Leiningen versus the Ants by Carl Stephenson

[Roby]

"They're over!"
   While the besieged were concentrating upon the defence of the stretch
opposite the wood, the seemingly unaffected line beyond the wood had become the
theatre of decisive action. Here the defenders' front was sparse and scattered;
everyone who could be spared had hurried away to the south.
   Just as the man at the weir had lowered the water almost to the bed of the
ditch, the ants on a wide front began another attempt at a direct crossing like
that of the preceding day. Into the emptied bed poured an irresistible throng.
Rushing across the ditch, they attained the inner bank before the slow-witted
Indians fully grasped the situation. Their frantic screams dumfounded the man at
the weir. Before he could direct the river anew into the safeguarding bed he saw
himself surrounded by raging ants. He ran like the others, ran for his life.
   When Leiningen heard this, he knew the plantation was doomed. He wasted no
time bemoaning the inevitable. For as long as there was the slightest chance of
success, he had stood his ground, and now any further resistance was both
useless and dangerous. He fired three revolver shots into the air--the
prearranged signal for his men to retreat instantly within the "inner moat."
Then he rode towards the ranch house.
   This was two miles from the point of invasion. There was therefore time
enough to prepare the second line of defence against the advent of the ants. Of
the three great petrol cisterns near the house, one had already been half
emptied by the constant withdrawals needed for the pumps during the fight at the
water ditch. The remaining petrol in it was now drawn off through underground
pipes into the concrete trench which encircled the ranch house and its
outbuildings.

[Roby]

And there, drifting in twos and threes, Leiningen's men reached him. Most of
them were obviously trying to preserve an air of calm and indifference, belied,
however, by their restless glances and knitted brows. One could see their belief
in a favorable outcome of the struggle was already considerably shaken.
   The planter called his peons around him.
   "Well, lads," he began, "we've lost the first round. But we'll smash the
beggars yet, don't you worry. Anyone who thinks otherwise can draw his pay here
and now and push off. There are rafts enough to spare on the river and plenty of
time still to reach 'em."
   Not a man stirred.
   Leiningen acknowledged his silent vote of confidence with a laugh that was
half a grunt. "That's the stuff, lads. Too bad if you'd missed the rest of the
show, eh? Well, the fun won't start till morning. Once these blighters turn
tail, there'll be plenty of work for everyone and higher wages all round. And
now run along and get something to eat; you've earned it all right."
   In the excitement of the fight the greater part of the day had passed
without the men once pausing to snatch a bite. Now that the ants were for the
time being out of sight, and the "wall of petrol" gave a stronger feeling of
security, hungry stomachs began to assert their claims.

[Roby]

The bridges over the concrete ditch were removed. Here and there solitary
ants had reached the ditch; they gazed at the petrol meditatively, then scurried
back again. Apparently they had little interest at the moment for what lay
beyond the evil-reeking barrier; the abundant spoils of the plantation were the
main attraction. Soon the trees, shrubs and beds for miles around were hulled
with ants zealously gobbling the yield of long weary months of strenuous toil.
   As twilight began to fall, a cordon of ants marched around the petrol
trench, but as yet made no move towards its brink. Leiningen posted sentries
with headlights and electric torches, then withdrew to his office, and began to
reckon up his losses. He estimated these as large, but, in comparison with his
bank balance, by no means unbearable. He worked out in some detail a scheme of
intensive cultivation which would enable him, before very long, to more than
compensate himself for the damage now being wrought to his crops. It was with a
contented mind that he finally betook himself to bed where he slept deeply until
dawn, undisturbed by any thought that next day little more might be left of him
than a glistening skeleton.
   He rose with the sun and went out on the flat roof of his house. And a scene
like one from Dante lay around him; for miles in every direction there was
nothing but a black, glittering multitude, a multitude of rested, sated, but
none the less voracious ants: yes, look as far as one might, one could see
nothing but that rustling black throng, except in the north, where the great
river drew a boundary they could not hope to pass. But even the high stone
breakwater, along the bank of the river, which Leiningen had built as a defence
against inundations, was, like the paths, the shorn trees and shrubs, the ground
itself, black with ants.

[Roby]

So their greed was not glutted in razing that vast plantation? Not by a long
shot; they were all the more eager now on a rich and certain booty--four hundred
men, numerous horses, and bursting granaries.
   At first it seemed that the petrol trench would serve its purpose. The
besiegers sensed the peril of swimming it, and made no move to plunge blindly
over its brink. Instead they devised a better maneuver; they began to collect
shreds of bark, twigs and dried leaves and dropped these into the petrol.
Everything green, which could have been similarly used, had long since been
eaten. After a time, though, a long procession could be seen bringing from the
west the tamarind leaves used as rafts the day before.
   Since the petrol, unlike the water in the outer ditch, was perfectly still,
the refuse stayed where it was thrown. It was several hours before the ants
succeeded in covering an appreciable part of the surface. At length, however,
they were ready to proceed to a direct attack.
   Their storm troops swarmed down the concrete side, scrambled over the
supporting surface of twigs and leaves, and impelled these over the few
remaining streaks of open petrol until they reached the other side. Then they
began to climb up this to make straight for the helpless garrison.
   During the entire offensive, the planter sat peacefully, watching them with
interest, but not stirring a muscle. Moreover, he had ordered his men not to
disturb in any way whatever the advancing horde. So they squatted listlessly
along the bank of the ditch and waited for a sign from the boss. The petrol was
now covered with ants. A few had climbed the inner concrete wall and were
scurrying towards the defenders.

[Roby]

"Everyone back from the ditch!" roared Leiningen. The men rushed away,
without the slightest idea of his plan. He stooped forward and cautiously
dropped into the ditch a stone which split the floating carpet and its living
freight, to reveal a gleaming patch of petrol. A match spurted, sank down to the
oily surface--Leiningen sprang back; in a flash a towering rampart of fire
encompassed the garrison.
   This spectacular and instant repulse threw the Indians into ecstasy. They
applauded, yelled and stamped, like children at a pantomime. Had it not been for
the awe in which they held the boss, they would infallibly have carried him
shoulder high.
   It was some time before the petrol burned down to the bed of the ditch, and
the wall of smoke and flame began to lower. The ants had retreated in a wide
circle from the devastation, and innumerable charred fragments along the outer
bank showed that the flames had spread from the holocaust in the ditch well into
the ranks beyond, where they had wrought havoc far and wide.
   Yet the perseverance of the ants was by no means broken; indeed, each
setback seemed only to whet it. The concrete cooled, the flicker of the dying
flames wavered and vanished, petrol from the second tank poured into the
trench--and the ants marched forward anew to the attack.

[Roby]

The foregoing scene repeated itself in every detail, except that on this
occasion less time was needed to bridge the ditch, for the petrol was now
already filmed by a layer of ash. Once again they withdrew; once again petrol
flowed into the ditch. Would the creatures never learn that their self-sacrifice
was utterly senseless? It really was senseless, wasn't it? Yes, of course it was
senseless--provided the defenders had an unlimited supply of petrol.
   When Leiningen reached this stage of reasoning, he felt for the first time
since the arrival of the ants that his confidence was deserting him. His skin
began to creep; he loosened his collar. Once the devils were over the trench
there wasn't a chance in hell for him and his men. God, what a prospect, to be
eaten alive like that!
   For the third time the flames immolated the attacking troops, and burned
down to extinction. Yet the ants were coming on again as if nothing had
happened. And meanwhile Leiningen had made a discovery that chilled him to the
bone-petrol was no longer flowing into the ditch. Something must be blocking the
outflow pipe of the third and last cistern-a snake or a dead rat? Whatever it
was, the ants could be held off no longer, unless petrol could by some method be
led from the cistern into the ditch.

[Roby]

Then Leiningen remembered that in an outhouse nearby were two old disused
fire engines. Spry as never before in their lives, the peons dragged them out of
the shed, connected their pumps to the cistern, uncoiled and laid the hose. They
were just in time to aim a stream of petrol at a column of ants that had already
crossed and drive them back down the incline into the ditch. Once more an oily
girdle surrounded the garrison, once more it was possible to hold the
position--for the moment.
   It was obvious, however, that this last resource meant only the postponement
of defeat and death. A few of the peons fell on their knees and began to pray;
others, shrieking insanely, fired their revolvers at the black, advancing
masses, as if they felt their despair was pitiful enough to sway fate itself to
mercy.
   At length, two of the men's nerves broke: Leiningen saw a naked Indian leap
over the north side of the petrol trench, quickly followed by a second. They
sprinted with incredible speed towards the river. But their fleetness did not
save them; long before they could attain the rafts, the enemy covered their
bodies from head to foot.
   In the agony of their torment, both sprang blindly into the wide river,
where enemies no less sinister awaited them. Wild screams of mortal anguish
informed the breathless onlookers that crocodiles and sword-toothed piranhas
were no less ravenous than ants, and even nimbler in reaching their prey.
   In spite of this bloody warning, more and more men showed they were making
up their minds to run the blockade. Anything, even a fight midstream against
alligators, seemed better than powerlessly waiting for death to come and slowly
consume their living bodies.

[Roby]

Leiningen flogged his brain till it reeled. Was there nothing on earth could
sweep this devil's spawn back into the hell from which it came?
   Then out of the inferno of his bewilderment rose a terrifying inspiration.
Yes, one hope remained, and one alone. It might be possible to dam the great
river completely, so that its waters would fill not only the water ditch but
overflow into the entire gigantic "saucer" of land in which lay the plantation.
   The far bank of the river was too high for the waters to escape that way.
The stone breakwater ran between the river and the plantation; its only gaps
occurred where the "horseshoe" ends of the water ditch passed into the river. So
its waters would not only be forced to inundate into the plantation, they would
also be held there by the breakwater until they rose to its own high level. In
half an hour, perhaps even earlier, the plantation and its hostile army of
occupation would be flooded.
   The ranch house and outbuildings stood upon rising ground. Their foundations
were higher than the breakwater, so the flood would not reach them. And any
remaining ants trying to ascend the slope could be repulsed by petrol.
   It was possible--yes, if one could only get to the dam! A distance of nearly
two miles lay between the ranch house and the weir--two miles of ants. Those two
peons had managed only a fifth of that distance at the cost of their lives. Was
there an Indian daring enough after that to run the gauntlet five times as far?
Hardly likely; and if there were, his prospect of getting back was almost nil.
   No, there was only one thing for it, he'd have to make the attempt himself;
he might just as well be running as sitting still, anyway, when the ants finally
got him. Besides, there was a bit of a chance. Perhaps the ants weren't so
almighty, after all; perhaps he had allowed the mass suggestion of that evil
black throng to hypnotize him, just as a snake fascinates and overpowers.

[Roby]

The ants were building their bridges. Leiningen got up on a chair. "Hey,
lads, listen to me!" he cried. Slowly and listlessly, from all sides of the
trench, the men began to shuffle towards him, the apathy of death already
stamped on their faces.
   "Listen, lads!" he shouted. "You're frightened of those beggars, but you're
a damn sight more frightened of me, and I'm proud of you. There's still a chance
to save our lives--by flooding the plantation from the river. Now one of you
might manage to get as far as the weir--but he'd never come back. Well, I'm not
going to let you try it; if I did I'd be worse than one of those ants. No, I
called the tune, and now I'm going to pay the piper.
   "The moment I'm over the ditch, set fire to the petrol. That'll allow time
for the flood to do the trick. Then all you have to do is wait here all snug and
quiet till I'm back. Yes, I'm coming back, trust me"--he grinned--"when I've
finished my slimming-cure."
   He pulled on high leather boots, drew heavy gauntlets over his hands, and
stuffed the spaces between breeches and boots, gauntlets and arms, shirt and
neck, with rags soaked in petrol. With close-fitting mosquito goggles he
shielded his eyes, knowing too well the ants' dodge of first robbing their
victim of sight. Finally, he plugged his nostrils and ears with cotton-wool, and
let the peons drench his clothes with petrol.

[Roby]

He was about to set off, when the old Indian medicine man came up to him; he
had a wondrous salve, he said, prepared from a species of chafer whose odor was
intolerable to ants. Yes, this odor protected these chafers from the attacks of
even the most murderous ants. The Indian smeared the boss' boots, his gauntlets,
and his face over and over with the extract.
   Leiningen then remembered the paralyzing effect of ants' venom, and the
Indian gave him a gourd full of the medicine he had administered to the bitten
peon at the water ditch. The planter drank it down without noticing its bitter
taste; his mind was already at the weir.
   He started of towards the northwest corner of the trench. With a bound he
was over--and among the ants.
   The beleaguered garrison had no opportunity to watch Leiningen's race
against death. The ants were climbing the inner bank again-the lurid ring of
petrol blazed aloft. For the fourth time that day the reflection from the fire
shone on the sweating faces of the imprisoned men, and on the reddish-black
cuirasses of their oppressors. The red and blue, dark-edged flames leaped
vividly now, celebrating what? The funeral pyre of the four hundred, or of the
hosts of destruction? Leiningen ran. He ran in long, equal strides, with only
one thought, one sensation, in his being--he must get through. He dodged all
trees and shrubs; except for the split seconds his soles touched the ground the
ants should have no opportunity to alight on him. That they would get to him
soon, despite the salve on his boots, the petrol in his clothes, he realized
only too well, but he knew even more surely that he must, and that he would, get
to the weir.

[Roby]

Apparently the salve was some use after all; not until he reached halfway
did he feel ants under his clothes, and a few on his face. Mechanically, in his
stride, he struck at them, scarcely conscious of their bites. He saw he was
drawing appreciably nearer the weir--the distance grew less and less--sank to
five hundred--three--two--one hundred yards.
   Then he was at the weir and gripping the ant-hulled wheel. Hardly had he
seized it when a horde of infuriated ants flowed over his hands, arms and
shoulders. He started the wheel--before it turned once on its axis the swarm
covered his face. Leiningen strained like a madman, his lips pressed tight; if
he opened them to draw breath. . . .
   He turned and turned; slowly the dam lowered until it reached the bed of the
river. Already the water was overflowing the ditch. Another minute, and the
river was pouring through the near-by gap in the breakwater. The flooding of the
plantation had begun.

[Roby]

Leiningen let go the wheel. Now, for the first time, he realized he was
coated from head to foot with a layer of ants. In spite of the petrol his
clothes were full of them, several had got to his body or were clinging to his
face. Now that he had completed his task, he felt the smart raging over his
flesh from the bites of sawing and piercing insects.
   Frantic with pain, he almost plunged into the river. To be ripped and
splashed to shreds by paranhas? Already he was running the return journey,
knocking ants from his gloves and jacket, brushing them from his bloodied face,
squashing them to death under his clothes.
   One of the creatures bit him just below the rim of his goggles; he managed
to tear it away, but the agony of the bite and its etching acid drilled into the
eye nerves; he saw now through circles of fire into a milky mist, then he ran
for a time almost blinded, knowing that if he once tripped and fell.... The old
Indian's brew didn't seem much good; it weakened the poison a bit, but didn't
get rid of it. His heart pounded as if it would burst; blood roared in his ears;
a giant's fist battered his lungs.
   Then he could see again, but the burning girdle of petrol appeared
infinitely far away; he could not last half that distance. Swift-changing
pictures flashed through his head, episodes in his life, while in another part
of his brain a cool and impartial onlooker informed this ant-blurred, gasping,
exhausted bundle named Leiningen that such a rushing panorama of scenes from
one's past is seen only in the moment before death.

[Roby]

A stone in the path . . . to weak to avoid it . . . the planter stumbled and
collapsed. He tried to rise . . . he must be pinned under a rock . . . it was
impossible . . . the slightest movement was impossible . . . .
   Then all at once he saw, starkly clear and huge, and, right before his eyes,
furred with ants, towering and swaying in its death agony, the pampas stag. In
six minutes--gnawed to the bones. God, he couldn't die like that! And something
outside him seemed to drag him to his feet. He tottered. He began to stagger
forward again.
   Through the blazing ring hurtled an apparition which, as soon as it reached
the ground on the inner side, fell full length and did not move. Leiningen, at
the moment he made that leap through the flames, lost consciousness for the
first time in his life. As he lay there, with glazing eyes and lacerated face,
he appeared a man returned from the grave. The peons rushed to him, stripped off
his clothes, tore away the ants from a body that seemed almost one open wound;
in some paces the bones were showing. They carried him into the ranch house.
   As the curtain of flames lowered, one could see in place of the illimitable
host of ants an extensive vista of water. The thwarted river had swept over the
plantation, carrying with it the entire army. The water had collected and
mounted in the great "saucer," while the ants had in vain attempted to reach the
hill on which stood the ranch house. The girdle of flames held them back.

[Roby]

And so imprisoned between water and fire, they had been delivered into the
annihilation that was their god. And near the farther mouth of the water ditch,
where the stone mole had its second gap, the ocean swept the lost battalions
into the river, to vanish forever.
   The ring of fire dwindled as the water mounted to the petrol trench, and
quenched the dimming flames. The inundation rose higher and higher: because its
outflow was impeded by the timber and underbrush it had carried along with it,
its surface required some time to reach the top of the high stone breakwater and
discharge over it the rest of the shattered army.

[Roby]

It swelled over ant-stippled shrubs and bushes, until it washed against the
foot of the knoll whereon the besieged had taken refuge. For a while an alluvial
of ants tried again and again to attain this dry land, only to be repulsed by
streams of petrol back into the merciless flood.
   Leiningen lay on his bed, his body swathed from head to foot in bandages.
With fomentations and salves, they had managed to stop the bleeding, and had
dressed his many wounds. Now they thronged around him, one question in every
face. Would he recover? "He won't die," said the old man who had bandaged him,
"if he doesn't want to.''
   The planter opened his eyes. "Everything in order?'' he asked.
   "They're gone,'' said his nurse. "To hell." He held out to his master a
gourd full of a powerful sleeping draught. Leiningen gulped it down.
   "I told you I'd come back," he murmured, "even if I am a bit streamlined."
He grinned and shut his eyes. He slept.

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