"Too bad Mr. Peary's no longer with us," Fox said in a funereal voice. "If he were, I could accompany you, captain."
Dorcas looked questioningly at them. Scott answered shortly. "Mr. Peary was killed by a tiger."
Recalling her own flight through the jungle, feeling now the innumerable scratches, bruises and insect bites suffered, she shuddered and lay back again. Exhaustion, mental and physical, was written on her scratched face.
"We'll get Hurst in here and then you can tell us how to find the camp," Scott said decisively. "Then you can sleep."
"You're going tonight?"
He nodded. "There's no time to waste."
"You're right, of course," she murmured. "I didn't see Zenas after we got to the camp, but—but I never heard such cries of agony." She paused, closing her eyes. "Poor Zenas. He was so full of plans for the future. He mustn't die, Scott. He mustn't."
26
REASONING that he could bisect the trail from the town about a half mile inland and fall on the marauders at daylight, Scott bestirred himself energetically, taking nine men from the Caroline and thirty Malays led by Darus. The rajah had convinced himself the people of the town had taken no active part in the piracy and thus he allied himself with the white men when Scott capped an eloquent reminder of their brotherhood with a jingling bag of Spanish-milled dollars.
Aware that surprise would be at least as effective as strength, the captain entered the inky, dripping jungle two hours before dawn with the intention of striking ferociously, regrouping and returning immediately to the ship with the freed captives. He soon marveled that Dorcas had managed to reach the principal branch of Rocky River at all. Floundering through darkness, dense growth and leech-infested swamp pools, he lost his sense of direction. The sun was lifting the morning mist and the rain forest was filled with the deafening clamor of awakening life when finally they stumbled onto the narrow trail described by Dorcas. All hands were thoroughly tired by then and the warlike ardor of the inland Malays was at a low ebb.
Scott let all hands rest, but only for a few minutes. Sensing apprehension and doubt in Darus, he was anxious to commit the rajah to battle before he could think of an excuse to withdraw. He didn't know exactly where he was, but guessed he was at least a mile from Quallah Battoo. It passed through his mind that they might be trapped between town and camp, but this was a risk that could not be avoided. He must strike swiftly and hard; the assault must be murderously effective.
Even after light appeared above the roof of the jungle there was darkness below; and the men stumbled along the narrow path in single file, tripping occasionally on roots and vines and tearing flesh and clothing on thorns. Unsheathed cutlass in hand, Scott led the party. More than anything else he feared coming face to face with a Quallah Battoo-bound Malay who might alarm his fellows before he could be silenced with thrust or cut. When at last he discerned the place he sought, his heart thumped hard and fast.
At his shoulder Evan Hurst said in a whisper, "Well, there it is, sir."
"Aye," Scott said, trying to spot the prisoners among the two score Malays moving lazily about the camp or tending cook fires, "and they've no idea we're near. Unless there's a lot more natives in those three huts, we're about evenly matched, too. We'll move in a little closer, spread out as best we can, and then rush them. Maybe you'd better go back and sort of hold Darus' hand; he likes you, and we can't afford to have him weaken."
Inching nearer cautiously, Scott finally saw the bound captives sitting on the ground near the largest of the huts in the clearing. A passing Malay kicked one of them brutally, then spit on him. Fury rose in Scott, heating into desire the willingness to slay without mercy and without warning. He was on the verge of signaling the charge when a troop of inquisitive monkeys scampering overhead spotted the concealed force and set up an earsplitting outcry. Their obvious alarm caused some of the pirates to stare curiously in the direction of the howls, while one of their number started to investigate. You son-of-a-bitch, the captain thought grimly, you'll be the first; I'll kill you myself.
It was not he who slew the man, though. One of the seamen, unable to stand the mounting pressure on his nerves, raised a musket and shot the fellow in the chest. Scott drew a pistol with his left hand as the native toppled forward.
"Follow me!" roared the captain, leaping from concealment and bearing down on a startled Malay. He shot the man in the face with the pistol as he sought to draw his creese.
Eager to close with the foe, the Caroline's men stormed from the dripping jungle in the wake of their officer. Just behind them came Darus and his friendly inland Malays, urged on by the war-whooping Hurst. The bound captives raised a feeble cheer of encouragement as the attackers slashed, stabbed and shot their way toward them.
The near panic created by the sudden violent rush was only momentary, though. The largest hut suddenly spewed nearly a score of natives, and they came out shooting wildly and yelling shrilly. In a moment the fighting was general. Steel rang on steel, gunpowder exploded, and Malay war cries blended with English oaths. Pirates who had been on the thin edge of wild flight stiffened their resistance.
A musket ball creased Scott's cheek. The unparried blade of a native sword whistled within a quarter-inch of his nose. A thrown spear impaled a friendly Malay on the captain's flank. Scott lunged viciously and expertly at the swordsman who had cut at him, thrusting the broad blade of his cutlass clean through the fellow's belly and back. The weight of the dying man almost twisted the weapon from Scott's hand; he had to put his foot on the man's body to yank clear the dripping blade.
With his eyes Scott sought the pirate leader. Kill him and the fight would be over. Men always needed someone to rally about in order to fight effectively. Then he saw the man he wanted: a tall, sinewy fellow wearing a yellow cap, a short white jacket and a knee-length sarong. He cut down one of Darus' Malays in the moment that Scott spotted him. With courage he turned to face the white captain, who leaped over a twisted corpse to get within reach.
The Malay chieftain was a strong and ferocious fighting man. He stood his ground under Scott's onslaught, baring teeth stained with betel-nut juice.
"Anjing!" he snarled contemptuously. "Dog!"
Scott wasted no breath in oaths or insults, but set himself purposefully to the task at hand. His cutlass flashed and glinted like a thing alive; he forgot the fighting around him, concentrating on killing as speedily as possible.
In valor and intent the Malay matched Scott, but the latter was stronger and more skilled with his weapon. In a minute of fierce thrusting, slashing and parrying he gained the upper hand, beating down the long parang of his opponent and cutting him down with a blow that almost decapitated him.
Fighting near Scott, Darus saw the pirate leader go down and he raised a triumphant cry that shrilled above the din of conflict. The leaderless men howled in dismay, their will to resist snapped. To a man, all who were able to flee took to their heels, seeking the dank sanctuary of the dark jungle. White seamen and Malay tribesmen stormed after them with exultant yells.
"Hold!" Scott bellowed, not wanting his men scattered.
Hurst heard him and cried out to Darus in Malay.
Scott turned immediately to the captives, one or two of whom had managed to slip their bonds during the fray. Few appeared much the worse for wear. Russell obviously was unhurt. Bryant, though, was sadly battered. He could barely sit up. Scott cut his wrists and ankles free with two sweeps of his knife.
The New Englander eyed his rescuer gratefully and spoke with an effort. "I was never so glad to see anybody in my life!"