CHAPTER XXI.SUSPENSE.[edit]
It was now the ninth day since Zorn and Emery had
started on their expedition. Their colleagues, detained on
the summit of Mount Scorzef, began to give way to the
fear that they had fallen into some irretrievable misfortune.
They were all well aware that the young astronomers would
omit nothing that lay in their power to ensure the success of
their enterprise, and they dreaded lest their courageous spirit
should have exposed them to danger, or betrayed them into
the hands of the wandering tribes. They waited always
impatiently for the moment when the sun sank behind the
horizon, that they might begin their nightly watch, and
then all their hopes seemed concentrated on the field of
their telescope.
All through the 3rd of March, wandering up and down
the slopes, hardly exchanging a word, they suffered as they
had never suffered before; not even the heat and fatigues
of the desert, nor the tortures of thirst, had equalled the
pain that arose from their apprehensions. The last morsel
of the ant-eater had been devoured, and nothing now
remained but the insufficient nourishment afforded by the
ants.
Night came, dark and calm, and extremely favourable
to their operations; but although the Colonel and Strux
watched alternately with the utmost perseverance, no light
appeared, and the sun's rays soon rendered any longer
observations futile.
There was still nothing immediate to fear from the
Makololos; they seemed resolved to reduce the besieged
by famine, and it seemed hardly likely that they would
desist from their project. The unhappy Europeans were
tortured afresh with hunger, and could only diminish their
sufferings by devouring the bulbs of the gladioli that sprang
up between the rocks.
Yet they were hardly prisoners; their detention was
voluntary. At any moment the steamboat would have
carried them to a fertile land, where game and fruit abounded.
Several times they discussed the propriety of sending
Mokoum to the northern shore to hunt for the little garrison;
but this manœuvre might be discovered by the natives;
and there would be a risk to the steam-vessel, and consequently
to the whole party, in the event of finding other
hostile tribes to the north of the lake: accordingly the
proposal was rejected, and it was decided that they must
abide in company, and that all or none must depart. To
leave Mount Scorzef before the observations were complete
was an idea that was not entertained for a moment; the
astronomers were determined to wait patiently until the
faintest hope of success should be extinguished.
“We are no worse off,” remarked the Colonel in the
course of the day to his assembled companions, “than
Arago, Biot, and Rodriguez were when they were measuring
the arc from Dunkirk to Ivica: they were uniting the
Spanish coast and the island by a triangle of which the
sides were more than eighty miles long. Rodriguez was
installed on an isolated peak, and kept up lighted lamps
at night, while the French astronomers lived in tents a
hundred miles away in the desert of Las Palmas. For
sixty nights Arago and Biot watched for the signal, and,
discouraged at last, were about to renounce their labour,
when, on the sixty-first night, appeared a light, which it was
impossible to confound with a star. Surely, gentlemen, if
those French astronomers could watch for sixty-one nights
in the interests of science, we English and Russians must
not give up at the end of nine.”
The Colonel's companions most heartily approved the
sentiment; but they could have said that Arago and Biot
did not endure the tortures of hunger during their long
vigil.
In the course of the day Mokoum perceived an unusual
agitation in the Makololo camp. He thought at first that
they were about to raise the siege, but, after some contemplation,
he discovered that their intentions were evidently
hostile, and that they would probably assault the mountain
in the course of the night. All the women and children,
under the protection of a few men, left the encampment,
and turned eastward to the shores of the lake. It was
probable that the natives were about to make a last attack
on the fortress before retiring finally to Maketo. The
bushman communicated his opinion to the Europeans. They
resolved to keep a closer watch all night, and to have their
guns in readiness. The enclosure of the fort was broken in
several places, and as the number of the natives was now
largely increased they would find no difficulty in forcing
their way through the gaps. Colonel Everest therefore
thought it prudent to have the steamboat in readiness for a
retreat. The engineer received orders to light the fire, but
not until sunset, lest the smoke should reveal the presence of
the vessel to the natives; and to keep up the steam, in order
to start at the first signal. The evening repast was composed
of white ants and gladiolus bulbs—a meagre supper
for men about to fight with several hundred savages; but
they were resolute, and staunchly awaited the engagement
which appeared imminent.
Towards six o'clock, when night was coming on with its
tropical celerity, the engineer descended the mountain,
and proceeded to light the fire of the steamboat. It was
still the Colonel's intention not to effect an escape until
the last extremity: moreover, he was firm in his determination
to abide until the night was advanced, that he might
give himself the last chance of observing the signal from
Mount Volquiria. The sailors were placed at the foot of
the rampart, with orders to defend the breaches to the last.
All arms were ready, and the mitrailleuse, armed with the
heaviest ammunition that they had in store, spread its
formidable mouth across the embrasure.
For several hours the Colonel and Strux, posted in the narrow
donjon, kept a constant watch on the peak of Volquiria.
The horizon was dark, while the finest of the southern constellations
were resplendent in the zenith. There was no
wind, and not a sound broke the imposing stillness of
nature. The bushman, however, posted on a projection of
rock, heard sounds which gradually became more distinct.
He was not mistaken; the Makololos were at length commencing
their assault on the mountain.
Until ten o'clock the assailants did not move; their fires
were extinguished, and camp and plain were alike wrapped
in obscurity. Suddenly Mokoum saw shadows moving up
the mountain, till the besiegers seemed but a few hundred
feet from the plateau on which stood the fort.
“Now then, quick and ready!” cried Mokoum.
The garrison immediately advanced to the south side of
the fort, and opened a running fire on the assailants. The
Makololos answered by a war-cry, and, in spite of the firing,
continued to advance. In the light caused by the flash of the
guns, the Europeans perceived such swarms of natives that
resistance seemed impossible. But still they trusted that
their well-directed balls were doing considerable execution,
and they discerned that not a few of the natives were rolling
down the sides of the mountam. Hitherto, however, nothing
arrested them: with savage cries they continued to press
on in compacted order, without even waiting to hurl a single
dart. Colonel Everest put himself at the head of his little
troop, who seconded him admirably, not excepting Palander,
who probably was handling a gun for almost the first time.
Sir John, now on one rock now on another, sometimes kneeling
sometimes lying, did wonders, and his gun, heated with
the rapidity of the repeated loading, began to burn his
hands. Mokoum, as ever, was patient, bold, and undaunted
in his confidence.
But the valour and precision of the besieged could avail
nothing against the torrent of numbers. Where one native
fell, he was replaced by twenty more, and, after a somewhat
prolonged opposition, Colonel Everest felt that he
must be overpowered. Not only did the natives swarm
up the south slope of the mountain, but they made an ascent
also by the side slopes. They did not hesitate to use the
dead bodies of the fallen as stepping-stones, and they even
lifted them up, and sheltered themselves behind them,
as they mounted. The scene revealed by the flash of the
fire-arms was appalling, and the Europeans saw enough to
make them fully aware that they could expect no quarter,
and that they were being assaulted by barbarians as savage
as tigers.
At half-past ten the foremost natives had reached the
plateau. The besieged, who were still uninjured (the natives
not yet having employed their arrows and assagais), were
thoroughly conscious they were impotent to carry on a
combat hand to hand. The Colonel, in a calm, clear voice
that could be heard above the tumult, gave the order to
retire. With a last discharge the little band withdrew
behind the walls. Loud cries greeted their retreat, and the
natives immediately made a nearer approach in their
attempt to scale the central breach.
A strange and unlooked for reception awaited them.
Suddenly at first, and subsequently repeated at intervals
but of a few minutes, there was a growling reverberation
as of rolling thunder. The sinister sound was the report of
the exploding mitrailleuse, which Sir John had been
prepared to employ, and now worked with all his energy.
Its twenty-five muzzles spread over a wide range, and the
balls, continually supplied by a self-adjusting arrangement,
fell like hail among the assailants. The natives, swept
down at each discharge, responded at first with a howl and
then with a harmless shower of arrows.
“She plays well,” said the bushman, approaching Sir
John, “When you have played your tune, let me play
mine.”
But there was no need for Sir John to be relieved; the
mitrailleuse was soon silent. The Makololos were struck
with consternation, and had sought shelter from the torrent
of grape-shot, having retired under the flanks of the fort,
leaving the plateau strewn with numbers of their dead.
In this instant of respite the Colonel and Strux regained
the donjon, and there, collecting themselves to a composure
as complete as if they were under the dome of an observatory,
they kept a constant eye upon their telescope, and
scanned the peak of Volquiria. When, after a short period
of rest, the yells of the Makololos made them aware that
the combat was renewed, they only persevered in their
determination, and resolved that they would alternately
remain to guard their invaluable instrument.
The combat, in truth, had been renewed. The range of
the mitrailleuse was inadequate to reach all the natives,
who, uttering their cries of mortal vengeance, rallied again,
and swarmed up every opening. The besieged, protected
by their fire-arms, defended the breaches foot by foot; they
had only received a few scratches from the points of the
assagais, and were able to continue the fight for half an hour
with unabated ardour.
Towards half-past eleven, while the Colonel was in the
thick of the fray, in the middle of an angry fusillade, Matthew
Strux appeared at his side. His eye was wild and
radiant: an arrow had just pierced his hat and quivered
above his head.
“The signal! the signal!” he cried.
The Colonel was incredulous, but ascertaining the correctness
of the welcome announcement, discharged his
rifle for the last time, and with an exuberant shout of
rejoicing, rushed towards the donjon, followed by his intrepid
colleague. There, kneeling down, he placed his eye to the
telescope, and perceived with the utmost delight the signal,
so long delayed and yet so patiently expected.
It was truly a marvellous sight to see these two astronomers
work during the tumult of the conflict. The natives
had by their numbers forced the enclosure, and Sir John
and the bushman were contending for every step. The
Europeans fought with their balls and hatchets, while the
Makololos responded with their arrows and assagais.
Meanwhile the Colonel and Strux intently continued
their observations, and Palander, equally composed, noted
down their oft-repeated readings. More than once an arrow
grazed their head, and broke against the inner wall of the
donjon. But their eye was ever fixed on the signal, and
reading the indications of the vernier, they incessantly
verified each other's calculations.
“Only once more,” said Strux, sliding the telescope along
the graduated scale. An instant later, and it would have
been too late for any observations, but the direction of the
light was calculated to the minutest fraction of a second;
and at that very instant an enormous stone, hurled by a
native, sent the register flying from Palander's hands, and
smashed the repeating-circle.
They must now fly in order to save the result which they
had obtained at the cost of such continuous labour. The
natives had already penetrated the casemate, and might at
any moment appear in the donjon. The Colonel and his
colleagues caught up their guns, and Palander his precious
register, and all escaped through one of the breaches. Their
companions, some slightly wounded, were ready to cover
their retreat, but just as they were about to descend the
north side of the mountain, Strux remembered that they had
failed to kindle the signal. In fact, for the completion of
the survey, it was necessary that the two astronomers on
Mount Volquiria should in their turn observe the summit
of Mount Scorzef, and were doubtless anxiously expecting
the answering light.
The Colonel recognized the imperative necessity for yet
one more effort, and whilst his companions, with almost
superhuman energy, repulsed the natives, he re-entered the
donjon. This donjon was formed of an intricate framework
of dry wood, which would readily ignite by the application
of a flame. The Colonel set it alight with the powder from
the priming of his gun, and, rushing out, rejoined his
companions. In a few moments, rolling their mitrailleuse
before them, the Europeans, under a shower of arrows and
various missiles, were descending the mountain, and, in their
turn, driving back the natives with a deadly fire, reached the
steamboat. The engineer, according to orders, had kept
up the steam. The mooring was loosened, the screw set in
motion, and the “Queen and Czar” advanced rapidly over
the dark waters. They were shortly far enough out to see
the summit of the mountain. The donjon was blazing like
a beacon, and its light would be easily discerned from the
peak of Volquiria. A resounding cheer of triumph from
English and Russians greeted the bonfire they had left
behind.
Emery and Zorn would have no cause for complaint;
they had exhibited the twinkling of a star, and had been
answered by the glowing of a sun.
