The Givreuse Enigma

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “No, I don’t think so. They’d expose themselves to excessively heavy losses, and they probably think that firearms are even more effective than they are. They’re brutes…but marvelously cunning brutes. They don’t want to sacrifice lives needlessly, but they’re determined to bar our passage.”

  “They can’t do that without fighting.”

  “They’ll fight—hand to hand,” his father replied, pensively. “They’ll attack us when we’re very close, that’s clear to see—but if we can ensure that the Amdavas and the Sumatrans precede us in the attack, the plan will be largely frustrated.”

  “And why is that?” asked Hendrik, naively.

  Dirk shrugged his shoulders, with a smile. “It’s obvious that you’ve spent several years in Europe. It’s simple, little man. If our men are ahead of us, the Carabao-Men will have to come out in the open, and then, the Jufvrouw and I will guarantee to put a large number of them out of the fight. I’d rather have avoided all that—I don’t like bloodshed—but one has to do one’s duty!” With a sigh, he concluded: “Let’s go!”

  Although the encampment was not under any immediate threat, Dirk gave orders to increase its safety from any surprise attack. While he was supervising the work of his men, wondering whether the Grafina, Karel and Frédéric were safe and sound, he saw Rak reappear.

  He did not bother to examine the scout’s face; neither joy nor anxiety ever altered its impassivity. The giant waited for Rak to speak. The latter rapidly informed him about the subterranean journey and the arrival at the summit of the Sepulcher-Rock, the appearance of Corisande, in flight and pursued, followed by the Grafina and Frédéric’s sortie. The last news caused Dirk considerable consternation. In a flash, he saw all the possible perils to which it might lead. If the way back were to be barred to Louise, Corisande and Frédéric, if they were captured or killed, all the sacrifices would have been in vain.

  He looked around, and wondered whether he dared leave the Amdavas and the Sumatrans to their own resources. After a minute of painful reflection, he decided. I’ll send Karel back to them, he said to himself. They’ll obey him even better than me.

  He had, however, to warn the chiefs. “How long will it take to reach the Rock?” the planter asked Rak.

  “Now that I know the way, half an hour.”

  “So Karel won’t be able to get here within an hour. That’s a long time—but after all, it’s necessary…”

  The chiefs listened to what Dirk thought he needed to tell them—concealing the danger run by the Grafina—and they seemed less anxious than one might have supposed. In the encampment, protected by natural obstacles and further fortified by the warriors, they believed that they would be safe—all the more so because the Carabao-Men had never yet risked a direct assault, and the reputation of the baas gave them great confidence.

  They raised no objection; the chief of the Amdavas limited himself to saying: “We have put our lives in your hands.”

  “And I shall defend them as if they were my own life!” the tall Dutchman replied.

  Hendrik had to remain in the camp, not because he could render any appreciable service—the least of the Amdavas surpassed him in a hundred ways, in terms of experience, cunning and skill—but because he represented, emblematically, his father, the Grafina and Karel.

  “Quickly, now!” said the giant, after having chosen a dozen men to accompany him.

  Under Rak’s direction, the little troop advanced rapidly through the subterranean passage. It did not even take them half an hour to reach the Sepulcher-Rock.

  Karel, who was waiting for them, drew his father to the eastern edge of the platform. The giant saw the Grafina, Frédéric and Corisande, about 1000 meters away.

  “Good—that’s the young Frenchwoman, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Father. She’s run away. Several men are pursuing her, others are barring the route. The Grafina’s done her work—she shot one of them, who was about to capture the fugitive. The others, I think, have continued the pursuit while remaining under cover.”

  “And it was necessary to make a sortie. Good! And now, I suppose, there’s a blockade!”

  “Yes, the way back is barred. Two or three times I’ve glimpsed men slipping between the rocks or the thickets.”

  The planter’s sagacious eyes examined the terrain. By means of signals that the distance rendered somewhat confused, the Grafina seemed to confirm what Karel had said.

  “There are bare spaces—large enough for us to be able to cross them, under covering fire,” muttered Dirk, “on condition that they don’t launch an attack en masse. If the Grafina and the young man were alone, it would almost be comfortable but with the little Jufvrouw…” He turned to Karel. “How did they get out?” he asked.

  “There’s an exit at the base of this rock.” He pointed to the opening. “You can get down that way.”

  The giant remained pensive for a moment, and then said: “Get back to the men as quickly as possible. They’ll lose confidence if we leave them without a white chief for too long. They know full well that Hendrik is a stranger to life in the wilderness. Rak will guide you. Go on, Son!”

  Karel did not hesitate to obey. Dirk resumed studying the location and the situation. After some time, he decided that the best route was to the north-east. There was no vegetation there, few rocks and no excavations. An entirely bare passage, 30 meters wide, led to the Sepulcher-Rock. Under the cover of Dirk’s and the Grafina’s rifles, an assault by a dozen men would not be very redoubtable. Once the first zone was crossed, they would soon arrive at the shelter.

  What if the Carabao-Men attacked en masse, though? Would they dare?—or, rather, for their bravery was not in doubt, would they want to? Fear of death did not stop them, but an ancestral wisdom commanded them not to perish needlessly.

  Deep down, the giant could not believe, at present, in a mass attack. Given what he had seen before leaving the encampment, he concluded that the battle would take place out there.

  It was necessary to decide. Dirk tried to make the Grafina understand, by repeated signs, which route he was advising them to take. His signals were more easily understood because Louise de Gavres had identified the favorable ground for herself. She slowly got under way, while the planter said to the trail-beater: “Will you find out, Rak, whether my men can get down there?”

  Rak only took two minutes to complete his mission. “The Amdavas can get down easily,” he said. “It’s less difficult than climbing a tree or a bamboo.”

  “Let’s go down then,” said Dirk.

  Having given the men the order to follow him, he began the descent. All of them, including the Sumatran servants, imitated him without any great difficulty. Only Rak remained on the platform, in order to keep watch on the enemy from a distance.

  When Dirk emerged from the Rock, the Grafina, Frédéric and Corisande had crossed the dry stream-bed and advanced by a further 200 meters. Louise was in no hurry, keeping a careful lookout and ready to fire.

  “Are you strong enough to run?” she asked Corisande.

  “I’m not tired out,” the young woman replied. “I think I can run as far as the rock.”

  “It probably won’t be necessary—but look over there, at that cluster of banyans and the low rocks. The passage will become narrower. There, it will doubtless be necessary to accelerate our pace. You’ll help your sister, Monsieur de Rouveyres? I’ve seen her run as fast as most of the Carabao-Men. With your help, she will be able to go even faster.”

  Dirk and his men were now distributed at the base of the Sepulcher-Rock. That disposition had the advantage of showing the enemy a troop of men ready to fight, without the risk of losing contact with an impregnable refuge. The planter was counting on the prudence of the Carabao-Men to avoid a costly encounter, which would appear to them to be unnecessary if their chiefs were really preparing to prevent the return of the expedition.

  Like the Grafina, he had identified the sole place where a surprise attack seemed most like
ly: the distance between the cluster of banyans and the rocky mass was quite short, less than 100 meters.

  “It would be better,” the Grafina said, “if you went 20 paces ahead of me. I can watch over you much better. Be ready to run.”

  There was no alarm; the passage was crossed in two minutes; henceforth, a large open space extended between the fugitives and the Sepulcher-Rock.

  “We’re probably safe,” said the Grafina, who had caught up with Frédéric and Corisande. Further on, she added: “Now, even if we were disarmed, they couldn’t overtake us before we arrive at the refuge. What’s more, they’d be under our fire long enough to sustain serious losses.”

  The Grafina and her companions went forward rapidly. Louise de Gavres remained on her guard, however, a few paces behind the young couple, ready to fire.

  They were no more than 100 meters from the Sepulcher-Rock when the ground trembled beneath the feet of Corisande and Frédéric. The young man leapt backwards, but Corisande stumbled. He tried to grab hold of her, but his hand only encountered empty air. The young woman sank downwards, and there was soon nothing to be seen but her head.

  She was struggling. Frédéric hurled himself forwards to help her, and as he reached down, two powerful hands seized him by the wrists and dragged him forward.

  When the Grafina reached the edge of the excavation that had been so strangely hollowed out in the ground, she saw the brother and sister disappearing together.

  It would have been madness for her to follow them on her own. She hesitated for a split second, and then called out to the planter.

  He had not waited for the summons. He ran forward with half a dozen Amdavas. In a moment, he had joined the Grafina.

  It was one of those occasions when it is necessary to make an instantaneous choice, perhaps between life and death. Dirk and Louise looked at one another for two seconds. Their choice was made. Without further hesitation, they leapt into the hole in the ground—and the Amdavas followed them, also without any hesitation.

  They found themselves in the center of a sort of natural cave, limited by near-regular walls. Light of variable brightness penetrated everywhere. In the darkest corner, they were able to make out Frédéric and several men; in the other, Corisande with only one man, who was holding her, semi-conscious, in his arms.

  At the rear, they glimpsed a kind of corridor from which the men must have come. A collapse, which had occurred at the same time as the one that had buried Corisande, had blocked the passage. Dull blows and scraping sounds could be heard, which revealed the presence of individuals attempting to re-open the exit.

  “Let’s hurry, Jufvrouw,” said the giant, maintaining an absolute calm. He pointed to the corridor. “We must beat them to it.”

  Two shots rang out and two Carabao-Men fell—but it became dangerous to fire at the others. Hourv, the Red Eagle, whose stature would have equaled Dirk’s had he not had shorter legs and a narrower neck, was holding Corisande vertically against his torso. The others, five in number, retreated in the corner, maintaining Frédéric in front of them. That maneuver left no alternative but hand-to-hand combat.

  “I’ll take this one!” said Dirk, pointing at the Red Eagle.

  “Right!” said Louise de Gavres, and, turning to the Men of the Forest, added: “Will you follow me?”

  “The Amdavas are always ready for battle!” their leader replied, proudly.

  Then, weapons at the ready, she advanced one step at a time, fearful of acting too abruptly, for Frédéric’s sake.

  Already, Dirk, armed with a kris made for his own giant hand—a kris with a heavy blade, but sharp—had arrived very close to Hourv.

  The Carabao-Man’s eyes gleamed in the half-light. His partly-open lips allowed a glimpse of enormous teeth. He was reluctant to let go of Corisande; he made a gesture as if to strike her with his axe; then, the love that he had conceived for her—for it was, in a physical sense, an ardent love—caused him to prefer a duel from which he believed he would emerge victorious. The most robust warriors yielded to his grip, no one wielded the axe or assegai more skillfully.

  Having deposited the young woman on the ground, he hurled himself at the planter, who took several steps backwards in order to put a sufficient distance between Corisande and the combatants.

  The Red Eagle’s axe whirled and came down; it met empty space. Dirk riposted with a straight thrust, but his weapon only scratched the shoulder of his adversary, who had side-stepped.

  A few passes followed without result; the two colossi, as agile as big cats, avoided the thrusts with a leap or a contortion. Eventually, a blow of the axe and a thrust of the kris having missed their marks, the combatants found themselves very close to one another. The Red Eagle crouched down; Dirk swayed to his right. The prospect of hand-to-hand combat tempted the Red Eagle, and he suddenly threw his arms around Dirk’s body.

  They had dropped their weapons. They fought like wild animals in the depths of the forest, two human giants, either of whom could have felled a buffalo. Their masses, if not their heights, were equal. The Eagle’s torso was thicker, his bones more solid, his legs strongly reminiscent of stone columns; taller in stature, though, with arms as powerful as those of the great apes, Dirk was more flexible.

  The two men tensed their admirable muscles frantically. Little by little, Dirk secured his grip; he mastered the force that had never been mastered; he lifted Hourv as Hercules had lifted Antaeus, and threw him down on the ground. The earth gave no new strength to the savage warrior, as it had to the fabulous monster; Hourv struggled in vain beneath the weight of the Dutchman; his throat, seized by an invincible hand, could no longer draw breath. He tried to bite and to lash out, but he was already falling into the darkness of unconsciousness…

  Then Dirk seized Corisande and, having deposited her at the entrance to the grotto, rejoined Louise de Gavres.

  It was just at that moment when Frédéric, hammering the face of the man who held him with his fists, succeeded in getting free. Louise, racing forward to help him, completed his deliverance. He leapt forward, grazed by the point of a spear, and found himself among his rescuers.

  The Grafina and the giant had their rifles shouldered now. The Amdavas were ready to do battle.

  The issue was not in doubt; before they could defend themselves, the Carabao-Men, squeezed into a corner from which they had to emerge one by one, would have succumbed to the rifle-bullets…

  Seeing the most powerful of them immobile on the ground, the sentiment of a sovereign fatality overwhelmed their primitive souls. They felt that they had been condemned to death, and that any movement would only hasten the supreme moment.

  The one who was bound to die first uttered a few troubled words and lowered his head resignedly.

  “Let them live!” Dirk murmured. “It’s impossible for me to kill defenseless men.”

  “Me too,” said Louise. “Let’s show them mercy then, although it might be a great imprudence.”

  The rifles were lowered. The stupefied Carabao-Men saw their enemies beat a retreat.

  A few minutes later, the obstacle that had stopped the main body of the Carabao-Men crumbled. A flood of warriors surged into the cavern.

  The Grafina and her companions were now too close to the Sepulcher-Rock to be overtaken.

  Meanwhile, the Red Eagle began to come round. He looked at the men who were swarming around him, and murmured, with a profound sigh: “The Ancestors have abandoned us!”

  XV. The Attack

  It was the following day, at daybreak. The night fires were still reddening; the Grafina and Dirk were keeping watch on the places where the Men of the Marsh were hiding, on the distant plain. They had left the Sepulcher-Rock after having made the entrance almost impregnable, and had done the same with the exit that overlooked the encampment.

  Not that it was necessary to fear a direct attack; the Carabao-Men had formed an idea of firearms that went beyond the redoubtable reality. Having never seen the Grafina and Dirk fire in
vain, they attributed to them an almost unlimited power of destruction, in a very short time. The chiefs had resolved that there would be no combat except hand-to-hand. For that, it was necessary that the whites and their auxiliaries should initiate combats in which the Carabao-Men, remaining invisible, might have recourse to assegais, daggers and clubs.

  That was what not only Dirk and the Grafina, but all the men of the expedition, had deduced. They were expecting, before they could make the return journey, a savage mêlée, in which the victory of the Carabao-Men would bring death for everyone…

  With her telescope, Louise tried to obtain a glimpse of the enemy’s labors. She had looked down several times from the height of one of the rocks next to which her men, Dirk’s and the Amdavas were camped. “There’s no doubt about it!” she said, thoughtfully. “They’re linking their positions by means of trenches, which will permit them to concentrate their forces sheltered from gunfire, as we try to pass through. If we can get through their lines very quickly…”

  “It’s not possible to do it very quickly—we’ll encounter obstacles everywhere.”

  At that moment, Frédéric, who had just come back from his turn to inspect the enemy positions from up above, was having their words translated. “I think it’s possible to maneuver round them!” he said.

  Interested, the Grafina fixed her eyes of shadow and force upon him. She communicated the young man’s words to the planter, adding: “Our guest fought in the war.”

  Meanwhile, Frédéric continued: “The Carabao-Men’s positions are much closer to us at the extremities than in the center, as necessitated by the terrain. The whole forms a kind of curved line, similar in shape to a line going from the middle of an egg-shell toward the point and coming back to the middle.” So saying, the young man traced the line in the soil with a basalt pebble. “Very well! We have to feign an all-out attack on the right flank, preferably making use of the most agile of our men. I don’t suppose the Carabao-Men are very subtle strategists. Their cunning is not the same kind as military cunning. If the fake attack is launched convincingly enough, especially if it’s accompanied by Monsieur de Ridder, the Carabao-Men will accumulate the bulk of their forces there. It’s merely a matter of calculating the moment when it’s necessary to maneuver in the opposite direction—which is to say, to move the entire mass rapidly toward the left flank, from which the enemy will have withdrawn men…and where, in any case, very few defenders will remain.