As he began to climb, the bracing night air, acting as a stimulant, drove him up and up until at last he stood at the very top of the Citadel, one hundred and thirty feet above the ground.
“Here,” he told himself with a quick intake of breath, “Christophe the Emperor stood on that memorable night spreading mortar and laying bricks. And it may be,” he caught his breath, “that I am standing at this very moment above the treasure he buried so long ago.
“Oh, Christophe!” he exclaimed. “In your younger days, before the love of gold and power drove you mad, you dreamed great dreams for the good of your people. Now, as never before, they need the wealth you hid away in your time of great might.”
He would have added, “If it be within your power reveal the hiding place to me now,” but somehow a feeling came over him that this would be akin to the wild superstitions that pervaded the land, so he fell into silence.
The top of the Citadel is broad and very long; a perfect promenade for a moonlight night.
Now fancying himself a guard pacing his beat in the silent night, and now endeavoring to live again the days of long ago, Johnny paced the ramparts in silence.
Never had there been such a night, and never a lovelier sight in all the world. At the back of the Citadel distant mountains loomed, blue, indistinct, mysterious.
Before him he caught the glint of the far away sea. At its shore, he knew, palms grew rank and tall, shading beautiful white stucco homes. The water of the sea was blue and clear as the most transparent glass. Green parrots flitted from tree to tree. And in the evening the mocking birds sing.
“It’s the most beautiful island in all the world,” he told himself, as he walked slowly along with bowed head, “and yet its history is the saddest of all.
“Columbus found it. He made an earnest attempt to colonize it. Yet it brought him only sorrow, a dungeon and chains. The French conquered it. It brought them only death. Christophe dreamed dreams. He, too, ended in defeat. And why? Gold! Columbus might have succeeded but the greedy Spaniards demanded gold and more gold. He was obliged to enslave the natives to obtain gold. The French were no better. Slavery has always brought tragedy.
“Gold. Christophe was thought of as a hero and a liberator until he fell in love with glittering gold.
“Gold,” he stopped short in his tracks. He was here at this very moment in a search for gold, the ‘Rope of Gold.’
“Ah, yes,” he told himself after a moment’s thought. “But we want it at least in part for others, not entirely for ourselves.”
He strolled slowly on. As he did so, he saw in his mind’s eye a broad aqueduct running down from the mountain and on out over a desolate, cactus grown plain. It was broken in places, but once it was repaired it would bring water to thousands of thirsty acres. Not alone that, but it would bring pure, cold water to those who now traveled far to carry luke-warm water on donkeys’ backs.
“Hundreds die needlessly every year because of the water,” the Professor had said. “If only we had the money for rebuilding the waste places.”
“He must have it,” the boy told himself. “Somehow—”
Of a sudden, he felt himself sinking. His first thought was that he had walked off the wall.
But no, he was in the very center.
Stones crumbled and glided beneath his feet. He threw his arms out madly. It was no use. Down, down he went.
He knew on the instant that the unusual had happened.
“It’s a secret opening in the wall,” he told himself. “I have found the hiding place of the ‘Rope of Gold’.”
“Or you have found death,” a voice seemed to whisper. “You are more than a hundred feet above the mountain top.”
Not once in all his young life had Johnny Thompson felt so near his end as when he felt himself shooting downward into the unknown heart of the ancient Citadel.
That there were cavities, cisterns, secret passages, and air-vents running here and there through that massive pile of stone, he knew well enough. Some of them he and Curlie, ever hopeful of finding the hidden treasure, had explored. Some cavities had been prisons, others granaries, and one vastly greater than all others had been a cistern for storing rain water.
“But this one?” His heart stopped beating. What if it were an air shaft, running to the very bottom, a hundred feet below? He dared not think. What if it were indeed a storage place for treasure? What if he landed on piles of clinking gold? He dared not hope.
At this moment life, the priceless gift, seemed more precious than ever before. The affair was over in a fraction of a second, yet in that brief span of time all the bright glory of life in this beautiful world appeared to flash before him.
Thud! He struck with a sudden force that drove his knees into his chin and set his teeth rattling.
Instantly there was the sound of wild commotion all about him. “Bats!” he told himself. “Wait till I get out my flashlight. They’ll scurry away fast enough. Only hope the torch is not broken in the fall. Whew! How glad I am to be alive!”
It was with trembling fingers that he at last drew the small flashlight from his pocket.
“If the bulb’s broken,” he thought as a cold chill set his teeth chattering. “Not much fun spending the night down here with these bats.”
A little cry of joy escaped his lips as the light flashed on and the bats, as if touched by a magician’s wand, vanished from sight.
His joy was short lived. The place he was in was small, not over fifteen feet from corner to corner. And the walls that towered above him, some twenty feet, instead of running straight up, slanted in from bottom to top.
“It’s as if I had been sitting upon the very tip-top of a twenty foot pyramid,” he told himself, “and the tip crumbled in, letting me drop inside.”
“Wish it was made of paste-board,” he told himself, tapping the solid stone wall. “But it’s not, and I’m here.”
He sat down to think. Here indeed was a predicament. Neither Curlie nor Dorn knew where he had gone. He would not be able to get out by himself. When he did not return they would search for him. But in that vast pile of brick and stone what chance was there of being found? In its day it had been the most massive fort in the western hemisphere. Ten thousand troops had been quartered there. There were hundreds of holes and caverns, dungeons and passages to be searched.
“And there is the jungle all about,” he told himself. “They may think I have been kidnapped by natives and may go searching there.”
But Johnny was young. What was still better, he had a firm faith in the ways of Providence.
“I will hear them walking on the wall,” he told himself. “I’ll call to them.”
He did hear someone walking on the wall and did call. The result, however, was far different from what he expected.
In the meantime Curlie Carson was returning over a jungle path in the night. The objects he carried slung over his back would have caused Johnny Thompson to stare in amazement. They were two native drums. One was small but the other was an exact duplicate of the one that had won for Johnny a sore head and had endangered his life.
“It’s all done with the aid of batteries,” Curlie repeated to himself as he passed from a moonlit spot into the shadows. “But the drums will help. They will help a lot.” He let forth a low deep chuckle that said volumes.
“Won’t Johnny and Dorn be surprised!” He chuckled again.
* * * * * * * *
After stirring uneasily in his blankets, Dorn at last awoke. It was late in the night, he knew, because the moon was hanging low. He put out a hand to the spot where Johnny should have been sleeping. It was empty. He was a little startled at this. He was more surprised and disturbed a moment later as a dull tum-tum came to him.
“Native drums,” he whispered to himself. Yet he could not be sure.
Oddly enough, the sound appeared to come from within the fort itself, in the direction of Curlie’s improvised laboratory.
As the boy propped himself up for a look at the fort, he fancied he caught a flash of red light. Yes, there it was again, this time it was yellow. It appeared to come from a great crack in the wall. This crack, he suddenly recalled, ran a zig-zagging course down the right side of Curlie’s laboratory.
“Strange he’d work so late,” he thought.
Then of a sudden, this time louder, more distinct, came the boom of a drum.
He was startled. Recalling Johnny’s story of the spying native, he wondered if some wandering tribe of wild natives had taken possession of Curlie’s secret place. He thought of waking Pompee. Then, of a sudden his heart went cold. What if Pompee too were gone?
A moment of suspense and he was reassured. Pompee’s great bulk, sprawled out before the fire, was unmistakable.
“It’s all so strange,” he told himself, dropping back into his place. “I—I almost wish I hadn’t come.”
Then, like Johnny, he saw in his mind’s eye the needy natives, the children, bright-eyed boys and girls stricken with sickness from bad water and pining away without hope. Then, because he was very young and eager, his vision returned brighter than before.
“The ‘Rope of Gold’,” he said aloud. “We will find it, perhaps to-morrow.”
A quarter of an hour later Curlie Carson came tiptoeing silently through the shadows. He paused for a moment to look down at the sleepers, gave vent to a low whistle of surprise upon seeing that Johnny was gone, then stood for a moment as if in deep thought.
“Where’s Johnny?” asked Dorn, sitting up.
“Don’t you know?” Curlie’s voice showed surprise.
“No,” the boy replied. “He was here. I fell asleep. I woke up. He was gone. That is all.”
“He’s all right,” said Curlie, dropping to a place beside Dorn and drawing a blanket about him. “Gone for a walk. Be coming back presently. Anyway, we couldn’t find him in the night if we tried.”
Realizing the truth of this, Dorn settled back in his place to at last fall asleep.
* * * * * * * *
In his accidental prison Johnny Thompson found only one task before him, with plenty of time for its execution. This task was that of examining every niche and cranny of the enclosure which might lead to a means of escape.
“What’s the use?” he exclaimed at last. “One might, perhaps, climb a perpendicular wall. Jean Val Jean in Victor Hugo’s book was credited with that power. But when the walls slant toward you on every side, what chance?”
Once more he sat down. And, because he wished to conserve his meager supply of light, he snapped off the electric torch to sit staring into utter darkness.
What does one think of when he is at the bottom of a dungeon in a strange land? Johnny wondered a while about this. That he was not the first one who had spent hours of solitary darkness in this great fortress he knew well enough. He was not even the first white man. During the reign of Christophe more than one daring soldier of fortune sought adventure in Haiti to find a dungeon instead.
With much time on his hands, Johnny thought of many things. He thought first of the aged Professor and his labor of love for the kindly natives of the valley.
“I wanted to help.” His throat tightened. “The Professor laughed at our search. He said there was no ‘Rope of Gold’. Perhaps he was right. But it was a beautiful dream. Besides, he said it would be a fine experience. Well,” he sighed, “it is an experience.”
For a long time he sat there thinking and the thoughts that came to him were far from happy ones. Then, into his consciousness there came a disturbance. He scarcely knew its cause. Was it a sound? Was it some slight movement close at hand? His hair appeared to rise as he sat there straining in a vain effort to sense the thing that crept in upon him.
In an effort to think clearly, he rested his head back against the wall. Then, like a flash it came to him. Someone was walking up above, yet so soft were the foot-falls that it was necessary for him to sense the jar of them by placing his head against the wall.
“Can’t be Curlie,” he told himself. “Nor Dorn.”
Because of the sharp cactus that grew among the rocks the boys wore heavy soled, high-topped boots.
“But it’s someone,” he told himself. “And that someone must help me.”
At once two pictures flashed into his mind: one of a strange native clinging to a slender rope ladder, peering into Curlie’s laboratory; the other of a curious, broad, little white man looking down at him through thick glasses.
“What if it’s the native!” he thought with a shudder. “What if he has companions and this is a trap, a pitfall prepared for me?”
He hesitated. The thing seemed absurd. Yet there had always been strange doings at the Citadel. For ten years after the emperor’s death the Citadel had been closely guarded. No one might enter it save with one hand in that of the escorting guard.
Even of late, attempts to explore the walls had been frustrated. A party with picks and shovels had come here. In the morning their tools had vanished. A single white man had camped here. Some time later his camp was found deserted and partially destroyed. He had never been seen again.
“Huh!” the boy grunted, shaking himself free from these forebodings. “He may have perished by falling into a hole, as I will if I do not make the most of any opportunity to escape.”
At that, throwing caution to the wind, he stood on tiptoe and cupping his hands shouted:
“Hello there! Hello! Hello!”
The ancient walls roared back Hello.
Almost instantly the jar of footsteps grew more distinct.
“Got me the first time.” A thrill of real joy shot through his being. This was followed almost instantly by a great wave of fear. Who was walking up there at the small hours of the night? What was to come of it all?
The first question was answered immediately. Hearing a stir at the top he threw on his flashlight to find himself staring into a familiar face, the face of the native who, but a few hours before, had been swinging on the rope ladder before Curlie’s window.
If any doubt remained in his mind, it was dispelled at once, for without uttering a word, the native began letting down the rope ladder.
“For all the world as if it had been prepared for this very occasion.” Johnny’s heart raced. His brow grew hot, then turned icy cold.
“Well,” he concluded, “the die is cast. There’s nothing now but to climb the ladder.” With that he awaited its coming.
Dorn, the young French boy, awoke early on the morning after Johnny’s disappearance. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the night confident that he would find his good American friend sleeping peacefully by his side in the morning. That he was not there alarmed him.
Like most French boys of the better class, Dorn was endowed with a sense of responsibility beyond his years. He awakened Pompee and Curlie Carson and was for starting a search at once, even without breakfast.
This plan Curlie vetoed. He had been out prowling around late at night and was hungry. Besides, being something of a soldier of fortune, who had been lost many times himself, he did not share the French boy’s apprehension.
“He’ll show up,” he said, digging in his pack for a match to light the fire. “Pompee won’t be any good without his morning cup of coffee; for that matter, neither will I.”
A half hour later, having eaten a hasty breakfast of cassava bread, coffee and mangoes, Dorn struck away across the court that led to the main stairway of the Citadel.
His heart was heavy for he had taken a great liking to the frank, free and kindly American boy, Johnny Thompson. He knew, too, what a dangerous thing it is to be lost in a jungle.
With his eyes and ears open, he wandered among the ruins. Up a stair here, down one there, peering here, there, everywhere he went. Always hoping to catch sight of Johnny’s sturdy figure yet always disappointed, he spent the whole bright tropical morning hunting.
At times he came upon Curlie Carson or Pompee. They, too, were searching. Curlie was taking the affair seriously at last.
“If we don’t find him trapped somewhere in the Citadel,” he said to Dorn, “we’ll have to take to the jungle trails. He may have been spirited away.”
“Spirited away?” The French boy’s tone showed surprise.
“Yes, by the natives. There’s been a lot of queer doings around this mossy old pile of stone. Remember that native who took the trouble to hang a ladder before my window and look in?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t do that just for fun. These natives are serious folks, despite all their drumming, dancing and singing. I’ve seen natives of other lands, Central America, Alaska, Siberia. I tell you they’re different.
“But they’re superstitious, too,” he went on. “Look at the way I frightened that fellow,” he laughed. “Never meant to at all. Didn’t even know he was there. But look! A little flash of red light, a little something for him to see and Bim! Down he goes, head over heels. Wonder he didn’t break his neck.
“Know what, Dorn?” he suddenly grew serious. “Know what I could do? I could walk from one end of this island to the other and take you with me, and you’d never see a native; at night I mean, always at night.”
“But there are thousands of homes right by the roadside.”
“Plenty of homes. Homes can’t run away. People can. You might see their bare heels. That would be all.”
It was Pompee who made the discovery of the day. There were many strange secrets hidden away behind Pompee’s wrinkled old brow. As a boy he had wandered many days among these ruins. Fear had been upon him then and a great dread, a dread of the spirits of those who had lived there in the past. Yet a boy’s consuming curiosity had led him on and on until he knew every dungeon, every secret passage as an American boy knows the secrets of the woods at the back of his pasture.
While Curlie and Dorn searched every dark corner, Pompee had eyes only for the new, the unfamiliar. In time he found it, a fresh break in the top of the Citadel.
There he dropped on hands and knees to shade his aged eyes and peer into the darkness below.
Long he remained there motionless. Then of a sudden, a low exclamation escaped his lips. Having moved a little to one side, he had allowed a glimmer of light to touch a spot on the floor of that dark hole where Johnny had come upon a misadventure.
Another moment of silence, then he spoke a name:
“Johnny.”
He spoke it so softly it could not have been heard ten yards away.
He listened. No answer.
“Johnny,” a little louder this time. Still no answer.
“Johnny Thompson!” His lips were at the jagged opening now. His voice sounded out like the roar of a great beast in the hollow enclosure. A bat beat the air with its wings.
Still no answer.
The old man rose to his feet. On his face was a look of fear, the fear that had gripped him here as a boy. His voice trembled, his words came out through chattering teeth as he called again and again:
“Dorn! Dorn! Dorn!”
And this time there came an answering call.
After a long day of weary search Dorn had seated himself on a stone parapet to watch the sun, a fiery red ball slowly sinking toward the sea. As he sat there it seemed to him that the sun of hope for a little valley that he and Johnny and the Professor had learned to love, was sinking never to rise with another morn.
“The valley has seen triumph and tragedy,” he told himself. “Time was when one could not have found a richer valley. And yet, even then those who labored there were poor. They were slaves. After that freedom and revolution, a hundred years.”
But now, how his hopes had grown. America, the United States, great, strong, beautiful America had come to the aid of little Haiti. Valleys were blossoming as of old. Health was returning to the people. And all this time they were free. “Free,” he repeated the word reverently.
“We hoped so much for our little valley too,” he told himself. “But there is not money for all. Some must wait. And now,” his throat tightened. “Johnny Thompson is lost, perhaps gone forever. And our golden dream will soon be forgotten.”
It was at this moment that he heard the call of old Pompee. It was a strange call, he thought. These Haitians express so much in a call. But this call spoke neither of joy nor sorrow.
“What can it be?” he asked himself as, springing down from his seat, high above the mountain crest, he went racing down at a reckless pace.
“What is it? Have you found him?” he cried as he came near.
Pompee did not answer. He merely stood and pointed at his feet.
Only when the boy stood at his side did he see that he was pointing at a hole in the Citadel’s stone top.
Dropping on one knee, he stared into the darkness of that man-made cavern but could see nothing. The sun had sunk too low. The spot of light was no longer there.
Only by lighting a match and allowing it to drop was he able to see. Then he gave forth a sharp exclamation. What he saw was a khaki handkerchief. The ownership of that bit of cloth was unmistakable. A little friend of Johnny’s had embroidered a large red J in each of his handkerchiefs.
“It’s Johnny’s!” he said in a low, tense tone. “He has been down there. He—he fell in.”
Pompee nodded.
“Is he down there still?”
Pompee shook his head solemnly.
“Where can he be?”
“How can one say? See!” said the faithful old servant. “The sun is gone. Night comes swiftly. Caught on the top of this place where spirits walk, who can say what may happen to us?”
“Spirits do no harm,” said Dorn. “It is only the living ones. But we will go down.” He led the way.
* * * * * * * *
And what of Johnny? Where was he?
He had accepted the proffered aid. He had climbed the rope ladder. What else was there to do? The native who looked down upon him, who earlier in the night had looked in upon Curlie Carson at his work, might be a villain. What of it? If he had cared to he might have murdered Johnny, then closed up the hole in the fortress roof. That he had not chosen to do so was in his favor.
“Probably an innocent, kindly fellow,” Johnny told himself. “A little curious, that’s all. Most of the natives down here are like that.”
He did not feel too certain that this conclusion was correct. Nevertheless, up the rope ladder he went. And as he climbed, all unbeknown to him, his handkerchief fluttered from his pocket and dropped to the floor, there to remain as mute evidence that its owner had spent some time in that dungeon-like hole. Hours later, as you have seen, it was found by Pompee.
On clambering over the rough entrance to the pitfall he found himself surrounded by three stalwart brown men. These men were armed only with steel pointed spears and machetes, a thing Johnny marveled at. In the part of Haiti which he had visited, spears were scarce, bows and arrows practically unknown, and rifles very common.
As he thought this through he recalled his own bow and quiver of arrows. He had taken them with him on his lonely ramble; in fact he never left camp without them.
In his fall the bow had been knocked from his hand and the quiver, caught on a jagged bit of rock, had broken the light thong that held it to him.
“Where are they now?” he thought.
Ah, there they were!
With a sigh of relief he stooped to pick up his bow. He was not interrupted in this procedure, but as his right hand gripped the bow, one of the natives seized the quiver of razor-pointed arrows.
A thrill shot through him. His brow grew suddenly cold. “So that’s that,” he thought. “At least they don’t trust me too much.”
Turning about, the native who had seized the quiver started away, over a dim trail that did not lead toward the boy’s camp.
For a moment the boy stood where he was. Then a hand pushed him very gently forward.
“What’s the use?” he thought. “They are three. I am one. It is night. I am unarmed. Whatever they will to do they can do.”
He thought of the young French boy. “Shouldn’t have brought him,” he told himself. “But old Pompee will care for him.”
He thought of the needy valley people, of the old Professor and his dreams, of the ‘Rope of Gold’.
“This is the end of that,” he told himself as he followed on in the darkness.
They led him along the top of the Citadel for a time, then, after descending stone stairways into the heart of the fortress, lost him completely in a maze of rooms and passageways to at last emerge upon the top of a stairway that, hidden as it was by great over-hanging treetops, had escaped the eager eyes of the three boys.
“They know a great deal about this old fortress,” Johnny told himself. “Shouldn’t wonder if they could lead me to the ‘Rope of Gold’.
“But where do we go from here?” he asked himself, as the leader moved on down the moss-grown stairs.
At the foot of the stairs were some twenty natives. Apparently Johnny and his guards had been expected. He noted with a little tremor that two of the men carried light strong ropes.
Without a word the men formed in line, some in front, some behind him. Then, slowly, the procession moved forward single file over a narrow trail Johnny had not known before.
The boy’s head was in a whirl. They had not said “Come.” They had not said, “You must go with us.” They had said nothing. And yet, there was a subtle something about their actions that said plainer than words, “It is useless to resist. You must come with us.”
“But where am I going?” he asked himself. “Where will I be when I get there? And why am I going at all?” Since he could find no answer to these questions, he gripped his stout bow (now quite useless without his arrows) and trudged silently on into the night.
Several hours later he found himself lying upon his back beneath a giant mahogany tree. He was far up the mountain side. Greenish-gray moss hung like beards from the tree branches. Here it was cool even in daytime.
They had left the trail a half hour before, he and the strange group of natives. He guessed they were hiding until dark. When darkness came they would travel again. Where would they go? What was the end of the trail? To these questions he could form no answer. He had dined well enough on native food. He was not being disturbed now; watched that was all.
“Strange business,” he grumbled to himself.
All that long, tropical day, with the sun burning hot and dry upon him, Curlie Carson had sought for some trace of Johnny Thompson. At the time Pompee discovered the break in the top of the fortress he was some distance away from the Citadel.
Toward evening he had disappeared into the brush. There, crouching low, like some great, slim cat he prowled along bush grown, vine hung trails looking for a familiar footprint.
Long after darkness had fallen, with the golden spot of an electric torch ever moving before him, he prowled on.
Here a surprised covey of wild parrots flew screaming away, and there some strange creature went scampering down his path. Here he narrowly avoided stepping on a great lizard asleep in the trail, and there a yellow snake with green eyes that gleamed horribly in the night caused him to start and shudder.
At last, at a place some five miles from the Citadel, where two trails crossed at a sharp angle, he came to an abrupt halt to bend down and examine the loose, dry soil. Dropping on hands and knees he followed the other trail for a distance of fifty yards or more. Coming upon the dry bed of a stream, he halted. There, to all appearance, he found what he sought.
The bed of the stream was completely dry, but up the bank a little way was a small damp spot, where in the rainy season a spring flowed. In this damp spot were three well marked footsteps.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Didn’t think he’d desert us.”
For a full moment he stood there pondering. Then at last he turned and walked back toward camp.
“He wouldn’t desert us. Stands to reason he wouldn’t,” he muttered. “He might have discovered a clue. Some native might be leading him on. But leading him on to what?”
Curlie didn’t trust natives. He had a notion that all people save those of his own race were treacherous.
Arrived at camp, he cast down a bombshell by saying in his quietest drawl:
“Johnny’s gone into the mountains with a bunch of natives. We’ll follow in the morning, and we’ll take Mike with us.”
Dorn, the French boy, wanted to ask who Mike was, but being timid, and having always been somewhat ill at ease in the presence of this peculiar boy, he asked nothing.
Curlie ate hastily and in silence. Then with a mumbled excuse, he lost himself once more in the night.
“Strange fellow,” said Dorn.
“Some day mebby Papa Lou,” said old Pompee, with a shake of his wise old head. “Plenty understand that one boy.”
A Papa Lou is a native witch doctor of Haiti, a priest of the Voodoo cult. Dorn thought it very improbable that Curlie, or, for that matter, any white boy, would turn into a Papa Lou. However, realizing the futility of arguing with an old man, he kept silent.
With his back against a tree, with the moon gilding the topmost ridge of the ancient fortress, the French boy sat wondering in a troubled sort of way what had become of his good friend Johnny Thompson. Beyond the discovery of the khaki handkerchief at the bottom of the pitfall, they had found no trace of him.
“He can’t have gone away of his own accord,” he assured himself. “He is too honorable for that. He—”
His reflections were broken short off by the cry of old Pompee:
“See, Monsieur. Only look! Look!”
Dorn did look and what he saw made his blood run cold.
* * * * * * * *
What Dorn saw had nothing to do with Johnny Thompson. For all that Johnny was having his share of adventure. We left him, as you will know, hiding away with his captors in a secluded tropical glade. The day was hot. He had traveled far. His day dreams may have blended with real dreams. Be that as it may, he was suddenly startled into complete consciousness by a series of shrill cries and, as he sprang to his feet, found himself in complete possession of the field. Every black had fled.