Part 21

"All we can do," he said, "is to push on as fast as we can and trust to the breastwork. The worst of it is, the men can't defend themselves without exposing their heads to the enemy's fire."

"Yes they can, if they make loopholes," replied Ferrier. "Set 'em to cut some; we were idiots not to do it before."

The rafts were still about eighty yards from the island. Their course was checked while the men hastily cut loopholes in the breastwork on each side, at which they posted themselves with their weapons; then the white men drove the rafts forward as swiftly as the shallow water permitted. The enemy had again totally disappeared. But just as Ferrier's raft entered the channel between the island and the bank, there was a shout, and a boom of logs was drawn rapidly across, completely blocking the passage. The sound of chopping was explained.

The moment he saw the obstruction, Ferrier strove to increase the speed of the raft, in the hope of breaking through. There was a jolt and a crash, but the boom held, and instantly with ferocious yells the enemy on both sides let fly a shower of arrows mingled with a few rifle-shots at the occupants of the raft. These, kneeling at the breastworks, replied as well as they could through the loopholes; but they suffered two disadvantages: while they were exposed to the missiles of the enemy behind them, and on a higher level, the enemy themselves were concealed among the trees and brushwood. Cries of pain proclaimed that several had been hit, and Ferrier, turning for a moment to seize his rifle, received an arrow in his right shoulder. In an instant he wrenched it out: there was no time to think of wounds.

Meanwhile John had poled his raft somewhat to the left of the other, to try in his turn to break through the boom. Like Ferrier, he failed. The rafts were now ranged alongside, and John's men became exposed to the deadly hail from the island.

"We must either cut the boom or run for it," he said, gaining what shelter he could from the breastwork.

"Impossible!" returned Ferrier. "We've no axes. Knives are no good. The logs are three deep. Any one who tried to cut the lashings would be killed, to a certainty."

"I'll try and rush the island, then. You keep the others at bay."

"I'll do my best."

John ordered his men to lie down, and rapidly explained to them what he meant to do. Then, with a few vigorous thrusts of his pole, he drove the raft against the bank. As it touched, a bullet passed through his helmet. He dropped his pole, seized a rifle with his left hand and a revolver with his right, and calling to the men, leapt over the breastwork on to the island. The men followed him with a yell, all but Said Mohammed, whom he had ordered to remain and prevent the raft from drifting away.

As they swarmed up the bank, they were met by a shower of missiles. Two or three men fell; an arrow grazed John's cheek; but the suddenness of the attack had taken the enemy by surprise. Those who had rifles had no time to reload before their assailants were among them. Discharging his revolver at the nearest man, John dashed straight forward, smiting left and right with his clubbed rifle, the men hacking with their knives and jabbing with their spears. The enemy had thought rather of obtaining good cover from which to attack than of sustaining a hand-to-hand fight. John's men, emboldened by his example, followed close upon his heels. For a few moments a fierce scrimmage raged among the trees. Then the enemy gave way, turned tail, and, rushing across the narrow island, splashed through the shallow water that separated it from the next. Here they stood and faced about, as if to show fight again; but when they saw John and his little band springing after them they lost heart and fled, racing over the second island and the channel dividing it from the left bank of the river, and never halting until they gained firm ground a hundred yards away.

Meanwhile John had become aware by the uproar behind him that a fierce conflict was in progress there. He could not delay to see whether the enemy he had put to flight would return, but rushed back to the assistance of Ferrier. What he saw filled him with alarm and dismay. The main body of the enemy, several hundreds strong, and led by Juma himself, had swarmed out from the trees and shrubs among which they had been concealed, and after discharging their weapons, were wading through the river to attack Ferrier's raft. The channel was black with them, yelling, brandishing spears and rifles, a few still shooting their arrows as they plunged through the water. Some had run along the boom, and at the moment when John returned were trying to leap over the breastwork on to the raft. Some had come round on the other side and were attempting to tear down the breastwork. Ferrier was laying about him doughtily with his clubbed rifle; Coja at the further end of the raft was doing the same; and the rest of the men were darting here and there, striking the heads of the negroes in the river, or prodding with their spears at those on the boom.

But the numbers of the enemy were so overwhelming that John feared that nothing could now save the day. Said Mohammed in his agitation had allowed his raft to drift away from the island into the stream, and a rush was immediately made towards it. John sprang on to the boom, and ran with all speed to Ferrier's help, his men close behind. Catching a big negro by the throat, he hurled him off the boom into the water, jumped the breastwork, and came to Ferrier's side just as he staggered and fell with a spear wound in the thigh. The arrival of John's party checked the assault for a moment, but meanwhile the enemy had clambered into his raft, overthrowing Said Mohammed, and the current brought it once more against the boom. The little party was now surrounded. One after another fell. Two men, a Swahili and a negro, had at last broken through the defence and gained a footing on Ferrier's raft. John felled the Swahili with a sledge-hammer blow of his rifle; the negro was killed with a thrust from Bill's knife. But while these first invaders were thus disposed of, others had forced their way on to the raft, and before John could recover himself, a spear was driven through his arm and he was hustled to the deck.

There was a yell of triumph from the enemy. But all at once, above the uproar there came the sharp crackle of rifles, followed by a ringing cheer. Juma, who was at that moment in the act of springing from the boom into the raft, halted for a second, and turned to discover the origin of these new sounds. He saw, on the right bank of the river, not two hundred yards away, a party of mounted white men, riding at a gallop towards him. For an instant he hesitated. While his back was towards the raft, Bill, with an agility amazing in a man of his years, leapt the breastwork, knife in hand, and hurled himself upon the Swahili. Both together, they fell into the river. Juma was undermost. For an instant they disappeared beneath the surface. Bill never relaxed his grip. When they emerged, he plunged his knife up to the haft in the Swahili's throat; then flung his enemy from him. Juma was dead. So he expiated the cruelties and tyrannies of many years, at the hands of a member of the tribe which had suffered most wrong.

While this tragedy was being enacted, the riders came to the brink of the stream, and ten rifles sped their bullets among the swarm of black men. Again the air rang with a British cheer. With screams of pain, yells of consternation and affright, the enemy broke and fled, some towards the island, some scrambling up-stream, those who were in the rafts plunging into the water and swimming in all directions. And John, rising to his feet, beheld his father and Mr. Gillespie, and eight men whom he did not recognize, and waving his rifle aloft with his uninjured arm, he answered cheer with cheer.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH--Back to the Farm

One morning, about a month after the fight in the swamp, John was sitting at the table in his bungalow, a paper outspread before him, a pencil in his hand, and Said Mohammed standing at his elbow.

"We must have it all first-rate, you know," he said.

"Quite up to dick, sir; you may rely on me."

"Well now, _hors d'oeuvres_--I think we might do without that."

"With respect, sir, _hors d'oeuvres_ is _sine qua non_--correct card, sir, foundation of the _comme il faut_."

"All right, then; stick down sardines: we've got a tin. Now _potage_--why the dickens don't you put it in English, khansaman?"

"The English tongue, sir, is great and glorious instrument, but too gross for refinements of culinary art. Soup!--listen to it--soup! disgusting monosyllable, sir, resembling hiccough. Contrast with the delicate vocables of French."

"Well, what shall the _potage_ be?"

"Clear, sir, for the ladies, _consomme a la Wanderobbo_."

"What on earth is that?"

"I beg you, sir, not to insist on answer," said the Bengali gravely. "Thick, for masculine gender: Scotch broth, concession to prejudices of great nation."

"That's all right. What's next? _Poissons_! That looks fishy. Take care you don't drop an _s_. What fish can we do?"

"Coja hooked quantity of finny tribe which, with due sauce, may pass for trout."

"Now for _entrees_."

"The partridges you shot yesterday, sir, are in prime condition. I suggest _perdrix a la Swahili_. For _releve_ I propose----"

"I say, we'll drop that. Let's come to a good honest roast. Shoulder of lamb, say--but we can't manage mint sauce. There's no vinegar."

"With respect, sir, in intelligent anticipation I provide for that. I put quantity of Bill's honey in ferment, and made acidulous liquid passable imitation of vinegar; pious fraud."

"Plenty of vegetables, of course."

"_Croquettes de pomme de terre, choux-fleurs a la Lulu, topinambours a la creme_."

"Look here, I can't spell that crack-jaw. What, in plain English, are _topinambours_?"

"In vulgar tongue, sir, Jerusalem artichokes; but you will agree that final syllable of artichokes is ominous and forbidding, especially to ladies."

"Well, I've had enough of it. Finish the menu yourself. I've no doubt everything will be all right."

John went out and strolled round the farm. It presented a different appearance: four or five new wooden huts, neatly thatched, erected for the accommodation of the visitors expected, stood near the bungalow. John was at present the only white man on the farm, Mr. Halliday having returned to Nairobi with the rest of the rescue-party to make some purchases, and Ferrier to meet his sister and get attention to his wounded thigh. The evening before, a messenger had come in advance, to announce that the visitors would arrive next day: Mr. Halliday was returning with Mrs. Burtenshaw, her family, and the Ferriers. Said Mohammed was determined "to do credit to the establishment," as he put it; he would show the guests "that the resources of civilization were not dead letter in African wilds."

As the day drew on, John became restless. He had the floor of the bungalow scrubbed twice; set Lulu to scour the pans in the dairy for the third time; and got Coja to cut his hair. He was in some agitation of mind as to what he should wear. He looked out a white shirt, collar, and tie, and a suit of clothes he had not worn since he left England. His unaccustomed fingers struggled with his collar-stud until he was in despair, and when he had knotted his tie he found that he had no clips, and the wretched thing threatened to ride up to his chin.

He was standing at the door of the bungalow, thus arrayed, and feeling ridiculously got up, when he saw Ferrier galloping up on a pony.

"Hallo, old chap!" shouted his friend. "The others are about half-an-hour behind. Thought I would ride ahead and prepare you. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, don't mind what I say, but you look a bit of a guy, you know. Your coat's too tight, and your waistcoat too short: are they the things you wore at school? Your tie's wriggling round to your ear; and your trousers display a good deal of ankle--d'you know that you've got on odd socks?"

"Hang it all, Charley, what shall I do? I've got nothing else but khaki and drill, and I can't show up in those."

"Don't see why. The women won't expect to find Bond Street fashions here, and if you'll take my tip you'll tumble out of those things as soon as possible, and rig up in your usual toggery."

"You really think they won't mind?"

"Of course not. Hurry up; you'll just have time."

John dashed off with a feeling of unutterable relief. He pitched his tie and collar into a corner, crushed his suit into a drawer, regardless of creases, and in ten minutes reappeared in flannel shirt and clean white drill, feeling at ease.

In less than half-an-hour the party arrived, six in all, Mr. Gillespie having accompanied them. Their safari was still some miles in the rear.

"How d'you do, John?" said the elder lady, as he helped her to dismount. "I am Mrs. Burtenshaw--still!"

John felt himself blushing.

"I know you as Cousin Sylvia, ma'am," he said.

"We'll be great friends, I'm sure. You know Joe and Poll; this is Helen. Hilda, come and be introduced to my long-lost nephew. Regard me as your favourite aunt, my dear boy. Tell me," she whispered, "is that fat smiling gentleman in white your failed B.A.?"

"That's he: cook, khansaman, and major-domo. Said Mohammed, escort the ladies to their rooms."

The Bengali approached, bowing to each in turn.

"Esteemed madam and misses," he said, "deign to direct your footsteps to humble abode, or, as William Cowper beautifully says, your lodge in vast wilderness, with boundless contiguity of shade."

The ladies preserved an admirable composure, and retired to the huts assigned to them.

"Now, John," said Mrs. Burtenshaw, when they reappeared, "you must show us round this wonderful farm of yours. It looks very tidy, I must say. But where are your sheep? I thought you had hundreds, and there aren't fifty in that pen."

"They're out at grass, cousin; you'll see them come in by and by. There really isn't much to see, you know. Cabbages and artichokes--'m; _topinambours_ is the name for ladies, says my cook--they're just the same, here and at home. If you'd come a few months later, now, I might have shown you some zebras. I'm going to try and tame some."

"Ah yes! I remember you threatened to meet your father on a striped charger, to match his striped trousers.... Who's that funny-looking little object?"

"That's Bill, scout and huntsman, and a millionaire, as things are reckoned here. Come and see his ivory."

"You're a very rash and headstrong boy. The idea of going miles and miles after a set of thieves! I wonder you're alive. A pretty settler, indeed!"

"Well, cousin, I dare say I shall settle down now, with father to keep me in order. You see, we couldn't have felt secure if----"

"Don't tell me! You're just a madcap; if you were my son I should be in constant terror lest you were brought home one day a mangled corpse."

"Look, mother," said Helen, "isn't it a pretty sight?"

The lambs were coming home, a great flock, covering the hollow between two gentle slopes. Their bleatings, heard faintly at first, became a deafening noise as they neared the farm. The observers noticed how they quickened their pace as they approached. Within the pen the ewes moved restlessly about, bleating calls to their young. When the lambs entered through the gate, they leapt forward frisking with delight, darted into the open pen, and sprang this way and that, each seeking its own dam.

"Charming!" said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "What a pity sheep are so silly! Now take us to your dairy."

----

Said Mohammed's cookery won general applause.

"I envy you, Halliday," said Mr. Gillespie. "He's worth his fifty rupees a month, isn't he?"

"You don't have a dinner like this every day, I'm sure, John--French menu and all," said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "I should like the recipe for that _consomme a la Wanderobbo_."

"What is _a la Wanderobbo_?" asked Helen.

"I don't know," replied John. "That little old man you saw just now is one of the Wanderobbo tribe."

"Good gracious! I hope he had nothing to do with the soup. He looked--well, not scrupulously clean."

"No, no," said John, laughing. "He had no more to do with the soup than Lulu had with the cauliflowers--unless she cut them. Talking of Bill, Mr. Gillespie, what are we to do about his ivory? It has been his dream for years to recover it, but when we got back he made me a present of it."

"Just like a man," said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "You'll struggle all your life and wear yourselves out for some ridiculous thing, and when you get it don't know what to do with it."

"It's what you do that counts, not what you get," remarked Mr. Halliday: "or as our failed B.A. said when we met him first, it is work that ennobles. But about the ivory?"

"Well," said Mr. Gillespie judicially, "I'm not sure but it belongs to the Government."

"I don't see that," said Joe Browne. "The Government did nothing for it. Didn't do anything for you, either. I'd stick to it if I were you, John. What will it fetch?"

"Five or six hundred pounds, I should think," said Mr. Gillespie.

"I wish it were mine," said Oliver. "Mother keeps me plaguey short."

"I'd thought of a scheme that would be pretty fair all round," said John. "Bill was the owner, and he gave it to me. He wants to stay on the farm. Well, I propose to build him a new hut and set him up with new weapons: that will make him comfortable for life. Then old Sobersides has been very decent. His men behaved like bricks, and we certainly couldn't have got it without their help. We might give them some bushels of beads and loads of wire and blankets and other things they value. They may seem trumpery to us, but they're untold wealth to the natives."

"And then?" said Mrs. Burtenshaw.

"Well, perhaps Charley and I might share the rest."

"Nonsense!" said Ferrier. "It's yours."

"And we'll share it. We shared everything else. Don't be selfish, Charley."

Everybody laughed, and it was ultimately settled that the ivory should be sent to Nairobi, where Mr. Gillespie promised to get the best possible price for it.

Here Said Mohammed came in with coffee. When he had handed round the cups he lingered.

"Don't wait, khansaman," said John. "We'll manage now. Every one was delighted with your dinner."

"I am repaid a thousandfold, sir. Not to intrude, sir, I have trifling communication to make."

"What is it?"

"Native chief, sir, did me honour to request I would convey thanks of self and co. for immense and colossal benefits conferred."

"Oh, that's all right. He thanked me himself, long ago."

"_Festina lente_, sir. Reflecting on said petition, I deemed the circs. worthy of more formal commemoration than perfunctory acknowledgement. Wherefore and accordingly I scorn delights and live laborious days in inditing few lines pat to the occasion, which with august permission I will now proceed to chuck off chest."

The two girls made suspicious use of their handkerchiefs; Joe Browne kicked Ferrier under the table; and Oliver, choking over his coffee, accused Mr. Halliday of smoking very strong cigars. John and the elder members of the party preserved their gravity, though it was in a curiously constrained tone that John asked the Bengali to favour the company. With a smile of gratification Said Mohammed unrolled a scroll of paper, and, looking round to make sure that every one was attending, began in his high-pitched voice--

Hear me tell a moving story, chronicled in lofty rhyme, Redolent of stripling's glory, monument to end of time. Idol of my veneration, you I celebrate in song; Ornament of British nation, you I crack up, hot and strong.

To begin at the beginning: When one day, at usual pace, Our oblate spheroid was spinning through an awful lot of space, You, an up-to-date Orion, Enfield rifle in your hand, Did for most obnoxious lion, holy terror in the land.

Next, predaceous gang, Swahilis--Juma, if you please, and Co.,-- Prowling, slippery as eel is, on the rampage to and fro, Depredated native village, spreading woe and dire alarm, Then for more important pillage fell like ton of bricks on farm.

Faithful servant, Said Mohammed, feeling anything but bold, Like a bleating orphan lamb hid, sniffing wolves within the fold; While despoilers collared rifles, ammunition, shell and shot; Item, sundry piffling trifles which the poet has forgot.

Minions of a base levanter, villains of the deepest dye,-- You are after them instanter, lightning flashing from your eye; Swoop upon them in their slumbers, catch them fairly on the hop, Though inferior in numbers, smite them hip and thigh and crop.

Terrified by dire disaster, they make hurry-scurry flight. Yoicks! our whipper-in goes faster, helter-skelter day and night, Till dark citadel is sighted, wall-encircled, likewise moat. Is prodigious effort blighted? Not at all: we simply gloat.

Roberts' grit and Caesar's clear eye--honestly, you have them both. 'Fas est ab hoste doceri,' august Roman general quoth: Taking leaf from book of Juma, you perpended ruse de guerre, And with dodgy slimness you manoeuvred brigands from their lair.

Penned within restricted compass, you repel the fierce attack, Calm amid most awful rumpus: things are looking very black. Lo! in thickest of the slaughter, one sees chance of chipping in, And with can of boiling water stems the tide and scores a win.

Threat of famine, grisly spectre, makes us look a little blue; But our commonwealth's protector, launching forth in bark canoe, Quits the precincts of the island, marches at a spanking pace, Up-hill, down-hill, swamp and dry land, perfect Nimrod in the chase.

Hippopotamus stupendous to your prowess falls a prey. Ministers of grace defend us! you are spirited away. Lo! proverbially fickle, Fortune knocks you from your perch, Leaves you in a pretty pickle, or, as you may say, the lurch.

Meditating in your prison, through the darkling stilly night, Ere red Phoebus has arisen you have perpetrated flight: Swift rejoin the little party by Swahili sore oppressed; Juma then is in the cart, he gets a bullet in the chest.

Pardon slight inaccuracy, due to exigence of rhyme; Frenzied poet, going pace, imagines only the sublime. Be pedestrian and pedantic when you're patronizing prose, Spur your Pegasus quite frantic when a poem you compose.

To return from this diversion, and to make long story short, After enemy's dispersion you evacuated fort; Made a bee-line for the village, situated on a hill, Scooped the products of their tillage, bloodless coup, resistance nil.

Expediting preparations for strategic move in rear, 'Mid poor females' ululations, most distressing to the ear-- What makes all your pulses throb? oh! what sets all your nerves athrill? 'Tis shikari Wanderobbo, or, to use his alias, Bill.

Pale with rage and indignation (metaphorically pale), Billy tells of spoliation, thieves his property assail. Tartar like the bold Cambuscan (Chaucer left his tale half-told), Juma digs up every tusk and Bill is absolutely sold.

Now behold you on your mettle; now momentous hour has struck, You in most pugnacious fettle sally forth to try your luck; Meet marauders by the river, fall on them like bolt from blue, Crying 'Stand and eke deliver, or I'll run you through and through!'