The Fire-Gods A Tale of the Congo by Charles Gibson (e book reader pc TXT) 📖

THE FIRE-GODS - CHAPTER VII--THE WHITE MAN’S BURDEN

 

Before de Costa had time to cry out--which he had certainly intended to

do--Crouch’s hand had closed upon his mouth, and he was held in a grip

of iron.

 

"Keep still!" said Crouch, in a quick whisper. "Struggle, and you die."

 

The man was terrified. He was racked by fever, nerve-shattered and

weak. At the best he was a coward. But now he was in no state of

health to offer resistance to any man; and in the candle-light Crouch,

with his single eye and his great chin, looked too ferocious to

describe.

 

For all that the little sea-captain’s voice was quiet, and even

soothing.

 

"You have nothing to fear," said he. "I don’t intend to harm you. I

have only one thing to say: if you cry out, or call for assistance, I’ll

not hesitate to shoot. On the other hand, if you lie quiet and silent,

I promise, on my word of honour, that you have nothing whatsoever to

fear. I merely wish to ask you a few questions. You need not answer

them unless you wish to. Now, may I take my hand from your mouth?"

 

De Costa nodded his head, and Crouch drew away his hand. The half-caste

lay quite still. It was obvious that he had been frightened out of his

life, which had served to some extent to heighten the fever which so

raged within him.

 

"Come," said Crouch; "I’ll doctor you. Your nerves are all shaken. Have

you any bromide?"

 

"Yes," said de Costa; "over there."

 

He pointed in the direction of a shelf upon the wall, which had been

constructed of a piece of a packing-case. On this shelf was a multitude

of bottles. Crouch examined these, and at last laid hands upon one

containing a colourless fluid, like water, and handed it to the patient

to drink. De Costa drained it at a gulp, and then sank back with a sigh

of relief.

 

Crouch felt his pulse.

 

"You’re weak," said he, "terribly weak. If you don’t get out of this

country soon you’ll die. Do you know that?"

 

"I do," said de Costa; "I think of it every day."

 

"You don’t wish to die?" said Crouch.

 

"I wish to live."

 

There was something pitiful in the way he said that. He almost whined.

Here was a man who was paying the debt that the white man owes to

Africa. In this great continent, which even to-day is half unknown,

King Death rules from the Sahara to the veld. A thousand pestilences

rage in the heart of the great steaming forests, that strike down their

victims with promptitude, and which are merciless as they are swift. It

seems as if a curse is on this country. It is as if before the advance

of civilization a Power, greater by far than the combined resources of

men, arises from out of the darkness of the jungle and the miasma of the

mangrove swamp, and strikes down the white man, as a pole-axe fells an

ox.

 

De Costa, though he was but half a European, was loaded with the white

man’s burden, with the heart of only a half-caste to see him through.

Crouch, despite the roughness of his manner, attended at his bedside

with the precision of a practised nurse. There was something even

tender in the way he smoothed the man’s pillow; and when he spoke, there

was a wealth of sympathy in his voice.

 

"You are better now?" he asked.

 

"Yes," said de Costa; "I am better."

 

"Lie still and rest," said Crouch. "Perhaps you are glad enough to have

some one to talk to you. I want you to listen to what I have to say."

 

Crouch seated himself at the end of the bed, and folded his thin,

muscular hands upon his knee.

 

"I am not a doctor by profession," he began, "but, in the course of my

life, I’ve had a good deal of experience of the various diseases which

are met with in these parts of the world. I know enough to see that

your whole constitution is so undermined that it is absolutely necessary

for you to get out of the country. Now I want to ask you a question."

 

"What is it?" said de Costa. His voice was very weak.

 

"Which do you value most, life or wealth?"

 

The little half-caste smiled.

 

"I can see no good in wealth," said he, "when you’re dead."

 

"That is true," said Crouch. "No one would dispute it--except

yourself."

 

"But I admit it!" said de Costa.

 

"You admit it in words," said the other, "but you deny it in your life."

 

"I am too ill to understand. Please explain."

 

Crouch leaned forward and tapped the palm of his left hand with the

forefinger of his right.

 

"You say," said he, "that you know that you’ll die if you remain here.

Yet you remain here in order to pile up a great fortune to take back

with you to Jamaica or Portugal, wherever you intend to go. But you

will take nothing back, because you will die. You are therefore

courting death. I repeat your own words: what will be the use of all

this wealth to you after you are dead?"

 

De Costa sat up in his bed.

 

"It’s true!" he cried in a kind of groan.

 

"H’sh!" said Crouch. "Be quiet! Don’t raise your voice."

 

De Costa rocked his head between his knees.

 

"It’s true--true--true!" he whined. "I know it. I shall die. I don’t

want this money. I want to live. I--I fear to die." His voice

trembled. He was pitiful to see.

 

"You shall not die," said Crouch; "I’ll make it my business to see that

you live. I can’t cure you, but I can keep you alive till we reach the

coast. There, one week on the sea will restore your health."

 

"That’s what I want," said de Costa, "the sea air. Oh, for a breath of

the sea!"

 

"I’ll take you down with us," Crouch ran on. "I’ll doctor you on the

way. Max Harden is a young man of science. He has studied these

things, and with his knowledge and my experience we’ll pull you through.

In three months from now, I promise you, you shall set eyes upon the

ocean."

 

"How glorious!" the poor man cried. He looked into Crouch’s face, and

there were large tears in his eyes.

 

"Stay," said Crouch; "I’ve not come here for philanthropic purposes. If

I do this for you, you must do something for me. Otherwise you can stay

here--and die."

 

"What is it you want?"

 

Crouch bent forward and whispered in the man’s ear, speaking distinctly

and with great deliberation.

 

"I want to know what’s inside the padlocked chest that Cæsar keeps in

his hut. Come, out with the truth!"

 

On the instant the man sprang out of bed and seized Crouch by the

wrists. He was so little master of himself that hot tears were

streaming down his cheeks. He was shaking in every limb. It was as if

his neck was not strong enough to support his head, which swung round

and round.

 

"Not that!" he screamed. "For pity’s sake, not that!"

 

"Come," said Crouch; "the truth."

 

De Costa drew back. "I daren’t," said he.

 

"Why?"

 

"Because he--would kill me."

 

"Look here, you have to choose between two men," said Crouch: "Cæsar and

myself. Trust me, and I’ll see you through. You told me you had heard

of me before. You may have heard it said that I’m a man who sticks to

his word through thick and thin, once it has been given."

 

As Crouch said this he noticed a remarkable change that came on a sudden

upon de Costa’s face. The man’s complexion turned livid; his jaw

dropped; his eyes were staring hard over Crouch’s shoulder, in the

direction of the door.

 

Crouch whipped round upon his heel, his revolver in his hand, and found

that he stood face to face with Cæsar.

 

"By Christopher," said he, "you’re mighty silent!"

 

"And may I ask," said Cæsar, "what you are doing here?"

 

Crouch made a motion of his hand towards de Costa, who had sunk down

upon the bed.

 

"This man’s ill," said he; "in fact, he’s dying."

 

"He is always dying," said Cæsar, "and he never dies. He has the

vitality of a monkey."

 

"It doesn’t seem to distress you much," said Crouch. "Since you have

lived together for two years, in a forsaken spot like this, I should

have thought that you were friends."

 

Cæsar threw out his hand.

 

"Ah," he cried, "we are the best friends in the world--de Costa and

myself."

 

He stood looking down upon Crouch, with his white teeth gleaming between

his black moustache and his beard. In that light it was difficult to

see whether he smiled or sneered. There was something mysterious about

the man, and something that was fiendish.

 

"And so," he ran on, "Captain Crouch has taken upon himself the duties

of medical officer of Makanda? I’m sure we are much obliged."

 

"I have some experience of medicine," said the captain.

 

"Indeed," said Cæsar. "And do you always operate with a revolver?"

 

For once in his life, Crouch had been caught off his guard.

 

"In this country," he said, "I am seldom without one."

 

"You are wise," said Cæsar. "I myself am always prepared."

 

With a man like Crouch, this kind of verbal sword-play could never last

for long. He was too much a creature of impulse. He liked to speak his

mind, and he hated and mistrusted this thin Portuguese as a mongoose

hates a snake.

 

"There are no laws in this country," said he, "and there are certain

times when it’s not a bad principle to shoot at sight. In the civilized

world, a man goes about with his reputation on the sleeve of his coat,

and all men may know him for what he is. But here, in the midst of

these benighted forests, one must often act on instinct. To kill at

sight, that’s the law of the jungle; and when men come here, they’d do

well to leave behind them what they know of other laws respecting life

and property and rights. If I’m wise to carry a revolver, perhaps I’m a

fool because I hesitate to use it."

 

Here was a plain speaking, an outright honesty that quite disarmed the

Portuguese. If, hitherto, Cæsar had held the upper hand, Captain Crouch

had now turned the tables. Whether warfare be carried on by words or

amid the clash of arms, the victory lies with him who best knows his

mind. And Captain Crouch did that. It was as if he had thrown a

gauntlet at the tall man’s feet, and defied him to pick it up.

 

But Cæsar was never willing to fight. His was a quick, calculating

brain, and he knew that the odds would be against him. Listening

outside the hut, he had overheard the greater part of the conversation

which had taken place between Crouch and the fever-stricken half-caste.

His secret, which he kept under lock and key in the strong chest at the

foot of his bed, he was prepared to guard at every cost. He saw now

that Crouch was an adversary not to be despised. It was necessary for

him to take steps to seal de Costa’s lips.

 

Though the man no longer showed it in his face, Cæsar was by no means

pleased at the appearance of the Englishmen. Though he was affable and

polite, all the time he was scheming in his mind how to get rid of them

as quickly as he could. For the present, he decided to bide his time,

hoping that, sooner or later, Fate might play into his hands. Whatever

happened, he was determined that they should not suspect him of any

sinister intention, and on that account it behoved him to keep up an

appearance of friendship. He answered Crouch with all the pleasantry of

manner he had at his command.

 

"Captain Crouch," said he, "you are a man after my own heart. I also

respect the laws of the jungle. I have shaken the dust of civilization

from my feet. It is only the strong man who can do so. In you I

recognize an equal."

 

In his heart, Crouch stigmatized such talk as this as high-falutin’

nonsense. Still, he thought it unwise to hatch a quarrel with the man,

and answered with a kind of