X. A BATTLE
Wilbur had imagined that the fight would be hardly more than a wild rushdown the slope of the beach, a dash over the beach-combers' breastworksof sand, and a brief hand-to-hand scrimmage around the old cabin. Inall accounts he had ever read of such affairs, and in all ideas hehad entertained on the subject, this had always been the case. The twobodies had shocked together like a college rush, there had been fiveminutes' play of knife and club and gun, a confused whirl of dustand smoke, and all was over before one had time either to think or beafraid. But nothing of the kind happened that morning.
The "Bertha Millner's" crew, in a long line, Moran at one end, Wilbur atthe other, and Charlie in the centre, came on toward the beach-combers,step by step. There was little outcry. Each contestant singled outhis enemy, and made slowly for him with eyes fixed and weapon ready,regardless of the movements of his mates.
"See any rifles among them, Charlie?" shouted Moran, suddenly breakingthe silence.
"No, I tink no hab got," answered Charlie.
Wilbur took another step forward and cocked his revolver. One of thebeach-combers shouted out something in angry vernacular, and Charlieinstantly responded. All this time the line had been slowly advancingupon the enemy, and Wilbur began to wonder how long that heartbreakingsuspense was to continue. This was not at all what he had imagined.Already he was within twenty feet of his man, could see the evil glintof his slant, small eye, and the shine of his yellow body, naked to thebelt. Still foot by foot the forward movement continued. The Chineseon either side had begun exchanging insults; the still, hot air of thetropic dawn was vibrant with the Cantonese monosyllables tossed backand forth like tennis-balls over the low sand rampart. The thing wasdegenerating into a farce--the "Bertha's" Chinamen would not fight.
Back there, under the shelter of the schooner, it was all very well totalk, and they had been very brave when they had all flung themselvesupon Hoang. Here, face to face with the enemy, the sun striking offheliograph flashes from their knives and spades, it was a vastlydifferent matter. The thing, to Wilbur's mind, should have been donesuddenly if it was to be done at all. The best course now was to returnto camp and try some other plan. Charlie shouted a direction to him inpigeon English that he did not understand, but he answered all right,and moved forward another step so as to be in line with the coolie athis left.
The liquor that he had drunk before starting began suddenly to affecthim, yet he knew that his head was yet clear. He could not bring himselfto run away before them all, but he would have given much to havediscovered a good reason for postponing the fight--if fight there was tobe.
He remembered the cocked revolver in his hand, and, suddenly raising it,fired point-blank at his man, not fifteen feet away. The hammer snappedon the nipple, but the cartridge did not explode. Wilbur turned to theChinaman next him in line, exclaiming excitedly:
"Here, say, have you got a knife--something I can fight with? This gun'sno good."
There was a shout from Moran:
"Look out, here they come!"
Two of the beach-combers suddenly sprang over the sand breastworks andran toward Charlie, their knives held low in front of them, ready torip.
"Shoot! shoot! shoot!" shouted Moran rapidly.
Wilbur's revolver was a self-cocker. He raised it again, drawing hard onthe trigger as he did so. It roared and leaped in his hand, and a whiffof burned powder came to his nostrils. Then Wilbur was astonished tohear himself shout at the top of his voice:
"Come on now, get into them--get into them now, everybody!"
The "Bertha's" Chinamen were all running forward, three of them wellin advance of the others. In the rear Charlie was at grapples with abeach-comber who fought with a knife in each hand, and Wilbur had asudden glimpse of another sitting on the sand with his hand to hismouth, the blood spurting between his fingers.
Wilbur suddenly realized that he held a knife, and that he was directlyabreast the sand rampart. How he got the knife he could not tell, thoughhe afterward distinctly remembered throwing away his revolver, loaded asit was. He had leaped the breastworks, he knew that, and between himand the vast bright blur of the ocean he saw one of the beach-combersbacking away and watching him intently, his hatchet in his hand. Wilburhad only time to think that he himself would no doubt be killed withinthe next few moments, when this latter halted abruptly, took a stepforward, and, instead of striking downward, as Wilbur had anticipated,dropped upon his knee and struck with all his might at the calf ofWilbur's leg. It was only the thickness of his boots that saved Wilburfrom being hamstrung where he stood. As it was, he felt the blade bitealmost to the bone, and heard the blood squelch in the sole of his boot,as he staggered for the moment, almost tripping over the man in front ofhim.
The Chinaman sprang to his feet again, but Wilbur was at him in aninstant, feeling instinctively that his chance was to close with hisman, and so bring his own superior weight and strength to bear. Againand again he tried to run in and grip the slim yellow body, but theother dodged and backed away, as hard to hold as any fish. All aroundand back of him now Wilbur heard the hideous sound of stamping andstruggling, and the noise of hoarse, quick shouts and the rebound ofbodies falling and rolling upon the hard, smooth beach. The thing hadnot been a farce, after all. This was fighting at last, and there withinarm's length were men grappling and gripping and hitting one another,each honestly striving to kill his fellow--Chinamen all, fightingin barbarous Oriental fashion with nails and teeth when the knife orhatchet failed. What did he, clubman and college man, in that hideoustrouble that wrought itself out there on that heat-stricken tropic beachunder that morning's sun?
Suddenly there was a flash of red flame, and a billow of thick, yellowsmoke filled all the air. The cabin was afire. The hatchet-man with whomWilbur was fighting had been backing in this direction. He was closein when the fire began to leap from the one window; now he could go nofurther. He turned to run sidewise between his enemy and the burningcabin. Wilbur thrust his foot sharply forward; the beach-comber tripped,staggered, and before he had reached the ground Wilbur had driven homethe knife.
Then suddenly, at the sight of his smitten enemy rolling on the groundat his feet, the primitive man, the half-brute of the stone age,leaped to life in Wilbur's breast--he felt his muscles thrilling witha strength they had not known before. His nerves, stretched tense asharp-strings, were vibrating to a new tune. His blood spun through hisveins till his ears roared with the rush of it. Never had he conceivedof such savage exultation as that which mastered him at that instant.The knowledge that he could kill filled him with a sense of powerthat was veritably royal. He felt physically larger. It was the joy ofbattle, the horrid exhilaration of killing, the animal of the race, thehuman brute suddenly aroused and dominating every instinct and traditionof centuries of civilization. The fight still was going forward.
Wilbur could hear the sounds of it, though from where he stood all sightwas shut off by the smoke of the burning house. As he turned about,knife in hand, debating what next he should do, a figure burst down uponhim, shadowy and distorted through the haze.
It was Moran, but Moran as Wilbur had never seen her before. Her eyeswere blazing under her thick frown like fire under a bush. Her arms werebared to the elbow, her heavy ropes of hair flying and coiling from herin all directions, while with a voice hoarse from shouting she sang,or rather chanted, in her long-forgotten Norse tongue, fragments of oldsagas, words, and sentences, meaningless even to herself. The fury ofbattle had exalted her to a sort of frenzy. She was beside herself withexcitement. Once more she had lapsed back to the Vikings and sea-roversof the tenth century--she was Brunhilde again, a shield-maiden, aValkyrie, a Berserker and the daughter of Berserkers, and like them shefought in a veritable frenzy, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, everysense exalted, every force doubled, insensible to pain, deaf to allreason.
Her dirk uplifted, she rushed upon Wilbur, never once pausing in herchant. Wilbur shouted a warning to her as she came on, puzzled beyond
words, startled back to a consciousness of himself again by thisinsensate attack.
"Moran! Moran!" he called. "What is it--you're wrong! It-s I. It'sWilbur--your mate, can't you see?"
Moran could not see--blind to friend or foe, as she was deaf to reason,she struck at him with all the strength of her arm. But there was noskill in her fighting now. Wilbur dropped his own knife and grippedher right wrist. She closed with him upon the instant, clutching at histhroat with her one free hand; and as he felt her strength--doubled andtripled in the fury of her madness--Wilbur knew that, however easily hehad overcome his enemy of a moment before, he was now fighting for hisvery life.
At first, Wilbur merely struggled to keep her from him--to prevent herusing her dirk. He tried not to hurt her. But what with the spiritshe had drunk before the attack, what with the excitement of the attackitself and the sudden unleashing of the brute in him an instant before,the whole affair grew dim and hazy in his mind. He ceased to see thingsin their proportion. His new-found strength gloried in matching itselfwith another strength that was its equal. He fought with Moran--not ashe would fight with either woman or man, or with anything human, for thematter of that. He fought with her as against some impersonal force thatit was incumbent upon him to conquer--that it was imperative he shouldconquer if he wished to live. When she struck, he struck blow for blow,force for force, his strength against hers, glorying in that strangecontest, though he never once forgot that this last enemy was thegirl he loved. It was not Moran whom he fought; it was her force, herdetermination, her will, her splendid independence, that he set himselfto conquer.
Already she had dropped or flung away the dirk, and their battle hadbecome an issue of sheer physical strength between them. It was aquestion now as to who should master the other. Twice she had foughtWilbur to his knees, the heel of her hand upon his face, his head thrustback between his shoulders, and twice he had wrenched away, rising tohis feet again, panting, bleeding even, but with his teeth set andall his resolution at the sticking-point. Once he saw his chance, andplanted his knuckles squarely between her eyes where her frown wasknotted hard, hoping to stun her and end the fight once and for all. Butthe blow did not seem to affect her in the least. By this time he sawthat her Berserker rage had worked itself clear as fermenting wineclears itself, and that she knew now with whom she was fighting; and heseemed now to understand the incomprehensible, and to sympathize withher joy in measuring her strength against his; and yet he knew that thecombat was deadly serious, and that more than life was at stake. Morandespised a weakling.
For an instant, as they fell apart, she stood off, breathing hard androlling up her sleeve; then, as she started forward again, Wilbur mether half-way, caught her round the neck and under the arm, gripping herleft wrist with his right hand behind her; then, exerting every ounceof strength he yet retained, he thrust her down and from him, until atlength, using his hip as a pivot, he swung her off her feet, threw herfairly on her back, and held her so, one knee upon her chest, his handsclosed vise-like on her wrists.
Then suddenly Moran gave up, relaxing in his grasp all in a second, and,to his great surprise, suddenly smiled.
"Ho! mate," she exclaimed; "that was a tough one; but I'm beaten--you'restronger than I thought for."
Wilbur released her and rose to his feet.
"Here," she continued, "give me your hand. I'm as weak as a kitten." AsWilbur helped her to her feet, she put her hand to her forehead,where his knuckles had left their mark, and frowned at him, but notill-naturedly.
"Next time you do that," she said, "use a rock or a belaying-pin, orsomething that won't hurt--not your fist, mate." She looked at himadmiringly. "What a two-fisted, brawny dray-horse it is! I told you Iwas stronger than most men, didn't I? But I'm the weaker of us two, andthat's a fact. You've beaten, mate--I admit it; you've conqueredme, and," she continued, smiling again and shaking him by theshoulder--"and, mate, do you know, I love you for it."