City in the Sahara - Barsac Mission 02 Read online

  Amedee Florence spent much of his time in editing his notes. Not a day passed without his perforating this professional duty. If he ever again had the chance of seeing Europe, at least the adventures of the Barsac Missions should be known in their most intimate details.

  As for M. Poncin, he said nothing and did nothing, except from time to time to jot down in his voluminous note-book one of those cabalistic annotations which still so greatly intrigued Amedee Florence.

  "Would I be indiscreet, Monsieur Poncin," he ventured one day to his silent companion, "to ask you what you are noting so carefully?"

  The face of M. Poncin lit up. Indeed no, that wouldn't be indiscreet. On the other hand, he would be greatly flattered if any noticed his work and appreciated its interest.

  "At the moment I'm working out problems," he said portentously.

  "Bah!" said the reporter.

  "Yes, Monsieur. I'm trying to solve this: 'A is twice as old as B was when A was as old as B is now. When B is as old as A is now, the total of their ages will be N years. How old are A and B? Representing the age of A by X...."

  "But that's not a problem, it's a Chinese puzzle," cried Amedee Florence. "Does that sort of thing amuse you?"

  "It's my passion. That special problem is particularly elegant. I've been working on it since I was a child, without ever getting tired of it."

  "Since you were a child?" Florence repeated in amazement.

  "Yes, Monsieur," M. Poncin affirmed, not without a certain vanity. "Today I've arrived at my 1197th solution, which makes A 4798 years old and B 3691 years."

  "Not what you'd call young," remarked Amedee Florence without flinching. "But the other 1196 solutions. ..."

  "They're just as accurate. Every multiple of 9 satisfies the equation, so the number of solutions is infinite. If I lived ten thousand years I should never reach the end of them. So if you represent the age of A by x and that of B by y ..."

  "No, no, Monsieur Poncin," interrupted Florence rather scared. "I'd rather suggest another problem, which at any rate will have the charm of novelty."

  "With pleasure," replied M. Poncin; pencil in hand, he prepared to note down the details.

  "Three people," Amedee Florence dictated, "one six feet four inches tall, the second five feet eight inches, and the third a foot tall, have gone twenty miles in twenty-four hours. How many miles a second will eight people go if two of them are lame, granted that their average age is forty-five?"

  "It's a rule of three problems," said M. Poncin, wrinkling up his brows as he considered it.

  "You can work it out at your leisure," Amedee Florence hastened to advise him. "Now, was that the sort of calculation you were noting down all the time we were travelling?"

  "Not at all, Monsieur Florence," M. Poncin protested, looking very impressive. "Such problems are only my hobby, a mere pastime. I usually busy myself with questions much more important than that, I ask you to believe."

  "May I?"

  "I'm a statistician," M. Poncin admitted with feigned modesty.

  "Then that's full of statistics?" asked Amedee Florence indicating the famous pocket-book.

  "Yes, Monsieur," replied M. Poncin, absolutely drunk with enthusiasm. "These notes form a mine of inexhaustible information, Monsieur I've discovered some astonishing facts!"

  M. Poncin had opened his note-book, and was thumbing through its pages.

  "Look at this, Monsieur," he exclaimed, pointing to an entry dated the 16th February. After mentioning the number of antelopes they had seen, he continued: "It thus results math-em-at-ic-al-ly that the 25,000 square miles at which I estimate the area of the Niger Bend would contain 556,055 antelopes and .842 of an antelope. There's information which is worth something from a zoological point of view, I fancy!"

  "Indeed . . . indeed . . ." babbled Amedee Florence, astounded.

  "Amazing things, I tell you," M. Poncin continued volubly with some statistics which culminated in the statement, "And the tattoo marks of the Negroes of this region, placed end to end, would make the 103,589ths of the circuit of the earth! That.. . ."

  "That's enough! that's enough! ... Monsieur Poncin," Florence interrupted him, holding his ears. "It is certainly fine, but I declare it's too much for me. A last question, these hieroglyphics, which I look the liberty of copying one day, are they anything of the sort?"

  "Precisely," M. Poncin declared, and he explained some of his cabalistics: "What's most interesting is the conclusion, the total population of the Niger Bend. As you see, on 5th December, P.t., that means the total population-1,479,114."

  "Yes, I understand," said Florence, "but I also notice that, at 16th February, P.t. 470,652. Which of these numbers is right?"

  "Both," declared M. Poncin. "The first was true for the 5th December, and the second for the 16th February."

  "Then some frightful epidemic must have taken place in between?"

  "I don't know and I don't want to know," was the sublime declaration of M. Poncin. "A statistician worthy of the name refuses to consider causes, Monsieur. He watches, he observes, he counts, it all lies in that. Then, from his observations, his investigations, his estimates, the results emerge spontaneously. What does it matter if they change? That is math-em-at-ic-al-ly inevitable, if their factors have altered. A detail like that does not keep addition from being addition, subtraction from being subtraction, multiplication. . .."

  "From being multiplication, etcetera."

  "Etcetera," M. Poncin repeated mechanically. "Statistics may be an immutable science, Monsieur, but it is forever evolving."

  His curiosity more fully satisfied than he had expected, after this admirable maxim, Amedee Florence hastened to close the discussion.

  When the prisoners were together the subject of their conversation was more serious. As might be thought, they usually discussed their situation and the man it depended on. This was Harry Killer; time did not detract from the impression he had made upon them.

  "Who can that fellow be?" asked M. Barsac.

  "He's English," replied Jane Blazon. "His accent shows that."

  "English, granted," Barsac answered, "but that doesn't tell us much. Anyhow, he's no ordinary man. To have created a town, to have transformed the desert as he has done, to have brought water to regions where it has been unknown for centuries, and all in ten years, this work presupposes a veritable genius making use of a vast scientific knowledge. It's not conceivable that this adventurer has such marvellous gifts."

  "I find it more incomprehensible still," said Amedee Florence. "I think Harry Killer is mad."

  "He's half mad, at least," Dr. Chatonnay corrected him. "But he's a half mad alcoholic, and that's terrible."

  "These two qualities together," said Amedee Florence, "makes him the classical type of the despot, a creature of impulse, whom fate has endowed with power, and who uses it like a spoiled child. Unable to tolerate the slightest opposition, he passes without any transition from fury to calmness and back again, and he shows a profound contempt for human life, as others understand it."

  "Such a character is not uncommon in Africa," Dr. Chatonnay explained. "To live continually in the company of men generally inferior to themselves, to be able to order them about uncontrolled, too often makes cruel satraps out of Europeans who haven't a firm enough character and lofty enough ideals to keep them from being seduced. Despotism is an endemic disease of the Colonies. Harrv Killer has taken it a little further, that's all."

  "So far as I'm concerned, he's mad, I tell you," Amedee Florence summed up the discussion, "and you can never trust a madman. I'm sure that he's forgotten us, and yet I can't deny that within five minutes he might order us to be executed on the spot."

  For a week his pessimistic conjectures were not realized, and until the 3rd April life went on without anything fresh happening. That day, was however, marked by two events of a very different nature. About three in the afternoon the prisoners were agreeably surprised at the arrival of Malik. As soon as she saw Jane Blazon,
Malik fell at her feet and kissed, with touching warmth, the hands of her good mistress, who was equally moved herself.

  It transpired that, instead of being transported by heliplane like the other prisoners, the little Negress had come, with fourteen men and the two sergeants of the former escort, by stages during which she had not escaped harsh treatment. Nobody asked her about the fate of Tongane of whom, to judge by her distress, she had no news.

  Two hours after her arrival came a second incident of a very different nature. It was about five when Tchoumould ran into the gallery. Showing signs of great agitation, he told the prisoners that Harry Killer had sent him with orders to fetch Mlle Mornas, whom The Master regarded as his future wife.

  The prisoners were unanimous in their downright refusal, and in spite of his insistence Tchoumouki had to retire. As soon as he had gone, they excitedly discussed Harry Killer's strange invitation. All were in agreement on this point, that their companion should not be separated from them on any pretext.

  "Thank you, friends," Jane Blazon told them, "for the gallant protection you've thrown round me, but don't think I shan't be able to protect myself when I'm alone with that brute. After all he isn't invulnerable. Though they've searched you, they didn't think it worth while to take that precaution with a woman, and they've left me this weapon."

  Jane showed them the dagger she had found in her brother's grave, and was now carrying hidden in her clothing.

  "Be sure," she added, "if necessary, I shall know how to use it."

  Scarcely had she put the weapon back in its hiding-place when Tchoumouki returned, almost mad with fear. On hearing Mlle Mornas' reply Harry Killer had got into a furious rage, and had sent him to fetch her immediately. If she persisted in her refusal, all six of the prisoners would be hanged at once.

  Hesitation was no longer possible, and Jane Blazon, refusing to bring such a fate on those whom she had let into this adventure, insisted, in spite of her companions' entreaties, on complying. They vainly tried to hold her back by force. At Tchoumouki's shout, a dozen Negroes burst into the gallery and kept them helpless until she had gone.

  She did not return until eight that evening, after an absence of three long hours while her companions (especially the unhappy St. Berain, who was weeping copiously) felt the greatest uneasiness on her account.

  "Well?" they asked, as soon as they saw her.

  "Well, that's well over," replied the girl, who was still trembling.

  "What did he want with you?"

  "Nothing, or rather, he wanted to see me, that's all. When I got there, he had already begun drinking, which seems to be his custom, and he was half drunk. He made me sit down, and began to pay compliments to me, after his usual style. He told me that he found me to his taste, and that he'd like to have a little housewife like me. He boasted of his power and his wealth, which he said are immense, and which I should enjoy like him when I was his wife.

  "I listened to him quietly, and merely replied that he had given us a month to consider things, and that so far only a week had elapsed. Strange as you may think it, he was not at all offended; I really think I've got some influence over the madman. He agreed that he would allow us a month to make up our minds, but on condition that I devote all my afternoons to him...."

  "Then you've got to back there, my poor child?" St. Berain cried distressfully.

  "It's absolutely necessary," Jane Blazon replied, "but I don't think I shall be risking much, to judge by our first afternoon. He was completely drunk before seven, and my task was simply to light his pipe and fill his glass until the brute began to snore, when I took tire opportunity of coming back to you."

  Thenceforth, indeed, she had to go every day, about three, to Harry Killer, with whom she stayed until about eight. According to her report every evening, the treaty was peaceably complied with. She spent every afternoon in the same manner. On her arrival she foimd the despot in conference with his Counsellors, and the orders he gave them certainly showed great intelligence. There was nothing special in his instructions, which covered the administration of the town and the work in the fields; indeed, the government of Blackland would not have seemed at all mysterious if Harry Killer had not, from time to time, bent over the ear of one of his Counsellors, to give him some confidential message whose nature Jane did not know.

  The Council always lasted four hours; then everyone else went out, leaving Jane Blazon alone with Harry Killer. But soon he left her by herself. Every day, indeed, at exactly half past four, he vanished beyond a little door whose key never left him. Where did he go? Of this, Jane knew absolutely nothing.

  On the first three days she had waited for him to return, and a few seconds after he had gone her ear was struck by strange noises, distant cries of anguish that might be uttered by someone undergoing torture. These cries lasted about fifteen minutes; then, after being away half an hour, Harry Killer, reappearing through the little door, returned in high good humour. Jane lighted his pipes and filled his glass, whereupon he proceeded to drink himself insensible.

  It was only for the three days that she awaited his return, but soon these distant cries, betokening a suffering that she was unable to relieve, so distressed her that she could bear it no longer. So she made it her custom, during her half hour of solitude, to walk about the Palace. Soon its personnel, the Counsellors, coloured servants and the Merry Fellows on duty, began to recognize her and even to show her a certain deference.

  Each evening came the moment when drunkenness left Harry Killer at her mercy. The young girl could then have got rid of him quite easily by a blow from the only legacy of her unfortunate brother, the dagger. But she had not given it. Apart from her natural reluctance to killing a defenceless man, no matter how vicious he was, what good would the murder have done? With Harry Killer dead, there would still remain the rest of that robber band who called themselves the Counsellors, the Negroes, snouted like wild beasts, who formed the Black Guard, and that horde of smugglers who composed the population of Blackland.

  The position of the prisoners would not have been improved but actually worsened by the death of perhaps the only man in the whole town who, in his lucid moments, gave proof of real intelligence and could understand the advantages of mercy. Jane Blazon's companions were in full agreement with her. No, they must not slay Harry Killer at any price.

  But another plan might be better. As she enjoyed the despot's confidence, might it be possible to kidnap him? Then they would have a hostage of their own, and they could meet strength with strength.

  Unfortunately this plan involved great difficulties. How could they seize Harry Killer in the face of the people who moved about the Palace and the men who guarded the prisoners? Even if this difficulty were overcome, might not the people of Blackland be glad to get rid of him, and refuse to negotiate for his freedom? Finally, even if this possibility did not arise, if a peace treaty were finally arranged, how could they be certain it would be kept? To solve such problems was not easy.

  In addition to this plan, Jane Blazon cherished another, which she had confided to her companions. Both her curiosity and her pity were aroused, the one by the regular absence of Harry Killer, the other by the distant cries which never failed to be heard at the same moment every evening. When Harry Killer, completely drunk, had lost consciousness, she had wished more than once to take the key of the door through which he vanished every afternoon and to see what was behind it. So far, however, her courage had failed, and she had resisted a desire whose gratification might have serious consequences.

  Five days passed thus, and then came the 8th of April.

  That day, a little past nine in the evening, the prisoners, including Malik, assembled on the platform of the bastion, were asking Jane Blazon about the events of the day, which had been just like its predecessor. On the floor below Tchoumouki was attending to his duties before going off until the morrow.

  Although the moon was not yet in its last quarter, heavy clouds which to all appearances would no
t be slow in discharging themselves in rain made the night very dark. On the platform, which the lights from the other bank of the Red River did not reach, lay deep shadows.

  Suddenly something fell on the paving stones, striking them with a dull thud. The startled prisoners at once broke off their conversation. Whence had it come, and what could dris thing be that their eyes could not distinguish?

  Amedee Florence was the first to regain selfcontrol. In a few moments he had discovered the mysterious projectile. It was a large pebble attached to a cord whose other end, passing across the parapet, must dip into the Red River.

  What was the meaning of this? Might it not conceal a trap, or had the prisoners got, in Blackland itself, an unknown friend who wanted to send them a message? To find out, they need only pull up the cord, which might have a message attached to its end. Amedee at once began the task of hauling it in, but he had to call for the assistance of Dr. Chatonnay. Very thin, the weight it supported made it slip through their fingers. There could be no question of a mere letter.

  At last they reached its end, attached to which was a much thicker cord. As they had done with the thread, they hauled it in. When they had dragged in about thirty or thirty-five yards without any difficulty, they encountered a resistance, not firm as if the cord were attached to a fixed object, but elastic, as though someone were pulling at its other end. For a few moments they felt at a loss. What were they to do?

  "Fasten the cord," Amedee Florence suggested. "We shall soon see if that's what he wanted. Whoever it was sent us the cord." This was done.

  At once the cord grew taut. Somebody must be climbing up it, and the prisoners, peering over the parapet, strove to catch a glimpse of him. Soon they could make out a human figure rapidly ascending the walk