The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

by Bertram Mitford

  VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY.

  THROUGH THE HEART OF THE EARTH.

  When he felt his horse's feet slipping from beneath him over the brink,Claverton expected nothing less than instant death. Yet in thatterrible moment the whole picture was imprinted on his brain--the fiercefoes rushing on, assegai uplifted; the terrified, rolling eye of histrembling steed; the sunlit sward; the green, monotonous sweep of bushin the valley far below, into which he was being hurled; even a thinline of blue smoke, which might be from a friendly camp miles and milesaway in the bush, did not escape him. And side by side with the picturespread before and around him, in every minutest detail, came the thoughtof Lilian--what she would say when she came to hear of his end, andwhether, from the spirit-world, he would be allowed to look once more onthat tenderly-loved face, and, above all, whether he would ever be ableto carry out his vengeance upon the man who had brought him to this.All passed like a lightning gleam across his brain, and then he felthimself falling--falling--down into space. The air roared and shriekedin his ears, his breath failed him, then his hands seized something.The whole world was hanging in his grasp, rocking and swaying; he couldnot leave go; it was dragging him downward--downward--downward--it wastearing his arms out by the sockets. He must throw it off; and yet hecould not. Then a crash, and--oblivion.

  How long he lay he could not tell. Slowly and confusedly consciousnessbegan to reassert itself. He half opened his eyes, and quickly closedthem again. It was dark; there was a cold, earthy smell. Stars floatedbefore his vision, and indefinite shapes, with dull, far-away echoes.He was dead, and they had buried him. He could hear the spadefuls ofearth being thrown upon his coffin. The sound was growing fainter andfainter; they had nearly finished. And Lilian--she was standing weepingover his grave. Ah, Lilian, it is too late to weep now! Yes, she wasweeping as if her heart would break, and the horrible weight of theearth, with its cold, damp, mouldy smell, kept him down; he could notreach her. Only seven feet of earth--oh, God! and it might as well beseven hundred! Then he heard Truscott's voice--as the voice of asmooth, insidious demon--whispering words of love to her, and claimingthe fulfilment of her promise. Fiend, traitor, murderer! He wouldburst his grave now, and rend him limb from limb! Not the weight of athousand worlds could hold him down! And, with a mighty effort heraised himself into a sitting posture and looked around.

  A puff of cool air fanned his brow. It was dark--no, not quite. A beamof light, shooting through from the outer world like a dart of flame,dazzled his eyes; then another and another, losing themselves in thefurther gloom. Is he not dead after all? How can that be? Yes, he isdead, and this is the world of spirits.

  Again he closes his eyes. A few moments more, and the suspendedfaculties become clearer. He looks forth again. He is alive, and in acave, and the shafts of light are as much of that indispensable elementas can penetrate a thick mass of creepers which falls over its entrance.But how came he there?

  Instinctively, as he felt himself falling, Claverton had kicked his feetfree of the stirrups; and instinctively again, and without being awareof it, he had clutched at the first substance which had come in hisway--a trailing ladder of creepers hanging from the rock--and this itwas which had made him feel as if he was supporting the whole weight ofthe globe in his hands. But the jerk had been too great. For afraction of a second he thus hung, then fell--fell clean through a densenetwork of creepers which closed over him with a spring, thus shuttinghim into the cave, or rather hole, in which he awoke to find himself.

  And now the spark of hope rekindled darts through his frame with anelectric thrill. He is still alive and unhurt, in the more serioussense of the word, that is, for no bones are broken, though he is stiffand sore and shaken by his fall. He will yet live--live to destroy hisenemy, and to possess himself once more of Lilian's love, free from thepossibility of any further disturbing influence. He looks round hispresent quarters--truly an ark of refuge--but can make out nothing savethe shadowy rock overhead. Then, cautiously approaching the entrance,he listens.

  No; it will not do to look out just yet. The Kafirs are still beneath,and he can hear distinctly the deep bass hum of their voices, can evencatch their exclamations of surprise at his unaccountable disappearance.He is unaware of the exact position of his hiding-place, and thefaintest movement on his part might lead to his instant detection. Sohe restrains his anxiety to peep forth, and, as he lies _perdu_, evenchuckles over the supernatural theories set forth by the Kafirs toaccount for his disappearance.

  For upwards of an hour he remains perfectly still; long after he hasheard the voices of his enemies grow fainter and fainter, and ultimatelycease to be audible as they give up the search. Then, thrusting hishead through the network of trailers, he peers cautiously out. The sunhas set, and a peaceful evening stillness lies upon the forest beneath,and there is no sign of the enemy. Then Claverton begins seriously totake account of his position. He cannot see the brink of the precipiceoverhead, but he judges from its height further along, that he hasfallen about forty feet, and that the network of creepers, yielding tohis weight, alone had saved him from certain death. But, meanwhile, howis he to get down, or up? One way is about as practicable as the other.Beneath, the rock falls, with here and there a rugged pinnacleprojecting from its face, but sheer; while above, its surface for longintervals is perfectly smooth. A terrible fear chills his heart. Hehas only escaped from a sudden and swift death, to meet with a lingeringone by starvation; here, in this hideous, lonely cave, beyond thepossibility of human aid. A rope from the summit might reach him, butwas it in the least likely that any friendly patrol would visit thiswild fastness, haunted, as it was, by hostile bands? And even if itdid, how improbable that its members would have a rope, or be able toimprovise one long enough and strong enough to reach him; even were henot too weak from the effects of starvation to use it if they did. No.He must look for no succour that way.

  Then his thoughts recur to the day that he and Lilian climbed up to thatother cave during the fishing picnic four years ago. But for theinaccessibility of the place, some holiday party, in years to come,might make their way up here and find his crumbling bones, and recoilwith loathing horror from his whitened skull, even as she had done fromthe grisly remains in that other cavern. And the grey rocks stand forthbeneath and around, waxing greyer in the fading light; bright-eyedconies peep forth from their holes, and scamper along the ledges; anight-jar darts noiselessly on soft wing in pursuit of its prey; batsflit and circle in the gloaming; beneath, the green bush has changed toa sombre blackness; while floating upon the stillness of desolation, theweird voices of the forest begin their mysterious concert. And there,upon that narrow ledge, poised in mid-air, beyond the reach of all humanaid--lost, forgotten and alone--stands this man, with death before himat last.

  Carefully he looks over the ledge, narrowly scrutinising the rockbeneath and around; but the first glance convinces him that it isuseless. No creepers grow on the face of the cliff; even the tops ofthe highest trees are at a dizzy distance below. There is no foothold,even for a baboon. Ah! The cave itself! He has not explored that.Re-entering, he strikes a match--a knife, a box of matches, and a bit of_reimpje_ being the proverbial contents of a frontiersman's pockets,even though they contain nothing else--and begins his exploration.There is no outlet that way. Overhead the rock slopes down to the backof the cave, and here and there it is wet with ooze. He can but dimlymake out the outlines in the gloom by the flicker of his wax vesta.Suddenly the flame goes out, extinguished by a puff of cold air whichblows up into the explorer's face. He lights another. Yawning at hisvery feet is a hole--a long, jagged hole, just wide enough to admit hisbody; one step more and he would have fallen in. Tearing a bit of paperfrom his pocket he lights it and throws it in. At first it will notfall: quite a strong current of air holds it up. This, in itself is agood sign, and Claverton begins to feel hopeful as he watches it sink,down, down, lighting up the chasm, and throwing a wet gleam on thesl
ippery sides eloping down into unknown depths.

  He sits down and begins to ponder over the situation. A strong currentsuch as comes up this hole betokens an outlet somewhere, and the onlyway of finding that outlet is _to go down the hole_. He can get down,for the sides are near enough together for a man to descend by using hishands and knees freely. But once down, can he get up again? A naturalthrill of horror runs through him at the idea of burying himself awaydown in the very bowels of the earth. To remain where he is meansdeath, but it is to die in the full, open light of day, with the air ofheaven breathing around him. To descend into that dark, slimy pit, andperhaps find no outlet after all, and not even be able to retrace hissteps; to die in that frightful _oubliette_, amid who can tell whatnoisome horrors! It is an alternative enough to appal the stoutestheart, and no wonder Claverton's brain sickens at the thought. But itis his only chance. He rises, goes out on the ledge once more, andstands for a few moments drinking in the fresh cool breaths of thefast-gathering night; then, returning to the chasm, begins his descent.

  A lighted match in his hand, and with pieces of paper torn up in hispocket ready to kindle at intervals, he lets himself down, working hisway cautiously with his knees against the opposite rock, but the task isa far more difficult one than it appears. Once or twice he slipsseveral feet, and the skin is worn from his hands and knees in severalplaces. At length he stops; panting violently and nearly exhausted; andas he holds himself wedged against the sides of the crevice to rest, itstrikes him that those sides are getting wider. By the light of anothermatch he looks down. Oh, horror! Two yards deeper--he has alreadydescended ten--and the chasm widens out to a breadth of at least twentyfeet. A cold perspiration breaks from every pore. Great beads standupon his forehead and his brain is on the whirl. It is frightful;there, in the pitchy darkness. His blood curdles in every vein. Hisstrength can hold out no longer; in a moment he will yield, anddisappear for ever from the sight of humankind, immured, self-entombedin the rocky heart of the earth. Rushing noises are in his ears, handstouch him, wings sweep over him; then he slips, slides with the rapidityof lightning; he is being torn in pieces, flayed alive. Then, with ashock, his descent ceases. He is on his feet. But where?

  During the fall he has retained consciousness, and now, as he opens hiseyes in the pitchy darkness, it seems that he can hear the sound ofrunning water. Is it, too, a delusion? No, there it is distinctly, amere runnel, but echoing with a cavernous boom through that grimsilence. And the sound is as the music of hope. The water must have anoutlet somewhere. Again Claverton lights a match. He is oncomparatively level ground, sloping away in the form of a conduit, downwhich the water is trickling, while above, the rocks lose themselves ingloomy distance. With a new-born joy at his heart, he follows thecourse of this subterranean stream, guided by the sound of the water,now falling headlong over a boulder, now knocking his head against theroof, for he must husband his matches, as they are drawing near the end.Oh, God! Will this awful, rayless night never cease--this thickblackness, this horrible silence? His heart dies again within him asthe atmosphere becomes more and more heavy and oppressive.

  Header, have you ever stood within a disused mine, or any other cavern,artificial or natural, far beneath the surface of the earth? Have youthen extinguished your light and caused your companions to do the same,keeping perfect silence for a few minutes? If you have you willremember the intense longing that came over you for one spark of light,the sound of a voice to break the frightful stillness, for one breath ofthe upper air, so shut out do you seem from the rest of humankind evenas in the nethermost shades. What must be the feelings, then, of one towhom it is probable that the light of day will never again bevouchsafed?

  Claverton puts out his hand. It encounters something cold and writhing.With a thrill of shuddering horror he recoils, and his fingers shake--he can hardly strike a match. At length he does so, and lo, by the red,flickering light he can see two or three great, dark, hideous shapes,whose multitudinous legs cling to the rock as the shining, creepingthings wind their lengths along. Oh, God--what is to be the end ofthis? Will he go mad? Entombed in that pitchy darkness, with thesefrightful creatures crawling around him--upon him. It happened thatClaverton had an exaggerated horror of anything creeping, and now inthis hell-pit, alone with those loathsome creatures, the man who hasjust faced death with perfect calmness in two of its most appallingforms--the spears of five hundred merciless foes in front, a giddyheight behind--trembles and shudders like a woman. For a dozen yards hedashes forward as fast as his legs can carry him, and, coming violentlyagainst the wall of the cavern, sinks down panting and breathless upon arock. Something falls into the water at his feet with a splash. Light!Air! This den of darkness seems swarming with noisome reptiles. Thelegs of some creeping thing pass swiftly across his cheek, and again heshudders, and his heart throbs as if it would burst.

  A faint rustle just above his ear. He looks up with a start, preparedfor fresh horrors. What does he see that causes the blood to course andbound through his veins with such a wild thrill? It is a star. Yes, astar--bright, beautiful, and twinkling--only one solitary star, piercingthe blackness of this frightful hell-cave, telling of light and air--thefree air of heaven--and--he dare not add--possible deliverance. A coolbreeze fans his brow, wafted through a crevice in the rock, and throughthe crevice he can just see that one solitary star. Even if he must dienow he can still keep his gaze fixed upon that one shining eye ofheaven, looking in upon him from the outer air--the sweet, blessed outerair. But no. That star is there to cheer him, to encourage him--not todoom him. With hope rekindled he advances a few steps and lights amatch. It will hardly burn, so strong is the draught which blows in.He continues his way. Every now and again he can see more stars throughthe holes which become more frequent and larger, and he can see that heis in a fissure which runs along beneath the face of the rock, and whichnow begins to slant rapidly downwards. Everything is forgotten now;deliverance is at hand; for a rush of wind, which can come through nosmaller an aperture than one wide enough to admit the body of a man,blows up into the tunnel. Patience! Care! He can hear the rustle oftrees against the cliff on a level with his ear, and he guesses that hemust be near the base of the precipice. A slide of a few feet--a dozenyards along a rocky ledge crawling on his hands and knees, the cavernwidens, and, with such a feeling of relief as he has seldom, if ever,experienced before in the course of his life, Claverton steps forth fromhis subterranean prison-house and stands looking out into the moonlitvalley, drinking in the fresh, cool night air in grateful draughts.

  How delicious is that refreshing breeze after his terrible immurement!How beautiful the silvery hue of the sprays of the unending bush,sleeping beneath the stars, how soft their rustle as they quiver in thenight wind! A pointed moon hangs in the sky nearly at half, and theSouthern Cross rivals in its flashing brilliance the whole complement ofthe rolling planets. Then comes a reaction, and Claverton begins tofeel stiff and battered, for he has been badly bruised in both hisfalls, and his nerves have been sorely shaken by the events of the lastfew hours; moreover, he has eaten next to nothing that day, and afaintness begins to creep over him. The prostration of body extends tohis mind. What does it matter if he dies here alone in the wilderness?he thinks. Lilian has cast him off; she could never really have lovedhim. Better die and save all further trouble. In health such thoughtswould never have occurred to him; now--bruised, shaken, and prostrate--alanguorous feeling of fatality takes hold of his mind, and, shutting hiseyes, he sits down at the foot of the great cliff, and the cool airplays upon his brow.

  Ha! what is that? Cautiously he raises his head and listens. Is it apatrol? Aid--succour? No; the tread is of light feet--naked feet. Itdraws near, and Claverton has just time to step back within the gloom ofhis late prison-house as a large band of warriors glides swiftly past,and the moonlight gleams on the red, naked shoulders and on thegun-barrels and assegai blades, as the savages flit silently lik
espectres through the bush. They have not seen him, it is true, but canit be that they are still hunting for him? In the morning they willfind his spoor, and then it will be the work of an hour or two to runhim down--enfeebled, nearly exhausted, and quite unarmed as he is; forin his fall his belt broke and got lost, and with it his revolver andsheath-knife. An unarmed and half-starved man, alone in an unknowncountry, with bands of fierce savages quartering the forest like houndsin his pursuit. What chance had he?

  But whatever chance he has must not be thrown away. He will start atonce; yet not at once, for sound travels an enormous distance in thebush at night, and it is indispensable that the party which has justgone by shall be allowed sufficient time to get out of hearing. So hewaits and waits, till at last he can wait no longer. Emerging from hisshelter he glances at the stars, and, guided by those friendly lamps ofheaven, steps boldly forth into the bush.

  "Never say die," he ejaculates, half aloud. "I shall live to talk overthis fix yet."

  A low mocking laugh at his very elbow breaks the silence of the night.Starting, as if he had been shot, he turns, and, as he does so, he isviolently seized from behind. With a spring he shakes himself free. Adozen Kafirs are upon him, and their uplifted assegais flash in themoonlight. A straight, neat hit from the shoulder, and the foremostgoes down like a ninepin; but they see that he is unarmed, andfearlessly throw themselves upon him. A rapid struggle, a fall--and ina moment Claverton is lying on the ground, securely bound and helplessas a log.

  "Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the tall barbarian who had set his face againstthe abandonment of the search. "The white man is a wizard. He can meltinto air, and then rise up again out of the earth, but we have been tooknowing for him this time. Ha--ha--ha!"

  "Oh, damn you, do your worst, and the sooner the better," retorted theprisoner, in a tone of weary, hopeless disgust.

  "Ha!" jeered the savage. "Lenzimbi is a skilled wizard. He candisappear into the solid rock. He can light his magic candle and walkthrough the heart of the earth; but his God has quarrelled with him, andhas deserted him at last. Yes, Lenzimbi is a great wizard, a valiantfighting man; but now _the black goat lives and the white goat dies_.Ha!"