Smith laughed.
“The same has been said of many pieces in Barton’s collection! But I may take it that these tokens will pass?”
“I have little doubt of that, but grave doubt of my wisdom in countenancing this thing. Both are emblems of Damballa, the serpent god, and are anti-Christ, like the swastika. However, I have promised and I do my part. I have shown you the way to the spot where the donkeys are tethered, and when we have sampled a glass each of my rum cordial—a very special honour, I assure you—I fear you must set out.”
We sampled his rum cordial in the lamp-lit room, a book-lined oasis in a Haitian jungle, and anxiously he gave us final advice, unwittingly displaying, as he did so, a vast knowledge of this country in which he was absorbed. Finally, glancing at a clock upon his desk: “It is time that you started,” he said.”! should like to give you my blessing.”
A queer dignity invested the stout priest, as laying down his vast calabash pipe on a tray, he stood up. Although neither Smith nor I were communicants of his Church we knelt as though prompted by one instinct whilst, his deep voice lending authority to the Latin, he blessed our journey.
Five minutes later we had groped our way to the end of a narrow lane which bordered the bottom of the priest’s garden, where scarcely visible lizards shot phantomesque from before our advancing feet. The lanterns of fire-flies seemed to guide us. Two well-kept, patient donkeys were tethered there, saddled and ready, but unattended. As we tightened a strap here and there, and presently mounted: “This end of the business has been perfectly handled,” said Smith. “Barton is dining with the American Consul tonight as arranged, but amongst the servants there will almost certainly be one spy, and our absence will be reported.”
We ambled out onto the road that led up to the mountain; others, mostly on foot, were making in the same direction. And as though our joining that mysterious procession had been the signal, from before us, in the high forests, from behind us in the valleys, from all around—the drums began.
“After dark,” said Smith in a low voice, “Haiti reverts to its ancient gods.”
But we had jogged onward and upward for many miles talking in low tones before we came to the beginning of the most perilous road I remembered ever to have seen,
It skirted sheer precipices, and I doubt if two riders could have passed upon it. But this way the dark figures were going and none were coming back. I could see it ahead, a silver thread picked out by the moon, ant-like humans moving along it. In a sort of rocky bay Smith reined up.
“We have three hours yet,” he said. “I want to listen to the drums.”
We stayed there listening to the drums for five, seven, ten minutes. It was a language strange to me. Messages and responses merged into one confused throbbing; that throbbing which had haunted my nights, kept me wakeful when I should have been sleeping. Figures afoot, figures mounted, passed by the little belt of shade in which we lingered—all bound for the secret meeting place on the crest of the mountain. Some of the pilgrims carried lanterns; some carried torches. Presently: “I am in the news,” said Smith in a low voice, “but I can gather no more. You see, I know what may be termed my ‘signature tune’.”
Then, mounted on a mule, clearly outlined against the pearly moon, a figure rode slowly by. Apart from a sensation of lowered temperature, it was impossible to mistake the angular figure ~ impossible to mistake the profile.
It was Dr. Fu Manchu.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SONG OF DAMBALLA
“Smith,” I whispered, “did you see? Did you see? It wasDr. Fu Manchu.”
“I saw.”
“I could have shot him!”
“That would have been a tactical blunder. But apparently he did not see us. There is even a possibility that he does not know that we are on this road. You noticed his retinue?”
“Six or eight thick-set fellows seemed to be preceding and as many to be following him.”
“His Burmese bodyguard.”
“But what does this mean? That the Voodoo ceremony is organized by Fu Manchu? That we are walking into a trap?”
“Somehow I don’t think so, Kerrigan, although I admit I may be wrong. But the presence of Fu Manchu in person rather confirms the theory on which I am acting.”
The eerie throbbing of the drums was now unbroken, a sort of evil pulse as of a secret world awakening. Figures, mostly on foot, singly and in groups passed the shadowed bay in the rocks which shielded us. Sometimes, but rarely, a mounted man or woman went by.
“Surely, Smith,” I said, “we should have kept him in view?”
“That would have been too dangerous. Moreover, it is reasonable to assume that he is bound for the same destination as ourselves. Great caution is indicated. We carry our lives in our hands, although I have not failed to take suitable steps to prevent the worst befalling. I may add that I don’t like the look of the mountain path which now lies before us, but nevertheless we must push on.”
We resumed our journey along a path cut from the face of a sheer precipice, a path which at no point was more than ten feet wide and at many, less. No wall or parapet was present, and the donkeys. Smith’s leading, after the way of their kind resolutely refused to hug the rugged wall and picked their ambling way along the very rim of the road.
I found it to be quite impossible to look down into that moon-patched valley below. I concentrated on the path ahead, where, emerging from shadow into silvery light, countless figures toiled onward and upward, their going marked by torch or lantern. Clearly one could trace it—a Jewelled thread woven at a dizzy height into the mountain side.
Now, there was a frosty nip in the air, and I was thankful for the advice of Father Ambrose, acting upon which we had wrapped ourselves warmly beneath our ancient drill jackets. Once—and my throat grew dry—a more speedy party overtook us on the way; a group of three Haitians swinging along with lithe, almost silent tread. Having attempted to urge my donkey to the inner side of the path and succeeded only in inducing him to kick a number of stones into the yawning chasm below, I was compelled to allow them to pass on my left. They were tall, powerful fellows, and it occurred to me that a good thrust from any one of them would have precipitated me and the obstinate little brute I rode into the depths beneath. Others there were on the path behind; but they did not seem to be overtaking us.
Then, from that seemingly endless procession, from thousands of feet above, and from behind, where the tail of the pilgrimage straggled up from the valleys, arose a low chanting-It seemed to mingle with the throb of the drums, to be part of the black magic to which this night was consecrated.
“Do you hear it?” came Smith’s voice. “Yes—it’s horrible.”
“It is known, I believe, as the Song of Damballa. Of course, it is purely African in character.”
He spoke as one who criticizes some custom depicted upon a movie screen or mentioned by a travelled member in the bar of a club. Knowing, and I knew it well, that we were surrounded by devil worshippers, by those who delighted in human sacrifice, among whom, if they suspected our purpose, our lives would not be worth a sou, I was amazed. Often enough I had been amazed before at the imperturbable self-possession, a concentration on the Job in hand, a complete disregard of personal hazard, which characterized this lean and implacable enemy of Dr. Fu Manchu. And I confess that above all other perils I feared Dr. Fu Manchu.