Produced by Al Haines.




[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 I’ll move up
in support."

The major’s tone was quiet and matter-of-fact, as though his command was
quite in the ordinary course of things.  Tom needed no repetition of the
order; vowing that Uncle Jack was a brick, he started at once with
twenty-five men and Mbutu.  He had been hoping against hope for such a
moment. Only with the greatest difficulty had he refrained from leaping
into the fray by the abattis when he saw Captain Lister so hard pressed
and defending his position so gallantly.

He reached Lieutenant Mumford’s force at an opportune moment.  The Arab
chief, after his men had been hurled back by the enemy, had striven
desperately to rally them.  Collecting some two hundred and fifty of the
survivors, and hearing, as the major had done, the sound of brisk firing
to the south, he conceived the idea of making a circuit and joining his
friends above the bridge.  He had already made some progress in that
direction, and had actually come into touch with the extended line of
flankers, when he was informed by a scout, whom he had sent to
reconnoitre, that the British commander was withdrawing the larger part
of his force to the assistance of a second body up-stream.  The Arab
instantly wheeled round; his band was being augmented every moment by
returning fugitives, and he saw an opportunity to fall upon and
overwhelm the small British force left behind.  Lieutenant Mumford
quickly divined his intention, and foresaw the direction of the
threatened attack.  He at once changed front, and, turning the Maxim
round at right angles to its former position, left it in the hands of a
non-commissioned officer, while he himself took the general command.  He
posted his men on two sides of a square, thus forming a wedge.  The
position was partly protected by undergrowth, but the trees were not so
close together as to afford complete cover, and the advantage of the
ground lay rather with the massing Arabs.

Tom arrived just as a first charge had been repulsed. Firing in
sections, the Soudanese had laid many of the Arabs low, and the onset
was checked for a moment.  But the Arab chief was in no mood to brook
cowardice or hesitation. Conspicuous by his huge stature and a red sash
over his shoulder, he rallied his men once more.  They came on through
the scrub, with defiant cries of "Allah-il-Allah!" firing as they came,
and taking advantage of cover to make rushes and draw nearer and nearer
to the British lines.  Tom’s twenty-five men were a welcome
reinforcement, for a dozen of the little force were already _hors de
combat_, and the Maxim had jammed. Quickly ranging themselves with their
comrades, the new-comers brought their rifles to their shoulders and
fired, and once more the Arab advance was checked.

"Couldn’t we try a charge?" suggested Tom to the lieutenant.  "My men
are eager to have at the enemy."

"Yes; now is the moment.  It’s touch and go.  Men, fix bayonets;
charge!"

Mumford at the left of the line, Tom at the right, followed immediately
by Mbutu, they sprang forward with a resounding cheer.  Past the bushes,
dodging in and out among the trees, the gallant little force made at the
enemy.  The Arabs had collected in a comparatively clear space within
the forest, and as the charging Askaris came upon them they parted into
two bands, which moved away from each other as though to take the
attacking party on both flanks.  Mumford immediately wheeled half his
line to the left, shouting to Tom to deal similarly with the right-hand
body.

"Now, my boys," cried Tom, "we’ve not done much to-day. It’s our turn at
last.  Come along!"

The willing men followed him with a yell.  No turbaned force could stand
against them.  The Arabs broke and scattered, and the headstrong Askaris
dashed after them in mad pursuit. The chief, with half a dozen devoted
followers, made a gallant attempt to check the rush.  He stood, a giant
among his men, swinging his curved scimitar, passionately objurgating
the fugitives, and even cutting some of them down as they ran. But
neither his example nor his threats availed to stay the rout.  His men
fled for their lives.  He himself seemed to bear a charmed life; though
he formed so conspicuous a target, he was as yet untouched.  Now Tom
marked him as he stood in deep impotent wrath, alone, save for a
body-guard of four. Tom’s eye flashed with a sudden resolve.

[Illustration: A Mêlée in the Forest]

"Mbutu," he cried, "and you, Sadi, come with me and capture that big
fellow.  Now, one, two, three--with me, boys!"

Giving his rifle to Mbutu he sprang forward, revolver in hand, followed
by the Muhima and a huge Somali private, who had been laying about him
doughtily with his rifle clubbed. The chief saw the three speeding
towards him, and like a gallant warrior stayed to face his foe.  The
Somali, leaping with tremendous strides, was the first to get to close
quarters. With his clubbed rifle he beat down the bayonet of one of the
Arabs and stretched him upon the ground; but it was his last stroke, for
the chief made a lunge forward, and with his keen blade pierced him to
the heart.  He fell against Tom, knocking his helmet off his head, and
out of his hand the revolver with which he had just accounted for one of
the chief’s body-guard.  Quick as thought Tom pounced on the fallen
man’s rifle, and was erect again just in time to beat off the descending
scimitar.  It was now a desperate hand-to-hand fight, bayonet against
sword.  The red beams of the setting sun caught the curved blade as it
swept about Tom’s head and body, but not for an instant did his keen eye
falter. Following his opponent’s every movement, and grasping the rifle
firmly with both hands, he parried thrust and beat aside lunge, ready to
strike home if he saw the hair’s-breadth of an opportunity.  Now the
lessons of the sergeant-major at school bore good fruit; and if that
officer could have seen the flower of his cadet corps bearing himself so
manfully in this fierce duel, he would have owned himself content.

All this time Mbutu, agile as a cat, had been desperately engaging the
two remaining Arabs, determined to prevent them from going to the
chief’s assistance, and burning to pay off old scores upon the kindred
of his former persecutors.  The level rays of the sun, coming from
behind his back, dazzled his opponents’ eyes, so that they had much ado
to elude the thrusts of his bayonet.  At length he got within the guard
of one of them, and wounded him in the sword-arm.  As they fought they
had edged close up to where Tom and the Arab were still in deadly
conflict.  With indomitable pluck the wounded Arab stooped, picked up
his sword with his left hand, and before Mbutu, now hotly engaged with
the last man, could interpose, the Arab smote at Tom from below with a
stroke which wounded his defenceless head, and he fell to the ground.
That same instant, Mbutu ran the fourth man through the body, and,
turning to despatch the wounded Arab, received a deep cut from the
chief’s sword in his right shoulder.

Only Tom’s fallen body, impeding the Arab, saved the Muhima from a
second desperate blow.  The blood-stained scimitar was raised to strike
a third time, when a distant bugle rang out.  The chief’s arm was stayed
in mid-air; he gazed eagerly over Mbutu’s head into the forest.  No
British troops were to be seen; but the Arab, after a moment’s
irresolution, appeared to decide that the bugle-call was the signal for
another advance, and fearing to be cut off entirely from his friends, he
turned and disappeared among the trees.  Mbutu, however, had recognized
the notes of the recall, and wondered what he was to do.  He bent down
to examine his master’s prostrate body.  Finding that he still breathed,
he tried to lift him, but loss of blood from his wound and his own
fierce exertions had exhausted him, and he laid Tom gently down, feeling
anxious and distressed.  A minute’s consideration showed him that he
must follow the retiring troops and bring assistance.  He started at
once in the gathering darkness, but being weaker than he had supposed,
he could walk but slowly. It was more than half an hour before he
reached the British lines, just after Lieutenant Mumford had rejoined
the major, who had set his men to form a strong zariba.  To the major’s
anxious enquiry for Tom, Mumford replied that, having seen him go off to
the right and not return, he had taken it for granted that he would come
into touch with the main body. At this moment Mbutu staggered up.  In
faint, laboured tones he explained what had happened, and begged that a
party might be sent at once to bring his master in.

The major gave a gasp of relief when he heard that his nephew, though
wounded, was still alive.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed.  ’"Now to find him before it is quite dark."

The major himself, with twenty men, accompanied Mbutu in search of his
master.  The Muhima nearly fainted as he started, and Dr. O’Brien,
giving him some brandy and hastily bandaging the torn shoulder, declared
that he too must go in case of "evenshualities".  The party hurried off,
and went as quickly as Mbutu’s condition permitted, supported as he was
between Fadl and Abdullah.  With native sureness he led them, as the sun
set across the river, straight to the spot where he had left his master.
It was just light enough to see several human forms strewn upon the
trampled grass.  Mbutu bent down to examine the bodies, and the little
party shivered as the long whine of a jackal came swelling up from the
distance, waking its echo from the rocky escarpments of the river.  The
Muhima went swiftly from body to body, then uttered a forlorn and
heart-broken cry.

"Not here! not here!" bewailed.

Major Burnaby and the doctor both stooped in consternation. There were
five bodies.  One was that of Sadi the Somali, the rest were Arabs.  Tom
was no longer there!

A dreadful silence fell upon the group.  Mbutu stood as though
paralysed.  The major and Dr. O’Brien looked mutely into each other’s
eyes.

"Toots!" ejaculated the doctor at length, giving himself an impatient
shake.  "Recovered consciousness and walked off, of course he did.
That’s what it is, to be sure.  Must have been a slight wound, you see."

"What can we do, Doctor?" said the major.  "We can’t search for him in
the dark; we might be cut down by the Arabs anywhere.  The moon rises
late; he will hardly find his way."

"Get back to camp and blow a blast on your bugles and send up rockets;
he will hear one or see t’other, and come into camp.  Never fear, that
young fellow’s safe enough. He didn’t come dancing here from the ends of
the earth to be sent to kingdom-come by Arabs."

Dr. O’Brien’s cheerfulness, though it was more than half assumed,
somewhat reassured the major.  The party returned rapidly to camp, and
there bugles were blown and rockets skied as had been suggested.  But
though the blare and the illumination were continued far into the night,
the major watched for Tom in vain, shuddering as he heard the melancholy
howl of jackals far and near, and longing for the dawn.




                              CHAPTER VIII

                              In the Toils

With the Raiders--The Hakim--Mustapha--A Trap--In a Slave Camp--Man’s
Inhumanity--De Castro Again--De Castro Eloquent


A few minutes after Mbutu had left his master to go on his painful quest
for help, four big Manyema warriors came bounding through the forest.
They carried spears, the iron heads of which were as yet clear of blood.
When they caught sight of the six prostrate bodies in the narrow glade
they halted, and with one consent bent down to rifle the dead.  They had
stripped two of the Arabs of what small articles of value they
possessed, when the negro who had stooped over Tom’s body uttered a
sharp exclamation, at which his companions left their gruesome
occupation and came hastily to his side.  As he was tearing a button
from Tom’s coat, the eyes of the apparent corpse had opened for an
instant, and the body had moved uneasily.  The four men stooped, peering
at it, talking excitedly, and waxing hotter and hotter in argument.
Three of them were for spearing the body at once, declaring that, from
the nature of the wound, death was inevitable, and that they might as
well hasten matters and share the spoil.  But the man who had come first
upon the scene obstinately opposed this course.  It was the body of an
Englishman, he said; there was still life in him; and it would tend very
much to their advantage to keep him alive and carry him to the Arab
chief, who would no doubt reward them handsomely for so valuable a
prize. As a final argument, he reminded his friends that they had been
among the first to bolt from the field, and as they were aware of the
punishment that awaited them, it was well to propitiate the chief and
save their skins.  This argument had its effect, and without wasting
more time on the fallen Arabs, they prepared to carry Tom away.

The leader tore a strip from the burnous of one of the Arabs, and deftly
wound it about Tom’s head, to prevent further loss of blood from the
deep gash at the base of his skull.  The rest as quickly fashioned a
litter out of two spears and another burnous; and before Mbutu had
walked halfway to the British camp, his master was being borne by the
four Manyema swiftly in the opposite direction.

He was still unconscious when the men placed him on the litter.  The
terrific blow inflicted on him by the Arab, followed by his heavy fall,
had been very near causing concussion of the brain, and the loss of
blood he had suffered would of itself have deprived him of
consciousness.  Indeed, but for the opportune arrival of his captors,
and the interested thoughtfulness of the man who had bandaged his head,
there can be no doubt that Tom Burnaby would in a short time have done
with mortality and become a prey to jackals and vultures.

As the Manyema hurried on with elastic stride, the gentle swinging
motion of the litter appeared to revive him partially.  The moon had
just risen, and Tom, opening his eyes, fancied that he was being borne
along by the Soudanese who had carried him into camp the day before.
His lips moved, and the bearers started when they heard their helpless
prisoner muttering light-headedly until he dozed again into quietude.

After the negroes had tramped for about an hour, following a narrow
track by the light of moon and stars, they were stopped by an Arab who
came suddenly out of the forest, and demanded of them who they were.  He
looked with interest at the pale face of the sleeping stripling in the
litter, and informed the carriers that he himself was one of a number of
scouts left at various points along the track of the Arab chief, to
direct stragglers to head-quarters.  After the second repulse, and his
single-handed fight with Tom, the chief had made no further attempt to
rally his men, but struck due north, picking up several parties of
fugitives on the way. At the distance of some few miles from the scene
of his disaster he knew of a ford over the river, at which he crossed,
continuing thence his march in a westerly direction until he reached the
right bank of the River Ntungwe, not far from its entrance into Lake
Albert Edward.  There he encamped for the night, leaving word of his
whereabouts, as has been shown, and appointing a general rendezvous at a
village on the farther bank of the Rutchuru.

All this the four Manyema learnt from the Arab scout, who, while
speaking, had helped himself to Tom’s watch and chain, roughly telling
the negroes that he would shoot them if they breathed a word of that
little performance to the chief. He then allowed them to proceed.  They
soon afterwards struck into a path leading to the ford, crossed the
river under a ghostly moonlight, and reached the encampment an hour
before dawn.

Their arrival was not the important event they had anticipated.  Shortly
before, the Wanyabinga chief against whose village the British
expedition was directed, and who had brought a contingent to the Arab
force, had come into camp to plead with the Arab for one more attempt to
destroy Major Burnaby’s little army.  He had himself done all he could,
he said; he had "eaten up" all his rivals in the neighbouring villages
for a score of miles round, in order to starve the British force; his
knowledge of the country had proved invaluable to the Arabs in their
raids for ivory; and it was due to information given by him that the
ambush from which he had expected so much had been planned.  It was
unfortunate, a calamity only to be ascribed to some ju-ju or
medicine-man, that the ambush had failed; but for all that, he
contended, his services still merited some reward.  If his lord Mustapha
was not prepared to make a direct assault on the expeditionary force, he
might at least help in the defence of the speaker’s village, which was
encircled by a triple stockade, and impregnable, he thought, if strongly
held.

Now the poor Wanyabinga chief had all along been the dupe of his astute
Arab ally.  Mustapha had used him entirely for his own ends.  He had
instigated the acts of insubordination and treachery which Major Burnaby
was proceeding to punish, persuading the credulous negro that the white
man would before long be altogether expelled from the lake country, and
promising, when that happy day came, to establish him, the native chief,
as King of Uganda.  But the Arab was furious at the failure of his
cherished scheme.  He was beside himself with rage, ready to vent it on
whatever person or thing came first in his way.  His answer to the black
chief’s plea was a brutal laugh, a curse, a jibe.  The Wanyabinga
attempted to bring him to reason.  "When I am king of Uganda," he said,
"I will repay your kindness with hundreds upon hundreds of slaves, and
untold wealth of ivory."  "You king of Uganda!" retorted Mustapha
derisively; "you will one day carry my wash-pot and tie the latchets of
my shoe!"  The man protested, whereupon the Arab flew into a passion,
and, drawing his sword, declared flatly that he would slice the
importunate wretch into little pieces if he did not immediately withdraw
from his presence.  The negro hastily departed, nursing wild purposes of
vengeance in his heart.

It was just after this scene that the four tired Manyema brought Tom
into the camp.  They sought an interview with the chief.  He declined to
see them.  They sent word to him that they had with them a wounded
officer of the British force.  His answer was that they might kill him
and eat him if they pleased.  Astonished and crestfallen, they were
considering with one another what to do with their captive when the
chief’s hakim appeared on the scene.  Put in possession of the facts, he
advised the men to attempt nothing further with Mustapha in his present
temper; in the meantime he himself would be answerable for the prisoner.
The negroes were loth to let him go without some tangible recompense for
their labour; but when the Arab glared at them, and threatened them with
the mysteries of his art, with superstitious fear they left their
unconscious burden and went moodily away.

Tom owed his life to the skilful tendance of the Arab physician.  With
such rough appliances and medicaments as he had at hand, the hakim
dressed Tom’s wounds; he then placed him in a comfortable position by
his own watch-fire, and sat by him until daylight.

Tom awoke with the dawn, conscious of a terrible pain at the back of his
head, and a feeling all over him of emptiness and collapse.  He was too
feeble even to be surprised when he saw the grave face of the Arab a few
feet from his own.

"Where am I?" he whispered, and wondered at the scarcely audible sound
of his own voice.  The Arab shook his head. He knew no English.  He went
away, and returned presently with a cup of some warm liquid, which he
administered in drops on a horn spoon.  Tom was grateful for the
attention; the Arab fed him thus for ten minutes, and the food revived
him, bringing a touch of colour into his pale cheeks.

Almost immediately afterwards the order was given to strike camp.  By
eight o’clock the crowd was in motion. During the night some four
hundred Arabs had rallied to the chief, as well as a number of their
black allies.  But the majority of the Manyema had had their confidence
in the Arabs dismally shattered by the event of the previous day, and
had dispersed to their homes.

The chief, knowing that he was new in the territory of the Congo Free
State, felt pretty secure from pursuit by the British, and had decided
to continue his march westward towards the Rutchuru at a moderate pace.
He stalked along with downbent head before his troops, reminding Tom,
when he saw him presently, of Napoleon in Meissonier’s picture of the
retreat from Moscow.  The hakim had seen him early in the morning, and
spoken to him of the English prisoner; and the chief had curtly bidden
the physician tend him carefully, as he might be valuable as a hostage.
As for him, he had other matters to attend to.  Tom learnt later what
these other matters were.

The hakim sought out the four Manyema who had brought Tom to the camp,
and ordered them to resume their task. The Arab walked by the head of
the litter, and when the sun rose higher, he arranged a linen screen
above Tom’s head, which served to defend him from the burning rays and
in some measure from insects.

At mid-day the chief halted to dispose of the business that weighed on
him.  He first called up the Wanyabinga chief, who had clung to the band
in the hope of the Arab’s relenting. But Mustapha told him bluntly that
if he accompanied the caravan farther it would be as a slave.  The man
stood trembling for a moment as though paralysed; then muttering awful
imprecations, he collected his few tribesmen, brandished his spear
thrice, and bolted amid his men across the swamp. Having reached a safe
distance he halted, led a chorus of execration, and hurling his spear in
a last desperate defiance at his late ally, he turned and disappeared
into the bush.

Then the Arab formed a court of six of his leading men, and summoned
before him two miserable wretches whom Tom had noticed marching
painfully, with shackled feet and wrists, under a close guard.  They
were charged with cowardice during the first terrible fight on the
previous afternoon.  In due form they were condemned to death and led
away, and shortly afterwards Tom heard two shots.  In affairs of this
kind the Arabs waste no ammunition.

The march was resumed, and now that he had attended to his other
matters, the chief had time to take some notice of Tom, He came up to
the litter, and started when he saw that the prisoner was none other
than the stripling who had held him in such desperate fight.  He
grunted, as though in displeasure at discovering his doughty opponent
still alive; then a faint smile wreathed his lips, and the cloud that
had darkened his face all day cleared away.  He spoke rapidly to the
hakim, who nodded his head and replied gravely. Tom of course understood
nothing of what they said, but he inferred that the physician had
declared him out of danger, and that the Arab was calculating on turning
the capture to some profit.  Giving Tom another glance, in which there
was a tinge of admiration for a warrior worthy of his steel, Mustapha
returned to his place at the head of the caravan.

Late that night they reached the right bank of the Rutchuru.  The chief
and his men had slept for but one hour during the past twenty-four, and
were too tired to attempt a crossing.  They formed a zariba on a stretch
of dry ground about half a mile from the river, intending to continue
the march next day towards their stronghold beyond the hills. Tom was
again carefully tended by Mahmoud the hakim, and, thanks to his fine
constitution, was steadily gaining strength.

Next morning, just as the Arabs were breaking up camp, one of the scouts
who had already been sent across the river returned with the news that,
some distance beyond the farther bank, he had descried from an eminence
a body of about a hundred men in uniform preparing to march.  They were
commanded by a white officer.  The question naturally flashed into
Mustapha’s mind: "Could they be a part of the British force sent out in
search of the missing officer?"  He had already heard, from one or two
late stragglers from the force which had engaged Captain Lister, of the
rockets sent up and the bugles sounded when darkness had fallen after
the fight, and he had no stomach for encountering a vengeful
search-party. The force just discovered, it was true, was in a quarter
where the British were little to be expected, but it was well to be on
the safe side.  Hoping that his troops had not yet been seen, and that
if they had been seen they would be mistaken in the distance for a
peaceful caravan, the Arab determined on a strategic move.  Instead of
crossing the river, and thus coming upon the other force at an acute
angle, he moved off in a north-easterly direction, as though making for
the south-eastern corner of Lake Albert Edward, leaving a few trusty
scouts to watch the movements of the unknown troops.  But this was only
a feint.  After marching for a few miles he swung round suddenly to the
south-east, cut across the track of his previous day’s march, pressed on
rapidly over the swampy ground, and struck the Rutchuru some ten miles
from his first position, the river bending there almost due east.  There
he crossed, and, finding a stretch of comparatively clear and level
ground between the forest and the hills, he halted his men, to rest them
after their forced march.

Not many minutes afterwards a scout came up at full speed to say that
the unknown force was following hot-foot at their heels, and taking a
more direct line, having evidently divined the object of the trick.  The
news was hardly out of his mouth when another scout followed and
informed the chief that the pursuing force was composed of Bangala, and
was unmistakeably Belgian, and not British.  Mustapha smiled grimly.
His four hundred Arabs were a match, he thought, for a body of Bangala
of one fourth that number, and rather than run the risk of being dogged
and harassed, he determined to chance a fight.  Sending his transport on
in advance, under an escort of fifty Arabs and a crowd of negroes, he
proceeded to prepare a hot welcome for his pursuers.

He knew every inch of the ground.  Between his halting-place and the
foot of the hills intervened a swamp some two miles long and half a mile
broad.  It was crossed by two paths, one leading straight to the hills,
the other intersecting the first at right angles about a quarter of a
mile from the outer edge of the swamp.  The whole region was mere mud
and water, except along the paths, with elephant-grass at least twelve
feet high standing up in all directions.

Mustapha made his dispositions rapidly.  He posted a hundred of his men
on the second and shorter path, about two hundred yards to the left of
the main path, at a spot where they were absolutely concealed by tall
grass.  At the farther end of the main path he placed another hundred,
with orders to offer a feeble resistance to the Belgian troops, and to
retire before them into a dense copse at the base of the hills.  A third
hundred were stationed some three hundred yards north, at the edge of
the swamp, on a line curving to the east, so that they commanded the
right flank of the advancing force. These positions had hardly been
taken up when the Belgian scouts, having crossed the river, advanced
cautiously to the edge of the swamp and began to move forward along the
main path.  Just as they came to the crossways they caught sight of a
few Arabs retiring in their immediate front, these having been
instructed so to do in order to lure them on.  The plan worked
perfectly.  Not troubling to examine the crosspaths, they returned with
the information that the Arabs were retreating to the hills, obviously
desirous of avoiding an engagement.  The Belgian commandant, who had
arrived but recently from Europe and was burning to distinguish himself
in the pursuit of raiders, ordered his men to press forward rapidly. The
Bangala advanced in single file, their commandant at their head, between
hedges of grass, sometimes in their haste slipping knee-deep into the
swamp.

They came in sight of the end of the path, and were met by a few shots
from the Arabs there assembled, who then retired in apparent
trepidation.  At the same time the Arabs stationed to the north opened a
brisk fire on the Bangala’s right flank, to which they replied
vigorously, but ineffectively, for the grass was too high to allow them
to see the enemy or take careful aim.  The commandant, at the head of
the column, ordered a halt, and was amazed now to hear shots in his
rear. The Arabs posted on the crosspath had begun to fire on the rear of
the slender column.  Fearing for his transport, which he had left under
a small guard at the edge of the swamp, the commandant made the fatal
mistake of ordering a retreat. His men turned about and began to run
back.  Meanwhile the Arabs behind them had come from their place of
concealment and taken up their position at the crossways on both sides
of the path, and those at the other end, who had pretended to retire,
returned in brisk pursuit.  Caught between two fires, the Bangala were
thrown into a panic.  The commandant was hit, and speared as he lay; his
men, paralysed with fright, either stood until they were shot down, or
plunged into the swamp and met their death in the ooze.

Mustapha, with grim exultation in his face, then swept down upon the
feebly-defended transport.  The Bangala, after firing one shot, threw
down their arms and begged for mercy.  They were given a choice between
instant death and slavery; and in the upshot, when the Arab chief
continued his journey westward, he was richer by the whole of the
Belgian baggage and a slave-gang of twenty Bangala, with as many more
negro carriers.

Tom in his litter had been sent forward with Mahmoud the physician and
the Arab baggage.  At the sound of firing his heart leapt with the
thought that it was perhaps his uncle who had overtaken the Arabs.  The
watchful hakim observed his excitement, and dashed his hopes with a
shake of the head. At that moment a slug, shot from who knows where,
dropped within a yard of Tom’s litter.  The Arab started and let fall an
exclamation in German.

"Do you know German?" asked Tom eagerly in the same language.  He felt
quite friendly towards the grave hakim with the high narrow forehead and
the long straggling beard.

"Yes, a little," said the Arab in surprise.  "I lived a long time in
Bagamoyo, when the Germans first came, and I have learned to speak a
little in their infidel tongue."

"I can’t tell you how glad I am.  I’ve been longing to have someone to
talk to now that I am getting better.  Who is firing away over there?"

"Belgians."

"Oh!"  Tom looked glum, and the Arab’s lips wore a queer little smile.

"You may give up hope of rescue," continued the Arab. "We are miles and
miles away from your friends, and they would never find you."

"What am I to expect, then?  Better shoot me at once--if they think of
keeping me as a prisoner."

"You have rich friends, no doubt; they will pay."

"Ransom!  Much I’m worth!  What are you taking me right away from my
friends for, then?"

The Arab shrugged.

"You can judge," he said.

And indeed, when Tom thought of it, he saw that the chief was wise in
seeking his remote and inaccessible stronghold before opening
communications with the British authorities.

It took two days to reach the village appointed by the chief as the
rendezvous for his scattered force.  Tom was carried all the way in the
litter, the hakim refusing to allow him yet to try to walk.  They talked
together in German, but though the Arab spoke freely enough about things
in general, giving the captive many bits of curious and interesting
information, he was very reserved on all matters relating to the chief’s
aims and plans and movements.

On reaching the village the chief announced his intention of remaining
there for three days, to give his friends and allies ample time for
rejoining him.  From the hut in which the hakim had fixed his quarters
Tom had a clear view through the village.  He saw a scene which haunted
his memory and imagination for many a long day.  Within a fence of
banana stalks stood a series of low sheds, many lines deep.  Between
them, and around, were packed rows upon rows of naked negroes, standing,
lying stretched upon the ground, or moving about in utter listlessness.
Young men, women, children, all, save the very youngest, were chained
and fettered; their necks were encircled with iron rings, through which
a chain passed, binding the wretched creatures together in gangs of
twenty. Tom saw one man raise his hand to his neck to ease it of the
galling band; another, worn to a skeleton, lay panting his life out by a
heap of filth; two tiny black boys were innocently playing with the
links of the chain that bound their mother to other women.  The look of
agony and despair upon the faces of the grown slaves, still more the
happy unconsciousness of the little children, touched Tom to the heart,
and there and then he vowed, if in God’s providence he ever escaped from
that place of horror, to do all in his power to help stamp out the cruel
trade.  He poured out his indignation in fierce words to the Arab, who
smiled and shrugged, remarking simply, "Allah is good."  Tom tried to
reason with him, but found him absolutely incapable even of
understanding what the pother was about.  "There always had been slaves,
there always would be slaves; Allah is good."

Tom turned away, impatient and sick at heart.  His eye fell on an
adjacent enclosure, in which the relics of innumerable raids lay
scattered or heaped up in profusion.  Drums, spears, swords, assegais,
bows and arrows, knives, ivory horns, ivory pestles, wooden idols, the
wardrobes and paraphernalia of sorcerers, baskets, pots,
hammers--thousands of things, useful and useless, bore witness to the
Arabs’ depredations. As he looked, a picture seemed to form itself in
his mind. Through the darkness of night he sees stealthy, long-robed
forms creep towards a sleeping village; no sound issuing from the gloom
save the drowsy hum of cicadas or the croak of distant frogs; when
suddenly the glare of torches gleams upon the huts, the thatch bursts
into flame, and the scared sleepers wake amid the rattle of musketry,
some to meet swift death with momentary pain, others--alas! the
youngest, the strongest--to wear out their lives in the lingering death
of slavery. Tom brushed his hands over his eyes, and begged the
impassive Arab to take him away.

On the third morning of his stay in the village Tom observed that the
chief was in a towering rage.  He asked the physician, as the caravan
again moved out westward, what was the cause of his master’s
disturbance.  Mahmoud refused to explain.  The truth was that one of the
scouts despatched by the chief to the scene of his fight with Major
Burnaby had returned with the news that he had discovered, on the bluff,
the corpses of eight of the nine men placed there to hurl down the logs.
Up to that moment the chief had been entirely at a loss to account for
the failure of the ambush so carefully arranged, and had only nursed
vague suspicions.  But the fact that the ambush had failed, as now
reported, in the very first detail, coupled with the nonappearance of De
Castro, whom he had expected to join him immediately after the battle,
convinced the chief that he had been betrayed, and by his supposed
friend, the Portuguese.  Chewing the bitter cud of his wrath, Mustapha
ordered his men to set off early in the morning, including in the
caravan six hundred of the slaves.

Tom was no longer borne in a litter.  The hakim had declared him well
enough to walk.  He was provided with a linen turban to protect his
head, and with a gourd and wallet to hold water and food for the day.
That he was a prisoner was left in no doubt by the guard of six men,
armed with loaded rifles, who marched with him, three in front and three
behind.  The six were changed every three hours, a precaution against
any attempt on Tom’s part to become too friendly with his guards,
unnecessary in the circumstances, for when, from sheer tedium, he
ventured to address a few words to them, they shook their heads in
unfeigned ignorance of his meaning.

Indignant as he had been at the sight of the herded slaves in the
village, his blood boiled at the scenes which met his gaze during the
march, and his fingers itched to get to grips with the slave-traders.
"If I were only Hercules, or Samson, or any of the fabled giants of
old!" he sighed, chafing at his impotence.  The slaves were driven on
without remorse or ruth, the heavy whip descending upon their shoulders
or curling about their loins at any sign of lagging.  Mothers carried
their babies till they collapsed from exhaustion, strong youths fell,
utterly spent, by the path-side.  Some of the weaklings were butchered
as they lay, the rest were left to die of famine, or perchance to be
enslaved again if haply some Good Samaritan found them and nursed them
back to strength.

Besides these actual evidences of present cruelty, the path itself bore
witness to savageries in the past.  Leading, like all native paths, up
hill and down dale, crossing rocky uplands or traversing dense forests,
it had been trodden with no attempt to find the easiest way, sometimes
winding like a snake where a straight course would have saved miles,
sometimes making a straight line up a precipitous ascent where a
circular route would have been more expeditious.  If a tree had fallen
across it the obstruction was not removed, but a new path was trodden
round it, joining the original path again at a point beyond. At more
than one spot Tom saw a skeleton across the track, and there the path
made a little divergence of two or three yards, returning to its course
at the same distance on the other side.  In answer to Tom’s question the
hakim told him that if a man died on the road he was never buried, but
left to the beasts of the field and the fowl of the air.  The loop
formed by the path about the body remained for ever, though the obstacle
in course of time disappeared.  Several of the grisly skeletons there
encountered had the iron rings still about their necks; and with each,
fuel was added to Tom’s wrath, and strength to his resolve.

Towards noon, on the second day after leaving the slave-village, Tom,
marching among his guards, felt more than usually dejected in spirit.
He held his head high, and preserved an undaunted mien before the Arabs,
but in reality he was beginning to despair of ever beholding England and
his friends again.  For one thing, he was physically out of sorts; the
villages in which the long caravan encamped at night were not models of
cleanliness, and he was sometimes too sick to swallow the unsavoury
foods provided for him.  Moreover, he had been terribly plagued with the
jiggers, the scourge of African travel,--insects which pierced the skin
and laid their eggs beneath it, these in their turn becoming worms that
caused intolerable pain and irritation.

Towards noon, then, when he was feeling particularly unhappy, he
observed signs of commotion in the column ahead. The chief, posted upon
an ant-hill, was looking eagerly into the distance at a group of men
whom he had descried upon the sky-line a mile away.  He ordered the
caravan to halt, and, suspecting from the smallness of the group that it
might be the advance scouts of another force led by Europeans, he
despatched fifty of his men to reconnoitre.  They divided into two equal
bands, and went off through the bush on either side of the path so as to
surround the little party, and, if it proved hostile, to cut off its
retreat.

Mustapha, in the meantime, collected the best of his fighting-men around
him, and waited intently for his scouts to reach the strangers, who had
halted upon an eminence and seemed to be hesitating whether to advance
or to retire.  But after a short period of indecision the group moved
slowly towards the halted caravan.  It proved, as it came more
distinctly into view, to consist of ten men, all fully armed.  They were
soon met by the Arab scouts, with whom they exchanged, not shots, but
friendly greetings, and who turned and escorted them towards the
caravan.  As they approached, something in the bearing of the leader
seemed familiar to Tom, and it was with a thrill almost of dismay that
he recognized him, a hundred yards away, as indubitably his old enemy,
De Castro.

It was a different De Castro, however, from the brisk and alert pursuer
whose clutches he had so narrowly escaped. The Portuguese was haggard
and worn; his self-confidence had vanished; his clothes were in tatters;
even his green coat was sober and subdued, for constant exposure to the
sun had bleached it to a dirty gray.  His hunt for the Arab had
evidently been particularly arduous, and there was no eagerness in his
tone as he greeted his friend Mustapha.

Tom had been watching the chief, and wondering at the ominous scowl that
darkened his face, growing ever blacker as the Portuguese drew nearer.
To De Castro’s greeting the Arab replied with a curse; then turning, he
gave a sharp word of command.  Twenty of his men sprang forward, and the
wayworn new-comers were disarmed in a twinkling, standing helpless with
dull amazement.  A change instantly came over the attitude of the
surrounding Arabs, the ready smile of welcome gave place to a dark
scowl, and many a forefinger moved suggestively to the trigger.  The
Portuguese, after the first shock of surprise, gave vent to a torrent of
indignant remonstrance, to which the chief turned a deaf ear; whereupon
De Castro, with a shrug that seemed to say: "He’s in one of his
tempers", held his peace, and accepted the situation with stoical
indifference.

Tom, in the meantime, had watched the scene with curious eyes, careful
to keep out of the man’s sight.  "Strange," he thought, "that both of
us, after our former tussle, should be prisoners in the same hands!"
When the march was resumed, the Portuguese was sent forward under
surveillance to the head of the column, Tom being nearer the centre,
puzzled beyond measure at the incivility with which the chief had
received one supposed to be bound to him by special ties.

Camp was pitched that night at the verge of the forest, in a deserted
and half-ruined village, the stockade of which was broken down at many
points of its circumference.  Tom, in charge of the hakim, was located
in a hut near the centre of the village, some distance from that
appropriated by the chief. The chief’s hut was the principal habitation,
but it was little less ruinous than the rest.  The thatch was broken in
places, and there were two apertures in the walls wide enough to admit a
full-grown man.  It was overshadowed by a large and bushy tree, one of
whose branches, springing from the trunk some fourteen feet from the
ground, and bending down under its weight of foliage, overhung the roof,
actually grazing it as the freshening breeze swayed the bough.

Tom, reclining on the grass before the hakim’s hut, to eat his evening
meal in the cool air before turning in, saw the Portuguese led under
guard into the presence of the chief.  In a few moments the sun went
down, but Tom still sat, wondering what was going on at the interview.
Once he thought he heard the sound of angry voices raised in
altercation, but in the absence of the moon he saw nothing more, and by
and by re-entered the hut, and sought the rough blanket that formed his
only bed.  At first he could not sleep for thinking over the, to him,
unexpected arrival of the Portuguese.  "It bodes no good to me," he
thought.  "Things are bad enough, but may easily be made worse.  That
villain will tell how I treated him; how he saw me afterwards with his
runaway boy on the track of the expedition; that it must have been
through our information the ambush came to grief.  Heavens! what’s to be
the end of it all?"  More than once during the march he had had thoughts
of attempting to escape, but he had barely recovered his full vigour,
and not the shadow of an opportunity had as yet presented itself.  He
pondered and pondered until his anxieties were drowned in quiet sleep.

It seemed but a minute later, it was in reality an hour, when he was
awakened by the glare of a torch held close to his face.  The smell of
the pitch-soaked tow clung to him for months afterwards.  Dazed at
first, he soon made out the swarthy features of the Portuguese behind
the torch, and met his keen eyes peering closely at his own.  The
Portuguese clicked his tongue, and uttered an exclamation of gleeful and
vindictive satisfaction.  Turning to the Arab chief, who stood behind,
just within the doorway, he cried in Arabic:

"It is the very man!"

Tom lay watching.  Now that a crisis was manifestly at hand, his tremors
had ceased; his very life depended on his coolness and nerve.  De Castro
had begun an impassioned speech to the grave Arab.  If Tom could have
understood it, he would have heard him say:

"You charge me, forsooth, with being a traitor, with betraying you to
the English--me, De Castro, the best hater of the English in all Africa!
There you have the man who spoilt your game--our game.  Man, I call
him--that cub yonder, who tricked my boy away from me, and paid him, no
doubt, to spy on me!"

("Wonder if he’s telling the chief how I punched him!" thought Tom,
noting the gleam and gesture of anger in his direction.)

"And you talk of accepting a ransom for him!  Bah! ’tis the idea of a
white-livered fool!  Ransom!  Mustapha, you were not always like this.
Once upon a time you would have been hot for revenge--your wrath would
have been satisfied ere the sun went down.  Now you will sit supine
after a shameful defeat, and take its price in gold!"

The Arab winced under the sting, and Tom saw him scowl as he laid his
hand on his scimitar.  He was beginning to speak, but the Portuguese
gave him no time.

"Threats!  I care not a straw for your threats.  Come, Mustapha, do not
let us quarrel.  Think!  Who was it started this parrot-cry, ’Down with
the slave-trade’?  Who was it stopped the raids for ivory, and hounded
your people out of their ancient haunts till they have no rest now for
the soles of their feet?  Who was it strewed the sands of Egypt with
thousands of your kin who were struggling in Allah’s name to rescue the
country from the Ottoman tyrant?  You know who.  We have had enough of
these accursed English in Africa.  But for them the Arabs would have
been masters of the continent from Zanzibar to the Atlantic, from
Tanganyika to the Great Sea.  Bad enough, the swines of Belgians; but
they can be bought.  You can’t buy these insolent dogs of English!  Will
you be deafened by their barking, and lacerated by their bites?  Do you,
like a poltroon, throw up the game? If not, let there be no talk of
ransom, no faltering; let it be blood for blood, till Africa is our own
again."

The Portuguese had waxed more and more vehement, but Tom was cool enough
to look on critically as at an oratorical performance, and he even
smiled the usual British smile at the fervid, unrestrained eloquence of
the Southern races.  De Castro went on in calmer accents:

"Come, Mustapha, your men will think you afraid to touch a white man if
you allow this bear’s whelp to be bought off. They will say: ’Give
Mustapha so many gold pieces, and you may draw his teeth!’  My friend,
hand the cub over to me. I will make an example of him for his
countrymen to shiver at!"

The taunts, even more than the arguments, of the Portuguese had roused
the cruelty in the Arab’s nature.

"Do as you like with him," he said impulsively.  "It will teach them a
lesson.  I can trust you, no doubt, señor," he went on with a
half-sneer, "not to let him off too easily.  As for me, I have no taste
for butchering curs; I prefer to employ others."

The Portuguese glared for an instant, but, too glad to get the
long-coveted prey into his own hands, he pocketed the affront.

"So be it.  To-morrow’s sun will see what shall be done with him.
Meanwhile, haul the dog from his kennel.  Why give him a comfortable
hut?  Treat him like the rest."

The chief nodded.  The Portuguese went to the door and called in three
of the usual guard of six.

"Here, men," he said, "the chief orders you to remove this prisoner.
Take him and tie him to yonder tree, and see to it that he does not
escape."

As the men approached, Tom sprang to his feet and prepared to resist any
handling by the Arabs.  At this moment the hakim, who had stood in a
corner of the hut, came forward and spoke a few words in the chief’s
ear.  But they seemed only to strengthen the Arab’s resolve.  He bluntly
told the physician to mind his own business,--that his intervention was
vain.  By this time Tom saw that resistance was hopeless; a struggle
would probably end in his being butchered; and while there was life
there was hope.  He suffered himself to be led out.  The Portuguese
himself superintended the tying-up, the tree being the stout acacia
shading the chief’s hut. Eight men were set to watch the prisoner during
the rest of the night, and with a look of malignant satisfaction in his
evil face, the Portuguese, no longer suspected or distrusted, repaired,
a free man, to his own quarters.




                               CHAPTER IX

                               Gone Away!

Through the Net--A Call in Passing--A Chase in the Dark--On the
Track--Signals--The Little People--Ka-lu-ké-ke--Visions of the Night


It was desperately cold.  Since he had left Kisumu, Tom had spent every
night under a blanket, and, standing now with his back to the tree, a
rope about his waist, another about his legs, a third tying his arms, he
had nothing to defend him from the keen air but the clothes he stood in,
and was unable to gain warmth by movement.  He chafed under this bitter
constraint; tried the strength of the ropes by straining at them with
all his might; gave up the effort in sheer impotence, and wondered
whether he should live to see another dawn.

"The blackguards!" he said to himself.  A whimsical smile twitched his
lips as he caught sight of the eight men set to watch him, squatting
around a fire some distance away, and beguiling the time with a game
somewhat resembling knuckle-bones. He fixed his eyes on the fire,
following the leaping flames, indulging his fancy in imaging strange
monstrous shapes; then recalled chestnut nights by the big-room fire at
school; by and by found himself whistling "Follow up" and "Forty years
on", at which the watchers dropped their dice and their talk for a
moment and turned their listening faces towards him.  Then the numbing
cold began its soporific work.  He felt dazed; fantastic visions danced
before his eyes. Presently his lips moved without his knowing it,
framing foolish remarks at which it seemed that another self was
laughing; then his head bent forward, and he slept.

Somewhere about midnight it seemed to him in a dream that water was
trickling down his neck.  He awoke and threw back his head and hitched
his shoulders, and felt that it was not water but something sinuous and
solid, caught between tie back of his head and his coat collar.  While
he was wondering whether a snake had sought refuge there from the cold,
he felt the intruder withdrawn, or rather was conscious that he had
jerked his head away from it.  The next moment the cold thin line, of he
knew not what, wandered round and tickled his nose.  Again he moved his
head away.  Now fully awake, he concluded that a strand of some creeping
plant was dangling from the tree, and hoped forlornly that his
discomfort, already not far short of actual torture, was not to be
increased in any such irritating manner.  He could not bend low enough
to scratch his nose.  The detestable thing seemed to follow him.  He
might move his head to left or to right, jerk it back or bend it
forward, but he could not avoid the persistent tickler, which he had now
recognized by the wan light of the moon, in her fourth quarter and
sailing high, as the leafless tendril of a creeper.

He was tempted to call out to the watchers, and ask them to relieve him
of this torment.  But at the same moment he noticed that the eight
negroes about the smouldering fire had dropped their heads on their
knees, and that the creeper was swinging to and fro with a regular
pendulum movement that was hardly natural, and was certainly not due to
the wind, which blew fitfully in sudden gusts.  It flashed upon him that
somebody, perhaps the hakim, was up the tree, signalling to him.
Bending his head back as far as he could, he peered up into the
branches.  At the same instant, the dangling switch ascended before his
eyes; he gazed more intently, and by the faint glow of the fire from
below, rather than by the filtering rays from the moon, he distinguished
a crouching form at the fork of bough and trunk.  It might have been an
animal, but while Tom was still gazing up in a kind of dull amazement
the form moved, a human arm was stretched downward, and within the grasp
of a human hand a long blade caught a glint of red light from the
watchers’ fire.  Tom longed to snatch at it.  There it was, three feet
above his head!  He tore desperately at his fastenings, but the cords
only cut into his flesh.  "Come down and cut me free!" he whispered; but
just then one of the Manyema turned his head, the knife was instantly
withdrawn, the figure crawled back upon the branch, and disappeared from
view.

Tom wondered.  Surely the hakim, if it was the hakim, was not going to
desert him.  He waited and fretted; minute after minute passed; there
was no sound, no sign.  His heart sank; somnolence was again creeping
over his senses when, nearly an hour after he had been first awaked, he
heard a faint rustle in the tree above him.  He looked up; there again
was the form, its features indistinguishable in the foliage. As he gazed
he saw a rod let down; the long knife was swathed about the end.  It
came lower; it reached the level of his hands, and stopped.  He looked
at it with wonder; then from the tree came a whisper:

"Cut; quick!"

He almost laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion.  His hands were
tied; his arms were bent in front of his chest, elbows and palms
together, and strong cords were wound tightly about the wrists and
forearms.  But there was the sharp blade turned towards him, within half
an inch of the ropes, held stiffly as though some malicious elf were
bent on tantalizing him.  Again came the eager whisper:

"Cut, cut; up and down, up and down!"

The knife moved closer, it touched the rope about his wrists; he felt
its pressure.  Was the thing possible?  He tried to pull his cramped
arms apart, and found that, firmly as they were bound, he could move
them up and down for about an inch.  He made a downward movement, the
ropes scraping against the blade; up again, then down, again, again,
with increasing rapidity as his excitement grew.  One of the guards
heaved a great sigh; Tom instantly stopped rubbing, and when the negro
turned sleepily to look at the prisoner, he saw him tied to the tree,
his head bent on his chest, his eyes closed. The man stretched out his
arms, shifted his position, and gave himself again to slumber.  Then the
knife moved again, the rubbing was resumed; one strand gave way, then
another, the tension was slackened, and with one final wrench Tom found
his aching hands free!

He pressed them under his armpits to warm them and remove something of
the pain; but the figure above was impatient, insistent.  He lowered the
knife still farther, and pressed it against the rope around Tom’s waist.
Tom took it. A few moments’ sawing severed that rope also; then he
stooped to his feet, and with three sharp strokes upon the cords about
his ankles his last bonds were snapped, and he stood once more a free
man.  The negroes still slept, and the fire had died down upon its
embers.

What was he now to do?  Who was his obliging friend? He had little time
to wonder; the rod was withdrawn into the tree; a few moments later it
came down--the knife was gone.

"Climb up, sah!" came the eager whisper.

Tom grasped the rod, set his feet upon the knobby bole, and with
exertions which strained the muscles of arms and legs to the verge of
cramp he heaved himself into the leafy bough.  The figure there clutched
him as he was on the point of falling.  "Sah! sah!" it said with a sob
of joy.  Tom gripped Mbutu’s hand, and sat for a minute breathless,
peering down towards the circle of sleeping negroes.  The wind blew with
increasing force, rustling the leaves, and the branch swayed heavily,
grazing the hut’s thatched roof.

"No time fink, sah," said Mbutu.  "Must run away!"

But now that he was free Tom had recovered his wits, and saw that if he
was to get clear away he must exercise all his cunning.  There was the
hut in which the chief, his enemy, lay; there were the guards, sleeping,
it was true, but likely to wake at any moment.  Around was the village,
filled with Arabs, Manyema, and slaves; an alarm would set hundreds of
men on the alert, and there was but a slender chance of escaping from so
many.  Beyond the village, three hundred yards away, was the thin outer
belt of the forest; could he but gain that, Tom thought, he might hide
and elude pursuit. There was danger from wild beasts, no doubt; but a
wild beast was less dangerous than the vengeful Portuguese.  It must be
a dash for life and liberty, he saw.  How was he to escape immediate
danger of detection?

His quick eye noticed that Mbutu wore the burnous and turban of an Arab.
With a leaping heart he saw in a flash of thought his way made plain.
It involved manifold risks. "Never venture never win," he said to
himself, and proceeded to put his plan into operation.  Tying the knife
again to the rod, but at an angle to form a crook, he let it down, and
hooked up the severed cords that lay at the foot of the tree. He swiftly
knotted them to form two strong ropes.  Then bidding Mbutu secure the
knife and follow him, he crept cautiously along the bough towards the
hut.  The wind was stiffening to a gale; the horned moon was dipping
behind the forest, and the hut lay in shadow.  He came to the end of the
branch, and crawled on to the roof, Mbutu following close. Moving only
when the swaying bough rustled against the thatch, drowning all other
sounds, he made his way cat-like across the roof, reached the edge, slid
over, and slipped noiselessly down one of the wooden posts supporting
the thatch at the distance of a foot from the wall of the hut.  He was
on the ground on the side farthest from the tree.  For some moments he
stood and listened.  There was a sound of voices not far to his right,
and he thought he detected a low murmur from two or three quarters.
Evidently there were many still awake.  Tom decided that the plan he had
formed offered a better chance of escape than a mere dash for the
forest. Taking off the turban with which he had been provided by the
hakim, he opened it out, and folded the sheet of linen over and over
until it made a long tight roll.  In a few whispered words he explained
his plan to Mbutu; then, signing to the boy to come after him quietly,
he crept through one of the holes in the wall, and found himself inside
the hut.  On a rude table a small rushlight was burning, by whose
glimmer he saw the chief stretched upon his back on a narrow plank, his
burnous cast aside, his long form covered with a red blanket.  He was
fast asleep, with his mouth open, his breath coming and going with long
soundless heaves.  With heart beating violently in spite of himself, Tom
stole behind the Arab, and then whispered to Mbutu that he was to hold
the man’s head when he gave the signal.  Both then stooped; Tom gave a
nod; Mbutu pressed the chief’s head down firmly with both hands, and at
the same instant Tom stuffed the rolled turban into his mouth, and
knotted it beneath his neck. He wriggled and half rose upon his elbow;
instantly Mbutu’s arms were thrown around him, and he was pulled
backward and held in a firm grip.  Tom had meanwhile run to his feet,
and, whipping one of the lengths of cord from his pocket, he swiftly
tied the chief’s ankles together.  Now that it was impossible for the
Arab to stand, Tom bade Mbutu assist him. There was a short struggle,
the Arab striving to wriggle out of Mbutu’s grasp.  It was in vain; with
the remaining cord Tom bound the Arab’s arms together, and in five
minutes after their entrance the chief lay securely gagged and bound.

Without losing a moment Tom donned the Arab’s burnous and turban.

"Do you know the nearest way to the forest?" he asked Mbutu.

The Muhima nodded, and Tom told him that, relying upon his disguise, he
was going to walk boldly through the camp. If they met anyone, Mbutu was
to address him in his own tongue in such a way as to disarm suspicion.
Tom reckoned on his own height to enable him to pass for the chief.
There was a box of matches by the rushlight; he put that in his pocket,
caught up a small bag of nuts that lay beside the Arab, and without
bestowing another glance on the prostrate form, whose eyes were glaring
at him with all the fury of impotent rage, he walked slowly out of the
hut, Mbutu a yard behind.

They went quickly, stepping in the shade of the huts. Their way led past
the hut in which the Portuguese was sleeping.  The African native is
sensitive to the slightest tremor of the ground, and one of the negroes
who had accompanied De Castro, and was acting as sentry over him,
crouching over a watch-fire, heard the footfall of the two fugitives,
and came round the hut towards them.  He dimly saw, as he supposed, the
tall form of the Arab chief stalking by, accompanied by one of his men.
He stepped back, and at the same moment Mbutu, with a power of mimicry
that surprised his master, addressed him in a few quiet words, bidding
him keep good watch over the señor, while Tom walked on with a dignified
air, as though the negro were beneath his notice.  When out of the man’s
sight they quickened their steps.  They reached the outer circle of
huts, evaded the watch-fires placed at intervals, crossed the fence and
ditch, and, breaking into a run, plunged into the dense bush at the edge
of the compound.  The fugitives had barely gone two hundred yards when
they heard a great outcry in the camp behind.  One of the eight guards
had awoke and rekindled the dying fire.  Glancing at the tree, he
discovered that the prisoner was gone.  He roused his companions, and
with mutual upbraidings they began to dispute who should venture to
inform the chief of the escape.  Their voices rose in altercation, and
De Castro’s sentry, hearing the noise, came to see what had happened.
As soon as he knew that the Englishman had escaped, he ran to his
master’s hut, whence in a moment issued the Portuguese, swearing great
oaths at being disturbed when he so much needed rest, and for the moment
not understanding what his man said.  A glance at the tree apprised him
that his anticipated victim had escaped his clutches.  Heedless of the
news that the chief had but just before been seen walking through the
camp, he rushed to the hut, and finding Mustapha there bound and gagged,
began with frantic haste and fearful imprecations, in which he could not
refrain from mingling taunts, to cut him free.  Both men were beside
themselves with fury.  The whole camp was by this time alarmed, and
Arabs and Manyema alike cowered before the wrath of their infuriated
superiors.  De Castro ran wildly about crying for torches, while
Mustapha ordered every man in the camp to set off in search of the
escaped prisoner, and despatched parties in all directions.  He went
himself to the hakim’s hut, believing that the Arab seen walking in the
prisoner’s company must be Mahmoud and no other.  Meeting the grave
physician as he came out to enquire the reason of the uproar, the chief
roundly accused him of effecting or conniving at the release of the
Englishman. The hakim’s face showed neither surprise nor pleasure; he
was as coldly imperturbable as ever.  Quietly denying that he had had
any hand in the escape, he asked the Arab what he expected to gain by
wild ill-directed searches in the dark; the torches and the din would
only give warning to the fugitives, and help them to elude pursuit.
Mustapha saw the absurdity of his proceedings, and chafed under the
cynical scorn of the physician, whose calling and character enforced his
unwilling respect.  Turning on his heel, he ordered drums to be beaten
to recall the search-parties, and enquiry to be made for the traitor in
the camp; and when De Castro came up to him, foaming with passion and
shouting that the whole thing had been planned to spite him, Mustapha
bade him keep a still tongue in his head, or he would find himself in
the Englishman’s place.  It wanted still more than three hours to
sunrise, and giving orders that the search should be diligently resumed
at dawn, the chief returned to his hut.

In the meantime the outcry had at first caused the fugitives to hasten
their steps; but, fearing that the rustle and crash of their progress
through the bush would arrest the pursuers’ attention, they dropped
behind a fallen tree.  Not many minutes afterwards a party of Manyema
who had outstripped the rest, keeping close together in their mutual
fear, came within a few yards of Tom’s hiding-place.  There was one
moment of suspense, then they passed on with torches burning; but soon
the tap-tap of the recalling drums sounded through the wood, and they
turned, passed within a few paces of where the panting fugitives lay
crouched, and retraced their steps to the camp.

"All go back, sah!" whispered Mbutu gleefully.  "No catch dis night.
All jolly safe now, sah."

"I hope so," said Tom.  "It was a narrow shave, Mbutu. We’ll wait till
all is quiet, and consider what we had better do."

"Must go on, sah; black men gone; rest by and by; time fink by and by."

They rose and pursued their way into the forest, picking their steps as
best they could in the increasing darkness, among trees, profuse grass,
and creeping plants that threw their sprays in intricate mazes across
their path.  When they had gone about a mile from the camp the forest
became so thick that it was impossible to proceed farther that night.
Mbutu suggested that they should climb a tree as the best protection
from prowling beasts, and wait until morning. To this Tom agreed, and
finding a trunk easy to climb, they got up into its lower branches, and
made themselves as comfortable as possible.  Their ascent caused a
commotion among the feathered denizens of their shelter, and Mbutu
declared he heard the gibber of a monkey angry at the disturbance of his
ancestral home; but they rested without molestation till the dawn sent
feeble glimmers through the foliage, and during that time Mbutu told his
story.

His master’s disappearance, he said, had caused the utmost consternation
and distress to the whole force.  After some hours of fruitless search
next morning, the major had sorrowfully decided that he must complete
the object of his expedition, leaving all further efforts to find Tom
until his work was done.  Promising, then, a rich reward to any native
who should give him information as to the young man’s fate, he had
continued his march, and arriving at the native chief’s village, after a
stubborn fight had burnt it to the ground.  Most of the inhabitants
fled, among them the chief.  The major then returned rapidly over his
tracks, and spent several days in searching far and wide through the
country.  Mbutu, meanwhile, had felt sure from the very first that his
master was not dead, and had accompanied the expedition in the hope that
ere long some trace of him would be found.  Then, giving up hope of
this, and learning that the major had decided to return to Kisumu, he
had resolved to go on the search alone.  Slipping away from the column
soon after it passed the scene of the ambush, he had cut into the woods,
and coming upon the dead bodies of Arabs, he had, as a measure of
precaution, appropriated the burnous and turban of one of them.  Then he
sought for the trail of the retreating Arabs, believing that his master
was among them. Fortunately they had marched in almost a straight line,
so that he tracked them easily until he came to the river where they had
sighted the Belgians, and there he was for a time at fault.  But he
encountered a native, who informed him of the sharp fight at the swamp,
and put him on the right track again.  Two days before he arrived at the
camp he had descried the caravan, and from that moment he dogged it
patiently and warily, at one point of the route creeping up so close
that he was able to see, from the shelter of a bushy tree, the figure of
his master among the Manyema guard. Then he followed up more cautiously
than ever, in the hope of discovering some means of effecting the
prisoner’s release. No opportunity had offered, and his heart sank when
he saw the Portuguese join the caravan, still more when, as he peered
from a safe hiding-place among the trees, he saw the Arab chief
accompany De Castro to the hut where Tom lay.  The tying-up had made him
desperate.  He had thought at first of creeping up and cutting his
master free, but every time he took a step forward towards the tree one
of the guard moved, or some noise had startled him, as a mouse peeping
out from its hole is startled by the faintest sound of movement.  Then
he had the happy thought to climb the tree, and endeavour to cut his
master’s bonds from above.  The discovery that he could not reach was at
first agony, but he was strung up to a pitch of desperation that set all
his wits on the alert.  He had crept back into the forest and cut the
rod to which he had tied the knife; and now, with touching earnestness,
he assured his master that he would never leave him until he was once
more safe among his own people.

"Poor old Uncle," said Tom, when Mbutu had ended his story; "how I wish
I could let him know I am alive and well and free!  And you, Mbutu, how
am I to thank you for your faithful service?  I can tell you this: that
when I do see my friends again, you shall not be forgotten, my boy.  But
where are we?  What are we to do?  Do you know anything about this part
of the country?"

"Yes, sah; know lot, sah.  Forest ober dar, ober dar, ober dar."

He pointed successively in three directions--north, south, and west.

"Then we must go to the east, eh?--the other way, you know."

"No, sah, nebber do; all Arab dat way."

And then he went on to explain that the open country through which the
Arab caravan had lately been travelling was the last clear stretch by
which their stronghold could be reached.  It was wedge-shaped, narrowing
as it became engulfed in the forest.  The few natives whose hamlets were
dotted about it were all in the Arabs’ pay, and were treated with
special and unusual consideration, in order that they might be disposed
to give early tidings of an enemy’s approach.  Mbutu assured his master
that the Arab chief would at once acquaint the natives all through that
district with his prisoner’s escape and offer a reward for his capture,
expecting him to make his way eastward, where every path and cross-road
would be narrowly watched.

"In that case we had better strike southward into the forest," said Tom.
"A pleasant prospect!" he mused.  "I have some recollection of reading
in one of Stanley’s books about this forest: hundreds of miles long, and
hundreds broad; one could drop Great Britain and Ireland into it, to say
nothing of the kingdom of Man.  But I suppose," he said, turning again
to Mbutu, "after a time we could safely make a turn to the south-east
and reach the River Rutchuru again? What about your own country, Mbutu?
Couldn’t we make for that?"

"’Fraid no, sah; my country days and days ober dar."  He pointed to the
south-west, then looked puzzled, and finally confessed that in the dark
he was not quite sure of the direction.  "My people all gone dead, sah;
live man all stole, huts burnt in big fire.  No; Mbutu no fader, no
mudder, no pickin: no nuffin--only sah."

"Poor fellow!  Well, I see nothing for it but to go into the forest as
soon as it is light.  We’ve nothing to keep us warm at night; no food
except these nuts I brought.  I have no watch and no compass: you’ve
nothing but a knife; we’re both desperately poor, Mbutu, and we’ll have
to live on our wits, I’m afraid.--Hark! what’s that?"

The dawn came up like thunder, indeed.  Through the wood resounded the
thud-thud of many drums of various tones, some rattling a rapid rat-tat,
others booming with deep, hollow, reverberating notes.  Mbutu turned his
ear towards the sound, listening with peculiar intentness for several
minutes.  Then he shook his head.

"Not know dat!" he said.  He explained that many tribes had their own
individual codes of drum-signals, which could only be recognized by
their own friends.  By means of these information was often telegraphed
for miles in a very few minutes, the note of the drum reaching far, and
being taken up and repeated from point to point.  Though he had never
heard these particular notes before, he surmised that the Arab chief was
already signalling the escape of his prisoner. It was clearly time to be
off.  Slipping down from the tree, the two fugitives struck into the
forest in a south-westerly direction, and were relieved to hear the
drum-taps becoming ever fainter and fainter as they proceeded.  When the
sounds had died away altogether, they sat down on a fallen tree and made
a frugal breakfast of nuts, sipping up the gigantic beads of dew which
covered the spreading leaves of plants near the ground.  Then they arose
and went on their way.

By this time they were well on the outskirts of the great Congo Forest,
which stretches for hundreds of miles westward of Lake Albert Edward and
the rivers flowing into it.  Tom began to be oppressed by a sort of
nightmare feeling, which damped his spirits and made him drop his voice
to a whisper when he spoke to Mbutu.  The silence was awful.  Trees
large and small, packed so close together that there seemed at a
distance barely room to squeeze between them, rose up, some straight of
stem, some twisted and warped, others snapped off high above the ground,
their foliage interlacing and shutting off all view of sky and sun, the
space beneath as dim as the aisles of some vast cathedral.  From tree to
tree ran huge festoons of creeper and vine, weaving intricate patterns
with each other, clinging in great coils about the trunks.  At every
fork and on every branch huge lichens were embossed, with broad
spear-leaved plants, and clusters of orchid and liana.  The sodden
forest floor was covered with bush and amoma, save where a group of
fallen trees, split or scorched by the lightning, had made a gap and let
in the sunlight, and there innumerable baby trees had sprung up,
jostling each other in their eagerness to catch the stream of light and
heat.

At one point Tom sat down to rest on a prostrate moss-covered trunk.  It
crumbled into rottenness under his weight, and, looking, he saw that it
had been mined by countless termites.  Red ants scurried after one
another in the wrinkles of the bark, and a huge blue scorpion darted out
of a hole, causing Tom to start back with loathing.  Near at hand was a
shallow pool, green with duckweed, its surface covered with leaves of
lotus and lilies, and a green, greasy scum of microscopic plants.  Above
this was a crooked tree, whose trunk seemed to have broken out in great
ulcerous sores, from which swollen globules of gum exuded, dropping with
heavy pong into the pool.  Not a sound broke the stillness; the silver
trill of the mavis, the strident caw of rooks, the brisk chirp of
grasshoppers, all the myriad sounds of an English wood, were absent; and
Tom, gazing into the confused mass of green, his feet chilled on the
spongy humus, felt that he was surrounded in very truth by death in
life.

Marching on again along a narrow path which seemed a mere tunnel in the
forest, Mbutu had often to use his knife to cut away obstructive
growths--great sprays of thorn that grabbed at their clothes, caught
them under the chin, and seemed bent on cutting their throats.
Presently they came to an abandoned clearing, where the vegetation now
grew more luxuriantly than ever; the charred poles of native huts
covered with climbing plants of vivid green, mingled with white and
purple flowers, forming bowers fit for Titania the fairy queen.  Just
beyond was a stream, dashing over rocks between banks covered with
vegetation, some of the larger trees bending over the current at the
height of fifty feet, thus forming a huge shed beneath which hundreds of
boats might have been sheltered.  Here Tom got Mbutu to cut him a stout
cudgel of hard wood from one of the stooping monsters, thinking it might
prove useful as they progressed. The pedestrians drank their fill of the
delicious water, crossed on the rocks, and forced their way up the
opposite bank into the forest again.  Half a mile farther on they came
to a trickling stream, and beyond it, in a hollow, under a dense canopy
of foliage so thick that, but for twinkling points of blue here and
there, the sky was invisible, they lighted upon tiny, cage-like
habitations no more than three feet high, made of sticks and leaves, and
erected in a narrow clearing between clumps of gigantic trees.  Mbutu
stopped short and uttered a low cry of alarm, looking round with evident
apprehension.

"What is it?" asked Tom in surprise, for the boy had hitherto shown
himself absolutely fearless.

"Bambute, sah!" he whispered; "little tiny people, berrah tiny small.
Dey shoot poison, sah: one scratch, man dead."

And Mbutu pulled his master away, and did not quit his hold until he had
led him half a mile farther into the forest. He then explained that here
and there, in such small clearings as they had just traversed, there
dwelt little communities of strange dwarf-like people, whose naked
bodies were covered with a thin down, and who lived a sort of elfin
life, stealing about from glade to glade, hardly ever visible, as
difficult to discover as mice in a corn-field.  They were skilled in
woodcraft and the chase, agile and fleet of foot, and so well versed in
poisons that with their toy-like bows and arrows they could kill fowl,
and men, and even elephants, with a mere scratch. They could shoot three
arrows so rapidly that the last sprang from the bow before the first had
reached its mark. They fed on grubs and beetles, honey, mushrooms, and
roots, besides coneys and hares and other spoils of the chase, and had a
sweet tooth for the potatoes and bananas cultivated by their taller
neighbours.  Mbutu said that he was not afraid of ordinary negroes or
Arabs, they could easily be avoided; but if he and his master stumbled
into a nest of dwarfs, he feared they would not escape with their lives.

At noon Tom sat down upon a recently fallen trunk to rest.  Mbutu went
off by himself to find food, and luckily came upon a deserted clearing
where bananas were still growing.  He returned with a luscious bunch,
and after eating and resting a while, the travellers again resumed their
march. The heat of the afternoon had brought out myriad insects that
buzzed about their heads, darting in every now and then to sting.  Bees,
wasps, and ticks innumerable sported hither and thither across their
path; sometimes a flock of pigeons would clatter out of a tree, and high
over their heads shrilled the mocking notes of parrots.

As the afternoon wore on, the heat became oppressive, suffocating.  An
ominous heaviness brooded over everything; the dimness deepened into
darkness, and a feeling as of an approaching calamity crept over Tom.
Suddenly he heard a faint rumble like artillery far away; through a
narrow opening in the forest he saw a spear of white flame dart across
from tree to tree; then the silent trees rustled, swayed, and smote
their tops one against another like masts straining under heavy canvas
in a hurricane.  Then roared the thunder; forked lightning flashed
pale-green across the tree-tops, and the massive trees bent and reeled
like rushes, recovering themselves from the first blow, staggering
forward, jerked back by the climbing plants around them, clashing,
roaring, screaming like fierce savage warriors in mortal fight.  Tom
stood still, amazed at the wild warfare, deafened by the reverberating
thunder-claps, blinded by the scathing flames of lightning, yet
exhilarated as he watched the fray.  Then out of the black sky poured a
deluge of rain, sheet upon sheet, hissing like water poured on hot iron,
every drop as large as a crown-piece, penetrating the cotton garments of
the travellers, drenching them in a moment to the skin.  For three
minutes the torrents fell; then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm
ceased, its fury was extinguished, the sky cleared, the trees stood
still, and there was nothing to mark the terrific elemental strife but
the streaming foliage, the soaked ground, and two giant stems which,
cleft by the lightning, had crashed down and overwhelmed many smaller
trees beneath them.

"Whew! that was a storm indeed!" said Tom.  "What are we to do now?  We
can’t go on in this sopping state."

"I know, sah; climb tree, dry clothes in sun."

"A novel drying-room!" said Tom with a smile.  "Well, let’s try it."

The fallen trees lay across others in such a way that they formed a sort
of inclined path leading from the ground up into the forks of trees
still standing.  Tom and the Muhima nimbly climbed up until they were
almost at the top of a giant of the woods, and there they sat amid the
foliage and easily dried their dripping garments in the fierce sunlight.
When that was done they felt hungry, and after they had reached the
ground, Mbutu found some small berries which he assured his master were
perfectly good to eat.  Then they went on again.  It was impossible to
tell how far they had come. Tom had left the direction to Mbutu, who
seemed to find the way by instinct.  Judging by the height of the sun
that it was now about four o’clock, Tom wondered how they were to pass
the approaching night.  They had seen no human beings, and few living
creatures at all save insects and snakes; Mbutu, indeed, assured his
master that beasts of prey were not much to be dreaded in such dense
forest, though he would not be surprised if an elephant should come
rushing out upon them.

They were sitting at the edge of a clearing, with their backs against a
huge tree, to rest for a few minutes before starting for the last hour’s
walk, when Mbutu suddenly clutched Tom by the sleeve.  At the same
moment Tom heard a curious rhythmic chant, beginning on a low note,
skipping three or four tones, and then descending to a chromatic note
midway between.  Then out of the forest to their left came a strange
procession, a line of some thirty little naked figures, well-formed,
cheerful-looking, diminutive men less than four feet high, trotting
along in single file, their passage absolutely soundless save for the
crooning chant in time with their footsteps.  "Ka-lu-ké-ke,
ka-lu-ké-ke," they sang, their voices low and pleasant and melodious,
their motions lithe and graceful. They carried bows and arrows, and one,
who appeared to be their chief, had a light spear in addition.  Without
turning their heads they rapidly crossed the glade, and disappeared like
gnomes in the forest on the other side.

Mbutu heaved a sigh of relief.

"Bambute!" he said.  "No see us dis time; plenty poison dem arrows."

"So those are your pigmies, eh?  Upon my word, Mbutu, they looked quite
an interesting lot of little fellows.  I liked that song of theirs much
better than the ’man all alone’, you know.  We have a saying in my
country, ’little and good’; many a little man has been a hero.  There’s
Bobs, you know; ever heard of Bobs?  Well, I’ll tell you all about him
some day.  I declare I’m sleepy; there’s no hut for us to-night; I think
we had better climb that big tree there and sleep on the lowest fork,
eh?"

"All right, sah!  No dago man now, sah," he added.

"That’s true; but we aren’t out of the wood yet!  We have done well
to-day, I think; now for our leafy bed."

Mbutu was asleep as soon his head touched the bough on which he had
perched himself.  But Tom was awake for hours, pondering on many things.
The night-wind swayed the branches all around him, waking a chorus of
creaking stems, swinging boughs, rustling leaves.  From below came the
ceaseless scraping chirp of crickets, the shrill piping call of cicadas,
the tuneless croak of frogs.  In the distance he heard the harsh,
rasping cry of the lemur, and a strange sound like the noise of a stick
rattled against iron railings; this, Mbutu explained afterwards, was a
soko or chimpanzee amusing himself with striking upon a tree.  Once Tom
was startled by a sudden crackle, followed by a rending and rushing and
a heavy thump that shook the fork on which he lay.  In the morning he
found that a dead tree had fallen, crashing through the forest and
overwhelming many a living tree with its weight.  All these sounds,
breaking in upon the sad rustle of the foliage, filled Tom’s soul with a
sense of forlornness.  By and by the sounds were unheeded; his mind was
occupied with thronging memories and thoughts.  He was reminded of the
sleepless nights he had sometimes spent in his father’s parsonage,
hearkening to the rooks in the trees just opposite his window.  He
thought of his boyish ambitions; of the pride and eagerness with which
he had listened to his uncle Jack’s stories when he came on rare visits
to the parsonage; of the blow to all his hopes when his father died.
Then he lived again in thought through the long months at Glasgow; heard
the din of the engine-shop, and felt once more the dissatisfied longing
of that dreary time.  That appeared now to be far back in a dim remote
past.  It was only a few weeks since he had left England, and yet how
much had happened in the interval!  The events of years seemed to have
been compressed into days.  His thirst for adventure was more than
satisfied; yet here he was, in the heart of an African forest, with who
could tell what new experiences in store for him?

And as his mind rolled question after question round an empty ring,
eerie shapes seemed to creep out of the darkness, mocking and jibing,
whispering words of evil augury, prophesying comfortless days of
weariness and pain, of aimless wandering in the immeasurable forest,
where he would finally drop and die, a prey to jackal or vulture.  He
strained his eyes, as though to see if these were in very truth bodily
forms surrounding him; then upon his mental sight another scene
rose--reminiscences of his brief captivity with the Arabs; stark forms
lying in chains upon the swampy path; men and women and children sobbing
out their lives in slavery; the slaver’s cruel whip descending on the
backs of young boys and maidens, who writhed and shrieked and fell
bleeding and exhausted, many to rise no more.  His own dark fancies fled
the horrors of the slave-trade came home to him.  He forgot his own puny
troubles, and even his present extremity. Once more he registered the
vow that, if he were spared, he would strike a blow, however feeble,
against this hideous traffic in humanity.  Suddenly there fell upon his
inward ear the cry of the Arabs in the fight by the bridge:
"Allah-il-Allah! God is God!"  A solemn quiet brooded upon his mind; the
wind itself lulled and the rustle of the leaves around him ceased.
Looking up through the canopy of green, he saw one star faintly
twinkling.  His depression passed away; he found himself murmuring the
lines of a poem that had been a favourite with his father:

    "God’s in His heaven,
    All’s right with the world".

Thoughts of all the good things of life crowded through his mind; he
felt contented and at rest; and with recollections his uncle, Dr.
O’Brien, Mr. Barkworth, and the padre making a dancing medley in his
brain with hippos and crocodiles, Arabs and pigmies, he at last fell
into a dreamless sleep.




                               CHAPTER X

                        The Land of the Pigmies

Slow Progress--Forest Life--Hunger--Overtures--A Change of Diet--In
Straits--A Man Hunt--At Bay


Tom awoke when the darkness was fading, and a ghostly light showed him
the still sleeping form of Mbutu hard by.

"Wake up, my katikiro," he said cheerily.  "I shall have to teach you
those lines about the sluggard, my boy.  Come, what about breakfast?"

Mbutu was wide awake in an instant.  He slid down the tree with the
agility of a cat.

"Me get breakfast, sah," he said, "jolly good breakfast."

He was out of sight before Tom, in a more leisurely way, had descended.
Soon the Muhima returned, his arms full of magnificent mushrooms.  He
put them down at the foot of the tree and disappeared again, this time
remaining somewhat longer away, and bringing back with him some red
berries of the phrynia and the oblong fruit of the amoma.  Tom made a
wry face as he bit one of the berries, and Mbutu laughed and explained
that the kernel was the edible part; but he found the tartish amoma
fruit refreshing, and of these and the mushrooms, fried over a twig
fire, he made a satisfying meal. Then they started on their way, taking
their direction from the rising sun, of which they caught a glimpse
through the trees.

But soon the sun was hidden from their view, and they had to tunnel
their way through creepers, rubber-plants, and tangled vines.  The heat
was like the damp heat of a hot-house many times intensified, and they
sweated till they were wringing wet.  Sometimes they floundered into
thick scum-faced quagmires green with duckweed, into which they sank
knee-deep, the stench exhaled from the slough almost overcoming Tom.
Then came a new patch of thorn, which Mbutu had to cut away laboriously
with his knife, Tom standing by chafing at his inability to assist.
When they got through, after taking more than an hour to traverse half a
mile, their clothes were in tatters, and Tom’s rueful look provoked a
smile from Mbutu.

"Soon get used to it, sah," he said cheerfully.  "No clothes; all same
for one."

"Which means, I suppose, that I’m only very much in the forest fashion!
Well, it’s hot enough for anything; certainly too hot to talk.  Let us
rest."

"Berrah soon, sah.  I see coney track; rest ober dar."

Following up the slight track which his sharp eyes had discovered, he
led the way to a spot where a camp had evidently been formed not very
long before.  The ground was cleared, and several logs of various
lengths lay about.  On one of these Tom sat down thankfully to rest.

"It’s time for dinner, I’m sure.  I’d give anything for a glass of
cider, but, as that’s out of the question, can you find me some water
anywhere, Mbutu?"

"Oh yes, sah; camp here, must be water."

He went into the undergrowth, and returned by and by with a broad leaf
of the phrynia held cup-shape in his hands, brimming with delicious
water from a rivulet.  After quenching their thirst and eating a few
berries they went on again.

Marching began to be monotonous.  There was little variety.  Sometimes
they crossed the track of an elephant or a buffalo; once they came upon
a stretch of fifty yards of flattened undergrowth exhaling an unpleasant
musky smell, and Mbutu explained that that was the trail of a
boa-constrictor. Later they crossed a track evidently made by human
footsteps, and once Tom was only saved from falling into a deep
elephant-pit by Mbutu snatching at him as he trod at the edge.  Always
there was the bush to be penetrated; colossal trees to be avoided;
riotous creepers to be dodged; and Tom was very glad when night came and
Mbutu found him a hollow tree to sleep in.

On this night the parts were reversed, for while Tom fell into a sound
sleep at once, Mbutu sat up, watchful and anxious.  He had been
disturbed by the sight of leopard scratches on the trunks of teak, and
as a measure of precaution had borrowed his master’s box of matches and
kindled a fire--a slow process with the damp wood.  But he was still
more disturbed by the scarcity of food.  He had noticed during their
last hour’s walk the almost complete absence of the edible plants on
which they had fed hitherto, and he feared that they might have reached
one of those regions of the forest where food, except wild animals to be
hunted, is unprocurable.  Before he at last closed his eyes he tore a
strip off the burnous girt about his loins, and contrived to make with
it a running noose, which he hung a foot or two above the ground upon a
spray of thorn.  This was a simple snare into which he hoped that a
coney or some other small animal might run its neck before morning.  But
when the dawn broke, the noose was still hanging empty, and Mbutu, after
a scrutiny of the bush, announced that his master would have to dispense
with breakfast.  Tom took the news lightly, in order not to discourage
his companion.

"Cheer up!" he said.  "It won’t be the first time I’ve been for a tramp
before breakfast.  There’s plenty of dew, I see, so that we can have a
drink, and perhaps by the time we’re sharp-set we shall be in the land
of plenty."

So they started cheerfully enough, making still towards the south-west.
But Tom’s confidence proved to be not justified. The character of the
vegetation had somewhat changed.  It grew as thick as ever, but while
many of the plants bore attractive-looking berries, Mbutu informed his
master that they were all poisonous.  They did come upon a mass of wild
bananas, but only the cultivated fruit is eatable.  Even when they
reached what had once been a clearing, where a grove of plantains might
have been expected, they found that elephants had been running riot, and
the vegetation there was trampled into a pulp.  Once Mbutu uttered a cry
of joy on catching sight of a small arum bush; he sprang forward, dug up
the roots with his knife, slit them into slices, and roasted them over a
fire.  That was all the food they obtained that day.  It had been very
hot, the air had seemed almost solid, and the foetid exhalations from
the soft places they had passed made Tom feel sick and disconsolate.

When they stopped for the night, Mbutu again lit a watch-fire, and set
his noose.  In the morning he was wakened by a faint cry, and, springing
up, he saw that a coney had been caught in the snare, and had at that
moment been pounced on by a wild cat.  He was too hungry to allow
himself to be forestalled.  He picked up his knife and made for the cat,
which turned its head without relaxing its hold, and showed its teeth as
though inclined to fight.  But when Mbutu was almost upon it, with an
angry snarl it loosed its prey and sprang up into a tree.  The coney was
already dead, its neck broken by the cat’s fierce onslaught.  Mbutu had
the animal half-skinned when his master awoke.

"What are you about?" cried Tom, horrified at seeing Mbutu lifting a
piece of raw flesh to his mouth.

"Hungry, sah; coney berrah good."

"But you can’t eat it raw, surely!  Ugh! you’ll make me sick."

Mbutu put down the morsel with a look in which mingled emotions were
expressed.

"Make fire in two ticks," he said resignedly, a phrase he had heard Tom
use; and in a short time he was toasting some steaks at the fire, while
his master searched for fruit.  He found a few berries, and both he and
Mbutu ate their meal ravenously, feeling still hungry when they had
finished.

The fourth day of their forest march was but a repetition of the third.
They found almost nothing eatable, and even good water was scarcer than
on the previous day.  At one point a huge puff-adder lay coiled in their
path, and Mbutu wished to kill it, assuring his master that the reptile
was too sluggish to defend itself.  But Tom shuddered, and bade him come
away.  Later in the day Mbutu suddenly flung his knife at a tawny
creature with black spots and a long, striped, bushy tail--a genet cat,
as Tom afterwards discovered,--but the weapon missed by barely an inch.
That was the last chance they had that day of securing animal food, and
they had to content themselves with a few dry and unpalatable, though
perfectly wholesome, roots, which Mbutu grubbed up, and the leaves of
herbs growing low.

Both the travellers had spoken jestingly of their hunger, for each was
unwilling to depress the other; but it was a hollow pretence.  Both, but
Tom more especially, were already feeling the weakening effects of
privation.

Before they settled for the night, Tom thought it well to speak plainly
to Mbutu.  His own uneasiness was deepened by his feeling of
responsibility for the boy.

"Mbutu," he said gravely, "if we do not find food to-morrow we shall
begin to starve.  I don’t know what starvation means; it is too
horrible, almost, to think of.  Yet we must face the possibility.  Now,
I brought you into this, and it isn’t fair that you should come to harm
on my account. If we find no food to-morrow, I think you had better go
on without me.  You can make your way more easily than I, and if you
come to a village and get food you can bring me some; if not, go on; it
is better for one to starve than two."

"No! no! no!" said Mbutu vehemently; "sah fader and mudder.  Food come
by and by; no die dis time."

But the poor boy, when his master had fallen asleep, looked anxiously at
his pinched face.  The cheeks were thinned and drawn, there were dark
sunken patches below the eyes, and his tall frame seemed even taller and
thinner.  Ever since the young Englishman had saved him from De Castro’s
whip, Mbutu had cherished a sentiment of absolute devotion for him, only
intensified by the hazards of their later adventures. He would have laid
down his life for him, and indeed, though Tom had not noticed it, the
boy had already stinted himself even of the little food he had obtained.
"My master is much bigger than I," was his half-formed thought, "and
needs more to keep his strength up."

The morning of their fifth day in the forest broke dull and depressing.
Huge blankets of mist clothed tree and shrub, and a light breeze set up
strange cross currents which rolled great white billows one against
another, swirling and eddying, twisting and twining like animate things.
Tom shivered as he awoke; the violent changes of temperature had made
him somewhat feverish, and his sunken eyes, unnaturally bright, seemed
for a moment to gaze out vacantly upon the encircling walls of misty
green.  His limbs ached, and he got up stiffly. Mbutu was not in sight,
but returned presently, bringing with him some cassava tubers and arum
roots which he cooked for his master’s breakfast.  Tom found it
difficult to eat them. He smiled a weary smile.

"We shall have to tighten our belts to-day, Mbutu," he said. "Did you
ever hear of that?  Twist your burnous more tightly round your loins and
you won’t feel the pain so much. And we must be careful of our matches,
too.  The box is half-empty and we can’t get any more."

"Make fire with wood, sah," said Mbutu.

"But wouldn’t that be difficult with the damp stuff around us?  We must
keep up our courage and get on.  We can’t tell the way till the sun is
up, and indeed I’m afraid we shall never see the sun in this thick
forest."

"Me climb tree, sah; see sun den."

Mbutu began to clamber up into the foliage, and springing dexterously
from branch to branch ascended to the top, where, a hundred and fifty
feet from the ground, above the rolling banks of mist, he caught sight
of the red sun rising above the limitless expanse of waving green.
Descending rapidly, he told his master he was now sure of the direction
in which they should go, and before seven o’clock they had begun again
their painful march.

Tom had to stop frequently to rest.  The gnawing pains of hunger told
more seriously upon him than upon the Muhima, for his life for the past
three weeks had been more than hard, making unaccustomed demands upon
his strength.  He still felt the effects of his wound.  They found a few
berries and edible roots, and if such supplies, meagre as they were,
continued, Tom hoped to stave off actual starvation.

"Surely we shall come to a native village by and by," he said hopefully.
"Even the pigmies might take pity on starving men."

But Mbutu shook his head; he had no faith in the compassion or
generosity of pigmies; he knew of them only as dangerous foes.  In the
afternoon they reached a spot where the ground began to slope downwards,
and the vegetation appeared still thicker and more entangled.

"Coming to ribber, sah," said Mbutu eagerly.  "Perhaps huts; perhaps
catch fish."

Fifteen minutes later, in truth, they came suddenly to the brink of a
river, through a hedge of creeping-plants covering every inch of ground
from the water’s edge to the green-black forest behind.  The current was
fairly strong, and the water was tea-coloured, suggesting iron in
solution, swirling with dingy froth around a few boulders that stood out
above the surface here and there.  Mbutu, scanning the opposite bank,
uttered a cry of joy.  The stream was some fifty yards wide, and on the
other side there was a narrow rift in the vegetation, so narrow indeed
that Tom did not discern it until it was pointed out to him.

"Path, sah!" said Mbutu.  "’Spect huts ober dar.  Huts, food.  Plenty
food, oh yes!"

They sat down for a few moments to rest on a rock at the edge of the
stream, gazing in silence at the gurgling water. Suddenly Mbutu twitched
his master’s sleeve and pointed to the farther bank.  Just emerging from
the leafy hedge, through the narrow opening, was a diminutive and
graceful little woman, copper-coloured, with raven-black hair, a broad
round face, and full lustrous eyes.  Three iron rings were coiled
spiral-shaped about her neck.  She was crooning happily to a tiny brown
child toddling by her side, and on her head a small pitcher was cleverly
balanced.  She came down to the water’s edge and stooped to fill her
pitcher, still chanting softly a quaint song that Tom thought
wonderfully pretty.  Her boy leant over the water in comical mimicry of
his mother.

"Bambute woman, sah," whispered Mbutu.

Low as the words were uttered, the channel between the high banks acted
as a sound-board, and the sharp ears of the little woman heard them.
She looked up, gave a startled cry, and stepped back.  At the same
instant the tiny fellow, alarmed by his mother’s cry, lost his balance
and toppled over into the water.  The stream there was deep, flowing in
strong and steady current.  For one brief moment the mother seemed
dazed, and Tom looked at the little brown bundle floating down stream as
at some picture, not an actual thing at all. Then the woman screamed,
dropped her pitcher, and forced her way along the bank, wringing her
hands and moaning pitifully as she saw the stream bearing her little son
away.

"She can’t swim!" cried Tom, realizing the situation.

He sprang up, leapt on to the first boulder, then to the second two
yards from it to the left, and took a header into deep water.
Excitement lent him strength; he forgot where he was, forgot all his
late sufferings, forgot the danger of chill and crocodiles; all that he
saw was the drowning child, all that he thought of was his duty to save
it.  He struck out energetically, the current assisting him.  As yet the
stream had borne the child along upon its surface, but just as Tom
arrived within a dozen yards of him he sank, and the mother’s
heart-broken cry echoed from the forest.  Tom quickened his stroke, and,
gathering his breath, dived just beyond the spot where he had last seen
the brown body.  It was difficult to make out anything in the
tan-coloured water, but he fancied he saw the little black head, threw
out his right hand, caught a foot, and in a few seconds was safe at the
surface again, the boy in his grasp.

By this time Mbutu had reached his master’s side.  He relieved him of
the burden, and together they swam to the shore, where Tom turned the
pigmy urchin on his face and slapped his back and worked his arms about
till the little fellow recovered his breath.  A lusty cry soon
proclaimed that there was vigorous life in the tiny body.  Then they
carried him with some difficulty along the steep bank to the path by
which he had come from the forest.  They caught sight of his mother
darting like a timid gazelle among the trees.  Mbutu at Tom’s command
called to her to come and fetch her pickin, using all the dialects he
knew; she stopped and faced the strangers again, but evidently
understood nothing of what the Muhima said, and was too much scared to
approach them.  In spite of his exhaustion, Tom could not help smiling
at the woman’s fears.

"Put the little beggar down," he said, "and see him run."

"Want food, sah," expostulated Mbutu; "woman gib food."

"But she wants her baby first; perhaps she thinks we are cannibals, and
mean to make a meal of both of them."

Mbutu shrugged, and set the boy, now fully recovered and crying lustily,
upon his feet.  Instantly he scampered off with wild delight to his
mother.  She snatched him up, smothered him with kisses, then threw him
over her back and ran fleetly into the forest.  In vain Mbutu called to
her to bring food, shouting that the big white man would give his
buttons, his coat, anything, for a chicken and some plantains.  His
voice only made her run the faster, and soon a turn in the narrow path
concealed her altogether from view.

"We’d better go along the path after her," said Tom. "There must be a
pigmy village somewhere near, and they’re surely human enough to give us
food."

Mbutu shook his head.

"Bambute much bad people," he said.  "See white man; no fink; shoot one,
two, three; sah dead."

"But we saved the youngster."

"Bambute no stop fink.  Woman say big sah, berrah big; Bambute no wait;
all come in one big hurry, shoot sah. Better go away too quick."

"Well, you ought to know them better than I."  (He suddenly, in one of
those odd flashes of memory that come at the most unlikely moments,
remembered Mr. Barkworth’s positive statement: "There’s no gratitude in
these natives!")  "Let us go, then; lead the way."

They scrambled along the bank, stumbling over rocks and projecting
thorn-sprays, Mbutu urging his master to hurry, lest the whole pigmy
village should come hot-foot at their heels.  It seemed strange to Tom
that the little people should feel animosity against inoffensive
travellers who had actually done them a service, but he relied upon his
boy, in whom he had seen no signs of cowardice.  The fact was that Mbutu
had never before actually come into contact with the pigmies, and knew
them only by hearsay.  He had a child’s dread of the unknown, and the
stories he had heard prompted him to keep as far as possible out of
harm’s way.

Tom’s exertions, acting on his enfeebled frame, had worn him out, and
but for Mbutu’s entreaties he would have refused to budge.  His clothes
were drying in the sunlight, but he was chilled to the bone, and
terribly hungry.  Mbutu insisted that they ought to hide their trail by
wading in the stream where it was shallow enough, and thus, alternately
on land and in water, they covered rather more than three miles.  Then
Tom declared that he could go no farther, and sat down upon a dry rock
to rest, while Mbutu scrambled up the bank and into the forest in search
of food.  He brought back a handful of papaws and amoma fruits.

"Why, this is quite luxurious!" said Tom, delighted at getting a change
from the disagreeable roots on which he had subsisted for the past few
days.

"Sah wait bit," said Mbutu with a knowing smile.  He waded out to a
large rock in mid-stream, threw himself flat upon it, and peered over
into the water.  A few moments passed; then Tom saw the boy’s knife
flash as he plunged his arm into the water.  He drew it up, and there
was a fine fish, somewhat resembling a trout, gleaming on the point.  He
looked round triumphantly at Tom; then bent once more over the water,
and soon speared another fish in the same way. When he had caught four
he returned to the bank, and asked his master for the box of matches.

"Why, they’re soaked; absolutely useless, Mbutu.  You’ll have to make
fire some other way."

Mbutu at once cut a small block of hard wood from a tree, and scooped
out a little hollow in it.  Then he found a thin straight switch, and
sharpened it at one end.  He inserted this in the hollow of the block,
and began to twirl it round rapidly in both hands.  He was out of
practice, and looked rather blue when no fire came; but, persevering, he
succeeded after some minutes in kindling a spark.  He then lit a fire,
slit and cleaned the fish, and had the delight of offering his master
some appetizing broiled fish-steaks.  Not content with this, he returned
to the rock, rapidly captured half a dozen more fish, and then, throwing
on to the fire the leaves of plants that made a thick smoke, he
attempted a rough-and-ready process of dry-curing.  This done, he
searched about till he found a thin and flexible tendril, on which he
strung the dried fish, declaring gleefully that his master would
certainly have a good breakfast next day.

There being still two hours or more of daylight left, as they judged by
the position of the sun, they walked on again, feeling refreshed in
body, and more cheerful in mind than they had been for a week.  They
still clung to the edge of the stream, and at one point narrowly escaped
treading on a crocodile basking by the bank, where it was
indistinguishable from a log of wood.  Mbutu was only warned of the
danger by a sudden startling flash of light.  Jumping back, he pointed
out that the glare was the reflection of the sun in the saurian’s greedy
eye.  By and by they came to a tributary flowing into the river on the
right hand.  It was a fairly large stream, about thirty yards broad at
the point of ingress, and as its course was from the south-east, Tom
decided to turn and follow it up.  While tramping below the left bank,
which was high and steep, and finding the walking rather easier than it
had been hitherto, the ground being rocky, they came to a deep inlet, at
the bottom of which there was a cavern; half-hidden by vine-sprays
trailing over the bank.

"The very place for our night’s rest," said Tom.

They entered, strewed leaves and grass on the smooth dry floor, and
slept soundly till daybreak.  Though his limbs ached when he rose, and
he was still feverish, Tom felt better than on the previous day, and ate
heartily of the broiled fish and roots which Mbutu had prepared for him.
Then, leaving the cave, they walked for about half a mile, and found
that the stream bent suddenly round to the left.  Mbutu climbed a tree,
and told his master that he could see the water for some distance,
forming a loop and winding away towards the north. Arabs would certainly
be ranging the country in that direction; there was nothing for it but
to strike into the forest again, and pursue their journey to the south
or south-west.

Tom was not reassured by the aspect of the forest.  While there was less
of tangled undergrowth and thorn, the trees appeared to be thicker and
larger than ever.  There was no sign of edible plants, but the animals
were even more numerous, and the insects more multitudinous and
irritating. As they crossed a babbling rivulet, apparently a tributary
of the stream they had recently left, they were met by a cloud of moths
reaching from the water’s face to the loftiest tree-tops, and looking,
as it approached, like a glittering shower of lavender-coloured snow,
the particles whirling about in the slight gusts that blew along the
course of the streamlet. Farther on, a dozen tree stems, thrown down
during a recent storm, lay across one another at various angles,
completely blocking the way, and the travellers found that the easiest
mode of proceeding was to clamber up one of them that sloped at an angle
of forty-five degrees, and to scramble thence on to another, and then to
another sloping downwards, until they reached terra firma again.  Their
progress was terribly slow and arduous, and long before the mid-day heat
rendered rest imperative, Tom felt thoroughly exhausted. His clothes
were now a miscellany of rags, his boots mere gaps.  He noticed what
appeared to be ulcers breaking out upon his arms, and found that the
exertion of walking and climbing made him faint, and produced a keen
pain in his chest.  He had had nothing to eat since the last of Mbutu’s
fish was consumed, and with the faintness and hunger came inevitable
dejection of mind.

While he rested on a log, Mbutu went off alone to search again for food,
but could find nothing but a few withered berries and some fungi, which,
suspicious as they were, Tom was fain to swallow.

"We must try again," he said presently.  "I am beginning to think it
would have been better to follow the stream and chance the Arabs.  I
can’t keep up much longer, Mbutu."

The Muhima was speechless, though his eyes eloquently expressed his
anxiety and affection.  Before they resumed their journey he cut his
master another stout staff from a sapling of hard wood, the first having
been lost in the stream. After struggling through the forest for about
an hour, every step more painful to Tom, they came suddenly upon an
unexpected scene of desolation.  It was a wide clearing, on which a
village of considerable dimensions had at one time stood; the blackened
ground told a tale of burning and rapine. Beyond it there were whole
groves of banana-trees scorched and ruined, hundreds of palms lying
prostrate, and acres of ground, once cultivated, now denuded of every
vestige of life.  Near a heap of ashes lay a number of charred bones,
and Tom shuddered as he passed on.

Beyond this area of destruction the forest was less dense, and Mbutu by
and by discovered a narrow track which he declared was the pathway of
pigmies.  He looked round apprehensively, fearing every moment lest
swift arrows from unseen bows in the brushwood should put a sudden end
to their lives.  Once he exclaimed that he heard the clash of spears
amid the foliage, but Tom assured him it must be simply the rustling of
stiff leaves.  As the evening shades were falling, the boy asserted
positively that he saw little faces peering at him from the trees, and
Tom, with a weary sigh, answered:

"I do not care, Mbutu.  Elves or sprites or human beings, they don’t
concern us unless they bring us food.  Perhaps the pigmies have been
shadowing us all the way since we saved that boy; why should they wish
to hurt us?  If you see one again, call to him.  Call now; perhaps there
is a settlement near; we might miss many in this wild forest."

Mbutu plucked up courage to call, but the only answer was a manifold
echo from the trees, the squawk of parrots, and what sounded like the
barking laugh of the hyena.  Tom could walk no farther; he felt that he
would fain rest for ever. On this night Mbutu built up a small hut of
leaves and twigs for his master, and lit a watch-fire to scare, away
wild intruders.  For supper they gnawed some leaves, but Tom fell into
the sleep of exhaustion in the middle of his scanty meal, and Mbutu sat
for hours watching him uneasily.  He, too, was at last overcome by
fatigue, but not until he had thoughtfully heaped enough fuel on the
fire to last until dawn. Tom woke first.  He rose feebly and staggered
oat of the hut, his forehead hot, his hands clammy; and there, between
the still burning fire and his rough shelter, was a huge bunch of
plantains!  He could scarcely believe his eyes.  He called Mbutu, but
the boy did not stir.  He went to him and shook him.

"Where did you get them?" he asked.  "Have you eaten some yourself?"

Mbutu sprang up and stared, not understanding what his master meant, and
believing that he must be light-headed. When Tom pointed to the
plantains, the boy gave a gasp and looked up in the trees and all around
in amazement. Without another word both began to eat ravenously, and not
till they had nearly finished the bunch did Mbutu suggest an explanation
of the godsend.  The spirits of his ancestors, he said, must have been
watching over him, or perhaps the Great Spirit of whom he had heard the
White Father speak, and who really did seem to care for the black man
and white man alike, as the missionary had averred.  Tom let the boy
talk on.  Suddenly a hare-shaped animal darted across the ground in
front of them; there was a whirring sound; the animal fell, a short
arrow piercing it to the heart.  Mbutu sprang up, and ran towards it;
then started back, and looked about him with wide scared eyes.  Nothing
happened; the skilful marksman did not appear to claim his prize; the
morning stillness was not broken by so much as a rustling leaf.  Mbutu
again moved towards the animal, treading delicately, and stopping at
every second step to glance fearfully around.  He seized the animal, and
ran back swiftly with it.

"Bambute, sah!" he whispered, in a tone of awe.  "Sah him friends.  Sah
sabe pickin; Bambute much glad.  Oh yes! no want food no more; Bambute
gib food."

Again Tom seemed to hear Mr. Barkworth’s voice: "There’s no gratitude in
these natives!  I know them."  He wondered whether the fact was as Mbutu
had surmised; whether the woman had brought her people to see the white
man; whether they had dogged the travellers all the way, or had come
upon them by accident.  Mbutu was already skinning the animal, and
preparing it for the fire.  Never was flesh more welcome to starving
men.  Refreshed and strengthened, Tom rose with renewed hope to continue
his march.

But next day the old dejection returned.  Of the pigmies there was no
sign; no heaven-sent food was placed at their feet; they trudged on and
on, almost blindly, always hungry. So four days passed, days upon which
Tom could never look back without a shudder of horror.  Stories of
prisoners starving in barred dungeons recurred to his mind; and he
wondered which was worse, slowly to pine away in confinement, within
bare stone walls that invited death, or to die in the midst of vigorous
life, with liberty to range immense spaces.  "Death is only death after
all," he thought, and he remembered Gordon’s words, quoted by Mr.
Barkworth: "Heaven is as near the hot desert as the cool church at
home".  But his mind revolted against death.  "I am young--young!" his
heart cried.  "I want to live, to do things.  I am not a broken horse or
a rusty engine.  No, Tom Burnaby, I’ll never forgive you if you chuck it
all up yet."  And he braced himself and plodded on.

Just after noon, on the fifth day after the pigmies’ present, the
travellers found that the forest was thinning somewhat; the trees were
farther apart, and there was a renewal of the low bush, not so dense or
so obstructive as it had been for the past few days.  Presently they
came to an almost open glade, and Mbutu pointed to a track crossing the
direction of their march from clump to clump.  It was not four hours
old, he declared; the footprints were still soft and clearly marked.
They were too large to have been made by pigmies.  The weary travellers
sat down on a heap of leaves, hastily collected, to talk the matter
over, Mbutu being in favour of going in the same direction as the
footprints, which must lead, sooner or later, to a village.  Suddenly
they heard a rapid thud-thud as of heavy footsteps on the sodden ground,
accompanied by a curious clanking, suggesting to Tom the sound of a
loose horseshoe on a turfy moor.  As they were wondering what it might
be, a tall black figure, scantily clad, ran out of the forest on their
right, labouring heavily, the sweat rolling off his face and body, his
eyes protruding with eagerness and fear.  Tom had just noticed that part
of a chain, with a broken block of wood attached to it, hung from a gyve
on the man’s left ankle, and another chain from an iron circlet about
his left wrist, when three Arabs and a negro came out of the wood at
short intervals in hot pursuit.

Tom and Mbutu were partially concealed from the strangers by the
straggling bush.  Pursued and pursuers had almost crossed the wide open
space, the foremost Arab but a yard behind, when the fettered negro
stopped short suddenly, turned round, and with a desperate movement of
his left arm struck the Arab full in the face with the dangling chain.
The Arab dropped, and the hunted man turned again to flee, but the rest
were almost upon him.  Tom saw that, encumbered as the negro was, he
must inevitably be run down in a few moments.  Instinctively taking the
weaker side, and forgetting his own exhaustion, he sprang up, and
sprinting with all the speed of which his tired limbs were capable, he
dashed after the pursuers, followed closely by Mbutu.  The chase had
evidently been a long one; hunters and hunted were breathless, and trod
heavily.  In the excitement of the moment Tom dashed along at a speed of
which a minute earlier he would have thought himself utterly incapable;
and he soon saw that he was gaining rapidly on the Arabs.  They had
muskets, which he inferred they had already fired, and had had no time
to reload.  He had his staff, and Mbutu clutched his knife.

The foremost of the two remaining Arabs and the negro were closing on
the fugitive when Tom overtook the second Arab.  He, hearing the thud of
rapid footsteps immediately behind, checked his pace, and gave a
startled glance backwards. Instantly Tom’s fist was flung out, and the
Arab, receiving the full force of the blow between the eyes, spun round,
and rolled over and over.  Mbutu, as he shot by, snatched at his falling
musket, and making upon the pursuing negro, thrust it between his legs,
so that he was tripped up and fell heavily. He clutched at Mbutu to save
himself, and both reached the ground together.  There was a short, sharp
struggle; Mbutu wriggled out of the big man’s grip, and drove his knife
through his heart.

Meanwhile the fugitive, taking advantage of this miraculous succour, had
stopped running, and was now engaging the only remaining Arab in a
singular duel.  He was swinging the chain upon his wrist like a flail,
the Arab using the musket in his left hand to parry its clanking
strokes.  It was an unequal contest.  The negro’s force was spent; the
chain was no match for weapons firmly held.  The Arab was just about to
rush in with his knife under the negro’s guard when he was struck
smartly behind the knee with Tom’s thick staff, and as he half fell his
panting opponent brought the chain down with one tremendous sweep and
stretched him senseless.

The rescued negro flung himself face downwards on the ground, gasping,
almost sobbing, with relief.  Tom looked round for the Arab whom he had
first struck down, and caught sight of him speeding back into the
forest.  The big negro was dead; one of the prostrate Arabs was
stirring, the other still lay unconscious.

Tom sat down to rest, propping his head on his arms, and panting from
his exertions.  Mbutu stood anxiously scanning the fugitive, who by and
by turned over, and looked at his rescuers with eyes that plainly told
how puzzled he was at the mystery of their intervention.  He was a
fine-looking man, with strong muscular frame, and a face of great
intelligence and some refinement of feature.  About his close woolly
hair he wore two thin fillets, and a dozen necklaces of string encircled
his neck, a number of small wooden charms dangling from them; from a
longer string a cube of wood hung upon his breast.  Mbutu, after gazing
at him in silence for a moment or two, suddenly addressed to him a few
words in a Bantu dialect.  The man started, fixed his eyes in keen
scrutiny on the boy’s face, and then answered him in the same language.
A rapid dialogue ensued, and Mbutu, turning eagerly to his master,
exclaimed:

"Him Muhima, sah; Muhima like Mbutu; him chief, name Barega.  Say sah
him fader and mudder; him gib sah hut, and food--eberyfing belong him."

Tom smiled wearily.  His recent exertions had, he felt, precipitated the
inevitable collapse.  He was approaching the last stage of exhaustion.

"I’m glad, Mbutu," he said.  "But had we not better be going?  These
Arabs may belong to a party, and we shall almost certainly be pursued
and outnumbered.  I can hardly walk, but the chief’s village may not be
far.  Can he take us there?"

Mbutu again spoke with his compatriot.

"Yes, sah," he said at length.  "Village five marches ober dar.  Say
must go all too quick."

"Five marches!  I can never do it."

"Try, sah, try; must do it," cried the boy imploringly himself trembling
with pain and fatigue.

"One more try, then.  Can we first knock off the man’s chains?"

The negro, himself exerting tremendous power with fingers and wrist,
managed, with Mbutu’s assistance, to break off both chains, leaving
simply the circles of iron about his wrist and ankle.  The three then
prepared to start; but as they turned Tom felt a touch of compunction
for the two Arabs prostrate on the ground, but still alive.

"I don’t like leaving them to perish.  What can we do for them?"

"Nuffin, nuffin, sah," cried Mbutu.  "All too bad lot. Chief kill."

"No, I can’t allow it," said Tom sternly.  "Go to the dead negro, and
tear a strip off his loin-cloth.  If you peg it to a tree it is bound to
attract the attention of their companion when he returns with help."

Mbutu having, with rather an ill grace, done his master’s bidding, the
Bahima chief led the way into the forest towards the south-west, Tom and
the boy, each with a musket in his right hand, following him painfully.
They never knew that, just as they disappeared among the trees, half a
dozen little naked figures sprang silently out of the wood on the other
side.  They darted to the fallen Arabs, pierced them through and through
with their spears, and then, despoiling them of their clothing, vanished
again into the forest as noiselessly as they had come.




                               CHAPTER XI

                        The Valley of the Shadow

Barega Tells His Story--Malaria--The Major Writes Home--The End of a
Long Vigil--Mabruki: Medicine-man--A Moving Dialogue--On The Brink


Ignorant of how the pigmies had rounded off their work, the travellers
accompanied the Bahima chief along the narrow path into the forest.  At
first he went too fast for them, until Mbutu explained that they had
been wandering for twelve days through the forest, and were on the verge
of starvation. He told also how his master, like the chief himself, had
been a prisoner among Arabs, and had escaped when barely recovered from
a terrible wound inflicted on him during a great single-handed fight
with the Arab chief.  Mbutu did not fail to impress his compatriot with
the rank and prowess of the Englishman.  As for his present worn and
enfeebled condition, that was obvious to the most casual glance.  On
hearing all this the rescued Muhima expressed his sympathy with a grace
and courtesy that seemed to Tom wonderfully well bred, and further
acquaintance with the people confirmed his belief, first formed from his
knowledge of Mbutu, that Central Africa contains some of Nature’s
gentlemen.

As they went on their way, Tom asked the chief through Mbutu to tell his
own story.  He was nothing loth, and at once began a narrative which
beguiled more than an hour of weary walking.  It was often interrupted
by questions from Mbutu, who, as he translated, mingled comments and
explanatory remarks with the chief’s own statements.  Stripped of these
annotations, and rendered into straightforward English, it ran somewhat
as follows:--

"You ask me for my story?  Know then, O white man, that I am Barega, a
chief among chiefs, owning no man lord. Not of a handful of men and a
few hundred cattle am I chief; no, I am Barega; many chiefs own my sway;
my rule extends over ten times thirty Bahima, great hunters all of them,
and multitudes of Bairo like the stars of heaven.  No menial delvers of
the soil are we Bahima; no, we tend countless herds of cattle and goats,
whose flesh we eat and milk we drink. And I--I am Barega, a mighty
chief.  The Bugandanwe is mine--the king-drum handed down from my
father’s fathers through a hundred years, whose sound strikes terror
into the souls of our enemies, and even disquiets Magaso himself, the
devil that haunts our groves and feasts on our bananas. Bananas!--I eat
them not; my meat is the flesh of oxen, sheep, and goats; but the Bairo
eat them, the Bairo our servants, whose blood is not our blood, nor
their ways our ways.

"Know this, O white man, son of the Great King, for thou didst find me a
prisoner, and ’tis not well that thou shouldst think me one of the
common people, born of slaves.  No, I am a mighty chief.  Four years
have I ruled my tribe, and there are none like them in all the earth for
strength or wealth, for skill in hunting or prowess in war.  My father
had many sons, but out of them all he chose me to rule after him.  True,
I have an elder brother, Murasi is his name; and a younger brother,
Mwonga; but Murasi is a reed, a straw blown hither and thither by the
breath of Mabruki, my medicine-man, who quaffs lakes of museru and then
weeps rivers of tears.  As for Mwonga, he is but a boy, and him I keep
as my chief mutuma, head of the fifty boys who guard my dwelling and
fulfil my behest, and whom I train in arms and all manly doing. Murasi I
did not slay; no, nor does he languish in the prison where he lies; he
is fed with good food and wine.  The white man wonders?  True, other
chiefs would have slain him, but I am merciful, I do but keep him in
prison.  Were Murasi free, he would plot against me, work mischief among
my people, try to rob me of my hut and place.  He must not be free; it
is I, Barega, that say it.

"I was a prisoner with the Arabs--cats, jackals, beasts unfit to herd
with the Bahima’s dogs!  I hide my face; it shames me to have been their
captive.  And yet it was no shame; if any man cries shame, I say he
lies.  I was far from my village, hunting great elephants.  Twenty of my
best spearmen were with me, tall men and big of heart.  We were far in
the forest towards the setting sun, and one day we saw, in a glade
beyond us, a herd of elephants with tusks longer than a man and whiter
than milk.  My men stretched their net and dug a pit, the skewers
cunningly planted at the bottom, so that they might drive the animals
therein and take them thus.  But that, forsooth, is poor sport for a
hunter like Barega.  ’No, let us take them with our spears,’ I said,
’and have true tales of a mighty killing to tell about our fires of
winter nights.’  Know, O white man, that we Bahima tell truth and no
lies. So then did we stalk those noble animals, but they lifted up their
trunks and smelt us, and straightway uttered a great voice and fled.
But we are fleet of foot; no pot-bellied sluggards are we, like the
Ankole; no, we are slim, and straight, and lithe of limb as thou seest;
we are thy cousins, O white man!  Swiftly then did we pursue the
elephants; leopards could not have gone more silently.  They forgot us,
and stayed to rest and pluck the tender leaves at the ends of the
branches. Not a word, not a cry.  I was in front of my men; the chief
must ever show the way.  I marked the prince and lord of the elephants
and said: ’He is mine; let no man touch him.’  I poised my spear; I
flung it with aim swift and sure; it smote behind the ear; the beast
fell.  Ere he could rise, another spear, and another, from this same
right hand pierced him, and in a little he died.

"Two other elephants had fallen to the spears of my men, the rest had
fled.  Then did we make a camp, and sat us down to rest by our spoils.
The sun went down, and as we sang our hunting-song around our fire,
behold! there came out of the forest, silently, like the servaline, a
band of Arabs. Around us they made a ring, and with their loud
fire-sticks they slew ten of my people.  I sprang to my feet; not mine
to flee; no, I hurled at them my last spear, and then a blazing brand
snatched from the fire.  See, there is the scar on my hand to-day--the
mark of the fire.  But they were more than we; they threw themselves
upon me, and put their cursed ropes upon my hands and feet.  Then they
carried me and my ten men to a fortress many marches in the forest, and
loaded me with the chains of slaves.  Many days was I thus fettered;
then, at the rising of the sun they came to me and said: ’Dog!’--woe is
me, that I, Barega, was called a dog!--’take us to your village.’
’Pig!’ I cried, ’I would rather die!’  Then did they beat me with their
whips till, in my pain, I called on Muhanga, the Mighty Spirit that
upholds the sky and rules the thunder and rain, to slay me.  Yet I
bethought myself: ’They will not all come to my village till they have
spied it out.’  I know their ways.  ’I will deceive them; I will lead
them into the forest, and then Muhanga will send a storm, and I shall
escape.’  And then a band of them loosed me, and fettered me with other
chains, and made me walk with them, my hands bound together, my two feet
linked to a block of wood between them, so that I hobbled slowly and
with pain.

"Then came we into the forest, by winding tracks that I knew well.  Nine
nights ago the sky opened, Muhanga threw his flaming spears and poured
out his floods.  The Arabs cursed Muhanga; I praised him in my heart.
They crouched in hollow trees and in big bushes to escape the storm.
’Let the dog wash,’ they said of me.  But in the black darkness, when
the thunder roared, I wrenched my hands apart till a link snapped, and
then with my free hand tore at my ankle-chains until I had wrested one
of them from the block.  I could not cast off my fetters altogether; the
storm began to abate, and I dared not stay.  I ran and ran hard through
the night, and for days and nights after, away, away, far from the
tracks I knew.  Woe is me!  An evil spirit must have led mine enemy!
To-day, when the sun rose, I saw them close upon me, but only four of
them; the others, I make no doubt, were searching for me otherwhere in
the forest.  I ran from them, but the clank of my chains called them
after me, and when I was nigh to falling, thou camest out of the forest,
O white man, and smotest them even as Muhanga smiteth in his wrath, and
didst save me, and I hold thee in my heart for ever.  But they are many
and will now pursue us; they will come with their whole band, and with
their fire-sticks will seek us out, to kill me and all my people.
Therefore let us make what haste we can, and in my village the white man
shall live in peace; he shall see my wives and warriors and all my
gathered store; he shall eat my best cattle and drink my newest milk and
strongest wine till his cheeks are round and his muscles firm again.  I,
Barega, have said it."

Such was Barega’s story.  Tom had listened with an interest that for a
time made him forget his feeling of intense weakness.  He walked along
as well as he could, stooping occasionally to avoid creepers, using his
musket now as a staff, now as a means of fending off obstructions.  But
he felt that collapse ere long was inevitable, and all that he could
hope for was that he might retain sufficient strength to reach the
Bahima village before he broke down.

The collapse came on the second evening after their adventure with the
Arabs.  They had fed mainly on roots, and drunk from the rills they met
at intervals along the track.  Barega’s woodcraft served them well when
even Mbutu’s was at fault, but all three were racked with the gnawing
pains of hunger.  Sores had broken out in several parts of Tom’s body;
his head was never free from pain; and on the evening of the second day,
just as they stopped to find a camping-place for the night, he tottered,
and would have fallen but for the ready support of Mbutu’s arm.

"It’s no good, Mbutu," he said, with an attempt to smile; "I’m done up.
I can’t hold out any longer."

"Soon get well, sah," said Mbutu, helping him tenderly to recline with
his back against a tree.  But the boy was in reality stricken with
terror lest his master should die.  He had recognized the dreaded signs
of malaria, and there, in the midst of the forest, with no medicines at
hand and no nourishing food, he feared that there would be but one end,
and that speedily.  Tom fell into a heavy sleep almost as soon as he lay
down, and Mbutu held an anxious consultation with the chief.  What could
be done?  They could carry the invalid between them, but progress would
be slow, and he needed immediate attention, and above all, something to
protect him from insects during the day.  They were still at least three
days’ march from the village.  Mbutu was almost in despair, when the
chief made a suggestion.  Let them build a grass hut, he said, at a
reasonably safe distance from the track, and let Mbutu watch his master
there while he himself hurried on alone to his village.  They were not
far from the edge of the forest, which was already becoming thinner.  He
would start at once for help, and could cover the distance to the
village at a run in a night and a day.

The plan seemed feasible, and indeed the only possible one under the
circumstances.  To force a way for a quarter of a mile from the track,
clear a space, and build a grass hut upon it was the work of rather more
than two hours.  When it was done, the two Bahima gently carried Tom to
the resting-place and laid him down on a comfortable couch of leaves,
and then the chief, tightening his strip of bark cloth around his loins,
started, promising to travel, without resting, through the night, and to
use his utmost speed.

Mbutu, left alone with the invalid, spent the last half-hour of daylight
in collecting a small quantity of ripe berries, and then sat down to
watch.  He dared not light a fire in case the Arabs happened to be near
enough to see or smell the smoke. It was no small testimony to Mbutu’s
devotion that he was so willing, for all his dread of goblins, to remain
with his master, unable now to talk the boy’s fears away or to defend
him against danger.

As Mbutu sat, touching his master’s hand and brow occasionally, and
trembling as he felt how hot they were, he suddenly remembered that he
had seen him put a packet of the quinine given him by the missionary
into his vest pocket. He wondered whether it was still there.  The Arabs
were not likely to have taken it; he only feared lest, with the wettings
it had suffered, the drug should have lost its virtue.

Gently lifting the burnous which he had thrown over his master, and
feeling in his clothes, he was overjoyed to find in the pocket where he
had seen it put a small paper packet, showing only too plain signs of
the soakings it had gone through.  He opened it, the paper dropping to
pieces under his touch.  There was a little something there, not a
powder any longer, but a paste.  Was there the least remnant of virtue
in it?  There could be no harm in trying a dose, and Mbutu carefully and
tenderly put a small quantity of the paste between Tom’s parted lips.
Twice again during the night he repeated the dose, anxiously feeling the
invalid’s brow each time, as though hoping for an instant result.  Not
for a moment did he close his eyes, but when he felt drowsiness stealing
upon him he rose and walked to and fro before the hut, murmuring the
half-forgotten words of some fetish spell he had learnt when a child.
But he had little faith in fetish now.  If only the white medicine-man
were there! He had unbounded confidence in Dr. Corney O’Brien.


Dr. Corney O’Brien was, alas! more than a thousand miles away, sitting
in the smoking-room of the Mombasa club, waiting with some impatience
for Major Burnaby to finish the letter he was writing at the table.  It
was a letter home, to Mr. Barkworth, and the doctor knew why his
friend’s face wore such a look of concern as his pen scratched over the
paper.

... "I thought," he wrote, "that I knew my nephew pretty well, but I
know only now--alas! too late, I fear--what grit there was in him.  We
old stagers are too much inclined, perhaps, to pooh-pooh the enthusiasms
of our juniors.  The boy was built for a soldier and nothing else, and I
blame myself now for not moving heaven and earth to get him into the
service.  When I saw him come into camp that evening, I own I was at
first desperately annoyed with you for allowing him to follow us up;
although I could not help admitting it was an uncommonly plucky thing of
the youngster to undertake such an enterprise through a strange and
savage country. He showed both courage and resource in the adventure
with that rascally Portuguese; but what I feel most proud of is the grit
with which he stuck to his task when every step must have been agony.
But for him the expedition might easily have come to grief.  The enemy’s
plan was as good as any I ever met with; if it had come off it would
have been touch and go with us.  You may be quite sure that in my report
home I have taken care to represent in its true light the service he did
us.  Nothing has yet been heard of him.  I’ve offered the most tempting
rewards.  He either died of his wound, or is a prisoner with the Arabs.
In the latter case the strange thing is that no attempt has been made to
get a ransom for him.  Perhaps the Portuguese is in some way concerned;
if so, then God help him!  I have asked Father Chevasse to do what he
can--the missionaries have as good a chance to get news of him as
anyone,--and be sure that I will let you know if anything turns up.  I
am entitled to come home on furlough, but I’ve arranged to stay out here
a month or two longer.  It was very pleasant to get your cable of
congratulation, and to hear of all the nice things said of me at home;
but you’ll believe me when I say that I’d give it all up and drop out of
sight gladly, if by so doing I could get a glimpse of Tom."


For three terrible nights and days Mbutu kept faithful watch over his
sick master in the forest.  It seemed an age to the poor boy.  Tom was
unconscious almost all the time, his eyes burning bright, his cheeks
flushed, his lips ever and anon muttering and babbling of things
incomprehensible to Mbutu.  The Muhima hardly dared to leave him for a
moment, and when he did leave him, wore himself out in scouring the
forest within a short radius in search of food.  He ventured on the
second day to light a fire, over which, in a bowl he carved out of hard
Wood, he tried to brew a decoction from some leaves and berries, for he
found it impossible to get his master to take such solid roots as those
on which he barely sustained himself.  The quinine was soon exhausted.
Fortunately there was plenty of good water, and at short intervals he
poured a small quantity between Tom’s parched lips.  He hoped that the
pigmies would again provide food, but there was never a sign of the
little people.  As hour after hour dragged slowly by, the boy fretted,
feeling his helplessness, in an agony of grief for his master, and
beside himself with despair when, after brief intervals of
semi-consciousness, Tom relapsed into delirium, tossing and moaning on
his couch of leaves.

At sundown on the third day after the chief’s departure Mbutu was
walking restlessly up and down the track, peering into the tunnel of
foliage.  The night before, he had been scared by the cries of animals
in his near neighbourhood, and his nerves were in a state of tremor.  He
had kept a large watch-fire burning beside his master’s hut, for he felt
now that, even if it did attract the Arabs, it was no worse to be slain
by them than by wild beasts.  More than once during this third day he
had put his ear to the ground, hoping to hear the tramp of feet from the
direction in which Barega had gone.  Now he walked farther along the
path, thinking that, if the chief had reached his village, as he had
promised, in a night and a day, surely there had been time for him to
return.  He lay down again and pressed his ear to the beaten path.  The
air was still, not a leaf rustled; the sounds of day had ceased, and the
nightly hum and murmur had not yet begun.  What was that?  Faintly, like
the sound of ripples on a stream, rather a movement than a sound,
something touched his ear.  He got up and ran still farther along the
track, then flung himself down again.  He could hear nothing but the
throbbing of his heart.  He held his breath; yes, the sound was growing,
growing; it was the sound of running feet. Was it of animals or men?  It
was too regular, too heavy, to be the pad of animals; it was coming
nearer!  He almost screamed in his excitement.  Thud! thud! thud! nearer
and nearer--not one sound now, but many sounds conjoined.  Yes, his
doubts were gone; it was a force of men, running steadily towards him.
He got up, and stood, his lips parted, his eyes astare, his body bent
forward in the direction of the sound, every nerve tingling, every sinew
tense.  Minute after minute passed; he stood alone in vaulted darkness.
Now the sound was audible through the air: the steady thud of runners,
broken in upon at moments by the faint far jingle of metal. Hark! there
was the hum of voices, like the sound of water stirred by gusts of wind.
Louder and louder it came; Mbutu’s sharp ears were strained towards it.
It rose and swelled; he recognized it; it was a marching-song he had not
heard for years!  His heart gave a great leap for joy; beyond a doubt
these were Barega’s men approaching; his agony was over. Hardly knowing
whether to run back to his master or to run forward to meet his
fellow-countrymen, he stood irresolute, his breath coming and going in
quick pants.  He tried to join in the song, but his throat was parched,
and his voice broke in a soundless sob.  He waited, waited; there was
commotion in the forest; crickets and cicadas had raised their notes, as
though to drown the unaccustomed sounds.  He heard the crackle of
snapped twigs and the rustle of parted leaves; then, a deeper blackness
in the black, a form appeared, and another, and another.

"Wekaine kenaina?  Can you see me?"

The words, shrilled from Mbutu’s lips, brought the runners to a dead
stop.  There was silence for a brief moment.

"Mesitoka!  I cannot!" came the answer.  "Who are you?"

"Ema Mbutu, muzungu katikiro!  I am Mbutu, the white man’s katikiro!"

Then ensued a scene that must have provoked from the sylvan deities a
kindly sympathetic smile.  The foremost of the line of strangers
advanced and greeted Mbutu, who was almost beside himself with
excitement and relief.  He wasted no time in words; he was all eagerness
to lead the negroes to his master.  Running in advance, then doubling
back like a dog, he led the tall Muhima along the track.  It was
Barega’s katikiro, and with him were thirty spearmen.  In single file
they followed Mbutu, turned aside towards the clearing, and were soon
collected in a group around the blazing watch-fire--thirty tall straight
warriors, the pick of Barega’s body-guard, breathing hard, but ready at
a word to run again.  The katikiro informed Mbutu that their departure
had been delayed by exciting events in their village.  They had come
with all speed, and behind them was another band bringing goats and
flour and cooking-utensils to provide food for the sick man.  A brief
rest, and he was ready to start on the return journey, and he proposed
to travel through the night, so that the muzungu at his first removal
should not have to endure the day’s heat.  The spearmen, squatting in a
circle about the fire, showed their native politeness by obeying the
katikiro’s command to talk in subdued tones.

After an hour’s rest, four of the Bahima gently lifted Tom into a litter
they had brought with them, and the order of march was formed.  The line
was led by the mugurusi, the chief’s provider of firewood, who was
followed by fourteen of the spearmen; then came the katikiro at the head
of Tom’s litter, borne by four, Mbutu walking behind; and the rear was
brought up by the remaining eleven.  They marched with long regular
swing, and before they had gone far the omutezi wahanga, or harpist, who
strode along immediately in front of the katikiro, struck up the
marching-song:

    "Yakuba emundu ngagayala
    Mukamawange Katabuzi eikyasenga
    Amaso zamynka mwenywera omwenge".

    Bravely he fights; no foeman doth he dread;
    Never by craven chief will I be led;
    Let me drink and drink till mine eyes be red.


Three hours’ march brought them to the camp, where they were
boisterously greeted by an equal band gathered about a huge fire.  A
large iron pot was placed in the midst of the fire, and in it the flesh
of a goat was simmering in stew, thickened with plantain flour.  When
the new-comers had eaten their fill, a guard was set, the katikiro
himself undertaking to share with Mbutu the duty of watching his master.

At dawn they resumed the march, the katikiro deciding to finish the
journey by easy stages, resting for three hours at least in the hottest
part of the day.  The route lay through country that was thickly wooded,
but not such dense forest as the wayworn travellers had just traversed.
Every care was taken to protect Tom from the sun’s rays and the assaults
of insects, an awning being cleverly arranged about his litter, with
air-holes defended from insects by a fine network of goats’-hair.  The
sick man was fed at intervals with diluted marwa, and with soup whenever
the procession stopped.

On the way, especially when they encamped for the night, the katikiro, a
man of exceedingly pleasant countenance and genial manner, talked a good
deal to Mbutu, asking innumerable questions, and showing the most lively
interest in the story of the ambush.  In return he gave the boy, to whom
he appeared to have taken a strong fancy, some very interesting
information about affairs in his village.  He half apologized, indeed,
for the non-appearance of his chief with the rescue-party.  It was due
to most important events.  When week after week passed by, and the chief
had not returned from his great elephant-hunt, Mabruki, the
medicine-man, declared after consulting his fetishes that Barega was
dead.  Who was to be his successor?  Mabruki had at first sounded some
of the more important men as to their willingness to accept himself; but
finding that there was a strong feeling against anyone not of the
chief’s blood, he had nominated Barega’s elder brother, the weak and
vicious Murasi, who, drunk or sober, was completely under his thumb.
Murasi, accordingly, became chief, and Mabruki appointed himself
kasegara, or steward of the household.  The katikiro himself, an
easy-going man, ready, like the Vicar of Bray, to serve anyone so long
as he retained his own office, had given his adhesion to the new chief,
and remained katikiro.

These arrangements had hardly been made when Barega suddenly reappeared.
The majority of the Bahima were unfeignedly glad to see their chief
again; he had a kingly presence, they knew his prowess as warrior and
hunter, and loved him as a fair-dealing ruler in peace.  A small
minority of the Bahima, however, with a considerable number of their
Bairo dependents, had hoped great things of Murasi’s accession, and were
disposed to stick to their new chief.  But the medicine-man saw that his
game was up; he lost no time in obsequiously making his peace with
Barega, and was the loudest in upbraiding Murasi when he whimpered at
his fall from power.  But though Mabruki was outwardly the loyalest
subject of his chief, he was deeply chagrined at the failure of his bid
for greatness, and inwardly resolved to seize the first opportunity,
fair or foul, of reinstating the elderly drunkard and getting rid of
Barega.

This news gave some concern to Mbutu.  With internal dissension in the
village he was not sure that his master’s life would be safe.  But when
he imparted his fears to the katikiro, that burly and cheerful soul
laughed them away, assuring him that the chief’s party, already
numerically the stronger, would grow still larger as time went on.

On the fourth afternoon after leaving the forest, the katikiro informed
Mbutu that they were approaching the village. The ground began to rise
gently, and was less thickly covered with scrub.  By and by a large
banana-plantation came into view, a welcome sight to Mbutu’s eyes, and
beyond it wide fields of maize, beans, sweet-potatoes, sorghum, and
tobacco, in some of which negro women were at work.  They looked
curiously at the closed litter as it passed, and then with one consent
flung down their clumsy implements and followed at the end of the line,
behind the spearmen.

Passing through these extensive plantations, the procession arrived at a
wide open space on which a herd of splendid long-horned oxen were
tethered.  The katikiro explained that these were the chief’s own
cattle, the animals belonging to the rest of the community being kept
beyond the southern extremity of the village.  Then they came to a
number of huts made of grass and wattles, with untidy haycock roofs
coming nearly down to the ground, and low doorways.  The population had
so largely increased that these huts had been built outside the village
stockade, which at last came into sight, surmounting a steep acclivity.
The ascent was by a narrow path, running straight up the incline, with a
deep depression of rough land on the left, and on the right a
banana-plantation.  There was a gate in the stockade, and at this Mbutu
saw a large crowd gathered.  In front, was a group of young boys, their
graceful forms almost bare of clothing, the foremost of them being
Mwonga, the chief’s young brother.  Behind this group stood Barega
himself among his principal men, all dressed in their ceremonial array
for the occasion.  Tom was quite unconscious of the gorgeousness of the
finery there displayed in his honour, for during the day he had patently
become worse, and Mbutu feared that he had reached the village only to
find a grave.  As the procession reached the gates formal greetings were
exchanged between Mwonga the mutuma and the first spearman.

"Is it well?"

"It is well."

"Ah!"

"Ah!"

"Um!"

"Um!"

Such was the dialogue, a conversation in those regions never ending
without a number of sighs and grunts.  Then the group of boys parted,
and the chief came forward.  Over his woolly tufts of hair he wore a cap
of antelope-skin, adorned with a mighty crest of cock’s feathers, and
across his breast was slung a broad shoulder-belt of leopard-skin, from
which depended a miscellaneous assortment of the tags and tassels of
fetish mysteries.  He stepped forward with a splendid air of dignity.
The katikiro then advanced to the head of the procession, and removed
the fillets from his hair as a sign of respect.  Then ensued another
brief dialogue.

"Hast thou slept well?"

"I have slept well."

"Very well?"

"Very well."

"Very well indeed?"

"Very well indeed."

"I am thy servant."

"Thou art my servant."

"Ma!"

"Ma!"

"Mum!"

"Mum!"

And the grunting being finished, the chief went up to the litter, and,
discarding his array, which seemed to irk him, he bent over to look at
his sick visitor.  He turned, and beckoned to the medicine-man, who all
the time had stood a little behind, scowling darkly, for he felt by no
means tenderly towards the white youth who had saved Barega from the
Arabs, and thereby tumbled down the short-lived authority of Murasi.  He
stepped forward at the chief’s bidding, and pulled a preternaturally
solemn face as he scanned the unconscious Englishman.  He shook his
head, causing his fantastic head-dress of skin and feathers to make
strange gyrations, and the wooden charms about his neck to clatter as
they knocked together.  Fingering the tufts of fetish-grass dangling
from a string across his shoulder, he gravely announced that the muzungu
would surely die.  Mbutu had been anxiously watching the man of mystery,
and he shuddered as he heard his master’s doom.  But the katikiro
shrugged his shoulders behind Mabruki’s back, and the chief himself, in
a tone of petulant annoyance, bade the medicine-man retire.  Then the
procession was re-formed, and, amid a crowd of nearly two thousand,
mingled Bahima and Bairo, men, women, and children, the whole population
having turned out to see the wonderful white man who had given their
chief back to them, Tom was carried to the centre of the village, where
the katikiro’s hut, standing nearest to the chief’s, had been assigned
to him.  The katikiro was the essence of good-nature; and when Barega
ordered him, in conjunction with the mwobisi wamarwa (his cup-bearer),
and the muchumbi wanyama (his chief cook), to provide everything
necessary for the white man’s comfort, he went smiling to do his
master’s behest.

A fortnight passed away, and during that time Tom hovered between life
and death.  As day followed day, and Mbutu, worn almost to a skeleton
with watching and anxiety, saw no change in his master’s condition, he
felt the bitterness of despair. Mabruki offered to make medicine and
employ all the mysteries of his art.  He produced one day a gourd filled
with mead, in which a kind of hay had been steeped for twenty-four
hours. Acting on the advice of the katikiro, who had become his bosom
friend, Mbutu accepted the offering with profuse thanks; but as soon as
Mabruki had turned his back, the katikiro advised the boy to throw the
liquor away, though he refused to say plainly why.  From that time Mbutu
maintained a still more jealous guard over his master.  He kept the hut
spotlessly clean, renewing every day the grass that covered the floor,
and doing all that he could, by changing the arrangement of the skins
and calico sheets upon the rough clay settle, to render Tom’s position
easy.

Thus the weary days went by.  For a short period each day Tom was
conscious, alive to the presence and the attentions of Mbutu and his
friend Msala the katikiro.  At such times he would swallow a little
goat-broth, or an egg beaten up in milk, relapsing into unconsciousness
again.  He was too ill to think; he was only conscious of terrible
weakness and pain.  He could not sit up, could scarcely move his arms,
and when it was necessary to change his position, Mbutu had to lift him.
One morning, realizing more clearly than before the dreadful prostration
of his body, he was possessed of a presentiment that he would die.

"I shan’t bother you much longer," he said faintly to Mbutu.  "When I am
gone you’ll find my uncle and tell him all about it, won’t you?"

Mbutu could not speak for the lump in his throat.  At this moment the
katikiro entered, bringing a fresh gourd of banana wine.  Mbutu poured a
little between his master’s lips, and watched him in an agony of
suspense.  Tom opened his eyes.

"I should like to thank the chief," he said.  "Ask that good Msala to
fetch him."

The katikiro soon returned with the chief, and they stood at the foot of
the settle, their intelligent faces expressing a real sympathy with the
sufferer.  He tried to speak to them, but his voice failed.  Barega
advanced and clasped his hand. A strange drowsiness was stealing upon
him; with a strong effort he moved his lips again.

"Chief," he said, "I thank you for your kindness.  If ever you--"

But the sentence remained unfinished, a dark cloud seemed to come
between his face and the chief’s; his eyes closed, and the silence was
only broken by an irrepressible sob from Mbutu.




                              CHAPTER XII

                              Big Medicine

Barega’s Village--The Cavern in the Cliff--Mutterings--Under a
Cloud--The Bell and the Basket--A Challenge--In the Lists--A Palpable
Hit--Vae Victis


For twenty-four hours Tom lay stark and motionless in one position, the
flush in his cheeks and his quick breathing showing that he was still
alive.  Then, as the morning sunlight entered by the narrow doorway, he
opened his eyes. Mbutu was in the act of spreading new and fragrant
grass upon the floor.

"Mbutu!" came a faint voice from the settle.  The boy flung down the
grass and ran to his master.

"I am terribly hungry," said Tom.

Mbutu looked for a moment incredulous.

"I am indeed.  I think I shall get well after all."

"Neyanzi-gé!" cried Mbutu with a shout of joy, his emotion finding
expression in his native tongue.  "Neyanzi-gé!  I praise too much, sah!
I fank too much!"

He was indeed bubbling, over with thankfulness.  He went out of the hut
and joyously spread the good news.  In a few moments the whole camp knew
that the muzungu was recovering. The chief ordered Bugandanwe, the big
drum, to be struck, and arranged a spear-dance for the evening.  A goat
was instantly killed to make fresh soup, and some of the spearmen who
had carried Tom to the village brought him voluntary offerings of
bananas and sweet-potatoes.  Even at this moment of excitement the chief
displayed an amount of tact which, characteristic as it is of his race,
seemed in strange disaccord with the European idea of the negro.  He
refrained from visiting Tom, and strictly commanded that no one except
Mbutu, not even the katikiro, should go inside the hut on any pretence
until the invalid’s recovery was assured.  As for the katikiro himself,
he beamed on everybody, and, observing the dark look on the face of the
medicine-man, whose prestige was bound to suffer somewhat from the
failure of his prediction, he smiled still more broadly.  He had no love
for Mabruki, and, being a man of shrewd sense, nourished a strong
suspicion that he was a humbug; but being also a discreet man, he was
very careful never to give verbal expression to his thought.

From that time Tom grew slowly better.  At first his limbs seemed
paralysed, and he suffered intense pain from bed-sores; but the good
food and Mbutu’s careful nursing worked improvement day by day.  He was
soon strong enough to receive short visits from Barega and Msala, and on
the tenth day was so far recovered as to have himself carried out before
the sun was hot into the fresh air, well wrapped up in leopard and
antelope skins, and sheltered by an awning.  A week later he first
ventured to walk, leaning on Mbutu’s arm, and he laughed with something
of his old light-heartedness when he saw what thin sticks his legs had
become.  The few paces from his bed to the outside of the hut seemed a
matter of immense labour. But new strength came daily, and in three
weeks he was strong enough to walk unassisted through the village.

Those three weeks had not been wasted.  He got Mbutu to teach him the
language, and was intensely amused at the chief’s gasp of amazement at
being one day addressed in his own tongue.  He obtained also a great
stock of information about the habits and customs of the people.
Remembering his long-standing promise to gratify Mbutu’s appetite for
stories, he drew on his memory for tales of war and adventure, and found
that nothing pleased the boy better than the old, old story of the fight
between the Pigmies and the Cranes.  In return, Mbutu told him legends
of the country: the meaning of the Hyena’s cry; why the Leopard catches
his victim by the throat; and how the Hare outwitted the Elephant.  And
Tom at last heard the story of the Uncle and the Crocodile.

The village itself, with its surroundings, was a subject of considerable
interest for Tom.  From Mbutu he had learnt that a Bahima village
usually contained some twenty huts, with a total population of perhaps a
hundred and fifty.  But Barega, as the place was called after the name
of its chief, was by comparison quite a large town.  It was built upon a
gentle slope, rising from the north gate, by which Tom had entered, for
some five hundred yards up a hill-side.  On its north-eastern boundary,
extending for some hundred and fifty yards, there was a sheer precipice
about two hundred and fifty feet deep, partly overhanging a large open
space of prairie-like land.  Through the centre of the village meandered
a clear streamlet two feet broad, flowing gently downward from
south-west to north-east, and escaping in a light cascade over the
precipice.  About sixteen yards before it reached its outlet, the brook
passed through a large reservoir sunk six feet in the ground, in which
the water was always fresh and pure because of its constant flow.  The
chief’s hut, a round structure of sticks and wattles, plastered with
bluish clay ornamented with designs in white kaolin, stood amid a
ring-fence in the centre of the village, and in an adjoining courtyard a
perennial spring bubbled up, joining the streamlet outside the fence.
The katikiro’s hut, where Tom was located, was placed a few yards from
the chief’s, and the rest of the thatched dwellings were arranged in two
streets round the whole circuit of the village.  A thick and well-kept
stockade encircled the place, broken by only two gates, north and south.
There were some four hundred huts in all, and the population consisted
of about five hundred of the aristocratic Bahima, whose only occupation
was tending cattle and hunting, and nearly fifteen hundred menial Bairo,
who grew what crops were required, chiefly for their own consumption,
and also took part in the larger hunting-expeditions.

The unusual size of the village was explained by its situation.  Being
near the edge of the forest, within the range of the depredations of
Arabs and pigmies, it had become, during the rule of Barega, a sort of
harbour of refuge for people of kindred stock.  Barega had won an
immense reputation for miles around as a dauntless warrior; he had more
than once inflicted trifling defeats on wandering bands of raiders;
spearmen with their families had put themselves under his protection;
and the consequence was that a number of people which, in other parts of
Central Africa, might have been spread over fifteen square miles in
scattered hamlets, was now collected on a space not much more than a
quarter of a mile square.  The plantations were all, save for one large
patch of bananas, on the north side, nearer the forest, while the
cattle, huge herds of oxen, sheep, and goats, had their grazing-grounds
to the south.

As he walked through the village, Tom met none but smiling faces.
Everybody seemed pleased that the rescuer of the chief was restored to
health.  Ere many days passed, his usual escort was a throng of naked
youngsters, who gazed with awe at his tall gaunt figure, and scampered
off in a panic if he happened to turn round and look at them.  Before
long, however, his form lost its terrors, and he became the idol of all
the children in the village.  As he grew stronger, he was never tired of
romping with them, showing them simple tricks, and finding endless
amusement for himself in setting them to play at English games.  "If
games make men of us," he thought, "why not of black youngsters too?"

"’Pon my word, Mbutu," he said one day, "I believe I could make
something of these little beggars if I had them for a year.  Look at
those little chaps over there, with sticks over their shoulders,
marching exactly like a squad of recruits. Uncle Jack would go into fits
if he saw them.  I shall have some funny things to tell him by and by."

As he gained strength Tom made long excursions in the surrounding
country.  In these jaunts he was always attended by Mbutu, under whose
tuition he made rapid progress in Central African woodcraft, and the
thousand artifices with which semi-civilized man carries on his more or
less successful struggle with the elemental forces of nature.

As a boy, crags and cliffs had always had a strange fascination for him;
and for hours together, while still too weak to walk more than a few
yards at a time, he would watch the birds circling around the spur at
the north-eastern extremity of the village.  He noticed that hundreds of
these birds disappeared into a narrow cleft, which seemed from the base
of the cliff to be no more than a couple of feet in height.  For some
days he was content to note the fact, but as his strength returned, he
felt the impulse of a born cragsman to explore the cleft.  It was
clearly a hazardous undertaking, for the spot in question was some two
hundred feet above the ground, and the face of the cliff was almost
perpendicular.  Above the cleft the precipice jutted out at a
considerable angle, rendering any attempt to reach it from above
impossible. There were, however, traces of a narrow ledge along the face
of the cliff, running from the desired spot for some distance parallel
with the ground, and then sweeping gently downwards to a point some
fifty feet above the surface, where it suddenly ceased.  Tom resolved to
attempt the ascent, and not all the entreaties of Mbutu could turn him
from his purpose.  Armed with an improvised alpenstock, and a
grappling-hook to aid him in clinging to the face of the cliff, he
reached the ledge with some difficulty, owing to the loose nature of the
soil. But once on the ledge his progress was more rapid, and in less
than half an hour from the start he found himself at the entrance of an
extensive cavern in the side of the cliff.  The opening was, for the
most part, hidden from view by a large mass of loose rock that had
fallen from the roof.  The slope of the cavern led upward, and although
he soon found himself in darkness, Tom was surprised to find that the
air was quite pure.  At the expense of his shins, he groped his way
upwards, disturbing on the way innumerable bats and birds, which
cannoned against him in a panic rush for the open air. After some thirty
yards of toilsome progress he came to a sudden stop, discovering as he
did so the reason why the cavern had none of the vault-like stuffiness
which he associated with many similar adventures at home.  Through a
cleft in the rock ahead filtered a thin beam of light, but there was no
passage even for Tom’s lithe frame, wasted though it was by a month’s
illness.  Tom was curious to know at what point of the cliff he had
arrived, and, returning to the opening of the cavern, he made signs to
Mbutu to betake himself to the hill overhead.

Again retracing his steps, Tom thrust his alpenstock through the narrow
opening, and shouted to attract Mbutu’s attention, to the complete
discomfiture of the bolder spirits among the feathered inmates of the
cavern, which had clung to their homes throughout this alarming episode.
Mbutu’s quick ears easily caught the signal, and he had no difficulty in
discovering the cleft, which proved to be only a few feet from the
stockade. Tom then returned by the road he had come, well satisfied with
this little adventure, which came as a welcome break in his enforced
idleness.

A day or two after this, Tom said to Mbutu:

"The people here are exceedingly kind, and I have learnt a great deal
that is extremely interesting; but we can’t stay here for ever.  I
should think in another week I’ll be strong enough to make tracks, eh?"

"Sure nuff, sah.  Nyanza ober dar;" he pointed almost due east; "chief
send men too; help sah ’long."

"As a sort of escort, you mean, for I don’t want to be carried again.  I
shan’t forget that time in the forest, Mbutu, nor how much I owe to you.
I feel years older, somehow; and, by the by, d’you think there’s such a
thing as a razor in the village?  I can’t see myself, having no
looking-glass, but I feel that during that illness my face has got a
trifle downy."

"No razor, sah; Bahima pluck hair out.  Muzema-wa-taba do it for sah."

"That’s the chief’s pipe-lighter, isn’t it?  No, thanks! let him
continue lighting his master’s pipe.  Talking of that, since everybody
smokes here, women included, I feel rather out of it without a pipe too;
but really their tobacco is so--well, so intensely aromatic that I don’t
care to risk it.  How that medicine-man scowls at me, by the way."
Mabruki had just passed them.  "I am extremely sorry to have been the
unconscious means of upsetting his apple-cart; and I wish he’d see
reason and make friends."

"No like medicine-man," said Mbutu hurriedly, looking over his shoulder
at the strange figure departing.

"I wonder what he does in those little fetish-huts all round the
village," added Tom.  "Come now, d’you think he’d be pleased if I asked
him for one of those wooden charms I’ve seen him gibbering over?"

"Nebber, nebber, sah," returned the boy earnestly.  "Sah white man; no
want dem things; sah laugh inside."

"Oh, it was only to please the man!--Here’s our friend Msala coming.  I
wonder why the light of his countenance is gone for once."

The katikiro did indeed look unusually grave as he came up.  In answer
to Mbutu’s enquiry, the regular formula "Is it well?" he replied that it
was certainly not well, for he had just discovered that one of his best
oxen, as well as two of the kasegara’s, had died mysteriously during the
night. He could not account for it; they had shown no signs of sickness,
and none of the other animals were affected.  The devil Magaso had
hitherto confined his attentions to bananas; it seemed strange if he had
suddenly become a destroyer of oxen.  One of his Bairo herdsmen, said
the katikiro, suggested that Muhoko, another evil spirit, had paid a
flying visit to the village; but this suggestion he treated with scorn;
he couldn’t imagine a Bairo devil having the impudence to interfere with
Bahima property.  Altogether, the usually genial official was decidedly
upset.

"Perhaps they’ve got poison somehow," said Tom.

Poison!  It was unheard-of.  The beasts would not of their own accord
eat anything poisonous, and who should want to poison them?

"Perhaps someone has a grudge against you and the kasegara."

Against him, the katikiro!  It was impossible.  Wasn’t he a friend to
everyone, never bad-tempered, never greedy, never in anybody’s way?  The
kasegara--oh! there might well be a grudge against him, for he thought a
great deal too much of himself, talked a great deal too volubly at the
village palavers, and had yet to learn that he was inferior to the
katikiro after all.

"No doubt," said Tom, inwardly amused at the whole affair. "Some enemy
of the kasegara, then, has paid him out by poisoning two of his cattle,
and got rid of one of yours too, by mistake.  All cats are gray in the
dark, you know."

This explanation somewhat consoled the katikiro, when a Bahima
equivalent for the proverb had been found; and then, with Mbutu’s
assistance, he engaged in animated conversation with Tom about the prime
minister of the Great White King, whom he was very eager to emulate.

The death of the cattle passed from Tom’s mind, but two days later the
whole camp was in an uproar at the discovery that no fewer than six
other oxen had died in the same mysterious way.  Tom, as he went with
Mbutu for his daily walk round the village, was surprised to find that
the people looked much less pleasantly on him than usual.  The change
was shown in more than looks.  He beckoned to a handsome little boy of
four, a special favourite of his, and the child was running to him when
he was checked by a sharp call from his mother, who sent him howling
into her hut.

"This looks as though we’re outstaying our welcome, Mbutu," said Tom.
"Perhaps we had better arrange to start in a couple of days, when the
chief gets back from the hunt.  I think I’m strong enough to manage the
journey if we don’t have to hurry."

That night, soon after Mbutu had settled to sleep in his usual place
just inside the doorway of his master’s hut, he felt the stealthy touch
of a hand upon his shoulder.  He sprang up, wide awake in an instant.
It was the katikiro’s voice that spoke to him, and asked him to come out
for a little conversation.  Surprised at his choosing such a time, Mbutu
followed him to the hut in which he had for the time taken up his abode,
and there, in low tones, Msala explained the mystery of the villagers’
changed attitude.

It was due to the medicine-man, he said.  That individual had been for
some time doing all he could to stir up the people against the white
man, but had met with little success, so confident were they that their
chief would never have made a friend of a man likely to harm them.  But
the loss of the cattle had now given Mabruki a strong leverage. He had
gone about among the villagers, declaring that the Buchwezi, the spirits
of their ancestors, had revealed to him most positively that the white
man was the cause of all their recent losses.  The katikiro scouted the
suggestion, and had determined to show his friendliness towards Tom by
acquainting him with the origin of the hostile movement.  He advised
Mbutu to lose no time in getting his master away from the village, for
if the infatuation got a thorough hold of the people, even the
protection of the chief would be quite unable to save their lives.

Mbutu returned to the hut in a state of unconquerable nervousness.
After a sleepless night, he gave his master the information he had
received.

"What bosh!" cried Tom, laughing.  "What a fool the medicine-man must
be!  I don’t see what he has to gain by putting this on to me.
Supposing he worked up the people to tear me to pieces, he couldn’t get
rid of Barega, and Murasi would be as far from being chief as ever."

"No, no, sah," said Mbutu, "him say sah kill oxen; berrah well.  Chief
say bosh; berrah well.  Black men say no bosh; chief fool; white man him
master; bad chief; must hab nudder chief.  Oh yes! dat what medicine-man
say!"

"I see; you mean he’ll hit at the chief through me.  Very well; we’ll be
off as soon as the chief returns; he shan’t suffer loss of prestige
through me."

On the second day after this, early in the morning, the chief returned
from a hunting-expedition, in high feather at having secured several
magnificent tusks of ivory.  But his jubilation was changed to terrible
wrath when he was met by the news that two of the finest of his Hima
bulls were dead.  The Bahima are intensely proud of their cattle, and
any injury to them is most bitterly resented.  When Barega heard that
his own loss was only the climax of similar losses among his principal
officers, he blazed forth in fury. He threatened to chop off everybody’s
head, but contented himself with summoning his household officials,
along with the medicine-man and other important tribesmen, to a palaver.
At this it was decided, after very little discussion, that next day a
great smelling-out ceremonial should be held.  The duty of conducting
this important and mystic rite naturally fell upon Mabruki, who at once
went off with a gleeful look of satisfaction to make the necessary
preparations.  As soon as he found an opportunity, the katikiro went to
Tom’s hut, and urged him to fly instantly.  The medicine-man would
assuredly pitch on him as the worker of this evil spell on the cattle,
and nothing could then save him.

"Why should he?  What have I done to him?"

Then, without making an explicit statement, Msala hinted that Mabruki
was bent on the white man’s destruction, and had himself poisoned the
oxen to that end.

"And you expect me to run, eh?" said Tom.  "No, my friend, I’ll see this
through.  I’m not going to abscond, and let that ass bray."

Mbutu had still sufficient superstition to be greatly alarmed at hearing
the medicine-man called an ass.  But the katikiro was greatly tickled
when the boy reluctantly interpreted the opprobrious term, and he went
away chuckling and clacking the native word kapa between his lips with
much enjoyment. He had no objection to other people calling Mabruki
names.

Early next morning the adult population assembled in a huge circle at
the south end of the village, waiting for the mysterious ceremony to
begin.  There was an absence of the light-hearted chatter that goes on
usually in a company of negroes; they were too much awe-stricken at the
occasion. At length the principal officials took their places, and the
chief, in full dress, looking very grim in his leopard-skin mantle and
antelope cap, seated himself on a rough stool, a large elephant’s tusk
being held on each side of him.  Then he gave the order to beat the
drums; the great wooden instruments sent forth deep-booming notes from
their ox-hide heads, and the medicine-man appeared.

He cut a most extraordinary figure.  His fat legs and arms were smeared
with white kaolin; he wore a belt of cowries with bunches of
fetish-grass dangling all round it; on his head there was a remarkable
head-dress of feathers, and his face was hidden by a fantastic grimacing
mask.  In one hand he carried a bell, in the other a basket.  He walked
slowly into the circle, treading gingerly, like a cat on hot bricks, and
halted in the centre of the silent crowd.  Then the chief ordered the
katikiro to proclaim the reason for holding the assembly.  Msala made an
oration lasting fully half an hour, and licked his lips and slapped his
thighs in thorough enjoyment of his own eloquence.  Then was the turn of
the medicine-man.  In a hollow, sepulchral, and unsteady voice he began
to recite an incantation of the abracadabra sort.  As he progressed he
worked himself up into a state of frenzy. Then, depositing his basket
and bell on the ground, he burned a few bunches of specially-prepared
grass which sent forth a nauseating smell.  Moving to the immediate left
of the chief, he began to make the circuit of the crowd, ringing his
bell as he went.  Save for the dong of the bell, there was a silence as
of death; the natives, from the chief downwards, kept their eyes fixed
on the circulating medicine-man, and not even the bleating of a calf,
which had strayed into the village and poked its nose over the shoulder
of one of the women, brought the faintest shadow of a smile to their
faces, though the animal’s mild stare of wonderment almost convulsed
Tom. Round went Mabruki, coming nearer to the spot where Tom stood on
the right of the chief.  Mbutu’s knees were knocking together; he gave a
gasp of relief when the medicine-man passed him.  Suddenly Mabruki
stopped; he was opposite to Tom, three yards away.  He flourished his
bell up and down frantically, but no sound came from it.  A groan went
round the circle; the chief turned and gave Tom an anxious and startled
look, and Mbutu had gone gray about the lips.

Without a word the medicine-man returned to the centre of the circle.
Laying down the bell, he took up the basket and again walked round the
throng, removing the lid of the basket as he came opposite each
individual.  He arrived at Tom, who was standing now with his hands in
his pockets, looking on with a smile of amusement mingled with contempt.
There, though Mabruki apparently pulled with all his strength at the lid
of the basket, it refused to come off.  Angry cries arose from all parts
of the circle; some of the men sprang up and shook their spears
menacingly, but the medicine-man called for silence and began a frenzied
denunciation of the white man.  It was he who had destroyed the
much-prized cattle; the Buchwezi had declared it.  Before him the bell
would not ring, before him the basket-lid was immovable.  The spirits
had given their doom; let the white man die!

Tom still stood with his hands in his pockets, now gazing grimly at his
denouncer.  Inclined at first to pooh-pooh the whole business, he saw
that the people were impressed by the medicine-man’s harangue, and that
the chief was troubled and perplexed.  "Poor fellow!" thought Tom, "I
suppose he’ll have to give in."  It was of no use his merely denying the
charge, he very well knew.  It was equally useless to engage in a war of
words with Mabruki.  It was a time for action, prompt and vigorous.  His
resolution was instantly taken. Almost before the last words were out of
Mabruki’s mouth, he stepped before the chief, bidding Mbutu accompany
him, and asked to be allowed to speak.  Then, in a clear confident
voice, he began his first public speech, the words, unpremeditated as
they were, pouring from his lips with a fluency that surprised him and
taxed Mbutu’s interpretative powers to the full.

"I am amazed, O Barega," he said, "that you, and the mighty tribe you
rule, should be swayed by an ignorant, stupid humbug like Mabruki.  Look
at him, forsooth!  He can’t stand straight; he has been feeding his
courage on tubs of museru till he is fuddled.  He says I destroyed the
cattle. Why should I, a stranger to whom you, O Barega, have shown so
many kindnesses--why should I so basely return evil for your good, and
bring death among those who brought me back to life?  There is no sense
in it.  You believe your medicine-man? I don’t care that for your
medicine-man."  (He walked slowly to the centre,--Mabruki, with eyes
glaring through the mask, retreating before him,--and with two kicks
sent the bell and the basket flying among the negroes, who watched him
in dumb amazement.)  "I will prove to you that his medicine is no
medicine.  To-morrow at sunset, do you, Barega, call your tribe
together, and I will bring medicine to match against Mabruki’s.  Then
shall you see whose medicine is the stronger; then shall you see that I
am a true man, and know Mabruki for the sham he is.  Shall it be so?"

A murmur of assent ran round the ring.  Tom’s dauntless bearing and
confident words, a little amplified perhaps in places by his
interpreter; above all, the fact that he had kicked the magic bell and
basket without suffering instant hurt; had made their impression on the
natives.  And the negro dearly loves a show.  The prospect of a similar
but more novel entertainment entranced them.  The medicine-man was in no
condition to offer a protest; he had seized the opportunity to take
frequent pulls at a gourd of museru, and, exhausted by his own violence,
he now lay a fuddled, huddled heap on the ground.  The chief,
unfeignedly glad of the turn events had taken, consulted with his
officers, and was strongly urged by the katikiro to agree to Tom’s
proposal.  The trial of strength was fixed then for the evening of the
following day, and the assembly broke up.  Now all tongues were loosed;
every incident in the strange scene was canvassed by two thousand
chattering negroes.  Some openly expressed their belief that the
fearless white man would effectually squelch the unhappy discredited
medicine-man, while others still had confidence in Mabruki, and expected
that even yet the white man would smart for his impiety.

Tom spent the rest of that day in seclusion.  He was making medicine,
was Mbutu’s invariable answer to enquiries. The white man was making
medicine!--the word flew round the village, and even the most sceptical
began to believe there was something in it.  Just before sunset Tom sent
for the katikiro, who had been bursting with curiosity to know what was
going on in his own hut.  Darkness fell, and the stars appeared, and yet
he remained with Tom.  The chief, in the hut adjoining, once or twice
fancied he heard the sounds of stifled laughter.  Unable to contain
himself, he went quietly to Tom’s hut, and crept in before Mbutu had
time to interpose.  Tom was standing in the middle, with arms akimbo,
smiling down at the katikiro, who was sitting on the floor fairly
shaking with half-suppressed merriment.  He got up rather sheepishly
when he saw his chief looking grimly at him, and sidled out of the hut.
Tom turned to the chief and said cheerfully:

"I was only finishing my medicine-making, chief.  Everything is ready
now."

"Ah, um!  Are you quite sure that your medicine will be stronger than
Mabruki’s?  If not, I would urge you to flee at once; I will send trusty
men with you.  For if Mabruki prevails to-morrow my people will claim a
terrible revenge."

"Don’t be alarmed, chief.  I will answer for my medicine. I hope your
sleep won’t be disturbed; as for me, I have been working hard, and want
a good night’s rest."

Very early next morning the villagers began to assemble on the site of
the previous day’s ceremony.  Time does not exist for the negro; sunrise
and sundown are his only periods, and the people were quite content to
squat in a circle through all the long hot day.  The crowd was larger
than ever; all the boys and girls had been brought to see the show.
Villagers, even, from outlying parts had come in, the news having spread
with that wonderful speed which is one of the most striking phenomena in
African life.  Nor were the tongues of the people tied by any feeling of
solemnity; on the previous day they might have been compared to the
congregation in a cathedral, to-day they were like the spectators at a
circus.

Sunset was the time fixed for the trial of strength.  As the sun
disappeared the officials came from their huts, the katikiro apparently
relishing his recollection of the previous night’s amusement, and
failing lamentably to maintain the dignity of his office.  The
medicine-man was brought in; he had wisely laid aside his flummery, and
looked more ghastly than ever in his coating of kaolin.  The chief
entered the ring, with his drummers and tusk-bearers, followed by Tom,
and a score of torch-bearers ranged themselves around.

Just as Barega reached his place a man came dashing up the village from
the northern gate, never pausing till he stood before the chief.  It was
one of the principal scouts.  In breathless haste he stated that he had
learned that a strong Arab force was advancing through the forest.  It
was bent on some great enterprise, for the caravan included thousands of
slaves, carrying all the paraphernalia of a camp and large stores of
provisions.  It was by this time only twelve marches away, and was
coming steadily in the direction of the village.  The news went through
the assembly in an instant, and silenced every tongue.  The medicine-man
straightened himself, and with something of his former assurance
proclaimed that the white man was accountable, and that unless he were
expelled or slain the village would fall an easy prey to the enemy. He
evidently welcomed the diversion, and was preparing for a long harangue,
when Tom, advancing, stilled the gathering murmurs with an imperious
gesture.

"Chief," he said, "heed not what the medicine-man says. It is a trial of
strength between our magic to-day; if his medicine proves the stronger,
turn me out or slay me; but if mine, then I promise you I will not leave
you till we have made a good account with your Arab foes.  I know the
Arabs; I have fought them; I have been a prisoner among them and
escaped; I saved you from them.  Is it a bargain?"

Loud shouts of assent broke from the whole company, and the chief, with
a dignified inclination of the head, said: "It shall be so."  Then, amid
breathless silence, the trial of strength commenced.

Tom had resolved from the outset that he would make no attempt to
persuade the natives that Mabruki’s medicine was mere vanity and
hollowness.  Superstitions generations old could not be banished in a
night.  His object was to show, not that the medicine did not exist, but
that it was poor medicine, quite unworthy of an important village, and
not to be compared with the medicine he himself had at command. He began
with a short speech in which he recited the history of the affair up to
the present, finding it rather difficult to get on without the
interpreting aid of Mbutu, who was not at hand.  He laid stress on the
strange disaster that had befallen the primest cattle, and reminded the
people how the medicine-man had professed to discover that he was the
cause, if not the agent, of the death of the bulls.  If this accusation
was merely the outcome of spite and hatred, the Bahima would know how
much reliance to place on it.  If, however, it were really due to the
operation of Mabruki’s magic--here Tom turned swiftly toward the
medicine-man, and cried: "We shall see what faith can be placed on the
words of an ignoramus like this.  Bahima and Bairo, look!"

He seized the bell, which the medicine-man had placed on the basket at
his feet.  Mabruki stood mute and motionless with astonishment as Tom,
ringing the bell with the same large gestures as his enemy, began to
march round the circle. Before he had walked ten paces Tom found, as he
had expected, that by a simple mechanical contrivance the clapper could
be fixed at the will of the performer, and the trick had not been
discovered only because no one else in the village had dared to touch
the magic bell.  He walked on solemnly round the circle until he came to
the place where Mabruki stood scowling, and then, though he agitated the
bell with more than ordinary violence, not a sound came from it.

[Illustration: Tom surprises Mabruki]

There was for a moment a silence as of death.  Then a low growl rumbled
round the throng.  The katikiro laughed, the chief frowned ominously, as
Tom, keeping a wary eye on Mabruki, flung the bell contemptuously at his
feet.  The medicine-man was livid with wrath.  The scorn of his enemy,
the murmurs of the spectators, the despiteful usage of his fetish, whose
terrors were now gone for ever, were too much for him. With a snarl of
rage the burly negro hurled himself at Tom, aiming a vicious blow at him
with a strangely-carved fetish staff he carried in his hand.  It was the
very move Tom had intended to provoke; if only Mabruki could be goaded
to attack him he was confident of the issue.  His confidence appeared to
be shared by Msala, who, alone of that vast throng, seemed to be excited
rather with suppressed merriment than with any emotion of doubt or fear.
The crowd gazed open-mouthed, for Mabruki was to all appearance easily
able to overpower the slim stripling opposed to him.  But as the big man
lurched forward Tom stepped nimbly aside and evaded the blow.  Before
Mabruki could recover he found his wrist firmly grasped, and was jerked
sharply forward, his elbow being gripped as in a vice by Tom’s left
hand.  Then Tom brought into play a trick of Japanese wrestling he had
learnt from a ship’s engineer, who had taken advantage of visits to the
island empire to make a study of methods unrecognized and unknown in
Cumberland and Cornwall.  The medicine-man instinctively resisted when
he felt the forward pull.  Instantly reversing his movement, Tom pushed
his opponent’s elbow up with the left hand while pulling his hand
outwards and downwards with the right.  At the same time he placed his
leg behind his opponent’s knee, and before the astonished magician could
realize what was happening, with a sharp jerk he was thrown on to his
back, the earth seeming to shake under his seventeen stone of
corpulence.

The whole operation had not occupied more than a few seconds.  The
medicine-man in an African village is rather feared than beloved; he has
countless ways of making his dreaded tyranny felt.  When, therefore, the
people saw the man whose power they had held in awe so rapidly
overthrown, apparently without any exertion on the part of his opponent,
a great shout of mocking laughter burst from them.  The katikiro was
bent double with delight, and even Barega’s face relaxed its habitual
gravity, Mabruki, with no breath left in his unwieldy body, thoroughly
cowed, was in no condition to renew the attack.  He still lay upon the
ground as Tom explained that he had turned Mabruki’s medicine upon him,
and shown that white medicine had enabled himself to do what no other
man among them, not even the strongest, could have accomplished.
Mabruki had brought his humiliation upon himself.

"But this," he added, "is mere trifling.  In my country we leave such
simple things to the children.  If you wish to see what the white man’s
magic is like, pay heed to what I am about to do.  And I warn you, be
satisfied with that, lest worse befall."

He walked slowly to the centre of the circle, where the huge king-drum
was placed.  The glare of the torches lit up the hundreds of eager
faces, all gazing at him with eyes opened to their widest.  Even the
katikiro, who had shown no surprise at the previous feats, looked on now
with an air of fearful expectancy.

"Put out your torches!" cried Tom.

One by one the lights were extinguished.  The whole village was covered
with the black darkness of a moonless tropical night.  For half a minute
there was absolute silence; then, taking the drum-stick, Tom smote the
drum with three measured strokes.

Boom! boom! boom!

The hollow sounds rolled away and died in the distance. Nothing could be
heard but the quick pants of the waiting crowd.  A light breeze had
sprung up, grateful after the day’s heat, and from far in the distance
came faintly the trumpet note of an elephant, followed by the quick bark
of a hyena. Again Tom struck the drum.

Boom! boom! boom!

A moment later he noticed a glow in the tree-tops of a plantation
three-quarters of a mile to the west.  The silent throng was still
looking towards him, trying to pierce the darkness.  The glow increased
rapidly in brightness, defining itself as a globe of fire.

B-r-r-rrrrrrrr!

A tremendous roll from the drum woke rumbling echoes all around.
Pointing dramatically with his drum-stick into the sky, Tom cried:
"Behold!"

The crowd turned as one man.  A huge blazing globe was advancing slowly
towards them out of the darkness. The effect was stupendous.  For a
moment the throng was inarticulate with dread.  Then murmurs of fear
arose.  Some of the women shrieked; many of the children buried their
faces in their mothers’ bosoms.  Most of the men sank into their
customary abject attitude of supplication; others were too terrified to
move, and gazed upwards in stupefaction at the advancing and ascending
ball of fire.  It came slowly along on the breeze, passed almost
directly over the village, then mounted higher and higher into the sky
as it drifted eastward.  The crowd watched it in awe-struck silence as
it grew smaller and smaller in the distance, and at last disappeared as
a tiny speck on the horizon.

A gasp of relief rose from the throng.  Barega cried again for torches;
by their light Mabruki could be seen shaking like an aspen, the evidence
of superior medicine having overpowered him altogether.  Among the
people there was the inevitable reaction.  Their fear being removed,
they turned against the medicine-man and assailed him with vehement
cries of scorn. Barega sent for his executioner, and announced his
immediate intention of having Mabruki’s head.  But Tom called aloud for
silence, and beckoning Mbutu, who with the torches had suddenly appeared
at his side, said:

"Barega and Barega’s men," he said, "you have seen with your own eyes.
You saw that with Mabruki’s own bell I proved against him, if such
childish folly can be called a proof, what he had proved against me.
You saw that when he tried to fell me with his weighty fist, with a mere
turn of the hand I laid him low.  And now you have seen how, striking
your own king-drum, Bugandanwe, I summoned a globe of fire from the
trees yonder, and how it sailed away out of sight with a message to the
morning chamber of the sun.  The trial is made; who has the stronger
medicine--Mabruki or I?"

"You, the muzungu!" shouted every creature in the throng.

"And do you, O Barega, any longer believe that I caused the death of
your cattle?"

"No, no; I do not believe it.  If any of my people believes it, he shall
surely die!"

Barega glared round the circle of his trembling subjects, as if to dare
any of them to confess himself a doubter.

"No one believes it," said Tom quickly.  "Now I tell you this," he
added, turning to Barega; "you will lose no more cattle, my friend.
Your losses are due to Mabruki’s bad medicine."

"I will have his head!" cried Barega furiously.

"Wait, my brother.  Let me plead for him.  What will his death avail?
It will not bring back your cattle.  No, it is for the strong to show
mercy.  What shall be his doom?  Let it be this, that he give to
everyone who has lost cattle by this strange death one bull for every
bull that died, you, O chief, to choose first among his beasts.  And
mark, if in the days to come any cattle die in the same way, let Mabruki
give the owner two bulls for every one that so dies.  My medicine is not
concerned with cattle; but I think Mabruki has enough medicine left to
preserve your cattle henceforth."

The suggestion met with instant approval, and Mabruki himself dared not
raise a protest.  As he slunk shamefaced away, the assembly broke up, to
discuss the wonderful occurrences with shouting and laughter for hours
afterwards.

Tom walked quietly back to his hut.

"You did it very well, Mbutu," he said.

Mbutu grinned.

"Like it berrah much, sah," he said; "jolly good bloony bloon."

"Yes; and we must never repeat the performance.  We will not stale our
big medicine, Mbutu."

The explanation of the wonderful event was simplicity itself.

When Tom had offered to pit himself against Mabruki, he had in his mind
the trick of Japanese wrestling.  But that was hardly sufficient,
perhaps, to impress the people, and he resolved to attempt something
even more startling.  While thinking over the matter, he remembered how
amazed he had been himself when, as a young child, he first saw a
balloon. Could he make a fire-balloon?  Suddenly he bethought him of a
roll of Indian silk he had seen among the chief’s possessions. Surely
that would provide the very material he required.  He persuaded the
chief to give him a few lengths from the roll, and during the time of
his seclusion in the hut he had, with Mbutu’s assistance, cut the silk
into strips, stuck them together with a natural gum obtained from trees
near, stitched the seams together, smeared the whole surface with gum to
make it air-tight, and bent a thin sapling to hold open the mouth of the
balloon, with a light pan dangling from it to hold combustible material
steeped in spirit.  Mbutu had smuggled the balloon into the plantation
on the previous night, while Tom was engaged in practising his wrestling
trick on the katikiro.  When the performance began with the ringing of
the bell, Mbutu had inflated the envelope with hot air over a large
charcoal fire, and at the second drum-signal had ignited the
spirit-soaked material, and let the balloon rise.

Before Tom retired to rest that night, the katikiro came to him and
humbly begged to know how he had made fire come from the tree-tops.

"Msala, my friend," said Tom, smiling, "that is my secret. We cannot all
do everything; too much learning, like too much museru, might turn your
head.  Be satisfied with getting your cattle replaced, and take my word
for it that you will never lose your bulls in the same way again."




                              CHAPTER XIII

                           Blood-Brotherhood

Fortifying the Village--The Enemy at the Gate--An Attack at
Dawn--Bridging the Trench--Fireballs--Invested


Tom’s decisive victory over the medicine-man not only restored him to
his former place in the estimation of the people, but raised him to a
pitch of renown which he found somewhat embarrassing.  Presents of all
kinds were thrust upon him by the admiring villagers, and even the
chief, who, though always affable, had nevertheless stood a little upon
his dignity, now opened his heart to him without reserve.  He showed him
one day, hidden carefully under the floor of his hut, a magnificent
collection of elephants’ tusks, some being family heirlooms handed down
from generation to generation, others the spoils of his own chase.  And
then he ventured to make a proposal which he said would once for all fix
the confidence of his people in the white man.  Would Tom become his
blood-brother?

"Most happy, I’m sure," said Tom, who, however, looked a little blue
when the details of the ceremony were told him by Mbutu.  "I don’t mind
having my arm lanced, but I’m hanged if I’ll lick his blood; no, I draw
the line at that."

Barega assured him that a trifle like that need not stand in the way,
and the ceremony was forthwith arranged.  The people were again called
together by tuck of drum.  In the centre of the circle two mats of
wild-cat skin were placed opposite to each other, and on these Tom and
the chief sat cross-legged.  The household officers stood around,
holding shields and spears and swords over Barega’s head.  Then the
katikiro made a small incision in the forearm of each, half-way between
the hand and elbow, from which a little blood oozed. If the rite had
been strictly observed, each would then have licked the blood of the
other, but in deference to Tom’s scruple, the chief was satisfied with
their rubbing the cuts together, so that their blood was commingled.
When this was done the katikiro began to knock two pieces of metal
together, keeping up a monotonous tink, tink, tink, and talking all the
time.  He recited a sort of litany as the chief’s representative: "If
you want shelter, my hut is yours; if you are in trouble, my warriors
are yours; if you are hungry, the food of my land is yours; if you ever
make war upon me, if you ever steal from me, if you ever wound me",--and
so on, the if-clauses continuing for half an hour, "may you die!"  Then
Mbutu got up and followed in a similar strain on Tom’s behalf, after
which the chief presented Tom with a small cube of ivory, and Tom in
return gave him the only thing he had of his own, a trouser-button.  The
blood-brothers then heartily shook hands, and the assembled multitude
shouted the name by which the new brother was to be known among
them--Okubokokuru, which, being interpreted, means "Strong in the Arm".
Tom expressed his gratification at this mark of respect, but pleaded
that his new name might be shortened; and the chief announced that his
brother was to be officially known as Kuboko.

No further news had yet been received of the approaching enemy.  Tom was
longing to see a white face again, but he reflected that all his friends
must now have given him up, and that a few days more would make little
difference.  Besides, he felt the military instinct alive in him.  He
was keen to set his wits once more against the Arab cunning, and when he
seriously thought over it he did not regret his impulsive promise to
stand by his new friends.

"Barega," he said, with a familiarity justified by his new relationship,
on the day after the ceremony, "if we are to defeat these Arabs we must
set about preparations in earnest. Your scout said they were twelve
marches away; twelve has now become ten.  We have ten days.  How many
fighting-men have you?"

The chief replied that he had one hundred and fifty Bahima spearmen, and
four hundred and fifty Bairo, some of whom had spears, the rest bows and
arrows.  They all had small oval shields, made of light basket-work,
with a large central boss of wood.  Tom had already seen and examined
their weapons in the course of his walks about the village.  The Bahima
spear had a long wooden shaft and an iron head with two blood-courses,
one on each side of the central rib.  The Bairo spear was of ruder
construction, the head containing a depression on one side answering to
a ridge on the other. The bow was about four feet long, with a string of
sheep-gut, and the arrows, eighteen inches in length, had barbed heads.

"Not poisoned, I hope?" said Tom, as Barega called up a Muiro to show
his weapon.  He was answered in the negative.  The quiver was a long
tube of hard white-wood, with a wooden cap at each end, and was worn
slung by a string across the shoulder.  Striking designs had been burnt
out in a kind of poker-work on the wood, and Tom was delighted with the
artistic taste they displayed.  Inside the quiver, besides some dozen
arrows, a fire-stick was kept.

"Your arms are pretty serviceable so far as they go," said Tom.  "You
haven’t any guns, I suppose?"

The chief produced a few old rusty flint-locks, along with the three
muskets taken from the Arabs, but as he had no ammunition they were in
any case useless.

"Well now, how is the village prepared to stand an assault? It is
impregnable on the north-east and east, I should say, owing to the
precipice.  The path up to the north gate is steep, and therefore an
attack in that direction might be easily beaten off; but on the west and
south, as well as on the south-east, your stockade, I am afraid, is
easily scaleable.  I would suggest that you dig a trench, Barega,
outside the stockade, and fill it with water from the stream.  And look
here, don’t you think you could make your men work?  You’ll never get
things done if you leave them entirely to the women, and in my country,
you know, we’d think precious little of a man who made his women do
everything."

Stimulated by Tom’s energy, the chief set the whole of his people to
work.  Unluckily, the Bahima not being an agricultural people, they had
only their broad knife-blades to use, though the Bairo were well
supplied with crude implements. Making the best of things, and
impressing even the children into the task, Tom had the satisfaction,
after eight days’ strenuous labour, of seeing the vulnerable part of the
stockade defended by a trench six feet deep and fifteen across.  It was
not carried right up to the stockade for fear of loosening the fencing,
but the interval was planted with sharp stakes, forming a
_chevaux-de-frise_.  Under Tom’s supervision a drawbridge of wattles was
rapidly constructed and thrown over the trench at the southern gate.
The huts outside the stockade, which would afford good cover for an
enemy, were cleared away, the owners being accommodated with new huts
within.

There were now only two days left before the Arabs, at the earliest,
could arrive, and Tom, thinking over the probabilities and
possibilities, and as yet ignorant of the size and composition of the
Arab force, wondered whether the attack might resolve itself into a
siege.  It might of course be beaten back once for all; still, it was
well to be prepared.  He advised the chief, therefore, to lay in a large
stock of provisions, both animal and vegetable.  A good many cattle
could at a pinch be herded inside the stockade, and the flesh of
slaughtered animals could be kept sweet under running water, in little
streamlets diverted from the brook, or preserved in pans of salt.  Great
quantities of bananas, potatoes, maize, and other crops were got in and
stored in the village, until Tom was assured that there was enough food
collected to feed the whole population for at least a month on full
rations.

On the eleventh day, walking round once more with Barega, to see that
nothing had been left undone, Tom observed that one precaution had been
neglected.  Three hundred yards to the south-east of the village there
was a somewhat extensive banana plantation, bounded on the west by the
brook.  This would afford excellent cover to an attacking force armed
with rifles, and it seemed to Tom that it ought to be cut down, a course
he at once suggested to the chief.  But Barega did not appreciate the
tactical point involved, and refused to allow the plantation to be
touched.  Besides, as he said with some truth, there was barely time to
cut it down if the Arabs were to show themselves next day.  Accordingly
Tom had to remain satisfied with what he had achieved.  He was indeed
rather surprised at finding so many of his suggestions adopted without
demur, and was inclined to ascribe it to Mbutu, who, as he discovered,
was constantly singing his master’s praises and dwelling on his
brilliant fighting qualities.  But he really owed much more to his own
tact, and to the care with which he thought out his proposals before he
placed them before Barega.  No man is quicker than the African native to
appreciate real force of character.

Scouts had been sent out to the north and east, the directions from
which the Arabs were presumed likely to come--men familiar with the
forest, who could be trusted to find food for themselves and remain
invisible.  No tidings had yet arrived of the enemy’s near approach, but
Tom did not allow the grass to grow under his feet.  There were several
smithies in the village, fenced off from the inhabited part, and here
Tom kept the smiths constantly employed in sharpening spears and tipping
new-made arrows.  He found means also of still further improving his
defences.  Barega told him, as they were talking over their plans, that
the Arab attack was almost certain to be made in a half-light, just
before dawn. The question at once occurred to Tom: Could not the trench
be disguised so that the enemy might flounder into it unawares?  No
sooner was the question put than the chief slapped his thigh, and cried:
"Yes".  In his hunting he frequently covered over his elephant-pits in
such a way that the animals trod unsuspiciously upon what seemed to be
solid earth, and fell helplessly into the hole.  The same plan could be
pursued now.  No time was lost; bushels of light branches and twigs were
speedily obtained from the woods and laid across the ditch, then covered
with earth and rubbish until the surface, except to a most critical eye,
could not be distinguished from the surrounding soil.  Just before
sunset, Tom walked all round the village, along the edge of the trench,
and, from his inspection, he felt confident that a rapidly-moving enemy
would never discover the trap.

The twelve days were past, and still there was no sign or news of the
Arabs.  Sentries were posted every night at short intervals inside the
stockade, and more than once Tom himself went the rounds in the middle
of the night to see that all was well.  Late on the thirteenth day a
scout came in, tired and famished, with the news that the Arabs were
within two days’ march.  They had been harassed and delayed by pigmies,
who had dogged them almost all the way, and had given cruel proofs of
the sureness of their aim and the virulence of their poisons.  Soon
afterwards other scouts returned, confirming this information.  Tom’s
eyes gleamed at the prospect of a stiff fight.  He got the chief to call
a council of his principal men, and to them he suggested a plan of
operations.

"Brothers," he said, "it is agreed that you trust me.  I am young, as
you see; I have not fought so many fights as Barega here; my friend
Msala is as brave as a lion--either might well lead you to victory.  But
the white men--your cousins--have handed down from father to son many
stories of great fights, and these are in my mind.  Have I done well up
to this time?"

"You have," was the ready and unanimous answer.

"Then hear me when I tell what, with your approval, I think we should
do.  The enemy will come up to our trench on the south and west; they
will stumble into it and be thrown into confusion.  I will lead a picked
band of men out of the south gate, and my brother Barega another out of
the north gate.  We shall thus have the Arabs between us, and we will
advance to meet each other, pressing them all the way.  At the same time
Msala will direct the warriors in the village to assail the enemy with a
thick shower of spears and arrows, taking care to hit the Arabs, and not
their own friends.  Is it understood?"

The assembly grunted approval.

"Then, Barega, do you at once select a hundred of your steadiest men for
yourself, and a hundred also for me, so that all things may be ready
when the enemy appears."

The arrangements were rapidly made.  Every warrior in the village had
his appointed place; a number of the cattle were brought in and tethered
within the stockades, the rest were driven away to the south under the
charge of armed herdsmen, who were instructed to elude the enemy to the
best of their ability.

On the next day the force in the village was swelled by the accession of
two separate bands of Ruanda, whose hamlets had been destroyed by the
Arabs, and who had flocked to the protection of Barega.  The same
evening the last of the scouts came in, with the news that the enemy had
been hastening their march and were bound to arrive next day.  He put
their numbers at five thousand, but Tom knew enough of the African
character to be assured that this estimate was far in excess of the
actual number, and he took the information very quietly.

Now that an attack was imminent, he advised Barega to call a
mass-meeting of the inhabitants.  Standing in the midst of the circle of
negroes, whose kind treatment of him forbade their being called savages,
he felt a deep sense of his responsibility, and spoke with special
seriousness.

"Bahima and Bairo," he said, "you are all my brothers and sisters.  I
believe that I am doing right in helping you to defeat the enemy who has
caused so much misery to you and to all your race.  Please God, we shall
defeat them.  We must all do our best--some to give orders, others to
obey.  My sisters, you will stay with your children in the middle of the
village.  The Arabs will have fire-sticks, and there is no need for any
of you to run into danger.  Your husbands will defend you, and strike
hard for their homes."

Speeches at greater length were delivered by the chief and the katikiro.
The people were deeply impressed; never had they gone to war in any such
way before; and Tom on his side was struck with their intelligence, and
the eagerness they showed to follow instructions so novel to them.  He
was a little uncertain of the steadiness of the Bairo, who were more
impetuous and less docile than the Bahima; but they had been divided
into companies under Bahima officers, and Tom himself had put them
through a little drill in the brief intervals left by their task of
fortifying the village.  All that he feared was that they might break
out in wild rushes, after the undisciplined negro’s manner, and leave
the stockade insufficiently defended.

Next morning, just as light was breaking, the sentries gave word that
the enemy was advancing.  Tom, waked by Mbutu out of a long quiet sleep,
hastened to his post at the southern gate.  For days he had been
hammering it home into the negroes’ heads that silence was a strong
weapon on their side, but the negro cannot change his nature in a week,
and as soon as the news had run through the camp, the eager warriors
came clamorously out of their huts to the stockade.  Tom bade them keep
out of sight, and the enemy, advancing rapidly in crescent-shaped
formation stretching from south-east to north-west, must have believed
that the noise was merely the usual morning bustle in a large village.
On they came, Arabs mingled with Manyema, in perfect silence and fair
order, confident of finding easy access to their expected prize.  The
horns of the crescent reached the trench; twenty men at each extremity
stepped heedlessly on to it, and instantly they were in the water,
floundering beyond their depth.  Loud cries of dismay filled the air;
the rest of the force halted in amazement, scarcely able in the faint
light to perceive what had happened.  Then the deep boom of a drum
rolled from the village, over the precipice, into the wooded plain.

Instantly a thick cloud of missiles flew from the stockade, arrows
whizzed, spears hurtled through the air.  At the same moment, Tom, with
his hundred, sallied out from the southern gate, the men raising a
fierce whoop of exultation.  From the northern gate, after a barely
perceptible interval, came an answering cry; and within the stockade the
warriors, hurling their weapons at the centre of the Arab line, added
their shouts to the din.  The confusion of the Arabs was too great to
permit of their firing a volley; a few separate slugs fell among the
Bahima, and ill-aimed spears struck down a few. But the troops of Tom
and Barega were pressing hard upon the extremities of their line; they
were driven in towards the centre.  An attempt was made by their leaders
to rank them in some sort of order, but the necessity of facing two ways
at once baffled their efforts; the Bahima were upon them in a wild
charge, and with cries of mingled fright and disappointment they broke
and ran.

With yells of triumph the Bahima dashed in pursuit.  But the sun was now
peeping, large and red, over a distant ridge, and by its light Tom saw a
fresh and well-ordered body of men advancing to the support of the
fugitives.  Divining that this was the Arab reserve, he ordered his
drummer to beat the recall, at the very instant when the enemy, even at
the risk of killing their own men, opened fire.  The command was timely,
for the Bahima, unaccustomed to the fire of muskets, already showed
signs of trepidation.  His drum was answered by the chief’s, and the two
bands retreated to their several gates, followed by the hostile force,
their return being covered by a hot discharge of missiles from the
stockade.  After some hesitation, the enemy drew off to reconsider their
plan of attack, pursued by a loud chorus of derisive yells.

Tom had not the heart to check the self congratulation of the people,
who celebrated their victory with song and dance. Victorious, certainly,
had they been, but Tom, cool in the midst of the excitement, had
carefully scanned the opposing forces to estimate their strength, and he
saw that Barega’s warriors were greatly outnumbered.  They were no more
than six hundred fighting men all told, while the enemy, as nearly as he
could tell, consisted of at least three times that number, some ninety
of them being Arabs, and the rest Manyema.  The success of the Bahima
was evidently due solely to the surprise and confusion of the enemy,
for, even with the advantage of the stockade, they could scarcely hope
to outmatch a force so much larger, armed, moreover, as two hundred and
fifty of them were, with muskets and rifles.  The Bahima losses so far
had been few; two men had been killed and five wounded, of whom two died
later.  Of the enemy, six Arabs and about thirty Manyema had been left
upon the field, and others, doubtless, lay drowned at the bottom of the
ditch. It was with some anxiety that Tom awaited the dawn of the next
day.  He passed a sleepless night, framing many conjectures as to the
enemy’s further operations, and thinking out plans for their
discomfiture.  But morning broke in silence; Tom wondered whether spear
and shield were to remain idle.  Looking over the stockade about ten
o’clock, he saw a movement amid a clump of trees about half a mile up
the slope to the south-west, and, carrying his eye downwards to the
north-west, he observed similar evidences of activity in the thicker
woods in that direction also.  Before he had quite realized what this
might portend, a large body of the enemy emerged from each clump, many
of the men carrying what appeared to be a kind of trellis-work.  Their
object flashed instantly into Tom’s mind; they were going to bridge the
trench.  Drums beat, and Bahima and Bairo rushed to the points
threatened; but the enemy halted just out of range of their arrows, and,
under cover of a phalanx of native shields, prepared to rush their
extemporized bridge across the ditch.

Behind the stockade the defenders were keenly alert; Barega had command
of the north-western section, and the katikiro, who, genial time-server
as he was in peace, was a very paladin in war, commanded on the
south-west.  Seeing that all along the western boundary the defence was
in good hands, Tom hastened to the south-east to assure himself that no
danger need be feared in that direction.  Barely half a minute after he
reached a smithy in the south-eastern corner, from the yard of which he
could scan the whole country to the horizon, he saw a strong body of men
spring out of the banana plantation he had vainly urged Barega to cut
down.  They, like their fellows on the other side, had with them a long
piece of trellis-work.  Evidently there was not a moment to lose. Tom
despatched Mbutu to inform Barega of the danger; but so quickly did the
enemy move, that in less than two minutes they had arrived at the edge
of the ditch, flung the trellis bridge across, and begun to swarm over
to the other side, nimbly evading the planted stakes.

Tom looked around.  Only some ten men were within call. Summoning these
to his assistance, he turned to defend the stockade.  He had no weapon
but the musket got in the forest, and that, in default of ammunition, he
could only use as a club.  By the side of the smith’s rude anvil he saw
a recently-sharpened sickle, with a handle eighteen inches long. This he
seized, and sprang to his post again.  Some twenty of the enemy, he saw,
bore light scaling-ladders, hastily constructed since the previous
fight.  These they placed against the stockade and began to clamber up.
There was a fierce hand-to-hand fight.  Tom caught hold of the top of
one of the ladders, on which two Arabs were ascending, and putting forth
his utmost strength, flung it back so that it fell on the climbers.
Some of the Bahima were thrusting their spears through interstices in
the stockade, and cries of agony bore witness to their success.  But for
every man that fell another sprang up to take his place.  Already
several of the enemy had reached the tops of their ladders, and were
firing, fortunately with erratic aim, at the panting defenders.  Three,
indeed, had clambered down on the inner side, and still there was no
sign of the expected reinforcements.  Tom had been slashing with his
sickle in his right hand, and warding off with the musket in his left
the blows of Arab swords and Manyema spears.  Seeing three of the enemy
within his lines, he was down in a moment at the foot of the stockade.
One of the three he clubbed with his musket, and then, while Mbutu, who
returned at this moment, fiercely engaged the second, he pressed hotly
upon the third.  Two of the Bahima were prostrate; the remaining eight
were vainly attempting to stem the torrent now pouring over the
palisade, and Tom was in the thick of the mêlée, laying about him
doughtily.  It was a tense moment; Tom and his little band were
outnumbered ten to one; and the fate of the village hung in the balance.
The enemy were creeping up behind for a final rush, when the katikiro
charged down at the head of two hundred yelling Bairo.  The stockade was
cleared in a few seconds and the baffled enemy driven back over the
ditch.

"Whew!" blew Tom, and then for the first time became aware that he had
received a slight spear-wound in the right arm.  "Blood-brother indeed!"
he said with a smile to the katikiro.  "But Msala, my friend, you were
only just in time. In a minute or two it would have been another case of
what-d’ye-call-him against the world.  Why were you so long bringing up
reinforcements?"

The katikiro was exceedingly sorry, but just before Mbutu had reached
him a similar request had been made by the chief, and he had felt bound,
of course, to obey his chief first.  But it turned out after all to be a
mere waste of time, for the enemy in the north-west quarter, while
making an extremely blusterous demonstration, had never come within
striking distance, and Msala had soon recognized that their show of
activity was a mere feint to draw off attention from the real attack at
the other end.  Tom saw that the delay had been unavoidable, and could
only be thankful that the much-needed support had come after all in the
very nick of time.

The brief rest was a boon; but the enemy were not routed, nor even
definitively driven off.  They were still clinging to their position
outside the stockade, and the Bahima could not get at them without
exposing themselves, nor even assail them effectively with their spears,
for the Arabs had rifles, and were indeed dropping shots over into the
village.  It was clearly necessary to put a stop to these offensive
tactics, and Tom was perplexed as to what measure to adopt.  Suddenly
the idea occurred to him: could he try a few fireballs?  Vague
recollections came to him of something he had read about fireballs in
defence of towns during the wars in the Netherlands. He had noticed
plenty of coarse wool of sheep and goats in the village; there were
heaps of shavings where the artificers had been making spear-shafts; and
the place was reeking with fat of various kinds.  He knew also that
there was a large store of the native spirituous liquors, museru and
marwa, in a shed near the hut of the chief’s cook and purveyor, the
muchumbi wanyama, and he thought it would be rather a good than an evil
if some of the spirits were consumed externally.  He therefore left the
katikiro in command while he himself went to consult the chief.

Barega was charmed with the simplicity and ingenuity of the notion of
worrying the enemy with fireballs, but somewhat downcast when he learnt
the use to which his wine-cellar was to be put.  Thereupon Tom, with the
tact that had marked all his dealing with the natives, did not insist,
but quietly pointed out that if the Arabs got in, they would set fire to
the village, and the spirits would be destroyed with all the rest.  It
was surely better to use half of it in doing some mischief among the
enemy, and perhaps by this means decisively turn the scale.

The chief thought over the matter, consulted the kasegara, and finally,
with an obvious wrench, gave his consent to the course Kuboko proposed.
No more time was lost; twenty natives were immediately set to roll up
balls about six inches in diameter, made of wool and shavings and fat,
and anything else combustible that came to hand, and finally steeped in
the heady spirit.  When some hundred balls were ready, Tom had them
carried to his old post, where the Arabs were once more attempting to
scale the stockade.  They were lighted and thrown in rapid succession
over the stockade on to the trellis-bridge.  The Arabs at first tried to
quench the fallen balls, but others came flaming through the air still
more rapidly, and after some score had been thrown, fearing that their
retreat over the ditch was likely to be cut off by the burning of their
bridge, the enemy threw up the sponge and beat a hasty retreat.  As they
retired, the Bahima gave a tremendous whoop, and sent a cloud of arrows
and spears after them, causing many a gap in their ranks.  They fled on
in rage and confusion, and vanished behind the plantation.

"Ah!  I think they’ve had enough," said Tom.  "Barega, my brother, what
do you think of our morning’s work?"

Barega confessed himself "pleased too much", as Mbutu interpreted him.
"Say one fing, sah; say no want no more museru wasted!"

"Good heavens!" was Tom’s thought, "it’s all got to be argued again.
Wasted!  As Mr. Barkworth would say, ’There’s no gratitude in these
natives!’"  But all he said was: "Tell the chief that I hope we shall
need no more of his excellent stuff, and that I consider he has shown a
fine spirit of self-denial for the common good.  The scamp!" he added
under his breath; "he ought to be as pleased as Punch!"

Tom was in the highest spirits.  He felt confident now that the
resources at his command were sufficient to defend the village against
all attacks in force, and he hoped that the enemy would appreciate the
situation and relinquish their enterprise.

The rest of that day passed uneventfully.  At night sentries were posted
as usual, and none of the precautions were relaxed; but there was no
attack.  The day slipped by with the same tranquillity.  Parties of the
enemy were seen at times, but they were always out of range, and, so far
as could be ascertained from the village, were not making any
preparations for renewing the assault.  That night Tom, walking round by
the stockade the last thing before turning in, noticed that at short
intervals from the north gate round the western and southern sides to
the extreme south-east corner, where the ground shelved down rapidly to
the foot of the precipice, large watch-fires were burning, which had not
previously been the case.

"What does that mean?" he thought.  "Are they going to make a regular
siege of it?  I hope not, for to be cooped up here for another week
would be awful.  I’d give something for a newspaper, or Ranjy’s cricket
book, or even Euclid--yes, by Jove, even old _quod erat
demonstrandum_--to help pass the time away.  By the by, I’ll be
forgetting all my maths out here, and if I’m to stick to engineering
that’ll never do. Well, if it turns out a siege, I’ll set myself a few
stiff problems and correct the solutions experimentally, eh?--besides
teaching these beggars something of infantry drill.  Heigh-ho! ’the
heathen in his blindness’--who’d have thought I should ever be living
among ’em, and a blood-brother too!"

And as he walked back to his hut, in a fit of abstraction he began to
whistle the tune of "From Greenland’s icy mountains," to the great
contentment of the katikiro lying awake.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                         The Siege of Barega’s

The Arab Camp--A Balista--A Vain Appeal--Eureka--Cutting a Channel--The
Eleventh Hour--Barega’s Last Fight--After the Battle


Tom’s premonitions were well founded; on awaking next morning he saw
that the whole accessible part of the village was blockaded by a chain
of posts extending from the north gate to the south-east corner.  The
banana plantations on the south side appeared to be occupied in force,
and the object of the enemy was clearly to prevent any going in or
coming out, and so to starve the villagers into submission. Naturally
Tom congratulated himself on his foresight in stocking the village with
food, and expressed to the chief his confident hope that the besiegers
would tire.

That their intentions were serious was soon evident.  Early in the
morning a large gang of Manyema were observed, nearly half a mile up the
hill, engaged in damming up the stream, and diverting its course from
the village away to the left Tom turned to the katikiro, who happened to
be by his side, and smilingly pointed out what the enemy were doing. The
katikiro was never loth to laugh, and he fairly bubbled over, slapping
his thighs and chuckling with infinite enjoyment.

"How mad they will be," thought Tom, "when they find that we can manage
without water!  The man who planted this village round a constant spring
was a genius.  Besides, they must know there’s plenty of water in the
ditch at present, not very palatable, perhaps, but enough to keep us
alive."

He wondered where the enemy had fixed their main camp. Those of them who
came within sight were for the most part Manyema, and it occurred to Tom
that perhaps the Arabs had departed for a time, to return with
reinforcements of their own race.  However, on the third night of the
siege a Muhima managed to creep out without attracting the attention of
the besiegers, and returned after being absent about three hours, with
information that relieved Tom’s mind on that point.  He discovered that
the Arabs had formed an entrenched camp in a green hollow at the foot of
the precipice at the north-east corner of the village.  They had
evidently noticed that by moving in close to the base of the cliffs they
were protected by the overhanging spur from the weapons of the Bahima,
as well as from any other missiles, such as rocks or fireballs, that
might be hurled from above. They had placed their camp so that any
projectiles thus cast at them would fall outside their eastern boundary,
and their rampart and trench were sufficiently formidable to secure them
against assault.  The position had the further advantage that the cliff
protected them from the prevailing wind, while they had a good supply of
water from a stream that joined the village stream a few hundred yards
below the precipice. Some little distance to the south, where the ground
rose steeply, a large body of their slave carriers had been penned like
cattle, under a strong guard.  The Muhima said that the chief camp
contained some fifteen hundred Arabs, a number which Tom thought might
safely be divided by three.

Several days passed away, most wearisomely for the two thousand people
shut up within the stockade.  While in time of peace, with men
constantly away on hunting expeditions and women working in the fields,
the village was never offensively over-populated, yet now that all the
people were necessarily at home, with more than the usual number of
cattle, Tom feared that it would before long be a hot-bed of fever.  The
people, he had found, were always accustomed to allow calves and other
young animals to sleep in their own huts along with their families, but
it was quite unusual, even for them, to be cooped up constantly with
full-grown beasts.  He did what he could to make the conditions as
little unfavourable to health as possible; but not much was in his
power, and he fretted at his impotence.

The besiegers had clearly abandoned all ideas of an assault in force,
but every now and then a bullet or a slug would whistle over the
stockade, and more than one man was killed. Tom got the chief at length
to forbid any of the people to show themselves, and, accustomed as they
were to a free and open life, they were greatly irritated by the
restriction. Seeing that something must be done to keep them in
good-humour, Tom took advantage of their love of novelty and their
amazing fondness for drill to instruct them for an hour or two every day
in simple movements and formations, finding that they were quite content
to continue drilling on their own account for hours at a stretch.

As time went on, the besiegers were amazed at the unconcern with which
the stoppage of the water-supply had been received in the village, and
came to the conclusion that the people must have been drawing on the
stagnant and dirty water in the ditch.  One morning, then, Tom, who
never relaxed his vigilance, saw a body of men approaching under cover
of a light palisade lined with skins of Hima oxen, which effectually
protected them from the spears and arrows of the villagers.  He was not
long left in doubt about the object they had in view.  They came right
up to the ditch, and began to cut a channel where the ground sloped down
to the east, so as to drain off the water.

Tom was in no anxiety about the loss of water, but he objected to being
"done", as he put it to himself, and yet, in default of firearms, saw no
means of preventing the enemy from effecting their purpose.  Fortunately
a tremendous downpour of rain, forerunner of the approaching rainy
season, drove the Arabs away for that time, and Tom at once set his wits
to work to defeat their scheme should they return. Thinking of one thing
after another, all at once he remembered, in an old illustrated edition
of Caesar he had used in a lower form at school, some engravings of the
torments used by the Romans in their siege operations.  There was the
catapult--ah! and the balista; that was the very thing. Could he manage
to rig up a balista before the ditch was effectually drained?  It was
worth trying.

"Good heavens! what it is to be without pencil and paper!" he groaned.
But he managed with a spear-head to scratch on a stone a rough diagram
of the machine, as nearly as he remembered it, and then immediately set
to work to construct a model.

There was plenty of wood in the village, and it took very little time to
hammer together the square framework, and to chisel out the grooved beam
on which the missile was to run.  While this was being done he set some
of the Bairo to twist two many-stranded ropes, and the native smiths to
forge an iron handle for his winch.  When this was fixed in its place at
the bottom of the grooved plank, and the ropes securely fastened at each
side of the frame, he placed one of the fireballs in front of the cross
rope on the plank, sloped this downwards at an angle of forty-five
degrees, and drew the rope back by means of the winch until it was
stretched to its utmost tension and almost as tight as a steel spring.
Then he released his hold of the handle, it flew round, the spring was
suddenly relaxed, and the ball shot along the groove and over the
stockade, falling some ten yards beyond.

"I’ll have a welcome ready for the Arabs if they return," he thought,
delighted at the success of his experiment.

Some three hours after the downpour had ceased, the Arabs came back in
stronger force, again bearing their palisades. Tom allowed them to
arrive within five yards of the trench, and then let fly a piece of rock
from his balista.  A tremendous cheer arose from the crowd of wondering
negroes as the missile sped with sure aim to the very middle of the
palisade, with such force that it tore a hole through skin and
wicker-work, and struck a man behind.

The Arabs were startled, as they might well be, and halted. Before they
had made up their minds what to do, another missile struck the palisade,
and ricochetted across it, inflicting a blow on one of the Arabs that
would have killed him if its force had not been partly broken.  Another
stone, and another, and then the enemy hesitated no longer; they dropped
their palisade, flung down their tools, and bolted for their lives.
Mocking jeers and exultant laughter followed them, and then a shower of
arrows, and four or five of them dropped.  Tom ordered his men to cease
shooting, and allowed the wounded to be carried off by their friends.

That was the last attempt the enemy made to take the offensive.  They
had clearly recognized by this time that they had a more formidable
antagonist to deal with than the average native of Central Africa.  Tom,
indeed, had freely exposed himself to their marksmen throughout the
operations, and had had more than one narrow escape, as well as the one
slight wound in the arm, which gave him no concern.  They could scarcely
have failed to perceive that they had to reckon with a European of
determination and resource, and from that time on they contented
themselves with a strict investment. They rounded-up what cattle they
could lay their hands on, and, having the banana and other plantations
of the villagers to draw upon, they lived luxuriously without consuming
the provisions they had themselves brought.  They could thus afford to
play a waiting game.

Within the village, however, things were becoming unpleasant, nay,
dangerous.  The sanitary arrangements, at any time crude and imperfect,
were unequal to the necessities of the case, and one or two cases of
sickness had already occurred. The strain upon the fortitude of the
people was proving more than it could bear.  After three weeks the
food-supply began to run short, and the daily rations were diminished,
amid murmurings from the Bairo.  A week later it was found necessary by
the chief to order the slaughter of several of the much-prized cattle.
Now that it had come to this pass, the Bairo were bound to suffer most,
for, living as they did for the most part on fruits and grain, the stock
of which was well-nigh exhausted, they were without the resources of the
Bahima, and were earlier in straits for food.

Early in the fifth week of the siege Tom begged the chief to call a
palaver.  Barega had displayed qualities of patience and endurance which
won Tom’s unbounded admiration. From the beginning of the siege he
seemed to have recognized that his only chance of successful resistance
was to trust in the ingenuity and prudence of his blood-brother, and he
had sunk his own pre-eminence without a shade of jealousy.  No doubt
this was in great measure due to Tom’s own tactfulness.  He took no
steps without consulting the chief, and he had that invaluable faculty
which enables a man to get his own way without the other party
suspecting it.  Barega, therefore, willingly called a council, and
showed his readiness to listen to anything his brother had to say.

"Barega and my brothers," Tom began, "we have held out so long, and we
are not going to give in."  (Grunts of applause.)  "But we cannot shut
our eyes to the fact that we are in sore straits.  Our food will last
but a few days more, and then, without help, we must starve.  Now, if
our enemies had no firearms, Barega and I together would lead you out of
the village and attack them.  But we cannot cope with their weapons, and
if we made the attempt it would surely fail.  Is it impossible to obtain
help from outside? Are there no villages within reach whose people have
suffered at the hands of the Arabs, and would aid us against the common
enemy?  Brothers, it is for you to speak."

The katikiro at once replied that there were three villages within a
radius of thirty miles which certainly had suffered by the Arabs’
depredations and might possibly be able to lend assistance.  One of
them, however, Barega reminded the assembly, was ruled by a chief who
was extremely jealous of his power, and would not be much inclined to
put himself out on any such matter.  Still, it could be tried.  Barega
then selected three of his fleetest runners, and two hours before dawn,
under a moonless sky, they were sent out singly from the north gate.

When morning broke, Tom was called from his hut by furious cries in the
village.  Hastening out, he soon understood the cause of the uproar.
Outside the stockade, just beyond arrow-range, a big Manyema was
parading before the eyes of the villagers, holding a spear aloft, and on
the end of it was the bleeding head of one of the three runners.  Behind
him marched a crowd of mocking negroes, pointing derisively to the
impaled head, and shouting threats at the enraged villagers.  Tom
mentally registered that as one more atrocity for which the Arabs would
some day have to pay, and then did his best to pacify the people.

The other two runners, as it turned out, had been lucky enough to get
through the enemy’s lines undetected.  They both returned on the
following night.  One of them announced that Barega’s rival had received
him with scorn and insult, and that he had barely escaped with his life.
The other brought news that a raiding-party of Arabs, evidently
despatched by the surrounding force, had surprised and burned the
neighbouring village a few days before, and that the few inhabitants who
had escaped were hiding in the forest.

With this intelligence, it was impossible to disguise the fact that the
outlook was gloomy in the extreme.  It was hopeless to look for help
from outside, and from the inside it appeared that nothing could be
done.  The rainy season had set in, and sickness had declared itself
unmistakeably, especially among the Bairo, who had all along been less
well nourished than the Bahima.  They were reduced now to a few handfuls
of grain daily, and as they roamed about, the ribs showing through their
skin, they cast ravenous eyes at the few remaining cattle. Murmurs of
"Give us food! give us food!" met the ears of Barega and his officers as
they went about, and some of the more violent of the poor people had
begun again to listen to the half-lunatic ravings of the medicine-man,
who, since his defeat, had sulked almost unnoticed in his hut.  Even
some of the Bahima, talking among themselves, said that it would be
better to submit to the enemy than to die of slow starvation. The
katikiro, who through all the incidents of the siege had never lost his
faith in Tom, informed him of these murmurs, and Tom impressed on Barega
that he must still them at once. The chief immediately summoned a
mass-meeting, and addressed his people in an impassioned speech.  What
would their fate be, he asked, if they yielded?  Nine-tenths of the men
would be butchered on the spot, along with all the older women and all
who were too infirm to stand the strain of marching in a slave-caravan.
What would become of their younger women and children?  Barega pictured
the line of miserable slaves, marching in chains at the mercy of their
brutal captors, dropping and left to rot on the path; if they survived
the march, to suffer tortures compared with which the fate of their
murdered kinsfolk would be happy indeed. Let them choose, he cried, let
them choose freely; as for him, he would die in his village, fighting
his foe if so it might be; if not, still he would die a free man!

His burning words provoked a shout of approval from the throng, and then
Tom stepped forward.  A deep hush fell upon the assembly; every man
there felt a strange magnetic power in the young white man who had stood
by them and done them such good service.

"O Bahima and Bairo!" he cried, "brothers, all of you, do not give up
hope.  You have heard your brave chief; his words are the words of a
lion-heart.  I tell you now that I believe we shall yet win.  There is a
town, in a far land belonging to the Great White King, which was
besieged like this village for many long days, and where the people
waited and waited, hoping that at last their friends would come to their
aid and drive away the hordes besieging them.  Their food was gone; they
were sick, aye, sick unto death; but did they give in?  Know that the
children of the Great White King never give in!  No; they waited and
fought, and some of them died, and then at last, far over the fields,
they saw the spears of their friends advancing to help them, and the
enemy melted away like mist in the sun, and they were saved! Let us wait
also, a little longer, my brothers!"

For a moment after he had ceased the silence was unbroken. Then the
katikiro sprang into the ring; his feelings could be played on like the
notes of an instrument; raising his spear aloft he cried "Muzungu will
save us!  Kuboko will save us!" The crowd took up his cry, and Tom was
touched to the quick to see their haggard faces lit up once more with
the light of hope, and their wild eyes fixed on him as their expected
deliverer.

That night he lay awake, thinking, thinking, racking his brains for some
means of compelling the enemy to raise the siege and justifying the
confidence of the villagers.  All the expedients that he had ever read
of were passed in turn before his mind, only to be dismissed as
impracticable; the want of firearms and gunpowder was against them all.
Then suddenly, by an inspiration seemingly quite unconnected with his
train of thought, a light flashed upon his mind.  There was no need to
weigh probabilities; the idea carried conviction with it. Crying "I have
it!" he sprang from his couch, waking Mbutu with a start.

"Come, Mbutu," he said, "a night’s work and a day’s waiting and then we
shall be free.  Come with me."

In pitch darkness, for the sky was heavy with threatening rain, they
made their way across the courtyard into the village, past the silent
reservoir and the swollen stream, up to the stockade above the
precipice.  There they clambered over with infinite caution, lest the
slightest sound should arouse the attention of the Arabs below.  Feeling
over the ground, they searched for the small aperture through which Tom
had thrust his stick when exploring the cavern.  Tom was half afraid
lest some shifting of the soil had covered it up; but after ten minutes’
careful search Mbutu whispered that he had put his hand into it.
Thrusting a stick into the hole to mark the spot, they hurried to the
chief’s hut.  When Barega came out, rubbing his eyes, Tom asked him for
the services of twenty men, with baskets, spades, and bars of iron.  He
asked him also to pretend to lead a sortie out of the south gate, and to
order his men to make as much noise as possible.

"Beat all your drums," he said; "clash all your pots and pans together;
let the men yell their hardest, and keep up the din until I send you
word."

Barega naturally asked what purpose was to be served by all this to-do,
and what his brother would be about in the meantime.  But Tom begged him
to wait a little; he had a plan, he said.  He would rather keep it to
himself until he was sure of its success, lest his brother should be
disappointed. The chief agreed to follow his instructions, and Tom left
him.

Getting twenty of the strongest men together, he led them across the
stockade, impressing on them that they must exercise the greatest
caution and hold their tongues.  Arriving the hole, he selected four of
the longest and strongest bars of iron and ordered the men to push them
quietly for some distance into the narrow cleft.  Then, when he gave the
word, one man on the one side was to push and two men on the other to
pull at each bar, his aim being to widen the cleft into a practicable
passage.  The bars had barely been inserted when the noise of drums
rolled over the stockade.  A moment afterwards a great clashing and
clanking startled the air, and wild cries from some hundreds of lusty
throats woke echoes from rock and plantation.  The sounds of hurried
movement rose from the depths of the precipice; the Arab camp was
evidently alarmed; and then Tom gave the signal.  The men pushed and
pulled as he had directed, but in vain; the heavy rock refused to budge.
Another man was told off to each bar, and again they put forth their
strength; but still there was no sign of movement.  The uproar from the
village was greater than ever; there was little risk, after all, Tom
thought, of his movements being heard; so he now ordered the men to
exert all the force of which they were capable, regardless of noise. The
result was startling.  The whole of the ground; near the rock suddenly
gave way and fell with a swish and thud into the cavern.  Two of the men
stumbled forward after it into the darkness, and knocked their shins
violently against the rock.  But they clambered up again, and Tom found
that all the damage they had suffered was a few contusions.

[Illustration: BAREGA’S VILLAGE DURING THE SIEGE]

Tom now went, cautiously feeling his way, to the extreme verge of the
precipice, and, bidding his men keep silence, strained his ears to catch
any sounds from below.  There was not a murmur.  He judged that the
Arabs had hastily left their camp and made their way up to the south
gate to meet the anticipated attack.  It appeared safe.

"Dig, men, dig!" he said.

The twenty Bahima began to dig a passage through the debris.  Not a word
was spoken.  The din in the village was beginning to lull.  Tom
despatched Mbutu with the request that the noise should be kept up.  The
baskets of earth, as they were filled, were carried to the stockade and
emptied on the inside.  The work went on as rapidly as possible in the
darkness, the men toiling with unabated zeal, sure that Kuboko, the man
of big medicine, must have some excellent plan in view.  Meanwhile the
chief, finding the Arabs pressing close, and their rifle fire, erratic
as it was, becoming dangerous, had withdrawn his sortie-party into the
village; but the drums still maintained a tremendous din that must have
been heard in the still night air for many miles.

Rather more than two hours had gone, and only the first part of the task
Tom had in his mind was completed.  A clear passage ten feet wide had
been cut from the summit of the cliff into the cavern.  Ordering the
panting negroes to sit down and rest, Tom walked back the twelve feet to
the stockade, took a string of bush-rope from his pocket, and tying it
to one of the palings, returned to his men.  The straight line made by
the string lay in the direction of the tank.  Then he set the men to dig
a trench along the line towards the stockade, making it ten feet wide
and three deep.  He ordered them to stop within a foot of the fencing,
lest that should be loosened by the movement of the earth.  This took
another two hours, as nearly as Tom could judge.  It was approaching
three o’clock in the morning, and there was still much to be done before
his arrangements were complete.  Thinking it wise to defer the rest of
his operations, for which light was absolutely necessary, he dismissed
the men, returned to the village, and sent word to the chief that the
weary drummers might now take their well-earned rest.

Then he unfolded his scheme to the wondering chief.  The Arab camp at
the foot of the precipice was, it was true, secure from missiles hurled
over the spur; but it was immediately below the cavern.  Tom’s plan was
to let the water from the full reservoir suddenly into the cavern, and
he calculated that the force it gained as it plunged thence over the
precipice would be sufficient to work havoc below.  The reservoir was
eighty yards long and sixty wide; its depth was more than six feet; the
weight of the water it contained was thus some seven thousand tons.  By
the time this immense quantity, gathering impetus as it fell, reached
the camp two hundred feet beneath its outlet, the dynamic energy it
would have acquired would be tremendous.  The plan threw Barega into
wild excitement, and he was eager to see it carried out at once; but Tom
smilingly informed him that there was work still to be done, and,
thanking him for so admirably making a noise, advised him to retire to
his hut and finish his broken sleep.

Next day the whole village knew that Kuboko had some terrifically big
medicine in preparation, though none but the chief as yet knew what it
was.  Tom had many times to drive away the crowd of little half-starved
children who came about him, looking up into his face with admiration
and awe.  There was still a trench to be dug from the reservoir to the
stockade, but as the village was exposed to the Arabs on the upper
ground to the south, no digging could be done during the day.  Rain fell
heavily, and Tom hoped almost against hope that it would cease before
night, and that some glimmer of moonlight would enable him then to
complete his preparations. During the day, however, he was not idle.  He
employed the same men who had so intelligently constructed his balista
in making the rough semblance of the two doors of a river lock, each
five feet wide and six feet deep.  When finished, the edge of each was
pierced with a red-hot bar of iron in three places at equal distances
apart.  Then the two doors were stitched together with bush rope through
the holes, and the seam was covered with cloth well plastered with
kaolin, the cloth being made to adhere to the wood with glue extracted
from the bones of oxen.  Wood was getting short in the village, but Tom,
after some search, found four stout balks which he laid aside for future
use.

Well pleased with his morning’s work, he slept all the afternoon, and
then, as soon as it was dark, set eight hundred men and women digging
the trench to connect the tank with the trench outside the stockade.  He
placed them at various points along the line of twenty yards, so that
the work might be quickly carried out, and nearest the tank left a bank
three feet thick untouched.  When the trench was so far complete, he let
down at the end three feet from the tank the twin hatchway he had
constructed, so that it completely blocked the channel, and shored it up
with the four balks of timber, two to each panel.  Round the lower end
of these he got his men to fasten strong ropes, the other ends of which
he tied to posts driven into the ground above.

It was now, he judged, about eleven o’clock.  The rain had ceased, and
in three hours the new moon would rise. Dismissing the great body of the
workers, with orders that a small gang of them should remain within
call, he took the chief aside to make final arrangements.  As the edge
of the moon appeared over the horizon, Barega was to muster four hundred
men at the south gate, and the katikiro two hundred at the north gate.
Tom surmised that when the avalanche of water descended upon their camp,
the Arabs would in their flight rush for safety to the higher ground on
either side. They would probably be unarmed, and should fall an easy
prey to the Bahima.  Those who were encamped round the village and in
the banana plantation would naturally run to the assistance of their
friends, and would take the paths around the south end of the village.
Three hundred of the four hundred Bahima there placed would take them in
flank, the remaining hundred were to attack the fugitives from the camp,
who would be assailed at the same time by the party from the north.
Thinking out all these details carefully, Tom saw the possibility of a
hitch should the Arabs become alarmed before he was ready; but he
impressed upon Barega and the katikiro that they must entirely reverse
the procedure of the previous night, and, instead of making as much din
as possible, enjoin the strictest silence on their men.

It only remained to scoop out the earth left between the tank and the
trench, and between the end of the outer trench and the stockade.  Some
ten feet of the fencing was quietly removed to facilitate operations;
then the reserve gang was called up, and in about an hour the work was
done.  The scooping at the tank end was a delicate task, for Tom did not
wish to lose any lives by drowning.  The last thin wall of earth between
the boards and the reservoir was pushed down with long poles, and the
water, flowing into the trench, was checked by the hatchway.  Beyond
that there was a clear course through a channel five feet wide and six
deep to the arch of the cavern, and that was perpendicularly above the
camp.  Tom sent Mbutu to see that the sortie-parties were ready, loosed
the ends of the ropes about the posts, and placed four strong men at
each.  His arrangements were complete.

Now that the critical moment was so near at hand Tom’s heart in spite of
himself beat with almost audible thuds. There was the huge reservoir,
the surface of the water just discernible, only a gentle ripple on its
surface indicating its recent disturbance.  In a few short moments that
placid pond was to become an impetuous torrent, rushing downward with
all the force of its seven thousand tons, nothing to check it, nothing
to prevent it from dealing death to the men below. As his vivid
imagination conjured up the scene at the base of the precipice, and
contrasted it with the peaceful scene above, Tom felt a pang, a touch of
pity and remorse, a shuddering reluctance to launch so many miserable
wretches into eternity. But that inward vision dissolved, and another
took its place. He saw once more the long caravan of slaves, the gaunt,
chained figures, with the wild, hunted look, the terrible lash of their
masters provoking shrieks answered by redoubled blows, the horrible
mutilations inflicted on weak women and children.  There rang in his
ears once more the piteous cry of a poor slave woman who for some
trivial offence was led away to be slaughtered: "Oh, my lord, oh, my
master!  Oh, my lord, oh, my master!"  He felt a rush of hot blood to
his face, a flush of shame that such things should be.  He remembered
that such treatment would be measured out to Barega’s people if the
Arabs captured the village, and thought with a solemn sense of awe of
the strange chain of events which had made him so potent a factor in the
life and safety of these black people.  It was life against life--the
Arabs were a pest--and he set his lips and hardened his heart.

Then, looking towards the horizon, he saw the ruddy horn of the moon
emerging.  Ten minutes passed; he could see dimly the outlines of the
trees.

"Now!" he whispered, with an outward calm that gave no clue to his
intense emotion.  The sixteen men heaved at the ropes; the balks of
timber fell; the weight of water falling on the unsupported hatchway
drove it inwards; and in ten seconds more the torrent swept with a dull
roar into the cavern.  Then, with a crash that seemed to shake the cliff
to its foundations, the enormous mass of loose rock hiding the mouth of
the cavern was driven over the edge.  Even above the roar and splash
rose the cries of the hapless men beneath, and then from each end of the
camp came, as though in mocking answer, the exultant shouts of the
warriors hastening to assail their foe.  A few rifle shots rang out, but
the rush of the Bahima was irresistible.  They were famished, they were
fighting for their lives and liberty, and, dashing down the slopes to
north and south, they fell without mercy or respite upon their shaken
foes.

Demoralized, leaderless, unarmed, the Arabs and Manyema below were
rushing hither and thither like scared sheep, unable to act, unable to
think.  The force in the plantations above, catching the panic,
scattered at the first onslaught of the Bahima, who, with spears and
knives and every kind of weapon, were strewing the ground with dead.
One little group, holding close together under their leader, came
rushing across the path of the Bahima chief at the head of his men.
Barega lifted his spear to strike, but the Arab leader, at four paces’
distance, fired his pistol at him point-blank, and he fell. The next
instant the Arab was transfixed with a dozen spears, but the gallant
chief, shot through the breast, had fought his last fight.  His men
rushed on, pursuing the enemy with savage cries, and the chief, lifting
himself painfully upon his elbow, saw that he was alone.  A few seconds
later, Tom, his task on the bluff finished, came hasting with Mbutu and
his sixteen men to assist in the fight.  Many bodies lay scattered prone
on the ground, but among them he saw one man in a half-sitting posture.

"Kuboko!  Kuboko, my brother!"

Tom heard the faint cry, started, and turned aside.  He had but just
time to grip the outstretched hand; then Barega heaved a sigh and died.
Tom stood looking down at his dead friend, for, during the months they
had been so strangely thrown together, he had come to look upon the
simple, heathen African as a true friend.  Thoughts of what he owed to
the negro passed through his mind; he felt deeply sorry that Barega was
never to enjoy the fruits of the victory for which they had worked
together.  "Poor fellow!" he murmured; then, gulping down the lump in
his throat, he went on.

The tide of battle, if battle it could be called, had meanwhile rolled
onwards.  All unconscious of the death of their chief, the Bahima sped
down into the plain, hunting the fugitives like wild beasts, tracking
them in the moonlight like sleuth-hounds to places where they attempted
to hide.  There were no prisoners, none merely wounded; the Bahima did
their fell work thoroughly.  Right into the outskirts of the forest they
kept up the chase till, tired of the work of slaughter, they began to
straggle back to the village.  All night long they continued to come in
by twos and threes, some small parties even not arriving until after
dawn.

The scene when daylight broke was gruesome beyond belief. The tent of
the Arab chief lay half-buried beneath a mass of broken rock in the
centre of a shallow pond.  Many of the Arabs and Manyeina had perished
by the avalanche of earth and water, and scores had fallen to the spears
of the Bahima. The camp was half under water, and all kinds of articles
were floating about or showing above the surface, among them several
barrels which Tom guessed to be filled with gunpowder.  Rifles, pistols,
spears, a medley of weapons and implements, were scattered all around,
and outside the immediate circle of devastation many boxes and bags of
provisions lay uninjured.

Walking down to the scene, sick at heart, and yet convinced that he had
only done his duty, Tom came, within about five hundred yards of the
chief’s tent, upon an enclosure in which some four hundred slaves were
herded.  It seemed that only by the merest chance could they have
escaped the massacre. They had in reality been saved by their position.
Their enclosure had been placed where it was so that the free movements
of their masters round the village should not be impeded.  Thus, while
exposed to the wind and weather, they had been out of the direct line of
the Bahima’s onslaught. Being chained and fenced in, they had been
unable to escape, and, indeed, their Manyema guards had stuck to their
posts till the last, and only fled when dawn showed them the fate of
their friends.  Tom at once gave orders that the fetters on these men
and women should be knocked off, and that they should be taken under a
guard into the village.  They could there be fed, and it might be
decided subsequently what was to be done with them.

Tom then set a party of Bairo to recover from the water as many of the
Arabs’ effects as possible, and another to search the surrounding
country for any traces of Hima cattle which had escaped the Arabs.  He
was about to order another gang to bury the dead, but remembered that
the people who had died in the village before the arrival of the Arabs
had not been buried, but taken out into the open to be eaten by the
beasts of the field.  Only the chief’s body was usually buried, and all
that was left of Barega had already been carried into the village to
await solemn interment in the ground below his hut.  Ordering the
villagers to remove the dead to a distance, and to leave them exposed on
the plain, Tom returned dead-beat to his hut, and threw himself down
upon his couch.




                               CHAPTER XV

                            Arms and the Man

A Deputation--An Unexpected Honour--Msala Improves the Occasion--The
Political Situation--First Steps--A Problem--Prospecting for
Sulphur--Herr Schwab on His Travels--Made in Germany


The chief was buried at nightfall.  A long framework of banana-stalks
was constructed, on which his body was placed. It was then covered with
several layers of bark-cloth provided by his wives, who had smeared
their faces with kaolin, and taken off their necklaces, armlets, and
other articles of adornment, exhibiting, besides these outward signs of
mourning, a very real grief.  Tom had a vague idea that at a chief’s
death his wives were slain and buried with him, and was greatly relieved
to find that this was not the custom among the Bahima.  A deep hole was
dug beneath the hut, and there, after the recital of a sort of liturgy
by the medicine-man, who had emerged from his retirement into a position
of some importance again, Barega was consigned to his last home amid
wailing and lamentation.

Returning sadly to his hut, Tom lay awake thinking of many things.  His
task, he supposed, was now done.  The villagers would elect another
chief, and things would go on as before. He himself would be free to
return to his own kind and kin, whose interests he resolved to enlist on
behalf of the people.

"And surely the Free State officials ought to look after them," he
thought.  "I suppose they are too remote to have done anything hitherto.
I wonder whether Uncle Jack could get me some work under their
government, so that I could do something systematically towards the
freeing of the slaves? Englishmen have been thus employed, I know.
There was Captain Hinde, and Captain Burrows; I am sure I have read
something about their work.  I’d rather be in the service of our own
Government, of course, but I suppose there’s no chance of that whatever.
Well, it isn’t much use speculating after all.  I don’t want to go back
to Glasgow if I can help it, though, if I am to be an engineer, I
suppose I couldn’t learn my trade better anywhere else.  I wonder who
their new chief will be, by the by?  Murasi is, of course, out of the
question, and Mwonga, the other brother, is at present too young, though
he’s a fine, handsome, intelligent lad, and will turn out well some day.
The katikiro--really I am quite fond of that amusing old boy--is all
very well in a fight, but he hasn’t a particle of moral courage, and I’m
afraid, if it came to a tussle between him and the medicine-man, he’d be
nowhere. Well, they must fight it out among themselves."

Next morning, before he was up, Mbutu came to him in a state of
considerable excitement.

"Sah," he said, "katikiro outside; kasegara outside; all big men
outside; want see sah, bad want."

"Do they, indeed?  Well, Mbutu, tell them I’ll be out in a minute or
two.  I suppose they’ll proceed to elect a new chief to-day," he
resumed, when Mbutu returned.

"No, sah, no chief yet; wait one moon; great big cry fust."

"Dear me!  I shouldn’t have thought there’d be official mourning in
savage Africa!  So they keep it up for a month, eh?"

"Yes, sah.  Brudders, sons, cousins, all people come drink museru, sah;
knock big drum, little drum; sing, dance all night, sah; den make new
chief."

"I should like to see that; but we can’t wait a month; we must be off
back to the Nyanza in a day or two."

All this time Tom had been taking his morning tub and donning his
clothes.

"Don’t believe Uncle Jack would know me from a chimpanzee," he said with
a laugh.  "What with this wretched down upon my cheeks, and my long
mane, and my patched old toggery, I’m more like one of those begging
fakirs in India he has told me about than anything else I ever heard of.
Well, now to see what my friend Msala wants."

He went out of the hut.  The katikiro, the kasegara, and all the other
leading men of the village were grouped with Mwonga, the chief’s younger
brother, in their midst, shifting from one foot to the other in a sort
of nervous excitement. The instant they saw Tom they threw themselves
flat on their faces in a line, and began to crawl towards him.

"What on earth’s the meaning of this?" ejaculated Tom, aghast.  "And
what are you grinning at?" he added, turning to Mbutu, whose face was
beaming with delight.

"Neyanzi-gé!  Neyanzi-gé!" cried Mbutu, clapping his hands. "I praise
too much, sah.  I fank too much."

"For goodness sake tell them to get up and behave as reasonable
creatures.  That’s the sort of thing they do to their fetishes; I’m not
a fetish.  ’Pon my word, it’s too silly even to laugh at.  Up, Msala;
don’t grovel there. Confound you, leave my knees alone," he added, under
his breath, for the katikiro had crawled up to him and clasped his
knees.

Mbutu made the crawlers understand that Kuboko would be seriously
annoyed if they did not stand on their feet, and they got up, one by
one, with manifest reluctance.

"Now," said Tom, "just explain in a sensible way what all this
performance means."

The katikiro looked at his companions as though asking their permission
to speak; then, leading Mwonga by the hand, he stepped forward.

"O Kuboko," he said, "Barega is dead, a chief brave as a lion, mighty in
war, a great hunter, a fearless slayer of elephants.  Now we, his
people, have no chief; we have lost our father and mother; we have none
to lead us in fight or guide us in peace, none to judge us or to do us
right. Murasi is unstable as water; he is at this moment mingling his
tears with museru.  Mwonga here is but a boy; brave--let no man say he
is not brave,--but many moons must pass before he can slay elephants and
rule men like his brother Barega. Know, O Kuboko, that by the custom of
the Bahima we should wait a long moon before we choose our chief; the
days of mourning are not yet over; the fresh museru is not brewed. But
we dare not wait.  The Arabs are gone, those that were left of them;
thou, O Kuboko, knowest why and how they went; but they will come again;
they will bring their friends in number as the seed of millet, and will
fight against us, and what can we do against them without a chief?  Why
will they come?  They will come because they must.  If they submit like
dogs to a whipping, will they not be dogs for ever-more?  What black man
will fear them?  They will be mocked at, flouted, kicked and spurned;
the black man will hunt them.  They must come back to prove that they
are lions and no dogs.  And when they come, what are we, O Kuboko? We
have no fire-sticks; we have no strong magic; our medicine-man is but
hollow, a tinkler like his own bell.  What are we without thee, O
Kuboko?  Who was it dug the ditch around our village?  Who was it made
the fireballs?  Who built the wonderful thrower that flung stones a
thousand miles?  Who made the water run like a water-spout from the sky,
and saved us and ours from death and chains?  Thou it was, O Kuboko;
thou didst these things, and more.  Barega, yes, Barega was a great
chief, and thou, O Kuboko, thou didst save even Barega. Thou art
mightier than Barega and ten thousand other chiefs; thou alone canst
defend us against the mighty host soon to come upon us; thou hast the
magic of the white men, the strong arm of all the children of the Great
White King. Thou, O Kuboko, art our chief.  We all say it.  We have
talked; we have spoken to the spirits of our fathers and our fathers’
fathers, and they all say Kuboko is our chief."

"It’s very kind of you, Msala, and you’ve said uncommonly nice things
about me, but it can’t be, my friend.  I am really deeply touched by
your confidence, but I feel that I ought to lose no time now in
rejoining my own people.  You are mourning your dead chief, and my
friends, you must remember, are mourning me, no doubt, as dead."

Kuboko need not think of that, said the katikiro eagerly; messengers
should be despatched at once to the ends of the earth to explain.  If he
would not be their chief, would he not at least stay with them for a
short time?  Surely he would not desert them in their need--before he
had taught them the way to fight the Arabs.

"Do you really think the Arabs will come back?"

Yes, there was no doubt of it; and in their fastnesses, far beyond the
forest, they numbered thousands upon thousands of men.  The Bahima were
grateful for what Kuboko had already done for them, but what good was it
all if they were left to be the prey of a still more numerous host,
thirsting for revenge?

Tom mused.  It was a case for serious thought.  Could he leave them to
face the Arabs without his help?  It seemed a breach of faith, a
desertion.  For he felt in his heart that they were right, that the
Arabs would certainly return to exact a terrible vengeance, and that
without the stimulus of his leadership the Bahima would infallibly be
crushed.  Tom was the last person to overestimate his value, but he saw
clearly that although there was plenty of courage among the Bahima, and
a great fund of the qualities that make for self-sacrifice, there was
little military aptitude of the higher sort.  They would have little or
no chance against such practised campaigners as the Arabs and their
allies.  Yet who was he to match himself against the Arabs?  He had had
little military training; he was intended for a civilian career; would
it not be presumptuous in him to suppose that, if the Arabs returned in
their might, he could, with such rough material as he had alone at his
disposal, attempt to cope with them?  Then he remembered that for
generations past he had soldiers among his ancestors; was it some
hereditary bent that accounted for his success in the village hitherto?
He had been successful.  Why should he not be successful again?  Why
should he not use the powers he had in a service with which his
countrymen had so long been identified?  In any case--and this clinched
his resolve--the Bahima with him would more nearly match the Arabs than
without him.  Was it not then his duty to remain?

He stood for some moments longer looking across the village at the
distant horizon, tapping his foot on the ground, wondering, thinking.
The silent negroes watched him anxiously; Mbutu’s eager eyes were
riveted to his master’s face.

"Msala," he said at length, "I will stay.  Wait," he added, hushing them
with his hand as they began to shout in the fulness of their delight, "I
will stay on two conditions.  The first is: That I simply hold office in
the name of Mwonga here, who will be your chief when I am gone."
("Ntugamba!  We say it," cried the men.)  "The second is: That when I
consider your village safe from attack I must be free to give up my
power, and return to my own people."  ("Ntugamba! ntugamba!")  "On those
conditions I will stay with you, and, with God’s help, we will strike
such a blow at your enemies as shall destroy their power once and for
ever."

The gravity of Tom’s tone impressed the Bahima; even the voluble
katikiro’s voice was silenced.  Tom went on:

"In Mwonga’s name, then, I ask you to retain your offices. Mwonga, my
friend, I will be your brother as I was Barega’s, and I will do my best
to uphold your dignity as chief.  But I must have a free hand.  I am
older than you; I have seen more than you.  You know what I have been
able to do for your people, and you must make them understand that all
that I do is done in your name, and for their good.  Is it well?"

"It is well," cried the negroes.

"Then you will see, Msala, that things are done in due form.  You know
all about that; I leave it with you."

The shouts of the officials had drawn a great crowd of villagers around,
who stood at a respectful distance, looking with intense curiosity and
interest at the scene.  When the interview had closed with the usual
ceremonial grunts, the katikiro, swelling with a new importance, turned
and made an oration to the crowd.  Hearing that Kuboko was to remain as
regent, they skipped and pranced about like mad things, striking up a
chorus, "Okubokokuru omwami!  Okubokokuru omwami!" (Strong i’ th’ arm is
chief), which they repeated, men, women, and children, a thousand times
over, with an enthusiasm at which Tom could not help being touched.

That was a field-day for the katikiro!  He went about his work with a
zest that showed how thoroughly he enjoyed himself.  Funeral rites and
the inauguration of a new chief on the same day made a novel experience
for him, and he meant to drink the fullest possible delight.  The
funeral proceedings were despatched first.  The whole population
assembled in a triple ring, and large pots of museru were passed round.
All the drums in the village were carried into the centre and grouped
about the great king-drum--a huge thing of tapering wood, nearly as high
as a man, decorated with fetish-grass and intricate designs, the
drum-head secured by stout thongs of ox-hide.  A dancing party of
warriors, with shields, spears, and full war-paint, marched into the
ring, and, the katikiro giving the word, the chief drummer banged his
drum and began a solo:

      "Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!
      Kanwete nga imamba bweyaweta"
    (Let me plunge like a lung-fish when it plunges)
      "Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!"

At the same time the warriors began a slow dance, going round in a
circle, and then the lugubrious strain was taken up and repeated in
chorus by the whole assembly:

    "Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!
    Kanwete nga imamba bweyaweta
    Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!"

All the drums joined in the fray, the dance quickened, the warriors
sprang up several feet in the air, and all the time the pots of museru
went round.  Tom was sorry to see that his leading officials were
becoming intoxicated, and perceived that one of his tasks would be to
inculcate habits of sobriety; at present he felt that he could hardly
interfere with a good grace.  After this had gone on for some time, the
katikiro, more sober than the rest of the magnates, put a stop to the
funeral dance, and announced the ceremonial election of a chief.  No
time was lost in this, the programme being cut and dried.  Mwonga was
hailed by acclamation, and took his place on a mat of bark-cloth, where
he received the obeisance of all the principal men in turn.  Tom thought
it well to set a good example, and greeted the chief with
specially-marked respect. Then he had to take his place beside Mwonga,
and as the people came up in a long line the katikiro introduced him:
"This is your brother; this is your friend; this is Okubokokuru; this is
the man of big medicine," and so on, reciting a tremendous list of the
new regent’s virtues.

When he had ended, rather for want of breath than lack of matter, the
whole company sat down to smoke the ceremonial pipe.  A long
banana-stalk, with large ivory bowl filled with native tobacco, was
handed to the new chief.  Tom wondered if every individual was to smoke
the pipe through, in which case the ceremony would have lasted a month.
But he soon saw that that would have been too laborious and painful an
operation.  Mwonga lit the tobacco at a glowing brazier, took a few
puffs, and passed it to Tom, who, after copying him, handed it to the
katikiro.  Tom found it hard to retain his gravity as he watched the
spectacle.  Every man was evidently on his mettle; when his turn came he
expanded his lungs with surprising vigour to their greatest extent, and
filled mouth, nose, and eyes with the powerful fumes till he coughed
violently and the tears ran down his cheeks.  His neighbour eagerly held
out both hands to receive the pipe, anxious to lose none of his share,
and followed the example.  The solemn look on their impassive faces, as
though they were performing some awful and mysterious rite, quite
overcame Tom, who joined in the chorus of coughing in order to smother
his laughter.  When the smoking was finished, torches were lit, a new
dance was begun; flutes piped, lyres jangled, drums were thumped, and
the revelry was kept up far into the night.

Everyone wore a more or less dejected look next morning, and Tom took
the opportunity to walk about the neighbourhood, attended by Mbutu, for
the sake of having what he called a "good solid think".  Now that he had
definitely cast in his lot for a time with the Bahima, he was not
inclined to let the grass grow under his feet.  First of all he reviewed
the situation.  He saw no reason to doubt the people’s conviction that
the Arabs would return in great strength.  He had but a small force of
fighting-men under his control, quite inadequate to cope with even such
a force as had met his uncle.  From all accounts he might expect to have
to deal with a host of some eight hundred Arabs, armed with rifles--not
the surest of marksmen, perhaps, but formidable by reason of the moral
effect of firearms, at any rate.  In addition, there were probably
thousands of irregulars with them, man for man, no doubt, equal in
quality to his own troops.  Against this huge number what availed his
five or six hundred?

He thought of making an appeal to the Free State authorities, whose
interest it must surely be to stamp out the Arab pests.  But Boma, their
capital, and, indeed, all of their regular stations, were so far away
that months must pass before a properly-equipped force could reach him,
even if the authorities cared to undertake the campaign.  When he left
England the papers were full of references to the financial difficulties
of the Congo Free State, which, if all that rumour said was true, did
not possess the means to cope with the small risings that constantly
recurred in different parts of the country.

The Arabs, for their part, as Tom learnt afterwards, were careful not to
fall foul of the Free State authorities unless they were directly
attacked, as in the case of the ill-fated column cut up by Tom’s captors
months before.  They had already suffered severely, and knew that they
existed in a measure on sufferance; for which reason they now confined
their depredations to remote districts in which the supremacy of the
Free State was merely nominal, and where they were comparatively safe
from molestation.  News of their nefarious raids did indeed filter
through to Europe, but merely as intertribal fights.  The Free State
officials were probably in no uncertainty as to the real nature of these
events, but inasmuch as the Arabs were the means of forwarding a
considerable quantity of ivory and rubber to the trading centres, their
methods were not too deeply investigated, if they were not actually
winked at.

All this Tom only learnt in course of time; but he knew and suspected
enough already to be convinced that the only hope of dealing a
successful blow at the raiders lay in using the material ready to hand.
Mwonga’s people were too few in number to cope with the Arabs unaided;
but there must be many villages in the surrounding country whose
interests lay in making common cause against the common enemy.  Here
another difficulty faced him at once.  As had been shown by the reply
given to one of the messengers sent out during the siege, a combination
of African chiefs was no easy thing to effect.  They were all jealous of
one another; suspicious of being led into a trap; unwilling to put
themselves at the orders of any one chief in supreme command.  Yet no
other course would meet the case, and Tom resolved to make the attempt,
hoping that a European, who had already won their respect, might succeed
where an African would almost certainly fail.  The news of Barega’s
great victory, and the fame of his own share in it, would spread, within
a few days, far and wide through the country; indeed, the contingents
which had come into the village for protection were already beginning to
scatter to their several homes.  "A few days for the leaven to work,"
thought Tom, "and then I’ll send out messengers to several of the chiefs
within thirty miles, asking them to attend a grand palaver with me.  And
as I suppose they’ll be madly jealous if I ask them outright to come
into this village, we shall have to fix on neutral ground for the
meeting.  I’ll go and consult my friend the katikiro."

Msala cordially agreed with the plan proposed, and messengers were at
once selected for the mission.  Four of the neighbouring chiefs were
invited to repair, on the eighth day, to a hill some five miles distant
from Mwonga’s village, each bringing seven of his principal men, there
to meet Kuboko, as representing Mwonga, with an equal number.  At the
same time two runners, in accordance with Msala’s promise, were sent
eastwards, to make the best of their way towards the Nyanza, and to
inform any white men they might meet of the presence of Kuboko in their
village.  Tom found it quite impossible to get them to pronounce his
name, and there was not a scrap of paper in the place; but he worked his
surname on a piece of linen, with the aid of clumsy wooden needles
borrowed from one of Barega’s widows, and gave that to one of the
couriers.

Having a week to spend before the grand palaver, Tom, with his usual
energy, adopted measures to improve the military efficiency of the
force.  This he knew would be a matter of time and patience, and it was
important to begin at once.  His first care, naturally, was to
strengthen their _moral_. He singled out the men who had distinguished
themselves in the recent fighting, and had also shown general evidence
of intelligence and aptitude, and these he placed in command of
companies of a hundred men each.  He selected a hundred to act as a
body-guard to himself and the chief, and six of them, in addition to the
katikiro, formed a sort of staff.  There was great eagerness among the
warriors to be enrolled among this special corps, and Tom decided to
make enrolment in it a reward for good service.  He drilled the men with
particular care, and was gratified by the readiness with which they
obeyed him, the exact attention they paid to all his instructions, and
the quickness they showed in carrying them out.

On the second day after the defeat of the Arabs, Tom ordered the rescued
slaves to be paraded before him, and offered them the alternatives of
immediate freedom, in which case they would have to shift for
themselves, and enrolment in the military force.  They were delighted at
the chance of fighting their late masters, and nine-tenths of them
joyfully accepted the offer of service.  A man who has been a slave,
indeed, is usually very loth to accept absolute freedom, for he has
become so accustomed to dependence as to lose all will-power, and the
loss of a master means the loss of the means of living.  The slaves were
a very mixed lot, almost every tribe for a hundred miles round being
represented among them--tall men and short men, cannibals and
vegetarians; but Tom hoped that a little regular training and the memory
of their past sufferings would induce a kind of _esprit de corps_, and
that in course of time they would prove a useful addition to the force.
He had to contend with symptoms of jealousy and dislike among his own
people, but by combined tact and firmness he succeeded in preventing any
serious squabbles.

In Barega’s time private quarrels among the people had been settled with
the knife, and public offences purged by means of various ordeals
invented by the medicine-man.  To put a stop to such rough-and-ready
methods, Tom appointed a court, consisting of the chief officials and
himself, to hear complaints and try cases, meeting three times a week in
the compound of his hut.  The African is very ready to experiment, and
is especially delighted with anything in the way of ceremonial where he
has a chance to exhibit his oratorical power.  He is also quick to
appreciate true justice, so that Tom found his court a success, if
somewhat trying to his patience because of its long-windedness.
Mabruki, however, deeply resented his deposition from the office of lord
chief-justice, and added this to the heavy grudge he already bore
Kuboko.

With five hundred and fifty warriors and about two hundred and fifty
freed slaves, Tom found himself in command of an effective force of
eight hundred men, excluding boys under sixteen, who were drafted into a
cadet corps, the nucleus of which already existed in the late chief’s
mutuma or "boys’ brigade".  Four hours every day were devoted to
teaching the troops the elements of drill--just sufficient to give them
cohesion and enable them to perform the simpler evolutions. Two hours
were given to special drill--the throwing up of breastworks, for
instance, for protection from rifle fire.  It was, he thought, his
special good fortune that the sergeant-major who instructed the cadet
corps at school had taken the keenest interest in his profession, and
had given the cadets under his charge a real liking for their work.  Tom
saw that only by superior discipline could he hope to counterbalance the
superior armament and greater numbers of the Arabs.

From the outset he had to face a difficulty in the want of firearms and
ammunition.  As a result of their recent victory the Bahima had become
possessors of some two hundred rifles and muskets; but even with these
they would make but a poor show against the hundreds of well-armed Arabs
whom they might have to encounter.  Besides, the ammunition recovered
from the water was insignificant.  There were a few unspoilt kegs of
powder, and a few cases of cartridges for the rifles, but they were
barely sufficient to provide eighty rounds a man.  Further, as only a
few of his troops had ever handled a gun of any kind, there would
scarcely be more than enough ammunition to give the learners sufficient
musketry practice.  Tom was appalled, when he began to instruct them, at
the waste due to their timidity, and to their tendency to use their
weapons as playthings.  Yet, with two hundred serviceable weapons, it
seemed a pity that they should be useless, and he wondered whether by
some means or other a further supply of at least powder might not be
obtained.

On the third day after the despatch of the messengers, it occurred to
him that it might be possible to manufacture some powder.  From his
earliest years he had been fond of "messing", as unappreciative seniors
put it, from the making of toffee to the more or less successful
manufacture of fireworks. He had picked up at odd times also, owing to
this scientific curiosity, a certain working acquaintance with various
industrial processes not directly connected with marine engineering, and
knew that the constituents of gunpowder may be easily prepared from the
raw material.  But there was the rub; the absence of any one of the
constituents would render the others useless.  In the Congo Forest, with
its hundreds of thousands of square miles of dense woodland, extending
over a space as large as France and Spain together, there would be no
lack of wood for charcoal; saltpetre he had found in considerable
quantities within a mile from the village; but in addition to these a
supply of sulphur was needed, and where was he to look for that?

While thinking over the problem he remembered that during his illness he
had been entertained by the katikiro with a long story of a malignant
spirit inhabiting a certain mountain some six hours’ march to the
south-east of the village.  As a boy the katikiro could remember this
terrible being bursting forth in a large sheet of flame from the bowels
of the mountain, with a horrible rumbling sound that shook the solid
earth for miles around, casting immense rocks miles up into the air,
engulfing the surrounding country in a cloud of smoke and fire, and
turning the streams into rivers of boiling mud.  Many villages with all
their inhabitants had been utterly destroyed; even in Barega’s the
shower of cinders from the sky set fire to several of the huts.  For
years afterwards the mountain gave off dense clouds of smoke; but these
gradually ceased, and the evil spirit had since then been quiet.
Nevertheless nobody from Barega’s or any of the neighbouring villages
had ventured to approach the mountain since these fearful happenings.

Remembering this, Tom guessed that the scene of this eruption, which was
apparently an isolated peak, was connected with the great Central
African volcanic system extending from Lake Kivu to the Semliki.  On his
march from Lake Mazingo on the track of his uncle’s expedition he had
passed over ground that was evidently of volcanic origin; and he
surmised that this part of Central Africa had at some time or other been
the scene of enormous volcanic activities.  The important fact now,
however, was that a volcano known to have been active was in his
immediate neighbourhood.  He knew that sulphurous fumes were thrown off
from volcanoes; was there any chance of finding sulphur itself in any
workable form on the slope of this adjacent mountain?  It was worth
trying, and he resolved to make a careful examination of the ground.

Next day, then, accompanied by Mbutu, half a dozen hunters to procure
game, and twenty steady Bairo armed with picks and shovels, he set out
with this object.  He had some difficulty at first in overcoming the
superstitious fears of his followers.  Mbutu interpreted their
objections, which, recited by their spokesman in fear and trembling and
much grovelling on the earth, were quite unintelligible to Tom.

"This man say him berrah poor; him no can buy charms. Evil spirit plenty
too much strong, him burn up black man in big fire; hot mud drown black
man; smoke choke black man. Sah no afraid, no, no; him white man, big
medicine; black man him no medicine, afraid too much too much."

Remembering the proverbial pill to cure the earthquake, Tom solemnly
handed to each of his followers an empty cartridge-case, which he
explained was the strongest magic he possessed against the spirit of the
mountain.  The device gave him some qualms; but he remembered that Dr.
Arbuthnot himself, the great eighteenth-century physician, had practised
similar innocent deceptions on noble lords, and he felt that in this
case the end justified the means.

The road for nearly half the distance was fairly easy, but it then
became very rugged, and progress was slow and laborious.  Tom found many
traces of game, and in one place, approaching down wind, the party
disturbed a large herd of elephants.  Tom resisted the impulse to pursue
them, although it cost him an effort, and pressed forward towards the
peak, which was visible as a truncated cone of no great height, for the
most part bare, but showing here and there patches of scrub and belts of
forest growth.  The party had started early in the day, but it was
nearing sunset when they arrived within climbing distance of the peak,
and Tom decided to camp for the night and begin prospecting next
morning.  Making an early start, he was on the slopes of the mountain
not long after dawn, and then began a toilsome search for traces of
sulphur in workable form.  He felt sure that thousands of tons of the
desired substance lay around him, but unless he could find it in the
free state, or at least mechanically mixed with earth, with the
rough-and-ready appliances he could devise on the spot it would be quite
beyond his reach.

His first step was to build a fire on the slopes of the mountain, and
place two men in charge of it, with instructions to pile on a plentiful
supply of fuel.  Then, dividing his men into squads of four, he made a
series of excavations in various spots simultaneously, going from one to
another to examine the earth that was dug up.  Several times he thought
he had discovered the object of his quest, and a number of basketfuls of
earth were carried to the improvised furnace.  There the ore was heaped
into a pile and ignited from the top, in the hope that the heat above
would melt any sulphur that might be contained in the lower part of the
mass, and cause it to run down into the specially-prepared cavity at the
bottom.  This process was a wasteful one, but it had the merit of
simplicity, and Tom knew that if only a sufficient quantity of
sulphur-bearing earth could be obtained it would serve his purpose.

After several disappointments he at last came upon undoubted traces of
sulphur from the combustion of a quantity of earth obtained very close
to the crater.  He wished to make another trial, but it was growing
late, and his men implored him not to remain on the mountain after
nightfall. His magic might suffice for the day, but nothing could
preserve them from the wrath of Irungo if he found them within his gates
during the hours of darkness.  Their terror was so extreme that Tom
reluctantly withdrew to the site of the previous night’s camp; but at
the first streak of daylight he roused his men, who were feeling the
effects of their unaccustomed labours, and after breakfast led them back
to the spot at which the only promising find of the previous day had
been made.  Removing nearly half a ton of earth, he made the experiment
this time on a larger scale, and when the mass had burned for some two
hours he was delighted to find a considerable quantity of crude sulphur
in the little cavity beneath the pile.  He had used up a large amount of
wood in the process, for there was not sufficient sulphur in the ore
materially to assist the process of combustion, but there was
fortunately no lack of fuel within a few hundred yards of the place from
which the ore was taken, and by nightfall Tom was in possession of some
lumps of a dirty-brown substance which, when refined, might yield half
their weight of pure sulphur.  When darkness fell he piled up an
unusually large heap of the ore, left a fire smouldering above it, and
was rewarded in the morning with a correspondingly large quantity of
crude sulphur in the receiver.

"This is glorious!" he said to Mbutu.  "We have a good many pounds of
stuff now; the next thing is to see if sufficiently pure sulphur can be
refined from it to make powder. We can’t do that here, at any rate; and
besides, to-morrow is the day fixed for our grand palaver, so I think we
must be content for the present with what we have, and come again if we
find it successful.  One thing is certain," his unspoken thought
continued, "there’s enough sulphur on this mountain to make powder for
all the army corps in the world, and if only there were means of transit
it might pay someone to lease it from the Congo Government.  For all I
know, in fact, I may be trespassing; but I fancy the authorities won’t
mind much if they hear about it and know what I am doing it for.--Well,
my men, now for home.  We have got what I wanted, and, as you see,
haven’t been molested by Irungo.  You won’t mind coming again, eh?"

They returned to the village with their load.  A mile before they
reached it, Mbutu all at once drew his master’s attention to a fresh
trail crossing their path from the east. There were the clear marks of
men’s feet, and also of small hoofs, which Mbutu declared were the
hoof-marks of donkeys.

"It looks as though a caravan of some sort were making for our village,"
said Tom.  "Surely it cannot be Arabs?"

"No, sah; white man, sah.  Donkeys; must be white man. Oh yes!"

"You don’t mean to imply any close relationship between white men and
donkeys?  You don’t understand?  Well, never mind.  But I do hope that
our affairs are not to be complicated by entirely unnecessary
Europeans."

As he approached, he discerned unmistakeable signs of excitement in the
village.  Those of the people who were not engaged in their regular
occupations were crowding towards the centre; and, looking over their
heads from his higher position, Tom saw a smaller group, composed of the
katikiro and some other of the principal men, gathered about a tall
broad figure in white clothes and white topee, whose back at the moment
was towards the gate by which Tom had entered.  With him were several
tall natives whose dress distinguished them as strangers, and at one
point four well-laden donkeys were tethered, the object of great
interest to all the urchins of the place.

"Hullo!" said Tom to himself, "this is very curious. There’s decidedly a
commercial look about that fellow, and I seem to know his back, too.
Who in the world can it be? Some trader, perhaps, I caught sight of
casually at Mombasa or Kisumu, though I wonder what brings him to these
remote parts.  He’s well armed; those rifles look uncommonly like
Mausers.  And there’s a revolver in his belt.  This is interesting."

Ordering his party to dispose of their loads and place the sulphur in
the courtyard of his hut, he approached quietly, and entered the
chattering crowd by a gap opened for him. In the centre of the crowd the
stranger stood in a clear space, two leather cases open on the ground in
front of him.

"By Jove!" Tom said to himself, as he came within a yard of the
stranger, who had not as yet perceived him, "I’m hanged if it isn’t
Schwab, gold spectacles and all!  He’s diligent in business, if ever a
man was.  Fancy trapesing out here with a caravan!  Wonder what he’s
trying to gammon the katikiro into buying!  I declare he’s whipped out
his note-book and is actually entering orders.  I must look into this!"

Now at this time Kuboko presented a wholly different appearance from the
Tom Burnaby of a few months before. His face and neck were scorched to a
deep brick-red, save where they were covered with nearly five months’
growth of hair.  His form had filled out somewhat after he recovered
from his illness.  His clothes were indescribable.  On his head, to keep
off the sun’s rays, he wore a calico head-dress of his own invention.
He might have passed for a particularly fine and rather less than
usually solemn Arab, and altogether he was not far wrong in his belief
that not one of his friends would at first sight have recognized him.
Consequently, when the respectful greetings of the katikiro and his
friends at length apprised Herr Schwab that someone of importance had
arrived, he turned and saw what he supposed to be a handsome young Arab,
whose presence in a Bahima village was sufficiently surprising.

Tom could not resist the temptation to have a little fun. Having
addressed a few authoritative words in their own tongue to the Bahima,
he salaamed to the German, and stood as though awaiting an explanation.
Schwab meanwhile had been taking stock of the supposed Arab, and having
been unable to come to any conclusion about him, he turned to the native
follower who was acting as interpreter, and through him asked whom he
had the honour of addressing.  Tom signed to Mbutu, who at once
explained that it was, indeed, a great honour, since Kuboko was the
acting chief of the village, which contained some two thousand five
hundred souls, the biggest village between Tanganyika and the Nile.  The
German at once expressed his high consideration for his friend
Kuboko--he thought he might call him his friend?--and he would be most
happy if he could do some business with him.  Perhaps his friend Kuboko
knew a little English, for if he did, their intercourse would, he
thought, be much facilitated.

"Yes," said Tom slowly, "I do know English a little; it will be good to
speak English; business are business."

"Fery goot, my friend," said the German.  "I am fery glad.  Now, I
represent, vat you call stand for, ze great export house of
Schlagintwert in Düsseldorf, and I can sell you anyzink--yes, anyzink at
all, from Sheffield cutlery to Scotch visky.  Yes, ve make in Düsseldorf
a particularly goot brant of real old Scotch visky.  Ve make also
Birmingham screws, and Paisley sread; ve make Cumberland lead pencils
and, vat you vill like ze best of all, Manchester soft goots--all made
in Germany, my friend, and our terms are fipercentforcash.  I say cash,
but I mean to say, of course, ivory, or rubber, or anyzink else of
vorth.  Now, not often hafe I ze pleasure to meet a zhentleman vat speak
English in zese parts, and I am fery glad, fery glad indeed.  I hafe
just booked ze goot black man for vun gross of pin-packetts, and I shall
trust to take your essteemed orders for anyzink--anyzink vatefer,
fipercentforcash, zanking you in an-ti-ci-pa-tion."

Tom could stand it no longer.  Smothering a laugh, he clapped a hand on
the astonished German’s shoulder, and said:

"Pig-iron?  What about pig-iron, Herr Schwab?"

"Ach! meine Güte!" exclaimed Schwab, his broad face one startled note of
interrogation, "who ze----who zen are you?"

He mopped his face with a red handkerchief, still holding his
pocket-book open in the other hand.

"Don’t you remember Tom Burnaby, on board the _Peninsular_, and your
kind offer of any number of tons of pig-iron?"

"Goot heafens!"

"And I saw you at Kisumu, don’t you know."

"Oh, I do know! yes; I do know indeed; and you vent after your
oncle--vat you call vild-goose hunt.  But, but--pardon me, Mr. Burnaby,
you hafe taken my breass avay quite.  You are like a--vat you call
gorilla, Mr. Burnaby."

"Just what I thought myself," rejoined Tom with a laugh. "I’m getting
acclimatized!  But I haven’t quite forgotten civilized ways, and I’m
uncommonly glad to see you.  It’s I don’t know how long since I spoke to
a European, and if you’ll come along to my hut I’ll give you some Bass’s
ale or Devonshire cider (brewed in Mwonga, as we call this village), and
anything else you like to order--prime Scotch beef, you know, and
Southdown mutton; or Frankfort _Bratwurst_, eh? and we can have a
comfortable talk and clear up a few inexplicables.  But, first of all,
my dear Herr Schwab, I must ask you to cancel that order for pins.  The
katikiro has never seen a pin in his life, I fancy."

"Oh, but indeed he has!  I hafe showed him a packett.  He vas fery
delighted.  He gafe me order for vun gross, spot-price:
fipercentforcash."

"And how many pins in a packet, may I ask?"

"Hundert, or, because my packetts are particularly fine, perhaps hundert
ten."

"Ah! and a gross is twelve dozen, I believe, according to Cocker.  Well
now, that will make--let me see--fifteen thousand eight hundred and
forty pins.  Is that right?"

"No doubt at all; I could not do it so quick; but my house vill not be
particular about vun score or two.  Say sixteen tousand pins, Mr.
Burnaby, and all zat big lot for vun tusk of ivory!"

"And what do you think my katikiro will do with sixteen thousand pins?
You really are too funny, Herr Schwab. Look at the extent of his
waist-cloth!  No, I am very sorry, but I really must forbid the
transaction.  Between ourselves, Msala is a bit of a wag, and as likely
as not he would make pin-cushions of all his dearest friends and get me
into no end of hot water.  No; cancel that order, and we’ll see if we
can do business in some other of your innumerable articles."

"Fery vell, Mr. Burnaby; now zat is a promise--vat you call vun deal, is
it not?  Fery vell.  But I am amazed.  I am indeed ass-tounded, to find
my young friend chief of a natife village.  It is vonderful, it is
incr-redible!  I hafe not yet recofered from ze stroke.  I vould indeed
like some lager beer, lager beer from München; it vould help me
con-sid-er-ably to vat you call digest ze vonderful information."

"I can’t promise you real lager from München, or real Bass from
Stuttgart," said Tom, laughing; "but you’ll find our marwa very like
cider, and we can supply plenty of that--say two and a half per cent for
cash."

"Ah!  Now you laugh at me!  You are vat you call sly dog, eh?  Hoch,
zen!  Vun glass of marwa, and zen egsplain ze position.  Vonderful!
Vonderful!"




                              CHAPTER XVI

                         The Making of an Army

An Embargo--Federation--Gunpowder--An Object-Lesson--The Great
Palaver--After Many Years--Pikes--The Call to Arms


In the exchange of confidences Herr Schwab informed Tom that he had been
for several months wandering about with his donkeys and his samples,
booking orders for his firm. He had for the most part confined himself
to the villages in the vicinity of the Victoria Nyanza; but having heard
rumours of a large body of Arabs who were in possession of plentiful
stores of ivory, he had recently left German East Africa and come
rapidly northwards.  He had heard nothing whatever of the fate of Major
Burnaby’s expedition, and could not answer Tom’s eager enquiries for his
friends; indeed, he had met no Europeans except his own compatriots
since he left Kisumu. He heard Tom’s story, modestly told as it was,
with mingled amazement and incredulity.  But there was no gainsaying the
fact that the young Englishman was virtually chief of a large Bahima
village, and Schwab was not the man to lose any opportunity for trade.
Learning that an Arab attack was expected, and that Tom’s pressing
necessity was arms and ammunition, he offered to smuggle in some Mausers
from German East Africa, as of course he could not import arms openly
into the territory of the Congo Free State.

"Can’t think of it," said Tom decisively.  "If it’s against the rules
that’s enough for me.  We must play the game, you know.  Besides, I’m
going to try to make some gunpowder myself."

"Ach!" exclaimed the German with a shrug, "certainly you vill burn your
fingers, my young friend.  But now, vat can I do for you?"

"Fetch in your packages and let me see what you have."

When the bags were opened Tom at once marked a Colt revolver.

"That’s mine," he said; "a pretty thing, by Jove!  And you’ve cartridges
for it!  And I’ll take that Waterbury I see there; made in Germany, of
course.  And three of those pocket-books, with a dozen lead-pencils; and
that comb; and a tooth-brush.  Have you a tooth-brush?  That’s the very
thing.  You’ve a razor too; I’d take that if you had a looking-glass.
I’d like to get rid of this fur on my cheeks, but I’m afraid I should
gash myself horribly without a glass. What--you have one?  Capital; and
a shaving-brush too, I see, and soap.  Why, Schwab, what a universal
provider you are! There’s one thing I’d give a great deal for, and
that’s a pound of tea, Mazawattee or anything else.  Haven’t any?  Then
I must do without.  You have some quinine, I see; that’ll always come in
handy.  I think that’s about all.  Now, how much does that come to?"

"Ten pound," said the German instantly.

"What!  Ten pounds for those few things!  Why, it’s ruinous!  How do you
make out the bill?"

"I gif no bill.  I hafe vat you call mon-o-po-ly, my young friend.  It
is take it or leafe it, I do not mind."

"Business are business, indeed!  Well, I want the things. I can do
without the watch and the pocket-books, perhaps. How much then?"

"Ten pound; I hafe only vun price."

"You old Shylock!  Well, I haven’t the cash, so I can’t expect the five
per cent, but I’ll give you an order on my uncle.  I suppose that’ll
satisfy you?"

"Oh yes! ze British officer vat you call pay opp.  I vill feel quite
safe."

"Very well.  Heavens! how funny it is to hold a pencil again!  There you
are: ’Pay Herr Schwab on sight ten pounds (£10).  Tom Burnaby’.  That’ll
do, eh?"

"All correct, my young friend.  And now, vat more can I do for you?"

"I hardly like to ask you, but would you mind--pray don’t hesitate to
say so--would you mind cutting my hair?"

"You hafe done me vell, Mr. Burnaby; I do not mind. I vill cut your
hair, and sell you ze scissors."

"Fire away, then, and don’t dig into my skin, will you?"

Schwab turned up his sleeves, tucked a long yellow scarf from his
variety bundle round Tom’s neck, and cropped him close, with no more
than the usual stabs and pricks.  Then Tom escorted him round his little
domain, and gratified him with an order for various tools and
implements.  He remained overnight as Tom’s guest, and started early in
the morning northwards to visit the Arabs.

Before he left, Tom warned him that he might find the Arabs rather
unpleasant customers.  But Schwab puffed himself out and waved the
warning away.

"Vat!" he said, "the Arabs vill not dare do anyzink to me, a Gairman!
Our Kaiser, who is in Berlin--he vould know ze reason vy if vun hair of
my head vas touched."

"You Germans are lucky," laughed Tom.  "The King isn’t so particular
about my hair!  Besides, it’s not much good knowing after the event.
You’re out of reach of an army corps, you know, or even a telegram."

"I am not vun small bit afraid.  I hafe my Mausers.  I hafe my revolver;
besides, I go to sell ammunition, and zat ze Arabs vill alvays be most
glad to get."

"I must put my veto on that.  I fear, Mr. Schwab, you don’t quite
realize the situation.  I have every sympathy with legitimate trade--we
British are a trading nation; but as matters stand I must regard rifles
as contraband of war. Sell the Arabs pins and milking-pails and anything
else you like, but no arms or ammunition.  In fact, I shall have to ask
you to leave your cases of ammunition here, taking with you only enough
to serve your immediate needs.  I can’t have arms put into my enemy’s
hands.  And you’re smuggling, you know; you’d get into hot water if the
Free State people knew.  I’ll keep your ammunition safe until you
return. And another thing, Herr Schwab.  You’ll be good enough to give
the Arabs no information about me or the village.  I’m not sure that as
a precaution I oughtn’t to prevent your getting to them at all, but I
don’t want to be unfriendly.  It’s understood, then, that you keep to
yourself all that you have seen here?"

The German tried for half an hour to wriggle out of the dilemma, but Tom
told him flatly at last that on no other conditions would he be allowed
to proceed; and he at last submitted with a shrug.

Half an hour after Schwab had gone Tom started with Mbutu, the katikiro,
the kasegara, the principal drummer, and three other officials, for the
hill to which the chiefs had been summoned for palaver.  They all
arrived at the rendezvous, and for five long hours Tom patiently
explained and argued and explained again, striving with infinite tact to
dispel their suspicions and to persuade them of the ultimate advantage
they would all derive from co-operation.  Coached beforehand in definite
details by the katikiro, he reminded them of the ravages from which they
had already suffered; of the villages burnt to the ground, the crops
destroyed, the ruthless massacres, the brutal mutilations, the hundreds
captured as slaves.  He touched a tender spot when he spoke of the
immense treasures of ivory of which the Arabs had despoiled them--ivory
which their own skill as hunters had obtained, and which they might have
sold profitably to the Free State Government or to merchants.  Lastly,
finding it necessary to take a leaf out of the African’s own book, he
spoke of himself, of the Great White King, of his own deeds against the
Arabs, and said that only if they fell in with his proposal could they
hope to deal a final crushing blow at the Arab power.  The chiefs were
more and more impressed, and at length one of them said that only one
thing was still needed to bring him under Kuboko’s banner.  He had heard
great stories of Kuboko’s big medicine; if Kuboko would exhibit his
magic and convince him by the evidence of his own eyes, he would
willingly call Kuboko brother and follow him as his great chief.

Tom instantly agreed, and the katikiro fairly danced with merriment.
Nothing could be more effectual, Tom thought, than his final performance
with the medicine-man, so he invited the chiefs in turn to knock him
down if they could. They showed at first some reluctance, but Msala
assured them that Kuboko would bear them no malice.  Thus reassured they
advanced in turn, and in a very few minutes all three were sitting on
the ground, laughing uproariously at their own mishaps, while the
katikiro and his friends made the countryside resound with their
boisterous "Hoo! hoo! hoo!"  No further proof was required; the chiefs
signified their adhesion to the proposed confederation, and declared
that they were ready, on a day to be fixed, formally to become Kuboko’s
blood-brothers.

This being achieved, Tom spent another hour in explaining the details of
the federation.  Each chief, as soon as the approach of the Arabs was
signalled, was to place himself unreservedly at Tom’s orders, and bring
his contingent into the field.  They could each promise about two
hundred men. The signal would be given in the usual way by drums, and to
ensure early information Tom intimated that he would arrange a series of
posts about three miles apart, extending for some thirty miles into the
forest, in the direction from which the Arabs might be expected.  As
soon as the enemy was sighted, the fact would be announced by drums from
post to post; but in order to provide against the possibility of mistake
a message would also be conveyed by runners.

One of the conditions of the alliance was that each member of the
confederacy bound himself to assist in the rebuilding of any village
that might be destroyed, and Tom was especially careful in explaining
the reason.

"You see, my brothers," he said, "you will not wish to leave your
villages feeling that during your absence, and owing to your absence,
they may be burnt, and your wives and children thus rendered homeless.
But by accepting my plan, when the drum tells you that the Arabs are
coming, you may rush to join me with every confidence; for if your
villages are destroyed, you know that all your brothers, yes, and I
myself, will help to build them up again.  And so you will have new huts
for old.  Is it well, my brothers?"

There were grunts of acquiescence.

"There is one other thing," Tom continued.  "The Arabs, if they come in
the large numbers that we expect, will range the country far and wide
for food.  Then I recommend you, if at this late season of the year you
have still any of your crops unreaped, or any of your food-roots in the
ground, to gather in all that you can, and dig deep pits in secret
places, and there store your harvest.  It is not well that we should
feed the Arabs."

The chiefs again showed by their grunts that they found Kuboko’s
recommendation good.

"Now I want you, when you return to your own villages, to call up all
the petty chiefs who look up to you, the chiefs of tens and twenties and
thirties, and explain to them what we have talked about to-day.  If they
agree to come in with us, you will bring them to a grand palaver on this
same hillside eight days from now.  Every man will carry his arms, and
come equipped as for war."

Tom was thoroughly tired out when he got back to the village.  He had
intended to write, in one of the note-books he had obtained from Schwab,
a brief jotting of recent events, for future reference, but he put off
that till next morning. When morning came, however, he was too anxious
to begin his experiments in powder-making to spend any time in penning
records.  He had a large quantity of crude sulphur and saltpetre to
refine, and he was by no means sure that with the rough apparatus at
hand he would be successful. That could easily be tested, and he at once
set about his preparations for the task.

He got a number of large earthen pots of all shapes and sizes, and broke
up the rough dirty rolls of sulphur into these.  Then he heated them
gently over slow fires, and found, as he had hoped, that the earthy
impurities gradually settled at the bottom, leaving the pure sulphur, a
liquid like treacle, at the top.  This he ladled off into clean vessels.

So far so good.  The next thing was the saltpetre which had been
collected by the women.  This also he put into vessels, and dissolved
the crude solid in water.  Raising the mixture to the boiling-point, he
allowed it to cool gradually, and watched for the result.  The pure
saltpetre was deposited in a solid crystalline mass at the bottom.

Here then were two of the necessary constituents; the third was easily
obtained, for the katikiro had admirably carried out his instructions,
and had personally superintended the cutting and carrying of an immense
quantity of splendid wood from the forest, which was easily converted
into charcoal by heating it in closed vessels.

Nothing now remained but to mix these ingredients.

"We must take care it isn’t bang! soosh! black man all dead," said Tom
to Mbutu, who, with all the other officials, was taking the keenest
interest in the experiments.  "I think we had better build a shed half a
mile away, so that if there is an explosion it will do no harm except to
me and you and my assistants."

"Sah no go," said Mbutu.  "Me go; make bang stuff; blow up; all same for
one."

"No, my boy, that won’t do.  Why, the people here would lose all faith
in me if I was afraid to take my own big medicine.  No; we’ll set about
running up a shed at once, and take care to avoid risks as much as
possible.  Two men with you and me will be enough to do the mixing, at
first, at any rate, and you may choose them out of your own friends."

A wooden shed was soon fixed up on an open space far from trees or bush,
and Tom arranged to begin work before dawn next day, so as to get some
mixing done before the sun was high.  He was not at all sure about the
proportions in which the three constituents ought to be mixed, but hoped
to find that out by experiment.  Just as the darkness began to clear he
went out to the shed with Mbutu alone to make a first attempt in
private.  It was unsuccessful; the mixture burnt readily enough, but
without explosion.  He guessed from his failure that the quantity of
saltpetre in his first mixture had not been sufficient, and, carefully
measuring out his quantities in a small brass cup, he increased the
amount little by little, testing a portion of the mixture after each
addition, until at last he was rewarded with a decided explosion which
reverberated in a hundred echoes, and was answered by the banging of the
sentry’s drum in the village. Tom laughed with almost childish delight
at the success of his efforts, and, taking careful note of the
proportions he had finally arrived at, he returned to the village.

Next morning he took out the two Bahima selected by Mbutu, and found
that not only were they quick to learn, but, what is more important in a
native of Africa, they recognized the necessity for caution.  They
worked steadily till ten o’clock, and at the end of the day Tom found
himself in possession of several pounds of serviceable powder.  It was a
queer-looking mixture, and Tom said to himself, with a laugh, that no
doubt it would miserably fail to pass the Waltham test; but he knew that
it would serve his purpose, and that was sufficient.  Within a fortnight
he had stored about half a ton in the recesses of the cavern in the
cliff, and had collected in the village a large quantity of the several
constituents, which only awaited mixing.

"It is a pity," he thought, "that with an almost unlimited supply of
powder, we can make so little use of it.  At the most we have muskets
for only two hundred and fifty men, and many of these are likely to be
as dangerous to us as to the enemy.  With the powder we already have we
could supply a brigade for a month’s campaign.  But surely it can be
used in some other way?"

In the event of another siege the store of powder would, he knew, be
invaluable for mining purposes; but he wished to find some method by
which it could be turned to account in field operations.  At last he hit
upon an idea.  Why not lay in a supply of hand-grenades?  He could not,
of course, with the limited supply of metal in the village, and the
still more limited smithy arrangements, manufacture bombs with a metal
case; but after some cogitation he found a means of surmounting this
difficulty.  The grenades, he thought, might be made of thick pottery,
encased in a double or triple envelope of elastic wicker-work, the
latter intended to prevent the bomb, when thrown, from bursting before
the fuse had time to do its work.  In the manufacture of this outer
envelope Tom relied on the extreme ingenuity of the Bahima in all kinds
of basket-weaving; and his expectations in this respect were more than
realized.  Experimenting first with a dummy shell, he found that,
protected by the wicker covering, it could be thrown to a distance of
forty or fifty yards without breaking the earthenware container.  This
was quite sufficient for his purpose.

"I think," he said to the katikiro, who was watching his experiments
with mingled wonder and amusement, "that we shall be able to give the
Arabs more than one surprise if they visit us again.  I want you to get
your potters and weavers to make two dozen more jars after this pattern;
Mbutu will take them, together with a large basketful of granite chips,
to the shed where we made the powder.  We shall see to-morrow whether
these little jars are going to be of use to us."

On the following morning Tom went with Mbutu to the powder-shed, which
had always been made taboo to the villagers.  There he half-filled one
of the jars with granite chips (all the available iron scraps being
required for the muskets), and rammed in on the top a bursting-charge of
gunpowder. Into the neck of the jar he fitted a plug, through which a
hole was bored for the insertion of a time fuse.  In the preparation of
the fuse Tom’s school-boy experiments in pyrotechny stood him in good
stead.  Some cotton fibre steeped in a solution of saltpetre fully
answered his purpose.  His next step was to erect a framework of
match-boarding to serve as a target. Stationing himself behind an
earthen breastwork about forty yards from the target, he set fire to the
fuse of his trial bomb and, hurling it at the target, dropped to the
ground behind the entrenchment.  There he waited for some seconds until
a loud report showed that his grenades could at least be trusted to
explode; some small fragments dropped within a few feet of his shelter.
Stepping up to the target, he found it pitted in a dozen places with
dents due to the granite chips, some of which were driven some distance
into the wood.  There was no doubt that had a body of men been within a
few feet of the bomb when it exploded, not many would have survived.

Tom’s next concern was to ensure, first, that the fuse should be
perfectly trustworthy, and secondly, that the bursting-charge of powder
should not be so great as to bring the grenadiers themselves within the
danger-zone.  It required two or three days of careful experiment before
he was satisfied on these points.  Then he instructed the katikiro to
select twenty potters and twice as many weavers to manufacture a large
supply of bombs; and under his own and Mbutu’s supervision these were
carefully charged in the shed, and stowed away in the cavern on the
cliff.  The provision of a number of plug-bayonets by the village smiths
completed his experiments in the preparation of warlike stores.

On the day before the general palaver, the katikiro came to Tom and
informed him that the chief who had so insolently dismissed Barega’s
messenger during the siege had come into the village with a retinue, and
had very humbly asked to see Kuboko.

"Ah!" said Tom; "he has come round, has he?  Bring him up."

The chief and his men drew near very much as whipped dogs would have
done.  Within ten yards of Tom’s hut they flung themselves on their
faces, and wriggled their way with ludicrous contortions towards him.
He thought it a good opportunity for teaching the whole village a
salutary lesson, so he summoned the people by beat of drum, and ordered
them to stand round.  Then he severely asked the fawning chief his name
and business.

"O Kuboko, great master, my name is Uchunku," said the man.  "I am
weaker than a dog, smaller than a flea.  Nothing that I have but is mine
by the mercy of Kuboko.  I have heard of Kuboko’s mighty power, and I
fall on my face, for no man can stand upright in the presence of the man
of big medicine.  I have heard, O Kuboko, of the wonderful thrower that
casts mountains as high as the very stars of heaven; and of the mighty
flood that flowed from the hollow of Kuboko’s hand, and upon which the
Arabs were swept away even as leaves upon the torrent.  All this have I
heard, and more, and I come to put my neck under Kuboko’s foot, and beg
him to gird my village about with his mighty magic."

Tom let the man grovel there, and paused before he answered. Then he
upbraided him for his meanness and folly in refusing help to his
neighbour Barega when in dire extremity, and declared that he deserved
to be left to meet single-handed the devastating Arabs.

"You are a coward, Uchunku," he said.  "You stood aloof from your
neighbour in distress, and then, when you find that all your other
neighbours have seen the wisdom of joining my people and accepting my
leadership, you come and whine like a puppy to be taken in.  I will have
mercy on you; I will admit you to our confederacy; but you will have to
prove yourself worthy.  You will be given no place of trust, your men
will not be allowed to bear arms, until you have shown that you are
loyal, and ready to carry out all my commands."

The miserable chief abjectly promised to do anything, even the most
menial work, to merit Kuboko’s favour.  Tom cut him short, bade him get
up, and ordered him to attend the palaver next day with all his men.

Tom would have been more than human if he had not felt a thrill and glow
of pride next day, when, at the appointed mote-hill, he found a great
concourse of natives awaiting him. The three chiefs of the former
palaver had most effectively fulfilled his instructions.  Each had
brought a group of petty chiefs, and each of these had come with several
of his warriors, so that the whole assembly numbered nearly three
hundred men, armed in their several ways.  They were Bantu negroes of
various races, some of them tall, splendid specimens of humanity, some
short and thick-set, all muscular and in the pink of physical condition.
Until Tom came in sight with his small escort, they had kept up a
constant chatter, the sound of which travelled across the country like
the noise of a vast army of rooks or gulls.  But as Tom ascended the
hill a silence fell upon the throng.  Hundreds of eyes looked curiously
at the man of whom they had heard so much.  When he reached the brow of
the hill, moved as by one impulse the crowd raised their spears aloft
and cried aloud: "Kuboko! Kuboko!  Waize!  Thou comest!" and it was then
that Tom thrilled with the thought that all these simple, untutored
negroes were looking to him as their leader, and relying on him to save
them from the awful fate they must inevitably meet if their inhuman
oppressors had their will.  And thus, when he had gathered them about
him in a large ring, there was a deep note of earnestness in his voice
as he addressed them.  He thanked them first for coming so readily at
his wish, and briefly explained to them the arrangements he had already
made with the three superior chiefs, impressing on them the seriousness
of the effort soon to be made to rid them for ever of their age-long
foes, and the necessity for all to work together without jealousy or
self-seeking.  Much of what he said he knew must fall on deaf ears; he
could not expect them to forget the habits and ideas that were part of
their blood; but if he could only gain their confidence, he hoped that
his personal influence and example would succeed in effecting something,
however little.

When he had won their approval of his general scheme, he ventured to put
to them another proposal which he felt would meet with opposition.  It
was that, when the great day came, they should bring all their women and
children, with their valuable possessions, to Mwonga, until the fight
was over.  A low murmur of disapproval ran round the ring, then the
negroes began to gesticulate and argue excitedly until loud shouts of
"Nga!  Ngabuse!" their strongest negative, filled the air.  Waiting
patiently through the uproar, Tom at length held up his hand, and after
some minutes succeeded in stilling the storm.  Then, in the same even
quiet manner, he began to reason with them.

"Why do my brothers shout so loudly into the sky?  Is Kuboko deaf that
he cannot hear?  Is he stupid that he cannot understand?  I, Kuboko,
have but two arms and two hands.  I cannot take all my brothers into my
grip and drag them whither it pleases me.  No, but I speak plain words
to my brothers, and if they are not good words then my brothers can go
their own way.  Listen, men of a hundred villages, how can you hope to
hold your huts against the attack of a strong and cruel foe?  See, I
take this spear-shaft in my hand, I lay it across my knees and snap it
in two; you could do the same.  But now I take five spear-shafts
together, and though I strive and strain I cannot break so much as one
of them.  What think you of that, my brothers?"

The old illustration, so happily remembered, had an instant effect on
the keen natives, to whose minds the practical so strongly appeals.
Allowing a little time for the lesson to strike home, Tom went on:

"Now, what of Mwonga?  Think how it is placed--on a hill, a steep path
at one end, a precipice at one side, an ever-flowing stream, a well-kept
stockade.  Have we not already driven the Arabs from it, not once nor
twice?  I have no thought of doing favour to Mwonga.  It is not my
village: my village is far away, over mountains and rivers, on the other
side of a big water stretching farther than any eye can see.  My village
awaits me, and when my work is done I long only to go back to it and see
my fields and huts and the faces of my own people again.  But while I am
here I want to help you, and you, and you, my brothers, every one of
you.  Make, then, a great camp at Mwonga until the Arabs are beaten and
hunted away.  Only Mwonga has been able to defy them. Does any chief
know of a better place?  If so, let him speak."

There was a long pause.  Each chief consulted with his own men.  Then
one of the three principal chiefs called for silence, and declared that
Kuboko’s words were good.  A long and excited discussion ensued, until
at length they agreed to Tom’s proposal, provided the village could be
sufficiently enlarged to contain all their dependents in case of need.
Tom at once called for the services of a thousand men to extend the
stockade, widen the ditch, and build new huts for the accommodation of
the guests.  This was also agreed to, and then Tom endeavoured to get an
idea of what his total force of fighting-men would amount to.  He took
some time to question each chief as to the strength of his own
contingent, and to make the necessary deductions due to their incurable
love of boasting; but the number actually arrived at, including his own
force of Bahima and Bairo, fell not far short of four thousand.  Then
the assembly broke up.

One of the lesser chiefs, during the latter part of the conference, had
been looking with great interest at Mbutu, who stood by his master’s
side.  He was a tall Muhima, lithe and strong, with an Egyptian cast of
feature and the strange melancholy expression so characteristic of his
race.  Looking very puzzled, he edged gradually nearer to Mbutu, and, as
Tom turned to go down the hill, took the young Muhima by both arms, and
gazed searchingly into his face.

"What is it, Mbutu?" said Tom.  "Come along."

"Mbutu!" ejaculated the chief; then smiled, and shook the boy’s arms up
and down excitedly, talking very rapidly and earnestly the while.  Mbutu
listened at first in fascinated amazement, but by and by his expression
changed, he clasped the stranger’s neck, and, turning to his master,
said simply:

"Him my brudder, sah!  Him Mboda!"

Then he explained.  When his village had been raided and burned some
years before, he had believed that he alone of the male population had
escaped alive.  He had seen his father and two brothers killed, and knew
that the women would be carried into captivity.  But it now appeared
that a few of the younger men had evaded the clutches of the Arabs and
got away into the forest, under the leadership of Mboda, his third
brother, and that, when the danger was past, they had returned, built a
village several miles west of the one that was burned, and gradually
gathered about them a few men and women of their own stock.  Of this
small village Mboda was now chief, and he had been among the most eager
to join the coalition against the enemy he had so good reason for
hating.

The delight of the brothers at their unexpected meeting was so manifest
that Tom invited Mboda to return to Mwonga and stay for a few days.
Mboda eagerly accepted the invitation, and sent word to his village by
one of his men.

On Tom’s return to Mwonga, the operations arranged were immediately put
in hand and pressed on in spite of the constant rains.  When the new
stockade was completed, the enclosure was more than half a mile square,
and there was room for the temporary accommodation of fifteen thousand
people.  The hole in the wall of the reservoir was filled up, so that
the supply of water needed by so vast a host might be kept as large as
possible; and the defences were further strengthened by a solid earthen
embankment impenetrable to bullets.  Another measure of Tom’s, at first
the cause of much grief and dismay among the Bairo, was the levelling of
the banana plantation on the south-east of the village.  But when the
news was carried round among the allies it made a vast impression.  The
chiefs recognized that not they alone were required to make sacrifices,
but that the people of Mwonga themselves submitted even to the loss of a
flourishing plantation at the bidding of Kuboko.

But all this Tom felt was but child’s play to the work of training his
men.  He knew, from what he had read of operations in which native
troops had been engaged, in the Soudan and Kumasi, for instance, how
impulsive the negro is, how prone to get out of hand, how apt to fight
"off his own bat", without the least idea of co-operation.  It was
hopeless to attempt the training of the whole body of his allies; it
would take years of vigorous drill, and the constant attention of
British non-commissioned officers, to eradicate these defects and
implant new ideas and habits in the native.  All that he could hope to
do was to bring his own men, and especially the select body of two
hundred and fifty, into something like order.  He worked unsparingly.
He got the men to fall in in double ranks, and arranged them according
to their height, making them number and form fours in the good old way
he remembered at school.  When it came to "Left!" and "Right!" he had
some trouble at first, and the operation of changing ranks was almost
too much for the Bahima, not to speak of Tom’s patience.  Marking time
presented no difficulty, and when the willing negroes had once learned
the difference between right and left it was not long before the orders
"Right form", "Left form", "Move to the right in fours", and the other
mystic cries of the barrack-yard, were carried out with fair precision.
All these military commands Tom gave in English, and he often smiled to
think of the surprise which his uncle, or any other British officer,
would feel if he were dumped down suddenly one day at Mwonga’s village
and heard the curt expressions of English drill bawled within the
stockade.

The four hours’ drill was kept up every day, and the monotony of it was
compensated by the eagerness and aptness of his pupils.  Before, they
were a mob; now, they were gradually gaining the power to work together
and becoming a serviceable force.  This was strikingly shown in their
volley-firing.  After repeated efforts, Tom almost despaired of breaking
the men of firing haphazard, anticipating the word of command, blazing
with eyes shut in every possible direction. But patience won the day,
and at last he was able to advance men against them in sham-fight to
within twenty yards without a trigger being pulled before the word was
given.

The manufacture of gunpowder having proved successful, it was a
comparatively easy matter to make slugs for the muskets.  Every scrap of
old iron, brass, copper, lead, in the place was utilized for this
purpose, and at last the musketeers were provided with sufficient
ammunition, Tom considered, to last them through a month’s brisk
fighting.

Having brought them into something like order, he next set about the
equipment of an equal force of pikemen.  He had read something of the
good service done by pikemen in the wars of the seventeenth century, and
he was indeed amazed to find how details that had lain unnoticed in his
mind now came crowding to his recollection.  He got his men to cut
strong staffs, sixteen feet long, from the forest trees, and to each he
fixed, by means of a thin plate of iron four feet long, a lozenge-shaped
pike-head, made by the Bairo smiths under his direction.  Thus the head
could not be accidentally broken off, or cut off by the Arabs’
scimitars.  The men so armed he trained to act with the musketeers.  In
close fighting order the musketeers were drawn up in two ranks, the
front rank kneeling, the rear rank standing, while the pikemen stood
behind, their pikes projecting in front of the musketeers.  In charging,
the pikemen led the way, supported by the musketeers with bayonets or
clubbed muskets.

Tom was, of course, entirely in the dark as to where the expected
engagement was to be fought--whether in the forest, in the open outside
the village, or again behind the stockade; but he was determined to be
prepared for any contingency. Ill-armed as his force was, he recognized
that he might have to fight a defensive campaign for a time, trusting to
wear the enemy out, and to seize a favourable opportunity for taking the
offensive.  It was a risky policy with a negro force; he could place
full reliance only on the pikemen and musketeers; the great body of the
allies was little better than a rabble, and man for man less dependable,
because less used to regular fighting, than the Arab auxiliaries.  But
he hoped that his special troops would be sufficiently well drilled to
give a good account of themselves if fighting took place in the open,
while in the forest the others could certainly harass the enemy,
probably cut off his supplies, ambush him, and attack him at a
disadvantage.

All this time Tom had been gleaning various items of information as to
the routes by which the enemy might be expected to come.  There was, of
course, the path through the forest, along which he himself had been
carried to the village, but he learnt that there were two other possible
ways, to the west and east of the direct route.  These, however, would
involve the crossing of at least two broad rivers, and the rainy season
being barely over, the streams would be so swollen as to render fording
impossible.

He would gladly have fortified the approaches to the village had this
been possible, but after carefully weighing the pros and cons he
reluctantly decided that he must be content to extemporize stockades
when the approach of the Arabs was announced.  Until the peril was
imminent he could not count upon sufficient assistance from his allies
to enable him to construct defensive works on all the paths by which the
expected invasion might be made, and his own troops were clearly
insufficient for the purpose.

The long-awaited signal came at length.  On the night of November 28, a
date which Tom carefully marked in the pocket-diary he had obtained from
Herr Schwab, the faint taps of a drum were heard far away to the north.
A few minutes later a distinct roll came from the nearest post.  At
distances of six and three miles the signal drummers had passed on the
message received by them from posts farther afield.  Reading the message
by the prearranged code, Tom made out that a small force had been
sighted sixty miles from the village. Surmising that this was merely the
advance-guard, he calculated that the main body would take at least five
or six days to arrive, and he resolved to wait until the morning before
calling up his levies.

Soon after daybreak a courier came panting into the village, and
announced that the line of runners had transmitted to him the news that
a huge force of Arabs was advancing along the forest-path a mile or two
in the rear of the advance-guard.

The village drummers were at once called on to signal the news to the
allied chiefs, and runners were despatched to them all confirming the
intelligence.  The chiefs were each to send their women and children
into Mwonga under a small escort, with not less than six weeks’ supply
of food.  The warriors who were used to forest fighting were to muster
at the edge of the forest, and await orders from Kuboko.  The remainder,
men of the plain, with no special skill in woodcraft, and dreading the
forest as an unknown region of unimaginable terrors, were to concentrate
to the north-east of the village, and hold themselves in readiness to
move in any direction at a moment’s notice.  By making forced marches,
all the fighting-men of the allies had arrived at their appointed places
by the morning of the next day.  It was a glorious morning, and, looking
round from the village on the eager host, their spear-heads glittering
in the sunlight, Tom drew good augury, and felt his heart leap within
him.

His force numbered four thousand one hundred all told, and as yet he was
wholly without definite information of the size of the Arab army.  It
was important that every possible means should be taken of worrying and
reducing the enemy while marching through the forest, encumbered, as no
doubt they were, with carriers and baggage.  They included, Tom felt
sure, a very large number of men armed with rifles and muskets, but
their superiority in this respect would be to a great extent neutralized
among the trees.  His first care, therefore, was to despatch five
hundred of his best forest-fighters, divided into twenty bands of
twenty-five each, into the forest, to dig pits, plant stakes, and employ
every device known to them to delay and harass the advance.  They were
not to penetrate into the forest for more than thirty miles from their
base, in order that they might be easily supplied with food, and readily
recalled if need arose.

Tom’s next step was to arrange with the katikiro for the defence of the
village against a possible flanking attack.  He could not be sure that
the line of the advance now signalled would be the line of the real
attack; for all he knew, the Arabs might divide their force, advance in
two directions, and, while making a feint in their immediate front,
throw all their strength upon the village, hoping to take it unawares.
The katikiro during the last few weeks had proved himself one of the
most intelligent and persevering of all Tom’s lieutenants, and Tom had
complete confidence that his courage and determination would not fail at
the critical moment.  To him, therefore, he entrusted the defence of the
village.  He gave him a thousand of the plainsmen, of whom sixty were
armed with muskets, and also the whole of the cadet corps, who, being
young and hot-headed, he thought would be all the better for the
restraint of the stockade.  The force was, he knew, quite inadequate to
hold the extensive line of fortifications if the place was seriously
assaulted; but it could, he hoped, hold its own behind the stockade for
a day or two, allowing time for Tom himself to return to its assistance.

Before leaving the village, Tom took the katikiro aside to give him
final instructions.  Msala was talking to the medicine-man at the time,
and the latter scarcely attempted to conceal a malignant scowl as Tom
approached.  He moved reluctantly away, evidently curious to learn what
Tom’s business with the katikiro was.

"Msala," said Tom, as soon as he judged Mabruki to be out of ear-shot,
"I have given you an important post, because I know that you are
fearless, and because I trust you.  The village, and the lives of the
thousands of people in it, are in your hands.  You must on no account
leave your post unless you receive a direct order from me.  If I want
you to leave it, I shall send a messenger to you, and he will bring with
him, as a proof that his message is genuine, a leaf out of my
pocket-book with this mark upon it."  He drew a circle, with two
diameters intersecting at right-angles.  "You see that? Whatever
messenger comes to you from me will have a leaf like that, and I will
leave this with you, so that no possible mistake can be made.  Do you
understand?"

"Yes," said Msala, his face aglow with the importance of his duties; "I
will obey the words of Kuboko, and he shall find that I am as bold as a
lion and as wise as an elephant."

"Very well then.  Now I myself am going into the forest with my picked
men.  You may not see me for many days; but do not get down-hearted.
Let us hope that when you and I meet again we shall have made our
account with the enemy."




                              CHAPTER XVII

                               Treachery

Fording a Stream--Preparing a Trap--Ensnared--A Panic--Mystery--Prompt
Measures--Scouting--The Arab Camp--A Burly Pikeman--Preparing to
Spring--De Castro Escapes


The force made a brave show as it marched out next morning amid the
cheers of the thousands of men, women, and children left behind.  The
katikiro stood at the north gate, proud of his office, and yet envious
of the men who were advancing to meet the enemy.  At one side of him
stood Mwonga, at the other Mabruki the medicine-man, who had recovered
something of his old authority with the influx into the village of a
vast horde who had not witnessed his discomfiture by Kuboko.  Some,
indeed, of the Bahima had pleaded that Mabruki might be allowed to
accompany them, so that they might benefit by what magical power was
still left to him; but Tom had resolutely refused their request, asking
them bluntly whether they had not more confidence in his strong arm than
in Mabruki’s basket and bell.  And therefore the only face that scowled
on the departing army was Mabruki’s.

The van was led by the two hundred and fifty pikemen, their pike-heads
polished to a silvery brilliance and flashing in the sunlight.  They
were followed by the musketeers, with Tom and Mbutu at their head.  Then
came a select band of fifty, who were to be entrusted with the throwing
of the hand-grenades, and with them were a number of Bairo, laden with
ammunition.  Behind these came the remainder of the force--spearmen and
archers, all eager, confident, burning to meet the foe; and carriers
with food and cooking-utensils.

A vast rumour filled the air as the force passed on, the men chattering
and laughing, some of them chanting the war-songs of their tribes,
others inventing songs on the spur of the moment and repeating the words
to the thousandth time to the same weird music.  These songs for the
most part sounded the praises of Kuboko.  "Kuboko is stronger than many
lions," sang the men of the plains, who knew what the strength of lions
was.  "Kuboko is mightier than the horn of a bull," sang the Bahima,
prizing their cattle above all things.  "Kuboko, the maker of fire, who
poureth out the water-spout!" sang the Bairo, whose imagination had been
seized by Tom’s deeds during the siege.  Tom was not puffed up by their
ingenuous laudation.  He was, rather, touched by their simple
confidence, and more than ever resolute to use what power he had,
whatever opportunity Providence threw in his way, for their ultimate
advantage.

Between the village and the edge of the forest lay a stretch of about
fifteen miles of fairly open country, dotted here and there with clumps
of bush and with shade trees.

On the way the force overtook a party of pioneers, sent out by Tom in
advance, armed with spades, mattocks, knives, and similar implements for
cutting away the brushwood, erecting stockades, and performing the other
operations necessary in the forest.  At every third mile Tom ordered his
men to erect a rough redoubt or block-house of earth and wood, by means
of which communication might be maintained with the village if it should
be invested.  At each of these he left a small garrison with arms and
provisions.  The last redoubt before entering the forest was of larger
size than the rest, and in it he left a larger garrison and a more
plentiful store of food and ammunition.  There was, he judged, ample
time for this work of construction, for the African native is extremely
quick; and, besides, the Arabs could scarcely reach the outskirts of the
forest within four days at their best speed, and that period might be
almost indefinitely extended if the warriors already despatched to
harass them carried out their instructions thoroughly.  Tom saw that,
having to deal with an army no doubt immensely superior in point of
numbers as well as of armament to his own, he could only impede their
march; he could not hope to stop it.  A general engagement could hardly
be risked.  It might easily result in the total destruction of his force
and the subsequent storming of the village.  It was his object,
therefore, to fight a series of small engagements while the enemy were
still in the forest, and he hoped, by carefully choosing the moment, to
win such success as should give his men new confidence in themselves,
each other, and him.

Entering the forest at length, he was soon met by messengers sent back
by the leaders of his skirmishers, with the information that the Arabs
were advancing in great force behind a screen of native levies, who were
thoroughly skilled in forest-fighting.  All that the chiefs had been
able to do was to maintain a running fight, laying simple ambushes,
darting in spears and arrows whenever they saw an opportunity, and
retiring as soon as the head of the main force appeared.

From the description given by the native couriers, who reached him
almost every hour from the front, Tom, making due allowance for
exaggeration, concluded that the hostile force numbered in all some five
thousand men, with an almost equal number of carriers.  They were
marching in a column nearly five miles in length, the narrowness of the
forest track rendering it almost impossible to proceed except in single
file.

On the second day, Tom, marching now at the head of his troops, came to
a broad stream, which, as he had learnt already from his scouts, was in
full flood from the recent rains. He was hardly prepared to find it so
broad and deep as it was, and though it could easily be swum, it was
necessary to find a ford if the food and ammunition were to be got
across in safety.  The bank was steep, and covered with rank bush
growing as high as a man.  "Better try myself; it will be quickest in
the long run," he said to himself, and, sliding down the slippery bank,
he waded into the water.  It was icy cold, and as he walked towards the
middle of the stream, and the water rose as high as his chest, he gasped
for breath.  The current was fairly strong; he could scarcely keep his
feet; and at last he found it impossible to do so.  But only a few yards
to the right he noticed that the water was swirling and foaming, and,
swimming to that point, his feet, as he expected, touched bottom on some
rocks.  There he waded across, clambered up the bank, and ordered his
men on the other side to cut a new path down the shelving bank opposite
the ford he had so opportunely discovered.  There the whole force
crossed, the water reaching a little above their knees, and Tom, having
seen the passage safely completed, and now shivering with cold, was glad
to swallow a dose of the quinine included with a few indispensables in
Mbutu’s bundle.

Tom had a certain advantage in the mobility of his force. Never more
than a day’s march from a food-supply, he was able to dispense with the
greater part of his carriers; for his troops were able to take with them
sufficient for their immediate needs.  Retaining only one thousand
carriers to bring up supplies from the large redoubt, he employed the
rest in assisting the troops to fell trees and build abattis at various
defensible points along the route.

He found, however, that after deducting the troops left behind in the
village, and the garrisons of the redoubts, he had scarcely more than
two thousand five hundred men to meet the Arab advance.  The question
was, how to dispose of this force to the best advantage.  Learning from
the couriers at the end of the third day’s march that he had come within
ten miles of the head of the Arab army, he halted at a particularly
dense part of the forest, and proceeded, at a distance of some fifty
yards from the track, to cut a path a mile and a half long parallel to
it.  Darkness was falling, the Arabs would certainly halt for the night,
and by employing all his men he hoped to complete the clearing of the
new road by the morning.  At the same time he built a stockade of trees
masked with shrubs at the southern end of the main track. His plan was
to arrest the enemy by the stockade, which was so artfully located at a
slight bend in the path that it could not be seen until they were within
a yard of it, and then to attack them in flank from the bush.  By
cutting the parallel road he had made it possible for his men to move up
and down at will over a length of a mile and a half, and to choose the
best positions for pouring in their fire upon the surprised and
congested enemy.  The task was completed long before dawn, and there was
time for the whole force to snatch a little much-needed sleep before the
hard work that might be expected on the following day.

A year before, Tom would have found it difficult, almost impossible, to
realize what forest fighting meant.  Here he was in an immense forest,
stocked with trees from one hundred to two hundred feet high, their
dense foliage interlocked overhead, the gaps between them filled with an
undergrowth of matted bush, rubber shrubs, creepers, and dwarf-palms, so
thick that the eye could never penetrate more than twenty yards at the
farthest.  The path was a mere foot-track, along which it was only
possible to march in single file.  At some points, where the soil was
soft, the path had in the course of generations been worn down to a
lower level, and seemed like a railway cutting between high banks of
dead leaves and debris.  At other points it wound round a fallen tree,
no one having taken the trouble to remove the obstruction. Here and
there, too, great festoons of monkey-ropes, mingled with orchid
blossoms, hung from tree to tree across the track, so thick that
progress was impossible until they had been lopped down with knives and
axes.

Tom, as he lay on the bank to rest, felt the oppression of the confined
space even more than he had felt it during his previous wandering
through the forest.  The recent rains had caused a rank smell to rise
from the decaying vegetable matter all around him, and he would not
allow himself to think of the ever-present dangers of malaria.  The
night was cold.  Not wishing the enemy to discover his position or the
positions of his men, he had given orders that no fires were to be
lighted, and, but for the cloth which Mbutu had brought by his
instructions, he would have shivered all night long, and in all
probability been prostrated with racking pains in the limbs.  As it was,
he rose from his brief sleep cold and hungry, but feeling ready for
anything, and indeed anxious to meet the long-looked-for enemy at last.
After a breakfast of bananas and potato-bread, he sent messengers
forward to instruct the skirmishers and scouts to fall back.  He thought
that if the harassing attacks ceased for a whole day, the Arabs might
conclude that their enemy had become disheartened, and might thereby be
tempted to relax their vigilance.

At the farther end of the newly-made parallel track there was a large
tree, which, dominating the intervening space and overlooking the main
path, provided a convenient refuge from which it was possible to obtain
a good idea of the strength and composition of the enemy’s force as it
came in sight.  Tom found that he could easily climb the tree to such a
height that, while secure from observation himself, he could act as his
own intelligence officer and not have to trust to the magnifying eyes of
his men.  If the Arabs were ten miles away the day before, he concluded
that it would probably take them the whole day to reach this point, the
forest being dense, and the path obstructed in many places by the
encroaching bush.  He knew that his men would not be very willing to
fight during the night, and there seemed every likelihood that the
action would not begin until the next day.  It turned out according to
his expectation.  The Arabs, after the harassing movements of their
enemy on the previous days, had evidently resolved to take advantage of
the lull to enjoy a thorough rest, for the whole day went by without a
sign of them.  Tom again camped with his men for the night, placing
sentries for several hundred yards along the path to prevent anything in
the nature of a surprise.

He was up with the dawn again, and sent forward a few scouts to
reconnoitre.  These returned by and by, and reported that the enemy had
marched forward only three miles the previous day, and were now about
seven miles away.  Being anxious that they should be surprised as
completely as possible, Tom refrained from sending forward many scouts,
lest some incautious action should give the Arabs warning.  In the
afternoon, judging that the force must be drawing near, he placed some
seventeen hundred men along the parallel road, and eight hundred behind
the stockade, ordering the musketeers among the latter not to fire until
they were actually attacked, or until they heard firing in their front.

About three o’clock he sent forward two Bairo to ascertain the distance
of the enemy, and climbed into his crow’s-nest in the tree.  Suddenly,
in the silence of the forest, a shot rang out.  "One of my scouts hit,
I’m afraid," said Tom to himself.  The waiting warriors stood in an
attitude of tense expectancy, every man gripping his weapon, and leaning
forward in readiness to move in whatever direction he was ordered. Half
an hour passed, and then one of the scouts came swiftly down the path,
emerging as it were from a curtain of green. Tom, looking at him, saw
fear in his face.  His eyes were standing out of his head, his features
twitching as though pulled by some unseen string; he was shaking like an
aspen. "This won’t do," thought Tom; "that fellow will scare the rest."
He slipped down the tree, and met the man before he had been seen by any
of his comrades.  Laying a firm hand on his shoulder, he bade him tell
his news.  The man collapsed in a limp knot on the ground, and with many
a spluttering stumble explained that as he and his mate were creeping
along in the bush beside the path, a shot had come from who knows where,
and his companion had fallen dead beside him.

"How far ahead was this?"

"Master, how should I know when fear came rustling behind me?  I ran,
master; my feet carried me as on the wind."

"Where are the enemy?"

"In the bush, master, tens upon tens of them.  But I saw none of them;
no, I saw nothing but the smoke of the fire-stick in the forest.  I am
very sick, master, and my old father lies sick at home.  Will the master
let me go and nurse him?"

Tom sternly bade the man climb the tree before him and hide in the
foliage.  "Good heavens!" he thought, "if they all turn out like this
coward!"  But he refused to harbour such a thought, remembering their
conduct during the siege. He climbed the tree after the man, waited some
twenty minutes, and then saw, fifty yards away among the trees, the head
of the Arab column coming slowly along the path.  The way was led by
half a dozen stalwart Arabs armed with rifles, walking warily, looking
right and left for signs of the enemy. They passed, and were followed by
fifty Manyema armed with rifles and axes; beyond these he could not see.
They came cautiously along; they passed down the main path, silently,
watchfully, but without throwing out skirmishers. There was a gap of two
hundred yards, and then came the main column of Manyema, armed for the
most part with spears.  They were marching close behind one another, and
Tom’s plan was to allow them to occupy the mile and a half on the main
track between his tree and the stockade, and then to fall upon them
while crowded into this narrow tunnel through the forest.  He counted
fourteen hundred of the Manyema; there was another gap; then, just as
the head of the force of turbaned Arabs was emerging into view, armed
with rifles and pistols of various make, a shot from the direction of
the stockade announced that the obstacle had been discovered.  Dropping
from his perch, Tom gave the long-awaited signal to his men waiting in
ambush, and an irregular fire broke out down the line of men scattered
under cover along the parallel track.  The musketeers numbered only
about two hundred in all, but Tom reckoned on the surprise counting for
a good deal, and the puffs of smoke leaping out from the brushwood at
various points, with the clash of explosions, and the demoralizing
effect of the hand-grenades, impressed the startled Arabs with the idea
that a much larger force than their own was opposed to them.

The surprise was complete.  Met by a musket-fire and a discharge of
spears and arrows from behind the stockade, the Manyema could not
advance; on their left flank there was evidently a well-armed force in
ambush; on their right was thick forest, in which they could only find
shelter by cutting a way. They halted irresolutely, seeking cover
wherever they could. Slugs whizzed through the air and slapped against
the trees; the firing of bullets was heard as the rifle-armed Manyema
fired erratically at their invisible enemy.  But after the first shock
they pulled themselves together, and soon realized that they possessed
better weapons than their adversaries.  They began to move forward again
towards the stockade, and Tom, passing down the line, saw that it was
time to strike home. Ordering his men on the path to stand firm, he
hurried to the stockade, upon which the Manyema had not as yet ventured
to make a serious attack.  He instructed a party of the musketeers to
keep up a steady fire so long as there was no danger of hitting their
friends; then, placing himself at the head of the remainder, he led them
round the left of the position, and, forcing his way through the
thinnest part of the scrub, with a cheer charged down upon the Arab
column. The Bahima followed him, raising their sonorous battle-cry. This
was too much for the already demoralized enemy. Finding themselves
attacked both in their front and on their flanks, the Manyema lost
heart, and, turning their backs, began to push along the path in full
retreat.

This was a signal to the force on the parallel path to re-double their
fire; slugs, grenades, spears, and arrows, fell thick and fast; the
Manyema quickened their pace, and, with no thought now of attempting to
defend themselves, crowded and jostled one another in their eagerness to
flee.  Back they ran, higgledy-piggledy, into the Arabs, who were
hastening in the other direction to join in the fray, ignorant of what
had been going on.  The two columns thus meeting brought each other to a
halt; but the Manyema behind, goaded now to frenzy, pushed on regardless
of their comrades, until soon there was a struggling heap obstructing
the narrow path. The panic was communicated to the Arabs, who, after
firing a few wild shots, some of which found billets in their own men,
turned about and led the flight.  Now the Bahima, with savage yells,
came pouring out of the forest on to the main path.  Every yell had a
note of triumph, a tone almost of reckless gaiety, as the men pierced
and hacked among the panic-stricken foe.  The enemy had by this time
fairly taken to their heels, bolting along the narrow track like scared
rabbits, impeding each other’s movements, trampling dead and wounded
ruthlessly underfoot.  On and on pressed the Bahima, springing across
fallen bodies, heedless of their own wounds, carrying the pursuit for
miles, until they found themselves checked by a reserve of Arabs
strongly posted in a clearing which had been chosen as the camping-place
for their baggage and carriers.  Tom, who was foremost among his men,
now ordered the recall.  Some of his more headstrong warriors did not
hear or neglected to obey the signal, and fell victims to their own
recklessness.

Hurrying back to the stockade, Tom left five hundred men there to
dispute the Arab advance, with orders to hold the position as long as
possible, but to retire if they were hard pressed.  It was now dusk.  No
further attack was likely until the dawn, and Tom decided to retire five
miles along the path to a position he had previously noted as offering
great advantages for defence.  It was the river he had crossed during
his second day’s march.  Apparently this was fordable only at the one
spot, and the steep shelving bank, itself strongly in favour of
defenders posted at the top, could be made doubly formidable by means of
a stockade.  After fording the river on the rocks, the enemy would have
to clamber diagonally up the bank by the path Tom’s men had cut, as the
undergrowth was too thick to allow of an easier path being made under a
determined fire.  The bank, muddy and slippery at any time of flood, had
been rendered doubly difficult by the recent passage of so many men.  A
few feet beyond its top, therefore, on the level ground, Tom set his men
to build a strong stockade across the path, with a total length of some
thirty feet, and curved inwards at each end in order to permit of a
flanking fire.  The large number of active men employed soon felled
enough trees for the purpose; they were split into lengths of about six
feet, and planted in the ground close to one another, with transverse
logs lashed to them with rough rope, and every interstice filled up with
earth and rubbish. It was so placed that a defending force could
dominate the whole width of the river, and Tom felt pretty sure that one
man within the stockade was fully equal to half a dozen without.  The
advantage of the position was still further increased by the fact that
it was out of sight from the opposite bank, for Tom was careful to leave
the intervening scrub untouched, so that it formed an opaque screen.

The stockade having been completed in a thoroughly workmanlike manner by
the afternoon of the next day, Tom sent orders to the men he had left
farther in the forest to retire as rapidly as possible upon this new
defensive position, where he intended to make a serious stand.  There
was always the chance that the Arabs, finding the direct road blocked,
would attempt to get through by cutting another path, but Tom hoped that
any such move would not escape observation, and that the time consumed
in cutting the new path would enable him to fall back and prepare for
meeting the attack elsewhere.

His calculations were rudely disturbed.  A few hours after his
messengers left he received astonishing news from his base. He was
sitting by the stockade, enjoying a well-earned rest and a meal, when a
Muhima came panting up from the direction of the village, and threw
himself on the ground with respectful greeting.  Rising at Tom’s order,
he reported that he had a message from the katikiro; that he had run
until his heart was jumping in his throat and his legs were like running
water.  What was the message?  Oh! it was that the katikiro was sending
eight hundred men to the burning mountain, as Kuboko had ordered, to
remain there until Kuboko came to them.  He would do anything that
Kuboko bade him, especially as he had Kuboko’s mark; but he entreated
Kuboko to remember that his force, bereft of eight hundred men, was now
so weak that he could not keep an enemy out of the village.  The eight
hundred would start in three cookings after the messenger left, and the
katikiro hoped that Kuboko would be pleased with him.

Tom was thunderstruck.  Eight hundred men to the burning mountain, to
start in three hours!  What could it mean? There was a terrible mistake
somewhere, but how could Msala have made such a mistake after the clear
instructions given him?  He was not to move a man from the village
unless he received a direct order, accompanied by a leaf from the
notebook, with a pencilled diagram that was to be the indispensable
guarantee of the genuineness of the message.  No such order had been
sent.  Tom cudgelled his brains vainly for an explanation.  The message
could not have originated with his own force, for if any of his
lieutenants had taken fright he would have asked for reinforcements and
not sent the eight hundred to the volcano, twenty miles on the other
side of the village.  Could an enemy be approaching in that direction?
But the katikiro’s messenger had distinctly said that the order had been
received from Kuboko.  Tom puzzled and puzzled, canvassing every
possible solution of the mystery. The thought suddenly flashed into his
mind: Could there be foul play somewhere?  Was it no mistake of the
katikiro’s, but a deliberate plot to denude the village of its garrison,
and hand it over to the enemy?  Surely a flanking movement could not
already have been effected without his knowing it? Good heavens! was the
smiling Msala a villain?  It was difficult to think so, for he had been
Tom’s strongest and most faithful helper.  The suspicion was dismissed
at once.  Then he must be the victim of a ruse.  That was just as
difficult to understand.  The man had spoken of Kuboko’s mark.  The
katikiro must, then, have received a paper with the diagram drawn upon
it.  No one else, so far as Tom knew, had seen the mark.  Had Msala lost
the paper given him?  Had someone discovered the meaning of it and used
it for a treacherous end?  There could hardly be a second leaf, for the
only paper among them all was contained in Tom’s pocket-book.  Stay!  He
took out his pocket-book and turned over the leaves.  It struck him that
someone might have tampered with it.  It was to all appearance intact.
He ran over the leaves rapidly in the opposite direction.  There should
be a loose leaf corresponding to that which had been torn out to give
Msala.  Where was that?  He searched for it with growing uneasiness;
held the book by its back and shook it violently.  No loose leaf fell;
it was gone!  The book shut with a clasp, so that it was impossible that
the odd leaf had fallen out of itself.  It must have been abstracted.
Someone had played him false!

With Tom thought and action went together.

"Who brought the message to the katikiro before you started?" he asked.

"Mkinga," said the man.  "Mkinga came first.  He came to the village and
spoke to the katikiro; he talked a long time, and gave the katikiro a
piece of white rag.  I was by, for I am the katikiro’s servant, and I
saw, and I know that I speak the truth.  Yes, he talked to the katikiro,
and the katikiro held out the white rag and frowned, and asked Mkinga
where Kuboko was, and all that had happened, and Mkinga told him, and
the katikiro said: ’It is well,’ and bade Mkinga go back to Kuboko and
say that his servant the katikiro would obey his lord’s bidding, and
knew his lord’s mark on the white rag."

"Mkinga!" exclaimed Tom.  "Was there a man named Mkinga among our
troops, Mbutu?"

"Yes, sah.  Mkinga lazy man, sah; no work, no do nuffin; grumble,
grumble all time, sah."

"Where is he now then?"

"Said him sick, sah; him no fight; no, no; him go home and nurse
pickin."

"Ah!  And what was he in the village?  I don’t remember the man."

"Him fink him medicine-man, sah; go pick grass for Mabruki; make Mabruki
him medicine; oh yes!  I know dat."

"Was the medicine-man near when Mkinga arrived in the village?" asked
Tom of the messenger.

"Oh yes!  The katikiro talked to the medicine-man, and showed him
another bit of white rag like the bit Mkinga brought, and after they
talked Mkinga was sent back."

"You say the man disappeared, Mbutu.  Has he been seen since?"

"No, sah."

"Ah!  That will do, my man; go and get food.  Mabruki is at some
mischief, Mbutu," he added.  "There’s a plot to betray the village.  Get
together a hundred and fifty of the best pikemen and a hundred and fifty
musketeers, also two hundred spearmen; all strong active men, men who
have had a good meal and can be trusted.  Tell them that in the time it
takes to cook a pot they will start for the village with me. You
understand?"

"Yes, sah;" and Mbutu went away to fulfil his errand.

Tom’s mind had been made up instantly.  The village was evidently to be
betrayed from within, and in all probability there was an enemy now
outside the gates.  The only chance of saving it was to return himself
with all speed, and take the enemy unawares.  He could not stop to
consider who he could be, or how he could have so strangely outflanked
him; the only question was whether in any case it was possible to reach
the village in time.  It was thirty miles away, and fifteen of these
were in the forest, where marching must necessarily be slow.  But the
attempt must be made; he must reach the village at all costs as early
next day as possible, and could only hope that the enemy would not have
actually entered the place, or that the katikiro, discovering the
treachery, would be able, in spite of his diminished force, to hold his
own until reinforcements arrived.

Within an hour Mbutu had the force of five hundred picked men in
readiness to set out.  Their success against the Arabs had so inspirited
them that they were exulting in the prospect of another victory under
the leadership of the great Kuboko. Mbutu, using his own judgment, had
told them nothing of the long night’s march before them, so that they
might start in the same spirit of confidence and enthusiasm.  It was
dark, but the moon was rising, and by its light filtering through the
tree-tops Tom quickly scanned the force, and was pleased to see how
eager and how fit they were.  Then he sent for the principal chief among
the men who were to be left behind.

"My brother," he said, "I am going to leave you for a time.  There is
nothing to fear; a small force of Arabs is showing itself insolently
outside the gates of Mwonga, and I go to scatter it to the winds.  Now I
leave you here in command.  I trust you.  You are to hold this stockade.
If the enemy appear, you know what to do.  Let them get to the very edge
of the river, yes, even into the river itself, and then fire at them,
launch your spears at them, and prevent them from reaching this bank.
Keep well behind the stockade and they will not see you, so that you
will be able to do much damage among them, while they are powerless to
hurt you. The post is a strong one; you must hold it at all costs.  You
must have confidence in me, as I have in you.  You have seen what we
have been able to do already; though I am not here, fight as though you
saw my face and heard my voice, and all will be well.  If you find that
the enemy is too strong to be withstood, defend the stockade as long as
possible, and then retire, but slowly, and fighting all the way."

The chief replied that he would obey his lord Kuboko in all things, and
fight like an elephant at bay.  Tom then impressed on the minor chiefs
that they must give willing support to the head.  Their loyalty to
himself had already enabled them to strike a severe blow at the enemy,
and from this they should learn the value of union against the invader.
He reminded them how one spear was easily broken, while a bundle
resisted all efforts; and with a final exhortation to act as became
brave and loyal men he started with Mbutu and his troops.  He looked at
his watch; it was just midnight.

That march lived long in Tom’s memory.  Around him was the vast
darkness, occasionally broken by the wan moonlight piercing the roof of
foliage.  The air was damp and chill, permeated by the sickly odour of
decay.  Tom walked at the head of his men with one of the best of his
scouts, pressing on until he felt as though he were in a dream, his
movements mechanical, requiring no effort, his feet seeming to find
their way over obstacles without any volition of his, his mind busy all
the time with other things.  The pace was slow, for the path could
rarely be seen, hemmed in by giant trees, underwood, and thorn.  On and
on the men tramped in silence, their bare feet making a curious swishing
sound on the sodden mould.  There were narrow streams to be forded,
switchback hills to mount and descend; in some parts the path was
slippery, and every step forward seemed to be followed by a longer slip
back.  Still he tramped on doggedly, his heart beating like a hammer
against his ribs, the men panting aloud, uttering a sharp exclamation
sometimes when they struck their bare feet against the knotted roots of
a tree, or dodged a thorn too late to prevent their faces from being
scratched and torn.  On and on, with never a pause, till at nine in the
morning the band reached the edge of the forest, and saw the wide
scrub-dotted plain stretching in front of them.

For just five minutes Tom allowed the men to lie flat on the ground to
rest; then up again.  They were terribly fagged; the fighting and
marching of the previous days, followed by the building of the stockade,
had told on them all. But there was no time to spare for a protracted
rest.  Only half of the journey was yet accomplished, and the remainder
of it must be done at a quicker pace.  Walking was easier now that the
forest was left behind, but the easiness of the path only incited Tom to
quicken the pace, so that a still greater demand was made on the tired
negroes.  They plodded on doggedly, several falling out dead-beat, the
rest following their leader with starting eyes and every muscle of their
legs racked with cramp.  At each of the block-houses, as the column
passed, the Bahima in charge came out to meet Tom and received his
instructions for signalling news.  There was no halt at any of these
places; Tom gave his orders on the march.  On and on went the column
till at mid-day it arrived at a clump of wood three miles from the
village, and there Tom bade them lie down in concealment and rest, while
he sent forward Mboda, Mbutu’s brother, with a scout to find out what
was going on.  They were not to go into the village; indeed, they were
to keep out of sight from its stockade, for the enemy might even now be
in possession of it, and in that case must know nothing of the presence
of a relieving force.

At four o’clock Mboda returned with the news that an hour before they
had seen a large Arab force halt at a spot about a mile to the west of
the village, and make preparations for camping.  It had but just
arrived, coming from the setting sun.  Tired as he was, Tom saw that his
best course now was to make a reconnaissance in person and discover for
himself what was in the wind.

He had had nearly three hours’ rest during the absence of the scouts,
but no food except a few bananas, for he would not allow the men to
light fires for cooking.  Feeling stiff and sore and hungry, he started
alone, and made a long circuit round the eastern and southern sides of
the village, being careful not to approach too close to it, and ever on
the alert to avoid any natives who might be in the neighbourhood. He
walked as quickly as he could, so as to come within sight of the Arab
encampment before dark.  After a tramp of nearly six miles, the last two
of which had been a gradual ascent, he found himself, on emerging from a
clump of bush, within a mile of the camp, which had been placed very
conveniently in a slight hollow.  Even at this distance he could see
that it was a regular encampment and not a mere halting-place, and he
threw himself down behind a bush, and with his head propped on his arms
surveyed the scene.

"There’s a plot, that’s pretty certain," his thoughts ran. "The question
is, are these men outside the village concerned in the plot which sent
eight hundred of the garrison on a wild-goose chase to the volcano?  If
so, their only aim must surely be the capture of the village.  Then why
don’t they attack?  It’s a big camp; there must be a big crowd of Arabs
there, and Msala has only about two hundred fighting-men to defend that
enormous circumference.  They must know that, if they’re in the plot.
And there’s always the chance that the eight hundred will come back.
Perhaps the Arabs are tired out with their day’s march, and want time to
recuperate.  Or are they going to make a night attack?  Last time they
attacked at dawn, their usual custom.  I wonder if they’ve taken a leaf
out of my book, and think that as I routed them at night, they’ll turn
the tables and storm the village under cover of darkness?  One thing is
clear: they expect to have to fight, or they’d have marched straight in,
and that they haven’t is a proof that I was right in believing the
katikiro to be loyal.  Now, what’s my next move?  I should dearly like
to see a little more closely into their camp; how can I manage it?"

He looked about him.  The bush dotting the ground was quite insufficient
to hide him continuously from the eyes of a sharp sentry.  On the other
hand, if he waited until dark he would probably fail to see much, and in
any case that course would delay his return to his men, and perhaps make
it too late to do anything to frustrate a night attack on the village.
Wondering what was to be done, as he moved to the left his eye caught a
narrow watercourse zig-zagging down the sloping ground in the direction
of the camp.  He remembered it well now, though for the moment it had
slipped from his memory.  The banks were steep, and the water shallow,
so that he felt sure he could creep down to within a few hundred yards
of the camp without being seen, provided no one came to the brook for
water and that no sentries were posted outside.  He decided to risk it,
trusting to hide, if necessary, at one of the many windings made by the
stream.  Creeping along, with every care that no splash or rolling stone
should betray him, he arrived safely within three hundred yards of the
camp, and then, cautiously raising his head, he peered over the bank.

There were only two sentries on this side of the camp.  The nearest,
some two hundred yards away on the right, was leaning, as if
half-asleep, on the stock of his musket; the other, half as far again to
the left, had made himself comfortable in the fork of a fallen tree.  It
was evident that the Arab leader was either extraordinarily
self-confident or convinced that he had no opposition to fear.

The whole camp was enclosed by a palisade, which Tom judged, from the
portion he saw, to be about a thousand yards in circumference.  The
palisade consisted of saplings, and was not defended by a trench; but it
was at least five feet high, and from his position in the watercourse
Tom could see absolutely nothing inside the fence.  There was nothing
for it, then, but either to wait till darkness had fallen and then try
to creep closer and look over or through the palisade, or to give up the
attempt to obtain information and return to his men.  He was very
reluctant to adopt the second alternative, and decided at any rate to
remain where he was until it was dark.

He had not long to wait.  It was past four before he left his own camp,
and it was now nearly six.  After remaining for twenty minutes in his
place of concealment, until he began to feel numbed by the cold, he
ventured to lift his head above the bank.  There was nothing between him
and the palisade; a red glow from the camp-fires within was lighting,
the sky, and over the fence came the noise of hundreds of gabbling
tongues.  He crept over the bank, waited an instant, and then ran
noiselessly across to the palisade, where a few bushes would afford him
some cover if anyone happened to look over.  Resting a moment, he heard
the guttural sounds of talking and laughing on the other side; the
negroes were evidently preoccupied with their own concerns.

When a little time had elapsed he got up and peeped over the palisade,
and saw crowds of Manyema eating, drinking, gambling about the
camp-fires.  Beyond them was another palisade defended by a trench, and
within this he guessed that the Arabs of the force were camped.  Finding
that he could obtain no further information except by venturing among
the enemy, which was out of the question, he stole back to the
watercourse, made his way up it, then under cover of the darkness cut
across the country, passing within a few hundred yards of the village.
For a moment he thought of going in at the southern gate and arranging
for the co-operation of the katikiro and his force in the movements he
contemplated, but on consideration saw that to do so might arouse a
commotion in the village and awaken suspicion among the Arabs.
Proceeding, therefore, on his way, he saved more than two miles of his
former journey, and reached his men about half-past seven.  He was then
dead-beat, but he had made up his mind what his course of action was to
be. Mbutu, he was glad to observe, had not allowed the men to light
fires.  Giving orders that the men were to continue to rest until
half-past eleven, and that unbroken silence must be maintained, he ate
ravenously the food provided for him, wrapped himself in the rug Mbutu
had carried, and threw himself on the ground to snatch a brief sleep.

Long usage enabled him to wake at any moment.  At half-past eleven he
rose, and ordered Mbutu to go quietly about among the sleeping men and
rouse them.  In a few minutes they were all on foot, and, looking at
them as they stood, bright-eyed, eager, confident, Tom adopted a
well-known saying and declared inwardly that they "were ready to go
anywhere and do anything".

"Men," said Tom in their own tongue, "the Arabs are encamped beyond the
village there.  I am going to lead you to attack them.  We shall
surprise them if you walk silently. There must be no talking, no noise
of any kind.  The musketeers will leave all their ammunition behind;
this will be a job for bayonets, spears, and pikes alone."

His plan was to make a wide detour and come upon the enemy from the
north-west, the absence of sentries on that side having convinced him
that if they were keeping watch at all it was directed towards the
village.  It was natural that they should take precautions against a
direct sortie without looking for an attack from the quarter in which
they had themselves come.  Leaving fifty carriers, picked up at the
block-houses, to take charge of the food and ammunition, Tom started
with his men at a quarter to twelve.

It was pitch dark; the sky was evidently clouded, and the air had a
nipping rawness that seemed to forebode rain. Tom was rather anxious
about the possibility of keeping the proper direction; but his men were
all natives of the district, and the man he had appointed as guide
marched on with confidence, finding the way apparently rather by
instinct than by the sense of sight.  Soon a dull glow on their right,
the reflection of the village watch-fires, served as a landmark, and in
half an hour they were abreast of it, sufficiently near to hear the
occasional howl of one of the village curs, or the lowing of one of the
cattle.  They marched in dead silence.  Now and then a pike would catch
in some obstruction, such as a bush, a creeper, a branch of a low tree;
once or twice the butt of a musket carelessly held struck against an
ant-hill or a rock, or a man would trip over a stone and cause a
momentary break in the even progress of the column; but not an
ejaculation came from the mouths of the men.  Tom was proud of the
splendid results of the discipline they had undergone, and ready to
avouch that under proper training anything could be made of the Bantu
negro.  On and on they went, the narrow column crawling like a black
snake over grass-land, swamp, and almost bare rock.  They passed the
village, began the ascent to the south of it, skirting the spot where
the flourishing banana plantation had once stood, crossed the stream a
mile and a half above the village, and then arrived at a point whence
they could see the glow from the fires in the Arab camp.

Here Tom halted the men, and quietly told them his plans. The attack was
to be made at two points, the north-west and south-west corners of the
encampment.  Tom himself would lead one body of his men; the other he
entrusted to a gigantic negro named Mwonda, who had distinguished
himself on many occasions during the siege of the village and in the
forest fight. He stood six feet two in height, with extraordinary
muscular development and great physical strength.  He was absolutely
fearless.  His besetting sin was a habit of boasting, which, however,
was so naïve and inoffensive that his mates were more amused by it than
irritated.  He was accustomed to assert loudly that he was a pure
Muhima, though his features and his whole physical organization proved
him to be incontestably one of the Bairo.  But his valour was so
pre-eminent that no one was hurt when Tom appointed him captain of the
pikemen, and his skill with the weapon was unmatched.  His pike was
several inches longer, and proportionately thicker, than those of the
rank and file, and on this night he also carried, slung round his waist,
a scimitar taken from an Arab whom he had killed in single fight in the
forest.  His men had unlimited confidence in him, and Tom had marked him
from the first as the ideal leader when any deed of desperate courage
not demanding tactical skill was in question.

Half the force, then, was put under Mwonda’s command, and he was to lead
the assault from the north-west.  It was essential to the thorough
success of the plan that the two attacks should be simultaneous, and Tom
was for a time greatly exercised as to how the necessary signal could be
given when the two bodies were separated by the whole length of the Arab
camp.  It was important that nothing should be done to give the alarm
there, and Tom, to avoid risks, had even left his revolver behind, and
carried only a musket.  Suddenly he remembered Mbutu’s faculty for
imitating the cries of animals.  Why not make use of that now?

"You can mock the jackal’s cry?" he said.

"Oh yes, sah! berrah good jackal."

"Very well."

The cry of the jackal, he thought, would carry farthest, and from its
very frequency in those parts would not be likely to arouse special
attention.  There was just a chance of a real jackal interposing at an
unfortunate moment, and thus precipitating matters; but the risk, after
all, was slight, and Mwonda would not be likely to make a mistake,
knowing from what direction the expected signal should come.  This was
therefore arranged; Mwonda was ordered to creep as near to the camp as
possible, and lead the assault the instant he heard the jackal’s cry.
In case either of the parties were discovered before the signal was
given, the resulting commotion in the Arab camp was itself to be the
signal for a charge.

Then the march was resumed.  Rain had been for some time falling in a
steady drizzle, which increased to a downpour as they crept down the
slope.  Uncomfortable as it was, Tom welcomed the rain, for it
completely drowned the dull sound of tramping feet.  The scrub grew a
little thicker as the ground descended, and the patter of the rain on
the leaves, the soughing of the wind through the branches of the trees
dotted here and there, produced a sense of uncanniness. Down they went,
the bare feet of the men sometimes slipping on a rock, and Tom himself
once narrowly escaping a headlong fall into the watercourse he had
descended in the afternoon.

Half a mile from the camp he called a halt.  The downpour was as steady
as ever.  There was no sign of sentries.  If any had been posted outside
the palisade the probability was that they had taken refuge in a small
clump of trees some three hundred yards to the south.  It all favoured
the enterprise, for surely no attack would be expected on such a night.
The very watch-fires inside the camp were well-nigh extinguished, and
the absolute silence indicated that the Arabs and their negroes were
sleeping beneath their tents, rude huts, and mats. "Now, Mwonda," said
Tom in a low whisper, "that is your way.  Lead your men as close to the
camp as you can, and wait for the jackal’s cry.  Then you know what to
do."

Mwonda grunted assent.  His column filed off, and in the darkness the
individual figures could only be dimly recognized at a foot distance by
the wisps of light-coloured straw which Tom had ordered them to bind
about their left arms to distinguish them from the enemy.  Tom hoped
that, faint as it was, the glow from the dying camp-fires would make
these distinguishing marks of value.

Giving Mwonda’s column a few minutes’ grace to make the extra circuit
towards the north-west, Toms force began to creep silently towards the
camp.  Slowly, cautiously, nearer and nearer they drew; so cautiously
that Tom, leading the way, stumbled over a man huddled half-asleep in a
blanket on the lee side of a bush.  With a half-cry the man sprang to
his feet, but as quick as thought Tom flung out his right fist, and
stretched him on the sodden ground.  Before he could rise again, or Tom
could interfere, two Bahima flung themselves on the body, and only a
faint gurgle told that their fatal knives had done their work.  Tom felt
a pang as he realized that one poor creature had gone to his account; he
was not yet case-hardened to the terrible realities of war.  But he did
not falter; a life taken meant perhaps hundreds of lives saved, and
never was war waged in a more righteous cause.

The column was now only four hundred yards from the camp.  Yard by yard
it crawled along, the squelching of the men’s feet on the ground being
smothered now by the heavy patter of rain on the palisade and the huts.
Suddenly a stifled cry in the distance, far on his left, followed inside
the palisade by a sentry’s call, told Tom that Mwonda’s column had not
been so fortunate as his own.

"Now!" said Tom to Mbutu, who had kept close at his side all the way.
Instantly the blood-curdling jackal’s howl undulated through the
drenched air.  The men sprang forward, with never a yell or cheer, a
quick grunt alone proclaiming their excitement.  With a rush they gained
the stockade, scrambled up and over, Tom never knew how, and while the
startled enemy were still pouring half-dazed out of their shelters, and
hurrying up by twos and threes towards the palisade, Tom’s men were
among them.  The Arabs in their long burnouses were distinguishable even
in the murk; their dependants formed only a blacker patch.  Between the
outer and inner stockades there was no real attempt at resistance, the
men rushing hither and thither in wild confusion, not knowing which way
to turn, many being without arms, others endeavouring in vain to fire
muskets with damp powder.  The Bahima, now yelling and whooping, ran
among them, cutting them down by scores, and the cries of the wounded
were mingled with the exultant shouts of the attackers.

Rushing towards the inner stockade, Tom met with a more determined
resistance.  The Arabs within that had had time to recover from the
first shock, and to seize their arms.  They made for the side on which,
judging by the clamour, the assault was being made.  A few shots were
fired, at random, for no aim could be taken; but still the
storming-party surged on.  The foremost of them fell back from the
higher palisade, and Tom himself narrowly escaped a blow from a scimitar
which, if it had fallen, would have concluded his career there and then.
But Mboda fortunately interposed his pike, which was cut clean in two
just above the head.  Before the Arab could recover himself a second
pikeman had run him through. This gave Tom enough time to secure a
foothold on the top of the stockade; the next moment he was over on the
inside, laying about him doughtily with his clubbed musket.  He was
speedily joined by several of his men, who lunged and smote at the mass
of Arabs before them.  There was the remnant of a large fire still
smouldering in the centre of the space.  Driven back on to this, the
combatants sent a shower of sparks into the air, and a flame shot up
from the still unconsumed wood, throwing its light full in the face of
Tom’s immediate opponent, a pike’s distance from him.  In the features,
distorted with rage, Tom recognized those of his old enemy De Castro.
The recognition was mutual.  With a snarl of hate the Portuguese flung
his heavy pistol full at Tom’s head, and, changing his sword from his
left to his right hand, followed up the throw with a desperate cut.  Tom
ducked his head; the pistol struck with a dull crack on the skull of the
man behind; with the stock of his musket he parried the cut and sprang
forward at his enemy.  Other warriors were crowding round, and in the
press there was no room to swing the weapon; all that Tom could do was
to prod heavily with the barrel.  De Castro started back, but he failed
to escape the force of the blow altogether; it took him in the midriff
and doubled him up like a hinge.  The surging movement of the throng
carried Tom past and out of reach, and though he wrestled his way
through and hunted high and low for the Portuguese, he saw him no more.

Their attention having been taken up by Tom’s force, which was the first
to reach the stockade, the Arabs had not noticed, until it was too late,
that they were also threatened from another quarter.  Mwonda and his
men, clambering over the palisade at the north-west side, found
themselves almost unopposed, and, sweeping away the few Manyema in the
interval between the two stockades, fell upon the rear of the Arabs in
the inner circle.  Mwonda himself, by sheer weight and impetus, bore
down everyone who tried to make head against him.  Nothing could
withstand the impetuosity of the charge.  Taken thus between two yelling
hordes, the Arabs made no further resistance.  They fled for their
lives, assisted in their escape by the rain and darkness which had so
much contributed to their downfall.  Scrambling pell-mell over the
stockade on the eastern side, they rushed madly away, and became aware
that the village a mile before them was astir; shouts were coming
faintly on the air.  Fearing that still another force was approaching to
fall upon them, they swung round to the north in twos and threes, a
hopelessly broken force; and falling, stumbling, crashing through mud
and bush, over the streams, into the swamps, they ran headlong, fear
pressing hard at their heels.

"Measure for measure!" said Tom to himself grimly.  Many and many a
time, he made no doubt, had panic-stricken negroes fled from their
oppressors in the same way.  It was a turning of the tables.  The
measure the Arabs had meted was being indeed measured to them again, and
Tom rejoiced in the thought that just retribution was at last falling on
men by whom human life had been held so cheap.

Within the captured camp the victors were panting, laughing, shouting in
their glee.  The rain had no power to damp their spirits.  Cries of
"Kuboko!" rang through the air, and a new war-song was composed on the
spot.  It was past two o’clock in the morning; the rain was beating down
more heavily than ever; and Tom ordered the men to see to the few
wounded of his force and to do what they could for their wounded enemies
before seeking shelter for themselves.  He despatched a messenger at
once to the village to give the katikiro information of what had
happened, and fifteen minutes after the man had started, the shouts of
thousands of voices were distinctly heard, as they raised their song of
rejoicing.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                            The Great Fight

Rumaliza takes the Field--Exit Mabruki--Tom checks a Rout--Mbutu
Protests--The Great Zariba--Coming to Grips--Beaten Off--The Second
Attack--Tom in the Breach--Rumaliza’s Last Charge--The Eight
Hundred--Nemesis


When morning broke in cold and mist, the scene showed how complete had
been the surprise of the camp, and how one-sided the fight.  More than
two hundred men lay dead and wounded within the two stockades, and Tom’s
heart bled as he realized how helpless he was to do anything effectual
for those whose wounds were serious.  His own losses had been very
slight; many of the men had nothing but insignificant bruises and cuts
to show, only a few had been killed.  All the equipment of the camp, and
a large quantity of arms and ammunition, had fallen into his hands,
forming a very welcome addition to his resources.  He estimated that the
captured rifles and muskets would enable him to arm nearly six hundred
men.

With the morning light came the katikiro with a hundred of his men.  He
was wild with delight at the discomfiture of the Arabs’ scheme, and
furious with rage at the trick played upon him, which, but for Tom’s
vigilance and energy, would probably have succeeded only too well.
Despatching three hundred men in pursuit of the Arab force, with orders
to bring back what prisoners they could, Tom led the katikiro aside and
questioned him on the extraordinary mistake he had made.  Msala said
that, on the evening of the day on which Kuboko started for the forest,
a messenger had come into the village from an Arab force two marches
away demanding its surrender.

"I cut off his head," said Msala simply.

Tom started, but the moment was not opportune for a reprimand.

"What happened then?" he asked.

"Nothing.  I posted sentries as you bade me; nothing happened."

"Where was Mabruki?"

"He heard the man’s message and saw me cut his head off, and he said he
would go into the fields and search for herbs and charms to keep the
village safe."

"And you let him go?"

"What could I do, master?  Mabruki is a strong man, and the people would
have grumbled if I had not let him go on such a good errand."

"Always a moral coward, Msala," said Tom to himself. "Well, what then?"

"He came back at dead of night with his herbs.  Next day came the
messenger from you, showing me the rag with the mark.  I sent him back
to you.  I did not wish to send him, I thought he was tired, but Mabruki
said send him, for he would know the way, and would tell you himself
that his errand was fulfilled."

"I sent no messenger; that man never reached me.  Go on."

"Then I sent the second message to say how weak I should be without the
eight hundred.  I did not tell Mabruki, for I thought he would be
offended."

"No doubt."

"And then I sent the eight hundred men to the burning mountain, as you
bade me.  And that is all I know till I saw the Arabs coming from the
north and making their camp.  I was ready to fight.  I sent off another
messenger to you; but you came, O Kuboko, and you have smitten them like
hares."

"I do not understand it yet.  Where is Mabruki now?"

"I left him burning grass in honour of your victory."

"Very well.  Go back to the village and keep a watch over him.  Don’t
let him escape."

The katikiro returned, with a very crestfallen look, to the village.
Tom then gave orders that the Arab camp should be destroyed after
everything of any value had been removed. By and by his three hundred
returned in twos and threes, bringing with them prisoners captured on
the confines of the forest.  From one of these, an Arab, Tom succeeded
with some trouble in extracting information about the previous movements
of the force to which he belonged.  He found that, about a week before
the main body of the Arabs had left their stronghold, a smaller force of
one thousand picked men had started under the leadership of De Castro,
all armed with firearms.  Their destination was not known when they set
out, but they had approached the village by a circuitous route through
the forest, some thirty miles to the west of the route adopted by the
main force.  Their object was to surprise the village after its
defenders had been decoyed away.  De Castro had not reckoned on finding
any force in the village, believing that its full strength would, by the
time he arrived, have been drawn into the forest.  What had happened
after his messenger failed to return, this prisoner did not know.

Questioning him further, Tom was rewarded with information of the
greatest interest and importance.  The Arab stronghold lay many marches
to the north-west, on an island in the middle of a lake.  It was
strongly fortified, and so cleverly concealed that no one could suspect
from the shore that the island was anything but a wilderness of bush and
trees.  The forest surrounding the lake was dense, broken here and there
by clearings where slaves were kept.  The officials of the Congo State
had never once made their appearance there.  No path led through the
forest to the shore. The Arabs reached the lake by a river, their canoes
being kept on the island and paddled out and in when required.  No white
man had ever seen this fortress--stay, one white man was probably there
now.  On the way towards the village De Castro’s force had met a big
red-faced man with brown hair all over his face, four eyes, two of them
stuck on wires of gold, and a stomach like a tub.  They had captured
with him several bags containing all sorts of curious and useful things,
and four donkeys.  He had blustered and stormed, saying many things in a
strange tongue, but De Castro had ordered him to be carried in bonds to
the fortress, to be kept there until the return of the expedition.

Tom could not help smiling as he thought of Herr Schwab, so full of
confidence and cheerful assurance, kept a prisoner in the Arab
stronghold.

"And who is your leader?" he asked the man.

It was Rumaliza himself, he replied.  He was an old man, much broken
since his last great fight with the Belgians, but retaining still all
his indomitable spirit.  He was actually accompanying the force through
the forest; for he seemed persuaded that the final crisis of his life
had come, and he wished to superintend the inevitable fight and match
his known skill and craft against the white man, who, rumour said, was
pitting himself against him.  With Rumaliza came his tried lieutenant,
Ahmed.  Mustapha would probably have come also, but for the failure of
his ambush against the British force, which had somewhat shaken the old
chief’s confidence in him.  He had been left in charge of the island
fortress.  There were not many men left with him, but an expedition
which had been sent out several months before to the north was long
overdue when De Castro’s column started, and Rumaliza would probably
leave these men behind to strengthen Mustapha’s garrison.

All this acted like wine upon Tom’s spirit.  Rumaliza himself, the chief
whose name was everywhere held in horror as a synonym for cruelty,
fraud, cunning, and barbarous valour, was leading his host forth on an
enterprise on which he staked all!  Tom’s imagination was stirred at the
prospect of meeting the redoubtable chief, and still more at the news of
the mysterious island fortress.

From another prisoner, an Arab of higher rank, he obtained, later in the
day, particulars which enabled him to piece together a coherent story of
the attempted ruse.  De Castro had waited and waited for his messenger
to return, fuming at his delay, and vowing to teach him a lesson.  At
length a Muiro appeared, who explained that the man was dead, but
brought an offer from the medicine-man to treat.  De Castro had gone
forward after dark and met Mabruki.  This, Tom conjectured, was the time
when the katikiro had supposed him to be gathering herbs.  The prisoner
had himself accompanied the Portuguese to the rendezvous, ten miles from
the village, and had heard the terms of the compact.  Mabruki had
promised to get rid by a trick of the greater part of the katikiro’s
force.  The Portuguese would find it easy then to enter the village.
The katikiro would be cut in pieces, after which the white man was to be
inveigled back and handed to De Castro.  In return for these services
Mabruki was to receive a present of ivory, and to be allowed to make
himself chief in Mwonga’s stead, thus getting possession (Tom supplied
the detail from his own knowledge) of the store of ivory and treasure
which lay beneath the chief’s hut.  It was evident that only the
katikiro’s after-thought, to send a second messenger into the forest,
had foiled the plot.

There were still two points that puzzled Tom.  The first was, why had
not De Castro gone direct to the village instead of camping within a
mile of it, three hours before sunset? The Arab explained that his chief
had acted in the teeth of the advice of his lieutenants.  They were all
for proceeding without delay.  It was sheer indolence, so characteristic
of the Portuguese, and overweening self-confidence, that had determined
De Castro to rest after his march and enjoy his evening meal in peace,
deferring the attack until dawn.  The other point was: How had the
medicine-man got possession of the paper?  The Arab knew nothing about
this, Msala was equally in the dark, and Tom resolved to question
Mabruki himself and probe the plot to the bottom.

Having now a pretty clear idea of the course of events, Tom returned to
the village, where the people were holding high festivities in honour of
the great victory.  Tom did not check the mirth of the non-combatants,
but he gathered the fighting-men together and told them gravely that the
hardest fight of all was still before them.  A few minutes after his
return Msala came to him boiling with rage.

"Mabruki is gone!" he said.  "While I was away he gathered his basket
and bell and piles of charms and fetish-grass, and went away towards the
setting sun.  Many men saw him go, but they feared his evil eye and the
might of his magic, and none dared to stay him."

"Well, we are rid of a villain, and I am spared the necessity of
employing a hangman."

"A hangman!" cried the indignant katikiro.  "I would myself have cut off
his head, though all his devils plagued me for ever after."

"Msala," said Tom gravely, "that sort of thing will not do. Have I been
with you so long, and yet you are ignorant of the true way of justice?
You will think better of it when your anger has passed away, my friend."

Msala was silent.

"Now, we have no time to waste," Tom went on.  "We have had a little
rest, and there is the great fight before us in the forest.  We must
have the men back from the burning mountain.  Mbutu, I will send your
brother for them.  He will go to the volcano and bring back the eight
hundred men there.  On reaching the village they must rest for a short
time; then, Msala, you will send six hundred of them on with all speed
northwards, along with two hundred fresh men.  The rest will remain with
you to defend the village."

This having been arranged, soon after twelve o’clock Tom led his men out
towards the north.  He had expected a messenger to come in with news
from the force he had left in the forest, and he could not but regard
his non-arrival as an indication that the men were at least holding
their own. After a march of nearly five hours he reached the largest
block-house, which stood two miles from the edge of the forest. He found
that, though firing had been heard in the distance, no message had been
received from the front, and after his troops had made a rapid meal he
hurried on.

He had not gone far before he heard irregular firing ahead. Hastening
his pace he soon saw, amid the scrub and thin copses at the extreme edge
of the forest, scattered bodies of men approaching in the direction of
the block-house.  Keen as his eyesight was, he could not distinguish
whether the men were friends or foes, but some of his own troops at once
exclaimed that they were Bahima.  The men he had left in the forest were
evidently, then, retreating, but the firing showed that they were
retiring slowly, fighting, as he had commanded them, every inch of the
way.  He at once made dispositions to prevent a rout, and to give his
men a strong position to retire upon.  Sending out a small body of
picked men to rally the retreating troops, he ordered the seventy
spademen he had with him to throw up a rough breastwork behind which the
musketeers might take secure aim.  The work was only half-completed when
loud shouts, with the boom-boom of trade guns and the sharper crack of
rifles, showed that the Arabs were pressing hard upon the retreating
Bahima.  Suddenly a larger body of men emerged in confusion from the
dense scrub, followed closely by another body evidently in hot pursuit.
The retreat would soon have become a rout, for the Bahima were
outflanked and outnumbered, and the Arabs, assured of victory, were
pressing hard upon them, with exultant cries, and the manifest
determination, as soon as the whole of their force had debouched, to
finish the struggle with a crushing charge.  But the opportune arrival
of the small rallying force sent forward by Tom enabled the retreating
troops to draw off in comparatively good order. The reinforcements
occupied a small copse on the extreme right of the Arab advance, and
from this place of vantage they poured in so harassing a fire that the
enemy, taken by surprise and fearing a trap, halted, undecided whether
to press forward or retire, in the meantime taking what cover the ground
afforded.  The few minutes’ respite was all that was needed to enable
Tom to withdraw his discomfited troops behind the breastwork, and when
the Arabs made up their minds to clear the copse they found it deserted.
They then showed some disposition to advance against Tom’s main
position, but, meeting a sharp musketry fire, they changed their minds
and prepared to form a camp, from which Tom concluded that they had
decided to postpone their attack in force until they had surveyed the
ground and taken a rest.

It was now past five o’clock, and little more than half an hour of
daylight was left.  The Arabs had had a hard day’s work.  They had found
the ford so stoutly defended that a passage at that point was
impossible, and they had had to march for some miles before they found
another fordable place, and then to cut their way through dense forest,
harassed all along by the persistent Bahima.  Thus they were much in
need of rest.  To attack by night, moreover, is foreign to all the
Arab’s habits and traditions, and Tom recognized thankfully that he had
the whole night in which to prepare for the fateful conflict.

Obviously, with a force so largely outnumbered by the enemy, he could
not afford to risk a fight in the open.  The questions occurred to him:
Suppose he took up a strong defensive position, could he tempt the Arabs
to attack him directly? was there no danger of their creeping round on
his right and overwhelming the village?  The first question he easily
answered.  The Arabs had come purposely to attack him, and all that he
had ever seen or heard about them warranted the belief that they would
waste no time in tactics, but would come on in a furious onslaught,
trusting to sheer weight of numbers to carry them through.  The second
question gave him more difficulty; but when he remembered that in order
to reach the village without fighting him the Arabs would have to make a
detour of nearly twenty miles, through a country already stripped of
food and waterless, with the danger of their rear being harassed all the
way, he regarded such a movement as very improbable, and decided that
the approaching battle would in all likelihood be fought on ground of
his own choosing.

He had already marked what seemed to him an ideal spot for such an
encounter.  Extending for nearly a mile into the plain, there lay, to
the west of the path into the forest, an extensive swamp, fringed with
thick reeds, and so much swollen by the recent rains that it was bound
to present great difficulty to an advancing enemy.  He resolved to form
during the night a strong zariba, resting one side of it upon this
swamp.  He ordered his men, therefore, to remove all the ammunition and
provisions from the block-house to the edge of the swamp, and to obtain
a good supply of water from a stream running across the plain half a
mile in his rear, and then to set fire to the block-house, which could
not be held if seriously attacked, and yet might prove a source of
danger if left as a means of cover for the enemy.  Collecting, then, his
whole force, he led them to the swamp, and set a large number digging a
trench and erecting an earthwork around three sides of a square, each
face being about one-fifth of a mile in length. Another body he ordered
to collect mimosa-scrub and cactus from the clumps in the neighbourhood,
to plant these in the earthwork, and to weave among them all kinds of
thorn-plants, so as to make a thick hedge, almost impervious to bullets.
It was dark before the task was weir begun, but posting a number of
pickets and sentries round his position, to prevent any interference on
the part of the enemy, he got some thirty of his men to light the
workers with torches, which, being seen extended over a large area,
would no doubt also serve to give the Arabs an exaggerated notion of his
strength.  Soon after the torches were lit, shouts from the Arab camp
more than a mile away apprised him that they had noted his movements,
and the beating of drums at first suggested that an attack was imminent;
but Mbutu explained that the Arab drummers were merely amusing
themselves by signalling the terrible deeds that were to be done on the
following day, and how the Bahima force was to be scattered to the four
winds.

Tom merely smiled, and pressed on the work, allowing his men short
spells of rest, until about eleven o’clock, by which time the zariba was
complete.  He would have liked to protect his position still further, by
means of pointed stakes planted all round it, driven deep into the
ground, and projecting only four inches above the surface.  In the
half-light, when he expected the attack to be made, these would be
invisible to the enemy.  But, walking round in the moonlight among his
men, he saw that their work on the entrenchments had told heavily upon
those he had brought from the village, while those who had been fighting
all day in the forest were obviously incapable of further exertion.  It
was absolutely essential that they should regain their strength and
freshness for the morrow’s combat.  He therefore contented himself with
protecting only the two exposed corners of the zariba, knowing that
these are always the most vulnerable points, and the first to be
attacked.

Soon after eleven he turned in himself for a short nap, taking every
precaution against surprise by posting pickets and maintaining a regular
series of patrols, of which Mwonda was left in charge.  At two he was up
again, going the round of the sentries, and he ordered Mwonda to get
what sleep he could before dawn.  He had expected that by this time the
eight hundred men from the village would have joined him, but when at
three o’clock there was still no sign of them he called Mbutu to him.

"You must go and hurry on the advance of those eight hundred men," he
said.  "We have tremendous odds against us, and it may make all the
difference in the world to have those men.  If, when you return, you
find us fighting, take them round the swamp and fall on the rear of the
enemy.  I depend on you, Mbutu."

Tom had spoken in Mbutu’s own tongue, and was somewhat surprised to miss
the bright eager look with which the boy usually received his commands.
Mbutu’s face was expressionless, and he made no remark.

"What is it, Mbutu?  You are not afraid?"

"I am not afraid.  I am never afraid."

"Tell me, then, why you look so strangely solemn?"

Mbutu was silent for a few seconds.  Then he said:

"I vowed never to leave you, master, to stay always by your side, to be
your right arm.  You send me from you; I obey.  But if any harm comes to
you, if a spear pierces you, or a bullet plunges into your flesh, I
shall not be there.  It is not well, master."

Tom was touched by the boy’s devotion.

"I am proud of you, Mbutu," he said.  "It is because I trust you that I
give this task to you.  Do not fear for me; you will do me the best
service by leading the eight hundred faithfully to my support.  It is my
command, Mbutu."

"I will do as you say, master," said Mbutu, and hastened away.

Tom employed the two hours before dawn in still further strengthening
his position.  He got his men to throw up a semicircular entrenchment
inside the zariba and resting on the swamp, as a protection for his
reserve.  Near the middle of this was a boulder from which he could
survey the whole battlefield.  For the safe-keeping of his ammunition
and hand-grenades he directed his men to make a number of bullet-proof
shelters--holes about a yard deep, dug near the earthwork, roofed with
wood, and covered with the earth excavated. These shelters were ample
protection except against powerful artillery, which Tom knew that the
Arabs did rot possess, and he was no longer in any anxiety lest an
unlucky shot should explode his reserve ammunition.

At one point on each face of the zariba he so arranged the screen of
mimosa and cactus that it formed a rough gateway opening outwards, thus
allowing, if opportunity should arise, of a rapid sally by the
defenders.  On the northern and southern faces the gateways were at the
extremity resting on the swamp; on the third face the opening was at the
south-east corner, clear of the stakes.

While a small force of workers was carrying out these operations, Tom
sat down to take a final cool review of the whole situation.  His own
advantages were: a strong position, ample supplies of food and water, a
certain number of disciplined troops, and some novelty of armament in
the shape of pikes and hand-grenades.  On the other hand, he was weaker
in numbers than the Arabs, and was not nearly so well equipped with
firearms.  They, on their side, had the larger force and the better
weapons, but these advantages were to some extent counterbalanced by the
defects of their strategical position. They were bound to attack, for
their supplies were limited. They could only safely obtain water from a
stream five miles in their rear; while in regard to food, the whole
region for a hundred miles was so sparsely peopled, and had been so
thoroughly scoured during their advance, that it could not now maintain
a tithe of their number for a week.  To assault the village would be, as
he had already decided, to court disaster, and after their previous
experience, they must themselves feel that they had very little chance
of capturing it with a rush.  It was quite possible--indeed, more than
probable--that they had already heard of the crushing blow suffered by
De Castro.  Many of the fugitives from his force had no doubt sought
safety in the forest until their friends came in sight, and then had
joined them.  Tom thought it not unlikely that De Castro himself was in
the neighbourhood, and he at any rate would stimulate the Arabs to
attack, and seize what opportunity there might be of crushing their
enemy at a single blow.  Weighing all these points, Tom saw that a task
of great difficulty and tremendous import lay before him, but he did not
quail; his courage and determination rose to meet the manifest danger,
and it was with a feeling of confidence, a consciousness that every
faculty was nerved to the encounter, that he quietly, about five
o’clock, gave the order for the camp to be aroused.

"Breakfast!" he said, for he well knew the fighting value of a good
square meal.  The natives were wildly excited, and no amount of
discipline would suffice to make them hold their tongues.  All the time
that the food was being prepared, and throughout the meal, their tongues
clacked and chattered with unchecked volubility.  Soon responsive sounds
came from the Arab camp, and the drummers on both sides started a
tempestuous duel of threats and malediction.  Tom, however, put a stop
to this on his side, and when the meal was finished he collected the
men, and in a few quiet and earnest words impressed upon them the
gravity and moment of the impending conflict.  Then he ordered them to
their posts.

On each of the three exposed sides of the zariba he placed a front rank
of musketeers and a rear rank of pikemen, the double line accounting for
two thousand seven hundred men. The six hundred trade guns and rifles
captured from De Castro’s force had been distributed among the allies.
These included a fair percentage of hunters who knew how to use
firearms, although only one in a hundred was the happy possessor of a
flint-lock.  At each of the corners of the zariba Tom posted fifty
additional pikemen, forming thus a double line.  The pikemen were
supplied with three hand-grenades apiece.  The remainder of the force,
consisting of four hundred picked men, was stationed in reserve within
the inner entrenchment, ready to be thrown towards any threatened point.
This reserve was under the command of Mwonda.  Tom himself took up his
position on the boulder, whence he looked through the gray dawn towards
the Arab camp.

It was a cold morning, and a thin mist lay clammy over the plain,
wrapping the scattered bushes and trees in a fleecy garment of white.
The scouts whom Tom sent out soon vanished, but a breeze was springing
up, and pale streaks of light struggled through the haze.  Half an hour
went by, a period of anxious expectancy.  The noises from the Arab camp
were hushed, and Tom’s three thousand men stood to their arms, and
strained eyes and ears towards the enemy. The mist was rolling towards
the swamp, and suddenly, as it were behind it, two of the scouts
reappeared, with the news that the enemy was on the move.  Soon
afterwards shots were heard, the remaining scouts came hastening back,
and in the distance, dimly through the wisps of vapour, appeared the
Arab host, a compact mass, moving directly and rapidly towards the
north-east corner of the zariba.  It advanced in dead silence.  The
zariba was still partially curtained by mist; but the Arabs could not
have expected to surprise the camp, for the shots fired by the scouts as
they were driven in must have shown that Tom’s troops were on the alert.
From his post of observation on the boulder Tom saw that behind the main
body, which he judged roughly to be about four thousand strong, a
smaller body was advancing at an interval of a hundred and fifty yards.
A few white burnouses were dotted among the serried mass of Manyema in
the van, but the reserve force was Arab throughout.

The light was growing, and the mist hanging over the zariba was
gradually rolled by the breeze back on to the swamp.  Shouts arose from
the foremost ranks of the Manyema as they saw their enemy, who responded
with a bellowing roar.  On came the hostile host, and Tom marked every
foot of their progress, ready at the right moment to give the word to
his eager troops.  The Manyema would charge, he knew; he made up his
mind that the force of their charge must be broken ere they came too
near, so that they might have less energy for hand-to-hand fighting.
The effective range of his muskets was no more than three hundred yards,
but he had a few Winchesters, captured after the siege and in the rout
of De Castro’s force.  When the enemy was within about a third of a mile
of the zariba, Tom ordered twenty picked riflemen to open fire.  A sharp
volley rang across the plain; several men in the front ranks of the
Manyema dropped, and there was an instant reply.

"Down, men!" shouted Tom, immediately after his men had fired.  Not a
head was visible above the parapet, and the enemy’s scattered volley
passed harmlessly over the camp. Many of the bullets, indeed, were
nearly spent when they struck the earthwork; and Tom concluded that the
best-armed among the Arabs were certainly not in the van.

He threw a hasty glance at the Arab reserve, now about half a mile away.
It was advancing leisurely to the support of the main force, as though
the leader expected the zariba to be carried easily at the first shock
of the huge mass.  Only two faces of the zariba were threatened, and
Tom, seeing that there was no immediate danger of an attack from the
south, ordered the musketeers on that face to issue from their gateway
and post themselves behind the stakes at the corner, whence they could
bring a flanking fire to bear on the dense crowd approaching.  At the
same time he moved the pikemen-grenadiers on this face to the eastern
front, to assist in meeting the expected rush, and ordered part of his
reserve to sally out by the north gate, and, lining the edge of the
swamp, to threaten the flank of the attack.

Rapidly as these movements were carried out, they were barely completed
when the Manyema broke into a run, and with fierce exultant yells surged
forward, firing as they came. Their fire was wild and unsteady, while
Tom’s riflemen, taking careful aim from their position behind the
earthwork, did much execution among them.  The remainder of the
musketeers, stooping behind their shelter, eagerly expected the order to
fire, but Tom stood silent and watchful, waiting until the enemy were
well within range.  Even in that tense moment he felt proud of his men’s
self-restraint.  Then, when the shouting negroes were within two hundred
yards of the zariba, the long-awaited order was given.  A sheet of flame
burst from the two sides of the zariba on which the attack was directed.
There were many gaps in the advancing ranks, but so dense was the throng
that these were instantly filled up, and the Manyema came on like a
swiftly-moving wall. There was no time for Tom’s musketeers to reload.
At fifty yards he gave the word to his grenadiers, who were stooping,
match in hand, their eyes fixed on his face, their limbs strained like
springs.  At the command, three hundred grenades were hurled into the
seething mass, and amid the deafening clatter of the explosions the
grenadiers seized their pikes and stood close to stem the advancing
torrent.  Yelling with fury, the horde swept forward.  Standing grim at
his post, Tom wondered whether anything could resist the impending
shock, and glanced with a momentary anxiety at his embattled ranks.  But
there he saw no sign of flinching, nothing but gleaming eyes, and hands
clenched firmly about their weapons.

Suddenly the centre of the enemy’s line came upon the row of stakes at
the north-eastern corner of the zariba, so cunningly planted that in
their impetuous rush the Manyema failed wholly to perceive them.  The
advancing wave broke like surf upon the shore; the onrushing force split
into two sections, with a confused heap in the centre, stumbling
helplessly over the sharp points, screaming with pain, yet pushed on by
their comrades behind, these in their turn to fall upon the stakes.  As
they struggled there, a heavy fire broke from the musketeers who, pushed
out from the southern face, had just taken up their position behind the
stakes at their corner. A moment later an answering volley came from the
ranks of the reserve thrown out on the north side.  Bullets fell thick
among the maddened heap.  Five hundred yards away the Arab leader
recognized that his main body was in imminent danger of rout, and
hurried forward a portion of his reserve. But it was too late.  His
riflemen could not fire without doing more damage among their own
friends than among the Bahima. Before they had covered half the distance
separating them from the zariba, the vanguard was in full flight,
rushing pell-mell from the withering rifle-fire, bursting into the ranks
of the reserve, and sweeping them away in their mad dash for safety.
Fierce yells followed them; the musketeers behind the earthwork had had
time to reload, and, leaping up, poured a volley into the retreating
ranks.  Some of the pikemen were preparing to fling themselves over the
fence in pursuit, but a curt word from Kuboko fixed them to their posts.
Tom saw, a quarter of a mile away, some fifteen hundred well-armed men,
the flower of the Arab force, and recognized that before he could get
his own troops clear of the zariba the broken ranks of his enemy might
re-form and return with the supporting force to outflank and crush the
Bahima, by superior numbers, to say nothing of superior armament, which
in the open would tell much more in the enemy’s favour.  He therefore
checked the incipient pursuit, and ordered the troops he had thrown out
on each flank to return within the shelter of the zariba.

It had been a breathless moment.  Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed
since the advancing tide had rolled towards him in the full confidence
of victory, and now it had rolled back again, leaving four hundred
strewn over the field.

"Well done, my men!" cried Tom, and a great shout rose from his exultant
troops.  Their loss had been but slight. Tom ordered the wounded to be
attended to, and allowed the panting warriors to drink their fill of
water.

He was under no illusions upon the situation.  The first attack, an
impetuous rush _en masse_, had been repelled; but he knew that he was
not dealing with mere savages, or even with Arabs of the Soudan, but
with experienced warriors who had borne the brunt of many a fight, and
who had every motive for nerving themselves for a second and more
formidable onslaught.  It was now broad daylight; the sun lay large and
red upon the horizon.  In the distance Tom descried the Arab camp
occupied only by a horde of slave carriers; between them and him was the
baffled enemy, and he saw the Arab leaders slashing at their retreating
troops, and adjuring them with vehement cries to rally and stand firm.
The conflict was evidently still to come, and Tom was glad of the
breathing-space to allow his men to rest, and to enable himself to make
preparations for meeting an attack which he knew would strain the powers
of his force to the uttermost.

The exertions of the Arab leaders had checked the rout among their men,
who were gradually rallying and forming up on either side of the
reserve.  There was an interval, and then Tom saw emerging from the
hostile force three tall figures, two of them wearing turbans and long
white robes, the third a gigantic negro, taller even than Mwonda.  Tom
looked anxiously at the other two as they approached, no doubt to see
for themselves the position which had so unexpectedly disconcerted their
men.  They drew nearer.

"That is Ahmed, I suppose," said Tom to himself.  "Who is his companion,
I wonder?  Can it be the hakim?"

But no; the figure was that of an older and a taller man than the hakim,
a venerable figure with long white beard reaching almost to his waist.
He was slightly bent, and walked with the tottering steps of an old and
feeble man. "Rumaliza!" ejaculated Tom; "it must be Rumaliza himself,
the old chief who has deluged Central Africa with blood. He comes
breathing out threatening and slaughter.  He means to direct the fight;
he does me honour."

The three figures still advanced.  They were now within musket shot.

"Impudent, not to say foolhardy," thought Tom.  "I can’t allow them to
come any nearer."

He called up half a dozen of his sharp-shooters and bade them open fire.
Six bullets sped across the earthwork; next instant Ahmed staggered, and
was supported out of range by his companions.

"There’s no want of courage, at any rate," thought Tom. "The real
business is only just beginning."

When the three intrepid leaders had regained their lines, about a
thousand men advanced in skirmishing order towards the zariba, taking
advantage of what slight cover was afforded by the inequalities of the
ground and the little scrub which Tom’s men had not removed.  Halting
out of range of Tom’s muskets, though not of his few Winchesters, they
opened a brisk fire on the zariba.  A moment’s observation sufficed to
show Tom that he was outranged; he therefore made no attempt to reply to
the fire, but ordered his men to lie close, withdrew them from the north
and south faces, where they were exposed to the cross-fire over the
earthwork, and set a number of spademen to dig a shelter trench and
embankment parallel to the northern and southern faces of the zariba.
Beginning under the eastern face, the men were in great measure
protected from the enemy’s bullets, and though every now and then a man
was hit, the new defences were completed with surprisingly little
damage.

[Illustration: The Zariba and its defences at the moment of the 2nd.
Arab attack.]

The firing went on more or less fitfully for nearly an hour, and Tom
could see that his persistent refusal to reply caused first surprise and
then anger among the Arabs.  A general movement began on their part.
Some fifteen hundred men detached themselves from the main body and
marched northwards; a similar body, not quite so numerous, moved to the
south; and Tom instantly concluded that a combined attack was to be made
simultaneously on each face of the zariba. Taking advantage of some
scrub, the northern party was able to advance safely to within two
hundred yards of the earthwork, while the southern force in the open
halted at a rather greater distance, out of range of all but the
Winchesters. Owing to lack of ammunition for these, Tom was unable to
touch the enemy, and had perforce to await developments.  As soon as the
flanking forces had taken up their positions, a compact body of five
hundred Arabs advanced to join the skirmishers in his immediate front,
and the whole force there, some fifteen hundred men in all, formed up in
four ranks over a frontage of about two hundred and fifty yards.  Of the
whole Arab host only five hundred men remained in the rear, stationed on
a knoll selected as their head-quarters during the fight.  Among these
Rumaliza and Ahmed were conspicuous.

Tom, watching every move of the enemy with lynx-eyed keenness,
imperturbably gave his orders.  He recognized that it was this time to
be a hand-to-hand struggle, with all the odds against him.  He divided
his reserve into three portions; one, under Mwonda’s command, to
reinforce any point threatened on the northern face; the second, under
the kasegara, to watch the southern face; and the third, under his own
direction, to stand in readiness to lend any assistance required at the
eastern face.  He cast his eye round the position; the men stood to
their arms, expectant, eager, confident; there was not a sign of
timidity or cowardice.

From the knoll, five hundred yards away, came the roll of a drum.
Raising their weapons aloft and uttering a fierce war-cry, the three
divisions of Arabs and Manyema sprang forward at the same moment upon
the three sides of the zariba.  The lesson taught by their former mishap
had been well learned; this time they avoided the stakes at the corners,
and charged in directions perpendicular to the three fronts. For the
first hundred and fifty yards they fired as they came, and though, when
well within range, they were met by a murderous discharge of bullets and
grenades from the earthwork, they pressed on regardless of their many
casualties, and within half a minute had reached the thorn-protected
zariba.

Then began a desperate and mortal struggle.  With the exception of the
reserve, still held by Tom as in a leash within the inner entrenchment,
every man was at grips with the enemy.  Firearms were useless.  It was
pike and bayonet against scimitar, clubbed musket, and spear.  So fierce
was the onset that in many places the thorn hedge was cut or torn down,
and through the gaps a wild horde of black and turbaned warriors
struggled to force a way.  The defenders had lost heavily during the
enemy’s advance, and Tom’s anxious eye had noted many weak spots in the
double rank of musketeers and pikemen.  He himself stood in the middle
of the square, to outward appearance impassive, the target for
snap-shots still fired, when opportunity offered, by the assailants.  A
half-spent bullet struck him on the left forearm, inflicting a slight
wound which he hardly felt.  He mechanically took off his turban and
handed it to one of his men to bind tightly about the arm, all the time
having his eyes fixed on the thin line of troops fighting gallantly
against such desperate odds. No detail of the fight escaped him.  On the
northern face the enemy were making but little headway; their force
there consisted mainly of Manyema, and as yet the screen of mimosa and
cactus was almost intact.  But on the eastern face, where tall Arabs
were led by the gigantic negro, the strength of the garrison was taxed
to the uttermost.  Most of the Arabs were attacking with scimitar in
their right hand and clubbed musket in their left.  At first the
Bahima’s long pikes, thrust out through interstices in the fence, were
too much for them, but as the combat progressed they instinctively
adapted their method of fighting to the new conditions.  Approaching
just out of reach of the pikes, they tempted the pikemen to lunge, and
then with a sharp stroke of their keen blades either severed the head
from the shaft or so weakened it as to render it useless.  Tom saw the
trick, and was about to give instructions how to meet it when he was
delighted to perceive that his men, after one or two of them had been
caught, had themselves seen how to avoid the danger by shortening their
lunge. Even when the heads of their pikes were knocked off, however,
they still made good use of the shafts, bringing them down with
tremendous force upon the heads and bodies of all who came within reach.

[Illustration: Tom in the Breach]

So far, though the Arabs fought like tigers, they had been kept outside
the wall of the zariba.  But suddenly, at the eastern face, a portion of
the fencing collapsed as though it were made of paper.  Through the gap
instantly poured a gang of yelling Arabs headed by the negro captain,
before whose huge two-handed sword pikemen and musketeers went over like
grass before the mower.

"Bahima, with me!" shouted Tom, springing from his boulder, and dashing
forward at the head of his reserve company to stem the torrent.  He saw
that there was not a moment to lose; if the breach was not instantly
dammed the invading horde would carry all before them and sweep the
garrison into the swamp.

Among the nine thousand men on that stricken field, Tom alone had, until
this moment, been unarmed; but stooping now as he ran, he snatched from
the ground the weapon of a dead musketeer, just in time to parry a
sweeping stroke of the negro captain that fell upon his musket and cleft
the wood to the barrel.  He saw the look of exultation in the negro’s
fierce eyes, but the force of the blow caused the assailant to recoil;
before he could recover, Tom was in under his guard and with the butt of
the musket struck him square between the eyes. No skull but a negro’s
could have survived the force of the blow; he did not fall, but halted,
dazed.  His arm hung for a brief moment helpless at his side, and then
Tom, dropping his broken musket, dealt him a body blow with the bare
fist which from school experience he knew must be conclusive. The negro
swayed, reeled, and dropped like a log; Tom was swept on over his
prostrate body and saw him no more.  The fight had occupied but a few
seconds.  Tom’s men had thrown themselves furiously upon their
opponents; the Arabs, missing the inspiriting presence and voice of
their gigantic leader, faltered; in a few seconds more they were
overpowered, and now tried to regain the outside of the square.

"Guard the gap, my men!" cried Tom, and seeing that there was no
immediate danger of another irruption in this quarter he extricated
himself from the mêlée, and made his way towards his post of observation
to see how the fight was going elsewhere.  Before he reached the centre
he knew that the whole of his reserve was now engaged.  Two breaks had
been made on the southern face and one on the northern, and a small band
of Manyema was threatening the flank of the defence by wading some yards
into the swamp.  On the south, as Tom knew by soundings that he had
taken, the ooze was so deep that any man venturing into it would
speedily be sucked down and submerged, but on the north there was a
fordable though difficult approach, and it was important to repel this
attack once for all.  Calling, therefore, a few of his best musketeers,
he stationed them at the north-western corner, and assured himself that
by keeping up a steady fire there they could prevent a dangerous assault
in that quarter.

Turning again, he saw, with a pang, that his force had already suffered
very heavily.  On every face of the zariba the ground was strewn with
prone bodies, and it was a harrowing thought that, in the heat of the
fight, nothing could be done for the wounded men, whose groans mingled
with the yells of the combatants.

"Where is Mbutu?" was the unspoken question that ever and anon formed
itself in Tom’s mind.  It was past nine o’clock; there had been ample
time, surely, for the eight hundred men to arrive from the village, and
Tom more than once looked anxiously towards the forest in the hope of
seeing Mbutu appear with the reinforcements so urgently needed. Would he
never come?  On the knoll the five hundred Arabs were still held in
reserve; so confused had been the contest hitherto that it must have
been impossible for the Arab leaders to form a just idea as to how the
fight was going; but they had seen at any rate that their men had not
yet been driven away; and if they threw their reserve into the scale, as
they might do at any moment, Tom felt that it would be impossible to
maintain his ground.

But though he was anxious he was not yet dismayed.  He saw that his men,
fighting with unquenchable ardour, were slowly getting the better of
their assailants.  Several times he was moved to utter cries of
commendation and encouragement as he witnessed some skilful feat of
arms.  Mwonda was bearing his huge bulk resistless into the thick of the
fight, and largely by his individual prowess and contagious recklessness
the enemy were at last driven off pell-mell at all points.  But while
some ran to a safe distance and threw themselves exhausted on the
ground, others clung tenaciously to their position outside the zariba,
deriving almost as much protection from the earthwork as the garrison
inside.  For some minutes there was a strange lull, like that which
occasionally interrupts the fiercest hurricane.  The war-cries were
hushed; the clash of arms was stilled; nothing could be heard but the
moans of the wounded.  Both sides were gathering strength for a renewed
struggle.  The sun was rising hot in the heavens, and Tom’s men in the
glare and heat were too much fatigued even to reload their muskets.  Tom
allowed them to go in small batches to the water-pitchers, where they
gulped down a few mouthfuls, then returned to their posts.  The enemy
all the time were exposed to the fierce pangs of unassuageable thirst,
and many lay panting on the ground, while some crept away to the extreme
edge of the swamp, and lapped up the foul scum-cloaked death-dealing
water there.

"Will Mbutu never come?" was Tom’s unuttered cry.

The restful interval was not of long duration.  Tom, whose attention
never flagged, noted a movement on the knoll.  He saw the gaunt figure
of the veteran leader stand before his men, draw his sword from its
scabbard, and wave it above his head, while the gestures of his other
hand showed that he was addressing the warriors in a fervid harangue.
These were doubtless the flower of his army.  With the insight born of
long experience he had recognized that a supreme effort was necessary to
turn the scale, and he was resolved to play his last card.

"Bahima and Bairo and all you my brothers," said Tom, "the great
Rumaliza himself is preparing to come against us. You have done well;
you have fought valiantly, and fulfilled my highest hopes; but now still
more is required of you. Play the man, my brothers.  The great chief who
has enslaved your people for so many years must not escape.  Every man
of you must fight like three men this day; every man of you must say
within himself: ’Rumaliza shall not return to his stronghold, nor take
slaves any more for ever.’  He is advancing now, my brothers; be strong,
be strong and brave!"

Kuboko’s bold words infused fresh spirit into his men. They sprang to
their places; the musketeers reloaded their weapons, and every man of
them, for all his weariness, stood with a grim look of obstinate
resolution.  Away on the plain Rumaliza had put himself at the head of
his men; Ahmed was at his side.  They marched slowly to within a hundred
and fifty yards of the eastern face of the zariba, and were received
with an irregular volley from the musketeers.  Even Tom’s stout heart
sank for an instant as he saw that the desperate fighting of the past
two hours had rendered his men’s aim so unsteady that, though the
advancing mass offered an easy mark, there were now but few casualties
in their ranks.  The Arabs shouted as they too observed this fact; they
halted, and summoned to them the men who still clung to the earthwork,
along with those who had scattered after their repulse. Already Tom had
seen what was impending.  He massed the whole of his reserve on the
eastern face, placing the hardiest and least-wearied men alternately
with the others so as to equalize the strength of the fighting line.  He
was himself pale with anxiety; his whole body seemed to him a bundle of
tingling nerves; and as he contrasted his worn-out troops with the fresh
and buoyant Arabs advancing, their unstained swords and spears gleaming
in the sunlight, he prayed that Mbutu with the missing eight hundred
might still come in time to redress the balance.  He had so often looked
in vain towards the forest that he was scarcely disappointed when,
turning in that direction for the last time before the impending shock,
he saw no sign of aid.  And now with shouts of "Allah-il-Allah!" the
Arabs came forward at the charge, Rumaliza himself, whom the breath of
battle seemed to have infused with the vigour of youth, maintaining his
place unfalteringly at the head of his men for many yards until he was
distanced by them.  It was a matter of seconds.  Then, as Tom turned his
head finally from the forest whence no help came, with the stern
determination to hold out till the last gasp, his eye caught a glint of
light little more than half a mile distant.  It was just above the swamp
itself.  His heart leapt, his eye gleamed with hope.  A second
instantaneous glance showed him that it was the sunlight reflected from
a spear-head; dropping his gaze, he descried a number of small dark
objects moving on the very surface of the swamp--the heads of a band of
men wading almost breast-deep in the ooze.  There were no turbans, no
white garments; they were coming from the north-west; surely they must
be no other than the long-expected eight hundred!  A glad cry broke
spontaneously from Tom’s lips; despondency went to the winds; and at
that instant the onrushing force of the enemy fell like a thunderbolt
upon the staggering parapet.  Slashing, hacking, hewing, the fierce-eyed
Arabs surged into the gaps made in the last attack.  An almost audible
shudder passed through the ranks of the defenders as they braced
themselves for the last dread struggle. Not a man blenched; they all
knew that they could expect no quarter; and Tom, looking at them, felt
that with the battle fever in their veins they would dare all.

"Mbutu is with us!" he shouted, knowing that the news would act upon
their spirits as a tonic.

The Arabs, with Ahmed, wounded as he was, at their head, were cutting
their way steadily through the gaps, enlarging them as they did so, and
pressing the defenders backwards by sheer weight of numbers.  Behind
them Rumaliza raised his shrill voice in encouragement.  Every now and
then a desperate rally regained a few yards for the garrison, but they
were unable to maintain their advantage, and Tom began to dread lest all
should be over before Mbutu could arrive.  Standing in the centre of the
square he felt like the man in the iron room of old fable, with a wall
approaching inch by inch to crush him.  His last hope rested on the men
he had placed at the corners of the zariba.  Protected from external
assault by the stakes, they had faced inwards at his order, and taken
the encroaching Arabs in flank.  But Tom saw that they were too few to
delay the invaders for more than a minute or two. Could Mbutu arrive in
time?  Fierce shouts rent the air all around him; the heavy clash of
weapons, the flash of scimitars in the hot sunbeams, the gleaming eyes
and distorted features, the pants and cries of the warriors, the shrieks
of the wounded, made up a terrible scene that well-nigh broke down his
nerve. Arabs were still springing into the zariba; the Bahima were
engaged on every face, fighting an unequal fight, doing manfully, but
receding foot by foot, inch by inch.  Tom felt that he must throw
himself into the fray.  He sprang from his boulder; seizing a bayoneted
musket, he leapt to the side of Mwonda as he smote thick and fast upon
the serried mass, and shoulder to shoulder with him tried desperately to
beat back the overwhelming tide.

Suddenly a tremendous shout rang out to the north.  Tom, at that moment
beset by three Arabs, thrilled with relief as he recognized the familiar
battle-cry of the Bahima. Unperceived by the enemy, Mbutu and his eight
hundred had waded through the swamp, formed up, a shivering miry crowd,
under cover of the thick growth of rushes fringing the swamp, and darted
out upon the rear of the Manyema attacking the northern face of the
zariba.  Taken completely by surprise, the bewildered negroes turned
about, were seized with panic, and without a thought of resistance broke
and fled, Mbutu’s men pouring after them with jubilant shouts, and
taking with their long spears a terrible toll of the fugitives.  The
pressure in front of Tom was immediately eased, for without knowing
exactly what had happened the whole Arab force seemed to have become
aware that the tide was turning.  But Rumaliza behind his men lifted his
quavering yet penetrating voice in adjuration, and the throng
immediately about him threw themselves again into the fray.  Tom would
gladly have recalled Mbutu’s troops to take the main Arab force in
flank, but, intoxicated with their success, they were streaming away to
the north-east after the fleeing enemy.  It was not an opportunity to be
lost, however, and Tom seized the moment by the forelock.  He saw that
the defenders of the northern face, finding themselves suddenly without
an enemy, were hesitating what to do.  Ordering Mwonda to continue his
exertions with even double energy--an appeal to which the weary Titan
nobly responded--Tom instructed the commander of the northern line to
bring his pikemen to the support of the eastern contingent.  Then,
gathering about him the panting musketeers who remained on this side of
the square, Tom led them out rapidly by the northern gate towards the
right rear of the Arab main body.  This movement, being covered by the
wall of the zariba, was not perceived by the Arabs until the sallying
party, skirting the stakes, emerged into the open.  Of the four hundred
and fifty musketeers who had originally been posted at the northern face
less than three hundred remained to follow Kuboko, but coming
unexpectedly on the Arabs’ flank and rear they were more than sufficient
to throw consternation into their ranks.  Too late Ahmed saw the peril
threatening him.  His men were already disheartened by the sudden
strengthening of the resistance in their front, due to the reinforcement
of pikemen; they had been startled by the joyous shouts of Mbutu’s men,
informing them that in that quarter the fight was going against them.
Before Ahmed could make any disposition to meet the new attack, the
exultant Bahima, flushed with the anticipation and assurance of victory,
flung themselves with a fierce yell upon the Arab right.  At once it
crumbled to pieces; there was a general _sauve-qui-peut_.  Away into the
open plain swarmed Arabs and Manyema; arms, ammunition, everything that
might impede their flight was flung away by the panic-stricken mob.
Away and away, heedless of direction, trampling on fallen men, stumbling
over obstacles, on they sped, some dropping and dying of exhaustion and
fright, others flinging themselves on the ground and whining for mercy
as the pursuers overtook them.

"Thank God!" murmured Tom, as he stood still a few yards from the
zariba.  "The fight is won."

There was no need to order his captains to continue the pursuit; they
were leading on their men with fresh ardour, and would not return until
they had thoroughly dispersed the remnant of the hostile force.
Thankful to the bottom of his heart, yet pitying the wretches who lay
all around him, Tom returned with a few men to the zariba to do what
could be done for the wounded.  The square presented a terrible sight--a
sight that Tom could not banish from his memory for many a long day.
The ground was strewn thick with the bodies of the slain.  More than
five hundred of his own men had fallen, and at least twice as many of
the enemy.  As he surveyed the scene, and set some of his men, tired as
they were, to tend the wounded, friend and foe alike, only one thought
consoled him for the suffering and the loss of life that day’s work had
entailed.  "It is a retribution and a promise," he said to himself;
"retribution on the Arabs for the years and years of untold misery they
have inflicted on the people, and a promise of long years of freedom and
peaceful industry.  It is worth the price."

While the men fulfilled his orders he mounted his boulder once more, and
looked across the field.  Away in front, on the knoll whence they had
started on their last fatal charge, a band of some twenty turbaned
warriors had taken up their position, and in a roughly-formed square
stood at bay, to defend their aged chief.  All around them surged a
throng of Bahima, among whom Mwonda was conspicuous.  The Arabs were
armed with rifles, and as they grouped themselves closely about Rumaliza
they did deadly execution among the assailants.  But the cordon was
gradually closing around them. Calling one of his men, Tom despatched
him with a message to Mwonda.

"Spare all who surrender," he said.

The man hastened on his mission.  He delivered the message. Mwonda, with
instant obedience at which Tom rejoiced, ordered his men to halt, and in
a loud voice, audible at the zariba, called on the Arab chief to
surrender.  The only answer was a rifle-shot that killed the man by
Mwonda’s side.  With a yell of rage the giant sprang forward at the head
of his men.  He had obeyed Kuboko; his duty was done; the Arabs gave no
quarter, nor should they receive any.  Rushing on, heedless of bullets,
heedless of the men dropping around him, he forced his way up the knoll,
his men pressing on knee to knee.  They reached the top; there was a
short hand-to-hand fight; then, bursting through the devoted body-guard
that encircled the gaunt figure of the chief, Mwonda swung the huge
two-handed sword he had taken from the prostrate negro captain earlier
in the day, and with one blow cleft Rumaliza to the chine.

Then Mwonda lifted his wet sword towards the sun and shouted; and
instantly, from hundreds of voices over that reeking field, rose a vast
echo of his cry:

"RUMALIZA IS DEAD!"




                              CHAPTER XIX

                              Tom’s Armada

On the Trail--A Picked Force--Through the Great Forest--The Last of
Mabruki--On the Lake Shore--Building a Flotilla--Floating Forts--The
Island in the Lake--Forcing a Landing--A Parley--De Castro Expresses
Himself--Preparing for the Attack--Mwonda the Dauntless--Fire and
Sword--Rumaliza’s House--De Castro’s Last Shot


It was now one o’clock in the afternoon.  For nine hours Tom and all his
men had been afoot, engaged in one of the most arduous struggles that
native Africa had known. The great fight so long anticipated was over;
the dreaded power of Rumaliza, the centre of the hateful slave-traffic,
was broken; Rumaliza himself, with his lieutenant Ahmed and many other
of his principal coadjutors, lay on the field, and the shattered remnant
of the force that left its distant stronghold in such warlike ardour and
confidence was routed beyond hope of rallying.  But Tom saw that his
work was not yet completed.  The fortress in the forest still remained.
It was no doubt strongly garrisoned; the fugitives would naturally
betake themselves thither; the survivors of De Castro’s force and De
Castro himself would gather there, and in course of time, though they
could never expect to recover their old strength and prestige, they
might repair their disaster sufficiently to menace for years to come the
security and happiness of the weaker tribes.  "I must destroy their
scorpions’ nest," said Tom to himself wearily; "when shall I see home
again?"

He saw that his force was too much exhausted to carry operations further
that day.  Of less than four thousand men, at least five hundred lay
dead and wounded; and their exertions had been so violent and so
long-continued that the living and unwounded were fit for nothing but
rest.  Mbutu and the eight hundred who had so opportunely arrived with
him were still apparently keeping up the pursuit, and it was impossible
to make any detailed arrangements until they returned.  Tom, therefore,
sent off a messenger to the village with news of the victory, and with
orders to the katikiro to bring up two hundred men with a stock of
ammunition.  He then went with a few of his body-guard to the Arabs’
camp, where their vast horde of slave carriers must now be dealt with.

He found that the slaves, at least five thousand in number, had risen
and overpowered their guards, and were working havoc among the effects
of their late masters.  At Tom’s appearance they crowded round him, some
of them recognizing him as the prisoner who had escaped months before
from the clutches of Mustapha.  The poor creatures were wild with
delight at the discomfiture of the Arabs, and many of them threw
themselves at Tom’s feet and vowed that they were his, body and soul, to
do with as he pleased.  Seeing on them unmistakeable evidences of
terrible suffering during their recent march--open sores, mutilated
features, scars and weals made by the lash--Tom lost all compassion for
the Arabs who had perished in the fight, and was strengthened in his
resolve to visit the Arab stronghold and there complete the work he had
begun.

He ordered his men to knock off the chains from their necks and ankles,
and those who were thus liberated to assist in the work with their
fellows.  He ordered them also to collect the ammunition, stores, and
camp furniture and carry them to the zariba, and then to dig deep
trenches and bury the dead.  The slaves were suffering greatly from want
of water, and Tom informed them of the stream two miles to the south,
and allowed them to go and refresh themselves at it, commanding them to
report themselves before nightfall at the zariba, where he intended to
camp for the night.

Two hours later Mbutu returned, accompanied by a portion of his force.
They gave a great shout when Tom welcomed them, and Mbutu, his face
beaming with joy, informed his master of his recent movements.  With a
quickness for grasping a military situation with which Tom had not
credited him, he had seen the importance of preventing any considerable
concentration of the fugitives, and sent small bodies of men to the
right and left to guard the approaches to the forest, and thus prevent
any junction of the scattered bands of Arabs and Manyema who had spread
out fanwise in the course of their retreat.

"You have done splendidly, Mbutu," said Tom, patting him on the
shoulder.  "But why were you so late in bringing up the eight hundred
men?  We were almost at our last gasp."

Mbutu explained that when his brother reached the volcano he found the
eight hundred men in a state of great perplexity at the non-appearance
of Kuboko.  They had waited and waited, expecting to be engaged in some
enterprise of moment, and when hour after hour passed away, and day
followed day, without their receiving any orders, they had grown angry.
Some of them had wandered miles away to the south of the mountain to see
if there was anything in that direction that seemed to call for them.
When Mboda appeared and ordered them to return, it took some time to
collect the dispersed bands, and though they had made all haste, they
had found it impossible to march with any great speed over the broken
country between the volcano and the village. Mbutu had met them, indeed,
a few miles north of the village, and had brought them on, with the
fresh men drawn from the garrison, as rapidly as possible.  He was
thankful "too much, too much," he said, that he had arrived at such a
critical moment.  To save time, he had chosen to risk wading across the
swamp in preference to taking the longer circuit round it through the
forest.

"And you did well," said Tom.  "If you had gone the farther way we
should have been overpowered, I fear.  It was a stroke of genius, Mbutu.
The art of generalship is to know when to take risks.  Some people call
it luck, but I can’t see myself why luck should have such a happy knack
of favouring the incapable."

Mbutu did not understand this speech, but he saw that his master was
pleased with him, and he went with all cheerfulness and contentment to
superintend the camping arrangements for the night, receiving willing
assistance from Msala, who came up presently in a state of great
delight, tempered by regret at his own enforced absence from the scene
of the great battle.  To please Mbutu, Tom then sent his brother Mboda
with a small force into the forest to build a new stockade on the
farther bank of the fordable stream, so as to block the way of any Arabs
who might endeavour to retrace their steps over the central path.

Next morning, before returning to the village, Tom sent eight hundred of
his best men, divided into several bands under trusty leaders, to dog
the fugitive Arabs.  Some were to scour the country on the outskirts of
the forest, others to penetrate the forest itself, press forward beyond
the new stockade, and watch every narrow cross-track, every possible
alley, so as effectually to bar the retreat of the Arabs except by long
circuitous routes on which, as the news of their defeat spread, they
would be exposed to the attacks of the tribes they had ill-treated and
oppressed.  These scouting bodies were to carry with them sufficient
food for three days, and at the end of that time to return.

Tom’s march to the village was a triumphal progress.  The people came
out in their thousands to meet him, and in a great glad throng, amid the
din of drums and loud songs of victory, escorted him to his
head-quarters.  Mwonga ordered several of his finest oxen to be killed
for the victor’s feast, and extensive preparations were made for high
jubilation. Tom could not but be sympathetic towards the people’s
rejoicings, but he recognized the danger of their imagining that nothing
remained to be done, and he determined at once to make the situation
clear to them.  Early in the afternoon he summoned all the chiefs to a
council at some distance from the village, where they could deliberate
without interrupting, or being interrupted by, the festal proceedings.
When they were assembled he made a short address to them, in which he
reviewed what had been accomplished, and clearly stated what had yet to
be done.

"True, the Arabs are scattered," he said.  "You have all done nobly.
But many of your men have been killed; many of your women are widows and
your children fatherless to-day.  If your sacrifices, your toils, your
wounds, are not to be useless, you must not stay your hands until this
nest of venomous snakes is utterly destroyed.  You must make one more
effort, my brothers.  It may not be a great one.  The flower of the Arab
army is destroyed; there cannot be more than a handful at their
stronghold.  Our successes hitherto will have encouraged you, and you
will not fail to see that by one final blow you may destroy your enemies
for ever.  If, however, you let slip this opportunity, the Arabs will in
time recover even from this great defeat, as they have recovered from
defeats in the past, and by and by the old evil work of raiding for
ivory and slaves will begin again.  I myself will lead you to this Arab
stronghold, and in a few weeks the impregnable fortress of which they
boast shall be a heap of smoking ruins."

The majority of the chiefs shouted an instant assent to Kuboko’s
proposal, but some murmured discontentedly, and declared that they had
done enough; the Arab stronghold was far away, and they wished to get
back to their own villages and resume their ordinary life.  Tom accepted
the position good-humouredly.

"Let those who wish to go to their homes go," he said.  "I understand
their feeling.  I myself long ardently to see my own home again.  Let
them go, then; and I thank them for their brave and willing services.
But for the rest--I ask you, brothers, shall we sacrifice a little more,
and make the Arabs drink to the dregs the bitter cup they have so often
brewed for you their victims?"

"We will! we will!" cried most of the chiefs.

"It is well.  Now, we have a long march before us, my brothers, but ’tis
a long track that has no end.  We shall reach their stronghold; we shall
capture it, and if perchance a great booty, stores of ivory stolen from
you, should fall into our hands, I promise you it shall be divided among
you in proportion to the number of men you severally furnish."

The prospect of booty, conjoined with their deep-seated hatred of the
Arabs and their exultation at their recent victory, made the chiefs all
eagerness to attempt the new enterprise.  Many of the murmurers were now
among the most anxious to volunteer, and Tom was intensely amused as
they tried with every appearance of artlessness to explain away their
previous reluctance.  He went on to say that he would not need all their
men; he asked for only twelve hundred fighting men and as many carriers.
But both carriers and warriors must be of the very best; he needed men
who were strong and active, and, above all, prompt to obey.  He arranged
with the chiefs to make a selection during the next few days from among
their contingents, and was secretly pleased when he found, as the work
of selection proceeded, that the men who were not picked went about with
dejected faces, and openly envied their comrades’ good fortune.

From prisoners who had fallen into his hands Tom learnt that when the
Arab force left, a garrison of about five hundred men remained in the
island fortress.  They were all Arabs, well armed, under the command of
his old enemy Mustapha, and secure in their possession of a post which
they deemed impregnable.  Before he could reach it, Tom had no doubt
that the garrison would be increased by the arrival of De Castro with
the survivors from his luckless expedition, and also by a certain number
of Rumaliza’s force, who would succeed in evading pursuit and escaping
the perils of the forest.  He might also have to reckon with the overdue
raiding-party from the north.  But even though the defenders of the
fortress should number nearly a thousand, Tom was confident that twelve
hundred of his disciplined and seasoned men would suffice to reduce the
place.

Several days were spent in choosing men and collecting stores.  Tom
could not resist Msala’s plea to be allowed this time to take an active
part by his side.  Mwonda was one of his lieutenants as a matter of
course, and Mbutu begged that his brother Mboda might accompany the
expedition.  There was no lack of arms and ammunition; the chief
difficulty that faced Tom was that of provisioning his force during the
march through the forest, which he expected, from information received
from the prisoners, to occupy nearly a month.  While the resources of
the village and the surrounding country were being taxed to the
uttermost, Tom sent a force of five hundred men into the forest to build
a strong redoubt three days’ march within its borders, and arranged with
one of his allies, the chief of a small village still farther in the
forest, destroyed by the Arabs in their advance, to return and rebuild
his village, with entrenchments and fortifications.  Both these places
he decided to make depots for large stores of grain, in order to reduce
the work of the carriers with the expedition, and to form reserves in
case of a check.

It was a fine day in December, a week after the battle, when the
expedition started.  Tom was convinced that in point of physique no
finer force ever set out on any military enterprise. During the week all
that good food and regular drill could do had been done to bring the men
into perfect condition, and, looking at their well-developed muscular
frames and clear bright eyes, Tom felt proud to command them.

The redoubt was already built and stocked when the column reached it at
the end of the third day’s march.  Two days later, on reaching the
native chief’s village, Tom was surprised to see what progress had been
made with its reconstruction. Men, women, and children were hard at
work, running up grass huts and stockading the whole enceinte.  When the
force resumed their march next morning, Tom felt that the expedition was
beginning in earnest.

Then began the long march towards the Arab fortress, a march to which
Tom always looked back with mingled pleasure and pain.  His previous
acquaintance with the great Congo Forest had been made in a time of such
stress, anxiety, and illness that he had missed many things which now,
as he marched with a large confident force of warriors, he had more
leisure to notice.  The column was led by a company of pioneers to clear
the path where it was overgrown with creepers and bush.  Then came a
company of musketeers, followed by pikemen, among whom Tom kept his
place, accompanied by the ever-faithful Mbutu.  Behind these trudged the
carriers, strong straight men with no lumber about them, tramping along
steadily beneath their burdens, poking fun at each other and at the men
in front of them, laughing at any slight mishap that occurred during
their progress.  After these came the rest of the force, the officers
placed among the men at intervals, big Mwonda being in command of the
rearguard.  The march began each day at 6.30 and continued until 11,
when the column halted for dinner and rest; it was resumed at 12.30, and
ended about 4 o’clock, to allow time for forming a camp before dark, and
for stragglers to rejoin. Ten miles a day was the longest distance that
could be traversed through the denser undergrowth, and Tom learnt from
the Arab prisoners whom he had brought with him as guides that, allowing
for delays caused by rivers to be crossed, felled trees to clamber over,
detours to be made to avoid other obstacles, it would take him nearly
three weeks to reach the lake in the midst of which the island-fortress
stood.

Tom realized now for the first time what the worst difficulties of
forest marching were.  The ground was rank with vegetable corruption,
the atmosphere with exhalations from myriads of dead insects, leaves,
plants.  At every pace his head, neck, arms, or clothes were caught by a
tough creeper, a calamus thorn, a coarse brier, or a giant thistle-like
plant, scratching and rending whatever portion they hooked on.
Innumerable insects lent their aid to embarrass and worry him,
especially the polished black ants, which dropped upon him from the
leaves of trees as he passed, and inflicted bites worse than the wasp’s
sting, till his skin was swollen up in large white blisters.  Yellow
ants and termites also seemed to have an insatiable appetite, nibbling,
gnawing, prowling all day long.  There was the mantis, too, a strange
insect five inches long, gaunt, weird, mysterious; and numbers of
ladybirds, their brilliant red spotted with black.  Tom heard the
rustling of millions of tiny wings, the garrulous chirp of crickets, the
buzz of ant-lions, the dull roar of bull-frogs.  And over all the lower
sounds was the crackle of twigs, the crash of falling branches, the
creaking of the huge, thick-clad stems as they were brushed by the wind.
There were leopard-scratches on the boles; a genet cat was occasionally
seen; rhinoceroses and crocodiles were met at the broader streams; Tom
was told several marvellous stories of the incredible strength of the
sokos; once or twice some of his men assured him that they had caught
sight of pigmies, who instantly disappeared as soon as they were
observed.  They gave no sign of hostility, and Tom congratulated himself
on the fact that his saving of the pigmy woman’s child seemed to have
won for him the freedom of the forest.

There was very little to indicate that the path had already been
traversed by a large Arab force.  Occasionally the advance-guard came
upon the remains of a human body, sometimes a mere skeleton with chains
still about the neck and ankles--some poor slave left by the Arabs to
die of starvation or by the more merciful agency of the wild beasts that
haunted the forest shades.  The native habit was to walk round these
horrible obstructions in the path, but Tom had ordered his men to remove
them into the forest.

On the sixth day of the march his foremost pioneer came running back to
him in great excitement.  He had come upon a dead body lying across the
path, and he declared positively that it was the corpse of Mabruki.

Tom was at first incredulous, but on reaching the spot he saw that the
figure stretched on the path was unmistakeably that of the medicine-man.
He lay face downwards, and innumerable insects were already at work on
his body; but he could not have been dead long, for there was no sign of
mutilation by any wild beast.  One of the men turned the body over, and
then Tom saw a pigmy spear transfixing the traitor’s breast.  The weapon
was evidently poisoned, for the twisted limbs and contorted features
indicated that the hapless man had tasted death in one of its most
terrible forms.

"Put him out of sight!" said Tom, shuddering as he passed on.  He
surmised that on escaping from the village to avoid the penalty due to
his treason, Mabruki had struck due north and had used his knowledge of
the forest to make his way by side tracks into the depths far from the
main path.  He had struck into that path when all fear of meeting Tom’s
men was gone, and then, while on his way to join the Arabs, or perhaps
to foist his false magic upon some lesser chief, he had met with swift
death at the hands of the Bambute.

The tragic end of the medicine-man made a deep impression on the
natives.  Many of them had believed that he was invulnerable to
everything but superior magic, such as Kuboko’s, and his death by so
paltry a weapon as a pigmy’s spear destroyed the last shred of their
faith in him.  Hearing now for the first time the story of his treason,
they were quick to connect his fate with his crime, and said among
themselves that white man’s medicine certainly reached far and never
failed.

Day followed day, and the march was little varied.  Once or twice the
column passed the sites of what had been small villages, now waste and
desolate.  The Arabs had burnt and destroyed every human habitation upon
or near their path. There were streams here and there to be crossed,
sometimes by fords, sometimes by tall trunks thrown across from bank to
bank, once on a bridge consisting of a large tree submerged two feet
below the surface.  Whenever a temporary thinness in the foliage
overhead allowed the sunlight to stream fully on the path, the spirits
of the men seemed to respond, and they broke into song.  Tom noticed the
leader in these choruses, a tall handsome young fellow with a fine
mellow voice, clearly a prime favourite with the men.  His songs were
composed on the spur of the moment, but they were picked up at once by
his comrades, who raised the chorus in strange wild harmony, Tom had
become so accustomed to the ingenuous adulation of the negroes that it
no longer caused a pang to his modesty to hear himself made the subject
of their pæans.  One of their songs, roughly rendered in English, ran:--

        "Sing, O friends, sing!
      We are all warriors bold, and Kuboko is king.
          Aha!  Aha!
      Strong is his arm and invincible; sing, brothers, sing!
      Blithely we march.  Ah! what will the enemy say?
        On to the fortress; long is the way.
    Then we will eat and drink, dance all the livelong day.
          Aha!  Aha!"


Thanks to the slow rate of marching, regulated by the pace of the
carriers, to the good food-supply, and to the physical fitness of the
men when they started, there had not been more than fifty cases of
sickness in the column, when, after twenty days’ marching, Tom learnt
from his prisoners that he was but half a day from the lake in which the
Arab fort was situated.  He pitched his camp that evening with even more
care than usual, and gave strict orders that no member of the force was
to stir beyond its bounds without permission.  He sent forward a few
scouts to reconnoitre, and one of these reported, on his return to camp,
that he had caught sight of several Arabs making their way rapidly
towards the lake.

"The enemy’s scouts!" thought Tom.  "Well, we could not hope to surprise
them."

He posted extra sentries that night, though he hardly expected an
attack, and the hours of darkness passed without incident.  By ten
o’clock next morning, Tom, with the head of the column, had reached the
lake side.  It was a larger sheet of water than he had expected to see,
extending as far as the eye could reach in a north-westerly direction,
bordered to the very edge with dense forest and extensive banks of
reeds.  Some miles off, almost equidistant between the east and west
shores, rose the island, a mass of dark green in the blue water.  As the
warriors came in sight of it they raised great shouts.  Not one of them
had seen it before, for the escape of a slave was an almost unknown
event.  Tom himself felt a strange thrill as he looked over the placid
water and realized that that distant forest-covered islet was to be the
scene of a stern fight.  He stood gazing at it in silence, thinking of
the long years during which it had been a hot-bed of cruelty and wrong,
and he felt a thrill of joy at having attained the desire of his
heart--the opportunity to strike at the head of the slave-dragon.
"And," he said to himself, "please God, I will strike hard!"

No well-trodden path led to the lake side.  The men had had to make a
way for themselves through the underwood. On reaching the edge they came
upon clear signs of human activity--a rough landing-stage of boards,
litter and debris of all kinds.  But no human being except Tom’s own men
was in sight, nor, so far as could be ascertained, was any boat moored
along the shore, though the banks of reeds might well conceal many
craft.

"Mbutu," said Tom, "clamber up that tall tree and tell me what you see."

Mbutu, agile as a monkey, was soon swarming up a straight trunk.

"I see a boat!" he cried, when he came near the top.  "Long, long way;
go dis way"--he waved his arm from east to west. "Go from shore to
island.  Small canoe; four men.  No more, sah."

Tom called up a prisoner, and, questioning him, learnt that the canoe
was probably crossing at the shortest passage, requiring only half the
time that would be taken from the point at which the expedition had
struck the lake.

"Anything more to be seen, Mbutu?"

"No, sah, nuffin."

"Come down, then; we’ll have to do a little scouting."

A path ran round the lake close to the edge, narrow and much overgrown,
but evidently leading to the spot from which the canoe had started for
the island.  Tom sent fifty of his best scouts, under Mboda, to explore
this path.

"If you come across any canoes, seize them," he said. "Don’t fight if
they are defended in force; they probably won’t be worth losing lives
for."

While the scouts were gone he ordered the men to form an entrenched
camp.  For all he knew the enemy might be lurking in the forest ready to
take advantage of any slip, any sign of unwariness; and until he had
located the Arabs, and, if possible, discovered what their strength was,
it was impossible to form definite plans for an attack on the fortress.

Towards dusk Mboda returned with his men and reported that the path grew
wider and less obstructed as it bent northward.  They had seen one
canoe, manned by a crew of half a dozen Manyema, who had shipped their
paddles and jeered when they caught sight of the scouts.  The best
marksmen among these had tried a shot at the canoe, which, though it had
fallen short, had been sufficient to set the men hastily paddling
towards the island.  Mboda had tried to see exactly where their
landing-place was, but the shore of the island appeared to be an
impenetrable wall of jungle.

When the evening meal had been eaten, and the camp-fires were lit, Tom
sent for his prisoners again and subjected them to a further
interrogation.  He learnt that the lake was fed by a small river flowing
from the north-east, as well as by numerous rivulets at other points.
The surplus water escaped on the left, where it formed a fairly large
stream.  The mouth of the river on the north-east was fringed with dense
clumps of reeds.

"Since there are apparently no canoes to be captured we shall have to
make some," said Tom to himself; "and that will take time.  I hope our
stock of food will last till we capture the Arabs’ stores.  Dug-outs
will be the easiest to make, I suppose.  These men of mine have never
made a canoe in their lives, I suspect.  Msala," he said aloud to the
katikiro, "could you make a canoe, do you think?"

Msala looked doubtful, but at length said that he thought he could if
Kuboko would show him the way!

"Like the genius who had never played the fiddle, but thought he could
if he tried!" thought Tom.  "O wise man!" he said.  "That’s a good
answer.  I’ll try to show you the way, though I’ve done nothing of the
sort since I broke a dozen pen-knives carving a sailing-boat when I was
a boy of twelve.  The first question is, where are these canoes to be
made, eh?"

Msala could give no assistance towards solving this problem, but Tom
soon thought it out for himself.  The outlet on the west was wide, the
prisoner had said, and comparatively free from reeds.  Operations there
would run the risk of being disturbed, for no doubt the enemy possessed
a considerable flotilla on the island.  But the reeds at the mouth of
the river on the north-east would serve as a screen, and a few
sharpshooters carefully posted would easily defend the position against
attack.

"That’s the place, evidently," said Tom.  "To-morrow morning, Msala,
we’ll start building our fleet.  Now for sleep, my men--we must be up
early in the morning."

Next day he ordered his men to build a block-house where he had emerged
from the forest, so as to intercept any fugitive Arabs who might have
found their way back to the lake, and to keep a general look-out.
Leaving a garrison of two hundred men there, he started with the rest
towards the north-east corner, which they reached after an arduous march
of fifteen miles, the path having to be cut after they left the
principal landing-stage opposite the eastern shore of the island.  It
happened to be a particularly bright and clear day, and at different
points along the route Tom caught glimpses of the island, which enabled
him to form a fairly good idea of its character and extent.  He judged
it to be about a mile long; it was covered with vegetation of the nature
of jungle, tall forest-trees being conspicuously absent.  The prisoners
pointed out the exact spot, near the centre of the island, where the
fort was situated, but so dense was the thicket that not a corner of it
was visible.  They explained that, while the forest-growth at the shore
was allowed to remain in its pristine wildness, within this fringe and
behind some plantations the ground had been cleared, and the fort,
capable of containing two thousand men, had been built on a slight
eminence in the very centre of the island.  It consisted of a double row
of palisades, fifteen feet in height, the exterior palisade being
defended throughout its whole circuit by a glacis, with a slope of one
foot in four.

"So there are two difficulties to surmount," thought Tom. "First, the
difficulty of reaching the island and landing my men; then the
difficulty of storming a fort defended by such high outworks and a
glacis to boot.  It’s a case of scaling-ladders as well as canoes.  A
great piece of luck that I thought of bringing so many artificers among
the carriers."

When the force reached the mouth of the river, it was too late to begin
the work of constructing canoes.  Tom ordered his men to make an
entrenched camp, and to throw up a special earthwork behind the screen
of reeds, where a company of picked marksmen could easily defend the
canoe-makers from attack.  Early next morning Tom set all his men who
had axes to fell the largest and straightest teak in the forest, a few
hundred feet from the shore.  When the trees were felled, another band
of men was set to strip off the foliage and bark, and so quickly did
they work that by nightfall a large number of huge logs lay ready for
scooping out, varying in length from forty to sixty-five feet.  Tom saw
that he would need a fleet of about forty-five canoes if he intended to
convey all his force to the island at one time, as would probably be
necessary.  He therefore selected the requisite number of trees himself,
and while the carriers were felling these he instructed the warriors how
to dig them out.  He divided them into gangs of twenty to thirty, each
gang to form one canoe crew, and he set these to fashion their own
craft.  He marked off equal lengths along the logs, and gave each man
his own portion to scoop out with knife or pike-head, encouraging them
to work hard by the promise of a reward to the man who finished his
portion first.  They all worked with a will, driving their tools into
the wood with unfaltering zeal, and showing much interest in their novel
work.

While the digging-out was in progress, Tom employed other men in making
thwarts and rough paddles, and the best carpenters in constructing
scaling-ladders.  After ten days’ work he was in possession of
forty-five dug-outs, with their due equipment of paddles, and fifty
ladders ten feet high.  The canoes were, of course, keelless, and Tom
knew that they were bound to sway and roll with the slightest movement
of the body; but fortunately there was little likelihood of their having
to encounter rough weather, and he hoped that they would suffice to
convey his men across the four miles separating the lake shore at this
point from the island.  "They’ll do as well as Napoleon’s flat-bottom
boats, I expect," he thought; "or better, for his invasion never came
off, and mine will."

The work had not been carried on for ten days without molestation.
Every day canoes came from the island, filled with armed men, evidently
curious to learn what was going on out of sight.  On the first day they
paddled towards the mouth of the river, and Tom ordered his men behind
the earthwork to allow them to approach well within gunshot, and then to
let them have a sharp volley.  The canoes came within fifty yards of the
concealed marksmen without suspecting their danger, and at least half
the men on board were hit when the Bahima opened fire.  The survivors
paddled away in frantic haste, and ever after that the canoes kept out
of harm’s way, the Arabs contenting themselves with patrolling the lake,
in cheerful assurance that their fortress was impregnable.  All this
time Tom sent scouting-parties regularly along the shore, from whom he
learnt that at several points on the western side there were large
clearings, which appeared to have been slave settlements, and he
concluded that the slaves had either been withdrawn into the island or
sent deeper into the forest.

His preparations so far being complete--and none too soon, for the stock
of food was running low,--Tom decided to make a reconnaissance towards
the island.  He first tested some of his canoes on the river, out of
sight from the Arabs, employing a few men who knew how to paddle, and
found to his great pleasure that, though clumsy and incapable of being
propelled swiftly, they rode the water fairly upright, and were safe
enough in a calm.  He therefore ordered his men to launch half a dozen
of the canoes at the mouth of the river, and with these fully manned
with riflemen he moved slowly towards the island.  The movement was
instantly observed; hardly a minute had elapsed before a fleet of twenty
light, swift canoes, filled with armed Manyema, shot out from the island
and made towards him.  Recognizing that he could not hope to vie with
them in speed, and that he could not approach the island so closely as
he wished without running great risks, Tom ordered his men to paddle
back, and regained his camp.  A tremendous yell of delight from the
Arabs’ canoes, ringing clear over the still water, bore witness to the
enemy’s confidence, but Tom only smiled.  He remembered reading, in one
of Stanley’s books, an account of how that great explorer had defended
some canoes from attack in precisely similar circumstances, and once
more he found his recollection serve him well.  He sent his men into the
forest, some to cut long poles an inch thick, others to cut poles three
inches thick and seven feet long, a third band to cut straight long
trees four inches thick, and a fourth to remove the bark from all these
and make bark-rope.  While this was being done Tom selected three of the
longest canoes, and had them drawn up parallel to one another near the
water’s edge, and four feet apart.  As the stripped trees were brought
up they were laid across the canoes, and lashed firmly to the thwarts
with the bark-rope.  Then the seven-foot poles were lashed in an upright
position to the thwarts of the outer canoes at the extreme edge, and the
inch-thick rods were twisted in and out among these uprights, just as
gipsies make baskets.  After this, thin saplings were woven in through
any remaining interstices, and at the end of the day the structure
resembled a huge oblong stockade of basket-work, sixty-five feet long
and twenty-seven feet wide.  A gap having been cut in one of its faces,
and a rough gate made, the contrivance was complete.

Next morning Tom went to a distance of three hundred yards and tried a
shot at the stockade with one of his men’s rifles.  The bullet
penetrated the wall, but fell dead inside. He then ordered his men to
collect reeds and large leaves from the toughest plants they could find,
and with these to line the inside of the palisade.  When this was done
he tried another shot, and found that the bullet embedded itself in the
lining.  Delighted with the assurance that the structure was practically
bullet-proof, he next instructed his men to make loopholes at intervals
along the sides, and then ordered eight hundred of the carriers to haul
and push the strange, awkward-looking fort to the water.  He then sent
sixty paddlers to take their places on the thwarts, and a hundred and
fifty musketeers to find room among them.  He was in some anxiety lest
with its full complement of men the fort should be too heavy to float,
but a few moments’ paddling convinced him that, unwieldy as it was, it
would ride the water, though to propel it with any speed was out of the
question.  A great shout of applause burst from the onlookers as the
floating fort moved a few yards towards the lake. Tom ordered it back,
stepped on board, closed the gate, and started on his reconnaissance.

The warriors left on shore watched the progress of the strange craft
across the lake.  It went on slowly and steadily towards the island, and
reached the middle of the channel before any sign of movement was made
by the enemy.  Then forty canoes swept out swiftly from the island’s
green bank, and in one of the foremost, as it came more clearly in
sight, Tom, spying through one of the loopholes, saw his old enemy De
Castro.  The canoes came on rapidly; when within four hundred yards they
stopped dead, and the men on board of them opened fire.  The worst
marksman could hardly have missed so huge a target, and the exposed wall
of the redoubt rang with the impact of hundreds of bullets, only a few
of which penetrated, to fall quite harmlessly in the water between the
canoes.  Tom then ordered the paddlers to slew the fort round, so that
it presented one of its longer sides to the enemy, and a few moments
later a volley burst from the loopholes, doing considerable damage among
the crowded craft of the Arabs.  Seeing that the inventiveness of the
English lad had once more proved too much for him, De Castro, with a
curse, ordered his men to paddle back to the island, and Tom was left to
make his reconnaissance unmolested.

Slowly the unwieldy mass moved round the island--slowly, steadily, like
some uncouth leviathan.  Even Tom’s own men on shore, who had seen it
made, watched it with awe, and some of them cried out that it was a
spirit in monstrous shape.  As he circumnavigated the island, Tom kept a
keen look-out towards it, and found that there were several possible
landing-places, the shore being comparatively low.  Deciding that the
most convenient point of debarkation was a sparsely wooded tongue of
land at the south-east corner, Tom made a careful mental note of the
whole position, and returned to his own quarters, well satisfied with
his day’s work.

The next two days were spent in constructing two similar floating
redoubts, and in practising the men in paddling, for the majority of
them were helpless on the water.  Tom was loth to delay his attack, and
feared that De Castro might make an attempt to escape.  He therefore
withdrew half the men from the block-house at the edge of the forest,
and kept them, along with men from his force, constantly patrolling the
shores of the lake, to watch for any movement from the island.  His
fears were groundless, as he afterwards discovered. De Castro did indeed
suggest to Mustapha that the principal men should decamp with the
treasure, leaving the fort to its fate, but the Arab curtly refused.  He
had sworn an oath on the Koran before Rumaliza’s departure to defend the
treasure till the last, and he himself had a bone to pick with the
audacious English youth who had tied him up with his own rope in his own
hut.  He was, besides, so positive that the enemy, even if he effected a
landing, would fling himself in vain against the defences, that he
scoffed at De Castro’s fears and taunted him with cowardice.

At dawn on a bright January day Tom set forth on his momentous
enterprise.  The three redoubts, each with two hundred men on board, led
the way, followed by thirty canoes fully manned, these last containing
the worst marksmen in the force.  Tom half expected that the enemy,
having already proved their helplessness against the floating forts,
would make no attempt to oppose his landing; but he soon saw that his
passage was not to be uncontested.  Forty-five canoes came out to meet
him.  At a distance of a thousand yards the Arabs’ flotilla divided into
two squadrons, and, rowing three strokes to the one of Tom’s paddlers,
evidently intended to sweep behind the cumbrous redoubts and fall upon
the canoes, a design which Tom at once took steps to defeat. He was
himself in the centre redoubt.  He ordered the other two to move off to
right and left until there was a clear quarter of a mile between him and
them.  The formation of his flotilla had then roughly the shape of a
bent bow, the three redoubts representing the arc and the canoes the
angle formed by the stretched string.  By thus extending his front, Tom
compelled the Arabs to make a wide circuit.  Even then they passed
within range of the loopholed faces of the floating forts, and suffered
severely from the merciless volleys poured out by the Bahima.  Drawing
out of range, they had just begun to converge behind the redoubts when
Tom ordered these to stop, thus allowing time for his canoes behind to
close up and pass between them.  The position was now reversed, the bow
being pointed in exactly the opposite direction, Tom’s canoes nearest
the island, and the Arabs’ farthest away.  Within his redoubt Tom could
distinctly hear the wild threats and cries of De Castro as he ordered
his men to swing round and paddle back to the island.

"He’s afraid we shall be there first," said Tom with a smile to Mbutu.

His move had completely disconcerted the enemy, who abandoned outright
the attempt to delay the progress of the flotilla, and made off at full
speed to the island.  There most of the armed men disembarked, and the
unarmed paddlers, with a few Arab marksmen as guard, withdrew the canoes
towards the north.

[Illustration: The Fight on the Lake]

Tom’s redoubt arrived without mishap off the spot selected for the
landing, and was there met by a tremendous fusillade from the enemy
concealed in the wood.  Thanks to the stoutness of his palisade, he
sustained no casualties, but it was evident that his men would suffer
severely if they landed before the woods were cleared.  He knew from his
prisoners that thick copses stretched northwards and westwards from the
tongue of land he had arrived at; about a hundred and fifty yards inland
they gave place to plantations of pine-apples, bananas, and other
fruits; then came another belt of wild woodland fifty yards deep.
Judging from the hotness of the enemy’s fire that the woods coming down
to the shore were full of marksmen, he decided that these must at once
be cleared.  He ordered the separate canoes to stand off for the present
out of range, and then sent two of the redoubts northwards to hug the
shore, and halt about a hundred yards up, while he had his own redoubt
propelled for the same distance to the west.  At a given signal, the men
in the redoubts opened fire through the loopholes, their fire crossing
over the south-east corner of the island, enfilading the copses that
commanded the landing-place.  After half an hour of this, Tom came to
the conclusion, from the sudden cessation of the enemy’s fire, that they
had abandoned their positions and fallen back into the belt of woodland
nearer the fort. He therefore landed two hundred fighting-men from each
of the two redoubts, unperceived by the Arabs, and sent one redoubt up
coast northwards, and another to the west, to divert, if possible, the
enemy’s attention from movements in their front.  Then, running his own
redoubt on to the tongue of land, he ordered the canoes in the offing to
paddle up swiftly and disembark their men, retaining the men in his own
redoubt to protect the landing-parties.  But no attack was made; the
landing was quickly effected.  Tom then threw open the gate of his
redoubt, disembarked his fighting-men, and sent the redoubt back to the
mainland to fetch the scaling-ladders, and a supply of food and
ammunition, including a number of fire-balls he had brought with him
from the village.

He had now more than a thousand men safely on the island.  As soon as
they were formed up, he led eight hundred forward to penetrate the
copse, and, after discovering by means of skirmishers that the movements
of the redoubts had, as he hoped, drawn off a large body of the enemy
from his front, he threw his men across the plantations and into the
farther wood.  There, after a sharp fight, in which his men
distinguished themselves by the nimbleness with which they worked
forward under cover of the trees, he had the satisfaction of seeing the
Arabs bolt across the open space beyond, and enter the fort by the gate
in the outer stockade. Between himself and the glacis the land was
absolutely clear of trees.

There were three gates to the fort, as Tom had learnt from the
prisoners, one at the north, one at the east, and the one at the south
by which the Arabs had just entered. Before sunset he had formed an
entrenched camp opposite the eastern gate, into which he drew the whole
of his force. Next morning he sent one redoubt, accompanied by five
canoes, each way round the island to search for the Arab flotilla,
surmising that the enemy, fearing an assault in front, would not venture
to despatch a sufficient force to protect their boats.  It turned out as
he hoped.  The redoubts returned in the afternoon, and reported that the
enemy’s canoes were found moored along the northern shore, under the
charge of a mere handful of Manyema, who, when they saw the mysterious
forts bearing remorselessly down upon them, did not wait to fire even
one volley, but incontinently fled. Mwonda, who had been in command of
the expedition, gleefully pointed to the long lines of canoes which he
had brought back with him, towed by the redoubts and by the ten canoes
which had accompanied them.

"Well done, Mwonda!" said Tom.  "Now we will keep twenty of the captured
canoes for our own use; the rest you can tow out into the lake and set
on fire.  We shall thus effectually prevent any of our enemy from
escaping."

The men cheered wildly as they saw the blaze on the surface of the
water, and clamoured to be led against the fort.  But Tom called the
katikiro, the kasegara, and other chief men to his side.

"My friends," he said to them, "I have come to beat the Arabs, as you
know.  But in the fights we have already had much blood has been shed.
It would be right, I think, t avoid further loss of life, both among
ourselves and among the enemy, for many of them, as you know, are
Manyema, who only fight for the Arabs their masters, and would be
incapable of mischief without their leaders.  I propose, therefore, to
invite Mustapha, the chief in command, to surrender."

Every member of the little council was absolutely averse to this
unexpected proposal.  Msala declared that he had come to kill Arabs; he
would rather kill them in fair stand-up fight, but if they surrendered
he would kill them all the same, so that no bloodshed would be saved
among them at any rate.

"Msala," said Tom sternly, "you have ill learnt the lessons I have tried
to teach you.  If the Arabs surrender they shall not escape altogether,
but they must not be killed.  I should hand the leaders over to the
Congo Free State to be tried by its courts, like the court of justice in
our village, of which you are such an ornament, Msala.  The rest of the
enemy I should allow to go free, but without firearms, and thus
incapable of doing further mischief."

The katikiro still raised objections, but Tom combated them one by one,
and at last brought all the officials to agree to his proposal.
Accordingly he called up Mboda, Mbutu’s brother, as one of the most
intelligent of the men with him, and sent him forward under a white flag
to the gate of the fort, with directions to ask for Mustapha himself,
and to deliver to him in form the summons to surrender.  The messenger
returned in about half an hour.  He had spoken with Mustapha, who was
accompanied by a little dark man with evil face.  Mustapha had at first
refused to treat, but at De Castro’s request had at length agreed that a
meeting should take place between the opposing leaders half-way between
the camp and the fort. He proposed to come himself with two of his chief
men, all unarmed, and he invited Kuboko to do likewise.  Mboda had only
just delivered this message when Mbutu broke in impetuously:

"Not go, sah," he said.  "De Castro bad man; him come; him remember sah
knock him down; him no friend; him no speak good words.  Mustapha too;
him tied; him berrah mad, oh yes!  Not go, sah."

"Don’t be afraid, Mbutu.  There is honour among thieves. They have
themselves proposed to come without arms.  We shall merely have a talk,
and be done with it.  Go back, Mboda, and say that I agree to the
proposal, and will meet Mustapha and his friends in an hour’s time
midway between our positions.  Both sides, it is understood, will come
unarmed."

An hour later Tom set off to the meeting, accompanied by Mwonda, and by
Mboda as interpreter.  He thought it well not to provoke the two hostile
chiefs unnecessarily by bringing Mbutu before them, and Mbutu, much
against his will, remained in the camp, his heart filled with misgiving.
To relieve him, Tom said, just before he started:

"You can keep a sharp look-out, Mbutu, and if you do see any open
movement of treachery, which for my part I do not expect, you will order
a company of men to fire, taking care not to hit me or my friends, you
know."

As he approached the meeting-place he saw three men issue from the gate
of the fort.  He looked at them with interest.  There was his old enemy
Mustapha, his opponent in single-handed fight, his captor, and his
victim.  By his side, dwarfed by the Arab’s giant frame, was De Castro,
his red shirt and yellow breeches seeming all the more gaudy beside the
white robes of the Arabs.  The third figure--it was with a start that
Tom recognized Mahmoud the hakim, who had befriended him to the utmost
of his power during his short captivity months before.  The two little
groups met in the open field, and bowed ceremoniously, no outward sign
of recognition passing between Tom and the other side.  Curiously
scanning the features of the Portuguese, Tom almost found it in his
heart to pity him.  His face was lined and haggard, its expression was
fierce and darker than ever; the iron of disappointment and defeat had
evidently entered deep into his soul.  He eyed Tom with an insolent and
malignant scowl, and kept clenching and unclenching his fists. Mustapha
was much more composed, preserving the impassivity so characteristic of
his race.

Tom wasted no time in preliminaries.  He gave no explanation of his
presence there at the head of a great force of armed Bahima; he
courteously but plainly stated the terms he had come to
propose--unconditional surrender, the leaders to be placed in the hands
of the Free State Government, their followers to be disarmed and
dismissed.  If these terms were not accepted the fort would be stormed.
Mustapha looked at him in silence for a moment; then his eyes flashed,
and he cried:

"You come to me to propose terms?  You, my enemy! Know that you are in
my power.  You will storm my fort? You shall never enter it alive.  I
have waited for this day; my revenge has been long in coming, but it has
come at last.  I fought you by the river; would to Allah I had slain
you!  I kept you a captive and fed you; would that I had slain you then!
Now is the third time; you shall not escape me."

De Castro, who had ill concealed his impatience, here took a step
forward, spat upon the ground, and began to speak in broken English.

"I mock at you, I laugh at you, Inglese," he cried.  "You dare threat
us?  Who has the greater army, I like to know? You take the fort!  Bah!
Is it a dog’s kennel?  You talk to me, eh?  I talk to you, so; I say,
you insolent puppy; you no take fort; no.  You go back to your camp, and
in a little while our army will come to you and drive you into the
water.  Bah, I spit at you!"

Tom paid no heed to the furious man’s insolence.  He turned quietly
towards Mustapha, and with unruffled courtesy said:

"Have I your final answer?"

His manner evoked a corresponding politeness from the Arab, whose reply,
as translated by Mboda, was simply:

"I have sworn an oath.  I will not surrender.  I will fight you."

Tom decided to make one more appeal.  Addressing the hakim, who had
stood hitherto gravely silent, he said in German:

"Mahmoud, my friend, cannot you persuade Mustapha, to abstain from a
hopeless contest?  You have all heard of my success till now.  You,
surely, do not doubt that I shall succeed again?  You yourself were kind
to me; I should be deeply grieved if, during the struggle that seems
inevitable, any harm came to you.  Will you not induce your chief to
give way?"

The stately hakim looked with kindly eyes upon the young Englishman,
whose earnest and friendly tone had touched him.  Then he shook his
head.

"I am an Arab," he said.  "Whether we win or lose, whether we live or
die, all rests with Allah.  I am Mustapha’s man."

"I am sorry," replied Tom, and was about to take leave when De Castro
said suddenly:

"You speak French?"

"Yes."

Then, speaking rapidly in that language, De Castro suggested that Tom
should give him a safe-conduct for himself and his property.  In that
case he promised to deliver up the fort; he cared nothing, he said, what
then became of the Arabs.  Tom looked at the traitor with silent scorn.
The Portuguese quailed for a moment; then, his face livid with rage and
mortification, he glared at Tom’s accusing face, and burst out in
Swahili, clearly for the benefit of Mustapha, who was looking at him
with suspicion:

"Have you your answer, puppy?  Will you go?  To-morrow I will have you
in the fort, tied to a post, and you shall not escape me again.  Now I
make you my bow."

With a low mocking inclination he turned away.  Tom bowed to the Arabs,
and also turned.  At that instant De Castro wheeled round, whipped a
revolver from his pocket, and fired point-blank at Tom.  The shot
missed, but struck Mwonda, immediately in front of Tom, and wounded him
in the shoulder.  The giant turned round with a roar like a bull’s, and
sprang towards his treacherous assailant.  De Castro pointed his
revolver again at Tom; the bullet whistled past his ear.  Cursing his
ill-luck, the Portuguese turned just in time to elude the raised arm of
Mwonda, and at that moment a volley rang out from the camp; one of the
bullets sped past Tom and hit De Castro’s left arm.  The revolver fell
from his right hand, and with a howl of agony and rage he bolted up the
field into the fort.  Mustapha disdained to run; he walked back in his
stately way, and escaped.  The hakim was not so fortunate.  As he was
returning to the fort, a little behind Mustapha, he was shot through the
back, and fell.  Tom sprang to the fallen man, and at the same moment
Mbutu, at the head of a hundred musketeers, came running out of the camp
in desperate fear for his master’s safety.  Tom reached the hakim,
lifted him in his arms, carried him a few steps, called Mboda to assist
him, and hurried with the heavy burden towards his own camp just as a
volley flashed from the fort.  The shots were hasty and ill-directed,
and, covered by Mbutu’s company, who halted and poured a steady fire
towards the fort, Tom and his two companions safely reached the shelter
of their entrenchments, and, panting with their exertions, laid the
unconscious hakim on the ground.  Mbutu returned with his men
immediately afterwards, the whole incident having occupied little more
than a minute.  Tom had much trouble in restraining his infuriated
troops from rushing upon the fort without further delay.

"Wait, my men," he cried; "they shall pay to-morrow."  And he turned to
examine the hakim’s wound.

Mahmoud died at dawn, having recovered consciousness for but one brief
moment, during which he pressed Tom’s hand, smiled at him with the same
grave, wise smile, and murmured: "It is the will of Allah; all is well."

Tom buried him on a little hillock at the lake side.  Then he set about
his preparations for the final struggle, with a fierceness foreign to
his nature.  His heart was filled with bitter resentment against the
dastard whose treachery had brought unnecessary death upon an innocent
man.  "Within twenty-four hours it shall be finished," he said to
himself with grim resolution.

He did not underrate the difficulty of the task before him. From the
number of canoes that had met him on the lake, and the number of men in
them, he calculated that the garrison in the fort amounted to at least a
thousand men.  The five hundred left by Rumaliza had been increased by
fugitives from his own and from De Castro’s force, and further by a
completely equipped force of two hundred and fifty men who had returned,
a few days before Tom’s arrival, from an expedition northwards.  With
such a garrison, and the advantage of a strong position behind a glacis
which could be swept from end to end by rifle fire, the fort was
obviously secure against direct attack with a force of only eleven
hundred and fifty men.  Investment, again, would not only be a very
protracted affair, but was likely to fail, for the Arabs were no doubt
well provisioned, while Tom had only a scanty stock of food.  If they
could have been deprived of water a siege would soon terminate, but Tom
had learned from the prisoners that a constant supply was obtained from
a deep well within the fort. The only method left was a night-attack,
and after his previous experience De Castro would unquestionably be on
his guard against surprise.  Still, it seemed the only possible course,
and Tom, after breakfast, sat down to think out the points involved.

The most common danger attending a night-attack--the risk of losing the
way and stumbling on the enemy unawares--was absent.  Further, the
attackers could approach the palisade under cover of darkness with less
risk of suffering serious loss by rifle fire than if the assault were
made by daylight.  By making feints in two or three quarters Tom could
throw his main force in overwhelming strength on the real point of
attack.  And, last consideration of all, the Arabs had an inveterate
repugnance to fighting by night, whereas his own troops had by repeated
successes gained confidence in this respect.  The only great
disadvantage was that, unfamiliar as he was with the interior of the
fort, he could not be sure in the darkness of directing the attack
towards the most vulnerable points; but this drawback might be
neutralized by a simple means he had at hand.

A night-attack was therefore decided on.  Tom prayed that the night
might be dark.  He called up one of the prisoners, and made him draw a
rough plan of the fort on a leaf torn from his pocket-book.  Then he
sent one of the redoubts to the mainland to fetch further stores and to
bring back a number of carriers with knives and axes.  When these
arrived he set them to work in cutting a path through the bush on the
east side of the island in order that his troops might move rapidly from
place to place without being seen.  While the carriers were engaged in
this task a sudden shout from the south apprised him that something was
happening in that quarter.  In a few moments a messenger came up with
the news that the enemy had made a sortie from the south gate with the
evident intention of capturing the canoes, and had driven back the post
placed between the plantations and the belt of copse.  But this move had
been already provided against.  When the Arabs reached the shore they
saw, to their chagrin, that the canoes lay two hundred yards out on the
lake, under the protection of one of the floating forts.  Tom sent three
hundred men under the kasegara to intercept the enemy as they returned.
The Bahima placed themselves just within the copse in a line parallel to
the path leading to the gate, and poured in a hot fire at the Arabs as
they hastened back.  Mustapha, in the fort, was on the alert; he threw
out a large force to cover the retreat of his men, and but for this it
seemed likely that the sortie-party would have been cut off from their
base and annihilated.  As it was, they lost heavily, and no similar
organized attempt was made during the rest of the day, though occasional
shots were fired from the fort as if to show that the enemy was not
napping.

Taking advantage of the freedom from serious interference, Tom devoted
himself to his plan of operations.  He decided that the real attack
should be made, not from his camp, east of the fort, as the Arabs would
no doubt expect, but from the south.  The katikiro with two hundred men
would make a feigned attack from a point north of the fort, and the
kasegara with another two hundred would demonstrate vigorously against
the east.  Each of these feigned attacks would be accompanied with heavy
rifle-fire, and, while they were in progress, Tom himself would lead a
strong force against the southern portion of the palisade, from which he
expected that most of the defenders would have been drawn off towards
the apparent danger north and east.

At nightfall, then, Tom called his officers together and explained his
plans.  He was somewhat surprised to see Mwonda among them, for the
giant had been badly wounded in the right shoulder.  He was still more
surprised to learn that the heroic negro had got a companion to cut the
bullet out of his flesh, and had borne the terrible pain without so much
as a groan.  He came now, with his right shoulder bound up, and his
musket in his left hand, determined to wreak vengeance in person for the
treacherous blow dealt him.

"You are a brave fellow, Mwonda," said Tom.  "You shall be in command of
the northern force, and the katikiro shall stay with me.  The kasegara
will attack first, on the east, when I send him word, an hour before
dawn.  When you hear his rifles in play, Mwonda, you will make a sham
attack on the north gate.  Understand, you are both to keep up a heavy
fire, and shout as loud as you like; but you are not to make a real
attack until you get orders from me."

Since his arrival on the island Tom had taken no pains to preserve
silence in the camp, and on this night he ordered companies of a hundred
men, in addition to the usual sentries, to be kept awake in turn, each
for an hour, so that their chatter might delude the enemy and cover up
any sounds made by his troops as they moved to their positions.  Two
hours before dawn the movements began.  Mwonda led his men northwards,
being instructed to march as silently as possible.  Tom, accompanied by
Mbutu and Msala, went southwards with seven hundred men, leaving the
kasegara in charge of the camp with orders to keep his men talking until
he received the signal for beginning the sham attack.  With Tom’s men
went fifty carriers with scaling-ladders, and before starting he ordered
one man in five to take a fire-ball in addition to his gun or pike.
When they reached the position he had decided on, he briefly explained
what they were to do.  Then he turned to Mbutu and the katikiro and said
quietly:

"If I fall, press home the attack with all your might.  The men will
follow you if you only show them strong leadership. And, Mbutu, when the
fight is over, if I am not alive, I trust to you to make your way to
Kisumu, and tell my uncle, if he is there, or the English commander if
he is not, all that has happened to me.  That is my last request."

Then he sent a messenger to the kasegara.  Ten minutes later a sharp
volley was heard in the direction of the camp, accompanied by savage
yells.  Immediately afterwards shouts and the crackle of rifles were
heard, less distinctly, from the north.

"My men," said Tom, "now is our turn.  Go quietly through the copse,
make a rush to the foot of the slope; scramble up, on hands and knees if
you must, and make for the palisade.  No firing, mind; nothing but
bayonets and pikes at first.  Don’t fire till I give the word.  Now,
advance!"

Two hundred men being left in reserve, Tom’s little force consisted of
five hundred musketeers and pikemen, and the fifty carriers with the
scaling-ladders.  These latter held the ladders in front of them as a
partial protection from rifle fire. The whole force moved quickly
through the woodland, gained the bottom of the glacis with a rush, and
began the ascent. The front ranks were half-way up before their presence
was discovered.  Then a brisk fusillade broke out from the fort, and
several men fell.  The rest threw themselves on their hands and knees,
and finished the ascent at a scramble.  The point made for was a few
yards to the left of the gateway. While the bullets were flying
erratically over the palisade, the carriers placed their ladders against
it, and as, owing to the slope, they stood somewhat insecurely, Tom
ordered four men to hold each while the rest mounted.  In hardly more
than a minute a hundred men were within the palisade, to find themselves
exposed to cross-fires from the gate and from a line of fencing thrown
across from the inner stockade to the outer, thus dividing the space
between them into compartments. But faster than the gaps were made they
were filled by fresh men swarming over the fencing.  Tom was over among
the first.  He ordered some of the ladders to be hauled across and
planted against the inner palisade, now more strongly defended by
reinforcements which the first alarm had drawn from north and east.  The
Arabs were firing not only over the palisade, but through loopholes in
it.  Luckily the invaders had already spread, so that there were no
close ranks to be decimated by the fusillade, and in the darkness and
the flurry the defenders’ fire was necessarily ill-aimed.

"Light fire-balls!" cried Tom in a clear voice.  In half a minute twenty
flaming balls whizzed through the air and over the inner stockade,
lighting up the interior of the fort with its huts and tents, and
showing the loopholes in the fencing. These became the target for Tom’s
best marksmen as he now at last gave the order to fire.  Bullets flew
fast; war-cries seemed to split the air; the defenders were already
verging on panic.  Some were making desperate attempts to extinguish the
fire-balls, only to become the marks for more of those flaming missiles.
A hut was already alight, and Tom’s men were now swarming almost
unchecked over the palisade.  A few fire-balls had speedily cleared out
the enemy from the cross fence, and this position was immediately
occupied by the Bahima.  The katikiro, at Tom’s orders, had led a party
of men with scaling-ladders to the left along the enclosure between the
palisades to a point opposite the eastern gate, and cries from that
quarter told that a position had been occupied there.  Thus in less than
half an hour three positions were held by the attackers.  Several huts
in the interior of the fort were in flames, and the defenders were
rushing hither and thither, exposed to destructive rifle-fire from their
own palisades.

Tom had already sent instructions to the kasegara and Mwonda to cease
their demonstrations as soon as they saw a strong light in the fort, and
to move towards each other and join forces.  When the junction was made,
and as soon as carriers with scaling-ladders arrived, they were to make
a vigorous attack in real earnest at a point midway between their former
positions, that is, from the north-east.  Profiting by the respite from
attack on the north and east, Mustapha and De Castro, who had given
their orders hitherto from the very centre of the fort, now began to get
their men into some sort of order, rallying them around Rumaliza’s
house.  Hardly had this been done when a great din to the north-east
announced that an assault was commencing there.

"Over into the fort, men!" cried Tom as soon as he heard the welcome
sound.  Up they clambered, up the ladders already planted against the
inner palisade, up and over, hundreds of eager men pouring into the
enclosure, no obstacle now between them and their enemy.  Brought to
bay, the Arabs fought desperately, dodging behind huts, seizing every
point of vantage, knowing well that their former victims would spare
none of them.  Many of their dwellings were now ablaze, and in the
brilliant illumination scores of the Manyema could be seen using the
Bahima’s scaling-ladders to escape over the palisades into the darkness.
The Arabs themselves held their ground more stubbornly, but their
enemies were now closing all round them.  The attackers under Mwonda had
met with but feeble resistance, for the majority of the defenders at the
north-east had been withdrawn to withstand the earlier attack from the
south.  Mwonda himself, whose bellow could be heard above all other
noises, plunged along at the head of his men, swinging his heavy musket,
disdaining the few bullets that fell around him, and searching
everywhere for the wretch who had shot him when he was unarmed.

As the space between the stockades filled with the exultant Bahima,
hundreds of the enemy flung down their arms and begged for mercy.

"Spare all who surrender!" shouted Tom, and the order was repeated
through the ranks of his men.  Some of the enemy, however, scorning to
yield, fought with the courage of despair to the bitter end, and were
shot down or speared after they had themselves done great execution on
the now crowded ranks of their assailants.  Tom had several times caught
sight of Mustapha moving about among his men, but not once had De Castro
been visible.  The centre of the fortress was occupied by a range of
buildings of more solid construction than the huts nearer the stockade.
It was Rumaliza’s own house, a substantial stone structure of two
stories, with a veranda running around the upper story, obviously an
effort after comfort amid savage surroundings, and modelled on the
residences of merchants on the coast.  Tom, joined by Mwonda, and
accompanied by Mbutu and the katikiro, led a small force of Bahima
towards this building, in which he conjectured that some of the enemy,
perhaps De Castro himself, had taken refuge.  The walls were loopholed,
and from these, as well as from the veranda, a hot fire met the little
group.  Two of the men fell.  The door was of stout oak.

"We must burst it in," said Tom.  "Find a stout beam, Mbutu.  Quick!"

Mbutu darted away, and soon returned with three men hauling a massive
beam, obtained by cutting down the post supporting the roof of a
neighbouring hut.  Just as they reached the door one of the three men
was shot through the heart, and a bullet from above struck Tom in the
thigh.

"I’m hit, Mbutu," he said.  "Bind this strip of linen tightly round my
leg; there’s the place."

"Come away, sah, come away!" cried Mbutu pleadingly.

"Not yet.  This door must come down first.  Msala, batter the door in.
Come, lift the battering-ram, men!  Now then, one, two, three--that’s
it!  The door’s started.  Now again, one, two, three!  Ah! it’s down.
In you go, men!  I’m coming!"

As the door fell in with a crash, the party of twenty men poured in, Tom
limping painfully after them.  There was no resistance; the room was
empty.

"Up the stairs!" cried Tom.  "Don’t waste a minute!"

Mwonda was already springing up the ladder in the corner of the room,
taking three steps at a time.  In twenty seconds he came tumbling back
into the room, yelling that the upper floor also was empty.  At that
moment there was a shout from the rear of the house.  Bushing out, the
Bahima found themselves in a sort of yard.  The gate was open, and
beyond were evidently outhouses and store-rooms.  At one side of the
yard was a man chained to a post, and yelling with all his might.  By
the feeble light from the now diminishing conflagration outside, Tom as
he hastened up recognized Herr Schwab.  The recognition was mutual.

"Out, out!" cried the German.  "Zey are outside."

"Cut him loose," cried Tom to one of his men as he passed by, heedless
of further cries from the German.

Mwonda and Msala were already in the narrow lane beyond the yard.  There
was no sign of the enemy.

"After them!" cried Tom.  "Don’t wait for me; I’ll follow as quickly as
I can."

The little band swept on, out of the lane, past the outhouses, into the
open ground again.  There they learnt that some twelve men had suddenly
dashed out into the open, headed by Mustapha and the "small devil", as
the Bahima called De Castro.  The Arabs had rushed across towards the
western part of the palisade, burst open a gate which had hitherto
escaped the notice of the attackers, and clambered over the outer
stockade.  Six of their number were shot as they mounted, but the rest
succeeded in getting clear away and disappeared.

Hearing this, Mwonda dashed in hot pursuit with his party. But though,
utterly regardless of their own safety, they ran madly down the glacis,
into the copse, through the plantation, down to the shore, they saw no
trace of the enemy, who, knowing the ground perfectly, had made good
their escape. Mbutu had hurried after the pursuers at Tom’s command, and
ordered them to waste no time in searching.  Tom was himself unable to
walk farther than the stockade, where he met them as they returned, and,
learning that they had failed to find the fugitives, he instantly
instructed Mbutu to hurry down to the landing-place and order ten canoes
to be manned and to patrol round the island.

"Let them go in opposite directions, and watch every yard of the shore,"
he said.  "I will come myself immediately."

The sky was now lightening with the dawn.  Tom ordered four of his men
to carry him down to the landing-place on one of the scaling-ladders.
His wound was giving him intense pain, but feeling that if Mustapha, and
above all De Castro, escaped, his victory would be shorn of half of its
glory, and his work be left incomplete, he resolved that at whatever
cost he would personally direct the search for the fugitives.  While he
was being carried to the shore he ordered the katikiro to despatch
parties into every corner of the island to search the woods thoroughly.

Just as he arrived at the landing-place, Mbutu came hastily to his side,
and declared that he had that instant seen a small canoe stealing
westward.  It was now half a mile from the shore.

"Put me into one of the Arab canoes," said Tom; "the lightest you can
find to hold twenty paddlers.  Order two other canoes to follow."

A few minutes later his canoe was being rapidly propelled in the
direction of the chase, which Tom could now see was manned by a crew of
six, and had one man in the stern who was not paddling and who had a
bandage on one arm.

"Paddle your hardest, men," cried Tom; "that is our arch enemy."

The negroes responded vigorously, and it was soon evident that the chase
was being gradually overhauled.  The crew of six were straining every
nerve to escape, and every now and then the man in the stern turned his
head to look at the pursuing craft, and then cried aloud to his men to
increase their efforts.  Tom fixed his eyes unswervingly on the stern of
the fleeing canoe.

"It is De Castro unmistakeably," he said to himself, as the man turned
once more.  The expression of mingled despair, rage, and fright on his
face was fearful to behold.  Suddenly he turned completely round, leant
over the stern of the canoe, and took aim with his rifle at the canoe
now so rapidly overtaking him.  The bullet whizzed past Tom’s ear.  Tom
looked round for a weapon with which to return the fire, but saw that
not one of his crew was armed with a musket, so great had been the haste
of the embarkation.  But from the first of the other pursuing canoes,
now close up to Tom’s, a shot rang out.  It struck the side of De
Castro’s canoe.  The Portuguese took aim again, and this time the bullet
struck one of Tom’s men, who screamed and dropped his paddle.  A rain of
bullets from the other canoes fell around the fugitive, but he seemed to
bear a charmed life.

"He is a devil," said one of Tom’s men; "shots cannot hurt him."

Suddenly Tom observed a commotion among the six Arabs. A man that looked
like Mustapha rose in the boat, raised his paddle above his head, and,
just as De Castro was about to fire a third time, brought it down with
tremendous force upon his unsuspecting head.  He was leaning forward
over the stern; his head fell on the edge, and in an instant the Arab
had caught his legs and thrown him over into the water.  He sank like a
stone, and a dark circle formed in the frothing wash of the canoe.
Within two minutes Tom’s canoe arrived at the scene of the tragedy, but
there was no sign of the victim.  Tom stopped the canoe, to cruise round
on the chance of De Castro reappearing.  The other canoes stopped also,
and loud cries of satisfaction rose from their crews. But when after a
minute or two it became evident that the Portuguese would be seen no
more, Mwonda uttered a yell of rage at his being thus snatched from
personal vengeance.  Tom meanwhile had ordered two canoes to continue
the chase after the Arabs; but their craft, lightened by the loss of De
Castro, was bounding over the water, the paddlers profiting by the
temporary cessation of the pursuit.  The Bahima paddled hard, and called
to the crew of one of the patrol-canoes approaching from the north to
join in the chase.  But their efforts were vain.  The fugitives gained
the western shore, ran the canoe between two banks of reeds, and plunged
into cover before the pursuers could overtake them.  Mwonda dropped his
head on his sound arm, and burst into tears.  Then, lifting his huge
body, and standing to his full height in the canoe, he passionately
called upon all the evil spirits of his tribe by name, and adjured them
to shrivel up the escaped Arabs with their blighting influence, and to
inflict upon them tortures unspeakable until they were dead.  Then the
canoes were put about. Mwonda uttered one more bitter malediction as he
passed over the spot where De Castro had sunk, and was still bemoaning
his ill-luck when he overtook his victorious but weary and fainting
master.




                               CHAPTER XX

                         An End and a Beginning

Mr. Barkworth keeps Cool--In Suspense--Tom’s Escort--The Padre’s
Story--An Appreciation--Tom’s Reward--Farewell--Herr Schwab’s
Lament--Fame--Mbutu Returns Home--Inspiration--Proposals


One morning, towards the end of March, Mr. Barkworth was seated at
breakfast at The Orchard, Winterslow, dividing his attentions
impartially among his food, his letters, and his daughter, who sat
facing him at the other end of the table.  His day was never properly
begun unless the letters and the bacon arrived together.  He had opened
two letters, and cut the third, and Lilian was pouring out his second
cup of coffee, when a sudden ejaculation from her father caused her to
hold her hand.

"Scandalous, ’pon my soul and body, perfectly scandalous!" he exclaimed.

"What is it, Father?" asked Lilian, not very anxiously, for she was
accustomed to little volcanic explosions at home: plenty of rumble but
no fire.

"What, indeed!  Just listen to this, h’m!  ’My dear Barkworth, I found
an opportunity in the lobby last night of speaking to the Prime Minister
on the matter of a search-expedition for your friend Mr. Burnaby.  He
was very sympathetic, but said that, much as he should have liked to
serve me, he was afraid our hands were too full just now to think of it.
One can understand it, poor man.  You see, what with these complications
threatening in Persia, and the various little troubles in all parts of
the world, connected with our imperial policy, one can hardly expect--’
Faugh!" He tore the letter across.  "Fiddlesticks!  I’d like to see
Palmerston back for a week.  We’d soon see then, h’m!  We’d have an
expedition off to Central Africa in a winking.  We want a little more of
the ’Civis Romanus sum’ in our milk-and-water politicians.  Cicero, you
know, my dear."

"But, Father, I don’t understand what Cicero and Lord Palmerston have to
do with Mr. Burnaby."

"Now, that’s just it.  Women never can see that sort of thing; your
mother couldn’t, poor woman!  I’ll explain so that any child could
understand it.  Cicero was a great Roman orator and statesman, you know,
my dear.  In one of his speeches he asked how many Roman citizens his
hearers imagined had been insulted with impunity, how many Roman
merchants robbed, or ship-owners kept in captivity,--meaning that he
defied ’em to say a single one.  Now suppose that Cicero had been Lord
Palmerston, what would he have said?--tell me that, now!"

"Wasn’t Lord Palmerston an Irish peer, Father?"

"Eh! what?  Yes, must have been, or he couldn’t have sat in the House.
But what’s that to do with it?"

"Why, Father, if Cicero had been Lord Palmerston, would not he have
said: ’Just thread on the tail of me coat’, or something to that
effect?"

Mr. Barkworth looked sharply at his daughter, but she was demurely
peeling an egg.  As he was hesitating whether to explode or not, there
was a knock at the door, and a maid entered bearing a salver.

"A telegram, sir, and there’s a shilling to pay."

"Con-found these extra charges!" broke out Mr. Barkworth irritably.
"What’s the good of paying taxes to bolster up a wretched Post Office
that can’t give us free delivery?  Give the man his shilling, and tell
him not to dare show his face again!"

He tore open the envelope, stared at the message for some moments in
inarticulate surprise, and then ejaculated:

"God bless my soul, he’s found!  Tom’s found!  We can do without the
Prime Minister!  ’Gad, didn’t I say he’d turn up some day!  Listen,
Lilian; a despatch from the cable company forwarded by the Post Office:
’Tom found; mail follows.--O’Brien.’  Might have said a little more;
what’s a shilling or two, eh?--Well, Jane, what is it now?"

"Another telegram, sir, and, if you please, this man wants a shilling
too."

Mr. Barkworth pulled out a handful of silver, and picked it over.

"Here, I can’t find a shilling; give him this half-crown and tell him to
put it in the Post Office Savings Bank.  Now what’s this about, h’m?"

Lilian watched him anxiously as he opened the brown envelope, half
fearing it might contain a contradiction of the good news.

"Eh!  what!" he exclaimed.  "It’s from Jack Burnaby himself. ’Tom found;
am starting for Mombasa to-morrow; will you come?’"

"Oh, do take me, Father!" cried Lilian, clasping his arm. "I’m sure you
won’t go without me."

"H’m!  Don’t know that I’ll go at all.  Running your poor father off his
legs again!  Very short notice, too.  Just like Burnaby; just as young
as ever he was, spite of the K.C.B.--What are you doing, Lilian,
waggling your hand about so frantically at the window?"

"Just calling the telegraph man, Father.  You didn’t give him a reply."

"That’s true; well, we’ll go, begad.  Here’s a form.  Write it for me.
’Yes, tickets for two via Marseilles and Brindisi.’  That’s right.
Another one to Dr. O’Brien.  ’Hurray! always said so.’  Now, we must go
by the 6.15 up-train to-night, so get your packing done.  And for pity’s
sake don’t get excited; try to keep as cool as I am.  And so that fine
young fellow’s found, eh?  Where, and how, and when, and what’s he been
doing?  Gad, I want to know all about it.  Think we’ll catch the 4.20,
Lilian; the packing will do itself if only you keep cool."

Mr. Barkworth showed his wonderful coolness by setting everybody in a
fluster for the rest of the day.  The whole household was called upon to
assist him in his preparations. He had a genius for mislaying his
things, and then accused the first person he came across of deliberately
putting them out of their places; and when the gardener had been called
in to find his master’s newest suit of pyjamas, and the cook to rout out
the straps of his hold-all, everybody was quite ready to see the back of
the fussy old gentleman.  Lilian got him safely away in the nick of time
to catch the 6.15, and after spending the night at Claridge’s, they
sought out Tom’s uncle, and arranged to meet him at Charing Cross for
the night French mail.

It was Major Burnaby no longer.  His services had been recognized by
promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy, an honour crowned by the conferment
of a Knight Commandership of the Bath.  Mr. Barkworth was vastly proud
of the fame of Sir John Burnaby, K.C.B., and regarded his honours as a
remarkable testimony to his own foresight and discrimination. All the
way down to Dover he plied his friend with questions, comments, and
suggestions, though Sir John explained more than once that he knew
nothing beyond the bare fact that Tom was at last found.  Ever since the
news of his disappearance reached England, Mr. Barkworth had at
intervals fired off cable messages at Dr. O’Brien in Kisumu, asking for
information, or upbraiding him for not displaying greater activity in
the search; and he was now firmly convinced that the recovery of the
long-lost Tom was in great part due to his indefatigable enquiries.

On the voyage out he lost no opportunity of telling the whole story, and
magnified Tom’s achievements (of which, since the fight by the bridge,
he, of course, knew nothing), until the young Englishman appeared a new
Cincinnatus, the saviour of his country.  He became more and more
fidgety as he drew nearer to the journey’s end.

"I never in my life so took to a young fellow, never," he would say, to
excuse his excitement; "if he had been my own son I couldn’t have felt
it more."

When the boat steamed slowly into the harbour at Mombasa, Mr. Barkworth
was the first of the passengers to cross the gangway.

"Where’s Tom?" he cried, without waiting to greet Major Lister, who,
like his former chief, had won a step in rank. "Why isn’t he here to
meet us?"

"Impossible, sir," said Lister laconically.  "How d’e do, Sir John?"

"Glad to see you, Lister.  You remember Miss Barkworth?"  The major
bowed.  "We’re all anxious, of course.  Where is the boy? how is he?"

"Ah! you don’t know then?  Of course; you couldn’t have got Corney’s
letter before you started.  It was the padre who found Tom.  On the day
Corney sent you the cable he had got a pencilled note from the padre,
brought here by train from Kisumu, where it had been carried by a native
in a canoe round the Nyanza.  I have it in my pocket."

He took out of his pocket-book a small, crumpled, dirty note, and handed
it to Sir John, who translated aloud the almost illegible writing: "I
have just found Tom Burnaby. He is badly wounded.  I am taking him, as
soon as he can be moved, to Bukoba."

They were all walking now towards the hotel, and a painful silence fell
upon the group as they heard the brief message.

"I suppose Corney started at once?" said Sir John.

"Oh yes!  He caught the first train.  Your cable arrived just before he
left, and he asked me to assure you he would do everything he could."

"Of course he would.  And you have heard nothing since?"

"Not a word."

"Why Bukoba, do you think?  Wouldn’t Entebbe have been a more natural
point to make for?"

"There’s nothing to show where the padre wrote from, but I take it that
Bukoba is the nearest point on the Nyanza. The padre knows the German
commandant, and has probably arranged with him."

"Ah! it is trying, this suspense; but I suppose we shall get an
explanation before long."

"Before long!  I should think so," cried Mr. Barkworth. "Burnaby, I’m
going across to Bukoba; start to-morrow morning.  Never imagined the
boy’d be wounded--badly wounded, the padre says.  This is terrible,
terrible!"

"I guessed you would go on," said Lister, "and wired to Port Florence,
as soon as your boat was signalled, to fix a launch for you.  We may
find a reply at the hotel."

"Thanks, Lister," said Sir John.  "Yes, I shall go on to-morrow."

It was a sad and silent party on the hotel veranda that evening.  Sir
John was almost angry with the doctor for not cabling the whole of the
padre’s message, though on reflection he saw that he had been spared
three weeks of intolerable anxiety.  It was a keen disappointment to
them all to meet, instead of Tom himself, a messenger of bad news, and
they were all disinclined to talk.  Mr. Barkworth did indeed find some
relief from his anxiety in opening his mind to a Monsieur Armand
Desjardins whom he met in the smoking-room.  He poured out a recital of
Tom’s heroic deeds, drawing freely upon his imagination to fill up the
gaps, until he had worked the impressionable Frenchman into a fit of
enthusiasm.  Monsieur Desjardins was a ’functionary’ of course, and a
journalist to boot, and he seized on Mr. Barkworth as an abundant
reservoir of ’copy’.  He went down to see the party off when they left
next morning, and said to Lilian, to whom he had been specially
attentive:

"I burn with envy to see dis Monsieur Tom; truly he is a hero, and I go
to put him in a book.  Good-bye, mees! you spik French?  Oui, je m’en
souviens.  Eh bien, mademoiselle, vos beaux yeux vont guérir bientôt le
jeune malade, n’est-ce-pas?  Hein?"

"What’s that, what’s that?" exclaimed Mr. Barkworth suspiciously.

"Nothing, Father," said Lilian with a blush.  "Monsieur Desjardins is
pleased to be complimentary."

"Well, it’s a good thing he don’t do it in English, for compliments in
English just sound--piffle, humbug!  Train’s off; good-bye, Mossoo!"

On reaching Port Florence the travellers found that a launch was waiting
for them.  They embarked without delay, and reached Bukoba on the third
evening after leaving Mombasa. The German commandant--no longer Captain
Stumpff, who, like so many of his kind, had carried things a little too
far and been recalled three months before--put his bungalow at their
disposal, and told them that a runner had come in that very afternoon
with the news that Father Chevasse was only a day’s march distant, and
was bringing the wounded Englishman in a litter.  Dr. O’Brien had gone
into the interior with an escort of German native soldiers as soon as he
learnt where to find the padre, and all the information brought back by
them was that he had found the Englishman under the missionary’s care in
a large native camp.  Mr. Barkworth was for starting at once to meet the
returning wanderer, but was persuaded to restrain his impatience and
accept the German officer’s hospitality.

Next day, an hour before sunset, Sir John, sitting with Mr. Barkworth
and Lilian on the veranda of the bungalow, heard faintly in the distance
the regular thump, thump of drums.

"At last!" he exclaimed, and, getting up, looked eagerly towards the
hills.  The sound became every moment more distinctly audible, forming
now, as it were, a ground bass to strains of song which came fitfully on
light gusts of wind, in strange harmony with the fading light, the red
glory beyond the hills, and the sombre shadows of the distant trees.
Sir John unstrapped his field-glass, and, looking through it, saw the
head of a procession emerge from a belt of wood nearly a mile away.  The
trees stood out black against the crimson sky; the pale green above was
deepening to a blue; and the sounds came more distinctly to the ear--a
few notes ascending and descending by curious intervals, the same phrase
being repeated again and again in the same low solemn chant, swelling
and dying on the breeze.  Mr. Barkworth had let his cigar go out, and
was walking up and down the veranda like a caged lion.  Lilian sat
motionless in her chair, her fingers tightly intertwined, her cheeks
pale.  Not a word was spoken; the only sounds were the light swish of
the ripples on the shore, the hum from the woods and marshes preluding
the dark, and the ever-approaching song with its melancholy dirge-like
accompaniment of drums.  The three watchers on the veranda were tense
with anxiety.  Was it a funeral march? Was Tom coming back to them only
for burial?

The procession drew nearer and nearer.  It was possible now to
distinguish the figures with the naked eye.  A drummer walked at the
head; behind him there were four negroes bearing a litter covered with
an awning; and yes, it was the tall figure of the padre walking at one
side.  Behind, as far as the eye could reach, stretched a long line of
black forms, marching in single file, keeping step to the drums, and
singing their monotonous song, that now came low in tone but immense in
volume, like a sonorous emanation from the splendid sky. Nearer and
nearer; and now the figure of the doctor could be seen behind the
litter, and Mbutu by his side.  Nearer still; and then, at a few yards’
distance from the bungalow, the drums ceased to beat, the voices fell
like a breaking wave, the rearmost of the column continuing to sing for
some seconds after the foremost had stopped.  There was a great silence.
The sun’s rim had just dipped below the purple horizon.  The doctor came
forward, and at the same moment the principal drummer gave a signal tap,
and a thousand stalwart negroes, armed with musket, spear, and pike,
formed up in a half-circle about the litter.  Sir John stepped down from
the veranda; the litter was brought to meet him.  Removing the awning,
the doctor showed him a thin, pale, wasted form, with large bright eyes
gazing eagerly out into the dusk, which the commandant had now
illuminated with a number of flaring torches.  Tom’s face broke into a
glad contented smile as he saw his uncle looking down upon him.

"Uncle Jack!" he whispered.

The older man murmured a word or two--no one heard them--and laid his
hand gently upon his nephew’s.  Then, too deeply moved for speech, he
turned and walked beside the litter as it was borne towards the
bungalow.

Mr. Barkworth had been blowing his nose violently, and more than once he
lifted his spectacles and rubbed them with quite unnecessary vigour.  As
the litter approached he took Lilian by the hand.

"Come inside, my dear," he said hurriedly.  "Not good for him to see too
many at once, you know.  Uncle enough for to-night.  He looks very ill.
Glad we have him, though.  Thank God, thank God!"

When the doctor had settled the invalid comfortably for the night, Mr.
Barkworth waylaid him.

"Will he get over it?" he asked anxiously.

"Indeed and he will.  He has had a narrow shave, but I think he will do.
The constitution of a horse, sorr--thorough-bred, nothing spavined, no
broken wind, sound everywhere."

"Where was he?  What has he been doing all these months?"

"Faith, I have not got to the bottom of it yet; but so far as I can make
out he has been administering a corner of the Congo Free State, raising
a regular army, smashing the slave-trade, and taching the negroes
something of the blessings of civilization. I mean it, bedad; the padre
tould me all he knew, but sure there’s a deal more to be tould
yet.--Have ye got a cigar, Mr. Barkworth?  I forgot my case, and have
been wearying for one for three weeks.  Hark’e!  Those blacks outside
are beginning a hullabaloo.  I must put a stop to that. Come and see
what they’re after."

The host of natives who had solemnly escorted Kuboko to the shore of the
Great Lake had begun to build fires in the neighbourhood of the bungalow
in preparation for camping. The German commandant made a wry face when
he saw their intention, and had already sent some of his men to order
them to a more convenient distance.  The awed silence with which they
had looked on at the greeting between Kuboko and his friends had given
place to chattering and laughing and singing, and the doctor took pains
to impress upon them that the noise would disturb Kuboko’s rest.  His
expostulation was effectual; they ate their evening meal in comparative
silence.

It was long past midnight before any of the Europeans retired to rest.
Seated in the largest room of the German commandant’s bungalow, Sir John
Burnaby and his party listened while the padre told of his discovery of
Tom.  Never before had Mr. Barkworth so keenly felt the drawbacks he
suffered through want of familiarity with French.  He would not allow
the padre’s story to be interrupted by any attempt at interpretation,
but listened with a painful effort to follow it, and got Lilian, tired
as she was, to give it privately in outline afterwards.  But he there
and then vowed that one of his first duties on reaching home would be to
agitate for the compulsory teaching of conversational French, and
decided to found a prize at his old school for proficiency in the
subject.

Father Chevasse told how, as he was returning by easy stages from a
visit to a mission-station at the upper end of Lake Tanganyika, he had
heard vague rumours of battles fought far to the north between the Arabs
and a confederation of negroes under the leadership of a white man.  As
he proceeded, the stories became more and more circumstantial and the
details more and more extraordinary.  He learnt that the intrepid
commander was quite young, a man of marvellous powers, able to turn
lakes into engines of destruction, and to bring fire out of the heavens.
Such stories, even after he had made all allowances for the natives’
exuberant imagination, awakened his curiosity; and suddenly it occurred
to him that, improbable as it seemed, the white man might be no other
than the long-lost Tom.  "Nothing British surprises me," he interpolated
with a smile.  He hastened his march, made diligent enquiry at every
village through which he passed, and by and by encountered people who
had actually formed part of the confederacy and fought under the
stranger’s command. The information given by them did but strengthen his
growing conviction, and when he at last, under the guidance of a Muhima,
reached Mwonga’s village, he was rejoiced to find that his surmise was
correct.  Almost the first person he saw on entering the stockade was
Mbutu, who ran up to him, threw himself at his feet, and broke out into
ejaculations of delight mingled with entreaty.  He was led to a hut in
the centre of the village, and there saw Tom, lying on a couch covered
with clean linen--Tom indeed, but the pale shadow of his former self.
Bit by bit the padre learnt from one and another the story of his deeds,
from his capture by the Arabs to the final destruction of their island
fortress.  After that noteworthy event every vestige of the stronghold
had been burnt or razed to the ground.  A search was made for the
treasure which rumour attributed to the Arabs, and beneath the flooring
of Rumaliza’s house, in cellars extending for many yards under the
surface of the soil, had been discovered an immense hoard, the
accumulation of many years--hundreds of ivory tusks worth untold gold.
The few Arabs who had survived the fight had been sent eastwards under
escort, and their Manyema dependants disbanded.  Many of these threw in
their lot with the conquerors.  Then the Bahima force had started on its
return journey, bringing the captured treasure in triumph to the
village.

Tom’s wound had become more and more painful, and though he tried at
first to walk with his men, he found himself obliged, after one day, to
give up the attempt, and was carried for the rest of the way in a
litter.  On the journey he had talked long and earnestly with the
katikiro and other officials, suggesting and advising them as to their
movements and the future government of the village in case he died. They
had only reached the village two days before the missionary’s arrival,
and, at Mbutu’s entreaty, the katikiro was arranging to despatch
messengers to the shore of the Victoria Nyanza with a request for help.
The padre at once sent off one of his own attendants under a strong
escort to Bukoba, the nearest European station, and the German
commandant had forwarded the message immediately to Kisumu.

"My own knowledge and skill in surgery is but slight," added the
missionary, "but I did what I could until our friend Dr. O’Brien
arrived."

"He extracted the bullet," said the doctor; "capitally too. It was an
ugly wound."

"And Tom bore the pain with marvellous fortitude. Happily, he sank into
unconsciousness before I had completed my task, and never so much as
murmured when he awoke to the full sense of his agony and helplessness.
I made arrangements at once to convey him here, and the villagers, whose
devotion to him transcends anything I have ever before seen in the
natives, of their own accord organized the procession which you have
just witnessed.  We were already half-way here when Dr. O’Brien reached
us, and his skill completed what my clumsier hands had begun.  I have
given you only a sketch of what this young hero has been able, under
God’s mercy, to accomplish; indeed, I am not able to fill in all the
details, for Tom himself has been too ill to talk, and is, besides, very
reticent about his own actions.  One fact stands out pre-eminent, and no
distrust of native stories can explain it away.  He has stamped out a
pestilent gang of slave-raiders, and may with a whole heart sing
’Magnificat!’  And though we dare not be so sanguine as to expect that
the lessons of self-sacrifice, courage, justice, brotherly kindness, he
has by his example taught the natives, will never be effaced from their
minds, yet they must bear fruit, and certainly he has prepared the way
for me and my brethren, Catholic or Protestant.  You have a nephew to be
proud of, Sir John."

Next morning, the commandant, who had considerately effaced himself on
the previous night, resumed his autocratic air, and told the assembled
natives bluntly that he would be delighted to see the last of them.  In
their wholesome dread of the Wa-daki, they took the very broad hint and
prepared to return to their remote wilds.

But before they departed they wished to take a formal farewell of the
great muzungu who had taught them so much and saved them from their
hereditary foe.  Msala was deputed to seek an interview with Sir John,
and he asked, with his usual eloquence, that Kuboko might be brought out
to his sorrowing people, that they might look upon his face once more.
Sir John consulted the doctor, who pursed up his lips and looked
doubtful, but confessed that Tom himself had asked that the people
should not be allowed to go until he had seen them and bidden them
good-bye.  Accordingly, about eight o’clock in the morning, Tom was
carried out in his litter and placed on the veranda, where he lay in the
shade during the scene of farewell.

It was in truth a remarkable scene.  Arranged in three concentric
semicircles stood the throng of a thousand negroes, including
representatives of almost every race known to the eastern half of
Central Africa.  A few steps in advance of the rest stood Mwonga, the
young Bahima chief, with the katikiro and a few other of his principal
officers.  Their black faces were all aglow, their bright eyes fixed on
the tall figure of Sir John Burnaby, who stood just within the veranda
of the bungalow.  By his side lay Tom--the black man’s loved
Kuboko--thin as a lath, pale and haggard, the head of his couch raised
so that he might see the crowd of natives.  On one side, a little in
advance, for he had offered to interpret the katikiro’s speech, stood
the tall dignified White Father, his lips parted in a slight smile, his
eyes beaming a compassionate kindliness.  With him stood the little
doctor, a striking contrast with his short, neat, wiry frame, his
twinkling gray eyes, his stubby beard.  And on the other side was the
stout figure of Mr. Barkworth, his rubicund side-whiskered face cheerful
and benevolent as ever; and the fair girl at his elbow, white and
radiant, looking alternately at the negroes and at Tom.

The signal being given, the katikiro stepped forward and stood before
Sir John.  He had never before had the opportunity of addressing a group
of white men, and his gait showed that he fully realized the importance
of the occasion.  Sticking his spear in the ground, so as to have the
use of both arms for gesture, he began his oration.  The exordium was a
long account of himself, his family, his achievements in hunting and
war, his importance as katikiro first to Barega and then to Barega’s
successor, Mwonga.  He proceeded to recount with minute
circumstantiality how he found Kuboko in the forest, carried him to the
village, and from that time on had been his most devoted friend and
disciple.  He passed on to a chronological narrative of the subsequent
events in the village: the contest with Mabruki, the making of big
medicine, the protracted siege, the wonderful machines invented by
Kuboko for the discomfiture of the enemy, and, finally, the formation of
the great confederacy which, by obedience to Kuboko, had succeeded in
defeating time after time the enemy who had for many years crushed
native Africa beneath his iron heel.  All this was narrated with many
repetitions, many picturesque adornments, much extravagance of language
and gesture, and the padre’s translation in French almost did justice to
the Muhima’s fervour.

But Msala’s eloquence was to soar a still higher pitch. So far he had
dealt with facts, with just enough embroidery to make the presentment of
them artistic.  He went on to express the opinions and emotions of his
community.

"Never was such a white man seen," he said.  "We have had nothing to do
with white men.  We have heard about them,--about the Wa-daki, who live
day and night with kiboko; about the white men of the Lualaba, who buy
rubber and ivory at their own prices, or for nothing at all.  But never
such a white man as this.  Surely he must be a mighty chief in his own
land.  Never did he raise his hand to strike us; Kuboko was his name,
but kiboko had he none" (he evidently deeply relished the jingle).
"When Mabruki did him wrong, and Barega would have cut off the villain’s
head, Kuboko said: ’Nay, let him pay back the bulls.’  Did he order a
thing to be done?  He showed how to do it.  Was there little food?
Kuboko had no more than the rest.  He did justice and showed mercy; he
even sported with the little children, teaching them how to smite balls
with a stick, and giving them turns equally, doing favour to none above
the others.  And what was all this to gain?  The Wa-daki, as men tell
us, give one and take two; but Kuboko took nothing.  He might have been
chief, but would not.  ’Nay,’ he said, ’I will stay with you until the
Arabs are destroyed, and then I go to my own people, and Mwonga shall be
chief.’  In the caverns of Rumaliza lay thousands of tusks, long as a
man, the spoils of our hunting and the hunting of our fathers.  All this
belonged by right to the victor; but did he say: ’It is mine, I will
take all of it’?  Nay, he said: ’My brothers, it is yours; divide it
among yourselves.’  We threw ourselves at his feet, and implored him to
take this great treasure, but he shook his head, and even waxed angry,
and bade us hold our peace.  Only at the last, when Mwonga himself
offered the two tusks that have come down from chief to chief, and
begged Kuboko, if he loved him, to take them for his own,--only then did
he yield and say: ’I will take them as a gift from your people, and keep
them ever to remind me of you.’  That is Kuboko.

"And now he leaves us.  Our women and children are wailing, and our
hearts are heavy and sad.  Who will lead us now in war?  Who will guide
us in peace?  True, we have Kuboko’s words, and treasure them in our
hearts; but even as water dries up in the sun, even as smoke rises into
the sky and is seen no more, so Kuboko’s words, as the days pass, will
fade from our memories.  Yet how could we keep him? We are black; he is
white.  He comes from the land of the Great White King, who will
assuredly make him his katikiro when he hears what he has done, even as
I, Msala, am Mwonga’s katikiro.  But though he be far away, in the land
of big medicine, our thoughts will turn to him.  He will be to us as a
Good Spirit, to hearten us against Magaso, and Irungo, and all the other
evil spirits who blight our crops and steal our cattle.  He will be even
as the Buchwezi, the spirits of our ancestors, whom we do not see, but
who nevertheless see us and watch our doings and maybe help us in our
hour of need.  We, Bahima and Bairo, Ruanda and Banyoro, bid Kuboko
farewell.  I, Msala, say it."

It is impossible to do justice in sober English to the impassioned
eloquence of the katikiro.  As he paused at the end of every sentence to
allow the missionary to interpret, loud grunts and ejaculations of
approval burst from the throats of the throng behind him.  When the
speech was ended, one great voluminous shout rent the air, and every man
held out his spear in front of him with the precision of an automaton.
The drums gave forth three solemn rolls, and then Mwonga and the
kasegara advanced to the veranda, and twenty bearers laid two great
tusks beside Kuboko’s litter.

"Thank you, thank you!" said Tom.  "Uncle, will you speak to them for
me?"

Sir John stepped forward and, gripping his coat-collar, began:

"My friends, I am touched by the eloquent words of your excellent
katikiro.  For many months I had mourned my nephew as dead, and now my
joy at seeing him again is all the greater because I know that during
his long absence he has been doing good things.  I thank you, my
friends, for bringing him back to me.  I thank you, too, for the respect
and affection you have shown for him.  The story your katikiro has told
is a wonderful one.  I cannot profess yet to understand it; but I do
understand that by your willing obedience, loyalty, and devotion to my
nephew you have been able to rid yourselves, once for all as I hope and
believe, of the enemy who has oppressed you for so many years.
Men"--here Sir John’s right hand left his coat-collar and was stretched
out towards his attentive audience--"men, now that you are free,
remember the price of your freedom. My nephew owes his life to your late
brave chief, whose own life he had saved; since then he has spent
himself in your service.  Nothing good was ever done except at some
cost.  You know what Kuboko did for you.  The katikiro has spoken of it.
Now in his name I beg you to turn his self-sacrifice to lasting account.
Obey and support your young chief.  You have learnt what union means.
Don’t quarrel among yourselves and eat your hearts out in miserable
little jealousies.  Other white men will come to your village.  The
officers of the Congo State will visit you. Render them willing
obedience, and though at times they may be severe, though among white
men there are bad as well as good, remember that the great white nations
mean nothing but good to their black brethren.  My nephew, you tell me,
has sought nothing for himself.  He takes with him nothing but your
good-will and the memory of your common sufferings and common triumphs.
It is what I should have expected of him, and I am proud of it.  Now we
are going home, and very likely we shall never see you again.  But
Kuboko will not forget you; nor shall I forget this great throng, come
so many miles to do him honour.  Men, for him and for myself, I say
good-bye, and good luck to you!"

When the shouts with which the natives received Sir John’s brief speech
had subsided, Tom asked that the principal men might be allowed to come
to his litter and bid him a more personal farewell.  Accordingly,
Mwonga, with Msala, Mwonda, the kasegara, and eight others marched up in
single file.  They passed by the left side of the litter, and as Tom
gave them his limp hand in turn, each stooped down, pressed it lightly
to his brow, and descended in solemn silence to his place in front of
the attentive crowd.  The simple scene was too much for Mr. Barkworth’s
feelings; his handkerchief was diligently employed, and he was
unfeignedly glad when, the ceremony being now at an end, the procession
re-formed in preparation for starting on the long homeward march.  The
drums gave out their hollow notes, the multitude swayed as they marked
time, and striking up an improvised song in which Kuboko’s uncle and the
white lady had the largest mention next to Kuboko himself, they filed
off westward towards the forest.

Dr. O’Brien insisted on Tom’s having a clear day’s rest before his
journey was resumed.  On the second morning, therefore, the party of
seven embarked on the launch, and were conveyed rapidly across the
Nyanza to Port Florence. Tom thought of the many things that had
happened since he last saw the lake, and laughed with something of his
old spirit when the padre reminded him of the fight with the
hippopotamus.  On reaching the eastern shore they took up their quarters
in Sir John’s old bungalow, and there Mr. Barkworth pestered Mbutu
constantly to tell him again and again of the momentous doings in
Mwonga’s village.

One day, happening to be at Port Florence, he went down to the quay
among other curious spectators to watch the arrival of a German steamer
from down the lake.  As the passengers came off, Mr. Barkworth was
puzzled by one face among them, which he seemed to recognize without
being able to remember whose it was or where he had seen it. The
passenger was a thick-set, bearded man, wearing gold spectacles, limping
badly, and carrying a big leather valise in his left hand.  As he
stepped off the gangway he stumbled, and would have fallen but for the
purser’s sustaining arm. He poured out a stream of very warm German, and
as he limped away the purser turned to a man standing near and made some
remark about the testy passenger.  Mr. Barkworth caught the name.

"Swob!  Swob!" he muttered.  "Thought I knew him. It’s the German trader
I saw last year.  And a prisoner in the Arab fort!  Hi, Mr. Swob!"

He toddled after the German, who turned as he heard his name thus
travestied.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Swob," said Mr. Barkworth, coming up with him.
"Extremely sorry to hear of your sad experiences. It must have been a
terrible time, sir.  And but for that fine young fellow--

"Ach ja!" interrupted Herr Schwab; "I know all zat. I vant to forget it,
nozink else."

"Naturally, my dear sir.  I do hope that you will not suffer
permanently, and that--"

"Not per-ma-nent-ly!  Look at me, look at me, I say.  I hafe vun leg
qvite caput, goot for nozink.  I hafe marks on my body zat vill remain
till my death-day.  Not suffer! Vy, I suffer vizout end: I suffer in my
person, I suffer in my pockett, I suffer in my pride.  I suffer allofer.
And vy? I did nozink.  I go to sell zinks--nozink more--and zey keep me,
vill not let me go.  Naturally, I protest.  I say I appeal to Berlin,
and zen zey chain me opp--yes, to a post--me, a Gairman sobjeck--and so
am I chained for veeks and veeks. Himmel, but I grow meagre--vat you
call skinny.  I lose almost all ze flesh from my bones.  Zen come Mr.
Burnaby. By night zere is vun colossal combat.  In ze yard of ze chief’s
house, zink I, I must be secure.  But not so.  Ofer ze vall come tousand
fire-balls.  I call: ’Hafe care, mind me, I am Schwab.’  But zere hears
none.  A fire-ball fall upon my toe, and I am in com-bus-tion.  Zen, my
goodness! from ze chief’s house run hundert shrieking defils.
Portuguese, De Castro, so vas his name, struck me vid his sword as he
pass me by. Zerefore am I lame to-day.  Never shall I forget zat most
fear-ful night.  Efen still I shiver before ze zought.  I vas let free;
Mr. Burnaby, I must say, vat you call did me vell; but I hafe some
grudge against him.  Sir, zere vas hundert tousand pound sterling ifory
in ze vaults below zat house: hundert tousand, sure as a gun.  Now I did
expect Mr. Burnaby to gife me at least--at least, vun tousand pound
vorth for damages.  I lose qvite so much in commission, to say nozink
about ze vear and tear of my intellecks.  No more is my brain as it vas.
But Mr. Burnaby shut me opp, sir, shut me opp.  He say somezink about ze
ifory belong on account of law to ze Congo State and on account of right
to ze blacks. Zat is not business, it is vat you call rot.  He vill not
gife me vun single tusk, and ven I say I vill write to ze Kaiser he say:
’Hang ze Kaiser!’  Vat is zat for a kind of business, sir!"

The German’s dudgeon was too much for Mr. Barkworth’s gravity, and he
had recourse to the never-failing safety-valve for his feelings--his
handkerchief.  When he had blown off his amusement, he asked:

"And what have you been doing since you left the fort?"

"I vent to all ze places vere I had left bags.  Now I return to my home.
Of Africa I hafe now enough.  I travel to Düsseldorf, and zere, if ze
Kaiser vill not gife me a pension, and if nozink more remains, I
establish myself as barber, for I am at least--Mr. Burnaby vill say
it,--at least vell capable to cut his hair!"

His tone was indescribably bitter.  He continued:

"But first of all I go to Kisumu to despatch vun cable to ze Kaiser.  I
tell him he shall take ze Congo State.  Ze Belgians, vat are zey?  No
good.  Ze Congo State shall be Gairman, sir."

"Well! well!" said Mr. Barkworth, humouring him; "let’s hope it’s not so
bad as that.  In the meantime, you’ll come and see Mr. Burnaby to say
good-bye?"

"I zink not, sir.  I nefer forgif him; he owe me tousand pound.
Business are business.  Long ago I say: ’Step nefer in betveen ze vite
man and ze black.’  He step in,--and I step out, sir."

And with that he walked away.

Three days after this, the travellers left for Mombasa. Father Chevasse
saw them off at the railway-station.

"But we shall see you again?" said Lilian warmly, as they shook hands.
"You will come and see us in England some day, won’t you?"

The padre smiled a strange, almost wistful smile.

"I may not," he said quietly.  "We White Fathers, when we put our hands
to the plough, never turn back.  I shall never even see my beloved
Normandy again.  I shall live and die in Africa.--God bless you!" he
said to Tom; "I shall not forget you, though I may never see you again."

All Mombasa was on tiptoe with excitement when it was flashed along the
line that the wanderer was returning. Everybody knew that he had saved
the expedition, but what had happened since then was a mystery, and a
fruitful subject for speculation among the European colony.  Dr. O’Brien
grumbled a little when he saw the crowd awaiting the train at the
terminus.

"They might have had the common sense, not to say common decency, to
keep out of the way just now.  Making a peep-show of us, indeed!"

But he managed to get the invalid into the hotel without mishap, and
afterwards referred everybody who applied to him for information to Mr.
Barkworth.  "He’s brimmin’ with it," he said.  Mr. Barkworth, indeed,
was pounced on at once by an inquisitive stranger, who included among
his numerous avocations that of occasional correspondent to the _Times_,
and who cabled a column of extremely good ’copy’ as soon as he had
sufficiently pumped the garrulous old gentleman.  This fact, no doubt,
explained the number of telegrams which came during the next few days
addressed to Tom--telegrams of congratulation from strangers, requests
from publishers for the offer of his forthcoming volume, an invitation
from a New York agency to undertake a lecture tour in the States.  And
yet not one-tenth of his story had been told.  Mbutu had not vocabulary
enough to give a consecutive narrative; it was only when Tom himself,
after being mercifully spared excitement for a fortnight, was at last
pronounced well enough to talk, that his friends wormed out of him bit
by bit the whole story of his adventures.  He dwelt lightly upon his own
achievements, and Mr. Barkworth, when he retailed the narrative
afterwards to all and sundry, did not fail to eulogize the "astonishing
modesty of this fine young fellow; a true Englishman, you know."  All
which was duly doled out to the British public by the indefatigable
newspaper-man.

One evening, when they had been in Mombasa for about six weeks, Sir John
Burnaby was sitting with Mr. Barkworth, Major Lister, and the doctor in
the smoking-room of the hotel.  They were the only occupants of the
room.  The doctor had just announced that Tom would be well enough to
leave for home by the boat sailing in three days, and the pleasure of
all the gentlemen had been expressed in Mr. Barkworth’s exclamation:
"That’s capital!"  For a time they sat in silence, puffing at their
cigars, each thinking over the events of the past twelvemonth in his own
way.  Then Major Lister, who was not usually the first to speak, said
suddenly:

"Tom going back to Glasgow, sir?"

"That’s a question that’s been puzzling me," returned Sir John.  "On the
one hand, he has gone a certain way in his profession and might do well
in it; on the other--"

"On the other, Burnaby," interrupted Mr. Barkworth, "he’s not going back
if I know it.  Why, the boy’s a born soldier and administrator, h’m; I
knew it!"

"To tell the truth," said Sir John, "I’ve been wondering whether, on the
strength of his doings out here, we couldn’t get him a crib in the
Diplomatic Service, or, if he wants to stay in Africa, in the service of
one of the companies or protectorates.  He asked me the other day if the
Congo Free State people would give him something to do."

"That’s out of the question," said Mr. Barkworth decisively. "I’ve read
a lot of things I don’t like about these Belgians, and if there is
anything fishy in their methods of administration, the youngster would
only eat his heart out.  No; he’s an Englishman; let him stick to the
old country and the old flag, h’m!"

"We’ll leave it till we get home," suggested Sir John. "I’ve a little
more influence than I had a year ago, and I dare say we shall be able to
get the boy something to suit him.  Depend upon it I’ll do my best; I
don’t forget that but for him I might be a bleached skeleton to-day."

"And that boy Booty--what about him, now?" asked Mr. Barkworth. "He’s a
fine fellow, you know.  Too bad to leave him among these heathens to bow
down to wood and stone, h’m!  What can we do for him?"

"Put him in the K.A.R.," suggested Major Lister.

"I don’t think he’d get on with them," said Sir John. "These Bahima are
uncommonly proud."

"Have the boy in and let him speak for himself," said the doctor.  "We
cannot dispose of a human creature as if he were a bag of bones."

"Very well; ring for him."

In a minute or two Mbutu came in, dressed in loose garments of spotless
linen.  He looked rather shyly at the group of gentlemen, and yet stood
proudly, and with an air of dignity.

"Mbutu," said Sir John, "we are all going back to England on Thursday,
and your master will be with us.  We should like to do something for
you.  You have been a faithful servant.  Your master tells me that you
have been his right hand--tending him in sickness, and never tired of
helping him in health.  You more than once saved his life.  What would
you like us to do for you?"

Mbutu was silent for some moments.  Then he said, stumblingly:

"Sah my fader and mudder.  No want leabe sah.  No leabe him nebber, not
till long night come.  Big water?  No like big water.  Sah him village
ober big water?  Mbutu go; all same for one."

"I’m sure my nephew will be sorry to part with you," said Sir John
kindly, "but I am afraid you cannot go with him. You see, he will not
want your help in his own land.  There are no forests to go through; no
black men to need interpreters. I am afraid our cold bleak winters would
not suit you, my boy."

"Tell you what," put in Mr. Barkworth, "let him try. Booty, you can come
with me, and you’ll often see your young master, let’s hope.  I’ll take
you as odd man, you know; clean the boots, run errands, rub down the
pony, all that sort of thing, you know.  Good suit of clothes; buttons,
if you like, for best; a kind mistress and a comfortable home."

Mbutu drew himself up.

"Me Muhima," he said, addressing Sir John.  "Muhima no slave.  Clean
boots for sah?  Oh yes! sah fader and mudder. No for nudder master.  Oh
no! not for red-faced pussin."

"There’s no gratitude--" Mr. Barkworth was beginning from sheer force of
habit; but the boy went on:

"Found brudder, sah; brudder chief.  Mbutu not go ober big water; berrah
well.  Go to brudder; be him katikiro, sah.  Fink of master always, eber
and eber, sah."

"I think you are wise," said Sir John.  "You can talk it over with your
master to-morrow."

"And just remember," put in the doctor, "that I will be in Kisumu for
two years or more, and if ever you want any help, ask for Dr. O’Brien."

Tom had a long talk with Mbutu next day, and loth though he was to part
with him, could not but approve his plan of returning to his brother’s
village.  He took care that he should not go empty-handed; indeed, in
point of worldly wealth the new katikiro was probably a greater man than
his brother the chief.  But it was only after much persuasion that he
could be induced to accept anything whatever.  As the doctor had decided
to return to Kisumu at once, now that Tom’s convalescence was assured,
Mbutu agreed to go back with him without waiting to see his master off.
The boy burst into tears for the first time in Tom’s experience when the
moment of parting came.

"Good-bye!" said Tom, putting his hand on the boy’s head as he knelt by
the couch.  "You have been loyal and true to me, and I know that you
will be a true katikiro to your brother.  I should like to hear about
you whenever you can get to Kisumu to send me a message.  And see, I’ll
give you my watch.  You don’t need it to tell the time; but it will
remind you of this wonderful year we have spent together. Perhaps I
shall see you again some day.  Good-bye, good-bye!"

Two days later Tom was carried on board the homeward-bound steamer amid
the sympathetic cheers of a great crowd of Europeans and natives.
Little had been seen of him, but from the government officials to the
meanest coolie everybody knew all about him, and was ready to laud him
to the skies.

As the gangway was about to be removed, a round little figure was seen
rushing wildly up the quay, holding a blue envelope in his right hand,
and shouting to the seamen.

"Just vun leetle moment!" cried Monsieur Armand Desjardins, panting as
he tumbled on board.  He made his way to the long chair on which Tom was
lying, and handed him the envelope.  "Monsieur Burnaby, vun leetle gift,
vun souvenir, for to make you understan’ my vair high consideration and
my immense entusiasm.  Adieu, my dear Monsieur Burnaby; dat you may
arrive sound and safe at de end of de road, and vun fine day return for
to see us now so desolate, dat is de prayer of your vair devoted Armand
Desjardins. Adieu, mademoiselle, j’ai bien l’honneur de vous saluer;
messieurs ... mademoiselle...."

And with his hand on his heart the vivacious little Frenchman made his
best bow, and backed down the gangway.

The bell sounded, the screw revolved, and in a few minutes the vessel
was steaming out of the harbour.  Tom’s friends stood at the rail,
gazing at the receding shore and the waving hats and handkerchiefs until
they had well-nigh faded from sight.  Then they placed their deck-chairs
in a semicircle around Tom, and sighed a sigh of great contentment.

"Well, we’re off at last," said Mr. Barkworth, lighting a cigar and
looking round over his spectacles on the group, with even more than his
usual benevolence.  "England, home, and beauty, and all that sort of
thing, you know.  No place like home.  Well, what did mossoo give you,
Tom?  What I never can make out is, why a Frenchman can’t do things in
the same way as rational people.  Why make a ballroom bow on the deck of
a steamer, eh?  Tell me that, now.  What are you smiling at, Tom?  Some
bit of buffoonery, I’ll warrant, h’m!"

"Monsieur Desjardins has dropped into verse," replied Tom, laughing
outright.  "A rhymed valedictory."

"Read it," said Sir John.

"Your accent is better than mine," said Tom, passing the paper to
Lilian, his eyes twinkling.  In her perfect accent, and with due
attention to the mute e’s, she began to read:

    "Ô mon héros si jeune! ô guerrier intrépide!
    L’Afrique à ton départ a le coeur triste et vide.
    Lea bords du vaste lac résonnent de sanglots,
    Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des flots."

Only Sir John and his nephew noticed that at this point the reader
flushed a little, and crumpled the paper slightly in her hand.  There
was a momentary pause, as though everybody expected more to come, but
Lilian was silent, and her father exclaimed:

"H’m!  Translate, Lilian; why couldn’t the mossoo say what he had to say
in English?"

Sir John took the verses from her, and after an amused glance at them
put them in his pocket.

"They’re decent enough Alexandrines, Barkworth," he said with a chuckle.
"Lilian’s thinking of Tom’s blushes, I suspect."

"Well then, translate, somebody.  What’s the fellow say?"

"Translate ’em in rhyme, a line each, sort of game," suggested Major
Lister.

"A good idea!" exclaimed Sir John.  "Place aux dames; you begin, Lilian;
and it must be heroic measure, of course, to match the theme."

"How will this do?" asked Lilian after a moment or two.

    "’O youthful hero, warrior brave and bold!’"


"Capital! and the right heroic strain.  I go on:

    ’Deserted Afric’s heart is sad and cold’.

Now, Lister, it’s your turn."

Major Lister puffed solemnly at his pipe for at least a minute before he
said slowly, pausing after every word:

    "’The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs’."


"As literal as a Kelly’s crib, ’pon my word!" cried Sir John, laughing;
"but I can’t say much for your sense of rhythm. Now Barkworth, you’re in
for the last line.  Come along, no shirking:

    ’Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots’."


"What’s it mean in plain English?  I never made poetry in my life; used
to get swished horribly for my verses at school; never could see any
good in ’em."

"Gammon!  It means: ’And your name, O Thomas, mingles with the noise of
the waves’."

"There now, didn’t I tell you so!  Gammon indeed!  Utter tomfoolery!
How can his name do any such thing!  Pure bosh; I knew it!"

"Play the game and don’t argue.  You’ve only to cap Lister’s brilliant
line, ’The-shores-of-the-vast-lake-re-sound-with-sobs--’ syllable by
syllable.  Come along."

"I can’t rhyme with ’sobs’.  The only rhyme I know is ’lobs’; used to
bowl ’em at Winchester forty odd years ago; ’sobs’, ’lobs’--can’t bring
it in anyhow.

    ’The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--’"

He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.

    "’The wapping waves exclaim, where’s Thing-um-bobs?’"

put in Tom quietly, and Mr. Barkworth’s protest that he didn’t call that
translating was drowned in laughter.


It was some weeks later.  The scene was the breakfast-room at The
Orchard, Winterslow.  Lilian was already at the head of the table by the
steaming urn, Tom was cutting a rose in the garden, and Sir John
standing with his hands in his pockets at the open French window.  He
had come down overnight to spend a week with his old friend, whose guest
Tom had been ever since his arrival in England.

"Kept you waiting, eh?" said Mr. Barkworth, coming in briskly, his
rubicund face aglow.  "Glorious morning.  Letters not arrived yet?  Ah!
here they are.  One for Tom; foreign post-mark.  Hi!" he shouted.  "Come
along; letter for you. Bacon’s getting cold."

Tom entered, cut the big square envelope, read the contents, and passed
it to his uncle.

"That’s the third," he said with a smile.  He was quite the old Tom once
more, bright-eyed, fresh-coloured, supple as ever; a little older in
looks, to be sure, with an air of manliness and grit that rejoiced Sir
John’s heart.

"Another offer?  Come, that’s capital.  Who is it this time, Burnaby?"

"The King of the Belgians, by George!  His secretary offers Tom a
commission in the Free State forces, with a very prettily-turned
compliment."

"How proud you’ll be, Mr. Burnaby!" said Lilian.

"Proud!  Not he!" retorted her father.  "He won’t accept that, or I’m a
Dutchman."

"It’s a little embarrassing, though," said Tom.  "People are very kind.
A crib in Nigeria a week ago, then one in Rhodesia, and now one in the
Congo Free State!"

"Don’t be in a hurry, Tom," said his uncle.  "I had a long talk with
Underwood of the Foreign Office yesterday. There’s some idea of--but I
won’t give it away.  Only I’ll say this: that I don’t think it’ll be
either Rhodesia or Nigeria, much less the Congo."

"I’m in no hurry, Uncle; it’s very comfortable here, and a few months’
rest will do me all the good in the world."

"Really!" returned Sir John, with a significant glance at Lilian.  "By
the way, I suppose you haven’t seen Desjardins’ latest article in the
Paris _Figaro_?  I have it in my pocket. He’s running you for all you’re
worth--and more--as a world-hero, Tom.  Here it is."

He handed a newspaper cutting to Tom.  As he replaced a pile of papers
in his pocket, a folded sheet fell to the floor. He picked it up,
casually opened it, scanned it, and smiled.

"Now I think of it, Barkworth," he said, "we never showed you on the
boat the second stanza of the little Frenchman’s effusion, did we?"

"Oh, you really mustn’t!" cried Lilian, starting up and flushing.

"What! what!" said her father.  "Another verse of that rubbish!  Let me
see it."

Sir John handed him the paper; he put on his spectacles, and Lilian,
throwing a reproachful look at Sir John, fled to the garden, while Tom
tilted back his chair and laughed a little awkwardly.  Mr. Barkworth
pursed up his mouth and frowned.

"Why, hang it!" he cried, "here’s my daughter’s name! What does the
wretched little man mean by writing my daughter’s name!  What’s the
meaning of it, Burnaby?  I can’t read the stuff."

"I’ll read it to you:

    ’Tu vas, comblê de gloire, illustrer ta patrie:
    Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l’envie.
    Quel ange te conduit par delà l’ocean?--
    La mer répond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"’.

Perhaps Tom will oblige by translating."

"Not I, sir; I think you’ll do it best.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go
and----"

"Yes, go and find her, certainly, my boy."

"Well now, Burnaby, just translate, please.  There appears to be some
mystery here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it, h’m!"

"You must make allowances for a Frenchman’s sentiment, you know,
Barkworth.  What he says is something to this effect: ’Covered with
glory, you’re going to shed lustre on your country, and there you’ll
break all the girls’ hearts and make all the boys jealous.  What angel
is wafting you over the ocean?’--A little high-falutin, you see.  It
ends--’And the sea whispers the name----’"

"Confound his impudence!" broke in Mr. Barkworth. "What right----what
are you laughing at, Burnaby?  Why--God bless me, you don’t mean there’s
anything in it?  Eh? What?  ’Gad, I’m delighted, delighted, immensely
pleased, old man!--Look at them in the garden, Jack; aren’t they a fine
couple, now!"

"They’re rather young yet, Barkworth, eh?"

"Young!  Of course they’re young.  Makes me young again myself to see
them there, God bless them!  Call ’em in; I must shake hands with Tom,
the young dog; I know him!"

"I’d let ’em alone if I were you, Barkworth.  Come round to the stables,
and I’ll tell you what Underwood said to me."




_It is early morning in Zanzibar.  The Arab quarter is scarcely astir;
there are few passengers in its narrow tortuous lanes, with their square
houses, each standing aloof, dark, repellent, prison-like for all its
whitewash.  But in the market-place the slant rays of the sun light up a
busy scene.  In and out among the booths of the merchants and the
unsheltered heaps in which the lesser traders expose their wares, moves
a jostling crowd--negroes of Zanzibar; visitors from the coast tribes;
Somalis from the north; Banyamwesi, even Baganda and Banyoro, from the
far interior--chattering, chaffering, haggling in a hundred variants of
the Swahili tongue. Now and again the half-naked crowd parts to make way
for a grave stately Arab in spotless white, with voluminous turban, or
for some Muscat donkey whose well-laden panniers usurp the narrow
space._

_Suddenly above the hum of the market rises a strident voice. The
wayfarers turn, and see a gaunt, bent, hollow-eyed figure in mendicant
rags; standing on a carpet at the entrance of an alley, he has begun to
harangue with the fervour of madness all who choose to hear._

"_Hearken, ye faithful, sons of the Prophet, hearken while I tell of the
shame that has befallen Islam!  Verily, the day of our calamity has come
upon us!  Woe unto us! woe unto us!  The hand of our foes is heavy upon
us; they lie in wait for us, even as a lion for harts in the desert.
Wallahi! the land was ours, from the sun’s rising unto its setting, from
the marge of the sea unto the uttermost verge of the Forest.  Where now
are all they that went forth, and in the name of Allah got them riches
and slaves?  Where are the leaders of old--Hamed ben Juna the mighty,
Sefu his son strong in battle, yea, and the great Rumaliza?  All, all
are gone! I alone am left, even I, the least of their servants.  The
Ferangi--defiled be their graves!--shall they afflict us for ever?  Are
we dogs, that here, even here in our birthplace, the land of our
fathers, we slink from the foot of the infidel?  Awake, awake, O ye
slothful! Haste ye! haste ye!  Smite the Ferangi and spare not!  Grind
them into the dust; yea, crush them, destroy them utterly.  Do ye linger
or doubt?  Behold, I will lead you!  Lo, my sword!--is it not red with
infidel blood?  Let us sweep like the whirlwind upon them; like the
lightnings of Allah will we rend and consume them. They that pollute our
land shall be stricken, and none shall be left, no, not one alive for
the wailing.  By the beard of the Prophet I swear it!_"

"_Essalam alekam!_" _says a Somali in respectful greeting to a venerable
seller of sweetmeats_.  "_Who is he, O Giver of Delight?_"

"_Knowest thou not, O Lion of the Desert?  He is a mad nebi from the
Great Forest afar._"

"_Mashallah!  And his name, O Kneader of Joy?_"

"_Men call him Mustapha._"




           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




                             HERBERT STRANG

                       _Complete List of Stories_


ADVENTURES OF DICK TREVANION, THE
ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER, THE
A GENTLEMAN AT ARMS
A HERO OF LIÉGE
AIR PATROL, THE
AIR SCOUT, THE
BARCLAY OF THE GUIDES
BLUE RAIDER, THE
BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
BRIGHT IDEAS
BROWN OF MOUKDEN
BURTON OF THE FLYING CORPS
CARRY ON
CRUISE OF THE GYRO-CAR, THE
FIGHTING WITH FRENCH
FLYING BOAT, THE
FRANK FORESTER
HUMPHREY BOLD
JACK HARDY
KING OF THE AIR
KOBO
LONG TRAIL, THE
LORD OF THE SEAS
MOTOR SCOUT, THE
NO MAN’S ISLAND
OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE
ONE OF CLIVE’S HEROES
PALM TREE ISLAND
ROB THE RANGER
ROUND THE WORLD IN SEVEN DAYS
SAMBA
SETTLERS AND SCOUTS
SULTAN JIM
SWIFT AND SURE
THROUGH THE ENEMY’S LINES
TOM BURNABY
TOM WILLOUGHBY’S SCOUTS
WITH DRAKE ON THE SPANISH MAIN
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME