Real Gold: A Story of Adventure

“Here, take your fireworks, my lads,” whispered John Manning at last. “Pouches are fastened to ’em, and well filled with ammunition. I’ll help you to put ’em on as we go.”

All this in a whisper, and then Perry said: “You thought of our wanting them, then?”

“Rum sort of soldier if I hadn’t, my lad,” growled the man. “Steady. Keep on walking. Under your right arm, my lad. That’s it. – Now you, Mr Cyril.”

“Mine’s on all right,” was the reply; and then it was always onward and downward, in and out among the trees, with all around so dark beneath branches, that, but for the steady, slow pace of the mules, which never hesitated for a moment, the journey would have been next to impossible. And all the time, as the rustling, soft, trampling noise made by the animals’ hoofs went on, very few words were spoken, for every ear was attent and strained to catch the first announcement of the pursuit having begun.

The two boys felt no inclination to converse, but tramped on silent enough, while, when anything was said, John Manning was the speaker. He would begin by enjoining silence in the ranks, and the minute after, find he had something he must say.

“Don’t think they’ve took the alarm yet, gentlemen,” he said, after a long time. “That dodge o’ yourn with the Injuns’ frocks was splendid. When they do come, take your word from me, as I command the rearguard; and fire low, for we must give them a volley.”

Perry shrank from their old servant involuntarily, for it seemed to him horrible that John Manning should speak in so cheery a tone from time to time, when, only a short time back, he had imbrued his hand in the blood of their two guides. But at last he felt constrained to speak, the words coming forth unbidden.

“Those two guides,” he said huskily.

“Ay, poor chaps, it seemed hard, sir,” replied the old soldier; “but it was us or them, and, of course, it had to be them. We was obliged to do it, or else how was I to get the mules loaded?”

“But it seems so horrible,” said Cyril.

“Oh, I don’t know, sir. Sort o’ tit for tat. They wouldn’t ha’ been very particular about us, and it was, as you may say, in self-defence. But, I say, Mr Cyril, don’t you think I got all those packs down to the mules pretty quick, and the beasts laden?”

“Wonderfully quickly,” said Cyril.

“It was, sir, though I say it as shouldn’t say it. I did get warm over the job. Thought I should have had no end o’ trouble with ’em, but they took it as quietly as lambs; and as soon as they found out what was going on, the pack-mules all hung together and waited their turns, while the saddle mules seemed to be looking on.”

“Of course that was after the – after Diego and the other man – ”

“Of course, sir. There’d ha’ been no mule packing if we’d left those two chaps to lift up their lovely voices, and shout to their friends for help. That would not have done, eh, Mr Cyril?”

“No; I suppose not, if we were to escape.”

“And that’s what we had to do, sir; for, as the colonel said to me more than once, ‘We’re not safe, John Manning, for sooner or later they’ll find out why I have come, and then I would not answer for our lives.’ But we’re off now in spite of ’em, and well provisioned too. My word, I did get a warming over those mules; but the colonel’s wonderful handy at the loading, and helped me well. You see, he superintended a lot out in India, when we had mules and camels to carry our baggage. And we did it all fine. Listen.”

They paused, but the faint pattering of the mules’ hoofs was the only sound; and they followed on again, John Manning keeping silence for a time, and then bursting out with a chuckle.

“I told you so yes’day, young gentlemen. The colonel ’ll have some dodge to get us off, and there you are! He led, and it was grand the way in which he had worked it out. He didn’t tell me till to-night, and when he had done, I laughed out. ‘Think it will do, John Manning?’ he said. ‘Do, sir?’ I says. ‘Of course it’ll do;’ and it’s done. Don’t suppose those two liked it much, poor fellows, but they had to put up with it.”

“Oh, John Manning,” cried Perry excitedly, unable to bear it any longer, “how can you treat it so lightly? If you had tied and bound the poor wretches, it would have been different, but to drag them away and kill them in cold blood! It is horrible.”

“Well I am blessed!” exclaimed the old soldier, in a tone and with an emphasis that showed how he was startled.

“And I’ll never believe that my father meant it to be so.”

John Manning gave Cyril a dig with his elbow, and he winked one eye, but the act was invisible in the darkness.

“Why, it was him as ’vented the plan, sir. I only helped carry it out.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Perry.

“Hadn’t we got to escape, sir?”

“But in such a way!”

“Why, it was a splendid way, Master Perry. But I say I am ashamed of you to go private court-martialling your own father in that way, and find such fault with him for helping you to get off!”

“I’m not going to judge him,” said Perry. “I only say it was horrible.”

“Well, yes, sir, it was, and is,” said the old soldier, giving Cyril another dig. “Can’t say as I should like to lie all night on my back with my hands tied behind me to a big pole, and my ankles and knees served the same, just as if I was going to be roasted for a cannibal’s dinner, and to make it worse, an old worsted stocking rammed into my mouth, and a cloth tied over it and behind my neck, to make sure I didn’t get it out.”

“What!” cried Perry.

“I said a stocking rammed into my month, sir, so as I shouldn’t holler, only breathe. It is hard on a man, but what was you to do?”

“Then you didn’t kill them,” cried Perry joyfully.

“Kill ’em,” said John Manning, in a tone full of disgust. “Did you ever know a British soldier, as was a soldier, go killing folk in that way, sir, when they’d been made prisoners? Master Perry, sir, I’m ashamed o’ you for thinking such a thing o’ your father, as is as fine an officer as ever stepped.”

“Not so much ashamed of me as I am of myself,” said Perry huskily. “Then Diego and the other man are all right?”

“They don’t think so,” said the old soldier with a chuckle. “They’re precious uncomfortable by this time, for I rammed the stockings pretty far, and I tied them knots with those new hide ropes as tight as they’d draw.”

“Quiet there, quiet,” said the colonel sternly, for he had stopped and let the mules pass him. “No more talking for the present. Can you hear anything?”

“No, sir, not a sound,” said John Manning. But even as he spoke there was a faint cry borne on the night wind from high up the valley, and situated as they were, that sound could only have one meaning – pursuit.

Chapter Nineteen

The Dark Way

“They’ve missed us,” said Cyril excitedly. “Shall I run to the leader, sir, and hurry him on?”

“No, my lad,” said the colonel, “we shall do nothing by hurrying. Our retreat must be carried out slowly. We can get on no faster than the mules will walk. Keep on as we are.”

He left them after listening for a few minutes, and hurried forward to reach his place again by the leading mule, for the sagacious beast had gone steadily on, followed by the others, acting as if it knew its duty as well as a human being – that duty being to follow the easiest course offered by the valley, which ran parallel with one of the outer ranges of foot-hills, there being no track whatever to act as guide.

“Sounds quite reviving,” said John Manning in a whisper. “We’ve had so much dull do-nothing times, that it quite freshens one up.”

“How long will it be before they overtake us?” said Perry anxiously.

“How long have we been coming here, sir?” replied the old soldier.

“I don’t know – an hour, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir, an hour. Well, if they knew the way we came and followed on, it would take them hours more than it has taken us.”

“Why?” said Cyril sharply.

“Why, sir? because,” said John Manning, with one of his dry chuckles, “they’ll have to come along very slowly, searching among the trees as they come, for fear of overrunning the scent; for as it’s dark, they’ve got nothing to guide ’em, and I hope they won’t find much when it’s light, for the sun will soon dry up the dew which shows the marks made by brushing it off. We’re all right till they hit the track we’ve come, and that won’t be till some time to-morrow, if they hit it then.”

“Oh, they’ll know the way we’ve come,” said Perry, who was breathing hard from excitement.

“They must be very clever then, sir,” said John Manning drily. “I should say they’ll think we’ve made for the way we came.”

“Speak lower,” said Cyril. “Why?”

“Because, says they, these white fellows haven’t got any guides now, and they only know one road, so they’re sure to take it.”

“Yes, that sounds likely,” said Perry sharply; “but how was it we could hear them shouting?”

“I know that,” said Cyril. “The air is so clear right up here in the mountains, and the wind is this way. It’s like seeing. You know how close the peaks seem when they’re twenty miles away.”

“Yes, sir, and sounds run along a hollow like this wonderfully. Why, I remember in one of the passes up in India, we in the rearguard could hear the men talking right away in the front as easily as if we were close to them.”

“But look here,” said Cyril. “Diego or the other fellow must have seen which way we came.”

“They must have been very sharp then, sir, for I took care to tie a little biscuit bag over each of their heads, only I left holes for their noses to come out and breathe. Don’t you fret, young gentlemen; we’ve got the start, and I don’t believe the fight ’ll begin ’fore to-morrow evening, if it do then.”

“You know, then, that it will come to a fight,” said Perry.

“Well, say a skirmish, sir. We in the rearguard ’ll have to be divided into three companies, and keep on retiring one after the other, and taking up fresh ground to protect the baggage-train. It’s all right, gentlemen, and it’ll be quite a new experience for you both. You’ll like it as soon as the excitement begins.”

“Excitement?” cried Perry. “Suppose one of us is shot.”

“Ah, we don’t think of that, sir, in the army,” said John Manning. “We think of the enemy getting that. But, if one of us is so unlucky, why, then, he’ll be clapped on a mule’s back and go on with the baggage-train.”

The two boys stopped then to listen, but all was silent save the faint rustling made by the mules in front as they went steadily onward in their leader’s track. The night was dark, but the stars glittered brilliantly overhead in a broad strip which showed how deep down the valley had grown, and how wall-like the sides rose in their blackness.

“I say,” whispered Perry, stopping short. “Doesn’t it make you feel shivery?”

“No,” said Cyril. “Shuddery. We seem to be going on, down and down, as if this were a slope leading right underground. I shall be glad when the daylight comes, so that we can see where we are going. – Hear any one coming?”

“No, but let’s go on, or we may be left behind.”

“Well, we are left behind now.”

“But suppose we missed the others. It would be horrible.”

“No fear,” said Cyril; “the valley’s getting narrower and narrower, and if we keep on, we’re sure to overtake the mules.”

Cyril was right, for in a few minutes they heard the faint patter of the hoofs again, and were glad to keep close in the rear, for instinctively the patient beasts picked out the easiest way. And now from being a smooth, grassy, park-like, open valley, the route they followed began to contract into a gorge, from whose wall-like sides masses of stone had been tumbled down in the course of ages, till the bottom was growing more difficult to traverse every mile they passed; while, for aught they knew in the darkness, they might be skirting precipice and pitfall of the most dangerous kind, depending, as they were, entirely upon the mules.

They had suggestions of there being unknown depths around, for to their left there was the gurgling, rushing sound of water, apparently deep down beneath the fallen stones, sometimes louder, sometimes dying away into a murmur; till all at once, as they turned a corner into sudden, complete darkness – for the long band of starry light overhead was now shut out – they were startled by a deep echoing, booming roar, and a chilling damp air smote them in the face as it came down, evidently from some gorge to their right, which joined the one along which they had travelled.

It needed no explanation. Light failed, but they knew as well as if they were in broad sunshine that they were face to face with a huge cascade which came gliding down from far on high into some terrific chasm far below, while the change from the calm silence of the valley they had traversed to the deafening sound which rose from below, was confusing and strange to such a degree, that they came to a stand.

It was not that the noise was so great, as that it seemed, paradoxical as it may sound, so huge and soft, and to pervade all space, to the exclusion of everything else. As Cyril said afterwards, it was a noise that did not pierce and ring in your ears, but stopped them up and smothered all speech; while the darkness was so deep, that no one felt the slightest desire to take a step forward.

Perry was the first to make any move, for all at once he felt for Cyril, placed his lips close to his ear, and said excitedly:

“My father: can you hear him?”

“No,” replied his companion, after a pause. “I can only hear the water.”

“Then he must have fallen in. – Here, John Manning. Where is the lantern?”

“Tied to the first mule’s pack, sir.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Perry excitedly, and then he shouted “Father!” as loudly as he could, but the cry seemed to be driven back in his face.

“I’ll light a match, sir,” cried Manning, and after a few moments there was a flash, the gleam of a light, and the shape of the old soldier’s hands, with the tiny flame gleaming ruddily between his fingers; but, save that the boys saw the familiar rugged features of the man’s face for a few moments, they saw nothing more, and the darkness grew painful as the match went out.

John Manning struck another light, got the splint well in a blaze, and tossed it from him; but there was nothing to be seen but mist. The boys now shouted together, but without result, and a chilling sensation of dread came over them as they grasped each other’s wet cold hand, not daring to stir, and with the horrible feeling increasing upon them that some terrible tragedy must have happened to their leader.

Just when the sensation of horror was at its height, John Manning’s voice was heard.

“What had we best do, gentlemen – go forward or go back?”

“We ought to go forward,” said Cyril.

“Yes, that’s what I feel, sir,” shouted the man; “but next step may be down into the pit.”

“We must go on,” said Perry excitedly; “my father wants help. He’s in danger, I’m sure, or he would have made some sign.”

As he spoke, he snatched his hand from Cyril’s grasp, and took a step or two forward into the black darkness.

“Perry!” shouted Cyril, in a voice which sounded like a faint whisper, as he felt himself seized by the shoulder, John Manning’s great hand closing upon it like a vice, and holding it firmly.

“Where’s Master Perry?”

No answer escaped Cyril’s lips for a minute. He felt suffocated, and it was not until John Manning had shaken him violently and repeated his question twice, that he panted out the single word, “Gone.”

“Can you see where – has he fallen in?” was panted in his ear.

“No; he stepped from me to help the colonel, and then he was gone.”

John Manning groaned, and Cyril felt the strong man’s hand trembling, and the vibration thrilled through the boy’s frame until every nerve quivered with the horrible dread which assailed him.

All at once he felt the lips at his ear again.

“Let’s shout together, sir,” was whispered, and they tried hard to make their voices heard, calling together with all their strength, but they did not seem to be able to pierce the roar which pressed, as it were, upon them; and though they repeated the cry at intervals and listened for a reply, none came.

“It’s no good, Mr Cyril, sir,” groaned John Manning. “I’m ready, sir, to do anything to try and save my poor colonel and Master Perry; what can I do? It’s like chucking away my life and yours, sir, to stir a step.”

“Yes, and I’d help you,” said Cyril despairingly; “but we dare not move in this terrible darkness.”

“Shall we try to go back, sir?”

“No,” shouted Cyril firmly. “We must not do that.”

“What then, sir? What can we do?”

“Wait for daylight,” Cyril shouted back in the man’s ear. Then softly to himself: “And pray.”

Chapter Twenty

Waiting for Daylight

As John Manning afterwards said, those were hours to make a man’s hair turn grey, and to Cyril every minute seemed to be indefinitely prolonged, as he stood till he felt his knees begin to give way beneath him, and finally sank cautiously down upon them – John Manning imitating his movement – till they both rested upon wet, slippery rock.

There they crouched with strained ears, waiting for the light which seemed as if it would never come, while the noise was crushing them back, as it were, upon themselves, and dulling their brains till all was to Cyril like some terrible dream. There were moments when he felt as if his senses were leaving him, and the sensation was almost welcome, for the agony at last grew greater than he could bear.

He had reached this pitch as he crouched there with his arm drawn tightly through John Manning’s, when he felt the man’s grasp upon him loosened, and the next moment he felt a thrust.

He knew directly what it meant. Following the movement, he became conscious of some pale, bluish-looking smoke on his left, and as this grew clearer, he realised that it was not smoke, but a thick mist between him and the coming light of day; but for a few minutes there was nothing more.

Then by slow degrees this dim, grey appearance grew and expanded, till the boy made out that the mist rose out of the depths before them, and at last that he and John Manning were crouching upon a ledge of rock on one side of a great gulf, down into which the waters thundered from their right, while overhead the wall of rock rose up nearly straight, the light of day being shut out by the dense mist which rose from below.

This light increased rapidly now in pale gleams from the left, and a faint, soft diffusion from above, showing that they were where a vast rift in the mountain joined at right angles the valley they had descended, while the rocky sides were so close that they nearly met overhead. But some time elapsed before they could make out more, the steamy mist obscuring everything, and preventing them from seeing anything of Perry or the colonel.

They had both risen to their feet, and clasping hands, began, as soon as it was possible to see a step or two, to try to penetrate farther in; but before they had gone half-a-dozen steps, John Manning, who looked misty and unsubstantial to Cyril, stopped short and pointed downward in front of him to where the rock looked slippery as glass.

“He went down there, sir,” he shouted, and loosening his grasp, threw himself down upon his chest, and wormed himself forward, so as to get his head over the gulf and look down.

Cyril watched the man in agony, fully expecting to see him glide forward out of sight; but in a few minutes he worked himself back, rose, and placed his lips to the boy’s ear again.

“Can’t see. All one thick cloud of spray.”

Cyril gave a great start, for at that moment, from out of the misty gloom, the colonel strode forward to meet them.

“Thank goodness,” he shouted. “I was very nervous about – Where’s Perry?”

Cyril and John Manning, whose faces had lit up with pleasure, now gave him a despairing look, which made him seize Cyril by both arms.

“My boy!” he gasped. “Where’s my boy?”

There was no reply. There was none needed, for the colonel read in their faces what was wrong. He had seen them, too, trying to look down into the misty gulf below, and there was a horrible look of despair in his countenance as he pointed mutely down into the terrible-looking gloom.

Then going right to the edge, he tried to look over, but drew back a little and stretched out his hand to John Manning, hooking his fingers the while.

The old soldier stepped forward. Long discipline and training had made him ready to grasp his master’s wishes, and planting his right foot against a projecting piece of the rock, he hooked his fingers in the colonel’s, and then hung slightly back, giving a little and a little more, till the latter was able to lean right out and gaze down.

It was by this time far lighter, and the mist was here and there transparent, as it came eddying up more and more like the clouds of smoke from a fire, but there was no piercing even the lightest parts; and giving this up in despair, Colonel Campion rose up, made a sign to them to stand firm, and then stepped rapidly in the direction from which they had seen him come.

One minute they saw his figure growing fainter along by the side of the rock-wall, the next he had disappeared in the gloom and mist.

“Let’s follow,” said Cyril, with his lips to John Manning’s ear.

The man shook his head.

“Soldier never leaves his post without orders,” he replied. “Better stay, sir.”

Cyril hesitated, but stayed; now watching the spot where the colonel had disappeared, now letting his eyes wander round the place, which, as the growing light of day penetrated it more and more, was still awful enough, with its whirling mist, gloom, and deafening roar of invisible water falling behind the pearly veil, but far from being as terrible as when it was all shrouded in deep obscurity.

For the light came down softly from high above their heads, showing that though the rocky walls nearly approached, there was a firmly-defined band that would probably be bright and golden when the sun rose, but John Manning’s words were justified as he suddenly leaned forward and said:

“What a place, sir! It’s a wonder there ain’t four of us gone for good.”

Just then the colonel reappeared with half-a-dozen of the raw hide ropes used about the mules for lassoes, tethering, and binding on their loads.

These he threw down, and John Manning followed his example as he began to knot them together.

“Bear me?” shouted the colonel to the old soldier.

“Two of you, sir,” said the latter; “but you lower, I’ll go.”

The colonel shook his head angrily – the task of speaking was too much in his state of anguish – and he went on trying the knots he made, while Cyril picked up one end and examined a couple of the knots before making a strong loop, and passing it over his head and shoulders.

His action passed un-noticed for a few moments, for he had drawn back; but when the last rope was joined to the others, the colonel turned and grasped the boy’s intention.

“God bless you, my lad,” he cried, “but I cannot let you go.”

Cyril hardly heard a word in the midst of that deep-toned, booming thunder, but he grasped their import, and stood firm.

“Yes,” he shouted. “I’m light. Lower me down.”

A curious sensation attacked him as he spoke, and he knew that he was turning pale, but he faced in the direction of the gulf, and tried hard to pull himself together.

“Perry would have gone down after me,” he said to himself, “and it isn’t so very dangerous after all.”

But all the while he knew that it was, and also that it was a task calling for nerve, determination, and strength, all three of which he seemed to be wanting in when face to face with the dense, wreathing mist of that terrible gulf.

“I don’t care. I’m afraid, horribly afraid,” he muttered between his teeth. “But I’ll go. I’d go if it was twice as dangerous, if it’s only to let father know I’m not all bad.”

Meanwhile, a short discussion, painfully hard, went on between the colonel and John Manning, the former hesitating, the latter insisting.

“He’s light, and can do it better than you. Perhaps we couldn’t pull you up, nor you me.”

Then the colonel held out his hand to Cyril, who grasped it eagerly, but in an instant the colonel’s face began to work, and he drew the lad to his breast, held him there for a brief moment, and then released him.