Driscoll wavered, and then with a helpless shrug and a last frown in Ann’s direction turned to his sailors. Denham shook his head in amiable exasperation and winked at Ann.
“Have somebody get the costume box up and into one of the boats,” he said. “If we’re lucky we may get a swell shot right away.”
As Ann went below, Denham mounted to the bridge. There Englehorn was sweeping the island with his binoculars.
“See anything, Skipper?”
“Nothing but those few huts at the edge of the brush on the peninsula.”
“I took a look from the bow, and I think there are more and bigger houses back in the thicker brush.”
“It’s the first native island I ever called at where the whole tribe didn’t come down to the beach for a look-see.”
“The tribe is somewhere, sure enough. Hear those drums?”
Englehorn nodded and both men listened. A deep, soft clamor rolled across the intervening water, and slowly resolved itself into a swift, importunate rhythm.
“Funny they haven’t spotted us,” Denham said.
“Every last native ought to be out and down at the water’s edge,” Englehorn insisted.
“Maybe they have seen us, and are signalling.”
“You’ve heard native drums before, Mr. Denham,” Englehorn demurred calmly. “You know those ain’t signal beats. There’s some ceremony inland. A big ceremony, too, if you ask me.”
He descended from the bridge and walked quietly over to where by now Driscoll had practically completed the work of lowering the boats and loading them. He watched for a space and then looked toward the forward deck.
“Fetch the boatswain,” he commanded.
That petty officer, a thick, heavy sailorman, hurried up.
“This man will stay aboard with fourteen sailors,” Englehorn said to Driscoll. “You choose the fourteen. All the others will go ashore with us.”
Driscoll nodded soberly and went about the selection. He chose Lumpy first of all, to that veteran adventurer’s audible chagrin.
“Who’ll be in charge of my gas bombs?” Denham wanted to know.
“You take ’em, Jimmy,” Driscoll ordered.
Jimmy stooped over the box, hefted it experimentally, looked slightly injured at the weight of it, and then bore his burden over to the last boat.
“Of course you’re coming, Skipper?” Denham asked.
“Got to keep my record clear,” Englehorn nodded. “Never yet missed looking over a native island once I caught up with it.”
“You’re likely to be a big help. You’ll probably have to do the talking. Their lingo isn’t likely to be one I’ve picked up.”
“All right,” Driscoll said. “Both boats are ready.”
Englehorn and Denham climbed down into the first one, and at the order of the former the crew pushed off. Driscoll motioned the second boat to wait where it swung on its davits. Ann was hurrying across the deck. He helped her in silently, then directed that the boat be lowered. While it settled into the water he took a last look around deck.
“Better serve out rifles and ammunition,” he said to the boatswain. “And it wouldn’t hurt to do some figuring on the range from here to the island.”
With a last look, he swung over the side and joined Ann.
“This is the first time I ever saw the whole crew together,” Ann said. “I hadn’t realized it was so large.”
“Twenty men in each boat,” Driscoll told her. “And,” he added gloomily, “we’ll need ’em.”
“Nonsense! Probably the natives will be as friendly as reservation Indians.”
“More probably not. Hear those drums? I overheard the Skipper tell Denham they were beating up some kind of ceremony. I wish I knew what kind.”
“Maybe they’re announcing some pretty girl’s engagement.”
Driscoll looked at her. Her yellow hair was bare to the sun and blowing about her flushed excited face.
“Speaking of pretty girls’ engagements,” he said, and looked back up at the crow’s nest.
But the drums grew louder with every tug of the boat’s oars; the rhythm grew more distinct; and as Englehorn had said, it sounded too majestic to be a mere signal. Driscoll’s momentary elation left him.
Englehorn’s boat had reached the beach and Denham was already ashore, putting his camera on its tripod. While Driscoll’s crew spurted through the surf the producer burdened one sailor with the mounted machine, another with a case of films, and a third with a box containing costumes. Meanwhile Englehorn was dividing cases of trade goods among the others. Jimmy, showing his grievance in every line of his young face, shouldered the heavy container which held the gas bombs.
“You stick close to me, Jimmy,” Denham directed. “And watch your step. There’s enough trichloride in that case to put a herd of hippos to sleep.”
“Are we going to see any hippos?” Jimmy wanted to know.
“Something a lot more exciting, I hope. Where’s Driscoll?”
Driscoll came trotting over, followed by Ann. His boat was beached alongside the other.
“Leave an armed man in charge of each boat.”
“All attended to.”
“Stay by me, Ann.”
“I’ll look after Ann,” Driscoll announced quickly.
Denham chuckled. The wild excitement of those moments preceding the sighting of the island was gone. He was once more solid, indomitable, and quick with a characteristic tolerance.
“All right, Jack. All set, Skipper?”
Englehorn nodded. He and Driscoll signalled, and the two boat crews fell into a loose double column. Denham, already striding vigorously toward the scattered houses visible at the edge of the brush, automatically became the head of the line of march. Behind him paced the men bearing camera and films, then Englehorn, then Driscoll and Ann.
As the party sloped up from the water line and achieved some small elevation the wall began to bulk large, although still far off. It was enormous. The Norwegian skipper’s crude sketch had poorly estimated the mighty barrier which ran the full extent of the peninsula. Brush closed in upon its base. There were even occasional intervening trees. But all growth stopped far below the rampart’s top. Its vastness was not dwarfed even by the overhanging precipice. It was made chiefly of huge logs. At one point, however, there seemed to be a gate hinged to massive stone pillars supporting the story of the structure’s antiquity.
The cadenced drum beats grew louder as the Wanderer’s party approached, but no living persons were seen in the straggling huts first met up with. None appeared even when the explorers were past the outskirts of the village. The size of this indicated a tribe of several hundred members, filling an area of six or eight city blocks. The houses were all large, and quite widely separated. Each was enclosed and partially masked by the thick brush. Narrow paths through the undergrowth were the only connecting links. Each stood otherwise by itself in the center of a bare circle beaten to dusty surface smoothness by many feet. One extraordinary detail made the village different from any which either Englehorn or Denham had ever seen. This was the scattering of magnificent, broken columns of carved stone, and fragments of skillfully built walls. These stood on every hand, but the majority were forward, closer to the wall.
“My guess,” said Denham pointing to the barrier, “is that it must once have been the outer defence of a sizeable city. Isn’t it enormous?”
“Colossal,” Englehorn agreed.
“It’s almost Egyptian,” Denham mused.
“Who do you suppose could have built it?” Ann asked in an awed tone.
“I went up to Angkor once,” Driscoll remarked in solemn admiration. “That’s bigger than this. Nobody knows who built it, either.”
“What a chance!” Denham exulted. “What a picture!”
Still no one was sighted
. But suddenly between two steps, the roll of the drums softened. And now, above their low, purring note, voices rose in a wildly swelling chant. Driscoll halted and flung up an arm in warning. Ann clutched Driscoll’s sleeve and the sailors looked at one another apprehensively. The sound of the chant came from somewhere close to the wall. Denham motioned to Englehorn, and pointed to an unusually large house ahead.
“If we get around that,” he said, “I’ll bet we will see them.”
“Do you hear what they’re saying?” Ann whispered to Driscoll. “They’re shouting, ‘Kong! Kong!’ ”
“Denham!” Driscoll called. “Do you catch that? They’re at some god ceremony.”
“I hear!” Denham said. “Come on.”
Moving forward cautiously, he beckoned Englehorn closer.
“Think you can speak their lingo?”
“Can’t catch any words yet.” Englehorn listened acutely. “It does, though, sound a bit like the talk of the Nias Islanders.”
“What luck if it is enough alike,” Denham laughed.
They were directly at the masking house now, and Denham halted, waving the rest of the column to close up and gather near. He, himself, advanced guardedly, to the corner of the house.
“Easy now!” he whispered. “Stay here till I see what is going on!”
He disappeared while Driscoll, with Ann keeping close, eyed his men to measure their degree of readiness and Englehorn bit off another half inch of plug cut. He came back with his eyes blazing.
“Holy mackerel!” he whispered. “Englehorn! Driscoll! Get a look at this thing. But be quiet.”
Himself so eager for quiet that he moved upon tiptoes, he motioned to the camera bearer, took over the machine and tripod, and slowly began to work it around the corner of the house.
While he maneuvered, the drums rolled softly. Above their murmurous rhythm the explosive shout of many voices rose like thunder. Ecstatic. Triumphant. Awed. Fearful. All these emotions were conveyed by turns. Irresistibly drawn, the sailors and Ann drifted slowly forward until, standing clear of the masking house, they looked upon the chanting host.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In front of them lay a great, beaten square which ended only at the wall. Frowning down upon this square, stood the tremendous gate, sighted dimly back on the beach. Up to the gate’s sill rose a series of broad, stone steps; and halfway up the steps, on a rude dais covered with skins, knelt a young native girl. There could not have been found in any tribe many maidens as smoothly attractive as she, and the woven strands of flowers, which served as crown, girdle and necklace and her only apparel, increased her soft, frightened charm. On either side of the girl, some on the stairs, some in the square, the chanting natives swayed in ordered ranks. A little to one side, but dominating the scene by eye and gesture, a wizened, coal-black witch doctor pranced in a solemn ritualistic dance. Still farther to one side a veritable giant, magnificently costumed in furs, grass and feathers, watched with a kingly detachment. To the last one, men, women, children, witch doctor and king, all were so wrapped up in the ceremony that none noticed the newly arrived audience.
“Oh, Lord!” Denham whispered. “Make ’em hold it!” and he began to crank his camera.
“What’s that old guy in the feathered dress doin’?” Jimmy asked under his breath.
Very close to the flower-dressed girl, the witch doctor began an oddly supplicating gyration. His hands, in slow, humble gestures, seemed to offer the maiden to a dozen huge dancers who leaped out of the chanting ranks; a terrifying dozen, whose heads were concealed by hollowed, furry skulls, and whose bodies were hidden by rough, black skins.
“Gorillas!” Englehorn murmured thoughtfully. “Those bucks are playing at being gorillas, or something like. They’re acting out a ritual….”
He looked suddenly back at Ann, and then moved to put his lean figure squarely between her and the natives. Moved by a seemingly common impulse the Wanderer’s whole crew jostled more closely together, until Ann had to push some of them aside, and stand on tiptoe. Even then she was well concealed.
As the gigantic apelike beings advanced, the witch doctor moved back and looked toward the king. It was, plainly, his majesty’s time to enter the ceremony. What his part was, the watchers were not to know until long after, for as he shifted his position the corner of one eye took in Denham at the camera, and then the whole party of watchers.
“Bado!” he shouted and wheeled to face them. “Bado! Dama pati vego!”
The chanting, the dancing, all sound, all movement turned into a dead stony silence. In the midst of this Englehorn’s placid, practical voice went forward to Denham.
“There’s luck,” he murmured. “I can understand his lingo. He’s telling the old witch doctor to stop, to ’ware strangers.”
All the natives had turned and were staring; and as though an order had come to them out of the silence the women and children began to slip away.
“Look!” Jimmy said. “Their women are clearing out. We’d better beat it or we’ll be up to our necks in trouble.”
He whirled around, to start for the beach, but Driscoll seized his arm.
“Good catch, Jack!” Denham called from his forward position as spearpoint of the party. “No use trying to hide now. Everybody stand fast. Put up a bold front.”
The gigantic king, after a full stare, made up his mind. His great arm beckoned two warriors only a little smaller than himself, and so guarded he moved slowly forward. The last of the women and children vanished.
“Mr. Denham!” Jimmy cried. “What’s the big bozo up to?”
“Shut up!” Denham answered, without taking his eyes off the king. “I don’t know.”
The chief took another slow, majestic stride.
“Jack!” whispered Ann. “Does it mean trouble when the women and children go away?”
“Trouble for those fellows if they start anything,” Jack assured her and laughed briskly.
The chief continued to advance. Some of the sailors shifted their rifles, and their fingers sought the triggers. Denham, as though he had eyes in the back of his head, called a warning.
“Steady, boys! There’s nothing to get nervous about!”
“And that’s the truth,” Jack told Ann cheerfully. “It’s all bluff so far. The chief’s waiting to see if we’ll scare. It’s all a game of bluff, and I’m betting on us.”
The chief stopped a half dozen paces in front of Denham and waited.
“Come on, Skipper,” the producer called. “If you can talk his lingo, make a friendly speech.”
Englehorn started to move closer, but the chief flung up an arresting hand.
“Watu! Tama di? Tama di?”
“Greetings!” Englehorn replied slowly. “We are your friends. Bala! Bala! Friends! Friends!”
“Bali, reri!” the king shouted scornfully. “Tasko! Tasko!”
“What’s he say, Skipper?” Denham asked out of a corner of his mouth.
“Says he wants no friends. Tells us to beat it!”
“Talk him out of it,” Denham ordered. “Ask him what the ceremony is.”
Englehorn spoke in placid, conciliating tones and pointed to the flower-dressed girl.
“Ani saba Kong!” said the king doubtfully; and from all the natives came a sighing, worshipful murmur. “Saba Kong!”
“He says the girl is the bride of Kong.”
“Kong!” Denham cried exultantly. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Before either king or interpreter could speak again, the witch doctor suddenly leaped forward, his headdress shaking, his eyes darting fury at both king and strangers.
“Dama si vego!” he screamed. His old, frail voice ran on like a discordant violin note. “Dama si vego. Punya. Punya bas!”
“What’s up now?” Denham demanded.
“He says the ceremony’s sp
oiled because we’ve seen it.”
“Let me get at him,” Denham said confidently. “What’s the word for ‘friend’?”
“Bala.”
Denham squared his shoulders and spread out his hands, taking a smiling, conciliatory step.
“Bala!” he said. “Bala! Bala!” He pointed to himself and then to the king and the witch doctor. “Bala! Bala! Bala!”
The king hesitated but the old sorcerer had not the faintest doubt of his proper course. His frown was as deep as Denham’s smile was wide. His hand beckoned the warriors up from the rear.
“Tasko!” he screamed. The king, taking his cue, roared, “Tasko!” The two guards beside him swung their spears up to a position of ready. The massed warriors behind began to surge forward.
Excitement overcoming fright, Ann balanced herself against Driscoll and rose high on her tiptoes to see. Her foaming, honey-colored hair caught the sun and the king’s eye in the same instant. He ceased his shout as though his mouth had been clamped shut and stared, first at Ann and then at the witch doctor, as though for confirmation.
“Malem ma pakeno!” he stammered. “Sita!” He jerked his arm at the witch doctor. “Malem! Malem ma pakeno!”
The witch doctor, his cries also ceasing, stared too. The warriors stopped stock still and their weapon points fell.
“Now what?” Denham asked with a little gesture of relief.
“He said,” Englehorn explained, “Look! The woman of gold!”
“Blondes are scarce around here,” Denham chuckled.
The king’s voice rose ecstatically, “Kong! Malem ma pakeno! Kong wa bisa! Kow bisa para Kong,” and he turned to the witch doctor seeking agreement.
The old sorcerer nodded thoughtfully as Englehorn translated swiftly.
“The woman of gold. Kong’s gift. A gift for Kong.”
“Good Lord!” Denham protested.
The king and the witch doctor advanced upon Denham and the former thrust out his arm in regal command.
“Dama!” he said. “Tebo malem na hi!”
“Stranger! Sell the woman to us.” Englehorn’s translation followed like pistol cracks, and his eyes asked what Denham proposed to do.
King Kong Page 6