I looked once more from the window. Now, where the three savages had stood, a dozen were gathered. In each wall was a window, and on every side of the house I saw more of the savages. In their breastplates, with their spears and bows and blowguns, they stood to the west and the north and the south.
It seemed that we hadn't been stalked through the jungle at all. We'd been
herded
, and now were penned behind the walls like sheep in a slaughtering house.
We smelled woodsmoke that afternoon, and in the evening the drumming began. It rumbled through the trees and echoed in the hollow rooms of the mission. Slow at times, and wild at others, it went on without stopping.
On the upper floor, we waited. Midgely slept, and Boggis kept pacing from one window to another. I sat in the middle of the floor, trying to fashion weapons from bedposts and chair legs, splintering their ends with the axe.
Mr. Mullock kept himself busy with a can of cockles. Many times I had watched gulls along the Thames pull cockles from the mud and crack their shells by dropping them from a height. Now Mr. Mullock was trying to split the whole tin, hurling it again and again at the floor. Each time, he fell upon it in a gull's fury, uttering the same shrieks and cries.
When the can was squashed and dented, but still whole, he cursed loudly. “ 'Ere, Tom,” he said. “Give me a go with the axe.”
“No,” I said.
“Hah!” He cursed me again. “You don't think I'm going to split your skull with it, do you?”
“No, I don't fear you now, Mr. Mullock.” I said. “Not when it suits your purpose to keep me alive.”
“Lord almighty,” he said. “If that's what I wanted, I 'ad my chance. I could 'ave done you in at any time.”
“I know very well what you've done,” I told him. “I know what I've seen and heard.”
“Hah! You think you're such a clever lad, Tom Tin,” he said. “It's all your schooling, I suppose. You add things up, and two and two make four to you. But you don't understand the ways of the world.”
“Then tell me,” I said.
He got up and went to the window. He put his hands on the sill and looked out at the savages there. He talked slowly. “When you first set foot on my island, I knew my end 'ad come. Ah, thought I, 'ere's my angel of death come in the shape of a boy.”
I looked at poor Boggis trudging back and forth, at Midgely sleeping beside me. It was Midge who'd said that Mr. Mullock feared me, but I hadn't believed him.
“I thought I'd be back in Botany Bay, or in my grave by now,” said Mr. Mullock. “Well, that time is near now, isn't it? Come the twittering hour, we'll see the end. Look at them out there, Tom. Listen to the drums. There must be a thousand junglies, and a thousand more besides. You
can't think you'll stop them with bedposts and chair legs, do you?”
“I mean to try,” I said.
“And good for you,” said he. “But this time tomorrow you'll be turning on a spit, roasting alive on a cannibal fire, and I'll be turning right beside you. Midgely and Gaskin too.”
I didn't think Boggis had been listening, but he stopped, halfway between his windows. “That ain't true, Tom,” he said. “It ain't the end for us, is it?”
I shook my head. “We can hold them off.”
“Hah!” Mr. Mullock came back to my side. “Please, Tom. Give me the axe and we'll 'ave a feast tonight. If we're to be eaten tomorrow we might as well be stuffed.”
“Do it, Tom,” said Boggis. “I'm hungry as well.”
I looked at my little pile of wooden spears and saw that it was hopeless. I tossed the axe at Mr. Mullock's feet, and—caring for nothing—lay down at Midgely's side. I hoped to sleep, but I didn't.
Mr. Mullock opened his can of cockles. He opened another of peas, another of mutton, and one of ham. He pierced them all with the axe, and sucked the tins like a great green fly.
Boggis ate with him, and Midgely too when he came awake, though at first he was leery. “It ain't ours,” he said. “When the missionary comes home he'll be hopping mad.”
Midge couldn't see the ruin and rot in the house. I told him, “I don't think he'll mind.”
“Where do you suppose he is, Tom? Do you think he's at the feast?”
“Hah! No doubt,” said Mr. Mullock, “'e
is
the feast.”
Midgely laughed. “It ain't like that. He'll sort them out, those Indians. He'll tell them what's what.”
We let Midgely think what he wanted; it did no harm. We gorged ourselves on sardines and clams, then Mr. Mullock—to my surprise—returned the axe to me. But I worked no more with the bedposts. I didn't wish to explain to Midge what I was doing.
The drums beat on, and the sunset came. We all stood at the west-facing window and watched it. The mountain seemed wreathed in fire, a volcano erupting, the mist that hovered over it now a scarlet smoke. It was, said Mr. Mullock, the finest sunset he'd ever seen. So gaudy was it that even Midge could see the colors. “It'll be a grand day tomorrow,” he said. “Red sky at night, and all.”
Slowly the colors faded, seeping away like fresh paint in a rain. To see the sprays of color turn to gray and black made me think how close we were to death, and how all our world and all we knew would fade away like that.
We stayed at the window, as though trying to cling to the waning light. But there was no stopping the blackness that settled round us, and soon it hid the savages beyond the walls, and then the walls themselves.
Boggis turned away. It was too sad to look out there, he said. Too scary and sad. So he didn't see the fires lit in the jungle, the great towers of flame—two and then four—that leapt up like creatures rising from the ground.
We saw them from above, through branches and leaves, but I was amazed to find how close the savages had been that
day. We might have blundered right into their camp instead of the mission if we had landed—as Midgely had wanted—right on the shore below it.
Now, along with the drums, came the crackling and roar of the fires. And we saw the savages dance. Like insects drawn by the flames, they came whirling from the shadows; they writhed, they shouted, they bent and straightened, turned and jumped, all to a quickening beat of the drums. The long spears each of them held, they thrust into the air as though stabbing at the smoke and sparks.
It was a scene of utter wildness. It put fear in my heart to see it, in the hearts of all of us but Midgely.
“Are they dancing now?” he asked, and came to look for himself. Through a tunnel of his hands, he stared at blots of light.
“Come along, Midgely,” said Mr. Mullock. There was no hint in his voice of the horror outside. He drew Midgely away with a hand on his shoulder. “We'll just sit 'ere and wait for the reverend to come 'ome.”
So we all sat below the window, watching the light of the savages' fires play across the ceiling.
“Well, lads,” said Mr. Mullock. “Someone might sing us a song if 'e likes.”
I didn't think he meant to, but he made us remember Early. He coughed and said, “Maybe not. 'Ere, why don't you tuck into the grub. 'Ave a good talk. Pray if you've a mind to. Myself, I think I'd like a breath of fresh air.” He got up.
“Where are you going?” I asked, suspicious already.
“Nowhere far,” said he. “Tom, why don't you come and see the door's bolted behind me?”
We had to grope our way down the stairs. Mr. Mullock waited until we'd reached the bottom before he drew me close and talked in a hushed voice. “Look, Tom,” he said. “What do you think's become of the reverend? Did they kill him or did he flee?”
“What difference does it make?” I asked.
“Well, I was wondering about 'is boat, Tom. If 'e's cooking in one of them fires, then shouldn't 'is boat still be 'ere?” Mr. Mullock's beard rasped against my cheek. “I thought I'd go and look.”
“Alone?” said I.
His breath was hot, tainted by the food he'd eaten. “If you don't trust me to come back, Tom, then I'll stay 'ere and you can go. Up to you, my lad.”
That put me on the spot. I didn't trust him all that far even then. What if he wanted to go alone so that he could find the steamboat and escape by himself? I didn't know what to say. I didn't
want
to go, but felt that I should. I would look like a coward if I didn't volunteer. So I did.
“I'm quicker than you, Mr. Mullock,” I said. “My eyes are better.
I
should go.”
Both his hands came to rest on my shoulders. “That's square of you, it is,” he said. “Takes a brave lad to say that. But I can't allow it, Tom. You belong with young Midge. At dawn they'll come, and you should be at 'is side. You'll 'ave the axe. Make it quick for 'im, Tom.”
“No. I could never do that,” I said.
“You'll 'ave to,” said he. “Lord knows that boy's suffered enough in 'is life. No point in 'im suffering at the end, not if you're there to 'elp 'im.”
He touched the back of my neck. His finger—cold and rough—felt along my bones. “Right 'ere. That's the place,” he said. “Give 'im a chop there, and 'e won't feel a thing.”
We went together to the door. Together we went through it and out to the walled-in space. “We 'ave to 'urry,” Mr. Mullock said. “We 'ave to race the moon.”
Along the wall we scuttled. Round the corner to the gate. The drums were loud, the savages shrieking. Sparks soared high above our heads, and I fancied that the sky was brightening with the rising of the moon.
The bolts squealed in the gate. A bird—or a beast—a thing in the jungle, made nearly the same sound. Mr. Mullock worked the latches, drew the bolts, then cracked the gate and peered out. I pressed against him to see over his shoulder. One look was enough to tell us it couldn't be done. No one could reach the boat. The savages still stood at the edge of the clearing.
“Blast it,” said Mr. Mullock. “What fool built this mission so far from the sea and left no way to get out? It was folly then, and folly now.”
Off in the jungle, the shrieking rose to a fever pitch, the drumming to a frenzy. We locked the gate and drew back to the door. Just as we neared it, the drumming stopped.
“Good Lord,” said Mr. Mullock.
And over the wall came the savages.
Mr. Mullock pushed me inside the mission. He came crashing in behind me, slammed the door, and latched it. I saw it shake on its hinges as something battered it from the other side.
“Are they attacking?” Midge cried out from upstairs.
Boggis's feet thudded on the stairs. “What's gone wrong?”
“Don't know. They never come at night,” said Mr. Mullock. “They always wait for dawn. In every tale I've read or 'eard they come in the twittering hour.”
At every window they appeared. From one came a puff of a sound, and a dart twanged into the wood beside me. From another came an arrow. The door banged and groaned until the whole house trembled.
“Get the axe,” said Mr. Mullock. “Get the bedposts, boy.”
How long did it last? Was it the hours that it seemed—or only minutes? Through the window slits we battled, thrusting with our sharpened sticks. Midgely stayed upstairs, flinging tins from the window, flinging down the flowerpot and anything else he found.
Mr. Mullock wielded the axe. He dashed from window to window, swinging it left and right, striking down anything that came through them. We shouted and yelled, and the savages screamed. Then, suddenly, all was quiet again.
Mr. Mullock was panting. “We carried the field,” he said. “That time at least. Hah! They'll 'ave a fight to get us, lads.”
In the middle of the night, the natives returned. By the light of the moon they surged over the wall, and up we got with our bedposts. As I hammered and thrust, I fell too close to a window, and an arm reached in and grabbed me. It jammed me into the slit, and Boggis tried to pull me back. A spear jabbed at me; an arrow went zinging past. Then Mr. Mullock's axe fell before my face, and I staggered away with a thing like a monstrous spider still clinging to my arm.
All that was in the house we hurled through the slits. The china and the cutlery, it all became our weapons. Then Midgely screamed from upstairs. “Tom, they're coming up!”
“Go and 'elp,” said Mr. Mullock.
The building was shaking. The floor seemed to shift and buckle at my feet as I crossed it and hurried up the stairs. I saw Midgely standing by a window, and a savage scrambling over the sill. His face and arms were painted and tattooed, and he looked like a skeleton crawling through. I charged and drove him back. He fell howling to the ground.
Upstairs and down, the battle went on in clashes of wood and metal, in shouting voices and the smell of sweat. Then it was over again, and the air was still, as though a storm had raged and passed. But in the jungle, the drumming resumed.
I led Midgely downstairs. Like all of us, he knew that the end had come, that we couldn't hold out for very long. We had used everything at hand, and all of it was gone. Even the reverend's Bibles had been thrown through the windows. But Midgely wasn't frightened so much as dismayed. “Where's the reverend?” he kept saying. “Where's the reverend gone?”
Boggis had a cut on his arm. He clamped his hand over the wound, and the blood trickled through his fingers. “I hope the navy comes,” he said. “Do you think they're looking for us, Mr. Mullock?”
“Hah!” said Mr. Mullock. “I'm sure they are, boy. But don't think they'll save us. I tell you I'm cursed. For seven years I've been doomed.”
The moon floated in the window, bright and yellow, wider than the slit. Mr. Mullock looked solemn and sad. “Why are you cursed?” I asked.
“It doesn't matter, lad. Not now,” he said. “Our time's measured in minutes, so live large, I say.”
With that, he stood up. He climbed the stairs, and bustled about above us. We heard water being spilt from jug to basin, a few little grunts and oaths. Then down he came again, freshly shaven and shed of his strange green turtle skin. He wore, instead, the good clean clothes of the missionary. A rather battered beaver hat took the place of his helmet. In a morning coat and white cravat, in pinstriped trousers, he looked rather handsome. For once, he really did look like a lord.