Mr Darby gaped at it like a dying fish. ‘But … ah … but God bless my soul, Punnett, what’s this?’
Punnett made a gesture of the right hand as of one effecting an introduction of mutual friends. ‘The Mandratic Peninsula, sir! The part we see is Mandras, of course. And isn’t it fortunate, if you’ll forgive my passing the remark, sir, that you haven’t lost your spectacles?’
Mr. Darby stared at Punnett and then raised his hands to his eyes. Punnett was right: through thick and thin his spectacles had stuck to him. ‘If you’d been an experienced diver, sir,’ said Punnett with exquisite tact, ‘you’d have lost them for certain.’
But the remark escaped Mr. Darby, for, strong in the assurance of unimpaired eyesight, he was gazing entranced at the land of his dreams. The water in which he sat was a clear crystalline blue, but it faded, as it receded from him, to a limpid green, and Mandras came to meet this green in a long stretch of silver sands that shimmered in the heat. And these sands jutted into little spits and promontories, swung back into curving bays, or shrank away to mere threads in deeply indented creeks. Out of the sand rose pink rocks, small as boulders near the sea, but large and more closely massed the further they lay up the shore until at last they huddled themselves into low and rugged cliffs, among which and above which screens of a vivid green vegetation hid the interior. Here and there among the green stood what seemed to be a tree which was not green, but pink or violet or scarlet; and towering in a vast dome above all these climbing rocks and trees, rose Umfo, the great ankle-bone of the Peninsula, its white marble crown weathered to the colour of old ivory.
Mr. Darby continued to gaze spell-bound at this enchanting scene which, as though it were the rim of a vast wheel, moved or seemed to move slowly past him, for the current was carrying Mr. Darby and Punnett parallel with the coast.
‘If only we could get closer in,’ Mr. Darby murmured reflectively.
‘Leave that to the current, sir,’ said Punnett. ‘If the tide holds for another half-hour it’ll float us into the Sampoto. The Sampoto is tidal, sir, for ten miles. Once we’re in it, we can easily paddle ourselves ashore, sir.’
‘You were right about the heat, Punnett,’ said Mr. Darby, searching vainly in his pyjama pocket for a handkerchief to mop his brow. ‘My pyjama coat is bone-dry already. I wish I could say the same for my trousers.’
But the water’s warm enough here, sir.’
‘Oh, it’s warm enough, Punnett, but it’s damp, and to sit in the damp, as we have been doing for the last … well, goodness knows how long, is said to induce a certain … ah … very distressing malady. I refer, of course, to aneroids.’
In the course of this brief conversation they had opened a wide bay shaped like a wine-strainer, for from the lowest point of its concavity a narrow channel curled away inland, and almost at once the current began to change its course and to carry them no longer parallel to the coast, but straight for the river’s mouth. Mr. Darby expected Punnett to remark upon this reassuring event, but Punnett said nothing, and Mr. Darby saw that he was staring somewhat grimly at the Peninsula. Following the direction of his stare, Mr. Darby saw that behind the leafy screens that guarded the interior seven vast white pillars rose into the air, whose summits wavered slightly and dissolved. A more attentive scrutiny proved them to be pillars of smoke.
‘What’s the meaning of it, Punnett?’ Mr. Darby asked a little timorously.
Punnett shook his head. I don’t know, sir. There must be something unusual on. If it was three bonfires, I should have said they were holding a funeral, the funeral of a chief. But seven’s a novelty, sir. I don’t understand it.’
‘And you … ah … you don’t like the look of it, Punnett?’ asked Mr. Darby, still more apprehensively.
‘You never like the looks of things you can’t explain, sir. But I dare say it’s nothing to worry about; in fact, if it’s something very unusual, it may keep them so occupied that they won’t bother about us, and that’ll be all to the good, sir. You see, sir, it’ll be a much more ticklish job this time, a matter of diplomacy, sir, not just of what you might call artillery as it was last time when I had the camera with me.’
The camera, Punnett! You forgot the camera?’
‘Well, sir. It was the camera or you, sir, and I fixed on you.’
Mr. Darby gasped as he realized for the first time the gravity of their position. He recalled in a flash, hair-raising adventures, retailed by Punnett, in which the camera, that admirable weapon of offence, had proved the one salvation. ‘We’d have been hard put to it, sir, if it hadn’t been for the camera.’ ‘If we hadn’t had the camera it’ud have been all up with us, sir.’ How often had Punnett uttered those testimonials to his invaluable weapon. And now, here they were, between the devils of Mandratia and the deep sea, without the protection of so much as a vest-pocket kodak. Mr. Darby’s mind, directed by the unhappy absence of the camera and those seven ominous columns of smoke soaring mysteriously and inexplicably into the still air, began now to regard the enchanting Mandras from a closely realistic angle. The thought that if they were extremely lucky they would soon be high and dry on the Peninsula with a tribe of savages as their neighbours, seemed to him, now that it was on the point of realization, extremely disquieting. And what if this not very enviable good luck deserted them? In that case, the tide would turn before they reached land and they would drift out to sea again and to almost certain death by starvation, sunstroke, or drowning. Mr. Darby disliked both alternatives extremely: he contemplated them in silence for twenty minutes and the more he contemplated them, the more he loathed them.
Emerging at last from this abstraction he raised his eyes and quite suddenly his courage gave way. For Mandras had now drawn very near and become immensely real. The tide in fact was already carrying them up the Sampoto. On either side of them her walls of dense and sinister foliage towered into the sky, concealing behind their many-patterned surface Heaven knew what sinister and horrible surprises. Mr. Darby no longer liked the look of Mandratia. He felt none of that delight which he had so often anticipated in thought and dream at the prospect of stepping ashore: he was, in fact, quite frankly terrified.
‘I don’t like it, Punnett!’ he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
‘You don’t like what, sir?’
‘Anything!’ said Mr. Darby comprehensively.
At that moment Punnett, who had been glancing from time to time into the water, put his hands on either side of his lifebuoy and, giving himself a smart push, stood up. The water reached no further than half-way up his thighs. He stood there like a large black heron, looking down on Mr. Darby, and Mr. Darby, staring up at him, realized with a feeling that nearly approached panic, that they had arrived.
Chapter XXXIII
Mr. Darby Aground
The loose silver sand of the little bay was deliciously hot to his feet as, with his pyjama trousers sagging wet about his hams, Mr. Darby left the shallows. After he had taken a few steps he stood still, swaying a little as he stood and glad of the support that Punnett immediately offered. Movement and instability had during the last three hours become so much of a habit that to stand still on a solid, motionless foundation made him giddy. And not only this: the terrible experience through which he had just passed had its share in his debilitation. He clung to Punnett’s arm in silence for a few moments and then said:
‘Punnett, I want to sit down.’
‘Very good, sir!’ replied Punnett. ‘But if you can manage to stand here for a minute I’ll get some green stuff for you to sit on. It’s not advisable to sit on the sand, sir: it causes a rash.’
Mr. Darby found himself able to stand unsupported and Punnett ran over the narrow belt of bare sand to where the rocks began to crop out and masses of trailing green creeper sprawled over them. Tearing up a great armful of it, he disposed it in a deep cushion at the foot of one of the rocks, and up the sloping face of it he made another cushion. It was a perfect spot in which to rest, for over th
e rock leaned a tree with great shady fan-shaped leaves, and from this green canopy festoons of scarlet orchids hung down like the side curtains of a four-poster bed. Having performed these duties with the same punctual efficiency as if he were in a London flat, Punnett returned to the small, plump pyjamaed figure which stood obediently where he had left it. He offered an arm.
‘Now, sir,’ he said, ‘if you’ll just step this way.’
Thereupon he conducted his master to the couch prepared for him, and Mr. Darby with a deep sigh of satisfaction sank down upon it.
‘All right, sir?’ he enquired.
‘Marvellous, Punnett!’ Mr. Darby replied dreamily. ‘What I should call the … ah … lap of luxury.’
‘And now I’ll be seeing about breakfast, sir,’ said Punnett; ‘but first, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just strip off your trousers and hang them out to dry. You’ll take no harm, sir. The mosquitoes and piums don’t come out till sunset.’
‘Warrever you thing bes, Punt,’ murmured Mr. Darby, drowsily incoherent, and a moment later Punnett left him already asleep in his shrine, a pink, round-bellied heathen god with sightless glass eyes.
• • • • • • • •
Mr. Darby awoke from what seemed to have been several hours of deep, refreshing sleep. He did not at once open his eyes, but lay enjoying those mingled sensations of feebleness and energy, lethargy and clear-headedness, which attend the first moments of awakening from healthy sleep. He had soon remembered where he was; but now his taste for adventure had reasserted itself and his sense of the insecurity of his position was no more than a sharp sauce to season the thrilling thought that he was actually on the very threshold of the Jungle. But was he? If he were to open his eyes, wouldn’t he, in sober fact, find himself surrounded by the familiar objects of his cabin on the Utopia? Wasn’t all this confused memory of floating on the sea, swimming upon a convenient current into the improbable Sampoto, wading ashore to that suspiciously theatrical Mandratia, the relics of a dream from which he was just waking? A sudden hoarse shriek sent a thrill of alarm through him. That must be Lady Gudgingham whom Punnett was pushing through the port-hole. He opened terrified eyes and saw a green parrot staring at him, head downwards, from the leafy canopy above his head. Seeing him move, the bird shrieked again and climbed, hand over fist, into hiding among the great leaves. This was the Jungle right enough, and, if other proof were wanting, there, within reach of his hand hung a burning cluster of scarlet orchids. Mr. Darby sneezed.
‘Awake, sir?’ asked Punnett’s voice.
‘Yes, Punnett, yes!’ Mr. Darby replied, and next moment, looking like an uprooted cauliflower that has gone hopelessly to seed, Punnett, stark naked except for a pair of capacious green drawers, appeared round the curtain of orchids. Mr. Darby noted that the drawers consisted of a single enormous leaf in which Punnett had contrived leg-holes. They were secured round his waist by a girdle of some vine-like plant. In both hands he carried another large leaf, a substitute for a tray, on which were heaped certain unrecognizable fruits. He smiled apologetically at Mr. Darby.
‘I hope you’ll excuse my dress, sir. You’ll find it’s quite usual in Mandratia. My suit and underwear are out to dry.’
Mr. Darby suppressed an incipient grin and sat up. ‘And is this … ah … breakfast, Punnett?’
‘Yes, sir. You’ll find most of the fruit in these parts remarkably good, sir, and I’ve grilled something a little more substantial to begin with. My cigarette-lighter withstood the immersion, sir, so I was able to make a fire. I shall send the firm a testimonial when we get home. I’ve got your razor with me, too, sir. I’d taken it to my cabin to strop it and I slipped it into my pocket when I came to call you this morning.’
Mr. Darby was not at the moment interested in the possibility of shaving. He was hungry, very hungry, and he fixed the grilled object with eager spectacles. ‘What is it, Punnett? A filet of veal?’
‘No, sir. I think you’ll find it very tasty, though. Don’t burn your fingers, sir.’
Mr. Darby hesitated. ‘I think I should feel more … ah No, sir. I think you’ll find it very tasty, though. Don’t burn your fingers, sir.’
Mr. Darby hesitated. ‘I think I should feel more … well, more the thing in my trousers, Punnett. I presume they’re dry by now.’
Punnett brought them, Mr. Darby put them on, and both sat down to breakfast.
Mr. Darby ate with gusto and even Punnett showed traces of restrained pleasure in the meal.
It was not till it was over that Punnett ceased to parry Mr. Darby’s persistent questions about the nature of the grill. The truth shook the little man: an expression of profound doubt gathered on his face. But the crisis lasted no more than a moment: his brow cleared and a smile broke through his spectacles. ‘To think,’ he said, ‘that I should live to breakfast off grilled tortoise. I must write and tell Mrs. Darby.’ Suddenly his face lengthened. ‘But No, sir. I think you’ll find it very tasty, though. Don’t burn your fingers, sir.’
Mr. Darby hesitated. ‘I think I should feel more … but I suppose I can’t write, Punnett? I suppose there’s no post?’
‘No, sir, no post here, sir; at least not until the trader makes her yearly visit. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll be getting on with my work.’
With his customary formal deference Punnett left the room, so to speak, and Mr. Darby found himself once more alone with his thoughts. No post! It had never occurred to him that there would be no post, no way of letting Sarah know that he was alive and well, no way of summoning a ship to be ready in case No, sir. I think you’ll find it very tasty, though. Don’t burn your fingers, sir.’
Mr. Darby hesitated. ‘I think I should feel more … well, in case he found that the Peninsula did not suit him. He had had so much to think about, or rather to experience, during the eternity since he had fallen overboard, that he had had no time to realize details such as these. But now that he had started, he went on. Sarah would get anxious when his periodical telegrams failed to arrive: she would be sure to guess that something dreadful had happened. When would she learn No, sir. I think you’ll find it very tasty, though. Don’t burn your fingers, sir.’
Mr. Darby hesitated. ‘I think I should feel more …? But of course! His wits made another leap. Of course, she would know now. They would have wired to his home address from the Utopia: they would have wired and told Sarah that he was drowned. The thought appalled him. Was there nothing he could do to let her know that he was alive? He was seized with an impulse to set off at once, to walk, walk, until he found a post office. Poor Sarah, she would be in despair. A vivid picture of her seated at the empty dining-table in Moseley Terrace, her arms flung on the table and her head lying on her arms, flashed upon his mind. She was wearing widow’s weeds. A long crape streamer hung from her head and drooped over the edge of the table. The vision and the sense of his home that accompanied it were so intense that for a minute or two he actually lived and moved in Newchester; and when the screech of a green parrot, leaning grotesquely out of the tree overhead, recalled him again to Mandras, he was like a diver who has risen too suddenly to the surface.
But when he had regained his full consciousness and once more realized Mandras, he realized too his utter helplessness. They could do nothing but wait for the trader that called once a year. And now an awful question presented itself. When was the trader due? Perhaps, blessed thought, it would arrive to-morrow. Perhaps—and so terrible was the idea that Mr. Darby felt his bowels melt within him—perhaps she had arrived and departed yesterday. A sense of terrible isolation overcame him. He felt as if he had died and gone to some solitary limbo: every human contact had fallen from him. Sarah (his heart ached every time he thought of her), the Stedmans, the Cribbs, Mr. Marston, McNab, young Pellow, Lord and Lady Savershill, Princep, had become for him the ghostly memories of another life. His mind turned its vision elsewhere and other ghosts flitted by—Mr. Amberley, Gudgeon (the only real ghost among them), poor Mrs. Gudgeon, Lady Gis
singham, that charming woman. Leaning on his couch of leaves, naked but for his pyjama trousers and his spectacles, Mr. Darby reviewed this spectral parade and his heart turned to stone. Thank God, Punnett at least was spared to him. If it had not been for Punnett he would have been dead by now, or as good as dead. On Punnett he pinned all his hopes.
• • • • • • • •
A lunch, as excellent and as unnamable as the breakfast, did much to cheer Mr. Darby, and the extraordinary peacefulness of the little Eden between jungle and river in which they had established themselves, gradually induced in his mind a forgetfulness, almost a disbelief, in savages. It was Punnett who, as soon as lunch was over, brought the savages back into reality.
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ he began, ‘I think I’d better give you a few hints in case of surprise. There are two things to bear in mind, sir, when we come up against the natives as we’re sure to do sooner or later. In the first place, you must be most particular, sir, not to show fear. Seeing you’re not frightened of them makes them frightened of you. If you behave yourself solemn and strange-like, they may think you’re a god. Your spectacles will help, no doubt, if you’ll excuse the remark: there’ll be something uncanny about spectacles to folk not accustomed to them. So do your best to carry on as if you were a god, sir, if I may suggest it, especially if I don’t happen to be here, sir. If I am here I may be able to put the wind up them, if I may use the expression, by saying things to them, but I think I’d better go and scout round a bit now, to try and find out what they’re up to. I took the opportunity, when you were asleep this morning, sir, to run along to a village a matter of about a mile from here, and I found it empty,—the village there all right, much the same as when I was here with Professor Harrington, sir, and still occupied, but not a soul, man, woman, or child, in the place. There’s something very unusual up, at the moment, sir, not a doubt of it, and I think it would be as well if I could find out what it is.’
The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Page 38
