Chapter XXXI: Trapped in the Breeding-House

It was five days since the punitive force had left Jelandang, and during all that time Armourer had never let the brown girl out of his sight.

Night and day they had pressed forward, halting only to ease the bearers when the sun was at its height, and, of the European members of the party, only Joyce had enjoyed more than a few moments of sleep. They had made a rough hammock for her which the magistrate’s men had carried in turn.

The route chosen by Dara had been different from that which Sembilan and Trevor had followed; they had studiously avoided all native villages and settlements and, until the evening of the second day, no opposition at all had been encountered.

Battiscombe’s expedition came up with them as they paused in the last belt of trees before descending in skirmishing order upon the stretch of open land in which Dara assured them Abu-Samar’s hiding-place lay.

Upon learning of his approach Armourer himself went back to meet his colleague, taking the native girl with him.

He sighted Battiscombe, still red of face and decidedly thinner, marching at the head of a ragged line of troops and natives.

“Hullo, Jim!”

“Hullo, Michael! Thought we were never going to catch you up! You’re in a devil of a hurry, aren’t you?”

It struck Armourer at that moment that his friend knew nothing of his wife’s abduction.

They shook hands.

“Tell your fellows to be careful not to leave the trees. As far as I can make out, we’ve out-flanked Abu’s scouts. There’s a useful sort of mist coming and in about ten minutes I’m going to rush the position.”

Battiscombe lowered himself to the ground and mopped his forehead.

“It’s all too confoundedly strenuous,” he groaned, “Give me my jolly old court-house and a comfortable magisterial chair with a back to it!--Who’s the girl?”

“Samar’s discarded lady-love. She’s bubbling over with jealousy and an earnest desire for vengeance, and has elected to act as our guide.”

The larger man shuffled himself into a patch of shadow and removed his sun-helmet.

“Lord, Michael! I’ve covered a deuce of a lot of ground since last I saw you. I’ve forded rivers, scaled mountains, wallowed in swamps, lost a man with snake-bite, run short of rations and haggled with insolent native potentates over the mere necessities of life!”

In spite of the unpleasant news he sought an opportunity of conveying to the other, Armourer could not resist this:

“Did you find any leeches?”

Battiscombe grinned.

“Hundreds of ’em! So many that I’ve got quite used to them. I’m that hardened that I look upon a day without a leech as an uneventful period of time! How did you leave Vera?”

Armourer’s face became suddenly serious.

“We didn’t leave her, Jim,” he said, looking the other straight in the eyes, “she left _us_.”

Battiscombe started to his feet.

“What d’you mean, Michael?--She’s gone to Rembakut?”

“No,” replied Armourer steadily, “she’s gone to Abu-Samar.”

Battiscombe staggered back as if he had been struck.

“Gone to Abu-Samar!” he echoed, and caught the other’s arm. “How did this happen? What in the name of heaven were you doing to let her go?--Good Lord, man! I left her in your charge.”

“I know that. Trevor was dining with me when she went. She had decided to take dinner in her room and Chong-Si was looking after the three of us. He came in suddenly with the news that the _mem_ had gone out--and brought me a note from her. We didn’t stop to do anything, but dispatched every man we could lay our hands on to look for her, and joined in the hunt ourselves. She went out deliberately to join Samar, but you mustn’t blame her for that. He seems to have hypnotised her. Trevor, myself and Sembilan--the chap I sent to guide you--got on her trail. There were two distinct tracks--and we split up. Trevor and Sembilan almost overtook the fellows Samar had instructed to pick her up, but were held up by a posse of natives with blow-pipes. I collared Dara--the woman I have here now. I cabled Jesselton for instructions, spent the whole night organising an expedition, and have been on the go ever since.”

He could not see his friend’s face--it was hidden in his hands.

“Good God!” he muttered, and then: “Poor little woman!”

He squared his shoulders and turned fiercely on Armourer.

“We must get her back; don’t you understand? We must move _now_.”

“I know,” returned Armourer. “We’re only waiting for you.”

They left both bearers and horses in the forest. Joyce was to follow a little after the main body, with her father, Trevor and two of Armourer’s men. The remainder spread out like a fan--Michael and the girl in the centre, Battiscombe on the right and Corporal Kuraman on the extreme left.

They had covered about three hundred yards, with Samar’s retreat dimly outlined in the distance, when a large force of natives sprang suddenly into being, emerging from behind the cover of the boulders, and greeted the attacking party with wild, defiant yells, followed by a shower of darts.

“Drop!” yelled Armourer; “drop down, all of you. Don’t fire wildly; pick out your men!”

He snatched a rifle from the soldier who was nearest and dropped a big native before he could draw back into cover.

The battle had opened. Shots rang out on all sides, bullets found their mark, flattened themselves against boulders or whined plaintively on into space. The natives replied vigorously, sending over showers of darts with so reckless a profusion that Armourer smiled grimly to himself. He scented that the noise and flash of the rifles was getting them rattled. Their own weapons were such that they had to expose themselves to fire with any degree of accuracy--and the uniformed troops handled their guns like veterans, with a savage delight at having some inspiring sort of target to blaze away at.

At the end of the fourth big hostile shower, he waved his handkerchief and shouted at the top of his voice:

“Fix bayonets! Up--all of you--and let ’em have it!”

There were casualties then--three of them, but they had the satisfaction as they ran, crouching low, to see big bunches of men break from cover and scuttle like rabbits, tumbling one over the other.

A hundred yards and the Government troops had flattened out again, preceding their antagonists by minutes and wreaking fearful havoc before the knots had gained time to disperse.

A couple more similar manœuvres, and blow-pipes had been flung aside for _parangs_ and _krises_. A brief determined stand, and the rot which Armourer had fervently hoped for began to set in.

He emptied his revolver, downed a big native with his fist, stunned him as he strove to rise with his weapon held like a knuckle-duster, and filled up again.

Groups of men, obviously intended as enemy reserves, bolted back behind the long buildings and vanished into the mist.

At the fall of darkness, Armourer’s whistle brought together Battiscombe and twelve men, and a few moments later the professor’s little rear-guard joined them.

“Six--no, seven missing,” declared the younger magistrate.

Three more straggled up.

Armourer heaved a sigh of relief.

“Can anybody see any more knocking around?--We’ve still four to account for.”

Corporal Kuraman came forward.

“Three were hit in the first attack, _Tuan_,” he said.

Armourer nodded.

“All right, Kuraman. I daresay we lost another after that. I say, Jimmy! that’s not too bad, is it?--With your permission, I’ll send your corporal and two others to bring any wounded they find to that long hut over there. We’ll make that our headquarters for the time being.”

Battiscombe was thinking of Vera.

“Better see what’s inside,” he suggested--and they moved forward again.

They advanced warily until the clump of trees and the building which ran beneath were completely encircled.

It was a long hut, with a door at either end.

Armourer tried the nearest one without success, but Trevor, who had moved round to the far side, called out:

“I say, you fellows, we can get in here; it’s propped open.”

Armourer selected three men, sent them forward to reconnoitre, and joined Trevor.

“Be careful how you go; there may be a trick here.”

He looked back to see Joyce and her father close behind him, and, a couple of paces distant, the brown girl, who stood watching with folded arms. He remembered suddenly that he had not noticed Battiscombe for some minutes.

“Seen Jimmy, anybody?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Trevor, “I caught sight of him a short while back. He was sending one of the fellows up that ladder to see if the shack up there was inhabited.”

Armourer shouted for a lamp.

As soon as one was brought, he kicked open the door and, holding it open with one hand, stepped inside.

Trevor was at his heels.

“Professor,” called the magistrate, “don’t come in, if you don’t mind. Look after Miss Standen and see that the men keep well spread out round the building. I’ll shout for you if we want any assistance.”

The planter, who was staring round curiously, uttered a cry.

“Look out! There’s one of those confounded butterflies!”

He made a shot at it with his hat and it fluttered past Armourer, who snatched up the piece of wood that had held the door open and knocked it to the ground. Before he could put his foot on it, it had crawled out into the darkness.

“Standen,” he cried at the top of his voice, “one of Samar’s insects has got loose.” He held the lamp through the doorway. “I don’t see it anywhere, but I know I hit it.”

He stepped back into the hut and the door swung to behind him.

There was something unpleasantly definite about the way it closed that made Armourer attempt to open it again. He tried it several times, then picked up the lamp and held it close to the lock.

“What’s up?” asked his companion.

Armourer looked at him.

“We’re locked in, old son, like the pair of idiots we are.”

The planter shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s not made of cast-iron; we can soon break our way out.”

Armourer made his way down the centre of the building.

“It’s not that that worries me,” he informed him, “but the fact that there may be a lot of unpleasant surprises in store for us before we can break out. Lord! what’s all this?”

He held the lamp until its light fell upon tier upon tier of broad wooden trays, strewn with freshly-picked green leaves.

Trevor possessed himself of a leaf and, dropping it quickly, put his foot on it.

“Caterpillars,” he declared. “Nasty striped things, with _horns_!”

Armourer stuck an empty pipe between his teeth.

“I tell you what, old son,” he said, “we’ve struck an uncommonly pleasant little packet this time; we’re in his breeding-house!”

The colour left Trevor’s cheeks.

“What’s that?”

“This is where he breeds the crimson butterflies.”

The planter turned on his heel.

“In that case we’d better get out before they make nasty-looking patterns all over us. I’ll see how a round or two’ll influence his patent lock.”

“All right,” returned the magistrate, “carry on with it. I’m going to see what there is at the far end.” He blundered into a wooden partition and opened the door it contained carefully. There was a light inside, and he set down his lamp on the floor behind him. His automatic and his face came into the opening together, and, as they did so, he caught sight of a figure standing erect, one hand on a wooden bar. It was Dr. Abu-Samar.

The expression on the creature’s face was that of a beast of the forest driven to bay. A wild light danced in his eyes, and he crouched suddenly, putting the whole of his weight on the lever.

“Hands up, Abu!” said the Englishman coolly. “I’ve got you.”

“Not yet, O Englishman!” came the muttered reply, and at that instant the light went out. Something dropped somewhere and Armourer felt a cool inrush of air. He fired two shots at where he imagined the secret trap in the wall to be, reached back for his own lamp, and started forward.

It was only then that he realised why Samar had waited.

The walls were lined with countless small cages, all of which were now open, and the air was alive with the flapping of wings.

He heard Trevor firing into the lock and yelled to him to close the door when he got free. The insects were everywhere, fluttering against the roof and the walls, swooping down on him with a vicious, droning sound. He dropped the hurricane lamp and hit at them wildly. One settled on his tunic and he dashed it off. At all costs he must shut that trap. It would be the greatest calamity in the world if they found the open.

He saw it now--a hole a yard square--but a few feet to his left, with the square of boarding that had covered it lying on the floor. He stripped off his coat and swept it in all directions, beating for himself a path through the danger that descended upon him in a crimson cloud.

He plunged to his knees, and drawing himself through the aperture, thrust in an arm and pulled the boarding back into place. As he did so he felt a sharp, burning sensation at his wrist. He crushed the butterfly against the outer wall, but already the damage was done.

His shout brought a soldier to the spot, and almost immediately afterwards the professor and Joyce.

They found him pitched forward on to his arms, and in those last few seconds of consciousness he recognised them.

“They are all in there,” he muttered, “the butterflies--don’t open anything--Samar got out first--One of the brutes stung me.”

He rolled over on to his side, and the professor felt for his hypodermic syringe.