The attack was a fiasco,the fighting was all over in ten minutes.
A hundred years ago the men of Bekwando,who went naked and knew no drink more subtle than palm wine had one virtue -bravery.But civilisation pressing upon their frontiers had brought Oom Sam greedy for ivory and gold,and Oom Sam had bought rum and strong waters.The nerve of the savage had gone,and his muscle had become a flaccid thing.When they had risen from the long grass with a horrid yell and had rushed in upon the hated intruders with couched spears only to be met by a blinding fire of Lee-Metford and revolver bullets their bravery vanished like breath from the face of a looking-glass.They hesitated,and a rain of bullets wrought terrible havoc amongst their ranks.On every side the fighting-men of Bekwando went down like ninepins -about half a dozen only sprang forward for a hand-to-hand fight,the remainder,with shrieks of despair,fled back to the shelter of the forest,and not one of them again ever showed a bold front to the white man.Trent,for a moment or two,was busy,for a burly savage,who had marked him out by the light of the gleaming flames,had sprung upon him spear in hand,and behind him came others.The first one dodged Trent's bullet and was upon him,when the boy shot him through the cheek and he went rolling over into the fire,with a death-cry which rang through the camp high above the din of fighting,another behind him Trent shot himself,but the third was upon him before he could draw his revolver and the two rolled over struggling fiercely,at too close quarters for weapons,yet with the thirst for blood fiercely kindled in both of them.For a moment Trent had the worst of it -a blow fell upon his forehead (the scar of which he never lost)and the wooden club was brandished in the air for a second and more deadly stroke.But at that moment Trent leaped up,dashed his unloaded revolver full in the man's face and,while he staggered with the shock,a soldier from behind shot him through the heart.Trent saw him go staggering backwards and then himself sank down,giddy with the blow he had received.Afterwards he knew that he must have fainted,for when he opened his eyes the sun was up and the men were strolling about looking at the dead savages who lay thick in the grass.Trent sat up and called for water.
"Any one hurt?"he asked the boy who brought him some.The boy grinned,but shook his head.
"Plenty savages killed,"he said,"no white man or Kru boy.""Where's Mr.Davenant,"Trent asked suddenly.
The boy looked round and shook his head.
"No seen Mr.Dav'nant,"he said."Him fight well though!Him not hurt!"Trent stood up with a sickening fear at his heart.He knew very well that if the boy was about and unhurt he would have been at his side.Up and down the camp he strode in vain.At last one of the Kru boys thought he remembered seeing a great savage bounding away with some one on his back.He had thought that it was one of their wounded -it might have been the boy.Trent,with a sickening sense of horror,realised the truth.The boy had been taken prisoner.
Even then he preserved his self-control to a marvellous degree.
First of all he gave directions for the day's work -then he called for volunteers to accompany him to the village.There was no great enthusiasm.To fight in trenches against a foe who had no cover nor any firearms was rather a different thing from bearding them in their own lair.Nevertheless,about twenty men came forward,including a guide,and Trent was satisfied.
They started directly after breakfast and for five hours fought their way through dense undergrowth and shrubs with never a sign of a path,though here and there were footsteps and broken boughs.By noon some of the party were exhausted and lagged behind,an hour later a long line of exhausted stragglers were following Trent and the native guide.Yet to all their petitions for a rest Trent was adamant.Every minute's delay might lessen the chance of saving the boy,even now they might have begun their horrible tortures.
The thought inspired him with fresh vigour.He plunged on with long,reckless strides which soon placed a widening gap between him and the rest of the party.
By degrees he began to recollect his whereabouts.The way grew less difficult -occasionally there were signs of a path.Every moment the soft,damp heat grew more intense and clammy.Every time he touched his forehead he found it dripping.But of these things he recked very little,for every step now brought him nearer to the end of his journey.Faintly,through the midday silence he could hear the clanging of copper instruments and the weird mourning cry of the defeated natives.A few more steps and he was almost within sight of them.He slackened his pace and approached more stealthily until only a little screen of bushes separated him from the village and,peering through them,he saw a sight which made his blood run cold within him.
