The Cross
The storm that had overtaken Stimbol's safari wrought even greater
havoc with the plans of Jim Blake, altering in the instant of a single
blinding flash of lightning the course of his entire life.
Accompanied by a single black, who carried his camera and an extra
rifle, Blake had struck out from the direct route of his safari in
search of lion pictures, there being every indication that the great
carnivores might be found in abundance in the district through which
they were passing.
It was his intention to parallel the route of his main body and
rejoin it in camp in the afternoon. The boy who accompanied him was
intelligent and resourceful, the direction and speed of the marching
safari were mutually agreed upon and the responsibility for bringing
Blake into camp safely was left entirely to the negro. Having every
confidence in the boy, Blake gave no heed to either time or direction,
devoting all his energies to the fascinating occupation of searching
for photographic studies.
Shortly after leaving the safari Blake and his companion encountered a
herd of seven or eight lions which included a magnificent old male, an
old lioness and five or six young, ranging from half to full grown.
At sight of Blake and his companion the lions took off leisurely
through rather open forest and the men followed, awaiting patiently the
happy coincidence of time, light and grouping that would give the white
man such a picture as he desired.
In the mind of the black man was pictured the route of the safari and
its relation to the meanderings of the quarry. He knew how far and
in what directions he and his companion were being led from their
destination. To have returned to the trail of the safari would have
been a simple matter to him, but Blake, depending entirely upon the
black, gave no heed either to time or direction.
For two hours they clung doggedly to the spoor, encouraged by
occasional glimpses of now one, now several members of the regal group,
but never was the opportunity afforded for a successful shot. Then the
sky became rapidly overcast by black clouds and a few moments later
the storm broke in all the terrific fury that only an Equatorial storm
can achieve, and an instant later amidst the deafening roar of thunder
and a blinding flash of lightning utter disaster engulfed James Hunter
Blake.
How long he lay, stunned by the shock of the bolt that had struck but
a few feet from him, he did not know. When he opened his eyes the storm
had passed and the sun was shining brightly through the leafy canopy
of the forest. Still dazed, uncomprehending the cause or extent of the
catastrophe, he raised himself slowly upon an elbow and looked about
him.
One of the first sights that met his eyes aided materially in the rapid
recovery of his senses. Less than a hundred feet from him stood a group
of lions, seven of them, solemnly regarding him. The characteristics
of individual lions differ as greatly from those of their fellows as
do the characteristics of individuals of the human race and, even
as a human being, a lion may have his moods as well as his personal
idiosyncrasies.
These lions that gravely inspected the man-thing had been spared any
considerable experience with the human species; they had seen but
few men; they had never been hunted; they were well fed; Blake had
done nothing greatly to upset their easily irritated nervous systems.
Fortunately for him they were merely curious.
But Blake did not know all this. He knew only that seven lions were
standing within a hundred feet of him, that they were not in a cage and
that while he had pursued them to obtain photographs, the thing that he
most desired at the moment was not his camera but his rifle.
Stealthily, that he might not annoy them, he looked about him for the
weapon. To his consternation it was nowhere in sight, nor was his
gun bearer with the extra rifle. Where could the boy be? Doubtless,
frightened by the lions, he had decamped. Twenty feet away was a most
inviting tree. Blake wondered if the lions would charge the moment that
he rose to his feet. He tried to remember all that he had heard about
lions and he did recall one fact that applies with almost axiomatic
verity to all dangerous animals—if you run from them they will pursue
you. To reach the tree it would be necessary to walk almost directly
toward the lions.
Blake was in a quandary, and then one of the younger lions moved a few
steps nearer! That settled the matter as far as Blake was concerned,
for the closer the lions came the shorter his chance of gaining the
tree ahead of them in the event that they elected to prevent.
In the midst of a tremendous forest, entirely surrounded by trees,
Nature had chosen to strike him down almost in the center of a natural
clearing. There was a good tree a hundred feet away and on the opposite
side of the clearing from the lions. Blake stole a longing glance at
it and then achieved some rapid mental calculations. If he ran for the
farther tree the lions would have to cover two hundred feet while he
was covering one hundred, while if he chose the nearer tree, they must
come eighty feet while he was going twenty. There seemed, therefore,
no doubt as to the greater desirability of the nearer tree which ruled
favorite by odds of two to one. Against it, however, loomed the mental
hazard that running straight into the face of seven lions involved.
Jim Blake was sincerely, genuinely and honestly scared; but unless the
lions were psychoanalysts they would never have dreamed the truth as
he started nonchalantly and slowly toward them—and the tree. The most
difficult feat that he had ever accomplished lay in making his legs
behave themselves. They wanted to run. So did his feet and his heart
and his brain. Only his will held them in leash.
Those were tense moments for Jim Blake—the first half dozen steps
he took with seven great lions watching his approach. He saw that
they were becoming nervous. The lioness moved uneasily. The old male
growled. A younger male, he who had started forward, lashed his sides
with his tail, flattened his head, bared his fangs and stealthily
approached.
Blake was almost at the tree when something happened—he never knew
what the cause, but inexplicably the lioness turned and bounded away,
voicing a low whine, and after her went the other six.
The man leaned against the bole of the tree and fanned himself with
his helmet. "Whew!" he breathed, "I hope the next lion I see is in the
Central Park Zoo."
But even lions were forgotten in the developments that the next few
moments revealed after repeated shouts for the black boy had brought
no response and Blake had determined that he must set out in search
of him. Nor did he have far to go. On the back track, just inside the
clearing, Blake found a few remnants of charred flesh and a blackened
and half molten rifle barrel. Of the camera not a vestige remained.
The bolt that had bowled Blake over must have squarely struck his gun
bearer, killing him instantly, exploding all the ammunition, destroying
the camera and ruining the rifle that he had carried.
But what had become of the rifle that had been in Blake's hands? The
man searched in all directions, but could not find it and was finally
forced to the conclusion that its disappearance could be attributed
only to one of those freakish tricks which severe electrical storms so
often play upon helpless and futile humanity.
Frankly aware that he was lost and had not the faintest conception
of the direction in which lay the proposed camp of his safari, Blake
started blindly off on what he devoutly hoped would prove the right
route. It was not. His safari was moving northeast. Blake headed north.
For two days he trudged on through dense forest, sleeping at night
among the branches of trees. Once his fitful slumbers were disturbed
by the swaying of a branch against which he was braced. As he awoke he
felt it sag as to the weight of some large animal. He looked and saw
two fiery eyes gleaming in the dark. Blake knew it to be a leopard as
he drew his automatic and fired point blank. With a hideous scream the
great cat sprang or fell to the ground. Blake never knew if he hit it.
It did not return and there were no signs of it in the morning.
He found food and water in abundance, and upon the morning of the
third day he emerged from the forest at the foot of a range of lofty
mountains and for the first time in weeks reveled in an unobstructed
view of the blue sky and saw the horizon again and all that lay between
himself and it. He had not realized that he had been depressed by the
darkness and the crowding pressure of the trees, but now he experienced
all the spiritual buoyancy of a released convict long immured from
freedom and the light of day. Rescue was no longer problematical,
merely a matter of time. He wanted to sing and shout; but he conserved
his energies and started toward the mountains. There had been no native
villages in the forest and so, he reasoned, as there must be native
villages in a well-watered country stocked with game, he would find
them upon the mountain slopes.
Topping a rise he saw below him the mouth of a canyon in the bed of
which ran a small stream. A village would be built on water.
If he followed the water he would come to the village. Quite easy! He
descended to the stream where he was deeply gratified to find that a
well-worn path paralleled it. Encouraged by the belief that he would
soon encounter natives and believing that he would have no difficulty
in enlisting their services in aiding him to relocate his safari, Blake
followed the path upward into the canyon.
He had covered something like three miles without having discovered
any sign of habitation when, at a turn in the path, he found himself
at the foot of a great white cross of enormous proportions. Hewn
from limestone, it stood directly in the center of the trail and
towered above him fully sixty feet. Checked and weatherworn, it gave
an impression of great antiquity, which was further borne out by the
remains of an almost obliterated inscription upon the face of its
massive base.
Blake examined the carved letters, but could not decipher their
message. The characters appeared of early English origin, but he
dismissed such a possibility as too ridiculous to entertain. He knew
that he could not be far from the southern boundary of Abyssinia and
that the Abyssinians are Christians. Thus he explained the presence of
the cross; but he could not explain the suggestion of sinister menace
that this lonely, ancient symbol of the crucifix held for him. Why was
it? What was it?
Standing there, tongueless, hoary with age, it seemed to call upon him
to stop, to venture not beyond it into the unknown; it warned him back,
but not, seemingly, out of a spirit of kindliness and protection, but
rather with arrogance and hate.
With a laugh Blake threw off the mood that had seized him and went on;
but as he passed the great white monolith he crossed himself, though he
was not a Catholic. He wondered what had impelled him to the unfamiliar
act, but he could no more explain it than he could the strange and
uncanny suggestion of power and personality that seemed to surround the
crumbling cross.
Another turn in the path and the trail narrowed where it passed between
two huge boulders that might have fallen from the cliff top towering
far above. Cliffs closed in closely now in front and upon two sides.
Apparently he was close to the canyon's head and yet there was no
slightest indication of a village. Yet where did the trail lead? It had
an end and a purpose. He would discover the former and, if possible,
the latter.
Still under the depressing influence of the cross, Blake passed between
the two boulders; and the instant that he had passed them a man stepped
out behind him and another in front. They were negroes, stalwart,
fine-featured fellows, and in themselves nothing to arouse wonder or
surprise. Blake had expected to meet negroes in Africa; but not negroes
wearing elaborately decorated leathern jerkins upon the breasts of
which red crosses were emblazoned, close fitting nether garments and
sandals held by doeskin thongs, cross gartered half way to their knees;
not negroes wearing close fitting bassinets of leopard skin that fitted
their heads closely and reached to below their ears; not negroes armed
with two handed broad swords and elaborately tipped pikes.
Blake was acutely aware of the pike tips as there was one pressing
against his belly and another in the small of his back.
"Who be ye?" demanded the negro that faced Blake.
Had the man addressed him in Greek Blake would have been no more
surprised than he was by the incongruity of this archaic form of speech
falling from the lips of a twentieth century central African black. He
was too dumbfounded for an instant to reply.
"Doubtless the fellow be a Saracen, Paul!" said the black behind Blake,
"and understands not what thou sayest—a spy, perchance."
"Nay, Peter Wiggs, as my name be Paul Bodkin he be no infidel—that I
know of mine own good eyes."
"Whatsoe'er he be it is for ye to fetch him before the captain of the
gate who will question him, Paul Bodkin."
"Natheless there be no hurt in questioning him first, an he will
answer."
"Stop thy tongue and take him to the captain," said Peter. "I will
abide here and guard the way until thou returnest."
Paul stepped aside and motioned for Blake to precede him. Then he fell
in behind and the American did not need to glance back to know that the
ornate tip of the pike was ever threateningly ready.
The way lay plain before him and Blake followed the trail toward the
cliffs where there presently appeared the black mouth of a tunnel
leading straight into the rocky escarpment. Leaning against the sides
of a niche just within the entrance were several torches made of reeds
or twigs bound tightly together and dipped in pitch. One of these
Paul Bodkin selected, took some tinder from a metal box he carried in
a pouch at his side, struck a spark to it with flint and steel; and
having thus ignited the tinder and lighted the torch he pushed Blake on
again with the tip of his pike and the two entered the tunnel, which
the American found to be narrow and winding, well suited to defense.
Its floor was worn smooth until the stones of which it was composed
shone polished in the flaring of the torch. The sides and roof were
black with the soot of countless thousands, perhaps, of torch-lighted
passages along this strange way that led to—what?
