

his hands into the water. He stood there, knee-deep in the river,

passionate, foiled and disarmed. It was Edward Harden’s quiet voice

that now came to his ears.

"Hands up!" said he.

Slowly, with his black eyes ablaze, the man lifted his arms above his

head. A moment later, Crouch had sprung ashore.

The little sea-captain hastened to the entrance of the stockade, and, as

he reached it, the second man came running out, with a rifle in his

hands. He was running so quickly that he was unable to check himself,

and, almost before he knew it, his rifle had been taken from him. He

pulled up with a jerk, and, turning, looked into the face of Captain

Crouch.

"I must introduce myself," said the captain. "My name’s Crouch. Maybe

you’ve heard of me?"

The man nodded his head. It appears he had not yet sufficiently

recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.

"By Christopher!" cried Crouch, on a sudden. "I know you! We’ve met

before--five years ago in St. Paul de Loanda. You’re a half-caste

Portuguese, of the name of de Costa, who had a trade-station at the

mouth of the Ogowe. So you remember me?"

The little yellow man puckered up his face and bowed.

"I think," said he, with an almost perfect English accent--"I think

one’s knowledge of the Coast would be very limited, if one had never

heard of Captain Crouch."

Crouch placed his hand upon his heart and made a mimic bow.

"May I return the compliment?" said he. "I’ve heard men speak of de

Costa from Sierra Leone to Walfish Bay, and never once