“First Gazda looks for white man and black man of Ginny’s tribe,” the ape-man said, surprised at how easily the words had returned to him. “He cannot if bone-faces kill Gazda.”
“Harkon will kill the bone-faces with Gazda,” the eager huntress assured. “Gazda can get the white man and the black as Harkon kills the Bakwaniri!”
“No!” the night ape growled, seeing the lost boy in the huntress’ mind. “Anim needs Harkon.”
His companion stared at him wide-eyed, a powerful swell of emotion passing behind her dark features. The storm of sadness and rage in her spirit calmed suddenly, and while her body quivered with a need to strike and kill, she retracted her hatred in the way a panther does its claws.
Ashamed, she lowered her head. In her fury, the huntress had forgotten her son.
“Harkon waits,” she said grudgingly.
Harkon had been too long steeped in her vengeance to accept more waiting, but she was shaken that it had taken Gazda to remind her of Anim.
Had she given up on her son? Did she only use his memory to justify her deeds? It seemed that her desire to punish Bakwaniri had drowned her mother’s hopes in blood.
So Harkon asked Gazda to look for captives of her kind as she settled down to wait. She would re-kindle her hope for her son’s rescue, and kill any Bakwaniri that got in the way.
The ape-man acknowledged her request, scrambled down the tree and disappeared in shadow.
CHAPTER 30 – View of the Kitchen
Once he got a short but dead-to-the-world sleep out of the way, Captain Seward spent most of the time propped up by the one foot high by two foot wide window with a blade of grass clenched between his teeth watching out through the rusty bars and trying to calculate his chances of getting out of the mess he was in.
He was pretty sure it was past midnight, and while the torchlight that ringed the village had reminded him of hope and happy times, the pitch black jungle past the palisade wall told him he had only shadows to escape into—if he could figure a way clear.
A big moon had risen in the sky earlier, poking out from time to time, but it had either set or the clouds had thickened up to cover it. Even with it coming full on, he doubted its pale light would be much help if he was trying to hike out of the overgrown forest.
And where the hell would he go?
The old ranger knew they were lucky to be alive, but there was little else playing in their favor so he’d spent time resting his battered body, and taking stock of things, hoping something would occur to him, or that something would occur that offered hope.
Jacob Raines was lying on a rough pallet of grass some six feet from him. His boots stuck out of the shadows where the light from the window fell short of the bedding. The manservant was either better at sleeping than the ranger or he was faking it, because Seward knew from experience that a mule wouldn’t sleep on that bunk...
...let alone a man in his 60s.
At best he was resting his bones. To the ranger’s recollection the black man had been a snorer back at the Quarrie ranch, and here there hadn’t been a peep.
“I smell rum, Jacob!” Seward growled, nosing the air. “I could do with a taste right now, I can tell you.”
“I’d be open to that, Captain,” Jacob agreed, rising to his knees and arranging his sweat-streaked and dirty clothing before getting up and crossing to lean by the opposite side of the window. He winced. “Must be what they’re drinking at the party.”
“They’re poor hosts...” Seward said. The truth was he had never missed his tequila as much as he did at that moment. Rum would do, but the last two days had left bruises and cuts that only his favorite drink would mend.
As the old ranger thought of that, he thought of his gun, too. The big Peacemaker had been taken from him when the savages had beaten him senseless. He’d since seen it with his Bowie knife stuck through the rawhide belt of a masked devil. Another savage had claimed his holster and bullets.
Seward was pleased to think that their captors did not know how the gun and bullets went together, and he grinned at the thought of them making that connection.
All hell could break loose.
Jacob’s axe had been passed among savages on the trail as if it now belonged to the whole gang of thieves, or they had some way of sorting their booty out later on.
Seward had yet to see any sign of his Stetson, and the loss tore at his pride something awful. A man could lose his gun or his knife but never both, and there wasn’t a Texan born who wouldn’t mourn the loss of a fine hat.
But as the din their captors were making continued unabated, his thoughts kept drifting to both. The liquor would numb his pain and prime his soul with fury. Locked in the belly of a “jungle ship” with only a gentle manservant in the way of comrade-in-arms—well, making a final charge in such a setting deserved a drink.
That’s why the smell of rum had enlivened his senses, and to some small degree rekindled his optimism. He’d managed to get his troop out of scrapes along the Mexican border in times long past with no more than tequila and a few bullets as a plan.
Looking at the degenerate savages capering past his window now, he couldn’t help but think that such a simple combination might buy his freedom, or at least let him send some wild men to Hell before he was dragged down.
“We are in a predicament,” Seward grumbled.
After the rotten ape head had been taken off to lead the parade, Seward and Jacob were marched around a line of huts that ran the length of the village before they were brought near the “bow” and taken down a short set of stairs that led to a heavy door beneath the huts.
This space opened onto a vaulted hallway of stone blocks that seemed incomplete or disintegrated like the ruins of some ancient temple. The left wall was crumbling and poorly repaired. Timbers were braced against sagging brick, and black earth showed through the gaps.
The right wall appeared intact. Torches ensconced upon it showed a series of doors made of rough planks with a small peephole window cut in each. Farther along, stony alcoves held sacks of grain and food, and barrels that indicated the subterranean spaces were used for things other than housing prisoners.
They were put in the cell closest to the stairs with walls high enough for their barred window that looked out at the “port” side of the village opposite the main palisade gate.
Seward found he could see the great open space at the “bow” if he pushed his left cheek between the bars. The wall in which it was set was angled a few degrees that way, so he could steal a glance at the fire pit and what was the village’s kitchen, butcher shop and communal dining area.
He’d been motivated to take a second look, since he’d seen on the way into his cell that a grisly feast was being prepared.
Several masked men were pounding drums on the port side of a fire pit that was ringed with big flat stones of uniform size. The stones circled until they reached the other side of the pit where larger rocks were set in line to match up with others placed among the coals.
These stones were used to support three large iron grills that could be accessed from that side with oversized cooking utensils.
Three tall blood-stained stakes were set in the ground behind the grills, and by these a big, fat savage with a scarlet skull-mask cut at something on a great wooden butcher block colored brown with old blood.
He used a cleaver to lop pieces of red meat into big wooden bowls that young black slaves then carried to the grill where another savage in a red skull-mask used a long iron fork to put the flesh upon the flame.
A short distance from the “kitchen” was a large rectangular cage aligned with the palisade wall. It was eight feet in height, ten in width and 20 feet long, made of bare poles lashed together.
As the day and then evening had progressed, Seward was horrified to see silent, shadowy shapes cowering in one corner of the cage. It wasn’t until the fire had been blazing that he’d been able to see four people in there. They clung to each other with the or
ange flame glistening on their dark faces. Near their cage was what looked like a pile of scarlet wood that the ranger soon recognized as bones.
Seward scowled looking out at a group of eager young and old savages on their way to the fire with bowls in their hands. The smell of roasted flesh was strong in the air.
His last count had shown only two people in the cage. Neither he nor Jacob would ever dwell upon what they’d seen of the other two captives who must have been drugged, or otherwise cowed, because they’d gone to their deaths without a word of protest.
They’d stretched out on the butcher block and a big savage in a red skull-mask had prepared them for the grill.
The old ranger had figured out pretty quickly that the whole village was celebrating the death of the ape that had once claimed ownership to the rotten head his captors had brought into the village. Drums, singing and dancing parades had taken up most of the day, though the savages had also been curious about their prisoners, too.
And none of them was shy about teasing.
Most took turns at the window shouting what had to be profanities—though the ranger couldn’t tell from the lingo. There were a few bad apples that pitched stones and others that made none-too-subtle “eating” gestures with their hands and mouths.
That had thrown Jacob for a loop because despite a long life, and that starting out a slave, he had never imagined ending up a meal for some godless savages that were playing pirate.
Seward wasn’t bucked too badly by the crude taunt having already come to that conclusion, since he’d identified the necklaces of finger bones that everybody wore.
It wasn’t the first time he’d run across cannibals either. Seward remembered capturing and hanging bandits who had turned to the damnable behavior after his ranger troop had chased them deep into the desert without food, water or horses. A trail of gnawed bones had told the tale.
The savages had returned to the window to look at them throughout the day, and Seward was amazed to see that the women and children also went about disguised with paint covering their variously deformed faces or infected limbs. The most popular was to have a skull drawn on the face in light gray and black pigment, with a pair of bones that ran from shoulder to shoulder and crossed over the sternum.
Most of the men wore the stylized bone-masks, while others had adopted a painted version of the covering. Actually, Seward had seen that many of them did both, revealing face paint when they removed their masks to eat or drink.
With everybody so disguised, the ranger reasoned it was to hide their disfigurements, or was a superstitious way to ward off whatever was ailing them.
And something was surely ailing them.
He’d seen and heard of stranger things done by Indian tribes back home who wore face paint and adornments for fear of ghosts, ancestors, eagle gods or what have you.
The slaves on the strange jungle ship stood out for their lack of such disguises, the rough bits of clothing and the iron bands clamped around their necks. Another defining factor so far as he could see, was that the slaves were the only people who did any work.
Seward had looked past the debauching skull-masks to see the slaves tending little herb and vegetable gardens growing along the inside of the palisade and the daylight view had shown through gaps in the fence where slaves worked bigger plots beyond it.
Those same chinks in the palisade allowed him to see slaves skinning animals, tanning hides and making baskets. From the way they were working, he reckoned their masters could do with a few more able bodies because these ones worked non-stop.
“Captain!” Jacob whispered suddenly, drawing him from his reverie. “Someone’s coming.”
Seward looked up flustered, clearing his throat, uncertain whether he’d just dozed off, or how much time had passed.
“Remember the plan!” he said softly, moving to the door.
They had decided to attempt escape at any opportunity, and the only possible tactic would be to ambush anyone entering their cell.
The prisoners stood to either side of the door.
Outside in the hall they heard a heavy clatter, and then scrape and ring of iron on stone. Glancing at Jacob, the ranger nodded and made fists of his hands, only to realize from the flicker of torchlight around the door that the action had come from the main entrance and had continued past their cell.
Seward chanced a glimpse out the peephole window and saw a group of some eight black people, half of them no more than children chained at the foot and neck, moving wearily along the corridor with masked savages carrying torches to the front and rear.
Jacob glanced out after Seward as they passed from view, and his face went gray. The manservant’s shoulders slumped and he turned to the ranger shaking his head.
“It isn’t right, Captain,” he muttered, eyes imploring. “Children...”
The ranger growled and with him searched along the edge of the door for a grip...
...but a strange coughing noise brought them both around.
A shadow was at the window that Seward took for a masked man’s until strong, white fingers slipped around the iron bars. Flames flared up from the grim feast and threw the stranger into silhouette, and for a second, the captives saw a great shaggy head with two red eyes blazing like fire.
“God all mighty!” Jacob cried, clutching at Seward’s arm, and the ranger was ashamed to feel the man’s fear paralyze his own limbs. “It’s the Devil!”
Seward gritted his teeth and stepped forward just as another sound came, like a bark, and the stranger turned his head slightly. The light from the cook fire showed a man with broad cheekbones on an aquiline face set with noble features. His pale skin looked even paler framed by long black hair.
He barked again and made a panting sound, then withdrew his hands as the two prisoners neared.
“Sounds like a dog,” Seward grunted.
The stranger was crouching out there against the wall and in the flickering firelight looked to be covered in a layer of mud in which star shapes, swirls and skulls had been etched.
The odd fellow looked across the compound to where the fat man in the red skull-mask scraped a knife over something on his butcher block.
The drums pounded, and the sound passed over the celebration like thunder.
Seward and Jacob stared at their visitor. He was large-framed and more heavily muscled than any man the ranger had ever seen. He was naked save for a black, fur loincloth and some arm and leg bands similar to what their captors wore; and he was armed with a long knife at his waist.
The stranger brought his face close to the bars again, and some trick of the light made it look like his eyes were made of flame.
“Gazda!” he said in a harsh rasp, thumping his deep chest with a fist, before he tapped the window bars nodding. “Ginny!” He made a panting sound, swaying in a half-crouch.
“Ginny!” Jacob said, gripping the iron bars. “Miss James?”
“Tell us more!” Seward hissed, casting desperately past the man as shapes moved toward the festival grounds. By their unsteady movements he could tell that the rum was still flowing, and they were likely blinded by the flames of the cook fire for none approached the window.
The stranger then chattered in a way that sounded like a mix of animal growls, savage lingo and the jabbering of monkeys.
“Ginny, go...” he said suddenly, standing by the window. He made a throwing gesture. “Harkon!”
“Is Ginny here?” Seward asked with a halting voice.
“Please Lord, no!” Jacob added dismally.
The man frowned, lambent eyes staring. Then he smiled and shook his head slowly, before studying the barred window, sniffing the edge and licking the stone.
“Dang it, he’s an idiot!” Seward pressed against the wall.
The stranger hooted quietly.
“Look!” The ranger tapped his own chest and Jacob’s. “We must help Ginny and Lilly.”
“Lilly?” The tips of the stranger’s slanted eyebrows jumped
up to his arching hairline, and slumped over a sad expression before he snarled, “Bakwaniri!”
He snapped his long, sharp fangs.
There was a sudden noise to his left; he glanced that way and was gone the other.
“How quickly he goes!” Jacob craned his neck to see along the wall.
“With our only hope—wait! Someone’s coming,” Seward said, as a metallic clang echoed in the hall outside their cell, and feet started toward the door.
CHAPTER 31 – March to the River
Van Resen slipped and fell into the mud like his companions. Their captors grunted orders in the ranks and a rest was called. The masked men moved to where buttressed tree roots offered comfortable seating from which they could watch their prisoners on the river bank.
The scientist rolled onto his back and peered up at the trees; the sky was lightening between the leaves. He heard his friends panting for breath nearby, but he lacked the energy to offer encouragement.
Van Resen had lost track of time in the endless night.
He, Phillip Holmes and Virginia James had been forced to jog and walk farther than they could have ever imagined traveling afoot. The elder Quarries and Lilly had been spared the potentially lethal exertion by being tied to long poles and carried like game.
Mr. Quarrie put up a tremendous fight when first faced with this indignity, and things might have gone badly had his wife not begged him to postpone the Alamo for another day, saying that she had already been bound to a 12-foot pole and could not tolerate being widowed as well.
Poor Lilly had remained unconscious while being manhandled onto a pole for carrying, with Miss James and Van Resen making every effort to communicate her delicate condition to their inscrutable captors.
But their entreaties had gone unanswered. Instead, six savages had approached with a length of rope that they used to tie Van Resen by the neck to Phillip Holmes who was connected in similar fashion to Miss James, the last in their train.
Trussed in this manner, there had been nothing to do but move forward.
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