Tom Burnaby: A Story of Uganda and the Great Congo Forest
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Title: Tom Burnaby: A Story of Uganda and the Great Congo Forest
Creator: Herbert Strang
Release date: February 4, 2013 [eBook #42017]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM BURNABY: A STORY OF UGANDA AND THE GREAT CONGO FOREST ***
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: A Warm Reception. (See page 46.)]
TOM BURNABY
A STORY OF
UGANDA AND THE GREAT CONGO FOREST
BY
HERBERT STRANG
NEW EDITION
What good gift have my brothers, but it came
From search and strife and loving sacrifice?
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW
TORONTO, MELBOURNE, CAPE TOWN, BOMBAY
REPRINTED 1922 IN GREAT BRITAIN
BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH
_MY DEAR JACK,_
_Your birthday has come round again--and here, with every good wish, is
another book for your shelf. No mailed knights this time; our story is
of the present day. Yet you shall find paynim hordes as many and as
fierce as you please; yes, and chivalry itself, or I am much
mistaken,--although we may not spell it with a capital C. For it is a
theory of mine--"Old Uncle and his theories!" I hear you say!--that the
spirit of chivalry is as much alive to-day as ever, and finds as free a
scope. And if chivalry is, as I take it to be, the championing of the
weak and the oppressed, no region of the world offers a wider field than
Central Africa, where there is still ample work for the countrymen of
Livingstone and Gordon. Some day, perhaps, you may yourself visit that
land, and come back with as deep a sense of its glamour and pathos as
the rest of us. Meanwhile, since even at Harrow the sky is not always
clear, why not on some rainy afternoon pack up your traps and transport
yourself in imagination to Uganda with Tom Burnaby? If you return with
a certain stock of information about the land and its people--well, your
old uncle will be all the better pleased. Not, of course, that this
trip should be a reason for neglecting your football--or other duties!_
_Your affectionate uncle,_
_HERBERT STRANG._
Contents
KABAMBARI
CHAPTER I
FITTING OUT AN EXPEDITION
CHAPTER II
MBUTU
CHAPTER III
ON THE VICTORIA NYANZA
CHAPTER IV
A STERN CHASE
CHAPTER V
A LONG MARCH
CHAPTER VI
UNMASKED
CHAPTER VII
AMBUSCADING AN AMBUSH
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE TOILS
CHAPTER IX
GONE AWAY!
CHAPTER X
THE LAND OF THE PIGMIES
CHAPTER XI
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
CHAPTER XII
BIG MEDICINE
CHAPTER XIII
BLOOD-BROTHERHOOD
CHAPTER XIV
THE SIEGE OF BAREGA’S
CHAPTER XV
ARMS AND THE MAN
CHAPTER XVI
THE MAKING OF AN ARMY
CHAPTER XVII
TREACHERY
CHAPTER XVIII
THE GREAT FIGHT
CHAPTER XIX
TOM’S ARMADA
CHAPTER XX
AN END AND A BEGINNING
ZANZIBAR
Illustrations
PLATE I
A WARM RECEPTION . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
PLATE II
A MÊLÉE IN THE FOREST
PLATE III
TOM SURPRISES MABRUKI
PLATE IV
TOM IN THE BREACH
PLATE V
THE FIGHT ON THE LAKE
Plans
PLAN I THE BATTLE OF IMUBINGA
PLAN II
BAREGA’S VILLAGE DURING THE SIEGE
PLAN III
THE GREAT FIGHT BY THE SWAMP
_A belt of matted woodland. At the edge, three Belgian officers, in
light uniform and white topee, lying prone, and peering cautiously out
through glasses. Before them, a wide clearing, with a mud-walled town
in the midst, and huge forest-trees beyond. Behind, a few score
stalwart Bangala, strewn panting on the ground. Over all, the swarming
sunlit haze of tropical Africa._
_The gates stand open; peace reigns in Kabambari. But what is peace in
Kabambari? Some hundreds of negro slaves are tilling sorghum in the
cultivated tract outside the stockaded walls. Their chains clank as
they move heavily down the field, dogged by an Arab overseer armed with
rifle, scimitar, and whip. The pitiless sun, scorching their bent
backs, blackens the scars left by the more pitiless scourge._
_In the copse there is a whispered word of command; the negro soldiers
spring silently to their feet, line up as best the broken ground
permits, and then, at the heels of their white officers, charge out into
the sunlight. No yell nor cheer, as they dash towards the open gate;
the overseer, ere he can give the alarm, is bayoneted while his finger
is on the trigger; the slaves, listless, apathetic, have scarcely time
to realize their taskmaster’s doom before the thin line has swept past
them and through the gates. Then there is a sudden sharp crackle of
musketry; cries of startled fear and savage triumph; and by ones and
twos and threes, turbaned figures pour out of the far side of the town,
a scanty remnant of the Arab garrison. One by one they drop as they
cross the open; only a few gain the shelter of the forest. The heirs of
Tippu Tib are broken and dispersed. The struggle has been long, the
issue doubtful; but now, after years of stern fighting, the great Arab
empire, founded upon murder, rapine, and slavery, is scattered to the
winds. One thing only is wanting to make this last victory complete.
Rumaliza, the Arab commander, Tippu Tib’s ablest lieutenant, has escaped
the net. Whether to live and build anew the dread fabric raised by his
late chief; or whether to die in the gloomy depths of the Great Forest
by starvation or disease, or by the poisoned arrow of the Bambute--who
can say?_
CHAPTER I
Fitting Out an Expedition
The Major--A New Friend--By Rail to Uganda--Dr. O’Brien Introduces
Himself--The Major Orders a Retreat--Left Behind
A suit of boating flannels and a straw hat are no doubt a convenient,
cool, and comfortable outfit for a July day on the Thames, but they fail
miserably to meet the case on an average hot morning in Central Africa.
So Tom Burnaby found as he walked slowly through Kisumu, stopping every
now and again to mop his face and wish he were well out of it. If his
dress had not betrayed him, his undisguised interest in the scene would
in itself have bespoken the "griffin" to the most casual observer. The
few Europeans whom he met eyed him with looks half of amusement, half of
concern. One advanced as if to address him, then repented of the
impulse and passed on.
Suddenly his attention was arrested by a noise ahead, gradually
increasing in intensity as he approached. "The queerest noise you ever
heard in your life," he wrote in a letter to a chum at home. "Imagine
some score of huge ginger-beer bottles turned topsy-turvy and the fizz
gurgling out, with a glug, glug, glug, and a sort of gigantic fat
chuckle at the end,--then more glugging and chuckling, and chuckling and
glugging. I was wondering what it meant, when suddenly I came to a huge
shed, and then I saw the cause of all the row. About a hundred natives,
as black as your hat, their skins shining like polished bronze, were
working away at baggage and packages of all sorts, rolling up canvas,
packing boxes and bales, tugging at ropes, and all the time jabbering
and cackling and laughing and glug-glugging like a cageful of monkeys.
"I stood still and watched them for a minute, and then there was a
sudden lull in the uproar, and I heard my old uncle’s voice for the
first time. There he was, the dear old chap, perched on a pile of
ammunition-boxes, and the language he was using was evidently so warm
that it was a wonder the whole show didn’t blow up. I could only make
out a word here and there, most of it was double Dutch to me; but
whatever it was, it made those poor black fellows bustle for all they
were worth. Then in the middle of his address the old boy suddenly
caught sight of my unlucky self. You should have seen the expression on
his face! He stopped as if a live shell had pitched into the shed;
and--well, what happened then must keep till our next meeting. I could
never do justice to the interview in a letter."
To say that Major John Burnaby was surprised at the sudden appearance of
his nephew in Kisumu only feebly expresses his state of mind. After a
few seconds of speechlessness, his feelings found vent in the deliberate
exclamation:
"Well--I’m--hanged!"
Tom stood in front of him, looking very warm. There was another
embarrassing silence.
"What do you mean by this?" were the major’s next words.
"I really couldn’t help it, Uncle Jack."
"Couldn’t help it!" gasped the major.
"Oh well, you know what I mean! I saw in the papers that a column was
going up to catch the beggars who killed Captain Boyes, and that you had
got the job. ’Uncle Jack,’ I thought, ’has got his chance at last, and
I’m going to be there.’ And here I am!"
"I see you are! And you mean to say you have left your work, thrown it
all up, ruined your career, to come on a wild-goose chase like this?
You’ll go home by the next boat, sir."
"Don’t say that, Uncle. I know it’s sudden, but you see there was no
time to lose. I couldn’t write; I should never have got your answer in
time; and you surely couldn’t expect me to stop in a grimy engineering
shop on the Clyde when my only uncle had got his chance at last! I must
see it through with you, Uncle Jack."
"Must! must!" repeated the major. "Tom, I’m surprised at you--and
annoyed, sir--seriously annoyed at your folly. The absurdity of it all!
You can’t join the expedition. It’s against the regulations, for one
thing; this is a soldier’s job, and civilians would only be in the way.
Besides, you’re not seasoned; the climate would bowl you over in no
time, and you’re too young to peg out comfortably. What’s more, you’d
be no earthly use. Oh! I can’t argue it with you," pursued the major,
as Tom was about to protest; "you’re demoralizing my men. Cut off to my
bungalow, and keep out of mischief till I have done with them. Then I
shall have something to say to you."
Tom looked pleadingly for an instant into his uncle’s face, but finding
no promise of relenting there, he turned slowly on his heel and walked
away.
"So much for that! I was half afraid I’d catch it," he said to himself.
"My word, isn’t it hot!"
Tom was only eighteen, but he had already had disappointments enough, he
thought, to last him a lifetime. Ever since he could remember, he had
set his heart on being a soldier like his uncle Jack; but the sudden
death of his father, a quiet country parson, had left him with only a
few hundreds for his whole capital, and he had perforce to give up all
ideas of going to Sandhurst. At this critical moment an opening offered
itself in the works of an engineering firm on the Clyde, the head of
which was an old school chum of his uncle’s. It was Hobson’s choice.
He went to Glasgow, and there for a few months felt utterly forlorn and
miserable. Then he pulled himself together, and began to take an
interest even in the grimy work of the fitting-shop. He worked well,
went through various departments, and was gaining experience in the
draughtsman’s office when he read one day in the paper that his uncle
was appointed to the command of a punitive expedition in the Uganda
Protectorate. The news revived his old yearnings; after one restless
night he drew out enough to pay his passage and buy an outfit, and
booked himself on the first P. and O. steamer for Suez.
Among his fellow-passengers the only one with whom he had much to do was
a plump German trader, who joined at Gibraltar from a Hamburg liner. He
amused Tom with his outbursts of patriotic fervour, alternating with
periods of devotion to the interests of his firm. At one moment he was
soaring aloft with the German eagle; at the next he was quoting his best
price for pig-iron. Tom found him useful to practise his German on. He
had always had a turn for languages; indeed, his only distinctions at
school, besides his being the best bat in the eleven and a safe man in
goal, were won in German and French. Naturally, he soon scraped
acquaintance also with the chief engineer, and the pleasantest hours of
the voyage out were those he spent in the engine-room, where he showed
an unusually intelligent interest in the details of the machinery. He
changed ship at Suez, and was heartily glad when, on awaking one
morning, he caught sight of the white houses of Mombasa gleaming amid
the dark-green bush.
The first thing he did on landing was to enquire the whereabouts of the
expedition. He learned that it was fitting out at Kisumu, six hundred
miles inland, on the shore of the Victoria Nyanza, and that he could
reach the terminus at Port Florence by railway in two days. There being
no train till next morning, he swallowed his impatience and roamed about
the town. Amid the usual signs of Arab ruin and neglect he saw
evidences of a new life and activity. He could not but admire the
splendid harbour, in which a couple of British cruisers were lying at
anchor; he climbed up to the old dismantled Portuguese fort, and
examined every nook and cranny of it; he strolled about through the
narrow, twisted streets, finding much to interest him at every
step--grave Arab booth-keepers, sleek and wily Persians, lank Indian
coolies, and negroes of every race and size in every variety of undress.
He put up for the night at the Grand Hotel. At dinner he was faced by
an elderly gentleman with ruddy cheeks, side whiskers, and a shiny pate,
who gave him a casual glance, but, with the Englishman’s usual
taciturnity, for some time said nothing. When, however, he had
comfortably settled his soup, the old gentleman held his glass of claret
to the light, looked at Tom over the rims of his spectacles, and said:
"Just out, sir?"
"Yes; I landed this morning."
"H’m! Government appointment, sir?"
"Well no, not exactly. The fact is, I’ve come out to see my uncle."
"H’m! Many boys do; hard up, I suppose," said the old gentleman under
his breath. "Name, sir?"
"Burnaby--Tom Burnaby. My uncle is Major Burnaby of the Guides."
"Might have known it, h’m! you’re as like as two tom-cats. Jack
Burnaby’s a fine fellow, sir; I know him. Fine country this. We made
it a fine country. Ain’t you proud to be an Englishman? ’Tis four
hundred years or so since Vasco da Gama--heard of him, I suppose?--came
ashore here on his famous voyage to India. To be exact, it was the year
1497. It was a fine place then; did a fine trade, sir. He didn’t get
backed up. No stamina in those Portuguese. Suffer from jumps, don’t
you know. Arabs got in; consequence, rack and ruin. Decay, sir; dry
rot and mildew. We stepped in somewhere in the twenties, and
then--stepped out again. Stupid! Now we’ve got our foot in, and begad
we won’t lift it again, or I don’t know Joe Chamberlain. I know him.
H’m!"
The old fellow’s short snaps of sentences, and the little gasps he gave
at intervals, rather tickled Tom.
"Yes," he continued, "the Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it
provisionally to the British East Africa Company. They were made
definite masters of the place two years later, and also put in
possession of a vast tract of country extending four hundred miles along
the coast. H’m!"
At this Tom began to fear that he was in for a lecture, but he was
reassured the next moment.
"Jack Burnaby’s at Kisumu, six hundred miles up the line. There’s a fine
thing for you, now--this railway. Suppose you are going up to-morrow?
We’re coming on next week. Well, a word of advice, h’m! Don’t go
third-class. Nobody goes third-class. Blacks, you know--and lions. A
lion boarded the train the other day, and swallowed two niggers in a
winking. Strong-flavoured meat, h’m! Lions never touch first-class
passengers--never tackled me! Well, I’ll be glad to see Jack Burnaby
again. He’ll remember Ted Barkworth; yes, begad, and our little
diversion in Tokio in 95. Now, sir, will you come and smoke a cigar
with me? Don’t smoke? Well, well, none the worse for it, at present,
h’m! See you on the veranda, no doubt."
Mr. Barkworth went off to the smoking-room. As Tom got up, he noticed a
red-covered book lying on the chair next to the one occupied by his
talkative neighbour. He picked it up, intending to give it to one of
the waiters, and casually turned over the leaves. The book opened
rather easily at one place, and Tom, glancing at the page, saw: "The
Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it provisionally to the British East
Africa Company. They were made definite masters of the place two years
later, and also--" He read no farther; he had just recognized the
passage which Mr. Barkworth had reeled off so glibly, and was chuckling
at having discovered the source of the old man’s information, when his
glee was checked by a pleasant voice at his elbow saying:
"Excuse me, but have you seen a red-covered guide-book, left on one of
the chairs?"
Tom straightened his face, and, turning, saw a pretty girl of some
seventeen summers, looking very dainty and bewitching in her plain white
frock. He closed the book, and held it out without a word.
"Oh, thank you!" said the girl. "Poor Father is always so careless."
And with a smile she flitted out of the room.
Later in the evening, when Tom strolled on to the veranda, Mr. Barkworth
came up to him.
"H’m! come and let me introduce you to my daughter, sir. Lilian, Mr.
Burnaby, nephew of my old friend Major Jack."
Lilian Barkworth gave Tom a friendly little nod and smile of
recognition.
"My daughter, you know, Mr. Burnaby, wants to see the world--very
restless, h’m! keeps her poor old father constantly on the trot. Two
days in one place, then off we go: here to-day and gone to-morrow, h’m!
But there’s the admiral, I see--I know him; I must go and say how d’e
do. Lilian, you may talk to Mr. Burnaby till nine o’clock. See you
again, sir."
When he had gone over to speak to the admiral, Tom and Miss Barkworth
looked at each other and smiled.
"Dear old Father! How deluded he is!" she said. "He firmly believes he
scours the world for my benefit. I wouldn’t undeceive him, but really,
Mr. Burnaby, I would much rather live a quieter life. Now tell me, did
he quote the guidebook?"
"Well, he did give me some historical information--"
"Ah! I thought so. I fancied you were smiling when you had the book in
your hand. But he’ll forget it all by to-morrow; he gets it up in five
minutes and loses it in ten."
"Here to-day and gone to-morrow," suggested Tom, and the little
quotation put them on good terms with each other, so that Tom was
surprised to find how quickly the evening had flown when Miss Barkworth
by and by held out her hand and said that her time allowance had
expired.
He left Mombasa next morning before the Barkworths appeared. The
journey on the single line of the Uganda railway was full of interest to
him, impatient as he was to arrive at his destination. The train passed
through some of the most wonderful scenery to be found anywhere on the
face of the globe. Here were huge boulders, poised as though by some
giant’s hand, and the craters of long-extinct volcanoes; there, long
stretches of open country, skirted by dense forests of acacias,
banana-trees, and other tropical vegetation. Gazelles, giraffes,
zebras, hartebeest sported in herds over the green plains; an occasional
baboon was seen squatting on a branch; and here and there, by some lake
or riverside, hippopotamuses and rhinoceroses wallowed and revelled in
the shallows. Amid these signs of wild life appeared at intervals the
straw huts of a native village; or a shanty, roofed with corrugated
iron, marked the coming of civilization and trade: and then, towering
high into the sky, rose the gigantic snow-capped form of Mount
Kilimanjaro. The long journey came to an end at last, and Tom found his
uncle--only to meet with sore disappointment, as already related.
He was still feeling rather downhearted as he walked towards Port
Florence in the sweltering heat. It was by this time mid-afternoon, and
every discreet person was indulging in siesta in the shade. Tom met no
one but a few natives, dressed in little but hippo teeth and bead
necklaces, and he was wondering how to find his way to the major’s
bungalow when his ear was caught by unmistakeable cries of pain.
Turning a corner he saw a young black-follow writhing in the grip of a
European in light but dirty attire, who held his victim by his woolly
hair, and was belabouring his bare back with a whip of rhinoceros hide.
"Hi, you there? stop that!" cried Tom.
The man looked up sharply, gave the interrupter one scowling glance;
and, seeing only a stripling, laid on again.
"D’you hear? Stop that!" shouted Tom, hurrying along till he came
within arm’s-length of the bully. "Drop that whip, or I’ll knock you
down."
The man, apparently a Portuguese of the low type that Portugal sends to
her colonies, stared at him, spat out a curse, and raised his whip to
strike again. That instant Tom’s right arm shot out straight from the
shoulder, and before the cruel thong could descend again, the brute
found himself lying on his back in a pool of green mud. By the time he
had picked himself up the negro had slipped away, and soon put enough
ground between himself and his tormentor to make pursuit hopeless.
Quivering with passion the man drew a knife from his belt and glared
menacingly at Tom, who stood with hot brow and clenched fists ready to
repeat the blow. But the sound of the altercation had drawn a few
spectators to the spot, and, fearing the sure hand of British justice,
the discomfited Portuguese furtively replaced his knife, and, with
another ferocious look at Tom, slunk away.
"Fery goot, fery goot, my young friend," said a voice near Tom; "but you
hafe soon forgot vun of my advice-vords."
"Oh, it’s you, is it, Herr Schwab?" said Tom, turning and recognizing
his fellow-passenger on the steamer.
"Yes, it is me," replied the German. "Vat hafe I said? I hafe said:
Before all zings, step never in betveen ze native and ze vite man. Ze
native are all bad lot, as you say. Now you hafe vun enemy, my young
friend."
"Oh, that’s all right! You couldn’t expect me to look on and see that
murderous brute ill-using the poor wretch?"
The German shrugged.
"Black is black, and business are business. Kindness all fery goot,
courage equally all fery goot, but you should hafe--vat you call tact."
"Tact! Tuts! An ounce of common-sense to begin with," broke in another
voice. "Where did you get that fool of a hat? Come along, come along."
Tom felt a firm hand on his sleeve, and, too much surprised to resist,
he allowed himself to be dragged along by the new-comer, who did not
stop till they reached the water’s edge. There he stooped down and
plucked a couple of large green leaves from a strange plant, and a
moment later Tom found them flapping about his ears beneath his hat.
"There, now you’ll do," said his captor. "The idea of coming out and
practising boxing under an African sun in a three-and-sixpenny straw
hat! Sure an’ if I hadn’t met you you would have been food for jackals
in twelve hours. Thank your stars you were taken in hand by Dr. Corney
O’Brien. And now, who are you?"
The little man with the keen gray eyes and pleasant mouth looked up at
Tom and frowned.
"A Burnaby, by the powers! And I never knew the major had a family.
Ah, but you’re a Burnaby, plain enough, whatever they christened
ye--Tom, Dick, or Harry!"
"Right first shot, Doctor," said Tom with a smile. "I’m Tom Burnaby, at
your service. Will you be good enough to direct me to my uncle’s
bungalow?"
"Will I? Indeed I will. Come along."
Talking all the time, the little doctor led Tom in the direction of Port
Florence. A few minutes’ walking brought them to the major’s bungalow,
a one-story building of wood, raised a few inches from the ground, with
a neatly-thatched roof overhanging a sort of veranda. Tom was soon
stretching his legs luxuriously in one of his uncle’s comfortable
chairs, and scanning the walls hung with small-arms, hunting trophies,
and a few choice engravings.
"Ah, this is nice!" he said. "Can I have a drink, Doctor?"
"To be sure. What’ll you have? Your uncle’s burgundy is good. I can
recommend it."
"Really, a drink of water would do me best just now."
"Very well. Here, Saladin, cold water."
The major-domo, a tall muscular Musoga, appeared with a carafe of
sparkling water.
"Lucky you’re this side of the counthry," the doctor went on. "For ten
years, d’ye know, I never wance touched water. ’Twas in Ould Calabar,
where most of the dry land is swamp, and the rest mud, and the rule is,
drink and die. But what are ye doing out here, my bhoy?"
Tom told his story, the doctor breaking in every now and then with
sympathetic little ejaculations.
"’Tis hard luck; to be sure it is," he said, when Tom had told him of
his uncle’s blunt refusal to allow him to accompany the expedition.
"But the major’s right, you know, and I couldn’t venture any attempt to
persuade’m. We call’m Ould Blazes, you see."
"I couldn’t ask you to, Doctor. I’ve come on a fool’s errand, and have
only myself to blame. I must just make the best of it. What is to be
is to be."
"That’s right, now. And sure here’s the major himself."
"Pf! pf!" blew Major Burnaby, as he entered the room. "Glad that’s over
for the day at any rate. You’ve got the young scamp in hand, I see,
Corney. Tom, untwizzle that ringer; I must tub before I do anything
else."
Tom looked up to where his uncle was pointing, above his head, and saw
the wire of an electric bell twisted round a bracket on the wall. He
got up and pressed the button, and the major-domo appeared.
"Tub, Saladin," said the major. "And look here, this is my nephew; put
him up a bed and do him well."
"All right, sah! all same for one," returned the negro cheerfully.
In a few moments the major could be heard splashing and gasping in the
next room, and ere long he returned in mufti, looking cool and
comfortable in a suit of white ducks and a silk cummerbund. He asked
the doctor to stay to dinner, and Tom sat listening eagerly to his
seniors’ conversation, and admiring his uncle’s thorough grasp of even
the minutest details of the expedition.
It was to set out, he learned, in three or four days’ time, some three
hundred and fifty strong, from Port Florence, and was to cross the
Nyanza in steam launches. The only Europeans besides the major and Dr.
O’Brien were Captain Lister and a subaltern, the non-commissioned
officers being trustworthy Soudanese. Their objective was the village
of a petty chief, about a hundred and fifty miles west of the Nyanza,
who had revolted against British authority, and in concert with the
remnants of an old Arab slave-dealing gang had raided his more peaceful
neighbours. In the course of subsequent proceedings he had
treacherously killed a British officer, and a punitive expedition became
inevitable. The greater part of the military forces of the Protectorate
were engaged in police work on the north-eastern frontier; but they were
hastily recalled, and within a month, thanks to Major Burnaby’s energy,
the punitive column was ready to start. The stores for the expedition
were collected at rail-head, and the major had been very busy day and
night in getting them up from the coast, and seeing that everything
possible, to the smallest detail, was done to secure the safety and
success of the column.
After the doctor had gone, the major sat for some minutes silently
puffing his pipe, while Tom nervously turned over the leaves of a
month-old copy of the Times. At length the major laid down his pipe,
cleared his throat, and began:
"Look here, Tom, few words are best. I suppose you realize by this time
that you did a very foolish thing in coming out. What’s more, it was a
very inconsiderate thing. Here am I, with my hands full, toiling day and
night to straighten things out,--and you must come and complicate
matters just as I’m driving in the last peg, and without a moment’s
warning; in fact, making an attempt to force my hand! It was silly, it
was wrong, to say nothing of the waste of time when you ought to be
working at your profession, and the waste of money which you know as
well as I do you can’t afford. There’d be a glimmer of excuse, perhaps,
if I could make any use of you, and I’d stretch a point to do so; but
it’s entirely out of the question. I can’t find any reason, not even a
pretence of one, for bringing you in. There is really nothing for you
to do. So there is no help for it, and, as you can’t possibly stay
here, and are bound to go back, you may as well go at once. If you
really and seriously think of choosing Africa for your career, there’ll
be plenty of time to talk about that when you’ve finished your training;
and we can go into it when I get home."
The major relit his pipe, and hid his sympathetic features behind a
cloud of smoke. After a moment Tom said quietly:
"I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t see it from that point of view. I was an
ass. I’ll go home and do my best."
"That’s right, my boy," said the major heartily. "It’s no good crying
over spilt milk. I was young myself once; we all have to buy our
experience, and ’pon my word I think you’re getting yours pretty cheap
after all."
He rose from his chair, and put his hand kindly on Tom’s shoulder. "I’m
going to turn in," he added; "have to be up at dawn. Call Saladin if
you want anything. Good-night!"
During the next few days Tom almost forgot his disappointment, so much
was he interested in watching the final preparations. There were boxes
and bales everywhere. Empty kerosene cans were shipped on the launches,
to be filled with water when the force began its land march. Boxes of
ammunition, tin-lined biscuit-boxes of provisions, a tent or two for the
officers, canvas bags and smaller cases for the medical stores, were
carried on board on the backs of stalwart negroes, and all their friends
and neighbours crowded around, gesticulating frantically in their
excitement. It was all so novel that Tom had scarcely a minute to
reflect on his hard luck; and, indeed, so far from sulking, he sought
every opportunity of making himself useful, and was well pleased when he
chanced to overhear his uncle one evening say to Dr. O’Brien:
"’Pon my word, Corney, I’m sorry we can’t take the boy. I like his
spirit. He’s willing to turn his hand to anything, and has relieved me
of quite a number of odd jobs during the past few days. But I don’t see
how we can possibly take him, and in any case he will be better at
home."
The last day came. It was a fine Thursday in May. There was a
crispness in the air that set the pulses beating faster and made life
seem worth living indeed. Everything was done. The stores were well
stowed on board, the fighting-men and carriers had answered the
roll-call, and the major, with a final survey, had assured himself that
nothing had been overlooked. The launches had been getting up steam for
an hour or more, and the officers, having seen their men on board, were
standing on the quay to take a farewell of the little group of Europeans
assembled to wish them God-speed.
The whole population of the place seemed to have gathered to witness the
start. Arabs in their long garments, turbaned Indians, and more or less
naked negroes were mingled in one dense mass along the shore. Some of
the natives had donned their best finery for the occasion. One old
fellow appeared in a battered chimney-pot hat and a tattered shirt that
reached his knees, with a red umbrella tucked under his arm. Others
displayed plush jackets of vivid hue, and wore coral charms and
bracelets round their necks and arms. Women with little brown babies
filled the air with their babblement, and the noise was diversified now
and then by the squealing grunt of camels and the whinnying of mules.
Tom was the last to grasp his uncle’s hand.
"Good-bye, Uncle!" he said. "Good luck to you!"
"Good-bye, my boy! Sorry you aren’t with us. But cheer up; please God,
we’ll have a good time together yet."
Then the gangway was removed, and, amid British cheers and African
whoops, the launches puffed and snorted and glided away over the
brownish waters of the great lake.
Tom heaved a sigh as he turned away.
"Well, well, that’s over," said Mr. Barkworth, walking with Lilian by
his side. "We haven’t seen much of you, sir, since we came up on
Monday. Never fear, your uncle will pull it off. I remember, now, at
Calcutta, a year or two ago, he said to me: ’Barkworth, I’m going
downhill fast. Here am I at forty-six the wretchedest dog in the
service, with nothing but half-pay and idleness in front of me.’ ’Cheer
up,’ said I, ’you’ll get your chance. There is a tide in the affairs of
men, you know. You’ll be a K.C.B. yet.’ I knew it, h’m!"
"I’d give anything to have gone too," said Tom.
Lilian looked amazed and shocked.
"Why, Mr. Burnaby, you might get killed!" she said.
Tom laughed.
"I’d chance that. Besides, I might not. Anyhow, it’s better to be
killed striking a blow for England than to peg out with pneumonia in a
four-poster, or die of a brick off a chimney."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Barkworth. "Pure fudge! Gordon said something
of the same sort to me once; I knew him--a sort of forty-eleventh
cousin. ’Barkworth,’ he said, ’Heaven is as near the hot desert as the
cool church at home.’ Now I’m what they call a globe-trotter, through
this restless girl of mine here, and I tell you that when my time comes
I shan’t rest comfortably unless I’m laid in the old churchyard at home.
H’m! But this won’t do. We aren’t skull and crossbones yet. Come and
dine with us to-night, Mr. Burnaby; seven sharp; you’ll meet a padre
too; one of the White Fathers, you understand. Knows every inch of the
country, and speaks the language like a native--only better. Lilian
stayed for a year with some friends of his in France, and we brought out
a letter of introduction. A fine fellow, this White Father--no white
feather about him, ha! ha! You take me, eh! Well, then, we’ll see you
at seven. Mind you--seven sharp!"
CHAPTER II
Mbutu
Mbutu--Hatching a Plot--The Padre--A Consultation
The sun had set, and Tom was sitting in his uncle’s bungalow,
ruminating. He had changed his clothes in preparation for dining with
Mr. Barkworth; but there was still nearly an hour to spare, so he sat
back in his chair with his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes.
In a few more hours he would be jolting down to Mombasa. There was no
getting over that. He pictured his uncle penetrating the forest at the
head of his men; the cautious advance; the first sight of the enemy. He
heard in imagination the rattle of musketry, and the major’s ringing
voice giving orders and cheering the combatants. And while these
stirring events were in progress, he himself was to be condemned to
inactivity on a passenger steamer! Tom was hit harder than he had
believed.
Sitting brooding on these things, and feeling the reaction doubly after
the excitement of the past few days, he suddenly became fully conscious
of a sensation that had for some time been creeping over him unawares.
He felt that he was not alone, that someone was looking at him. There
was no one with him in the room, he knew; no one in the bungalow even,
except the grave, silent Indian servant, who was the only member of the
household left behind.
"Rummy feeling this," said Tom to himself, pinching himself to make sure
that he was awake. He jumped up and switched on the electric-light, and
in the first flash thought he saw a black face pressed against the
narrow window-panes. Instantly he ran to the door, flung it open, and
returned in a moment with a woolly-pated black boy in his grasp.
Gripping him firmly with one hand, he locked and bolted the door with
the other, then loosed his hold and stood with arms akimbo.
"Now then, who are you? What does this mean?" he said.
The boy stuck his arms akimbo in imitation of Tom, grinned, and chortled
rather than said:
"Me run away!"
"Oh indeed! Run away, have you? And where from, may I ask?"
"Me Mbutu, sah! Mbutu servant dago man; sah knock him down; me no go
back--no, no; me hide; now me heah."
He chortled again with a childish air of satisfaction which made Tom
smile.
"Oh! So you’re the beggar I saved from the whip, are you? Well, my
boy, I’m very glad to have helped you; but really I don’t see what more
I can do for you. Hungry, eh?"
"No, no."
"Well, then, what do you want?"
"Me and you, sah; you me fader and mudder, sah; all same for one; me
stop, long stop."
"Oh, come! it’s kind of you to say so, but I’m off to Mombasa to-morrow,
and then home--over the big water, you understand. Don’t want to adopt
anyone yet, and can’t afford a tiger."
The boy’s face fell. Then he clasped his hands and poured out a rapid
torrent of the queerest English, evidently an account of his career.
Tom made out that he belonged to an ancient Bahima tribe, and was the
son of a chief whose village had been raided by Arabs, all his people
being killed or carried off as slaves. The boy himself, after two years
of captivity, had escaped, through a series of lucky accidents, to
British territory, and had since been more or less of an Ishmael,
picking up a precarious living in doing odd jobs about the European
bungalows. His last master had treated him with a brutality that
recalled his years of captivity with the Arab slavers. Tom’s short way
with the bully had won the boy’s unbounded admiration and gratitude. He
had remained in hiding until he knew that the Portuguese had taken his
departure, and then had felt that he could not do better than attach
himself to his benefactor.
Such was his story, told disconnectedly, the English pieced out with
occasional phrases in Swahili, the _lingua franca_ of Eastern and
Central Africa. Through all the narrative there was a convincing note
of reality. The boy pleaded to be allowed to serve Tom for the rest of
his life till, as he said, the "long night" came. He would not ask for
wages, he could live on anything--nothing; and he flung himself down at
Tom’s feet, imploring him not to drive him away.
"Poor chap!" said Tom. "Sorry for you, but what can I do? My uncle
wouldn’t have me, or I might have made some use of you. And there’s no
chance now; he’s away with the expedition to Ankori."
Mbutu’s eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Sah him uncle!" he cried.
He looked puzzled and anxious, and yet seemed to hesitate.
"Well, what is it?" asked Tom.
"Sah him uncle!" repeated the boy; and then, to Tom’s amazement, he
rattled off a story of how, some ten days before, he had overheard a
conversation between his late master and the interpreter to the
expedition.
"Palaver man bad man, sah. Much bad. Talk bad things. Say black man
hide; white man walk so." He took a pace or two with head erect, eyes
looking straight ahead, and arms straight down his thighs. "White man
no see not much; bang! soosh! white man all dead."
Everything he said was illustrated with many strange pantomimic
gestures, and Tom was at first puzzled what to make of it all. Then he
set himself patiently to question the boy, using the simplest words, and
from his answers he put together, bit by bit, a most astonishing story.
About a fortnight before, the Portuguese had come with Mbutu from the
forest west of the Nyanza, accompanied by an Arab, and had taken up his
quarters in a small bungalow not far from rail-head. He was in and out
all day, engaged in some mysterious business which the boy had never
succeeded in fathoming, while the Arab had disappeared on their arrival
in Kisumu. One hot night Mbutu, feeling restless and unable to sleep,
went outside the bungalow with a pipe of his master’s which he intended
to smoke. He was fumbling in his loin-cloth for a match, when he saw a
figure slinking cautiously towards him. His movements were so stealthy
and furtive that Mbutu’s curiosity was at once aroused. Unfortunately
for the stranger, who clearly wished to escape observation, the moon was
high, and Mbutu, concealed by a friendly post in the compound, watched
him steal up to the bungalow, enter quietly, and shut the door. The
boy, avoiding the patches of moonlight, crept round the veranda with the
noiselessness of a cat till he came to a half-open window. A lamp was
burning in the room, throwing a long beam of light into the darkness
without, and in skirting this bright zone the boy tripped over an empty
wooden crate from which the cook obtained his supply of firewood. The
impact of Mbutu’s shins against the sharp edges of the crate set the
thing creaking, but the noise was drowned by the yelp of a jackal in a
nullah hard by, and after a few moments of anxious suspense Mbutu
breathed again. He peeped cautiously round the edge of the window. The
room was empty, but as the light had not been removed Mbutu concluded
that his master would soon return. This proved to be the case, for in
less than a minute the Portuguese appeared, moved quickly to the window,
and lifted the iron rod as though to close it. But the night was so hot
that he changed his mind, comfort prevailing over caution. He left the
window as it was, and simply lowered the blind. Then, turning to the
door, he beckoned his visitor into the room. A thin beam of light still
filtered between the bottom of the blind and the window-sill, and
Mbutu’s sharp eyes noticed that the sill was wide, projecting some
inches from the wall. He saw that under this he could lie without fear
of detection, and probably hear all that passed inside. So he crept
beneath the shelter of the sill, and strained his quick ears.
For a time he could make out little of what the two men were saying.
Then their voices rose, they became "much jolly", as he said, after the
Portuguese had produced a flask of his own special brandy, and Mbutu
heard every word distinctly. They were discussing a plan concerted
between them during the journey to Kisumu, and congratulating each other
on its success. The Arab, apparently, was connected with the chief
against whom the punitive expedition was directed, and the dago having
reasons of his own for desiring its failure, they had put their heads
together. The result of their scheming was that the Arab had somehow
got himself recommended to Captain Lister, the intelligence-officer of
the expedition, as interpreter and guide, his real intention being to
lead it into an ambush, cunningly devised between the chief and the
Portuguese. The European officers were to be killed by picked marksmen
in the first moments of confusion and the plotters hoped to lay their
trap so carefully that not a soul would escape. What his master’s
motives were Mbutu had been unable to discover, though he had heard a
mysterious reference to a store of ivory and a run of slaves. After a
time the "special brandy" began to take effect, and both the men fell
asleep. The light went out, and Mbutu stole away.
Tom only pieced this together by degrees. When the meaning of it all
was clear to him, he gave a long whistle and stood staring at the black
boy. Suddenly a suspicion flashed across his mind as he remembered what
he had read of the imaginativeness of the African native and his genius
for inventing fairy tales.
"You’re not making this up?" he said sternly. "Why didn’t you tell all
this before the expedition started?"
Mbutu spread out his hands.
"What for good?" he said. "Me tell? White man say ’Bosh! Liar! Get
out!’" He shook his fist and lifted his foot with the accuracy of long
experience. "Mbutu no lub kiboko. White man all same for one."
He pointed expressively to the scars and weals left on his shoulders by
his recent thrashings with the kiboko.
"Then why have you told me now?" demanded Tom.
The boy for a few instants looked puzzled; then his features expanded in
a cheerful smile as he said:
"No kiboko heah, sah! Sah little son of big sah! Sah Mbutu him fader
and mudder!"
Tom could doubt no longer; truth spoke in every line and dimple of the
boy’s earnest face. But what was he to do? Glancing at the carriage
clock on the mantel-piece, he saw that it wanted only ten minutes of
seven, the hour fixed by Mr. Barkworth for dinner. He wondered if he
had better consult his new friend, for whom he had already begun to
entertain warm feelings of regard. Calling the major’s Indian servant,
he gave the boy into his hands with instructions to keep a sharp eye on
him, and hurried off, his brain in a whirl.
"Ah, here you are, then!" said Mr. Barkworth, coming forward as Tom
entered the bungalow, and laying a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"Punctuality, now; that’s a fine thing. The padre came a moment ago.
I’ll introduce you, h’m!"
He turned and led the way into an inner room, where Tom saw a figure
that would have commanded attention in any company. It was that of a
tall man of about fifty years, with clean-cut features of olive hue,
mobile lips with the fine curves of a Roman orator’s, and grayish hair
falling back in flowing lines from his temples. He was dressed in the
simple white robe of an Arab, with no ornament save a small gold cross
pendent on his breast. The simplicity of his attire served only to
heighten the natural dignity of his bearing.
"H’m! Mossoo--Mossoo-- Now, what on earth’s the French for Thomas!
Mossoo Tom Burnaby, Père Chevasse. And a fine fellow, sir," he added to
Tom, _sotto voce_.
The missionary smiled as he shook hands.
"I have seen you already," he said in French. "I was a spectator the
other day of that little scene, Mr. Burnaby, when you played the part of
Good Samaritan."
"Ah!" said Mr. Barkworth, catching the phrase. "Who’s been falling
among thieves, padre?"
The missionary briefly told the story of Tom’s summary treatment of the
Portuguese, and though Mr. Barkworth’s French was decidedly shaky, he
made out a few leading words here and there, and got a tolerable grasp
of the incident.
"Well now, I call that fine," he said; "Rule Britannia, and all that
sort of thing, you know. And what became of the black boy? I warrant,
now, he never even said thank you. No gratitude in these natives; I know
’em."
Tom was on the point of confuting Mr. Barkworth with the best of
evidence, but Lilian’s entrance checked the words as they rose to his
lips, and by the time they were seated at the dinner-table his host’s
volatile mind was occupied with other matters.
Looking back on this dinner afterwards, Tom wondered how he managed to
get through it without breaking down. He listened to the quiet, mellow
voice of the missionary, and envied the fluency of Lilian’s French; he
smiled inwardly at Mr. Barkworth’s desperate efforts to follow the
conversation, and good-humoured laughter at his own mishaps; he even
made his own modest contribution, and, after the first moments of
diffidence, was put quite at his ease by the Frenchman’s perfect
courtesy. And yet, all the time, through all the talk, he felt one
sentence dinning and throbbing in his head: "What am I to do? What am I
to do?" He imagined his uncle in the depth of the forest, fighting for
dear life amid a horde of savage blacks, and overborne at the last by
sheer weight of numbers! A cold thrill shot through him, and he
started, to answer haphazard some remark from Lilian or the missionary,
not knowing what he said. Once or twice Lilian looked at him
enquiringly, wondering at his strange absent-mindedness, and then he
collected himself with an effort and tried to appear unconcerned.
After dinner Mr. Barkworth settled himself in an easy-chair and lit a
cigar, and while the others sat chatting together he dropped asleep.
The missionary gave his listeners an account of the work of the White
Fathers’ mission to which he belonged, and chanced to mention an
incident that had occurred among a Bahima tribe. Bahima! That was the
name of the race to which Mbutu belonged. Tom knew that his time was
come. Speaking as quietly as his excitement allowed, he told Mbutu’s
story. The missionary looked incredulous; Lilian’s fair cheeks paled,
and she cried:
"Oh, what a wicked, wicked thing!"
"Eh? What?" said Mr. Barkworth, waking with a start. "As I was saying,
these natives never show any gratitude. Now I remember a case when I was
in Trinidad. An overseer there--"
But Lilian had seated herself at her father’s feet, and laid her hand on
his knee.
"Father," she said, "Mr. Burnaby has some strange and terrible news to
tell you."
"God bless my soul, you don’t say so! What in the world has happened?"
"Mr. Barkworth," said Tom, "the boy I saved from the Portuguese came to
me to-day and told me of a diabolical plot between his master and the
dragoman of the expedition to lead my uncle into a trap. What can be
done to warn him?"
"What! What! Ambush Jack Burnaby! Ridiculous nonsense! Never heard of
such a thing. More like a bit out of Henty than a real thing. H’m!
Come now, what did the young rascal say?"
Tom repeated the story, giving, as nearly as he could, the minutest
details told him by Mbutu.
Mr. Barkworth took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "H’m!
Cock-and-bull story altogether. I know these natives. Taradiddles,
sir!"
"But why doubt the boy, sir? His story was so circumstantial, and he
looked so earnest and truthful."
"H’m! What do you say about it, mossoo?"
"It is extraordinary, certainly," replied the Frenchman. "Could we not
send for the boy? He would not try any tricks with me."
"Right! we’ll have the boy. Fine thing--a knowledge of their gibberish.
Hi, you there! Go down at once to Major Burnaby’s bungalow and bring
back the black boy there. Clutch him by the hair or he’ll wriggle away.
I know them."
One of the servants disappeared, and soon returned with Mbutu. The boy
had been waked out of a sound sleep, and looked rather scared, but a few
words in his own tongue from the missionary soon put him at ease, and he
answered all his questions readily. After a searching examination
Father Chevasse turned to Mr. Barkworth, saying:
"The boy’s story is consistent in every part. I think he is telling the
truth."
"Well, you ought to know, padre. What’s to be done, then? We can’t let
a fine fellow like Jack Burnaby be snuffed out by a parcel of heathens.
Suppose we tell the man in charge here--Captain Beaumont, isn’t it?"
"Little use, I am afraid. Captain Beaumont doesn’t understand the
natives; and I fear he would scoff at Mbutu’s story and refuse to
believe it. The boy has an animus against the dago, you see."
"Why couldn’t I go after the expedition myself along with Mbutu?" broke
in Tom eagerly.
Mr. Barkworth looked dubiously at him, as though he half suspected for
an instant that the story was got up for the occasion. But a glance at
the young fellow’s anxious face made him repent at once. He blew his
nose again and said:
"I’m an old fool, h’m! Well now, let’s talk it over."
A long and serious discussion ensued, in which Tom and Mr. Barkworth
bore the greater part.
"Well, well," said Mr. Barkworth at length, "have your own way. Yes, my
boy, you must go. You have a valid reason--the strongest motive anyone
could have. And your uncle, sir--begad, if he takes you to task for
disobedience, why, just refer him to me, and say that I’ll get Tommy
Bowles to ask a question in the House. I know him!"
"But how can Mr. Burnaby go after them?" put in Lilian. "They have taken
all the launches, I know."
Mr. Barkworth’s countenance fell.
"Whew!" he ejaculated. "That’s a facer! Never do to go on foot, Tom;
never overtake ’em in time round the north shore. H’m!"
"I have a launch," said the missionary quietly. "Quite a small thing,
steaming only a few knots. I am starting to-morrow to visit our station
at Bukumbi, at the other end of the Nyanza, and if Mr. Burnaby cares to
come with me, I can take him on afterwards to the river for which the
expedition is making."
"Couldn’t you go straight across, sir?" asked Tom eagerly. "You see how
important it is to lose no time."
"I am sorry I cannot. I have important letters from my superior to the
father in charge of the mission, and I am bound to deliver them at once.
Besides, not much time will be lost. The launches are calling at
Entebbe to pick up a draft of the King’s African Rifles, so that we
shall probably be only a day behind them, and you should overtake your
uncle some days before he reaches the place where the fighting will
begin."
"What’s he say, Lilian?" said Mr. Barkworth in a stage whisper.
"Capital!" he cried, when she had briefly explained; "his head’s clear
enough for an Englishman’s. Close with Mossoo’s offer, Mr. Burnaby.
Ask the padre what time he starts, Lilian; for the life of me I never
can think of the French for start."
"At eight in the morning," said the missionary. "If all goes well we
shall cover a hundred miles before we anchor for the night."
"Well, now, that is what I call business. Now, Tom, you’ll be ready at
eight with this Booty, or whatever you call him, and I’ll be there to
see you off. Gad, if I hadn’t a girl to drag me about I’d come too,
though I’m sixty-three next week. Now, good-night, my boy, and God bless
you!"
Tom gripped the old gentleman’s hand warmly, and after wishing Lilian
good-bye, went off with the White Father to talk over their plans and
trace out their route before turning in for the night.
CHAPTER III
On the Victoria Nyanza
Tom’s First Crocodile--Night on the Nyanza--In German Africa--A Storm on
the Lake--A Short Way with Hippos--Danger Ahead
Long before eight next morning Tom was down at the quay examining the
launch in which he was to begin his pursuit of the expedition. His
inspection made him feel rather unhappy.
"Why, she’s nothing but a crazy old tub," he said to himself ruefully.
"Planks half-rotten, rudder stiff, and looks as though she hadn’t seen
paint for an age. Lucky this isn’t open sea, for anything like dirty
weather would just about finish her ramshackle engines. Well, let’s
hope for the best."
He returned to the bungalow, where with Mbutu’s assistance he made his
final preparations. These were not elaborate. The padre had advised
him to travel as light as possible, taking merely a few articles of
underclothing and other necessaries, with the addition of a couple of
hundred beads and some yards of calico, the common articles of barter
and sale in the interior, in case he had to purchase food from the
natives during the final stage of his journey. Luckily there was a fair
stock of these in the bungalow. Tom had of course discarded his straw
hat long before, and now wore a white solah helmet, which could be
relied on to protect him from the mid-day sun. He had found an old
rifle of his uncle’s, and a case of cartridges, which he thought it
advisable to take. He ate a light breakfast of fried fowl capitally
prepared by the Indian, gravely acknowledged his salaam, and then,
giving Mbutu the baggage to carry, started for the quay.
The missionary was already on board, and steam was up, but there was no
sign of Mr. Barkworth. Tom wondered whether he had forgotten his
promise to see him off. Just as he was about to go on board, his genial
friend appeared in the distance, hurrying at a great pace towards the
quay, flourishing a red bandana. Tom was surprised, and secretly not a
little pleased, to see that Lilian was with her father.
"Here we are," cried the old gentleman, puffing and gasping as he came
up. "All on board, h’m? Got everything you want? Now, whatever you
do, don’t get your feet wet! And look here, here’s something I warrant
you’ve forgotten. Writing-paper, eh? Ink too. Let us know how you get
on. Any black ’ll carry a letter for you for a few beads. My girl will
have dragged me off to the ends of the earth long before you get back,
but remember we’re always home for Christmas. Glad to see you at the
Orchard, Winterslow, any time. Now, then, good luck to you, and God
save the King!"
Mr. Barkworth shoved a folding writing-case into Tom’s left hand,
gripped his right heartily, and waggled it up and down till he was
tired.
"Good-bye, Mr. Burnaby!" said Lilian, "and I do hope you will succeed."
Tom shook hands, lifted his hat, and stepped on board. The crazy engine
made a great fluster as it sent the screw round; the launch sheered off,
and Tom stood side by side with the padre, watching Mr. Barkworth waving
his hat and Lilian her handkerchief until they were out of sight. After
seeing that Mbutu was safe in the company of the native stoker, who
formed the whole crew of the little vessel, Tom placed a camp-stool
under the awning by the side of the missionary’s deck-chair near the
steering-wheel, and looked about him.
The launch was cutting its way slowly through the brown sluggish waters
of Kavirondo Bay. The shore was flat and uninteresting, part bare rock,
part rank marsh, spotted here and there with sacred ibises in their
beautiful black-and-white plumage. At several points along the bank Tom
saw a huge plant like an overgrown cabbage run to stalk, or rather to
many stalks, sticking out of a short swollen stem, like the arms of a
candelabra. This, the padre told him, was the candelabra euphorbia, a
plant of which the natives stood very much in dread, because its juice
was highly poisonous, and because it was so top-heavy and so loosely
rooted that in a high wind it frequently toppled over, with damaging
effect to anything that might be within its shade.
As they emerged from the bay into the open lake, the water changed its
brown to a deep and beautiful blue, and the shore became more
interesting. The lake here was fringed with a thick growth of
rushes--long smooth green stems crowned by a mop-head of countless green
filaments becoming ever finer and more silky towards the end. Amid the
vegetation appeared the forms of whale-headed storks with yellow eyes,
and gold-brown otters with white bellies darted in and out among the
rushes. There was a light wind off-shore, and Tom had a distant view of
many wild denizens of the lake country, which would otherwise have been
alarmed by the throb of the engines. His companion lent him a
field-glass, and for hours he revelled in the panorama of tropical life
that passed before his eyes. At one point he saw an antelope come down
a wooded slope to the edge of the water. What seemed to be a green
moss-covered log of wood lay almost hidden from the animal by the
bulging bank. The antelope had just put his fore-feet into the water
when the log moved, one end of it parted into two yawning jaws, and for
the first time in his life Tom saw a crocodile in its native element.
The trembling antelope started back, just escaped the snap of the huge
hungry jaws, and bounded back into the forest.
Tom could not resist the temptation to try a shot at the slimy reptile.
He took careful aim and fired. The crocodile slid off the
half-submerged sand-bank on which it was basking, and disappeared in the
water.
"Did I hit it, sir?" he asked eagerly.
"It is impossible to say. It may merely have been startled by the
report, and we could only make sure by waiting to see if its body
rises."
"And that, of course, we can’t do," said Tom with a sigh.
The launch sped on and on, steaming now her full seven knots. Tom
noticed that she was never very far from the land, and knowing, from his
look at the map overnight, that Bukumbi was almost in the centre of the
southern shore, he wondered why the padre did not steer a more westerly
course. He asked the question.
"Well," said the missionary, "it is partly custom and partly
superstition, I suspect. Everyone is shy of sailing directly across
from north to south or east to west. Many of our launches are hardly
tight craft, as you see, and a storm would be a very serious matter in
the open."
"But surely there are no storms on an inland lake?"
"There are indeed. The wind here sometimes lashes the water into waves
as high as any you can see on the English Channel. Gales have blown the
native dhows out into the open, and they have never returned. The
natives, too, will tell you that a huge monster inhabits the waters near
one of the many islands that stud the lake; there it lies in wait to
suck their craft down. I have never seen it myself," he added with a
smile, "but I once heard your Sir Harry Johnston say that he had looked
into the matter, and was rather inclined to believe that the monster was
a manatee."
Still they sailed on. After sixty miles or so they left British
territory and came into German East Africa, and soon the tropical forest
which had clothed the highlands sloping back from the shore, gave place
to more level grassland, some of which was evidently under cultivation.
The shore was indented in many narrow creeks, and in one of these Tom
saw a singular-looking canoe, at least fifty feet long, manned by a
dozen naked Baganda. The keel of this, the padre told him, was a single
tree-stem, the interior of which had been chipped out with axes and
burnt out with fire. When the keel was finished, holes were bored in it
at intervals with a red-hot iron spike; the planks for the sides were
similarly pierced; and then wattles made of the rind of the raphia palm
were passed through the holes, and planks and keel were literally sewn
together. All chinks and holes were then stopped with grease, and the
whole canoe, inside and out, was smeared with a coating of
vermilion-coloured clay. The prow projected some feet beyond the nose
of the boat, and sloped upwards from the water. The top of it, Tom
observed, was decorated with a pair of horns, and connected with the
beak by a rope from which hung a fringe of grass and filaments from the
banana-tree. When the occupants of the canoe caught sight of the White
Father, they struck their paddles into the water, and drove their
slender craft rapidly towards the launch. But the padre made signs that
he was in a great hurry and could not stop to speak to them, and after a
time they desisted and paddled back to the shore.
"Though I believe they could have overtaken us if they chose," said the
missionary. "I have known them propel their canoes at six or seven
miles an hour."
"Mr. Barkworth would call them fine fellows," remarked Tom with a smile.
"I always had an idea that the natives of these parts were a puny,
stunted set of people, but really those fellows in the canoe are
splendid specimens."
The sun set, and the moon rose, and still the launch panted along. At
last, when it was nearly ten o’clock, and the log showed close upon a
hundred miles, the padre ran the boat into a wide creek, where he
anchored for the night.
Tom looked weary and heavy-eyed when he greeted the missionary about six
o’clock next morning.
"Your wild neighbours are rather too much for me," he said. "I did not
sleep a wink till near daylight. Never in my life have I heard such
weird noises."
"And I slept like a top," said the padre, smiling. "What were the
noises that disturbed you?"
"Well, there was, for one thing, the squawk of the night-jar, which was
unmistakeable; then there was the croak of frogs, only this was louder
than our English frogs can manage, just like the sound of a gong beaten
slowly. But there was a curious chirping, like a lot of bells very much
out of tune jingling at a distance. What was that?"
"That was made by hundreds of cicadas in the reeds."
"Then an owl hooted, and some old lion set up a roar, and then again
there came a strange bark I never heard before; it began with a snap,
and rose higher and higher in pitch, till it became a miserable howl
that gave me the shivers."
"That was the jackal."
"An eerie brute," rejoined Tom. "One answered another until there was a
whole chorus of them at it, all trying to howl each other down. But
worst of all was a dreadful squeal, just like a baby in mortal pain. I
was dozing when I heard that; I became wide-awake with a start, and
jumped up, and then remembered where I was. It couldn’t have been a
baby, could it, Padre?"
"No; it was no doubt a monkey which had climbed down from the branches
of some mimosa, and found itself in the coils of a snake. You will get
used to that sort of thing if you spend many nights in Uganda. But now,
steam is up, I see; we must be off."
"There is one thing that has been puzzling me," said Tom. "Last night
you told me we were now in German East Africa. But how is it that you
have a French mission in German territory?"
"The explanation is simple. We were here before the Germans. This
great lake was discovered by your Captain Speke in 1858, you remember,
but it was not until Stanley came here in 1875 that the attention of
Europe was really called to Uganda. You have heard, no doubt, of
Stanley’s famous letter to the _Daily Telegraph_, asking for
missionaries to be sent out here?"
"I can’t say I have."
"Well, when Stanley came, he found the king, Mtesa, much perplexed about
religious matters, and he wrote a letter asking that English
missionaries might be sent out to evangelize the people. A friend of
Gordon’s, a Belgian named Linant de Bellefonds, happened to be here at
the time, and he volunteered to take Stanley’s letter to Europe by way
of the Nile. On the way, poor fellow, he was murdered by the Bari, who
threw his corpse on to the bank, where it lay rotting in the sun. An
expedition sent to punish the Bari found poor Bellefonds’ body, and on
removing his long knee-boots they discovered the letter tucked in
between boot and leg. It was sent to Gordon at Khartum, and thence to
England, and thus it came about that your Church of England mission
began its work in Uganda in 1877."
"But how did you come here?"
"Oh, our mission, as I told you the other night, was started by Cardinal
Lavigerie at Tanganyika. He thought that France should not be behind
England in good works, so he sent some of his White Fathers northward to
Uganda, and that is how we came to have a station at Bukumbi."
"What about the Germans, then?"
"After the missionary comes the trader. Your Joseph Thomson was the
first to prove what splendid commercial prospects Uganda presented, and
then, of course, there was a scramble. It would be too long a story to
tell you of treaties and schemes; of the fickleness and treachery of the
vicious King Mwanga; of Lugard and Gerald Portal and Sir Harry Johnston.
But in 1890 Central Africa was parcelled out among Britain and Germany
and the King of the Belgians, and you British, with your genius for
colonization, have really done wonderful things. I admire your success;
and there is one thing at least in which you and we are quite agreed--we
both detest slavery, and the slave knows that whether he flies to the
British trader’s bungalow or the mission-house of the White Fathers, he
is sure of protection."
The day passed uneventfully. Tom went down once or twice to relieve the
native at the engine, and after what the missionary had told him of the
storms that sometimes arose on the lake, he hoped more than ever that
the crazy machinery would be equal to the strain put upon it.
About seven in the evening the launch came to the mouth of the Bay of
Bukumbi. There was a good deal of sea running, and it took the Father,
with Tom’s assistance, more than half an hour before they found, in the
darkness, among the tall swishing reeds, a place where they could land.
The task was at length accomplished; leaving Mbutu and the stoker on
board, the padre and Tom went ashore, and met with a warm welcome from
the fathers at the station. They dined and slept at the mission-house,
and left early next morning, taking some fresh food on board. Father
Chevasse wished to make direct for the Sese Islands at the north-west of
the Nyanza, where the White Fathers had another station, but he found it
necessary to put in for fuel at Muanza, some two hours’ sail from
Bukumbi. While he went to visit an acquaintance there, Tom strolled
about the station, wondering at the bare and desolate appearance of its
surroundings. He learned afterwards that the Germans had cut down the
trees and burnt the villages within five miles of their fort--an
infallible specific for keeping the country quiet. As he sauntered
along he was half-startled, half-amused, to hear a native servant
addressing a young subaltern, evidently fresh from the Fatherland, in a
queer jargon of broken German. The effect was even more ludicrous than
the broken English of Kisumu.
Tom’s next impression was of a different kind. Turning into a narrow
thoroughfare off the main street, he came face to face with a German
captain in full uniform, swaggering along with elbows well stuck out,
and two inches of moustache stiffly perpendicular, militant and
aggressive. There was very little room to pass. The path was narrow;
on one side was a wall, on the other a muddy road very badly cut up by
cart-wheels. It was clearly an occasion for mutual concession. But the
German does not go to Africa to make concessions, Tom was obviously a
civilian, and, by all the rules of the German social system, beyond the
pale of military courtesy. To the German officer it was as if he were
not there. The captain came on with the rigid strut of an automaton,
taking it for granted that Tom would efface himself against the wall.
But he had failed to recognize that the civilian was not a German.
Seeing that a collision was inevitable, Tom conceded the utmost
consistent with self-respect, and stiffened his back for the rest.
There was a sharp jolt; the automaton, inflexibly rigid, swung round as
on a pivot, clutched vainly at Tom for support, and subsided into the
mud.
"Sorry, I’m sure," said Tom blandly. "Hope you’re not hurt. The path
is narrow."
White with anger, the German sprang to his feet, and, with the instinct
of one not long from Berlin, laid his hand on his sword. But the tall
figure walking unconcernedly on was unmistakeably that of an Englishman,
and the angry captain scowled ineffectually at Tom’s back, and made a
hasty toilet before starting to regain his bungalow by the
less-frequented thoroughfares.
The padre was vexed when Tom told him of the incident.
"It was Captain Stumpff," he said, "commandant of the German station at
Fort Bukoba near your frontier. He has no love for you English, and now
he will like you less than ever. Not that his friendship is worth much.
He is a boor, and a terror to the natives. The Germans are so much
hated that the natives about here call them Wa-daki, ’the men of wrath’,
and well they deserve the name. Even the Portuguese are mild by
comparison, and that is saying a good deal. Now as regards our journey,
as we have been delayed at Muanza longer than I anticipated, I propose
to steer straight across instead of hugging the shore. The weather is
fine, and we shall save time in that way."
The launch went ahead at full speed, passing within about half a mile of
the wooded island of Kome. Tom again found plenty of use for the
field-glass, watching the myriad water-fowl of all descriptions that
haunt the reedy shore of the lake. The air was beautifully clear, and if
his mission had been less urgent Tom would have dearly liked to explore
some of the creeks, fringed with tropical vegetation, that run up
seemingly for miles into the land.
Gradually, however, they left the shore behind, and in a few hours the
coast-line was but a hazy fringe on the horizon. They were by this time
well out on the Nyanza, and the padre noticed with concern that the sky
toward the north-east was assuming a leaden hue. The wind had freshened
from the same quarter; the surface of the lake was changing;
white-tipped waves came rolling up on the starboard side. In a few
minutes, as it seemed, the sky became black; and then, with a sudden
gust, a terrific storm of rain burst over the boat, drenching Tom and
the missionary to the skin. The wind blew with ever-increasing force,
sweeping the rain in sheets before it; the sea was being lashed to fury,
and big waves broke with a swish over the deck. It was all that the men
could do to keep their feet. Mbutu, perturbed both in body and mind,
clung desperately to the handrail of the companionway; the native stoker
was beside himself with terror, and in no condition to execute an order
even if he could hear it above the tumult of the gale. The padre,
wholly occupied with the wheel, shouted to Tom to keep an eye on the
engine. Creeping across the deck, Tom made the best of his way below,
with some difficulty closing the hatch above him. Just as he secured
the hatch, a huge sea broke over the vessel, carrying away deck-chair
and camp-stool, snapping the stanchions of the awning as though they
were match-wood, and sweeping the ruins into the sea, among them the
rifle which Tom had stood against the gunwale.
Having tumbled rather than run down the companion-way, Tom staggered to
the engine and examined the gauge. He thought it possible to crowd on a
little more steam, and as there was no chance of consulting the
missionary, on his own responsibility he flung more logs on the fire.
Meanwhile the boat was rolling and pitching terribly; every moment a
heavy thud resounded as a wave broke on the deck; and Tom could hear the
straining of the rudder as the missionary strove to keep the vessel’s
head to the wind.
The fight had gone on for an hour or more, when all at once the screw
ceased to revolve; there was an escape of steam; and Tom knew that what
he had for some time been dreading had at last occurred. The engine had
broken down. Reversing the lever he clambered on deck, and saw by the
expression in the padre’s face that he knew what had happened. The
downpour had ceased, but the wind was still blowing a furious gale, and,
with no way on the boat, the rudder was useless.
"What is to be done?" shouted Tom in the padre’s ear.
"Nothing. We are bound to drift; we are already driving towards the
shore. Heaven send we miss the rocks!"
Both men clung to the wheel, and watched anxiously as the launch,
shuddering under the waves that struck her in close succession, drew
nearer and nearer to the shore. Tom could already see the foaming
breakers rolling wildly against a huge rock that loomed up a hundred
yards ahead. A few seconds more, and he expected the keel to strike.
The missionary was alive to their imminent peril. Cutting loose a light
mast, he hurried with it to the port side, and just as a wave smote the
vessel on the other quarter, lifting it almost on to the rock, he thrust
out the mast and pushed with all his might. Tom gave a gasp of relief.
The vessel shaved the rock by a hand’s-breadth, and sped past. A second
later it was brought up with a sudden jerk, plunged forward a few yards,
and then came finally to a stop.
"We are on a sand-bank," cried the padre. "If the storm continues we
shall be broken up in half an hour."
"Can’t we do anything, sir?" asked Tom.
"Nothing but trust to Providence."
Happily, not many minutes after the launch had grounded, the wind began
to lull, and by the time it was dark had entirely fallen. With the
suddenness characteristic of storms on the Nyanza, the force of the
breakers rapidly diminished, the sky cleared, and the stars came out.
"I’m going down to see what’s wrong with the engine," said Tom, dripping
wet as he was. Fortunately he found a candle and dry matches. He
struck a light and crept into the machinery. Ten minutes’ examination
showed him that the strain had loosened the valve connecting the
steam-pipe with the cylinder, so that the pressure was inadequate to
move the piston-rod. He had sufficient experience to know that he could
repair it well enough to stand for a day or two. Coming out again he
ordered Mbutu and the stoker, now recovered from their fright, to bale
out the water that had shipped below; then he stripped off his clothes
and wrung them out, dressed himself again, and set about his task.
By this time it was eight o’clock in the evening. The padre, having
dried his clothes as well as he could, went below to see if he could
lend Tom a hand; Tom thanked him, but said he thought he could manage by
himself, and suggested that the missionary might order Mbutu to prepare
some supper. In about three hours Tom came on deck tired and dirty.
"It’s done, Father," he said. "The old thing’s patched at last. It
will stand till you get back to Port Florence, I think."
"Well done, Mr. Burnaby!" returned the padre. "It is wonderful good
luck that I had such a skilful engineer on board."
"Well, you see, I had some experience in Glasgow," said Tom modestly.
"And then the chief engineer on the _Peninsular_ showed me all over his
engines, and taught me a lot. Shall we fire up to-night?"
"No, I think we’ll lay by till morning and get what sleep we can. Then
I hope with the dawn we shall be able to run off the sand-bank. I have
made some cocoa, and I am sure you must be hungry."
Tom was so fatigued that as soon as he laid his head down after a good
meal he fell asleep. Five hours slipped by like twenty minutes, and
then he was awakened soon after daybreak by a loud snorting bellow that
seemed to shake the vessel. Bounding on deck he found the padre already
there, looking with dismay at a crowd of hippopotamuses sporting in
their lumbering way among the rushes. The animals appeared to have just
discovered the launch, and to have decided that it was an intruder into
their domains, to be summarily ejected, for one great bull lifted his
thick snout and, furiously bellowing, charged. The impact stove in a
plank just above water-line, and lifted the vessel half out of the
water. The stoker yelled with terror. Mbutu snatched up the mast that
had proved of such good service the day before, while the padre looked
anxious. There were no arms on board, and Tom bitterly regretted that
he had not left his rifle below instead of keeping it with him on deck.
Suddenly an idea struck him. Placing his hand on the funnel he found,
as he had hoped, that the engine-fire was alight. He ran below, picked
up a length of hose he had noticed coiled near one of the bunkers, fixed
one end to the exhaust-pipe, and hurried back to the deck, carrying the
nozzle end with him. Instructing the stoker to turn on the cock at a
signal, he went into the bows and saw the hippo preparing for a second
charge. Shouting to the stoker, he pointed the hose full at the eyes of
the gigantic beast; a stream of boiling water issued from it, and the
hippo, bellowing with pain, plunged off the bank with a force that shook
the vessel, and lumbered away. His companions watched him for a few
seconds with a look of dull amazement, and then, taking in the
situation, stampeded after him.
"The enemy retires in confusion," said Tom, laughing.
"A capital idea of yours," said the missionary. "I confess I was really
somewhat alarmed. After all, I believe the brute has helped us. I
fancy he shifted us a little off the bank. Put on the steam, and let us
see if we can move."
Tom went below and pressed the throttle. The vessel did not stir.
There was not sufficient depth of water. Hurrying on deck again he
asked the padre to push from the stern with the serviceable mast; and
after a few minutes’ hard shoving at various places, he had the
satisfaction of feeling the launch move an inch or two forward.
Returning below he started the engine, and ten minutes later the boat
slid off the sandbank into deep water. Fortunately no harm had been
done to the bottom. The engine worked well, though Tom did not venture
to put it at full speed after the strain of the previous day. Skirting
the western shore, the vessel passed Bukoba in the afternoon, and about
five o’clock arrived at the mouth of a river emerging into the lake
through dense forest.
"This is the Ruezi," said the padre. "The expedition has gone up this
river. I am glad, my dear boy, that in God’s providence I have been
able to bring you safely to this point, and I don’t forget how much we
all owe to your skill and presence of mind. Now I must land you here.
I can take you in until the water is shallow enough for you to wade
ashore. You will find a village half a mile or so inland, and your
future course must depend on what information you there obtain. I am
not very clear about the nature of the country, but the expedition will
have left very distinct traces. I need not say I wish you every success,
and on your return I shall hope to see more of you."
"Many thanks for all your kindness, Father!" said Tom, shaking hands
warmly. "I’ll look you up, never fear."
"Take my field-glass; you may find it useful," said the padre. "I have
already packed up some tea and a few other things for you, and Mbutu has
a couple of rugs; you will find nights in the open rather cold.
Good-bye, good-bye!"
The boy slipped overboard with the baggage, Tom following immediately.
They reached the shore after some trouble with the rushes, and Tom there
waved a final farewell to the missionary, whom the launch was already
bearing away northwards towards the Sese Islands.
At the same moment, out of a clump of elephant-grass some three hundred
yards up the river, came a long vermilion canoe manned by eight negroes.
In the stern sat a European in a green coat. Catching sight of the two
figures by the riverside he sprang up, appeared to hesitate, then gave a
sudden order. The canoe swung round, and barely a minute after it had
emerged from the rushes it disappeared again, rapidly moving under the
strokes of eight red paddles.
Not, however, before Mbutu’s sharp eyes had flashed a glance at it. He
uttered a low cry, and turned to Tom.
"Dago man, sah!"
"Where?" said Tom, wheeling landwards with a start.
"Ober dar, sah. Long canoe, dago man in green coat. Sah knock him
down."
"Nonsense! You can’t see clearly all that way. It must have been
someone else."
"Dago, sure nuff," returned the boy positively. "Mbutu know eyes, nose,
coat, kiboko, all berrah much."
"Ho, ho! So the dago is here, is he? Now I wonder what he is after.
He couldn’t have known we were coming, that’s certain. He must have
started before us--perhaps on the track of the expedition. Well, Mbutu,
we must find out what his game is. Did he see you, d’you think?"
"See Mbutu? Yes. Sah too. Dago see all much. Sah knock him down!"
"Well, I hope I shall not have to knock him down again. We must keep our
eyes open, Mbutu; remember, my uncle’s life in all probability depends
on our running no risks."
"All right, sah! Big sah, little sah, all same for one."
CHAPTER IV
A Stern Chase
An African Village--A Bargain--A False Scent--Up the Ruezi--A Night
Vigil--Followed--The Bend in the River--A Man Wounded--No Thoroughfare
The two youths found themselves on a narrow spit of sand projecting some
hundred yards into the river-mouth. On the land side Tom saw nothing
but a dense wall of elephant-grass and papyrus standing nearly twice as
high as himself, into which the river disappeared. On the other side
was the blue expanse of the Nyanza, shading into the lighter blue of the
cloudless sky. In the distance he could see the faint coast-line of the
Sese Islands, and, between himself and them, the smoke of the departing
launch stretching across the sky like a long smudge on a clean page.
For the first time a shadow of misgiving crossed his mind, but with a
silent "This will never do" he pulled himself together, and set himself
resolutely to face the task he had undertaken.
He looked meditatively for a few moments at Mbutu.
"Now, Mbutu," he said, "we are left to our own devices. I must trust to
you to help me through; I suppose you can make yourself understood in
any of these parts, eh? Well now, you stick by me and do your best, and
you and I’ll be great friends. Now for this village."
Mbutu shouldered the baggage, and they set off towards the apparently
impenetrable wall. They were soon ankle-deep in swamp, but, rounding a
point and wading a little creek, they came upon a narrow path, evidently
worn away by many feet tramping down in single file to the river-side.
Striking up this path they were met in another ten minutes by signs of
human habitation. There were fields of sweet-potatoes, Indian-corn, and
millet, traversing which they came plump upon an irregular circle of
grass huts, half-hidden by the surrounding bush.
Tom called a halt. It would be well, he thought, to impress the
villagers with an idea of his importance, so he despatched Mbutu in
advance, as a herald, to announce his arrival to the chief of the
village. Passing the line of grass huts, and picking his way amid fowls
and goats and a rather unsavoury litter, Tom found himself in a spacious
enclosure, which was already filling with a crowd of jabbering natives.
The centre of this open space was occupied by a hut of larger dimensions
than the rest. It was a round structure, consisting of boughs of trees
held together by grass and mud, and surmounted by a conical roof,
roughly thatched. The doorway was low, and not more than eighteen
inches wide; Tom wondered whether the chief would come out, and if not,
how he himself was to get in. Mbutu, he saw, was talking rapidly and
with much gesticulation to a corpulent negro at the door of the hut,
while a group of natives stood intently watching at a respectful
distance.
As Tom approached, Mbutu came towards him grinning.
"Him say him katikiro," he said. "Him lie; him katikiro not much. Big
chief hab katikiro, little chief no hab."
"What on earth is katikiro?" asked Tom.
Mbutu looked puzzled and scratched his head. After pondering a while,
and searching for words to make the matter clear to his master’s
intelligence, he said:
"Katikiro palaver man. Chief want eat--call katikiro. Chief want
wife--call katikiro. Want gib bad man kiboko--call katikiro all same."
"Sort of head cook and bottle-washer, lord high executioner and prime
minister all in one, eh? Well, tell the right honourable katikiro I
want to see the chief."
"Him say chief asleep."
"Then he must wake him up."
Mbutu spoke to the negro, who shook his head, looked very serious, and,
pointing to the hut behind, answered quickly and earnestly.
"Him say chief chop off head," grinned Mbutu. "Chief berrah big, oh!"
"He must chance that!" replied Tom. "Tell him that if he and his master
keep me dawdling here any longer, I shall report both of them to the
government at Entebbe, and then they’ll be sorry."
If Tom had understood Mbutu’s interpretation of his speech he would have
heard him inform the native that his master’s big brother, the Great
White King, would take away the chief’s wives and goats, charms and
beads, and leave him not so much as an anklet to call his own. He would
pull his teeth, shave his head, and make him wash himself in hot water
twice a day. Mbutu was proceeding to amplify these threats with great
eloquence when Tom, losing patience, cried: "If he doesn’t hurry up, I
shall go in and wake the chief myself," and he made a movement towards
the hut. Instantly the man, with a terrified look, took a long breath,
turned sideways, and squeezed his rotundity through the narrow aperture.
His entrance was followed by a stream of very hot language, and in a
moment the katikiro reappeared, looking somewhat crestfallen. He was
followed immediately by the chief, a well-made negro, scowling and
rubbing his eyes. He presented a comical appearance in his torn calico
shirt and head-dress consisting of a piece of lion’s skin ingeniously
ornamented with stork’s feathers. Tom went up to him and held out his
hand frankly, a courtesy he regretted at once, for on emerging from the
chief’s grip he found his hand covered with dirty grease. Still
smiling, however, he made as impressive an oration as he could, and then
asked through Mbutu if the chief could tell him anything about the
expedition. Mbutu added on his own account that he had better tell no
lies, for his master was a near relative of the Great White King, and
moreover had been given by a medicine man the power to see through the
back of any black man’s head. He further promised on Tom’s behalf that
the truth would be repaid with a good many beads, while falsehood would
entail unspeakable consequences.
Thus encouraged, the chief spat on the ground and began. He stated that
the expedition had arrived at the mouth of the Ruezi two days before.
The river being impracticable for launches, the men had landed at a
creek a mile or two away, and had there begun their overland march.
They were bound for Mpororo, a place the chief knew only by hearsay, as
he himself had never ventured farther than the southern end of Lake
Mazingo. Beyond that, he understood, were the tents of the Wa-daki, who
lived night and day with kiboko; and as he named the dreaded Germans,
his eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated.
"I don’t understand this," said Tom. "The Ruezi looks a big enough
river. Why couldn’t the launches sail up?"
The chief explained that the bed was here and there silted with mud, and
everywhere more or less overgrown with reeds.
"Then I suppose we shall have to tramp after them. Couldn’t we reach
this Lake Mazingo by the river?"
The chief was sorry to say that they would have to walk through the
forest.
"Isn’t your river deep enough for a canoe, then?"
Oh yes! A light canoe could paddle up to Lake Mazingo, but beyond that
were the tents of the Wa-daki, who lived night and day--
"Yes, yes," interrupted Tom. "Why couldn’t the old guy tell us that
before! Tell him I’ll hire a canoe with its crew, and that we’ll start
at once."
But he reckoned without his chief. It took Mbutu over an hour to
conclude the bargain, the chief asking for one thing after another in
payment, and showing a special desire for Tom’s scarf-pin. When the
price had finally been fixed at a number of beads, an old clasp-knife,
ten yards of calico, and a couple of boot-laces, a further difficulty
arose. The chief absolutely refused to allow his men to start at night:
journeys begun beneath a full moon were of ill omen, he said, and Mbutu
himself was superstitious enough to sympathize with him. Anxious as Tom
was to get on, he saw that it would be unwise to press the chief any
further, and accordingly arranged that the light canoe, with a crew of
four strong paddlers, should be at his disposal at daybreak next
morning.
"Now, Mbutu," said Tom, "just ask him if he has seen anything of the
Portuguese we caught a glimpse of just now."
No, the chief had not seen the white man in the green coat, but a moon
before he had seen one of the Wa-daki, who lived night and--
"Bother the Wa-daki! Just tell him that if he does see anything of the
dago he is to say nothing about us. Does he understand? And none of
his men is to say anything either. You’d better impress that on the
katikiro too."
Mbutu having carried out his master’s instructions in his own decorative
way, Tom, with much ceremony, presented the chief with half a dozen
yellow beads and a pocket handkerchief, dexterously avoided his greasy
paw, and despatched Mbutu to find a place, away from the malodorous
village, where they might comfortably pass the night.
Next morning they were up betimes. Tom was ravenously hungry, but did
not feel happy at the thought of eating anything prepared in the
village. He was surprised when Mbutu brought him an earthen pot filled
with excellent tea, a slice of fried goat, and a few chapatties made, as
he afterwards learnt, of banana-flour.
"Upon my word, Mbutu," he said, "I shall have to make you my katikiro
right away."
Mbutu beamed his delight. Their breakfast finished, they went to find
their canoe. It was already lying in the creek they had crossed on the
previous evening. The crew were four muscular Baganda dressed in
nothing but loin-cloths and grease, who all began to jabber at once as
Tom approached.
"What do they say?" Tom asked.
"Say you fader and mudder, sah. All belong sah; huts belong sah; food
belong sah; eberyfing belong sah."
"That’s very kind of them, I’m sure. I wish they’d wash off that
grease, though. What shall I say to them, Mbutu?"
"Me palaver man; me katikiro, sah."
Mbutu told the men that his master was their father and mother; would
build up their huts if by any chance they were destroyed during their
absence; would give their children charms to preserve them from
snake-bites and the sleeping sickness; and as a token of sincerity in
these pledges would eat a sheep with them at the first opportunity.
They snapped their fingers and smiled, and looked with great reverence
at the unconscious Tom, who had been in a brown study while his henchman
was speaking.
"I’ve been thinking, Mbutu," he said; "suppose the Portuguese has been
hanging about. If he recognized you he is sure to suspect that I know
rather too much about him now, and he may be on the watch for us. We
should be no match for him and his eight men if they happen to be armed.
What do you think?"
"Sah fink; tell Mbutu."
"Well now, if they are on our track they won’t be far away. Just ask
these fellows if the river bends at all."
The men declared that the water bent like a bow to south, a half-hour’s
paddling from where they were.
"Then you and I, Mbutu, will cut across country and meet the canoe by
and by. I suppose there’s a way?"
Yes; the crew said there was a path through a stretch of thin forest,
which rejoined the river after about five miles.
"The very thing. Now, tell these fellows that if a white man in a green
coat meets them, and asks after us, they are to say that a white man is
in their village, and that they are sent to summon the chief of another
village--they can give it a name--to a grand palaver about food for the
expedition on its way back."
Mbutu repeated these instructions, adding that the green-coated man had
a particularly keen kiboko. The quick-witted natives appreciated at
once the part they were to play, and chuckled with enjoyment. They took
their seats on the poles which, placed transverse through holes in the
sides of the canoe, served as thwarts, struck their paddles into the
water, and, raising their voices in a curious chant, drove their
red-coloured bark rapidly up-stream.
Tom watched them till they were out of sight among the reeds, then
turned and strode off with Mbutu. All their baggage and a stock of food
were in the canoe; Tom had nothing but his field-glass and a light
switch he had cut that morning from a tree. It was seven o’clock, and
the sun being not yet high, marching would not have been unpleasant but
for the heavy dew upon the long grass and spreading plants over which
they had to walk. Very soon they were soaked to the waist, and Tom
thought that Mbutu with his bare legs had decidedly the best of it.
Their progress through the forest was not rapid, owing to the tangle of
vegetation through which they had at times to force a way. It was
nearly nine before they saw the river again. The canoe was waiting for
them, and Mbutu ran ahead. Tom could see by the excited way in which
the crew gabbled and gesticulated that something had happened. When he
reached them, Mbutu informed him that the canoe had been hailed by the
Portuguese, who had been lying in wait for them in a creek some three
miles up the river. He had questioned the crew, who, after giving him
the message as had been arranged, had seen him paddle back hurriedly
towards the mouth of the river. They had noticed that all his men were
armed with rifles, and volubly regretted that they had been unable to
fight him.
"They’re as pleased as Punch at having outwitted him, anyhow," said Tom.
"Tell them I’ll give them some beads for doing so well. Now, Mbutu, you
go in the bow, I’ll take the stern, and we’ll see how these fellows
paddle."
The men struck their paddles into the water, and, keeping perfect time,
sent the canoe along at a swinging pace. They accompanied their strokes
with a crooning chant, the words sounding something like this--
Nsologumba kanpitepite kunyanja
Nsologumba oluilaita kunyanja
Nsologumba lekanpitepite kunyanja.
Tom knew his elements of music, and could take his part in "Willow the
King"; but the notes of this tune fitted no scale he had ever heard of.
The same words were repeated again and again for half an hour at a
stretch, until he felt rather tired of them.
"I wish they’d turn on another tap," he said to himself, "but I suppose
their feelings would be hurt if I told them so. Mbutu, my boy, what’s
their song about?"
Mbutu turned up the whites of his eyes in the effort to translate, then
chanted solemnly:
"Man all alone row up de ribber, man all alone row up de ribber, man all
alone row up de ribber; alone de man row up ribber, alone de man row
up--"
"Thanks! I know it by heart now. D’you think you could tell them a
story, Mbutu? Anything to keep them quiet. The man all alone wants to
think, tell them."
"All right, sah! berrah well, sah! Me tell story about uncle and
croc’dile--berrah nice story, sah!"
"Very well; make it as long as you like."
"Uncle, sah, in canoe, all alone row up de ribber. Uncle, sah--"
"Quite so, but you can tell me the story another time. I want you to
keep the crew amused, you understand."
Mbutu looked rather disappointed, but at once began to unfold his story
to the negroes, who listened with strained attention, breaking out at
intervals into guffaws of pleasure and cries of amazement.
Meanwhile Tom looked about him. The crew had evidently performed this
journey before, for they dexterously skirted the shallows, and appeared
to know exactly where to pull to avoid the encroaching reeds. Beyond
the reeds the banks were lined with splendid trees, some with white
trunks, others with gray, others with black; the foliage of vivid green;
the blossoms of many hues--crimson, scarlet, lilac, yellow, white. On
some of them india-rubber vines had fastened themselves in long loops
and festoons. The river itself shone in the sunlight like a pathway of
polished metal. Here and there it seemed to cease to be a river at all,
and became a mere lagoon, and at such spots Tom saw more than one
rhinoceros wallowing, their horned snouts just out of the water. As the
canoe progressed, the rushes were less dense; a thick wall of soft-wood
plants came into view; raphia-palms with their huge fronds, wild bananas
with their enormous leaves, the slender stems of date-palms, crowned
with graceful plumage of the richest green. The air was still, save now
and again when the canoe disturbed a haunt of water-fowl, or a parrot
flew squawking among the reeds, or a covey of beautifully-coloured
widow-finches darted from shrub to shrub uttering their harsh little
cries. Occasionally the canoe passed a tree on which innumerable
monkeys were chattering and squabbling. Once Tom’s ear caught the
inimitable trill of a thrush, reminding him of Home; and as the canoe
glided beneath the branches of a spreading plantain, a number of large
birds, with gorgeous blue bodies, crimson pinions, and tufted heads,
sportively pursued one another among the foliage, boo-hooing, braying,
shrieking uproariously.
"What’s that noisy fowl?" asked Tom, interrupting Mbutu as he was
regaling the crew for the tenth time with the moving story of his uncle
and the crocodile.
"Dat, sah? Dat big plantain-eater, sah. Berrah brave bird, sah! Him
come see me in hut; see uncle, sah, all alone row up ribber. Uncle go
sleep, sah; leg ober side--"
At this moment the crew, deprived of their recent amusement, struck up
again--
Nsologumba kanpitepite kunyanja
Nsologumba oluilaita kunyanja.
"Couldn’t you tell them another story?" suggested Tom.
With a glance in which Tom detected a shade of reproach, the boy resumed
his narrative, and kept the crew engrossed until his master called "easy
all" for dinner.
Running the canoe up a narrow creek, the men sprang on shore with their
axes, and returned by and by bearing with them a huge bunch of ripe
bananas, culled from a river-side plantation. These, with some of the
biscuits which the padre had thoughtfully packed among his baggage, and
a draught of not very palatable water lapped up from the river, Tom
found quite sufficient to stay his hunger and thirst. The crew
diversified their meal with ground-nuts and a stuff that looked like
moist almond-rock, which they took out of a wrapping of leaves. One of
them offered Mbutu a small hunk, and he broke off about a fourth part of
it, handing the rest to Tom.
"Not to-day, thanks! What is it, may I ask?"
"Berrah nice, sah! Cheese, sah!"
"Really! And what is it made of? Not milk, judging by the look of it."
"Mango, sah! Chop mango stone; take out all inside; knock him about,
sah; make cheese. Berrah nice, sah!"
"Well, eat it up, and then we’ll be off again. Tell the men I’m pleased
with them, and hope they’ll do as well all day."
On the way back to the canoe, Tom happened to tread on a pair of large
ants crawling on the grass. He was almost overcome by the stench from
their crushed bodies. Then every exposed part of his body was stung by
mosquitoes, and his head became enveloped in a swarm of yellowish gnats,
which Mbutu called kungu-flies.
"Berrah nice, sah!" he said, as they got into the canoe. "Black man
catch kungu, sah! Mash, mash, all one cake. Make little fire; fry cake;
eat all up."
Tom ruefully thought of his small stock of biscuits, and in this
alternative diet recognized an additional motive for pressing on.
It was a broiling hot afternoon, and as the canoe sped on its way Tom
saw scores of crocodiles lying on the bank half out of the water,
basking in the sunlight, and digesting their food, their eyelids
drowsily drooping, their jaws wide open in a sort of prolonged yawn.
Just above one of these dozing reptiles, a number of storks and cranes
and herons stood perched on one leg, regarding the crocodile, Tom
fancied, with a contemplative air, more in sorrow than in anger.
Farther on, he was amused to see a young elephant twining its trunk
about the neck of a graceful zebra, as in an affectionate embrace. All
the afternoon, indeed, he was kept interested by an ever-changing
panorama, eye and ear being alike captivated incessantly by something
new and strange. He was naturally observant, and many curious details
impressed themselves upon his mind without his being conscious of them.
He would have liked to stay and study this new world at his leisure, but
the temptation to linger was counteracted by his sense of the urgency of
his mission. The only other drawback to his enjoyment was the pain
caused by the mosquito bites, which increased as the day wore on.
At sundown, having covered some twenty-two miles, and made, as Tom
considered, very satisfactory progress for the day, he ordered the men
to run the canoe up a creek that promised well as a halting-place.
After a good supper, they went on shore to find sleeping quarters for
themselves, and in a very short time ran up a wattled hut, and built
fires round it to keep off lions and other undesirable visitors. Tom
wrapt himself in a rug, gave another to Mbutu, and settled himself to
sleep in the stern of the canoe. He was kept awake for some time by the
bright moonlight, the splashes of fish, quaint creakings and groanings
from the trees, the grunt of rhinoceroses, the strange whine and sighing
cough of crocodiles, and the inevitable howl of jackals. He fell asleep
at last.
Mbutu, meanwhile, sat in the bows, dreamily watching the shimmer of the
moonbeams on the water, and pondering on his wonderful luck in the
change of masters. He was just dozing off to sleep when he noticed a
dark form edging along the bank. A swift glance showed him that it was
a crocodile, leaving on its nightly prowl for food. It slid noiselessly
into the water, and, thinking that the beast was making for the opposite
bank, Mbutu paid no further attention to it. But suddenly he became
aware of a small dark object approaching the canoe. There was not a
sound nor even a ripple on the water; but one glance was enough to a boy
born and bred as Mbutu had been in the African wilds. It was the snout
of the crocodile! At the same moment he observed with horror that his
master, restless in his sleep, had thrown one arm over the side of the
canoe, and that the hideous jaws of the reptile were within a few feet
of snapping distance. Quick as thought he stooped, clutched at the rope
mooring the canoe to a small overhanging acacia, and pulled with all his
strength. The canoe lurched forward, striking heavily against the
bulging root of the tree,--and Tom awoke with a start, to see Mbutu
smite the crocodile savagely over the head with a paddle.
"What is it?" he said sleepily.
"Sah nearly gobble up. Croc’dile berrah hungry. Arm berrah nice; soon
all gone, sah."
Tom shivered.
"You’re a brick, Mbutu," he said, "and your head’s screwed on right.
But for you!--ugh! it’s horrid to think of!"
"Uncle, sah--" began Mbutu.
"Yes, yes; tell me all about him another time. Call up the crew. They
must take turns at watching; and tell them to do it thoroughly."
No further hazards marred Tom’s rest. In the morning, while Mbutu was
preparing their simple breakfast, Tom strolled up the reddish hillside
above the river to survey his surroundings, carrying the field-glass
presented to him by Father Chevasse. At this spot the larger trees were
absent, and the country around was for the most part flat and marshy,
the dark-green broken here and there by patches of gaudy blossom and red
clay soil. The hill commanded a view of the river for some two or three
miles, but Tom could see little but reeds, the stream itself, indeed,
being scarcely perceptible as it wound in and out among the aquatic
vegetation. Some distance, however, in the direction from which the
canoe had come, there was a stretch of about a quarter of a mile of
clear water, looking like a blue lake amid the green, and on this Tom’s
eye rested. Suddenly he saw a cloud rise up from the water, which he
instantly judged to be a huge flock of water-fowl. Then a dark object
appeared, slowly crossing the surface of the patch of blue towards him.
"Some hippo out catching the early worm," said Tom to himself, smiling
afterwards as the inaptness of the phrase struck him. He raised the
glass to his eyes. "No, it’s not a hippo; it’s a canoe! By Jove! what
if it’s the dago!"
While he was still gazing at it, the canoe came within the circle of
papyrus, and disappeared from view. Seeing another clear stretch on the
near side of this clump of reeds, Tom called to Mbutu to run up the
hill. It was important to know whether they were indeed pursued. Not
that Tom was alarmed--he felt himself a match on even terms for any
Portuguese,--but he preferred not to be taken by surprise, whatever
happened. The canoe emerged from the reeds just as Mbutu reached the
top of the hill. He looked in the direction Tom pointed, and with his
naked eye at once descried the canoe. The next moment he declared
excitedly:
"Dago man in canoe!"
"Bosh!" said Tom, to test him. "You have dago on the brain, I’m
afraid."
"White man all say bosh!" returned the boy. "No bosh! no bosh! Dago
man in canoe all same!"
Again the canoe vanished, and both observers watched tensely for its
reappearance. Twenty minutes elapsed; then it glided into view again.
It was now no more than a mile away.
"Sah, see!" cried Mbutu. "Dago sure nuff."
"You are right, Mbutu. We are being followed. We needn’t get
flustered, but we must start at once, and eat our breakfast as we go."
Hurrying down the hill, he ordered the crew on board, and loosed the
rope. In another minute the canoe was bounding like a racer rapidly
up-stream.
"The dago has not yet seen us, at any rate," said Tom, "and we may get
clear away without being observed at all if the men put their backs into
it."
"No, sah! Birds fly up; tell dago canoe in front. Dago know all same."
"Then it’s a question of speed, eh? Well, we’ve the lighter canoe; crew
four and passengers two. He has the heavier canoe; crew eight and
passenger one. We shall get through where he would stick in the mud;
though the water seems to have a fair depth here, worse luck. Well,
Mbutu, we’re not going to be overhauled; tell the men there’s kiboko
after them; that’ll make them hurry."
The crew paddled away swiftly, and began to sing. Tom was relieved to
find that words and tune were changed at last, but after a few bars he
peremptorily stopped them.
"The dago will hear them," he said, "and it will be just as well for us
not to let him know our whereabouts. Tell them another story, Mbutu."
Tom sat rigidly in the stern, wondering how the Portuguese had got on
their track. The course of events since he had been turned back by
Tom’s crew twenty-four hours before was as follows. He had paddled
down-stream till he reached the place where Tom had embarked, and then
sent one of his men to the village to find out what was going on there.
The man returned, bringing the news that the white man had left. Furious
at being so easily outwitted, the Portuguese had then gone up himself,
seized the first negro he came upon, and demanded information about
Tom’s route. This the negro, obeying the instructions of his chief,
given to the whole village, at first refused; whereupon the Portuguese
tied him to a tree and thrashed him till the poor wretch, in sheer
desperation, told all he knew. Without wasting another moment the
Portuguese started in pursuit, enraged at having lost five hours through
so simple a trick. Pressing his men, he arrived within five miles of
Tom before dark, and starting again before sunrise, he had by seven
o’clock crept up to within a mile of his quarry, as Tom had fortunately
discovered.
Tom knew nothing of all this, except that the Portuguese was close on
his heels. As his crew bent themselves to their task, he sat reviewing
the situation. He had this advantage over the Portuguese, that, having
seen the pursuer while himself unseen, he could ply his men with a
stronger, because more actual, incentive to speed. But he had no idea
how much farther they had yet to paddle before they reached Lake
Mazingo, and though two of the natives had performed the journey before,
their ideas of distance were vague. If many miles remained to be
covered, and the chase resolved itself into a prolonged race, Tom saw
clearly enough that the Portuguese was bound to win, for, having the
larger crew, he could divide his men into relays. Given even chances,
then, Tom recognized the impossibility of outdistancing the pursuer.
There remained two alternative courses: either to beach the canoe at
once and take to the woods, or to attempt some ruse. A moment’s
reflection showed him that the first was unwise, for it would mean
finding a way laboriously through unknown forest, necessarily at a slow
pace, and the result might be that before he could overtake the
expedition the mischief would be done. As to the second alternative,
Tom racked his brains for a trick likely to succeed in throwing the
Portuguese off the scent; but the only thing that suggested itself was
to run his canoe up some deep creek, and remain in hiding there until
the larger canoe had passed and might be deemed out of harm’s way. On
second thoughts Tom gave this up also. Failure to sight the canoe he
was chasing, and the sudden cessation of disturbance among the
water-fowl ahead, might arouse suspicion in the pursuer’s mind, and
provoke him to search the creeks; and even supposing it did not, Tom’s
own progress after the larger canoe had gone by would have to be
regulated so cautiously that in this case also precious time would be
lost. Reviewing all these points, Tom came to the conclusion that his
best plan was to hold on as he was going as long as he could, and then
trust to the accidents of the chase to make his way clear.
On they went, then, for mile after mile. The sun was now high, and the
willing negroes were panting and perspiring freely. Mbutu in the bows
kept a sharp eye on the winding river behind, but so far had not caught
so much as a glimpse of the pursuing craft. About ten o’clock, when the
crew were patently flagging, the head-man spoke rapidly to Mbutu,
dropping his paddle for a moment, and pointing eagerly ahead.
"What does he say?" asked Tom, observing this.
"Him say ribber make bow, sah," said Mbutu, describing an arc in the
air. "Ribber go round hill; way ober hill soon, much soon. Canoe stop,
master walk ober."
Tom was at first somewhat perplexed at this vague statement, but by
questioning the men he learnt that the canoe was approaching a great
bend in the river, which wound about the base of a hill some two hundred
feet high, thickly covered with scrub. The distance round the hill by
the river was about a mile and a half, while overland across the hill it
was little more than three-quarters of a mile. Mbutu explained this by
comparing the curving stream to a bent bow, and the hill path to the
bow-string. Tom at once saw that if the Portuguese were close on their
heels, and chanced to know of the short cut, he might disembark half his
crew, cross the hill, and possibly arrive at the farther end of the arc
before Tom’s canoe. In any case, if he were armed, as the natives had
declared, there was little chance of escaping with a whole skin, or even
of escaping at all.
Tom did not take long to make up his mind what to do. The canoe was
already approaching the bend, and he saw the hill looming up to the
right, covered with purple and dark-green scrub.
"Mbutu," he said, "you take the head-man’s paddle. He and I will go
across the hill and watch for the enemy. The rest of you will paddle
with all your might round the bend, and wait for me at the other end of
it. I shall then know exactly what we have to expect."
"All right, sah!" returned Mbutu. "Me paddle well too much."
The men cleverly ran the canoe alongside a moss-covered rock, and Tom
sprang out, followed by the man who had given the information. Tired as
he was, the native started to run at Tom’s bidding, and picked his way
deftly through what from the riverside looked impenetrable scrub, Tom
sprinting behind with never a pause till they reached the top. There
they stooped behind a low, dense bush, and scanned the horizon. From
this point of vantage the whole of the shining river could be seen, save
where a knoll or bluff intercepted portions of it. Tom looked eagerly
in the direction whence he had come. Not more than a minute after he
had reached the hill-top the nose of the long canoe shot into sight.
Tom scanned it through his field-glass. The crew were going strong, but
there was nothing to show whether the Portuguese had sighted the fleeing
canoe. Tom was relieved to see that he had increased his lead slightly
since the morning. On came the graceful craft; four minutes passed, and
the silent watchers saw that it was making for the bank.
"The dago, or one of his men, knows of this short cut, then," said Tom
to himself. "I wonder if we left any footprints on the rock."
But the canoe grounded some distance on the farther side of Tom’s
landing-place. The Portuguese jumped ashore, followed by four of his
crew, all armed with rifles. They began the ascent, not so nimbly as
Tom and his companion, and without discovering any traces of earlier
pedestrians. Tom gave an anxious glance at the river. His canoe was
still a quarter of a mile from the spot which he had already marked for
rejoining it. The other canoe was rounding the bend, going rather less
rapidly. A glance to the left showed him the Portuguese and his men
advancing steadily through the scrub. It was time to be off. Signing
to his man to lead the way, Tom plunged after him downhill. It was even
rougher going than on the other side. Scrambling here and sliding
there, at the imminent risk of breaking his neck, or at least spraining
an ankle, Tom pelted along after his nimble guide, and arrived
breathless at the water’s edge, his clothes torn and his hands scratched
by the scrub and thorn. His canoe arrived a few moments later, and,
wading quickly through the shallows, Tom and the Muganda clambered on
board.
At that instant the still air was cleft by two sharp cracks, and two
bullets whizzed past, dropping harmlessly into the water. Tom looked up
and saw the Portuguese, clearly in a wild state of excitement, pounding
down the hill with his four negroes. Tom’s crew, exultant at having so
successfully escaped, raised their lusty voices in the war-chant of
their tribe, hurling defiance at the baffled pursuers. Tom sternly bade
them cease, pointing to the quarter of a mile of clear water which they
had still to traverse before they reached the shelter of a new clump of
reeds. Again came the crack! crack! of rifles, but the Portuguese and
his men were out of breath, and their fire was wild. One bullet hit the
side of the canoe. A splinter flew up, striking one of the crew in the
fleshy forearm and making a nasty gash. In a moment Tom tore a strip
from one of his bundles of calico, and, recalling his experience of
ambulance work in the cadet corps at school, swiftly bound up the wound.
He then ordered Mbutu to take the wounded man’s paddle, and turned to
watch the doings of the enemy.
But he was already out of sight. The larger canoe, now hidden by the
reeds, had just reached the horn of the curve, where the Portuguese was
awaiting it. He was in a towering passion, and heaped unmeasured abuse
on his luckless crew for failing to overtake their expected prey. By
the time he and his men were afloat again, Tom’s canoe was fully a mile
and a half in advance, and out of sight.
It was now past mid-day. The heat was terrible, and there had been no
time for a meal since starting. Tom had nibbled a few biscuits and
drunk a little water, and his crew had munched some of their ground-nuts
and cheese, relieving each other in pairs for a few minutes at a time.
Tom did not dare to allow them to stop paddling altogether, for the
pursuing crew could divide into larger relays, and he guessed that,
having once sighted him, the Portuguese would give his men no respite
until they overtook him. He wondered how long his own men’s marvellous
staying-power would hold out. Watching them anxiously, he saw with
concern that, as the afternoon wore on, their strokes became less
certain and put less and less way on the canoe. Mbutu, willing lad,
relieved the others in turn at intervals, but, though he had said that
he could "paddle well too much", it was obvious that he was out of
training, as well as muscularly less hardy than the stalwart negroes.
About five o’clock Mbutu, again in his old place in the bow, cried
suddenly:
"Dago man come close!"
Tom glanced round. The larger canoe was no more than three-quarters of
a mile behind, and its crew gave a whoop of delight when they saw how
they had gained on the other. The Portuguese stood up in the stern, and,
raising his rifle to his shoulder, fired. Mbutu instinctively ducked,
and it was well he did so, for the bullet flew by within an inch of his
head and plumped into the water a few yards beyond. Tom’s canoe then
rounded a bend, and once more the pursuers were lost to view.
Half an hour later the two vessels were again in sight of each other,
and now were scarcely half a mile apart. Another shot came whizzing
through the air, and passed between the two Baganda nearest Mbutu. They
gave a slight shudder as they heard its weird ping, and bent frantically
to their paddles. Tom’s mouth was set, and there came into his blue
eyes the steely expression which had always given his school-fellows a
feeling of expectancy and apprehension. He did not think of himself.
He thought only of his uncle and the Portuguese, of how for his uncle’s
sake he must by hook or by crook evade the clutches of the conspirator
behind. His feeling towards the pursuer was curiously impersonal, the
same kind of feeling that he would have had towards a bowler at
cricket--a skilled player to keep his eye on and beat if he could. He
saw that but for some unforeseen accident he would be compelled to take
to the woods within a very few minutes, and then, though he was resolved
not to be captured, he would give little for his chances of reaching the
expedition in time.
At this critical moment his eye lit on a tree overhanging the river,
which had here narrowed to little more than a gorge between steep banks.
It was light in the trunk, but very thick in foliage. A second glance
showed him that the roots, protruding from loose red soil, were almost
bare, and he instantly inferred that a recent storm, and probably the
flooding of the river, had shaken their hold. A third glance as the
canoe brought him nearer made it plain that, but for a rope-work of
climbing plants which had woven itself about the trunk, the tree would
have already fallen across the stream.
Tom saw here a bare chance of escape, and, with characteristic readiness
to seize the merest semblance of an opportunity, he prepared to make the
most of it. As the canoe shot along beneath the overhanging branches,
he marked a small rivulet that cut a way through the bank just beyond
the tree. In a ringing voice, careless now whether his pursuer heard
him or not, he ordered the men to run the canoe ashore, then to follow
him up the narrow watercourse with their axes. In half a minute he had
swarmed up the bank; in another half the men’s keen axes had torn away
the climbing-plant supports. His men threw themselves _en masse_ upon
the trunk, and just as the enemy’s canoe came within two hundred paces,
the tree fell with a loud crash, and lay across from bank to bank,
completely blocking the waterway with its tangle of boughs and leaves.
Springing down the bank again, Tom and his panting crew jumped into the
canoe, and were three hundred yards up-stream and nearly out of sight
before the Portuguese had realized the impossibility of continuing the
chase on the water. He wasted some minutes in a vain attempt to drag
his craft over the obstruction, and a few more in flinging curses after
Tom and firing at random over the tree; then he landed with his crew,
and began to chase his quarry along the shore. But before he had run a
quarter of a mile he found himself up to his knees in ooze, and, after
floundering helplessly about for a time, he fired one vindictive shot
and relinquished the pursuit.
Not till then did Tom allow his crew to relax their efforts.
"Easy all; you have done well!" he cried.
They shipped their paddles gladly. They were gasping for breath; the
sinews of their arms stood out like whip-cord, and their streaming faces
had taken on the livid hue that is the only paleness a black knows. Tom
himself, after the tension of the last hour, felt limp and unstrung, and
it was with a sigh of thankfulness that he heard Mbutu, interpreting one
of the natives, inform him that the marshy flats at which they had
arrived formed the eastern extremity of Lake Mazingo. The sun was just
setting, and in the fast-gathering darkness he could descry the gigantic
forms of hippopotamuses and rhinoceroses taking their evening bath in
the mud.
Feeling assured that the surrounding swamp would effectually protect him
from any nocturnal surprise on the part of the Portuguese, Tom gave
orders to the men to make as good a meal as they could, and then to
sleep in the canoe, taking turns to watch. For himself, he stayed his
hunger with a few bananas that Mbutu had put aside for him, some
biscuits, and a cake of unleavened millet produced by his thoughtful
henchman. He examined the wounded man’s arm, and gave it a fresh
dressing; then, worn out by the anxieties and excitements of the day, he
wrapped himself in his rug, gazed up at the benignant stars, and fell
fast asleep.
CHAPTER V
A Long March
Lake Mazingo--Tom’s Talisman--Scenes on the March--In Sight--Tom
Surprises the Doctor--Imubinga
Tom woke with the dawn, feeling anything but well. His head was aching
violently; he was reluctant to move; and when at last he threw off his
rug and raised himself on his elbow, his head swam and he shivered. A
clammy mist lay thick upon the surface of the lake, completely hiding
everything beyond a radius of a dozen yards. The water smelt
abominably, reminding Tom so strongly of the Clyde at its worst that he
said to himself: "I declare I am homesick!" and laughed at the new
application of the word.
"It looks very much," he thought, "as though I’m in for a spell of
fever. But I simply can’t afford time to be ill. Wish this wretched
mist would clear away, so that I could see whereabouts we are."
At this moment Mbutu came up from the other end of the canoe. He held
out a small paper packet to his master, who took it and opened it before
his dazed recollection was fully awake.
"Ah! cinchona, that blessed bark!" he exclaimed, when he saw the white
powder. "I remember the padre gave us some to put among our baggage.
Thanks, Mbutu! you’re a clever fellow to guess so readily what is wrong
with me. Well, here goes; out of the bitter" (he swallowed the drug)
"shall come forth the sweet, and let’s hope I’ll soon be as strong as
Samson himself. And look! there’s the sun struggling through this
detestable wet blanket. The mist will soon be gone, and then we must
make a start."
"Berrah well, sah," said Mbutu. "Me sleepy too much, sah."
"Sleepy, are you? How’s that? I slept as sound as that fellow--what
was his name?--who snored for a hundred years. What!" (as an idea struck
him) "you don’t mean to say you’ve been watching all night?"
"Oh yes, sah! Sah berrah sleepy; dem black man no good; me tink about
croc’dile. Uncle, sah, go by-by in canoe all same too much; leg trickle
ober side, sah; croc’dile berrah hungry; come ’long, ’long; no nize,
sah; him--"
Mbutu’s only story was interrupted at this point by a howl from one of
the crew. Expecting to see at least a leg or an arm less among them,
Tom started up. What he actually saw was the howling native lying face
upwards at full length along the bottom of the canoe, and his three
mates walking solemnly over him, kneading him with their feet, a look of
solemn determination imprinted on their features. What most astonished
Tom was that, though the prostrate man still yelled, he appeared to like
the performance, and rolled his eyes gratefully at his perambulating
friends.
"What--what on earth are they doing?" laughed Tom.
"Him sick too much in tummick, sah," said Mbutu gravely. "Too much
cheese, sah. Better next time soon."
"Is that their cure for dyspepsia, then? I must tell Dr. Corney about
this. What a fine poster it would make for advertising somebody’s
pills! As the howls have stopped, I suppose the poor fellow is better?"
"Berrah well now, sah. Him no eat cheese not much no more. Cheese too
much nice."
Tom laughed. The sun was rapidly dispersing the mist, which rolled back
like a circular curtain. The surface of the lake was clear for half a
mile round, though clear was after all not the word for it, papyrus
sticking up thickly in all directions. Tom felt again rather depressed
as he scanned the dismal prospect, but did his best to shake off the
weight. Unable to eat anything himself, he ordered his men to have their
breakfast and prepare to start.
The whole of that day was occupied in paddling down the lake. Tom could
hardly endure the slowness of their progress. The crew would paddle for
half a mile, then find the canoe entangled in a maze of subaqueous
creepers, and have to try back for twenty yards or so and look for
another passage. Once, going at a fair pace, it embedded itself in a
submerged bank of black mud, and all its occupants had to jump
overboard, and partly by heaving, partly by loosening the mud with the
axes, free the craft from the obstruction. Then, as the afternoon wore
on, mosquitoes and ticks innumerable buzzed about their heads. The
natives paid little heed to these importunate visitors, but Tom’s face,
neck, and arms were stung in scores of places, and he suffered almost
intolerable torture. He found some mental relief in opening on his
knees the writing-case given him by Mr. Barkworth, and penning an
account of his adventures, intending to send the letter by one of the
crew on their return journey. In course of time they came opposite a
small native village on the lake-side, and Mbutu, with Tom’s permission,
leapt overboard and waded to the shore. He returned in about half an
hour carrying a closely-woven straw basket, which he handed to Tom.
"Drink, sah, fust; berrah well. Next time, rub hands and face, so;
berrah well. Berrah nice, sah; hurt all go too soon."
Tom saw that the basket was half-full of delicious new milk. He drank
more gratefully than ever in his life before, then washed his face and
arms in what was left.
About five o’clock they reached a point which the natives declared was
the southern extremity of the lake, and beyond which they had been
forbidden by their chief to go. Tom heaved a sigh of relief.
"There is an hour before sundown," he said. "We ought to be able to
find a native hut or two by that time--eh, Mbutu?"
"Sure nuff, sah."
"The first thing is to get ashore. The water is not deep enough for us
to pull in, and the bottom seems nothing but mud."
"All same, sah; me know all ’bout it, sah."
Fixing his keen eyes on the water around, Mbutu picked out the direction
in which the depth of water was greatest and the reeds thinnest, and
under his guidance the Baganda gently paddled the canoe to within thirty
yards of the shore.
"Stop dis place," he said at last. "Sah say by-by to black man; black
man go home now; home to pickin."
Tom got out his rolls of calico and packets of beads, and gravely cut
off from the one and counted out from the other the stipulated
quantities, which he handed to the crew, adding a present to each, and
an extra douceur to the head-man and the poor fellow injured the day
before. He then made them a speech, thanking them in the King’s name
for the service they had done the British Empire in general and Major
John Burnaby in particular, Mbutu translating very freely, and at
considerable length, into the vernacular. Finally he handed his letter
to the head-man, telling him that Mr. Barkworth would give him a
handsome present when he delivered it. Then he went over the side, Mbutu
following with the baggage.
It was past six o’clock, and almost without warning the sun sank down
upon their right, and everything was dark. Mbutu led the way over the
swampy soil, his master following gingerly at the distance of about a
yard, just able to discern his black form. After ten minutes’ walking
they felt the ground gradually becoming drier, and half an hour later
they found themselves treading a turf that reminded Tom of the Berkshire
downs. He asked Mbutu what plan he had formed. The boy replied that he
had none, except to find a village where they might rest in safety for
the night. He added that he was beginning to be afraid of snakes, and
hinted that a lion or two might happen to be prowling abroad.
"Me want see light, sah," he said.
At length, after they had been walking for an hour and a half, he
gleefully exclaimed that he saw a twinkle ahead. Fifteen minutes later
the pedestrians came to a sort of guard-house gateway, built of mud and
wattles, across a narrow path. They passed through it, and found
themselves in the single street of a village lined with grass huts on
each side, one of these, somewhat larger than the rest, having a fire in
it, the glow of which Mbutu had seen through the door-hole. The
inhabitants appeared to be asleep; there was no sound save the faint baa
of a goat in the compound beyond, and the melancholy night moo of a cow.
Signing to his master to stop, Mbutu put down his little load, found a
strip of calico and a bracelet of beads, and uttered a curious cry,
between the call of a hyena and the howl of a wolf. In an instant, as
it seemed, the two strangers were surrounded by a ring of natives, who
in their haste had snatched up as weapons whatever came first to hand.
Torches were soon on the scene, and by their light the amazed natives
saw the disturbers of their repose: a tall white man, nearly six feet
high, young, broad-shouldered, with thin, hairless face--thinned even by
the anxieties of the last few days,--keen blue eyes, and firm lips; and
a Muhima, some eight inches shorter than his master, his thick lips and
woolly hair proclaiming his negro blood, but his eyes and brow and
arched nose bespeaking a strain derived from a far-distant Egyptian
ancestry. Englishman and Muhima, each with race marked in every line of
his figure, stood facing the wondering villagers unflinchingly.
Then Mbutu began to explain, and Tom stood patiently for an hour while
his follower lauded him to the skies, claimed for him qualities and
connections of the most exalted nobility, and demanded hospitality from
the villagers in the name of the Great White King. They were visibly
impressed, and talked away energetically among themselves. Then the
chief came forward and said that he knew the servants of the Great White
King were good brothers of his; he had seen some of them only the day
before; but how was he to be sure that his white visitor was not one of
the Wa-daki, whom he hated as he hated snakes and leopards? Tom was at
first at a loss how to convince the chief of his British nationality.
Suddenly bethinking himself, he took out his pocket-book, in which he
had a few postage-stamps. He tore off one, and showed it to the negro.
When Mbutu explained that the head on the stamp was the head of the
Great White King, the chief was delighted; still more when Tom, wetting
it, solemnly affixed it to his black arm. After that the enraptured
chief announced that his own hut was freely at the disposition of the
white man.
Tom’s host was a villainous-looking savage, but he proved most
hospitable. His hut contained nothing but a hard plank raised on short
pegs from the earthen floor, a broken box, a small fire, and a general
supply of insects. Mbutu explained that his master, whom he called his
great chief, was tired and wished to sleep, but that first he must have
a meal, and would purchase a young fowl. That was instantly
forthcoming, and in a few minutes Mbutu had prepared an excellent supper
of grilled chicken, unleavened millet-cakes, and tea unsweetened, but
qualified with cow’s milk.
On the following morning Tom sent Mbutu to summon the chief to a
palaver. That solemn function lasted for two hours, and Tom was on
thorns till it was over. The talking was mainly between Mbutu and the
chief, and Tom was amazed that so much eloquence had to be expended in
giving and receiving so little information. All that he learnt was that
the expedition had passed within a couple of miles of the village soon
after sunrise on the previous day, and that it was proceeding due west,
to punish the Arabs and the Manyema. The chief was very emphatic on this
point; he declared that the Arabs and their allies deserved all they
would get, for they had made themselves a terror for miles round,
treating the natives with frightful cruelty, lopping off hands and feet,
slitting noses, killing outright, sometimes in wanton devilry, sometimes
as punishment for trivial offences. The expedition had bought a few
sheep and goats, and paid for them, but "not nuff", as Mbutu interpreted
to his master, adding, however, that no native chief would ever admit
himself satisfied: "black chief all same for one".
Tom was delighted to hear that his uncle was only a day’s march in front
of him. Discovering that the route lay for miles over grass country,
gradually rising until it entered a mountainous region, he inferred that
the British force would now be moving at a slow rate, which increased
his chances of overtaking it soon. With a march overland before him, he
felt the advisability of having a weapon of some sort in case of
emergency, and asked the chief through Mbutu if he had a rifle to sell.
The chief produced a very old and rusty weapon, with some cartridges,
and Tom grimaced when, on trying a shot, he found himself thrown
backward by the unexpected force of its kick. He accepted it in default
of a better, and left Mbutu to settle the price.
It was past ten o’clock when the two travellers, amid the friendly
farewells of the whole village, set off on their march. Tom guessed that
the expedition, being rather more than twenty-four hours ahead of them,
was at this time some twenty-five miles away, and he hoped with good
luck to decrease that lead very considerably before nightfall. Mbutu’s
load, diminished by the quantities of calico and beads already parted
with, was now much lighter than when he started, so that, though
shorter, he found himself quite able to keep up with Tom, who set off
with an easy stride.
After about half an hour’s walking, they struck into the track of the
expedition. It was a path not more than a foot wide, which in some
parts evidently followed a previous native track, in other parts had
been trodden for the first time by the advancing force. Tom was
surprised to find it so narrow, until informed by Mbutu that in Africa
native troops almost invariably kept single file while on the march.
The path led over rolling grassy downs, clumps of bracken and bramble
here and there giving them a very home-like appearance. In one place,
indeed, Tom was delighted to see a few daisies growing; he stooped and
picked one, smiling, as he stuck it in his coat, to think of the
thousands of daisies he had trampled under foot at home without even a
passing thought. Large trees were few and far between on the savannah,
but one, which he had never seen before, seemed to Tom extraordinarily
graceful--a long, straight, even stem, with a cluster of strange fronds
spreading fan-like from its top.
The path led across streams of clear sparkling water, in which, as the
sun grew hotter, Tom was glad to bathe his face and feet, and
occasionally to drink. The banks of every stream of considerable size
were clothed with luxuriant vegetation, palms, acacias, lianas growing
thickly together, with tall grass, wild bananas, and flowering creepers
which made a dazzling and beautiful picture. Crimson butterflies darted
hither and thither among the foliage. "How Jenks would revel in this on
a Saturday afternoon!" thought Tom, and was reminded that he had lost
count of the days. He opened his pocket-diary, and by tracing back his
recent adventures found that it was Saturday, the 8th of June. "And
to-morrow’s Uncle Jack’s birthday!" he remembered. "Well, I’ve no
present for him--except myself, and I don’t suppose" (the thought was
accompanied by a rueful smile) "he’ll be overglad to see me--at least at
first."
He was at this moment entering a patch of forest on the edge of a
stream, and Mbutu pointed out some deep scratches on the grayish boles.
"What are they?" asked Tom. "They remind me of the scratches on the
legs of the table in my father’s study, and our old cat--heavens, how
long it seems since I saw them!"
"Leopards did ’em, sah! When dey catch us dey eat us."
"Really! Then they mustn’t catch us, that’s all."
Just as the words were out of his mouth, a terrific crash to the left
made him jump and stand watchfully bent forward with his loaded rifle.
He peered into the dense mass of foliage, but saw nothing.
"No leopard, sah; leopard no make nize."
"What is it, then?"
"Dere he are, sah! Dat him! Big amalua, sah!"
They had just reached the water’s edge. Away to the left, sousing
himself in the running stream, they saw a splendid elephant, with
gleaming tusks that would have brought joy to a hunter’s soul. Tom
would have tried a shot, if he had not already proved that his rifle was
hopelessly antiquated and short-ranged, and with his present
responsibility he did not feel justified in running any avoidable risks.
He sighed, and passed on, over a bridge of tree-trunks cleverly bound
together by ropes made of papyrus and creepers. It had evidently been
slightly repaired for the passage of the British force, some of the
plant-ropes looking fresh and new.
On the other side of the stream came another stretch of fairly level
country, with short, straw-coloured grass, interrupted here and there by
a swamp. By half-past five Tom calculated that they had covered no more
than twenty miles, and he was uncomfortably conscious of his want of
training. He had a drawn, burning sensation at the ball of his left
foot, and felt pretty sure that he would find there the making of a
blister. Luckily, just before sundown they came to a banana plantation,
amid which, on a knoll, stood a very neat and tidy-looking hut. It
happened to be empty, and Tom thought it no wrong to the absent owner to
make it his quarters for the night. There were a few rough clay
utensils in it, and Mbutu, fetching water from the brook which ran round
the base of the knoll, soon made some tea, which, with bananas cut
fresh, millet cakes, and oatmeal biscuits, furnished a satisfactory
supper. Tom bathed his feet, and at Mbutu’s suggestion covered them
with a compress of bananas. In the morning he found, rather to his
surprise, that this novel application had been most beneficial. It was
only one of the hundred uses to which, as he learnt by degrees
afterwards, the natives put the plant: its pulp made flour and beer,
spirits and soap; its rind made plates and dishes and napkins; while its
stalks provided pipes, and even material for footbridges.
Next day they started at sunrise. Walking was more arduous than it had
been on the previous day, for the ground rose gradually, becoming more
and more rocky, cut at intervals by ravines, and showing here and there
fragments of what Tom believed must be lava. The soil was in truth
volcanic; not very many miles to the south of their path stood two
volcanoes still moderately active, and but a few miles north there were
mountain lakes lying hidden in the craters of volcanoes long extinct.
Tom knew nothing of these, however; he was only concerned with the hard
fact that walking was unpleasant, and that over the rocky ground the
track of the expedition was sometimes difficult to discover. The one
consolation was that, slow as their own progress was, the progress of
the expedition, as the Zanzibari porters carried their loads over ravine
and boulder, must necessarily be slower. Foot-sore, aching in every
limb, he nevertheless pressed on indomitably, hoping against hope that
he might overtake his uncle before night. But though he anxiously
looked ahead through his field-glass, he saw nothing but broken, rocky
country, and at five miles’ distance his view was interrupted altogether
by a rugged line of hills.
The sun went down in crimson splendour. There was no hut on this
occasion to afford sleeping room to the weary travellers. Building a
fire with some wood from a scanty copse on the bank of a ravine, they
found a shelter hard by among the rocks, and slept in their rugs. Up
again at day-break, they pushed on, and were pleased to find, on
reaching the range of hills before mentioned, that the ground there
sloped gradually downwards, and the path led once more into a grassy
plain. Just before noon, after crossing a bridge, evidently new, thrown
over a wider stream than any they had yet encountered, and walking up a
steep grassy acclivity, Tom raised his glass to his eyes, and uttered an
exclamation of thankfulness and joy.
"There they are, Mbutu!" he cried. "I see them! It must be the
expedition. It’s just like a long snake winding through a broad defile
over there. Look! Now isn’t it?"
Mbutu peered long and earnestly into the distance.
"Right, sah! I see dem big black man. Dey plenty big, plenty strong.
Soon be dar, sah; see sah him uncle."
Tom stopped short.
"Look here, Mbutu," he said, "an idea has just struck me. You mustn’t be
seen at first. If that scamp of a guide sees you, he will suspect
something, and our long journey may be thrown away. I must go on first.
He doesn’t know me."
"Berrah well, sah; all same for one."
"You’re not afraid, are you? I shouldn’t like a wild animal to run off
with my katikiro."
Mbutu grinned.
"No ’fraid dis time, sah. Sah him uncle drive all wild beast away; all
dat nize, sah; wild beast no like nize; make him tummick bad too much,
sah."
"Well, I needn’t leave you yet. They’re still about five miles ahead, I
should think, and they’re almost over the hill-top now. When we get
within sight of the rear-guard again, I’ll go on, and you must keep in
touch till you’re sent for."
Tom’s feet by this time were giving him torture. He felt horribly
fagged, and, realizing how hungry he was, he sighed, above all things in
the world, for a juicy steak and a jug of shandy-gaff, such as used to
await the school fifteen after a hard house match. "But I’m not going
to give in at the death," he said to himself doggedly. "And I should
think another couple of hours would do it."
He crossed the hill, and saw the tail-end of the force not more than two
miles ahead, just passing into a clump of trees, on the near side of
which were two or three native huts.
"That’s where you must stay, Mbutu. It’s about four o’clock now, so the
force will be camping very soon, and we shan’t be far ahead of you.
Now, I’m going on. Good-bye for the present; I fancy you’ll see me
again after dark."
"All right, sah; so long!" The slang sounded strange in the mouth of a
Muhima, and Tom’s lips twitched with amusement as he turned his back.
Forty minutes later, as he was walking as fast as his sore feet allowed
through a stretch of thin forest, he was halted by the bayonet of a
Soudanese sergeant, who looked at him with amazement.
"All right, sergeant; I’m Major Burnaby’s nephew. You can let me
through."
The Soudanese happened to be one of the draft picked up at Entebbe, and
thus had not seen Tom before. He seemed too much surprised to think.
The stranger was unmistakeably an Englishman, however, and he could not
be going very far wrong if he sent him under guard to the major.
Calling two of his men, he instructed them to lead Tom between them to
the commanding officer, who was superintending the formation of a camp
about a mile ahead.
Tom limped along, feeling now too much excited, as well as exhausted, to
attempt any conversation with his escort. Two minutes after leaving the
sergeant, he heard a familiar voice before him.
"There now, more comfortable now, aren’t ye? Just take care you don’t
go putting your foot on a thorn again. Bedad, it’s you scoundhrels of
porters that get more out of the R.A.M.C. than the soldiers at all, at
all. Now just be after minding your toes, ye spalpeen."
Dr. Corney O’Brien had just extracted a thorn from a Zanzibari’s foot,
when he looked up and caught sight of Tom.
"By all the holy powers!" he exclaimed. "It’s you!"
"Yes--it’s myself, doctor," said Tom, with a feeble attempt to smile.
"’Pon my soul, I thought it was your ghost!" gasped the doctor. "Ah,
faith, won’t the major be pleased! I wouldn’t be in your shoes for--
But, save us, the lad’s dead-beat."
Excitement even more than fatigue had overcome Tom’s nerve at last; but
for the support of the two Soudanese he would have fallen. Quick as
thought the little doctor whipped out a flask and poured a few drops of
brandy between his lips.
"Now you fellows," he called to the Soudanese, "just rig up a litter.
Come, look alive! Half a minute by my watch, no more!"
The stalwart soldiers, in less than the time specified, had improvised a
litter out of their rifles and a couple of coats.
"Now, my dear bhoy, we will hear Ould Blazes’ remarks in ten minutes.
Gently, now."
"But, Doctor, really I can’t go into camp in a litter," said Tom, whose
fainting fit had lasted but a few seconds.
"Can’t ye, bedad? You can’t go any other way, nor you shan’t if you
can. Sure an’ you’re as thin’s a lath; no wonder the leopards and lions
and all the other wild cratures let ye through! No, ye’re not to talk
at all; I’ll do the talking; just lie quiet and ride into camp in state.
Ah, but the major’s face’ll be a sight to see--bedad it will! I
wouldn’t miss it for wurrulds."
He had assisted Tom gently into the litter slung between the two stolid
Soudanese; and thus, with a sense of peace and comfort for all his
weariness, the wanderer was ushered into the presence of his uncle.
"Hullo, Corney!" shouted the major, as he caught sight of the litter,
his jolly voice sounding the very keynote of cheerfulness, and sending a
thrill through Tom’s soul. "Hullo, Corney! another of your pet
malingerers, eh?"
"Not this time. This fellow--would ye believe it?--won’t admit there’s
anything wrong with ’m. Better prepare for a shock, old man. I’ve not
asked ’m yet what ’tis that’s brought ’m here, but--
"Good heavens, it’s Tom!" cried the major in amazement, which speedily
blazed into wrath. "Well, of all the confounded, impudent, disob--"
"Hould yer whisht!" interrupted the doctor. "Do ye not see the lad’s
dead-beat entirely! The blazes ’ll keep. Really, Major, there’s
something at the bottom of this, or he would not be here. He needs some
food first thing; you’ve got your tent up, I see. Well then, I’ll get
Saladin to make some Liebig, and when I’ve had my innings with the
bhoy--well, blaze away if you must."
The major said no more. His tent was pitched in the centre of a thorn
zariba a hundred and twenty yards square, and the men were busily
engaged in running up grass huts and entrenching the camp. Tom was
carried to the tent, where in a very short time the energetic little
doctor had a steaming bowl of beef-tea, some substantial biscuits, and a
bottle of burgundy ready for him. He ought, after his meal, said the
doctor, to go to sleep, but Tom declared he could not rest until he had
explained his presence, and the doctor gave way, being indeed not a
little curious to hear Tom’s story. He therefore fetched the major, who
was indefatigable in his personal superintendence of the camping
arrangements, and, with a private hint to him not to be peppery, brought
him into the tent.
They listened attentively as Tom told how Mbutu had come to him on the
night of the starting of the expedition, and, on learning that Tom was
the major’s nephew, had reported the conversation he had overheard; and
how he had come with the boy on the padre’s launch to the mouth of the
Ruezi, and thence by canoe and overland. The major was at first
inclined to pooh-pooh the story altogether, but when the doctor pointed
out that unless there was some truth in it, the Portuguese would have
had no object in pursuing Tom so hotly, he looked grave, and tugged at
the ends of his moustache.
"But he had other grounds for annoyance. Nobody likes to be knocked
down--and certainly not a Portuguese. But where’s that boy of yours, by
the by? I will see him myself."
"I told him to wait a couple of miles out, so as not to be seen by your
guide," replied Tom.
"Quite right; but it’s dark now. I’ll send a couple of men to bring him
in. We must see how this remarkable story squares with present
circumstances."
The major returned rather more than an hour later. "Hasn’t that black
boy turned up yet?" he asked.
"Give’m time," answered the doctor. "’Tis two miles out and two miles
in, remember."
"Well, he won’t be long now. By the way, Tom, what race does he belong
to?--Banyoro, Baganda, or what?"
"He’s a Bahima," replied Tom.
"Muhima," corrected the major, "Muhima for the individual. His people
the Bahima are the aristocrats of the country! They’ve degenerated
through mixing with the negroes, but I’ve no doubt they really are
far-away descendants of the ancient Egyptians. Here he is!" added the
major, as Mbutu was pushed into the tent by the orderly. "Well, my boy,
don’t be afraid of me; I’m your master’s uncle. Just come and tell me
all about it."
Mbutu told the story in his long-winded stumbling way, the major
listening attentively, and helping him when he stuck for a word.
"Well now, did you hear those two men mention any place in the course of
their talk?"
Mbutu thought for a moment.
"Imubinga, sah!" he said at last. "I know dat. Imubinga! Oh yes!"
"Imubinga! Corney, that’s the place, you remember, where the guide said
we should camp to-morrow; the inhabitants are likely to have a good
supply of food, he said, and that’s a blessing in such a
sparsely-populated district. This begins to look more serious. I’ll
send scouts forward first thing in the morning to see if the guide’s
information is correct so far as it goes. Imubinga, you remember he
told us, is in a plain on the far side of a range of hills, got at
through a long defile of six miles or so. If that turns out correct,
depend upon it this precious ambush will be laid somewhere about the end
of the defile. Ambush, indeed! What do they take me for! Still, you
never know; we’ll be on the safe side."
"Hungry, boy?" asked the doctor, turning to Mbutu.
"No, sah," replied Mbutu promptly. "Berrah nice chicken in pot, sah.
Big black soldier gib some. Oh yes!"
"Well," said the major with a smile, "you’ll stay in my tent to-night,
and understand you are not to go out without leave. The guide must not
see you. Why, Corney, Tom’s asleep. Did you doctor his wine, eh?"
"Just the least touch in his second glass. ’Twill do the boy good.
Sure ’tis sleep he wants."
"D’you know, Corney, I’m proud of this nephew of mine."
"An’ ye ought to be, ye ould martinet."
"You wouldn’t have me tell him so to his face, would you? Well now, I’ll
go and see Lister about the scouts; may as well send Mumford in charge,
don’t you think? And then I must stop the men’s jabber; they’ll cackle
till two in the morning if I don’t."
"Faith, ’tis time I turned in myself. Good-night, Major!"
Major Burnaby arranged with Captain Lister for the despatch of a
scouting-party at daybreak under Lieutenant Mumford. Then he made a
round of the camp to see that the watch-fires were alight and the
sentries properly posted. Finding that the men had finished their
supper, he sternly bade them stop talking and go to sleep. Soon the
clacking of nine hundred tongues ceased, and the camp lay all peaceful
beneath the rising moon.
CHAPTER VI
Unmasked
Cross Questions--Crooked Answers--The Guide Tells his Story--Rumaliza’s
Plot--The Coming Fight
It was eight o’clock next morning when Tom opened his eyes and tried to
remember where he was. Stretching himself on the narrow camp-bed, the
twinge that shot from his calves to his shoulders reminded him of his
two days’ tramp, and he hoped very sincerely that the force was not to
move on at once. Luckily for him his uncle had decided to give the men
a rest for a few hours, at any rate until the return of the scouts, who
had started at six o’clock. The doctor, coming into the tent soon after
nine, insisted on his taking a hot bath, and then spent an hour in
massaging him. It was in vain that Tom protested against being coddled.
"Coddled indeed! You’ve a march and a fight in front of you, and ye’ll
want the free use of your limbs and all your staying-power, sure."
"A fight!" said Tom eagerly; "d’you think Uncle Jack will let me take
part in it, Doctor?"
The doctor smiled grimly.
"I don’t know about Uncle Jack, young man, but if you’re not in it there
will be no fight at all."
Pondering this enigmatical utterance, Tom left the tent by and by and
strolled round the camp. Captain Lister met him and greeted him warmly,
without a word as to what had brought him, and when he encountered his
uncle, who was, as usual, full of activity, yet without a vestige of
fussiness, that capital soldier had time to grip his hand and hope he
was getting "fit".
The four Europeans were sitting beneath the flap of the tent, eating a
late breakfast of roast goat and banana fritters, when Lieutenant
Mumford returned with his little body of Soudanese scouts and reported
himself. Tom had seen very little of him during the few days he had
spent at Kisumu, and then thought he was too dandified and lackadaisical
to be of much use on active service. He was therefore somewhat
surprised now to hear what a business-like and competent account the
lieutenant gave of his movements. He had penetrated, he said, to within
two miles of the hills beyond which lay the objective of the expedition.
He had met with no sign of the enemy, Arab or native, but had seen many
a proof of their depredations in the ruined huts and blackened fields
passed on the way. The native populations, sparse in these regions at
any time, seemed now to have been either exterminated or carried into
captivity. What the guide had said about the nature of the country, and
the difficulty of procuring food, was perfectly true; and the scouts had
only turned back when they reached the near end of the defile he had
mentioned, Mumford considering it useless to spend time in traversing a
perfectly open route.
"Very well," said the major. "You’d better get something to eat now,
Mumford."
"There’s one thing I ought to mention first. We’ve brought back a
native with us, sir--from Visegwe’s country, he said. He told us that
his village had been raided by Arabs, and himself carried off as a slave
and employed as a porter and general hack. His account of how he
escaped is rather tall, but I can only repeat what he said. He was
marching with the rest of his gang when a couple of rhinoceroses charged
the column, and threw things into such confusion that he found a chance
to slip away. He was making his way back home when he met us, so I
thought it just as well to bring him along in case he could give us some
useful information."
"Quite right, Mumford. Send the fellow here. Tom, I suppose that boy
of yours is a bit of a linguist, eh? He may as well do the
interpreting."
While Lieutenant Mumford was gone to fetch the native, the major took
out his map and spread it out on a space cleared on the folding table.
"Yes, I see," he said; "if this native comes from the Arab quarters
beyond the Rutchuru, his road homewards would lie across our line of
march. He may be useful to us. A strapping fellow, Corney; look at
him."
The negro, a finely proportioned young Ankoli, some twenty-five years of
age, came up under a guard of Soudanese, who left him standing before
the major. In answer to questions, he repeated the story given by
Lieutenant Mumford, with some variations which might have been due to
Mbutu’s capacity for translation. He added that while hiding in the
Wutaka hills, with the Kutchuru spread out before him, he had seen the
Arabs cross the river and disappear among the hills to the west,
retiring no doubt to the distant stronghold whence they made their
raids. The man told his story frankly and ingenuously, and answered the
major’s questions without hesitation. As he described the atrocities
committed by the Arabs, his language and gestures were expressive of
intense indignation, and indicated that no vengeance could be too
terrible for his oppressors.
"Do you know a place called Imubinga?" asked the major quietly, when the
man had finished.
At the word, Tom, who was watching him intently, saw his eyelids droop
for the fraction of a second. Imubinga! Yes, he knew it; a deserted
village a mile or so on the other side of the hills; a capital
camping-place, being sheltered by forests trees and well situated as
regards water. The major made a rough plan with bits of biscuit and
stalks of grass, and asked the native to show him as well as he could
the whereabouts of Imubinga, knowing that the African is very clever in
thus constructing picture plans. This done, he marked the place
tentatively on his map and dismissed the man.
"Gentlemen," he said, when the negro was out of earshot, "the man is a
liar--quite an accomplished one. His masters could hardly have chosen a
better man for the job."
The three officers and Tom looked at the major, waiting in silence for
the explanation of this discovery. At this moment Mbutu, who had for
some time been showing signs of great excitement, broke in impetuously:
"Black man talk bosh! All one lie. Him no slave not at all! Him big
awful liar!"
"Your young man has an emphatic way of expressing himself," said the
major; "you had better tell him, Tom, to hold his tongue until he is
asked to speak, and in fact to leave us. But he is right. A slave who
had been employed in carrying ivory for the Arabs would bear the marks
of a collar and fetters. Looking at that handsome Ankoli I failed to
find these marks, and suspected the man. You will see now that I framed
my questions in such a way as to give him rope, and the way he acted his
part and worked up the passion was amazingly clever. But he overdid it,
as they always will. What do you make of it all, Lister?"
Now in a scrimmage Captain Lister was a host in himself, but at the
council-board he was not fluent. Contentedly pulling at his short
brier, all he said was:
"Rummy, eh? What!"
Things had meanwhile been crystallizing in Tom’s mind. The ambush had
been foremost in his thoughts for many days past; possibly that was the
reason why the suggestion came from him. However that may be, it was he
who remarked quietly:
"D’you think the pretended slave is a confederate of the guide’s,
Uncle?"
The major looked dubious. He liked to see every step in the
process--all the working of the sum, so to speak.
"Fadl," he said, "just order the guide Munta to step this way."
The major’s orderly, a Soudanese more than six feet high, stalked into
the camp square.
"Now, Mbutu," called the major, "come here; I want you to stand out of
sight in the tent there till I beckon you. By the way, Tom, that dago
fellow had a name, I suppose. What is it?"
"I never heard it, Uncle. Mbutu has always called him ’old master’ or
’dago man’ to me. What was your master’s name, Mbutu?"
"Black man call him debbil, sah."
"Never mind what the black man calls him, what do the Arabs call him?
What did this guide of ours call him?"
"Call him señor, padrone; one time call him Castro, one time more call
him Carvalho; him lot names too many."
"Bedad now," exclaimed the doctor, "it all comes back to me.
Carvalho!--of course, ’tis the name of the Portuguese who gave us no end
of trouble in Quid Calabar ten years ago. I disremimbered’m entirely;
ten years makes a terrible difference in a man, to be sure; though when
I saw Tom knock him down there was something in the creature’s scowl
that seemed familiar. Sure an’ I ought to have remimbered his bumps. A
desp’rate ruff’n of a fellow, Major. He came to me wance to be stitched
up after getting mauled in a drunken brawl, an’ I got to know a thing or
two about’m. Ah! an’ there was wan curious affair he was mixed up in
that--
"I’m afraid the story must keep, Doctor; here’s the guide."
Captain Lister put down his pipe; Lieutenant Mumford lit a cigarette.
The Arab, or rather half-caste, approached confidently and saluted. The
major looked up.
"Have you any reason to give," he said quietly, "why you should not be
taken out and shot?"
The man stared open-mouthed at the speaker. His face appeared to turn a
bronze-green, and his lips twitched. The major was watching him
intently.
"I don’t--I don’t understand, master," he stammered at length.
"Ah! Let us begin at the beginning. Do you know one Castro, a
Portuguese, who was in Kisumu for some days before we started?"
The man, with a strong effort of will, had mastered the agitation into
which the major’s sudden question had thrown him.
"He is going to brazen it out," said that observant officer to himself;
and after the slightest perceptible pause, the Arab replied:
"I do not know him, sir."
"Very well."
He beckoned to Mbutu, who had been standing with his face concealed by
the flap of the tent. The Muhima came out into the sunlight.
"Do you know this boy?"
Tom saw the Arab’s eyelids quiver.
"No--I do not know him, master. I never saw him before."
Major Burnaby turned to the Muhima.
"Mbutu, is this the man?" he asked.
"Him sure nuff, sah; him gib me kiboko."
"The boy lies. I never saw him; I know nothing about him."
"Very well. I shall have to refresh your memory. Fadl, tell Sergeant
Abdullah to bring up a firing-party."
There was a strained silence. The Arab looked round apprehensively as
six men of the King’s African Rifles came up, ordered arms, and stood
rigidly at attention.
The major took his watch from his pocket and laid it on the table in
front of him.
"I give you five minutes," he said. "If you do not make up your mind to
tell the truth within five minutes by my watch--well, you know what’ll
happen."
The major glanced significantly at the line of Soudanese. He
deliberately cut and lit a cigar. Captain Lister had resumed his pipe
and was puffing vigorously; Lieutenant Mumford gripped the sides of his
seat, and stared; while the doctor was apparently examining the Arab’s
anatomy with a quite professional interest. To Tom his uncle was
appearing in a new light, commanding a new respect and admiration; and
as to Mbutu, he was patently overawed by the stern imperturbability of
"sah him uncle".
The minutes went by. The silence of the bright morning was broken only
by the varied sounds of movement in the camp: the laughter of the
Zanzibaris; the clash of a cook’s pan; the bleat of a goat led to the
slaughter.
"You have half a minute," said the major suddenly.
"I know nothing, master, nothing at all," replied the guide, his lips
quivering.
There was again silence. Then the major rapped his hand on the table.
"Now!" he said. "What have you to say?"
"I know nothing about it, nothing about it!" persisted the man.
"I’ve no time to waste," said the major curtly, replacing his watch.
"Sergeant, take him away."
Two of the tall Soudanese laid their hands on the guide’s arms. He
wriggled out of their grasp and flung himself on the ground. They
seized him again, assisted by their comrades; and, struggling
desperately, crying continually: "I know nothing about it, know nothing
about it!" he was carried away. Tom’s heart was in his mouth, and
Mumford had sprung up in his excitement. Captain Lister still smoked on
placidly; while the major’s lips were grimly set as he watched the man’s
contortions. He had been borne but a few yards when his writhing
suddenly ceased.
"Don’t take me away, don’t take me away!" he shrieked. "I will tell, I
will tell!"
At a sign from the major the Soudanese returned to the tent, and the
wretched man stood before him, thoroughly cowed, and trembling in every
limb.
"You will tell! Perhaps you are wise. You will tell me everything from
the beginning. Mind, I make no promises; but it is your only chance!"
The major dismissed the Soudanese, and the man began in a low faint
voice to tell his story. It was as follows:--
About two miles before reaching Imubinga, the path led across a mountain
stream some ten feet deep and thirty wide, spanned by a native bridge.
The river had cut a deep ravine between two high hills, and its steep
banks were covered with dense forest growth, huge trees crowning the
summit. The bank at which the expedition would first arrive had been
unequally worn away, and some two hundred and fifty feet above the
stream, almost overhanging the bridge, was a prominent bluff,
projecting, as the guide put it, like the nose from a man’s face. This
had been the scene of a memorable incident during the invasion of the
district by the Baganda some fifty years before. As a force of Baganda
were crossing the bridge, a number of tree trunks, previously felled,
had been rolled over the edge of the bluff, and crashing down upon them
had killed many outright, and thrown the whole force into such confusion
that it fell an easy prey to the enemy. The Baganda were massacred
almost to a man. This incident had passed into the traditions of the
country; warriors sang about it round their camp-fires, and mothers
crooned their babies to rest with the song of "The Ambush by the
Bridge".
The same plan was to be pursued now. In the fifty years which had
elapsed since the earlier ambuscade, trees had again grown to maturity
on the headland. Some of these had been felled, and the moment was to
be seized, when half the column had crossed the river, to roll the
trunks down upon the bridge. The Arabs, meanwhile, and their Manyema
warriors, divided into two bands, one up and the other down stream,
would be lying concealed in the forest sufficiently far from the bridge
to avoid the British scouts. When the logs had been hurled down, and
the troops were in confusion, a signal was to be given from the summit
of the bluff; the Arabs were to emerge from their hiding-places, and
make a simultaneous attack on the force hemmed in between them. They
reckoned that the rear part of the column, deprived of the support of
those who had already passed over the bridge, and encumbered with the
baggage, would be as sheep in their hands. These having been disposed
of, the first half, left without any reserve of ammunition and food,
could be dealt with at leisure.
"Jolly good scheme!" remarked Captain Lister admiringly, between two
puffs, when the man had finished his story.
"They must think we’re pretty green, sir," said Lieutenant Mumford,
unable to conceal his scorn of such tactics. Captain Lister eyed him
for a moment, but said nothing. The major was drumming on the table,
looking thoughtfully at the guide, while the doctor waved a handkerchief
to keep off the flies.
"That is the truth, is it?" said the major at last. "And you were sent
to help me to find the way! I have heard of worse schemes. But how did
you expect to escape?"
The Arab shifted his feet uneasily.
"Not that that matters. But I should like to know a little more. I am
not marching against the Arabs; why are your friends so concerned about
our operations against a native chief? What is the motive? Tell me
that."
Relieved that the major’s interrogation was no longer so uncomfortably
personal to himself, the guide went on with his narrative.
Far away in the west, he said, beyond Imubinga, beyond the Rutchuru and
the hills, in the heart of the Congo forest, his friends had a
stronghold, so well hidden that the forces of the Congo Free State had
never succeeded in finding it. Even if they had found it they would have
failed to take it, for the place was absolutely impregnable. To this
fortress a remnant of Arab dealers in ivory and slaves had retired when
the power of Hamed ben Juna, more commonly known by the natives’
nickname, Tippu Tib, and his lieutenants was broken by the Belgian
forces, and there they still pursued their vocation by stealth, their
spies marking every movement of the Free State officials, their allies
drawing the enemy off when he came dangerously near. In the course of
some years they had amassed a huge store of ivory, and collected some
thousands of slaves, some of these latter being employed in tilling the
soil and supplying their captors with the necessaries of life; while
others were traded away for ivory to the cannibal tribes of the middle
Congo. It was, however, becoming increasingly difficult to elude the
Free State authorities, and the circle of their traffic was gradually
narrowing. The old chief Rumaliza, whom the Belgians supposed to have
died in the forest after the capture of Kabambari, was still alive,
looking with alarm at the prospect of having to feed his horde of slaves
without any chance of a profitable deal. Hemmed in by the British,
German, and Free State territories, which were all being brought rapidly
under effective control by the respective European administrators, he
foresaw inevitable ruin, soon or late. He was anxious, therefore, to
realize his wealth and retire to the coast, and in pursuance of this aim
he had resolved on one final coup, a last expiring effort of the
slave-trade. His plan was to form a huge caravan, transport all his
slaves to the coast, and ship them to Arabia.
"Oh, come now!" exclaimed the major at this point, "that must be
nonsense. It’s close on a thousand miles to the nearest point of the
coast, and your friends are not fools enough to imagine that they could
make a slave run without having us upon their tracks."
Then the guide proceeded to unfold a plot at which his younger hearers
held their breath, and even the major himself, old and seasoned hand as
he was, could scarcely restrain an exclamation of astonishment. The
Arabs, said the man, had in their camp a number of deposed Banyoro and
Baganda chiefs, whose conduct had been such as to preclude any chance of
their regaining their position while the British occupation continued.
These men, having nothing to lose and everything to gain, had
established communications with every Mahomedan in Uganda and Unyoro who
was known to be disaffected. At a given signal the latter were to rise;
and the signal was to be the defeat of a British column. Where the
defeat was to take place had not been disclosed to the disaffected in
Uganda, lest the plot should be divulged. It had been perfected by the
Portuguese during his stay in Kisumu. It was known that only a weak
British force was available for operations in the southern part of the
Protectorate. A small native chief was to be persuaded to revolt, and
it was hoped that the affair would be regarded as of so little
consequence that only a handful of troops would be employed to crush
him. The revolt had taken place as arranged, but owing to Major
Burnaby’s energy the punitive column was stronger than the Arabs had
anticipated. Still, with a numerical advantage of two to one, without
counting their native allies and dependants, the Arabs were not so much
disheartened as to abandon their plans. They confidently expected that
the ambush would result in the annihilation of the British force. The
news was to be conveyed to the scattered conspirators with the rapidity
with which news always flies through native Africa; a picked force was
to seize rail-head, after overpowering, or at least harassing, the small
garrisons at Entebbe, Kisumu, and other military stations, and, if
possible, to foment a general rising among the populace. Taking
advantage of the confusion, the Arabs, with their satellites, were to
run the slaves by forced marches to the western shore of the Nyanza,
carry them over in canoes, and thence for a hundred and fifty miles
along the railway, and then make for a spot on the coast of Italian
Somaliland, whence they could ship them to Arabia.
"’Faith, I would like to examine the cranium of the man who devised that
crazy scheme!" cried the doctor. "He must be’s mad’s a hatter!"
The major was in no mood to indulge in quips with Dr. O’Brien. His mind
was wholly concentrated on the task which had opened before him. He sat
silent and abstracted, seeming even to have forgotten the presence of
the traitor. Recovering himself in a moment, he said quietly:
"Go away. You will be kept under arrest for the rest of the march; see
to that, Mr. Mumford. When we are through with this business I’ll
consider what’s to be done with you. Take him away. There’s the other
man now," continued the major, when the guide had been removed. "It is
just worth while to see if his story corroborates the one we have just
heard. Fadl, fetch the captured slave."
It was short work with him. A rumour had already run through the camp
that the guide was in trouble, and the Ankoli wore an anxious look when
he came up. The major told him in one sentence that his friend Munta
had confessed; and the man at once volunteered to unbosom himself. His
story differed from the other merely in ornaments. To the major’s
enquiries he replied that the Arabs were about nine hundred and fifty
strong, and their allies rather more than a thousand. Many of the
former were armed with Mausers, smuggled in through German East Africa.
The rest of them had Sniders and other obsolete rifles ("Good enough in
forest fighting" was the practical remark of Captain Lister), while the
Manyema for the most part had only very old muskets in addition to
spears.
"That rings true," said the major. "Has he anything more to tell?"
"Him say true, all berrah much," said Mbutu, who had interpreted.
"Eberyfing told; know no more."
"Very well Fadl, take him and tie him up. Gentlemen, it is now past
eleven o’clock. We will strike camp and be off in about an hour. We
have, it appears, between five and six miles to go. That will take us
full two hours. If the story we have heard is true--and for myself,
strange as it is, I have no doubt about it--we shall have no difficulty
in locating these Arabs. We shall fight at three; that will leave us
three hours of daylight. That will suffice, I think. Lister, I should
like a word with you."
"That means tactics, I suppose," said the doctor. "Well, while you’re
talking, I will tache Tom to help me pick up the pieces. Come along, my
bhoy."
CHAPTER VII
Ambuscading an Ambush
Approaching the River--Reconnoitring--The Fight on the Bluff--Checking a
Rush--Timely Help--A Hand-to-Hand Struggle--At Fault
Tom was that day amazed to see what could be done in an hour’s time by a
force of Askaris capably directed. By half-past twelve the officers’
tents had been rolled up, the baggage repacked, a meal swallowed, the
carriers marshalled, each with his proper load, and the order of march
arranged. Before one the whole column had moved out towards the scene
of the anticipated fight. Scouts led the way, under Lieutenant Mumford.
Then came the advance-guard, two companies of Askaris and a Maxim-gun,
with Captain Lister. At a short interval followed more Soudanese, with
Major Burnaby; then came the carriers with their guard, and finally the
rear-guard, of which Tom found himself in command. Dr. O’Brien hovered
about, first at one part of the column, then at another, in case of what
he called "evenshualities".
Before giving the order to march, the major beckoned Tom apart.
"Tom," he said, "here’s a rifle and a revolver for you. You know how to
use the rifle, at any rate. Fate seems to have a hand in this, and as
you’re here, you must make yourself useful."
Tom’s eyes gleamed as he took the weapon, and he mentally resolved to
bear himself worthily, whatever was in store. His elation was a little
dashed when his uncle went on:
"You’ll consider yourself in command of the rear-guard. Judging by your
conduct since you left Kisumu, you are able to win the respect of the
natives, and that’s everything. You’ll find the non-coms. a steady set
of men; and remember, you must rely on them and yourself. You mustn’t
worry me with questions about this, that, and t’other thing."
"All right, Uncle! I’m only too glad to be able to do anything."
"Very well then; I’ll send for you if I want you."
Tom wished that he could have been with the advance-guard, but he kept
that to himself, hoping that the chances of the day would give him an
opportunity of doing even the smallest thing to justify his uncle’s
confidence. Then the march began. Askaris and carriers tramped on in
single file, the Zanzibaris chattering and laughing in spite of the
loads on their heads, it being one of the crosses of the major’s
existence that their tongues were never still. Some of them had
kerosene cans slung round their necks, in clanging emptiness, for they
had not as yet been needed, the rivulets along the route having
furnished plenty of good drinking-water. Others carried bales and
provision-boxes cleverly poised on their heads, each load averaging from
forty to fifty pounds; while the rest bore large bags of onions (a
favourite food with the native troops), tent-poles, pots and kettles,
and other paraphernalia of the camp.
The pace was slow, and, thanks to the doctor’s careful ministrations,
Tom was able to keep up without difficulty. He would not confess even
to himself that a full day’s rest would have been grateful to him. The
mid-day sun beat down upon the marching column with scorching ferocity.
For some distance the narrow path led over rolling country, broken here
and there by rocky excrescences, with not an inch of shade, the only
relief being afforded now and again by a brook, in which the men bathed
their aching feet. At length, however, the appearance of scrub and
trees ahead proclaimed the proximity of a larger stream. Tom had been
wondering all the way what tactics his uncle would employ to checkmate
the plans of the Arabs. He saw now that scouts were being sent out on
each flank, and word was passed down the column for the carriers to
group themselves instead of marching in single file, and for the
rear-guard to close up. While moving in open country the major had
decided to make no change in the usual method of marching, so that
nothing might suggest to the enemy, if he was on the look-out, that any
special precautions were being taken. But now that the column had
entered a wooded region, and was nearing the expected scene of
operations, he thought it well to make his force more compact,
especially as the path had here broadened into quite a respectable road.
The scouts on the flanks had orders not to penetrate more than half a
mile into the forest on either side, the trees being close enough
together to prevent anything in the nature of a rush beyond that limit.
It was now nearly three o’clock. The major ordered the guide to be
brought to him, and questioned him on their distance from the river.
Learning that it was no more than three-quarters of a mile ahead, he
called a halt and sent for his officers.
"Now, gentlemen," he said to the little group, "I assume that the story
told by the guide is true. Our scouts have not sighted the enemy, which
is pretty clear proof that if there is an enemy at all he is hiding. I
am going to send sixteen picked men up the rear of the bluff--you see it
rising yonder--from which, according to these men, the logs are to be
flung down on to the bridge. Our fellows will dispose of the eight or
nine Arabs who, it appears, are to manage the logs. They will then give
the signal awaited by the enemy, who, we may suppose, are in hiding at
least half a mile up and down stream, and these will come on, expecting
to find us cut in two at the bridge and generally in confusion.--Well,
what is it, Mumford?"
"I was wondering, sir," began the lieutenant, rather taken aback at
finding his thoughts half-guessed-at by the major; "I was wondering what
would happen if our men failed to dispose of the Arabs on the bluff."
"The enemy’s plans would be spoilt, at any rate, and the engagement
would develop on other lines. But the chances are in our favour. The
bluff, as you see, is thickly wooded, and our men should be able to
creep up quite noiselessly and get within striking distance without
being seen. Besides, we will distract the enemy’s attention. Remember,
they are relying on our complete ignorance of their scheme. They will
be impatient to see us cross the bridge. Well, I shall send a few
scouts over to guard against a possible attack from the other side, and
Captain Lister, with two or three men, will feign a careful examination
of the bridge itself. The delay will probably be unexpected, and I
count on this to enable our men to scale the bluff unperceived.
"Meanwhile the carriers will park all the baggage in a semicircle about
the bridge head, under guard. I shall divide the force, taking part
with me to repel the attack from the north--Mumford, you will work the
Maxim--and leaving you, Lister, to meet the attack from the south.
Doctor, you will come with me, I think, as mine will be the larger
force; and Tom, you will remain in charge of the baggage."
Tom tried to look pleased, but his face fell in spite of him. There was
no help for it; he must obey orders and accept his strictly defensive
part with a good grace.
"I cannot tell you our precise positions yet until scouts have been up
and down the river and reported on the nature of the ground. Meanwhile,
Lister, you will send forward, say, five scouts over the bridge, and the
rest of us will move slowly behind you."
Tom’s pulse quickened as he listened to these plain directions. He
wished he could change places with Captain Lister, as that officer went
forward with the advance-guard to perform the task allotted him. In
less than fifteen minutes the bulk of the force reached the bridge head.
The scouts had already crossed, and were disappearing into the wooded
country beyond. Other scouts had been sent out on each flank to examine
the country up and down stream, and the captain, with two sergeants, was
inspecting the bridge with a critical eye. On reaching the river-bank
the major found that the water ran deep and the sides were precipitous.
The bluff was inaccessible except from the rear, rising sheer up from
the bed of the river and the path. Both up and down stream the country
was dotted with scrub, and at the distance of about a hundred yards on
each side of the path began a belt of forest, through, which the scouts
were picking their way in skirmishing order.
"We have less than three hours of daylight left," said the major to
Captain Lister at the bridge head, "so that we must put this business
through as rapidly as possible. I hope you ordered the scouts to
proceed cautiously, and not go too far. Half a mile will suit our book."
"Yes, and here are the down-stream fellows returning." A sergeant came
up to the major and reported that, having skirted the bluff and crossed
a belt of thin forest, he had come within six minutes to an open space,
with a frontage of about two hundred yards and a breadth of some four
hundred and fifty. This was absolutely free from trees or bush, but on
the other side of it the forest was much thicker.
"Depend upon it, then, the Arabs, if here at all, are hiding in the
forest beyond the clearing. We have them, Lister. If there are any
up-stream they are evidently farther away. As the forest is much denser
in that direction I think a hundred men with you will suffice to beat
off any attack on that side; you must get your men to cut down some
trees and form a rough abattis. The rest of the force will come
northwards with me. We must take advantage of that clearing. Now it’s
time to send up the bluff and account for the log-rollers; that will
prove conclusively how far these men have told the truth. I think we
understand each other."
Captain Lister nodded. In a few minutes his men were busy felling the
trees with the thickest foliage. They cut a wedge in the trunks with
their axes, then toppled them over in the same direction as the strokes
had fallen, so that they formed a high and almost impenetrable barrier.
Meanwhile Tom had already arranged the baggage in a semicircle about the
bridge head, hidden by a jutting rock from anyone who might be at the
summit of the bluff. Within the enclosure thus formed the carriers were
assembled, and the rampart itself was defended by twenty-five men.
Fifteen of the most trustworthy of the Askaris, under Sergeant Abdullah,
were by this time scaling the bluff from the rear, darting from tree to
tree with wonderful celerity, their feet bare, their right hands
clutching their rifles with bayonets fixed. They drew nearer and nearer
to the summit, maintaining as even a line as the nature of the ground
permitted, each man being about two yards from the next. When they came
within a few yards of the top, and saw by the growing light that beyond
them the trees had been felled, they moved still more warily. Thus they
advanced to the very edge of the forest, and halted. Peeping from
behind the trees they saw nine Arabs in front of them, not twenty paces
away. Some were talking in low excited whispers, two were lying flat on
their faces, peering over the three shaven tree-trunks that lay in
readiness at the very edge of the precipice, and turning occasionally to
make some comment on the proceedings.
[Illustration: Plan of the Battle of Imubinga.]
On the logs rested half a dozen short, strong poles, evidently to be
used as levers. The Arabs had expected the marching force to cross the
bridge at once, and the delay had at first caused them much amazement
and concern. But seeing the scouts pass over and scatter on the other
side, and the careful examination of the bridge made by Captain Lister
and his sergeants, they had apparently concluded that these were only
the white man’s usual measures of precaution, and were reassured. They
had themselves taken the precaution to post a sentry a hundred yards
down the bluff behind them, but this man, finding after a long delay
that nothing had happened, edged gradually nearer to his companions, and
when he saw them looking with intense interest over the ridge, his
curiosity was too much for him. He quickened his pace and joined them,
and from that moment caution was thrown to the winds.
Just as the Askaris reached the utmost verge of cover, and stood for an
instant to take breath after their climb, one of the Arabs gleefully
pointed to the scouts returning over the bridge. His companions
instantly moved towards the brink. Sergeant Abdullah saw that the moment
had arrived. He gave a nod to his men, they sprang forward with great
leaps, remembering the major’s injunction to make no noise. Before the
Arabs were aware of their danger the enemy were upon them. Seven of the
nine were despatched with the bayonet in a trice; one contrived to
inflict a terrible wound on his assailant before he too was stricken
down; the ninth man, with a howl of fright, sprang over the precipice
and disappeared into the stream below.
The first part of the task of the sixteen was accomplished. Climb and
all it had occupied but twenty minutes. There remained to give the
signal expected by the Arabs in hiding. On the ground lay a white flag
embroidered with the crescent. Abdullah stooped down, and hastily
divesting one of the fallen Arabs of his burnous, he threw it over his
own uniform, then picked up the flag, and walked northwards some thirty
yards along the bluff to the edge of the declivity, whence he obtained a
view of the open space and the forest beyond. Then he waved the flag,
making three curious circular movements with which he was clearly
familiar; he saw an answering signal from the edge of the forest more
than half a mile away; then he returned to his companions, and hurried
downhill with twelve of them to rejoin Captain Lister’s force, leaving
two to follow more leisurely with the man wounded.
In the meantime the major had rapidly moved his three hundred men
northwards through the woodland. On the way he left fifty of them in
open order on a wide arc to cover his right flank. Coming to the open
space reported by the scouts, he was overjoyed to find it an outcrop of
bare rock, broken in surface, cleft by fissures, and thus difficult to
advance over. His quick eye marked at a glance the possibilities of the
situation. He posted a hundred of his men about a yard apart, just
within the edge of the forest, and stationed a second hundred twenty
yards behind them as a reserve. The remaining fifty he told off to
guard the left flank against surprise from the river-bed. At the
extreme right of his position, a few yards in advance of the
firing-line, stood one solitary thorn bush growing on a patch of soft
earth amid the rock. This would form, as the major saw at once, an
excellent screen for the Maxim; but to place the gun in position at once
would certainly attract the attention of the Arabs. He therefore
ordered Lieutenant Mumford to be in readiness to move it forward as soon
as the enemy emerged from the wood.
"Now, my men," he said to the sergeants when his dispositions were
complete, "when the signal is given from the bluff the Arabs will come
out of the forest yonder and cross this open space. They know nothing,
as I hope and trust, of our presence. They will not expect us here.
Reserve your fire till they are within two hundred and fifty yards--the
bugle will give the signal,--then fire. That will check the rush for a
moment. There will be time for a second volley; then be ready to
charge. Mr. Mumford, you will bring the Maxim into action as soon as
they are well out in the open. Now mind, men," he added, turning sternly
to the eager Askaris, "not a whisper till the word is given."
The men stood at their posts, fixing their keen eyes on the trees a
quarter of a mile in front of them, their mouths set, their nostrils
quivering. It was a trying ordeal. Minute after minute went by, and
still there was no sign of the enemy. The men began to fidget, and the
major, knowing the impetuous nature of the Soudanese, feared lest a
single incautious movement or exclamation should wreck his plans. Then
suddenly a hundred doors seemed to open in the green wall opposite, and
out of them poured almost noiselessly a flood of tall, white-robed,
turbaned Arabs. They kept no order, expecting to find their enemy in
confusion by the bridge. In this careless confidence they rushed on
pell-mell, clutching their rifles by the middle. Over the rocky ground
they came, bounding like panthers, making no sound save with their quick
breathing, eager, exultant, some waving flags, their leaders brandishing
scimitars, a few with silent drums jolting against their thighs. Then a
bugle rang out clear and shrill; from the trees and undergrowth in their
front flashed forth a withering volley. The nearest of them went down
like grass before the mower. There was an awful silence, broken only by
the groans of wounded and dying men. Those of the foremost Arabs who
were left alive halted in consternation, hesitating whether to advance
or fly. But behind them a host of their Manyema allies was thronging
from the woods. These had heard the volley, but had seen nothing of its
effect. Imagining that the expected collision had taken place earlier
than had been anticipated they pressed on furiously, now uttering savage
cries, beating drums, invoking Allah and the Prophet. Thus the halted
front ranks were driven on by the mass behind; Arabs and Manyema were
crowded together in an unwieldy congested heap. Another volley rang out
in front of them; the rattle of the Maxim, now playing across the
crowded space, added its terrors to the scene. The stricken host fell
in heaps before the pitiless hail of lead; then, in uncontrollable
panic, they turned tail and fled, trampling each other down in their
terror, carrying all before them in one irresistible rush to the shelter
of the wood.
And now, with a fierce yell, the Soudanese darted after them with the
bayonet. But in the lull that followed the first wild onset, the
major’s ear caught the sound of heavy firing in his rear. Captain
Lister was evidently engaged. The major at once recalled the men from
their pursuit, and, leaving Lieutenant Mumford with a hundred rifles to
meet a renewed attack should the enemy recover from their panic, he
hurried back with the main part of his force to support the hundred with
Captain Lister up-stream.
He found the little body hard pressed. At the sound of firing to the
north, a force of three hundred and fifty Arabs, supported by nearly
five hundred natives, had emerged from their place of concealment in the
forest. Checked in their rush by the abattis, they had made a second
impetuous charge, losing heavily from the well-directed volleys of
Captain Lister’s men. But they had soon perceived the smallness of the
force opposed to them, and, dividing into two bands, they made
simultaneous attacks at both ends of the line. The Soudanese at the
river-end staggered, and, being more exposed than the rest of the line,
gave way. Instantly a few score Arabs broke through, and, true to their
rapacious instincts, made direct for the baggage. Tom, who had been
eating his heart out with impatience, saw that he was likely after all
to have his fill of fighting. It seemed almost impossible that his
handful of men could hold their own against the wild rush of the enemy,
but the steady nerve which had served him so well in many a mimic battle
did not fail him in this his first experience of real warfare. Bidding
his men kneel and rest their rifles on the piled boxes, he waited till
the Arabs were within fifty yards, then gave the order to fire. The
assailants broke like a wave upon a rock. The most of them fell prone;
a few, with desperate courage, came on till the Askaris could almost
feel their breath; then cold steel completed what the bullet had begun.
In the meantime the other end of the British line was yielding before
repeated rushes, being hampered by the necessity of guarding the left
flank against the black crowds of Manyema pressing perilously near. It
was at this critical moment that the major returned with his exultant
troops. Charging downhill at tremendous speed, they swept to the
support of their comrades, and after a severe hand-to-hand fight against
great odds, they drove the enemy steadily back into the forest, with
terrible loss.
It was now half-past four. The fight at the clearing having been won
without a single casualty on the British side, Dr. O’Brien was free to
attend to the thirty wounded men who, with about half as many dead, bore
witness to the severity of the struggle by the abattis. Meanwhile,
Captain Lister was leading his men in pursuit of the fugitives.
Suddenly the crackle of musketry broke out again far away to the
north-east. The major turned at the sound. He caught sight of the
rampart of baggage, of the stricken forms lying close beneath it, of Tom
standing among his men.
"Tom," he said, with quick resolution, "I want you to take your
unwounded men up to Mumford and see if he is really being attacked
again. Some of the less severely wounded can guard the baggage. If he
wants help send your boy or one of the men back to me, and
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