Steve stood by the heir gallantly, though his coming did close the prospect of succession to a fine domain. So did Dr. Hawley and the Rev. John Fulton, his first adviser. Cuffy and Dinah worshipped him. But he had no warmer champions than Mary Fulton and Augusta Wolferstone, with whom, no doubt, it was more a matter of feeling than of legal right.
Dr. Hawley and Steve had opened their purses to him, and once provided with means, he dressed, and looked the gentleman he was.
Archie’s first care had been to write to his mother, begging her to leave England for Barbados without loss of time, armed with all necessary credentials.
Scarcely three weeks after the despatch of this letter, Dr. Hawley sought Stephen Walcot at the wharf.
In less than an hour Sambo was driving a party of four in the doctor’s phaeton as fast as the unrepaired roads would permit.
They alighted at Corbyn Hall.
Archie Corbyn was at the Parsonage.
Steve was glad of an excuse for a visit there. Resuming his seat, he was whirled thither, carried off Archie without a word of explanation, and left the young ladies excited and curious.
In the drawing-room of Corbyn Hall Archie found, to his joy and amazement, his mother. With her was Captain Hudson, to whom he was indebted for her appearance on the scene before his own missive was half-way over the ocean. The sea-captain had proved too good a seeker for Matthias Walcot, who sat there nervous and fidgety, with one arm resting on a side table, on which he kept up a spasmodic tattoo with his long finger-nails.
What further credentials were wanted than certificates of birth and marriage, and magisterial attestations, and Captain Hudson’s testimony?
Corbyn Hall was once more in the hands of a Corbyn, and from Cuffy the news spread like an electric flame.
Archie Corbyn was magnanimous. Setting Stephen’s heartiness against his father’s tardiness (he called it by no worse name), he offered both a home until their own house at the Folly could be rebuilt; and he did not call on his executor to refund the moneys so lavishly expended out of the Corbyn coffers.
Yet Matthias had another bitter draught to swallow before he returned to his shipping agency and to the Folly.
The midnight outcry at the mausoleum had never ceased since Mrs. Walcot was laid therein. The hurricane had torn away the newly-plastered brickwork, and now it sounded as if heavy hands were beating down the door.
Dinah took care that Mrs. Corbyn should not remain uninformed; and ancient Cuffy gave to Archie his version of the mystery with fervid impressiveness.
“It Cuffy’s ’pinion, massa, dat Massa Arch’bald nebber rest till dem Walcots be cleared out. Him berry proud ob him pure white blood, an’ dem Walcots hab got berry mixed blood under dere white skins.”
Archie took counsel with his friends, Steve among the rest. The result was the removal of the Walcot coffins to a vault in St. Andrew’s churchyard. They were found, strange to relate, wedged together close to the door by the coffins of Archibald and Jamie Corbyn.
Quiet fell on the mausoleum after that—a quiet in nowise disturbed when, after the lapse of some three or four years, the elder Mrs. Corbyn was placed there reverently by her son.
In saying the elder Mrs. Corbyn, it must be understood that when, proud of her generous lover, Augusta Wolferstone gave herself and her money to Steve Walcot, Archie Corbyn took to wife without a fortune the fair English girl, Mary Fulton, whose heart he had won as a poor shipwrecked sailor before it was proved that old Archibald was not the last of the Corbyns.
Cuffy and Dinah lived to see slavery abolished in the West Indies, and to watch the toddling feet of more than one young Corbyn, into whose undeveloped minds they did their best to infuse the old Corbyn pride of race and pure blood.
Charles J. Mansford
Charles J. Mansford was a mystery author. He seems to be highly regarded by macabre fiction enthusiasts for his contributions to Victorian magazines (many of which went to make up the book from which this tale is taken). He wrote one or two other weird novels. But Mansford himself seems an enigma. His short story volume Shafts from an Eastern Quiver was a sumptuously produced volume, published in 1894 by Newnes and extensively illustrated by Arthur Pearse. The Spectator said at the time: “Mr. Mansford has the gift of a story teller and he uniformly writes like a scholar.” The twelve stories in Shafts from an Eastern Quiver (all of which first appeared in Strand Magazine) concern the adventures of the author and his friend, Frank Denviers, in Africa, Asia, India and Russia. In Maw-Sayah we find the two travellers in Burma, where they help rid a terrorised village of a rather nasty and unwelcome visitor.
Maw-Sayah
I
“The fine points of an elephant, sahib,” said our guide Hassan, “are a colour approaching to white, the nails perfectly black, and an intact tail.”
“I am glad to hear that an elephant has some qualities which recommend it,” said Denviers, good-humouredly. “I should think that the one upon which we are riding is about as lazy as it is possible to be. I suppose slowness is an unusually good point, isn’t it, Hassan?”
The Arab who was sitting before us on the elephant, gave it a stir with the sharply-pointed spear which he held in his hand to urge it on, and then glancing back at us, as we reclined lazily in the cushioned howdah, he said, inquiringly:—
“Are the sahibs tired already of travelling thus? Yet we have fully two hours’ journey before us.”
“Hassan,” I interposed, “this is a good opportunity for you to tell us exactly what you heard about the Maw-Sayah when we were at Bhamo. It is in consequence of that, indeed, that we are going to try to get among these strange Kachyens; but as we are not quite sure of the details, you may as well repeat them.”
“The sahib shall be obeyed,” responded our guide, and although careful to keep a good watch in front, he turned his body slightly towards us as he prepared to begin the narrative.
On reaching Burmah we stayed for several days in Rangoon, the Queen of the East, as it is called nowadays, although only remarkable formerly for its famous monasteries of Talapoins and as a halting-place for the bands of pilgrims on their way to the mighty Shway Dagohn pagoda. Thence we journeyed up the Irawaddy, and having duly paid reverence to some of the nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pagodas of Pagan—the outcast slaves of which city seemed a strange contrast to its otherwise absolute desertion—we continued our journey by steamer as far as Mandalay. Having endured the doubtful pleasure of a jaunt in a seatless, jolting bullock-carriage—the bruises from which were not easily forgotten—we eventually reached Bhamo, where Hassan entered into conversation with a hillman. From the latter he learnt a strange story, which was later on told to us and the truth of which we hoped before long to fully test, for soon afterwards we set out on an elephant, our faithful guide in this new adventure again proving himself of the greatest service.
“Now, Hassan,” said Denviers, “we are quite ready to hear this story fully, but don’t add any imaginary details of your own.”
“By the Koran, sahib,” began the Arab, “these are the words which were those of him to whom I spoke under the shade of the log stockade.”
“Which are, of course, unimpeachable,” responded Denviers. “Anyone could tell that from his shifty eyes, which failed to rest upon us fixed even for a minute when we spoke to him afterwards.”
The Arab seemed a little disconcerted at this, but soon continued: —
“The great Spirits, or Nats, who guard the prosperity of Burmah, have become greatly incensed with the Kachyens, not because they failed to resist stoutly when the monarch was deposed a few years ago—”
“Then we are to have a modern story this time, Hassan?” interrupted Denviers. “I quite expected that you would commence with some long worn-out tradition.”
“The sahibs shall hear,” the Arab went on. “No one who offends the Nats of Burmah need expect anything but evil to follow. There are the Nats of the sky, the Nats of the earth, the Nats of the Irawad
dy, the Nats of the five hundred little rivers, and the thousand Nats which guarded the sacred person of the monarch—”
“Yes, Hassan,” said Denviers, impatiently, “you mentioned them all before. We haven’t time to hear the list enumerated now; go on about this one particular Nat which you say is causing such havoc among the hill-tribes.”
“Patience, sahib. The Nats were justly roused to anger because the deposed monarch was not afterwards taken to the water’s edge riding upon an elephant instead of in a bullock-carriage.”
“Well, Hassan,” said Denviers, “judging from our own experience the Nats seem to be pretty sensible, I must say—but how do they affect the peace of mind of the Kachyens?”
“Listen, sahib. High among the hills which may be seen stretching before us lies a village in which many of the Kachyens dwell, their occupation being sometimes that of tillers of the land, but more often consisting in planning and carrying out raids upon other hill-men, or of descending at times to the plains, and there looting the towns wherein dwell more peaceable tribes. In all their forays they had been successful, for whenever their trusty dahs or swords were drawn, those who opposed them invariably obtained the worst of the encounter. So powerful did they become that at last those dwelling in the plains—Shans, Karenns, and Talaings, too—made no resistance against their attacks; and when they saw the produce of their fields carried away, thought themselves happy not to have been slain. The reason why the Kachyens became so successful in all they undertook was that a powerful forest Nat placed them under its protection, and hence they could not be harmed by their foes.
“Now it chanced that the King was in great danger through following the advice of his impetuous Ministers, whereupon he summoned the Kachyens to his assistance—for their fame as warriors had reached his ears long before. But they, confident in securing their own safety whatever happened to the monarch, refused to obey his command to march against the Burman foes. The consequence was that when the indignity which I have mentioned was offered to the deposed monarch, the Nats throughout Burmah were furious with that one who ruled the village in which the Kachyens dwelt, and they sent some of their number to destroy it. The latter, however, appeased them by making a grim promise, which has been only too faithfully kept.
“A few days afterwards a hill-man, who was clearing a part of the land on the woody slope of the height, saw the Nat, which had never before been visible, and, terrified at the strange form which it had assumed, he ran hastily to the rest of the tribe, and, gathering them together, held a consultation as to what should be done to appease it. Some suggested that upon every tree trunk should be scratched appealing messages, which the Nat might read; others were in favour of placing a huge heap of spears and swords near the spot where the embodied Nat had been seen, in order that it might be tempted to destroy all those who urged it to injure them. The messages and weapons, however, when placed for the Nat to observe did no good, for one dreadful night a rattling was heard of the bamboos which lay before one of the Kachyens’ huts, and the man, going hastily to see what caused it, was swiftly carried away in the darkness without apparently uttering a single cry! For many nights in succession a similar scene was enacted, for he at whose door the dire summons came dared not refuse to answer it lest the whole household might perish.
“Nothing more was ever seen on those thus strangely carried off, and the Kachyens, each of whom feared that his own end might come next, determined to consult some famous Buddhist priests who dwelt not far from them, and who held charge over the famous marble slabs which the great War Prince of Burmah had caused to be engraved concerning their illustrious traditions. The man whom ye saw me conversing with by the stockade was the one whom the tribe entrusted with the task; but the priests, after much consideration among themselves of the object of his visit, refused to have anything to do with such a tragic affair, and thereupon dismissed their suppliant.
“This Kachyen, when sorrowfully returning towards the hills, fearing that the tribe would destroy him because of his non-success, chanced to meet on his way a Mogul, to whom he repeated the story. The latter, laying his hand on his red-dyed and fierce-looking beard, advised the Kachyen to enter a hole in the mountain side and to consult a famous Maw-Sayah, or juggler, who dwelt there. This juggler promised assistance if the tribe would pay him a great reward in the event of his success, and when they agreed to this he entered the village and waited for dusk to arrive. Again the dreadful rattling was heard, and another Kachyen stepped out to meet his fate. None of the tribe dared to look at what transpired, except the juggler, and he too disappeared! The next morning, however, he came into the village and called its inhabitants together. When they had solemnly agreed to his conditions, he stated that the Nat was bent upon destroying them all, and that to attempt to escape by means of flight would only lead to quicker death. Then he told them what the result of his intercession for them had been.
“The Nat had been persuaded to destroy only one victim on each seventh evening at dusk, and had appointed him to see that certain conditions were not broken. He was to have a hut at his disposal, and into this the men were to go by lot, and thus the Nat would obtain a victim when the time came round. They were forbidden to wander about after sunset, and whatever noises were made not to hearken to them, since the Maw-Sayah would see that the others were unharmed. So long had this dreadful destruction lasted that more than one-half of the men in the Kachyen village, or town, as it might well be called from the large number who inhabited it, had perished, and yet the Nat still demanded a victim, and the Maw-Sayah is there to see that the compact is fulfilled.
“The man who told this story, sahibs, declares that the keeper of the Nat has by this means obtained sway over the Kachyens to such an extent that they have become his abject slaves, for the custom of drawing lots has been abolished, and he selects whom he will to sacrifice to the Nat. By some means this Kachyen offended the Maw-Sayah, who thereupon condemned him, but he, in terror of the sudden and silent death in store for him, fled to Bhamo, where he lives in momentary fear of destruction. Such, then, sahibs, is the story, and it is to see this Maw-Sayah and the Nat at their fell work to-night that even now our faces are turned to the high land before us, up which we must climb, for there is but one narrow pathway leading to the village.”
Hassan ceased, and then Denviers turned to me as he said:—
“I think that this Maw-Sayah, as Hassan calls him, has about as much faith in Nats as we have. It suits his purpose to league himself with something mysterious; whatever it is we will try to find out,” and he glanced at the weapons which we carried.
II
“The sahibs must dismount here,” said Hassan shortly afterwards, and, following to the ground our guide, we began to climb the mountain path which stretched before us.
The ascent was exceedingly steep and several times we stopped to rest after pushing our way through the tangled masses which almost hid the path, which was itself cut here and there, apparently through the rocky strata. When we had reached about three-fourths of our journey, Hassan stopped and pointed out to us one of the thatched roofs of a hut, which seemed in the distance scarcely noticeable until his keen eyesight discovered it. The village, we found, lay a little to the left of the mountain path, for on nearing the summit we found ourselves passing through a peculiar avenue of trees interspersed with long bamboo poles. From the tops of the latter there were stretched across the approach strong, rough-looking cords, which supported various uncouth emblems, and among which were large triangles, circles, and stars, cut apparently out of the stems of huge bamboos. After traversing this avenue for nearly three hundred yards we saw the tree trunks which Hassan had mentioned, and which were deeply scarred with cabalistic messages to the fierce Nat, which we could not of course understand. Affixed to some of the trees farther on we saw a number of spears and dahs mingled with shorter weapons, the latter being made of some species of hard wood, and close to them we observed the skulls of several large an
imals, one of which we judged was that of an elephant.
In spite of the fact that the village was a large one, the buildings were of a very primitive construction, being made of bamboos with thatched coverings, reaching almost to the piles on which the huts were placed. We did not observe any openings made to serve as windows, the only ones noticeable being those by which the Kachyens entered, placed above a bamboo ladder, which seemed to serve instead of steps. Although the sun had scarcely set, the village was wrapped in a strange silence, the sound of our footsteps alone being heard. The smoke that seemed to be forcing its way through stray holes in the thatch amply convinced us, however, that the inhabitants were within doors, and, turning to our Arab guide, I asked him if he could distinguish among the many huts the one in which we expected to find the Maw-Sayah. He seemed a little uncertain at first, but after wandering through the village together we returned, and then Hassan, who had been very observant the whole time, pointed to one of the rudely-constructed huts and said:—
“I think that is the one into which we seek to enter; it is situated according to the position in which the Kachyen said it was, and, besides, it bears a strange proof of the story which ye have listened to with such ill-concealed disbelief.”
“Why do you think that is the hut, Hassan?” I asked, for, to my eyes, no difference between that and the others close to it was distinguishable.
“If the sahib will look at the bamboo ladder and observe it carefully, he will see that it is unlike the others round,” said the Arah.
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