by Jules Verne
The unknown visitor completed his climb. A moment later he had scrambled over the parapet, and fell into the midst of the amazed prisoners.
Carefully keeping their voices low, they exclaimed, Tonganel"
CHAPTER V
A NEW PRISON
Not only was Tongane still alive, but as he explained later, he had not even been wounded during the surprise attack at Koubo. The searchlights had missed him; he had been able to glide unperceived among the trees and the attackers had not troubled about him.
But he had no intention of forsaking his masters, not less because Malik was with them. He had indeed thought of trying to help them, but he had correctly decided that he could do so better if he kept his freedom.
Far from taking flight, he had followed the raiders. At the cost of endless privations while crossing the desert, he had trailed the ones who were taking Malid to Blackland. Meantime he had lived on little more than the fragments he picked up at the spots where they halted. Though on foot, he had travelled as fast as their horses, and every day he covered about thirty miles.
He did not let himself be outdistanced until they were very near Blackland. As soon as they reached the cultivated land he had stopped and had waited until nightfall before risking himself in that unknown country. Until daybreak he had hidden in the thickets. Then, mingling with the crowd of Negroes, with them he had tilled the ground, with them he had received the blows of which the guards were not sparing, and with them he had gone in the evening into the central section of the city, without anyone paying any attention to him.
A few days had passed until he had found the rope in a disused hut. By its aid he had succeeded in following the Civil Body and gaining the river bank, where for two long days he had hidden in the mouth of a sewer, waiting for a favourable opportunity.
Meanwhile he had seen the prisoners coming and going every evening on the platform of the bastion, but he had vainly tried to attract their attention. The chance he waited for had not come until the third day, the 8th April. Then, the night being darkened by thick clouds, he had taken the opportunity to emerge from his dungeon and to throw to his masters the cord which had at last enabled him to join them.
As might be supposed, he did not give this explanation until later. For the moment he contented himself with suggesting that they could all escape by the same method as he had arrived. Below they would find a boat he had managed to get hold of, and all they would have to do then would be to row down the Red River.
Needless to say, this plan was adopted without discussion. With four men at the oars and aided by the current, they should make six miles an hour. If they set out before eleven, they would have gone about forty-five miles by dawn. Thus they would not have only got out of range of the cycloscope, whose watch they would doubtless be able to escape by keeping in the shelter of the banks, but also beyond the cultivated land and even beyond the last of the posts set up in the desert. It would then be enough, so as not to be seen from the heliplanes, to hide in some irregularity of the river banks during the day and to resume navigation in the night, until they should reach the Niger. The Red River must enter this near Bikini, a village above Saye, as it followed the former bed of the Oued Tafasasset. It was only a question, then, of a voyage of about 280 miles all told, w Iiich would mean four or five nights travel.
Quickly discussed, this plan was soon adopted. First, however, they had to get rid of Tchoumouki, who sometimes used to hang about during the evening on the gallery or the platform. They could not wait his good pleasure. They had to act, and to act quickly.
Leaving Jane Blazon, the useless M. Poncin, and Tongane on the top of the bastion, the other prisoners descended the stair. From the upper steps they could see Tchoumouki on the floor below; he was finishing his day's work with calculated slowness. He took no notice of their presence, for he had no reason to be suspicious of them, so they could close on liim without attracting his attention.
As had been arranged, it was St. Berain who opened the attack. His sinewy hands suddenly gripped the rascal's neck, without giving him time to utter a cry. The three others then seized the Negro by the arms and legs and bound him securely and gagged him. They finally thrust him into a cell, locked it, and threw the key into the Red River. Thus they delayed as much as they could the discovery of their escape.
When, their work done, they regained the platform, the four Europeans were smitten by a flood of rain. As they had foreseen, the thick clouds dissolved in water, and the cataracts as they fell from the sky were driven along by violent squalls. Chance was certainly favouring the fugitives. Visibility was limited to twenty yards away by the liquid screen, and the fights on the far side of the river, in the Merry Fellows' quarter, could hardly be distinguished.
The descent began at once and was effected without incident. One after another, with Amedee Florence first and Tongane last, the fugitives let themselves slip down the rope; its lower end was secured to a boat large enough to hold them all. In vain it was suggested that Jane Blazon should be lowered on the end of the rope; she firmly refused, and showed that her skill and activity were equal to those of her comrades.
Before leaving the platform, Tongane took care to untie the rope. Then he simply hung it over one of the crenelations on the platform, grasped both its halves and slid down it. When he had pulled the rope down after them, there was no trace of the method by which the prisoners had escaped.
A little after ten the moorings were cast off, and the boat was carried downstream by the current. The fugitives hid behind the sides of the boat, crouched down on its floorboards. When they were beyond the town, whose outer wall was hardly six hundred yards away, they seized the oars, and their speed increased. So far, although the rain formed an almost opaque curtain, it was better to have it conceal them than for them to see where they were going.
Some minutes elapsed, and they imagined themselves outside the precincts of the town, when the boat suddenly hit against some obstacle and was held motionless. Feeling around, the fugitives realized with despair that they had been halted by an iron grille towering high above them, covered with sheet-iron plates in its upper part and with its base disappearing below the water. In vain they hauled themselves along it: its ends were fastened securely to the outer wall which enclosed on the one side the quarters of the Civil Body and the Merry Fellows, and on the other the circular road around the factory.
They had to realize that there was no way out.
Harry Killer had been right, and his precautions had been excellently carried out. Open during the day, the course of the Red River was barred during the night.
Some time elapsed before the fugitives regained their courage. Profoundly disheartened, they no longer felt the drenching rain, and were soaked to the skin without realizing it. To go back, to eat humble pie at the Palace door, and to hold out their hands to be shackled? They could never submit to that. Yet what could they do? To climb those iron plates which offered no hand holes was plainly impossible, and still less could they dream of hauling their boat over them. But without a boat flight was impossible. As to setting foot on either of the river banks, to the left there was the Factory and to the right the Merry Fellows. On all sides the routes were closed.
"We're not going to sleep here, I suppose," Amedee Florence said at last.
"Where do you want us to go?" asked Barsac, completely at a loss.
"It doesn't matter where, except to His Majesty Harry Killer," the reporter answered. "As we haven't too much to choose from, why shouldn't we try to rent a new lodging in that building which seems to be called the Factory?"
At any rate, it was worth trying. Perhaps, in that microcosm so different from the rest of the town, they might find help. As whatever happened the position could not be worse, they would risk nothing by trying.
They hauled themselves towards the left bank, and a little upstream they came to its junction with the road, about fifty yards wide, which encircled the factory. So heavy had the rain become
, that even at that distance they could see nothing.
Although the battle of the unchained elements dominated all other sounds as much as the swirling raindrops limited the view, they moved very carefully along this road.
Half way along they stopped.
They could just distinguish, twenty yards away at most, the angle formed by the western and northern walls of the Factory, the one coming in from the right parallel to the boundary of the town, and the other extending up-stream along the river bank. Unlike the facade of the Palace on that side, this part of the wall did not lead directly into the water but was separated from it by a broad quay.
Now the fugitives could not decide which way to go. They had made out, just at the very corner of the Factory, something very disquieting: a sentry-box whose classical lines could be vaguely distinguished through the rain. And a sentry box implied a sentinel; if they did not see him it was because he had taken refuge in it.
However, they could not wait there all night. That would be the best way of being taken by surprise if the rain suddenly stopped and the suppositious sentinel were to leave his shelter.
Signing to his companions to follow, Amedee Florence retreated several paces from the Red River, then crossed the road and came back along its other side, keeping by the Factory wall. Then they could approach the sentry box from behind, as its opening was presumably towards the riverbank.
Arrived at the corner, they paused to consider their next step; then Amedee Florence, St. Berain and Tongane turned turned the corner, reached the quay, and dashed up and into the sentry box.
A man, one of the Merry Fellows, was certainly there. Taken unawares by this unexpected attack which he had no reason to suspect, he had no chance to use his weapons, and the cry he uttered was lost in the storm. St. Berain simply took him by the throat and hurled him to the ground, as he had hurled Tchoumouki, and the white man crumpled up just as the Negro had.
Tongane ran to the boat and brought the cord, with which the Merry Fellow was securely bound. Then without waiting, the fugitives proceeded up-stream towards the Palace, Cling one behind another along the Factory wall.
One of the peculiarities of the Factory was an absence, so far complete, of exterior openings. On the Esplanade side there were none, as they had seen from the top of the bastion. On the opposite side none were visible, so far as visibility was possible through the thick curtain of rain. And it now seemed that there were none in the northern facade which gave upon the river.
As, however, a quay had been built, it must be used for something. For what purpose could it have except to unload goods brought by boat? So there must necessarily be some means or other of taking them into the Factory.
Their reasoning was correct. After transversing about a hundred and fifty yards the fugitives foimd a large door, apparendy made of sheets of iron as firm and as thick as armour plating. How could they open this door, to which there was no exterior fastening? How could they break it down? How could they even attract the attention of the inmates without at the same time attracting that of the other sentries who in all probability were mounting guard nearby?
By the side of the great door, a few paces upstream, there was another, similarly built but much smaller, and securely locked. Failing a key, or of anything which could be used to pick it, this was not of very much help.
After a long pause, the fugitives were on the point of deciding to hammer at the door with their fists, or if need be with their feet, when a shadow approached from up-stream, along the Esplanade. Vague in the torrential rain, the shadow came towards them. As the quay had no oilier exit than into the circular road along which came this nocturnal wanderer, he was likely to be making for one of the doors opening on the quay.
Having no time to move away, the fugitives huddled as best they could under the eaves of tho larger door, ready to leap out upon the newcomer at the first opportunity.
But he came along so unsuspiciously, and came so close to them, almost near enough to touch them, while showing so complete an ignorance of their presence, that they abstained from any act of violence whose necessity was not clear.
Emboldened by the amazing blindness of the wanderer, they followed one by one in his footsteps, as he passed each of them in turn. When he stopped as they had foreseen in front of the smaller of the two doors, and put his key into the lock, he had behind him, ranged in a semicircle, eight watchful spectators whose existence he did not even suspect.
The door opened. Brusquely jostling aside the man who had opened it, the fugitives dashed in after him. The last comer closed the door, which swung to heavily.
They then found themselves in profound darkness. From this came a gentle voice which uttered, in tones of mild surprise, exclamations amazing in their moderations: "Well . . ." said the voice. "What's the meaning of this? . . . What do you want? . .. What's happening?"
There suddenly gleamed a light which though feeble seemed dazzling in the darkness. Jane Blazon had thought of switching on her electric torch which had already rendered a signal service at Kokoro. Its beam at once revealed Tongane and, facing him, a slender man, with fight fair hair, his clothes dripping water, and a little out of breath, who was leaning against the wall.
As soon as they saw each other Tongane and the fair man exclaimed simultaneously, though in very different tones:
"Sergeant Tongane!" said the latter, with the same gentle voice and in the same accent of mild surprise.
"Massa Camaret!" cried the Negro, rolling his frightened eyes.
Camaret! . . . Jane Blazon shuddered on hearing that name; she knew it well, for it was the name of one of her brother's former comrades.
However, Amedee Florence thought it time to intervene. Among people who know one another there's no need for introductions. He took a pace forward into the cone of light.
"Monsieur Camaret," he said, "my friends and I would like a word with you."
"Nothing simpler," replied Camaret calmly.
He pressed a button, and electric lights shone out in the ceiling. The fugitives realized that they were in a vaulted room devoid of any article of furniture. Some sort of entrance hall, apparently.
Marcel Camaret opened a door behind which was a stairway. Then, politely standing a little aside: "If you will be good enough to come in," he said quite simply.
CHAPTER VI
MARCEL CAMARET
Astounded by this welcome, whose banal courtesy seemed extraordinary in such circumstances, the six Europeans, followed by the two Negroes, went up the stairs, which were brilliantly lit by electric lamps. After climbing twenty steps, they entered a second hall, where they stopped. Coming up behind them, Marcel Camaret went through the hall, opened another door, and stood aside as before to allow his unexpected guests to precede him.
They entered an immense room completely in disorder. A great draughtsman's table stood against one wall, and bookcases against the three others. A dozen or so chairs were scattered at random, all pded up with books and papers. Marcel Camaret picked up one of these piles, placed it quietly on the floor, and sat down. Encouraged by this example, his guests copied him, and soon, except for Malik and Tongane, who remained respectfully standing, they were all seated.
"How can I help you?" asked Marcel Camaret, who seemed to regard this unexpected visit as the most natural thing in the world.
During the few minutes which it took them to settle down, the fugitives had had time to inspect the person whose home they had so unceremoniously entered, and that inspection had not failed to reassure them. Certainly he was strange enough, this person whom Tongane had greeted by the name of Camaret; who had been so deeply wrapped in thought that he had brushed against them on the quay without so much as seeing them; whose otherworldly air seemed to place him above mundane affairs; whose calm simplicity as he welcomed those who burst in on him so unceremoniously, had been extraordinary; this was not to be denied.
But these details, unusual though they were, did not conflict with the hones
ty, to be more precise with the "innocence," so plainly shown by this man, whose body, as yet not fully formed, resembled that of an adolescent. No, the owner of that broad and well shaped forehead and the clear glance of those splendid eyes could not belong to the same moral family as Harry Killer, although everything indicated that they shared the same life.
"Monsieur Camaret," said Barsac, who had regained his confidence, "we have come to ask you for protection."
"For protection . . ." Camaret repeated, with a slight air of surprise. "Against whom, in Heaven's name?"
"Against the master, or rather the despot, of this town: against Harry Killer."
"Harry Killer! ... A despot! . . ." Camaret repeated once more; he did not seem to be able to understand.
"You didn't know this?" asked Barsac, no less surprised.
"No, indeed."
"You must realize, though, that there's a town here?" Barsac insisted, a little impatiently.
"Of course!" Camaret agreed.
"Isn't this town called Blackland?"
"Oh, then it's Blackland that it's called?" mused Camaret. "That's not at all a bad name.. . . No, I didn't know that, but I know it now you've told me. Not that I care about it."
"If you didn't know the name of the town," continued Barsac, not without a certain irony, "you knew, I suppose, that it's inhabited, and that it's got a fairly large population?"
"Naturally," replied Camaret quietly.
"Well, any town must have some sort of administration, a government."
"Naturally."
"In Blackland, the government is completely in the hands of Harry Killer. And he's nothing but a rogue, a cruel and bloodthirsty despot, a drunken brute, not to say a lunatic."
Marcel Camaret lifted towards Barsac the eyes which he had hitherto lowered. He seemed lost, completely bewildered, and looked almost as if he had dropped out of the moon.
"Oh, oh," he murmured, confusedly. "You're using language...."