CHAPTER XVII

GERALD'S RUSE

IT will now be necessary to return to the events that befell the expedition.

Having followed the tracks across the open plain with comparative ease the party plunged into the sombre gloom of the forest, if forest it might be termed, for the trees grew in clumps with frequently a clearing of fifty to a hundred yards between.

"We'll strike an arm of the creek in a few minutes," observed Stockton.

"The sooner the better," replied Slade, shortly, for in the keen biting air talking could only be maintained by an effort. Every breath seemed to lacerate the lungs, while the wind was so bitter that the thick woollen garments worn by the men seemed totally insufficient to withstand the numbing effects of the intense cold.

"It's snowing, sir," exclaimed one of the men. "I've served in the Arctic, and I know what this means. Our tracks will be covered up in a few minutes."

"Well, what do you propose?" asked Slade. "We've no compass."

"Send a man back to blaze the trees before the track is wiped out, sir, then do the same as we advance."

"Very good. Roberts, you make your way back and slice a piece of bark off a tree now and again, so that each mark can be seen from the one nearest to it. Now, look sharp, you others, if we are to find Black alive."

Roberts set out on his return journey, while the rest of the expedition, bending low in order to force their way against the driving hail and snow, proceeded on their way.

Suddenly above the moaning of the wind a blood-curdling yell, issuing simultaneously from a hundred throats, burst upon the ears of the astonished party, and a shower of spears thrown with tremendous force came hurtling through the air.

Three men fell, badly wounded, while two more received slight flesh-wounds. Taken completely by surprise the survivors strove to draw their revolvers, but ere their benumbed hands--rendered additionally clumsy by reason of their thick woollen gloves--could perform their task, the savages were upon them.

Having all his work cut out to defend himself, Jack Stockton could pay no heed to his companions; it was a case of each man for himself. Contriving to obtain a grip at his revolver Jack fired, but the small-calibred nickel bullet, with its high initial velocity, passed through the shoulder of his nearest opponent so cleanly that the muscular savage was unaware that he was hit. Even at that critical moment Stockton wondered whether the weapon had missed fire, till he remembered that it had "kicked," and quick as lightning the thought flashed through his mind that Captain Brookes's methods of exterminating war could not be favourably applied when opposed to savages.

The next instant Jack was grappling with the brawny Patagonian; and though the Englishman was powerfully built and "hard as nails," his strength was like that of a child compared with that of his antagonist.

He felt himself being forced backwards till it seemed as if his spine was on the point of snapping, jagged spear-heads were poised ready to be driven home, and ponderous clubs were whirled above his head.

Then a merciful unconsciousness came upon him and he remembered no more.

Meanwhile Slade, fighting right manfully, had succeeded in flooring three of his antagonists by well-directed blows of his fist; for, in spite of his gloves, the lieutenant's knuckles struck home with sledge-hammer force and precision. For a time it seemed as if he would be able to keep his foes at bay, till a wily savage, stealing up from behind, dealt him a crashing blow with a club. Slade possessed a thick skull in more senses than one, and on this occasion it served its purpose. Under the blow, that would have killed most men, Slade fell senseless in the snow.

When Stockton regained consciousness he found himself lying under the shelter of an overhanging rock, with Slade and one of the seamen lying close to him. Were it not for the actual contact all three would have been dead through exposure to the intense cold. At first he could hardly open his eyes, for the blood that had oozed from a gash in his forehead had congealed and had thus prevented a copious loss of the vital fluid.

Gathered around the prostrate forms of the survivors of the unfortunate expedition were nearly a hundred savages, some of whom were still squabbling over the distribution of their prisoners' effects, for every metal article had been unceremoniously taken from them. Gradually the details of the surprise dawned upon the young Englishman, and he vaguely wondered why the Patagonians had not completed their murderous work. Perhaps he and his companions were being reserved for a lingering death.

After a while Slade began to stir, then, starting to his feet, he stumbled a few paces, and collapsed in the snow. A roar of derisive laughter from the savages greeted this performance, and a pair of dusky giants lifted the lieutenant and dropped him by the side of his comrade.

"Hello, Slade!" began Jack, wearily, but in reply came a torrent of inarticulate words. The lieutenant was in a delirium. Once he shouted that the men were shirking their task of holy-stoning the decks; then he craved for a cocktail; the next moment begging for a draught of water, till his exhausted body sank beneath the strain and he relapsed into unconsciousness.

Stockton, too, was on the verge of insensibility when a native came running with some news of more than ordinary interest. What the intelligence was Jack could not, of course, comprehend, but the outcome of it was that most of the savages made off, leaving barely a score to watch their helpless prisoners.

One of the native scouts had brought word that the white men's floating village had gone, and the other savages, doubting (as uncivilised tribes invariably do) the word of one of their number, had gone to the shores of the creek to satisfy themselves on that point.

In less than an hour the main body of the natives returned. They were in a great state of joy and excitement, for the _Olive Branch_ had sailed, and the creek was clear, and they could now ferry themselves across and regain their miserable village without fear of molestation. Three litters were hastily constructed by means of spears and lengths of undressed hide, skins being thrown upon them to complete these rough-and-ready contrivances. Upon them the white captives were unceremoniously deposited, and with a weird song of triumph the savages wended their way through the forest to the shore of the creek.

Here a score of muscular arms soon righted the upturned canoes, and on being launched the unstable, yet heavy, dug-outs were so crowded that their gunwales amidships were barely six inches above water. Still scarcely alive to the hazardousness of his position, Stockton found himself lying at the bottom of one of the largest canoes, with Slade and the seaman beside him, both still unconscious and breathing heavily.

Well it was that the storm had abated as suddenly as it had sprung up, and that the ebb tide had now changed to the gentle flood, otherwise the canoes would have inevitably been swamped.

Urged by the powerful strokes of a score of paddles, the craft in which Jack lay shot ahead of the other canoes, its crew giving vent to a long-drawn song as they kept time with their quickly flashing blades.

Suddenly the song of the savages gave place to a yell of terror. They dropped their paddles, stood upright in their fragile craft as if paralysed by a nameless horror; then, overcoming their immobility, they plunged over the side. Relieved of their weight the canoe rocked violently, while a cascade of splashes from the agitated water descended upon the bodies of the three white men.

Then to Stockton's utter astonishment he heard a hearty voice exclaim, "Here they are, by Jove!" and three brawny seamen took a flying leap from somewhere fair into the bottom of the canoe.

"Be sharp! Pass them out!" ordered a voice that Jack knew so well, and the next moment he found himself being carefully, but swiftly, lifted from the canoe on to the narrow platform of the _Olive Branch's_ submarine.

"Thank goodness you're saved!" muttered Gerald, fervently.

The survivors of the unfortunate expedition were carefully passed through the narrow forehatchway, then, scorning to take shelter, Gerald steered the submarine from the skeleton platform surrounding the outside of the conning-tower.

There was no need for the vessel to plunge; her sudden appearance from beneath the waters of Desolation Inlet had struck panic into the hearts of the savages, and now, like a terrier let loose amidst a swarm of rats, the submarine dashed towards the remaining canoes.

Some of the natives let fly a shower of spears in a half-hearted manner. Most of the weapons fell short, while a few glanced harmlessly from the rounded plating of the avenging craft.

Crash! The snout of the steel monster caught the nearest canoe a formidable blow amidships, the dug-out being lifted clear of the water by the impact. The next instant it fell, cut completely in two, and those of its occupants who were not killed or stunned by the concussion were swimming for their lives.

Gerald, in his lust for revenge, resolved to sink the remaining canoes. In their flight the savages lost all sense of strategy and kept together as if seeking comfort in companionship. Thus the submarine's work was rendered still more easy.

Just as the avenger reached the last of the native craft, a savage, in the courage of despair, took a flying leap upon the tapering bows of the submarine. Then, as agile as a cat, he ran along the narrow, sloping deck-plating, and, ere Gerald could avoid the unexpected attack, the muscular Patagonian grasped the sub-lieutenant round the waist.

Gerald's shout for aid was drowned by the crash of the shattered timbers of the canoe, and ere he could repeat the cry the native had shifted the grip of his right hand to his antagonist's throat, while with his left he strove to wrench Tregarthen from the narrow platform.

Realising that the moment he relaxed his grasp of the iron rail he was a lost man, Gerald contrived to strike out with his left. Handicapped by the fact that his hands were encased in thick woollen gloves, and that his reach was limited, the blow fell comparatively light. Then he tried to kick his antagonist clear, but at the first attempt the agile black, intent only on encompassing his enemy's destruction, twisted his legs in a crushing embrace round Gerald's waist, while both his sinewy hands were engaged in squeezing the sub-lieutenant's throat.

Tregarthen felt his strength was ebbing, his breath came in quick gasps, and he gurgled in the throat under the relentless pressure. Even in those few moments of peril Gerald realised that once he fell into the sea the submarine would leave him to his fate, plunging onwards till those below could see that by her erratic course she lacked a guiding hand at the helm. By that time it would be too late.

Held in the merciless grip, Gerald's range of vision was limited to the grey steel walls of the conning-tower two feet from his face. Even in the fierce, yet silent, struggle a slight dent in the metal wall exercised an unaccountable fascination till everything grew white and a filmy mist swam before his eyes.

His hands were relaxing their hold, stronger came the succession of heaves as the savage sought to hasten the end. Flesh and blood could stand the strain no longer; the rail seemed to slip from his grasp, and with his antagonist still locked in an unyielding embrace he fell backwards.

Weakened as he was Gerald braced himself to meet the shock of the icy-cold water, but with a jerk that almost broke his ankle he found his leg seized in a vice-like grip, while simultaneously the tenacious hold of the Patagonian was relaxed. He was dimly conscious of being unceremoniously hauled back to the platform of the submarine, and of Watson, one of the mechanics, making a sudden dart for the steering gear, a heavy spanner still grasped in his hand. Then everything became a blank.