Tarrou slipped his arm round Blair’s waist and together they stood swaying in the small,clearing, while Blair studied the other man’s face with fixed intentness. `You will help me, won’t you?’
Tarrou swallowed and licked his dry lips. He was completely lost now, but he was conscious of the great feeling of new strength which Blair’s own weakness seemed to have given him. `I will help.’ He hesitated. `But what do you hope to find?’
Blair shook his head. `I don’t know yet. I don’t know.’
They moved off together, Blair hopping awkwardly on his good foot and leaning on Tarrou for support.
As they started to push through the bush Blair said suddenly, `I’m glad you didn’t shoot me back there.’
Tarrou trembled, but could not answer.
`I saw you watching me, and I wondered if you could do it in cold blood!’
Tarrou hung his head, but Blair added softly: `It took more guts to do what you did, and don’t you ever forget it.’
Tarrou sighed. What sort of a man was this? He had known all the time that he was there, and yet … He shivered. A man who could play with life like that was a man indeed. He lifted his chin and followed Blair without hesitation into the thickening trees.
For some while Blair had been lying full-length on the stony ground, his chest supported on the edge of a small rock cavity, as he stared unseeingly at his reflection in the tiny pool of trapped rain-water. The dark, motionless -water showed him his tangled hair and the thin, tight line of his mouth. Painfully he reached out with his hands and erased the picture, trying at the same time to gain some satisfaction from the tepid pool and the feel of his dripping palms across his face. Without looking round he knew that Tarrou was still standing woodenly by his feet, holding the guns and staring apprehensively at the quiet trees. Occasionally the silence would be broken with sharp brevity by a bird’s call, or by the gentle rustle of a breeze amongst the leaves. Blair felt as if they were the last two people alive.
He had almost laughed aloud as, between slitted eyelids, he had watched Tarrou’s clumsy approach through the bush, and seen the torment in his eyes as he had levelled the revolver across the top of the clearing which had served Blair as a hiding-place.
He frowned, and watched the rain-water settle in its small rock bowl, the wild eyes slowly shimmering into perspective to stare up at him. Why had he not called out? Suppose Tarrou had pulled the trigger? He felt the pressure of the stones against his chest, but was unable to drag himself away from the little pool. He knew that he had not cared whether Tarrou would fire or not. He groaned, and instantly felt Tarrou move closer. And now Gillian was dead. He moved his head slowly from side to side, his eyes still fixed on the reflection. She had known about Spencer, and had gone to get the complete story. Of course Spencer had known all about the wreck. H;o dashed some more water across his burning cheeks and pushed his hair back from his eyes.
`What are we going to do, Major?’ Tarrou’s voice sounded far away.
Blair tried to think clearly. It was ridiculous being addressed in such a fashion, and he wanted to tell the man so. Instead, he said: `God knows. I expect we’re lost.’
There was another silence. `I think the schooner will go without us.’
With a terrific effort Blair rolled over on to his back and stared fixedly at the low clouds. `Of course it’ll go! What did you expect, man?’ He looked at Tarrou’s smooth face with sudden irritation. `Stop thinking about it! We must find that damned mission, then we can wait there for a bit!’
Tarrou’s eyes clouded as he tried to find some comfort in the words.
Blair slowly climbed to his feet, and then peered down at them with amazement. The crippled, throbbing foot was hidden beneath a neat, soothing bandage. `How the hell did that get there?’
`I fix it just now.’
Blair whistled softly. He had not felt a thing. `I must have been asleep,’ he lied.
`You got a fever.’ Tarrou sounded more subdued than ever. `You need treatment, Major.’
Blair shrugged and thrust his hands into his torn pocket. He could feel them trembling violently, and tried not to look at the other man. Fever. That’s all I need. Better get on now before anything else happens.
`Right,’ he said calmly. `Let’s follow this ridge, eh? Might lead us round the worst of the bush.’ Without waiting for a reply he walked unsteadily away from the pool. If I said let’s fly to the ruddy moon, he’d follow me, he thought absently.
There’s going to be another storm, he decided, as a break in the trees showed him a fast-moving mass of cloud. I hope that schooner is right in the path of it. He heard a sharp, unexpected sound, and checked himself with sudden anxiety. It was the sound of his own voice. The sweat broke out over his face, blinding him, but he walked more rapidly, as if to disguise his rising fever.
Tarrou kept talking. His voice seemed to drone on with perpetual sameness, like the hushed tone of a schoolboy talking in class. Blair had no idea what he was saying, it was only the tone he heard. Eager, frightened, trusting and confidential, with a `Major’ thrown in every few words for good measure.
Blair staggered against a tree and brushed away the dark hand which darted out to steady him. He thought of the other jungle he had known. There had been the same green impression of for ever. He glanced quickly to one side, as if he expected to see the lumpy shape of Sergeant Robbins and the other figures in faded jungle green, as like ghosts they moved and floated through the tangled trees. Poor Robbins, with his endless stories about Blackpool. And then there was little Eldergill, who, when his Bren jammed for the last time, had jumped from the slit-trench with doubled fists like a boxer to meet the charging, merciless bayonets.
He stopped with a jerk, his chest heaving. I am back in that same jungle, he thought wildly. He reached out with sudden strength, and grabbed Tarrou’s arm.
`Get down, man!’ He punched the man’s shoulder. `And for Christ’s sake keep quiet!’
Together they lay amongst some rotting, evil-scented branches, and stared at the wall of trees. Blair blinked away the sweat, and made another effort to think clearly. Had he imagined that, too? Was he perhaps already in the grip of a real fever, and Tarrou had not the wit to realize it? He stared hard at the trees, so that the satin-smooth trunks danced lazily through the haze of his concentration. He suppressed the desire to laugh and keep laughing. In a second, he thought with sudden gravity, a Japanese patrol will come towards us, and then I shall know I’m going mad. He glanced sideways at Tarrou, who watched with wide, uncomprehending eyes,, his mouth hanging open, as Blair pulled the rifle from beneath. his leg and thrust it across the rotting wood. He licked his lips and dusted some sand carefully away from the backsight. Then they heard it. The dull, measured boom of a drum, at first muffled by the trees, then with slow, heavy persistence, gaining strength and power with each nerve-racking minute.
Tarrou began to shake, his knee vibrating against Blair’s leg. Blair could smell the fear from the other man, and wondered briefly what power had forced him to leave the schooner at all.
Blair’s voice was quite level. `Keep your eyes peeled to the left.’
Tarrou nodded, and stared helplessly in the direction indicated. `What is happening, Major?’ There was almost a sob in his whisper, and for a second Blair eyed him with pity.
`I imagine we’re going to have company.’ He reached out to grip the thin brown wrist. `I had a sort of feeling.’ He shook his head vaguely. `I knew that something or somebody was coming. I don’t really understand it myself.’ He broke off, his fingers releasing Tarrou, as something flashed dully beyond the trees,
The drum grew louder; hollow, dull, yet with such penetrating force that it seemed to keep time with their hearts.
Blair shifted slightly, as in twos and threes the short dark figures moved across the clearing, their feet swishing quietly through the shrubs, their wide-bladed spears carried with casual ease, and glinting in the occasional rays of watery sunlight, which
filtered down as in the nave of a great cathedral.
A muscle jumped in Blair”s neck as he allowed his body to sink lower, and with sudden calm he pulled the rifle to his shoulder. They’re not like men at all, he thought, as he watched the bobbing red-wigged heads and the crudely made weapons, which added to the impression of untouched savagery. He counted slowly. There seemed to be about a hundred of them, and they walked with the watchful confi
dence of conquerors. The much-amed Moth, no doubt. No
wonder that fool Grainger had said they were better left alone.
They were completely naked, but for narrow belts of bark in which they appeared to be carrying knives or short bundles of arrows. A small group of older warriors kept together, and Blair could see that their emaciated bodies were more heavily disfigured with painted clay, and their necks and arms well laden with crude ornaments of teeth and cowrie shells. Here and there the light touched on an ancient rifle and he saw one man carrying a Winchester which must have been over fifty years old. The drum was now deafening and, as they watched, two small boys emerged from the bush carrying a long, thin, log drum, which quivered to the slow, regular blows of a carved club, wielded by a thickset savage whose body gleamed with sweat and shook with each powerful stroke.
Gently Blair eased off the safety-catch. He had noticed that the men on the end of the line would pass very close to their scanty hiding-place if they kept on the same track.
The Mota were so close now that he could study them as individuals, and see each savagely formed face, with its thick lips and deep-set black eyes. Some had their broad noses pierced by long quills, or what looked like sharks’ teeth, while others carried great tribal scars across their chests and stomachs. They walked in a steady, loping gait, heedless of the scrub which groped at their naked bodies, their eyes fixed ahead as if in a trance.
Blair pressed himself down against the rotting mould, and was conscious of the insects ticking beneath his chin. A world within a world, he thought calmly. The Mota, like the insects, were no doubt convinced that theirs was the only way to live, whilst I … He halted his feverish thoughts and moved the rifle very slightly.
He could feel the steady tattoo of feet on the underbrush, tramping in time to the drum. The nearest savage was barely ten yards away, and Blair could see the rivulets of sweat running across his flat, muscular stomach and down the dustspattered legs. On his right shin was a long, glistening sore, open, and apparently unheeded, and Blair watched it with fascinated eyes, as with each boom of the drum its owner grew taller and nearer. Come on, my beauty, just walk this way a bit more! He wanted to wipe his eyes, but knew that even the slightest movement would be fatal. The black stomach quivered across the hard V of the backsight, and Blair held his breath. as his finger took the first pressure.
What a commotion there would be, he reflected bitterly, the sudden whiplash crack of the rifle, and then the battle which would follow. Ten rounds in the rifle and two in my pocket. Not a very long battle. Poor Tarrou. It was worse for him. It was quite likely that he might break at any second now, and either start blundering through the bush, or begin blazing away with that useless pistol. Wish I’d hung on to the shotgun, he thought, just the job for a party like this. Two extra bangs on the log-drum and, with the precision of the Guards, the whole party of warriors wheeled away from the rifle and started up the long green ridge beyond the clearing.
Blair stared unwaveringly after the purposeful figures, until his vision had misted over completely and he had to blink to clear away the sweat. When he looked again -there was nothing to see but the nodding palms, and nothing to remind him of the silent warriors but the distant thud of the drum.
He turned and looked at Tarrou. The man lay on his side, his eyes tightly closed, and both hands dug deeply into the soft ground. He nudged him, and the dark hands shuddered.
`Up!’ he snapped. `Don’t want to hang around here!’
Tarrou blinked, and watched Blair’s shadow grow as he stood up, and with a brief glance at the still recumbent figure beside him, begin to limp towards the ridge.
Tarrou scrambled after him, his mouth slack and wet. `Where to? Where to?’ He repeated the question again and again, but Blair did not answer. He swayed on, his teeth gritted against the pain in his foot and the mounting nausea in his brain.
As if to silence Tarrou’s voice he said harshly: `So that was the Moat, eh? Why doesn’t the’ government do something about them?’
`The chiefs were there, too.’ There was awe in the statement. `The ones with the guns.’
`Guns! Museum-pieces, you mean! I suppose they murdered some poor wretches for those!’
A spark of the old defiance flickered in Tarrou’s answer. `The white men give them to the Mota years ago. In exchange for slaves!’ The spark died just as suddenly as Blair halted and turned his cold blue eyes on him.
`White men, eh? Changed sides again, have you?’ He laughed bitterly and plunged on again.
`Please, I did not mean-‘ Tarrou was half running to keep up with the stooped, limping figure.
`I don’t give a damn what you believe!’ Blair’s voice dropped to a mutter. `But if I had a few good men I’d show them how to behave!’
`We can do nothing, Major Blair! Let us make for the beach, perhaps they will send help for us!P
‘Help?’ I don’t want anyone’s help!’ He waved vaguely towards the high ridge. `Somewhere over there is that mission.’ He laughed again. `Mission! I like that! I’m going to find it if I have to tear down every damned tree on this bloody island! And when I do, I’m going to ask Mr. Spencer a few questions, oh yes!’ The bandaged foot thumped on the ground in time with the distant drum. `Too much has happened now to turn back.’ He paused wearily, his face grey. `You go where you like, Tarrou, but I’m going on!’
The clouds had thickened to such an extent that the jungle was like night, so that when they stumbled over the ridge and smelt the sea they had to stop and stare with something like disbelief. It was all there. The sloping headland, purple now under the racing clouds, the empty sea no longer blue, but a heaving grey expanse of rough pewter. The tide was high as they stared down at the rumbling surf, and the narrow beach where they had first landed to meet Spencer was all but hidden. On the extreme edge of the narrow sand-strip Blair could see a wrecked canoe bobbing in the creamy breakers like a gutted beetle. In the far distance he could see the top of a small hut, where the tiny mission village perched above the sea. Nothing moved, and the timeless thunder of the breakers beneath them added to the sense of threat and fear which surrounded the place.
`No schooner!’ said Tarrou in a broken voice. `He left without me!’ Even as he stared at the empty sea he could still not believe what he saw.
The mission looked even whiter against the sky, and in the cruel light some of its magic had departed and left in its place the more obvious ravages of the tropics. The rusty iron roof, mildewed planking and the thick cobwebs, which hung like wire from every beam. The empty door looked like a mouth gaping in a silent cry, and Blair ran his eye quickly over the surrounding bush before returning his gaze to the house.
`The natives seem to have left,’ he said quietly. `No smoke from the village, and no one to welcome us.’
Tarrou’s eyes protruded with fresh alarm. `Bad! Bad!’ He crouched on his knees, his fingers again digging into the ground.
Blair shook his head to clear away the dullness in his brain. `You stay here, Tarrou.’ He waved the protests to silence. `I’m going to take a look-see inside.’ He tore his eyes from the house to peer at the shaking half-caste. `Look,’ he continued gently, `if anything goes wrong you skedaddle into the bush and wait until help comes. There’s bound to be a police investigation into all this and you’ll be a hero!’ The black eyes still stared at him. Without will or hope.
Blair stood up and handed him the rifle. Taking the revolver from the nerveless hand he crept quickly towards the side of the house, his eyes flickering across the stamped comp
ound.
He climbed softly on to the end of the veranda, and winced as a plank creaked beneath his feet. He was conscious of the heavy heat, which threatened to stifle him, and of the sweet smell of copra. Abstractedly he remembered his cool office, and the leather-topped desk which always seemed to be empty. Miss Cousins, his secretary, would no doubt be wondering how he was getting on, and whether he had found a wreck filled with treasure. He froze into stillness as something rustled within the gaping door.
He swallowed hard and stepped slowly to the side of the entrance, expecting at any second to hear a chorus of shouts, or feel some terrible blow from behind. The silence was much worse. In two quick strides he entered the doorway and pressed his back against the rough wall, his eyes sweeping across the dim interior of Spencer’s mission.
Ivor Spencer lay spreadeagled on the planked floor, his arms outstretched in a mockery of the brass crucifix which hung from the wall. Two metal spikes had been hammered into his hands, pinioning him to the floor, and, even as he watched, his mouth dry with horror, he saw the long fingers moving like small trapped animals.
The tufted grey halo of hair was streaked with bright scarlet, and as the head moved slightly towards him he saw fresh blood glisten across Spencer’s cheek, from the two sightless holes where his eyes should have been.
Blair swayed, and retched helplessly. When he saw the tangled and bloody mess between the thin twitching legs he wondered how this writhing thing had managed to stay alive.
The broken mouth moved grotesquely. Gone was the resonant tone. The voice was weak, like a child’s. `Who is that?’
Blair knelt at his side, staring over the tortured body at the crucifix. He remembered the naval officer at Singapore. `I’m afraid He’s forgotten all about us.’
`It’s me. Rupert Blair.’ He turned his eyes to the other room. `Is there anyone else alive?’
`Dead. All dead.’ The lips bubbled. `All but her—’ Blair’s eyes moved momentarily downwards. `Her? Who d’you mean?’
The Hostile Shore Page 17