“What’s that?” asked Meredith sharply. He looked like one risen from the dead.
“Fighting among themselves,” replied Joseph, who was wiping blood and grime from his eyes.
“Then one of them is fighting with an Express rifle.”
Joseph listened.
“By God!” he shouted, “by God, Mer—sir, we’re saved!”
The enemy had apparently heard the firing too. Perhaps they also recognised the peculiar sharp smack of the Express rifle amidst the others. There was a fresh attack—an ugly rush of reckless men. But the news soon spread that there was firing in the valley and the sound of a white man’s rifle. The little garrison plucked up heart, and the rifles, almost too hot to hold, dealt death around.
They held back the savages until the sound of the firing behind them was quite audible even amidst the heavy rattle of the musketry.
Then suddenly the firing ceased—the enemy had divided and fled. For a few moments there was a strange, tense silence. Then a voice—an English voice—cried:
“Come on!”
The next moment Guy Oscard stood on the edge of the Plateau. He held up both arms as a signal to those within the stockade to cease firing, and then he came forward, followed by a number of blacks and Durnovo.
The gate was rapidly disencumbered of its rough supports and thrown open.
Jack Meredith stood in the aperture, holding out his hand.
“It’s all right; it’s—all right,” he said.
Oscard did not seem to take so cheerful a view of matters. He scrutinised Meredith’s face with visible anxiety.
Then suddenly Jack lurched up against his rescuer, grabbing at him vaguely.
In a minute Oscard was supporting him back towards his tent.
“It’s all right, you know,” explained Jack Meredith very gravely; “I am a bit weak—that is all. I am hungry—haven’t had anything to eat for some time, you know.”
“Oh, yes,” said Oscard shortly; “I know all about it.”
XXVII
Off Duty
Chacun de vous peut-être en son cœur solitaire
Sous des ris passagers étouffe un long regret.
“Goodbye to that damned old Platter—may it be forever!” With this valedictory remark Joseph shook his fist once more at the unmoved mountain and resumed his march.
“William,” he continued gravely to a native porter who walked at his side and knew no word of English, “there is some money that is not worth the making.”
The man grinned from ear to ear and nodded with a vast appreciation of what experience taught him to take as a joke.
“Remember that, my black diamond, and just mind the corner of your mouth don’t get hitched over yer ear,” said Joseph, patting him with friendly cheerfulness.
Then he made his way forward to walk by the side of his master’s litter and encourage the carriers with that mixture of light badinage and heavy swearing which composed his method of dealing with the natives.
Three days after the arrival of the rescuing force at the Plateau, Guy Oscard had organised a retreating party, commanded by Joseph, to convey Jack Meredith down to the coast. He knew enough of medicine to recognise the fact that this was no passing indisposition, but a thorough breakdown in health. The work and anxiety of the last year, added to the strange disquieting breath of the Simiacine grove, had brought about a serious collapse in the system which only months of rest and freedom from care could repair.
Before the retreating column was ready to march it was discovered that the hostile tribes had finally evacuated the country; which deliverance was brought about not by Oscard’s bloodstained track through the forest, not by the desperate defence of the Plateau, but by the whisper that Victor Durnovo was with them. Truly a man’s reputation is a strange thing.
And this man—the mighty warrior whose name was as good as an army in Central Africa—went down on his knees one night to Guy Oscard, imploring him to abandon the Simiacine Plateau, or at all events to allow him to go down to Loango with Meredith and Joseph.
“No,” said Oscard; “Meredith held this place for us when he could have left it safely. He has held it for a year. It is our turn now. We will hold it for him. I am going to stay, and you have to stay with me.”
For Jack Meredith, life was at this time nothing but a constant, never-ceasing fatigue. When Oscard helped him into the rough litter they had constructed for his comfort, he laid his head on the pillow, overcome with a dead sleep.
“Goodbye, old chap,” said Oscard, patting him on the shoulder.
“G’bye;” and Jack Meredith turned over on his side as if he were in bed, drew up the blanket, and closed his eyes. He did not seem to know where he was, and, what was worse, he did not seem to care. Oscard gave the signal to the bearers, and the march began. There is something in the spring of human muscles unlike any other motive power; the power of thought may be felt even on the pole of a litter, and one thing that modern invention can never equal is the comfort of being carried on the human shoulder. The slow swinging movement came to be a part of Jack Meredith’s life—indeed, life itself seemed to be nothing but a huge journey thus peacefully accomplished. Through the flapping curtains an endless procession of trees passed before his half-closed eyes. The unintelligible gabble of the lighthearted bearers of his litter was all that reached his ears. And ever at his side was Joseph—cheerful, indefatigable, resourceful. There was in his mind one of the greatest happinesses of life—the sense of something satisfactorily accomplished—the peacefulness that comes when the necessity for effort is past and left behind—that lying down to rest which must surely be something like Death in its kindest form.
The awe inspired by Victor Durnovo’s name went before the little caravan like a moral convoy and cleared their path. Thus guarded by the name of a man whom he hated,
