The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife

by Martin Armstrong

  Now that all immediate need for courage was past, Mr. Darby sank into a black dejection. The hideous scenes of blood and slaughter had roused in him a horrified loathing of the Peninsula and its barbarous inhabitants, and, added to this, the thought, the agonizing thought, that in six weeks time the trading vessel, the unique hope of escape to which he had passionately clung through all the vicissitudes of the past year, was due in the estuary of the Sampoto, and that he and Punnett would be far out of reach of it, prisoners in Tongal, filled him with despair. The bare idea of another long year of life in the Peninsula, and a year that would undoubtedly hold miseries undreamt of in the former one, was a horror worse than death. In imagination he saw the ship, a sailing ship with a golden figurehead, anchored near the little bay where he and Punnett had landed. In horror he saw her weigh anchor and begin to move, and felt remorse in his vitals and the numbing weight of nightmare in his legs, as with an effort that actually made his muscles twitch as he sat on his rocking litter, he struggled in vain to reach her.

  But perhaps—and terrible as the possibility was, it brought a sense of relief—perhaps he would not be called upon to face that second year. Perhaps the Queen of the Tongali would condemn him to death, murder him herself, perhaps, in some hideous ceremony like the one in which he himself had driven the spear into the heart of his dead predecessor. He shuddered, recalling the horrible sensation which the spear-shaft had transmitted to his grasping hand, of a resistance, a toughness, and then the sickening surrender, the flaccid yielding of the dead flesh.

  But perhaps Punnett would be able to bribe the Tongali Queen to let them go free, might offer her a dazzling sum to escort them safely on board the trader. A King’s ransom! How much was a King’s ransom? In imagination he saw himself and Punnett borne on litters out of the dark jungle into the little white-sanded bay, and there, only a few yards from the water’s edge rode the trader,—blessed, three times blessed sight. He heard the splash of the water churned by the feet of the natives as they carried them towards their salvation. And then he felt himself, actually felt himself, sitting on board, Punnett at his side, and the fancy sent a flood of blissful happiness tingling through his veins.

  A trailer of scarlet orchid grabbed at his shoulder and pulled him back into his despair.

  • • • • • • • •

  For two days and nights, during which Mr. Darby alternately hoped and dreaded that his people would rally and attempt a rescue, they followed the jungle tracks of Mandras with only the briefest halts. But until the end of the second night the Mandrats gave no sign. Then, when they had almost reached the northern skirt of the jungle and the first glimmer of dawn showed them the red desert belt across which their course now lay, a wild yell broke the morning silence and, as if the dark shadow of every tree-trunk had suddenly been galvanized into life and leapt from its anchorage, a dense horde of Mandrats burst upon them. The encounter was fierce and brief. For five minutes, ten minutes, all was madness and fury. Mr. Darby, idle, powerless and in terror, closely fenced by his guard who had lowered the litter to the ground, saw nothing of what was happening, and it was only when the noise died down and he was hoisted again on the shoulders of his bearers and the march resumed that he knew that all was over and he himself still a prisoner.

  When the sun rose they were already four miles on their way across the desert. A screen of savages ran before them, carrying on their spears tufts of blazing tow to scare from their path the hideous and deadly Ompà, the snake which haunted the Mandratic desert. Mr. Darby saw one huge creature rear itself on end like a capital S and shoot itself with the tense precision of a released spring at a bunch of natives who leapt aside with the agility of spiders. Instantly half a dozen blazing bouquets of tow were whirling round it, but again it drew itself up to strike, and again its aggressors scattered nimbly and then again closed on it. Mr. Darby, though ringed by his ample guard, shuddered with horror each time he caught sight of one of the creatures. Yet there was fascination in the horror: he could not turn away his eyes; he had to look, had to glance about in the horrible hope of seeing others. Before the afternoon had turned to evening they had crossed the desert and were entering the southern confines of Tongal.

  • • • • • • • •

  For five long days Mr. Darby, a melancholy figure in spectacles and pyjamas with his crown and parrot-robe neatly disposed at his side, sat his litter with six woolly heads in profile on either side of him. His bones and muscles ached from the incessant motion, for relays of bearers carried him and the halts were of the briefest.

  During these halts he was able to exchange a few words with Punnett, who, as usual, was sadly and deprecatingly optimistic. ‘It’s bound to be all right, sir. With your leave I shall put it to the Queen that you have great riches across the sea; that if she kills you she’ll be doing herself no good, but if she gives you a strong escort to take us back to Mandras in time to catch the trader, you’ll send her …’

  ‘I’ll send her anything she likes to ask, Punnett,—diamond necklaces, golden dinner services, whatever you think will persuade her.’

  ‘Those’ud be no good, sir, if you’ll excuse my saying so. There’s not enough novelty about them for the likes of these folk. A hundred tins of sardines, a hundred pots of raspberry jam, a few dozen of Johnny Walker, half-a-mile of cheap cretonne and a penny-in-the-slot machine would be nearer the mark, sir. That’s the sort of thing the trader brings to exchange for the rubies and opals. I’ve seen a ruby worth heaven knows what, sir, go for a matter of one tin of sardines. The only fear is that we may miss the trader. She may be turning up any time now.’

  ‘Don’t speak of it, Punnett,’ whispered Mr. Darby, as if he feared that a malignant fate might overhear them. ‘Don’t even think of it. I should die. I can’t bear very much more of this: it’s wearing me out.’ Tears glittered behind his spectacles, and Punnett, looking at his master more critically than he had recently done, saw that it was true. The poor little man looked terribly tired and ill: his endurance was nearing its limit: he might, Punnett believed, break down at any moment.

  ‘Bear up, sir. Keep going a little longer. I have a feeling, a very strong feeling, sir, that our troubles will soon be over.’

  Mr. Darby sighed deeply and shook his head, and the bearers once more lifted him to their shoulders.

  • • • • • • • •

  Their course through the open, rock-strewn country of Tongal was attended by a growing swarm of native women and children who poured from the adjacent villages to welcome their victorious warriors and jeer at the prisoners. At noon of the fifth day they reached a great stockade guarding a close fence of bamboo, taller than the height of a man. Even Mr. Darby, aloft on his litter, could not see over it. It was Aba Taana, the Queen’s Village. They entered a guarded gateway and the watching crowd broke out into a raucous song of triumph that filled the air with hot and hideous noise.

  And now Mr. Darby found himself within a high-fenced arena, even huger than Umwaddi Taan. A lofty straw-thatched hall, surrounded by smaller huts, stood in the middle of it. The hall and the huts were built, not on piles as was the style in Mandras, but on the ground-level. The procession moved with slow pomp towards the royal hall. Outside it they stopped, the litter was set down, and Mr. Darby was made to stand up. His crown was placed upon his head, his parrot cloak thrown round him. Outwardly calm, inwardly sick with fear, he waited for the next event. What were they waiting for? He turned his head and saw, to his intense relief, that Punnett, his arms no longer bound, stood close behind him with the five Mandrat chiefs whose pinioned arms a great black-bodied Tongali was unbinding. When the fifth chief had been loosed Mr. Darby in his kingly crown and robe, but unroyally and ignominiously on foot, was led forward and the procession entered the hall.

  At the far end of the hall on a raised throne backed by a huge fan of peacocks’ feathers sat a large figure crowned with a great head-dress of blue and crimson ostrich feathers and wrapped in a mul
ti-coloured robe. Attendants were clustered upon its right and left. The triumph-song had ended outside the hall and now they advanced slowly and in absolute silence towards the throne. Mr. Darby walked with downcast eyes. He was tired, so tired that he felt himself incapable of any new effort. What was going to happen next he wondered, but his wondering was little more than a vague, apathetic curiosity. A low muttering rose in the hall and through it he heard Punnett’s voice behind him. ‘Safe at last, sir. Look at the Queen.’

  But instead of looking at the Queen Mr. Darby glanced back at Punnett. At the same moment the Mandrat chief nearest to him sprang at him. In the fraction of time in which he instinctively started aside, there flashed on Mr. Darby’s perception with an indelible vividness the mad, white eyes of the face that was hurled towards him and the white gleam of a blade in the clenched black fist. Mr. Darby felt the dagger pierce his body, felt himself collapse, plunge down some enormous depth, and die. But he had not moved: the hurtling black shape had never reached him. Something else had happened.

  For Punnett, as usual, had risen to the occasion. How, Mr. Darby never knew; but Punnett had intercepted that hurtling body, and next moment he fell, striking Mr. Darby with his head and nearly knocking him down as he fell at his feet. There he lay on his back, and Mr. Darby, staring down at him, saw through spectacles black with horror the ivory handle of a dagger planted in his breast. Punnett raised his chest convulsively and then lay still, as Mr. Darby, forgetful of all else, sank on his knees. ‘Punnett!’ he cried. ‘Punnett! Is it …? Is it bad?’

  Someone else was kneeling by Punnett now, two other people; and then Mr. Darby heard a voice, a voice that robbed him of his last hold on reality and plunged him into a confused world of dream.

  ‘Keep out of the way, Jim. Let the doctor get at him.’

  Mr. Darby raised his head, stared into the face of Sarah, and lost consciousness.

  At that’moment Punnett opened his eyes and smiled sadly at Sarah. He was trying to speak. Sarah leaned over him. ‘I’ve brought him back to you, Madam,’ he whispered. ‘I thought …!’ His voice failed for a moment and Sarah leaned her head closer. ‘I thought once or twice I wasn’t … going … to manage.’ He closed his eyes; a shudder ran over his body and his eyes opened again. ‘Excuse me, Madam!’

  It was Punnett’s last apology, his apology for dying.

  Chapter XXXVII

  A Royal Conversation

  The Gulf of Tongal, as any good atlas will show, is formed by the semi-circular sweep of coast where the north-western shore of the Mandratic Peninsula swings westward into the main coastline of Eutyca.

  The yacht which Sarah had chartered at Sydney had just left her moorings in the Gulf and was steaming southwards, and the ex-King of Mandras and the ex-Queen of Tongal, peacefully seated under the deck awning, at last found time for conversation. They wore European dress. Their crowns and robes, mementoes of an experience which had more than satisfied even Mr. Darby’s hunger for romance, had been carefully bestowed in a trunk. Mr. Darby’s flannel suit, which had fitted him perfectly in the old days at home, appeared grievously fallen-in in front, for a fever, caught during his long journeys through the jungle and aggravated by his recent appalling experiences had kept him raving during the last week. They had carried him, unconscious still, from the strange scene of reunion in the Queen’s hall in Aba Taana to the yacht which had been waiting at anchor during the eight months in which Sarah’s search-party had scoured the south-western coast of Eutyca and the whole of the Tongali territory for traces of Mr. Darby and Punnett. Fortunately his recovery, under the care of Sarah and her doctor, had been rapid, and already, though still somewhat shaky, he was, in mind if not in body, his old self again.

  ‘Well, I must say, Jim,’ said Sarah, smiling maternally at the little man, ‘you’ve led me a dance. I might just as well have come with you at the start, seeing that I’ve been let in for all this exploring in any case. All I can say is, I hope you liked the place better than I did.’

  ‘Like it?’ said Mr. Darby.’ I hate it. It’s … ah … what I should call Hell, Sarah. No! No more adventures for me, no more jungles, no more green parrots, no more scarlet orchids, thank you. Thank God they’re all safely behind me.’ He heaved a deep, satisfied sigh.

  ‘Yes, thank God! And you can thank me, too, Jim. There aren’t many women that would have put up with it, I can tell you, husband or no husband.’

  Mr. Darby smiled guiltily. ‘But tell me, Sarah, what put it into your head that I wasn’t drowned?’

  ‘Well, what do you think, Jim? Poor Punnett, of course. When I heard that Punnett had gone overboard too, and not only Punnett but a couple of life-buoys as well, I knew there was a chance for you. If you’d gone over alone, I’d have ordered my mourning and said no more. But you’d only got to have a word or two with Punnett to see that he was a man in a thousand. He told me, in his quiet way, that I could rely on him, but I knew it already without his telling me. He gave his life for yours, Jim; don’t you forget it.’ She fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘And to think,’ she said in a voice husky with tears,’ that I couldn’t so much as thank him. But he would know, Punnett would know all right what I felt.’

  Mr. Darby stared in front of him with spectacles glittering like diamonds, and for a while they sat silent.

  ‘The Utopia put back for you, you know Jim; they put back fifty miles, but there wasn’t a trace of you. The captain said he hadn’t much hope because of the sharks.’

  ‘Sharks?’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I didn’t know there were sharks. Punnett didn’t mention sharks.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Sarah replied. ‘He’d have enough of a job keeping you quiet without mentioning sharks, I’ll be bound. But how long were you in the water, Jim?’

  ‘Oh, a matter of a few hours, Sarah,’ said Mr. Darby nonchalantly.

  ‘A few hours? We made all sorts of enquiries about the currents, and they told us you’d be sure to be carried right up into the Gulf of Tongal.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they know very much about the currents in England,’ Mr. Darby replied with a touch of scorn. Already he was beginning to remember England’s obtuseness in some matters. ‘So that’s why you made for Tongal, Sarah. But why did they make you Queen?’

  Ever since he had regained consciousness Mr. Darby had been troubled by a small, secret annoyance—an annoyance which, even if he had been aware of it, he would not have confessed even to himself—at Sarah’s achievement of royal rank. It seemed fated that whenever, after infinite labours, he attained to some new eminence, reached, as it were, a yet higher plateau on the mountain of human greatness, he must always find Sarah, through no effort of her own, no desire to compete with him, coolly waiting for him on a slightly higher altitude.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sarah impatiently, ‘it was a silly business but it served its purpose. It was all owing to a fever, a sort of’flu they were having. It was something new to them and when we arrived three months ago they were having a terrible attack of it in Aba Taana. So we dosed them with quinine and aspirin. Fortunately we had lots of both on board. As you know, Jim, I’ve always had a great faith in aspirin. That soon put them right,—all, that is, except the King. He died of it: but then he was so terribly fat that he hadn’t a chance from the first. You see, he took no exercise. They had a ridiculous idea that he mustn’t walk.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mr. Darby feelingly. ‘My people had the same idea about me.’

  ‘Well, they tried it on me when they made me Queen, but I soon put a stop to that nonsense.’

  ‘You … ah … you defied them, Sarah.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Sarah replied. ‘You’ve got to treat those sort of people like children: it’s the only way to manage them. That’s why I let them make me Queen. They wanted to: they said I was the great white enchantress, or some such childishness, because the quinine and aspirin had cured their’ flu: so as it seemed likely to be more convenient on the whole, not only for us but for them, I consented. But the
trouble I had with them, Jim! I’d rather run an infant-school any day. If you knew the job I had to get them to kill mosquitoes for instance. The doctor said that very likely mosquitoes were the cause of this’flu. But they said mosquitoes were sacred and that I was the Mosquito Queen. “Very well,” I said, “I’m the Mosquito Queen and I command you to kill mosquitoes!” That worried them dreadfully. They got terribly excited and for a whole night we thought they were going crazy. But they came round in the end; and now the mosquito isn’t sacred any longer in Tongal, or rather, only the particular mosquito who happens to be King or Queen.’ Sarah grunted sardonically. ‘That was one reform anyhow; but it would be a life’s work to put anything like common sense into them, and, upon my word, they hardly seemed worth while, even if I hadn’t had you on my hands.’

  ‘To be shaw!’ said Mr. Darby. It was soothing, exquisitely soothing to him now to be treated by Sarah as a child. And the blessed comfort and security of this yacht, with the pleasant Australian captain and crew, the pleasant, friendly members of Sarah’s search party, the doctor, the young Cambridge man who had acted as interpreter, and the others who had not yet become quite real to him. What a marvellous change from the horrible life of the last year, a life like a mad dream of snakes and blue devils and nightmare forests.

  And yet how lovely the Peninsula looked now as they steamed along its silver coast; the rosy pink of the rocks, the vivid emerald of the jungle, rising, screen behind screen, from the mottled rose and silver of the shore, and the great orange-stained ivory dome of Umfo, the ankle-bone of Mandratia, protruding starkly and grandly above the matted forests. Umfo, in its beautiful fallacious serenity, was typical of the whole Peninsula, thought Mr. Darby, recalling the swarming village of savages that raged, like an angry, seething brain, within the summit of that bland exterior.

  ‘And yet,’ he said, indicating the coast with a sweeping gesture, ‘there’s no denying, Sarah, that it’s extraordinarily beautiful.’