BROTHER MOLES

This new danger, working below in the solid earth, had thrown Rudolph into a state of sullen resignation. What was the use now, he thought indignantly, of all their watching and fighting? The ground, at any moment, might heave, break, and spring up underfoot. He waited for his friend to speak out, and put the same thought roundly into words. Instead, to his surprise, he heard something quite contrary.

“Now we know!” said Heywood, in lively satisfaction. “Now we know what the beasts have up their sleeve. That’s a comfort. Rather!”

He sat thinking, a white figure in the starlight, cross-legged like a Buddha.

“That’s why they’ve all been lying doggo,” he continued. “And then their bad marksmanship, with all this sniping they don’t care, you see, whether they pot us or not. They’d rather make one clean sweep, and ‘blow us at the moon.’ Eh? Cheer up, Rudie: so long as they’re digging, they’re not blowing. Are they?”

While he spoke, the din outside the walls wavered and sank, at last giving place to a shrill, tiny interlude of insect voices. In this diluted silence came now and then a tinkle of glass from the dark hospital room where Miss Drake was groping among her vials. Heywood listened.

“If it weren’t for that,” he said quietly, “I shouldn’t much care. Except for the women, this would really be great larks.” Then, as a shadow flitted past the orange grove, he roused himself to hail: “Ah Pat! Go catchee four piecee coolie-man!”

“Can do.” The shadow passed, and after a time returned with four other shadows. They stood waiting, till Heywood raised his head from the dust.

“Those noises have stopped, down there,” he said to Rudolph; and rising, gave his orders briefly. The coolies were to dig, strike into the sappers’ tunnel, and report at once: “Chop-chop. Meantime, Rudie, let’s take a holiday. We can smoke in the courtyard.”

A solitary candle burned in the far corner of the inclosure, and cast faint streamers of reflection along the wet flags, which, sluiced with water from the well, exhaled a slight but grateful coolness. Heywood stooped above the quivering flame, lighted a cigar, and sinking loosely into a chair, blew the smoke upward in slow content.

“Luxury!” he yawned. “Nothing to do, nothing to fret about, till the compradore reports. Wonderful too good to be true.”

For a long time, lying side by side, they might have been asleep. Through the dim light on the white walls dipped and swerved the drunken shadow of a bat, who now whirled as a flake of blackness across the stars, now swooped and set the humbler flame reeling. The flutter of his leathern wings, and the plash of water in the dark, where a coolie still drenched the flags, marked the sleepy, soothing measures in a nocturne, broken at strangely regular intervals by a shot, and the crack of a bullet somewhere above in the deserted chambers.

“Queer,” mused Heywood, drowsily studying his watch. “The beggar puts one shot every five minutes through the same window. I wonder what he’s thinking about? Lying out there, firing at the Red-Bristled Ghosts. Odd! Wonder what they’re all” He put back his cigar, mumbling. “Handful of poor blackguards, all upset in their minds, and sweating round. And all the rest tranquil as ever, eh? the whole country jogging on the same old way, or asleep and dreaming dreams, perhaps, same kind of dreams they had in Marco Polo’s day.”

The end of his cigar burned red again; and again, except for that, he might have been asleep. Rudolph made no answer, but lay thinking. This brief moment of rest in the cool, dim courtyard merely to lie there and wait seemed precious above all other gain or knowledge. Some quiet influence, a subtle and profound conviction, slowly was at work in him. It was patience, wonder, steady confidence, all three, and more. He had felt it but this once, obscurely; might die without knowing it in clearer fashion; and yet could never lose it, or forget, or come to any later harm. With it the stars, above the dim vagaries of the bat, were brightly interwoven. For the present he had only to lie ready, and wait, a single comrade in a happy army.

Through a dark little door came Miss Drake, all in white, and moving quietly, like a symbolic figure of evening, or the genius of the place. Her hair shone duskily as she bent beside the candle, and with steady fingers tilted a vial, from which amber drops fell slowly into a glass. With dark eyes watching closely, she had the air of a young, beneficent Medea, intent on some white magic.

“Aren’t you coming,” called Heywood, “to sit with us awhile?”

“Can’t, thanks,” she replied, without looking up. “I’m too busy.”

“That’s no excuse. Rest a little.”

She moved away, carrying her medicines, but paused in the door, smiled back at him as from a crypt, and said:

“Have you been hurt?”

“Only my feelings.”

“I’ve no time,” she laughed, “for lazy able-bodied persons.” And she was gone in the darkness, to sit by her wounded men.

With her went the interval of peace; for past the well-curb came another figure, scuffing slowly toward the light. The compradore, his robes lost in their background, appeared as an oily face and a hand beckoning with downward sweep. The two friends rose, and followed him down the courtyard. In passing out, they discovered the padre’s wife lying exhausted in a low chair, of which she filled half the length and all the width. Heywood paused beside her with some friendly question, to which Rudolph caught the answer.

“Oh, quite composed.” Her voice sounded fretful, her fan stirred weakly. “Yes, wonderfully composed. I feel quite ready to suffer for the faith.”

“Dear Mrs. Earle,” said the young man, gently, “there ought to be no need. Nobody shall suffer, if we can prevent. I think we can.”

Under the orange trees, he laid an unsteady hand on Rudolph’s arm, and halting, shook with quiet merriment.

“Poor dear lady!” he whispered, and went forward chuckling.

Loose earth underfoot warned them not to stumble over the new-raised mound beside the pit, which yawned slightly blacker than the night. Kempner’s grave had not been quieter. The compradore stood whispering: they had found the tunnel empty, because, he thought, the sappers were gone out to eat their chow.

“We’ll see, anyway,” said Heywood, stripping off his coat. He climbed over the mound, grasped the edges, and promptly disappeared. In the long moment which followed, the earth might have closed on him. Once, as Rudolph bent listening over the shaft, there seemed to come a faint momentary gleam; but no sound, and no further sign, until the head and shoulders burrowed up again.

“Big enough hole down there,” he reported, swinging clear, and sitting with his feet in the shaft. “Regular cave. Three sacks of powder stowed already, so we’re none too soon. One sack was leaky. I struck a match, and nearly blew myself to Casabianca.” He paused, as if reflecting. “It gives us a plan, though. Rudie: are you game for something rather foolhardy? Be frank, now; for if you wouldn’t really enjoy it, I’ll give old Gilly Forrester his chance.”

“No!” said Rudolph, stung as by some perfidy. “You make me ashamed! This is all ours, this part, so!”

“Can do,” laughed the other. “Get off your jacket. Give me half a moment start, so that you won’t jump on my head.” And he went wriggling down into the pit.

An unwholesome smell of wet earth, a damp, subterranean coolness, enveloped Rudolph as he slid down a flue of greasy clay, and stooping, crawled into the horizontal bore of the tunnel. Large enough, perhaps, for two or three men to pass on all fours, it ran level, roughly cut, through earth wet with seepage from the river, but packed into a smooth floor by many hands and bare knees. It widened suddenly before him. In the small chamber of the mine, choked with the smell of stale betel, he bumped Heywood’s elbow.

“Some Fragrant Ones have been working here, I should say.” The speaker patted the ground with quick palms, groping. “Phew! They’ve worked like steam. This explains old Wutz, and his broken arrow. I say, Rudie, feel about. I saw a coil of fuse lying somewhere. At least, I thought it was. Ah, never mind: have-got!” He pulled something along the floor. “How’s the old forearm I gave you? I forgot that. Equal to hauling a sack out? Good! Catch hold, here.”

Sweeping his hand in the darkness, he captured Rudolph’s, and guided it to where a powder-bag lay.

“Now, then, carry on,” he commanded; and crawling into the tunnel, flung back fragments of explanation as he tugged at his own load. “Carry these out far as we dare touch ’em off, you see, and block the passage. Far out as possible, though. We can use this hole afterward, for listening in, if they try ”

He cut the sentence short. Their tunnel had begun to slope gently downward, with niches gouged here and there for the passing of burden-bearers. Rudolph, toiling after, suddenly found his head entangled between his leader’s boots.

“Quiet,” he heard him whisper. “Somebody coming.”

An instant later, the boots withdrew quickly. An odd little squeak of surprise followed, a strange gurgling, and a succession of rapid shocks, as though some one were pummeling the earthen walls.

“Got the beggar,” panted Heywood. “Only one of ’em. Roll clear, Rudie, and let us pass. Collar his legs, if you can, and shove.”

Squeezing past Rudolph in his niche, there struggled a convulsive bulk, like some monstrous worm, too large for the bore, yet writhing. Bare feet kicked him in violent rebellion, and a muscular knee jarred squarely under his chin. He caught a pair of naked legs, and hugged them dearly.

“Not too hard,” called Heywood, with a breathless laugh. “Poor devil must think he ran foul of a genie.”

Indeed, their prisoner had already given up the conflict, and lay under them with limbs dissolved and quaking.

“Pass him along,” chuckled his captor. “Make him go ahead of us.”

Prodded into action, the man stirred limply, and crawled past them toward the mine, while Heywood, at his heels, growled orders in the vernacular with a voice of dismal ferocity. In this order they gained the shaft, and wriggled up like ferrets into the night air. Rudolph, standing as in a well, heard a volley of questions and a few timid answers, before the returning legs of his comrade warned him to dodge back into the tunnel.

Again the two men crept forward on their expedition; and this time the leader talked without lowering his voice.

“That chap,” he declared, “was fairly chattering with fright. Coolie, it seems, who came back to find his betel-box. The rest are all outside eating their rice. We have a clear track.”

They stumbled on their powder-sacks, caught hold, and dragged them, at first easily down the incline, then over a short level, then arduously up a rising grade, till the work grew heavy and hot, and breath came hard in the stifled burrow.

“Far enough,” said Heywood, puffing. “Pile yours here.”

Rudolph, however, was not only drenched with sweat, but fired by a new spirit, a spirit of daring. He would try, down here in the bowels of the earth, to emulate his friend.

“But let us reconnoitre,” he objected. “It will bring us to the clay-pit where I saw them digging. Let us go out to the end, and look.”

“Well said, old mole!” Heywood snapped his fingers with delight. “I never thought of that.” By his tone, he was proud of the amendment. “Come on, by all means. I say, I didn’t really I didn’t want poor old Gilly down here, you know.”

They crawled on, with more speed but no less caution, up the strait little gallery, which now rose between smooth, soft walls of clay. Suddenly, as the incline once more became a level, they saw a glimmering square of dusky red, like the fluttering of a weak flame through scarlet cloth. This, while they shuffled toward it, grew higher and broader, until they lay prone in the very door of the hill, a large, square-cut portal, deeply overhung by the edge of the clay-pit, and flanked with what seemed a bulkhead of sand-bags piled in orderly tiers. Between shadowy mounds of loose earth flickered the light of a fire, small and distant, round which wavered the inky silhouettes of men, and beyond which dimly shone a yellow face or two, a yellow fist clutched full of boiled rice like a snowball. Beyond these, in turn, gleamed other little fires, where other coolies were squatting at their supper.

“Rudie, look!” Heywood’s voice trembled with joyful excitement. “Look, these bags; not sand-bags at all! It’s powder, old chap, powder! Their whole supply. Wait a bit oh, by Jove, wait a bit!”

He scurried back into the hill like a great rat, returned as quickly and swiftly, and with eager hands began to uncoil something on the clay threshold.

“Do you know enough to time a fuse?” he whispered. “Neither do I. Powder’s bad, anyhow. We must guess at it. Here, quick, lend me a knife.” He slashed open one of the lower sacks in the bulkhead by the door, stuffed in some kind of twisted cord, and, edging away, sat for an instant with his knife-blade gleaming in the ruddy twilight. “How long, Rudie, how long?” He smothered a groan. “Too long, or too short, spoils everything. Oh, well here goes.”

The blade moved.

“Now lie across,” he ordered, “and shield the tandstickor.” With a sudden fuff, the match blazed up to show his gray eyes bright and dancing, his face glossy with sweat; below, on the golden clay, the twisted, lumpy tail of the fuse, like the end of a dusty vine. Darkness followed, quick and blinding. A rosy, fitful coal sputtered, darting out short capillary lines and needles of fire.

“Cut sticks go like the devil! If it blows up, and caves the earth on us ” Heywood ran on hands and knees, as if that were his natural way of going. Rudolph scrambled after, now urged by an ecstasy of apprehension, now clogged as by the weight of all the hill above them. If it should fall now, he thought, or now; and thus measuring as he crawled, found the tunnel endless.

When at last, however, they gained the bottom of the shaft, and were hoisted out among their coolies on the shelving mound, the evening stillness lay above and about them, undisturbed. The fuse could never have lasted all these minutes. Their whole enterprise was but labor lost. They listened, breathing short. No sound came.

“Gone out,” said Heywood, gloomily. “Or else they saw it.”

He climbed the bamboo scaffold, and stood looking over the wall. Rudolph perched beside him, by the same anxious, futile instinct of curiosity, for they could see nothing but the night and the burning stars.

“Gone out. Underground again, Rudie, and try our first plan.” Heywood turned to leap down. “The Sword-Pen looks to set off his mine to-morrow morning.”

He clutched the wall in time to save himself, as the bamboo frame leapt underfoot. Outside, the crest of the slope ran black against a single burst of flame. The detonation came like the blow of a mallet on the ribs.

“Let him look! Let him look!” Heywood jumped to the ground, and in a pelting shower of clods, exulted:

“He looked again, and saw it was
The middle of next week!”

“Come on, brother mole. Spread the news!”

He ran off, laughing, in the wide hush of astonishment.