Part 6

"You have to be up to snuff, sir," said the Bengali, "in dealing with gentlemen of business capacity. Wasama is a very good chap: I have high opinion of his honesty, et cetera; but honesty is no go in markets without the possession of considerable acumen, and Wasama has not had the advantage of gaining that familiarity with the methods of civilization, which, as the proverb says, breeds contempt," an unconsciously double-edged remark which did not amuse John.

Of course he might ask the help of Mr. Gillespie, which would no doubt be very willingly given; but John was very reluctant to let things out of his own hands, having a full share of Anglo-Saxon independence. The matter, at any rate, was not immediately urgent. Two or three more months must pass before the young animals were weaned and fit to undertake the long journey; and John still hoped that by the time the sale of them became imperative his father would have returned.

It was about six months after Mr. Halliday left that John received the following letter from him--

"The lady has arrived. She's a very decent, respectable widow body. She has brought all her family, two boys and a girl--a pretty creature, the image of her mother when I first knew her. The widow produced her birth certificate and a series of photographs, the first showing her in her father's arms at about a week old, for all the world as if he were a royalty displaying the infant to a crowd of grandees. Wright and MacKellar are satisfied, which is more than I am, coming all this way on such a fool's errand. The widow wanted to repay me the L100 or so I've wasted, but of course I couldn't hear of that. I expect to sail next week. Glad to hear you're getting on well.

"P.S.--I suppose you haven't seen anything of those young Brownes? I'd be a deal happier if I knew you had neighbours."

A week later came a brief note.

"Fate's got a downer on me. I was fool enough to go for a ride in the widow's new 40 h.-p. Panhard. The chauffeur ran us into a dyke; the rest got bruises, but I survive with a broken leg. Tony Weller was right: beware of widders."

Since then no news had come, and John grew anxious, though he reflected that he would have heard if his father was seriously ill.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH--Hard Pressed

John spent a good deal of time with Bill the Wanderobbo. He found it at first difficult to communicate with him, for the little man knew no English, nor even Swahili, which John was rapidly picking up, partly from Coja, and partly from a Swahili grammar and Bible which he had brought from Mombasa. He had to employ Wasama as the medium of intercourse with Bill, the two men speaking in the Masai tongue, and Wasama translating either into his imperfect English, or into Swahili, as John became more proficient in it. Coja told him that the Wanderobbo have a language of their own, and he tried to get Bill to teach him that; but the man became reserved and shy whenever the suggestion was made, and Wasama explained that the Wanderobbo never allowed any foreigner to hear them speak in their own tongue. After a time John managed to converse with Bill about simple matters in a kind of sign language, in which the Wanderobbo was very quick. He learnt long afterwards that the mysterious language of the tribe largely consists of signs, to such an extent that the people cannot understand one another in the dark.

One day Bill darkly hinted that though John was very rich, yet he, the Wanderobbo, was richer. This was surprising, seeing that to all appearance he possessed nothing but his hut and weapons. On being questioned he at first shyly refused to say more, but by and by said that he owned a very large store of ivory.

"Where?" asked John.

"In his old home away in the hills," said Wasama, who was interpreting.

"Then why doesn't he sell it and buy himself a good hut and good arms and make himself comfortable?"

"Because the store is now in the bad man's country, beyond the mountain."

John had by this time learnt something of the native African's genius for invention, and treated the Wanderobbo's assertions as sheer romance; but the old man repeated them again and again, and indeed seemed sometimes to be brooding over his wrongs, so that John began to believe that there was some little foundation for his story. Once Bill said that if the young master cared to go with him a long journey he would show him how to hunt elephants, so that he might get ivory for himself. But it happened that Mr. Halliday had only taken out an ordinary game licence, costing 150 rupees, not caring to pay an additional 600 rupees for the full licence which would entitle him to shoot elephants and rhinoceros and other large game. Bill was totally unable to understand the reason of John's refusal, and John felt that the old man in his secret thoughts set him down as afraid.

But though elephant hunting had to be declined, John was never loth to go in quest of smaller game when the larder required it. He never killed any of his own sheep or cattle for food, but depended on the game that fell to his rifle--waterbuck, grantei, congoni, and other animals which were to be found at first within short distances of the farm. Bill was his constant companion on these expeditions, and proved very useful, having an instinct for the right localities. Two or three of the villagers were usually hired to carry back the game that was shot.

One day the party had gone some five miles to the northward, and the bearers were cutting up two grantei which John had shot, when a solitary figure appeared in the far distance. It was unusual to see a native travelling alone, but he was approaching so slowly that John did not think it worth while to await his arrival, and when the cutting up was finished, he ordered the men to shoulder their burdens. But taking a look at the stranger before setting off after his men, John felt sure that he was making straight towards him across the broken country; and since he was in the middle of a wide plain, trackless and bare, he wondered whether the stranger had some definite purpose in so directing his course. Letting the bearers go on in advance, he decided to wait with Bill for the man.

As he came more clearly into view, John perceived that he was moving very slowly and with manifest difficulty. When he came up, and John, who had by this time more than a smattering of Swahili, questioned him, the man explained that he was a Baganda, and had been sent to seek help for a safari nearly a day's march to the north-east. The master of the safari was a young msungu (white man), and John was able to make out from what the messenger said that the party was in extreme danger from "bad men." The msungu had sent him out at night on the chance of finding help, but he had not been able to move fast because he was very weak and hungry.

John was in a quandary. On the one hand his inclination prompted him to set off at once to the aid of a fellow white man: on the other hand he had no force at command which could hope to intervene effectually if the "bad men" were in considerable numbers. He was some miles from the farm, and even if he hurried back he could not raise a strong party. Coja was the only man on the farm besides himself who could use a rifle, and John was very doubtful whether he could induce any of the villagers to leave their own ground on a fighting expedition. Still, he felt that something must be done. He asked the Baganda whether he could use a rifle, and on being answered in the affirmative, he first gave the man some food from the little stock he had brought for his own use, and then bade him wait with the Wanderobbo while he returned to the farm.

On arriving he dispatched Wasama with the news to the nearest government station, Fort Hall, forty miles to the south-west. Then he ordered Said Mohammed to make ready a supply of food, and Coja to saddle three donkeys, and within a quarter of an hour he was hurrying back over his tracks, Coja beside him leading the third donkey. Each had his rifle, and Coja carried a third for the Baganda.

They found the man where he had been left with Bill, looking much the better for his meal. John sent Bill back to the farm, and then, the Baganda having mounted, the party of three set off to the relief of the safari. The route lay first north and then north-west round a steep hill, which John concluded was one of the foothills of Mount Kenya. It was very rough going at times, the messenger having made his way in a direct line, up hill and down dale, and he had to return over the same ground lest he should lose the track and go astray. Fortunately the donkeys were sure-footed, and only a few stumbles on the sides of precipitous descents reminded John subsequently that he had taken risks in his excitement and haste which he would scarcely have faced in cold blood. He felt that he could have travelled faster on foot, and the Baganda was plainly ill at ease on the donkey's back; but not knowing what might be demanded of him, he had thought it wise to ride so as to husband his strength. They saw no signs of habitation: indeed, the whole of the region through which they passed was a wilderness, owing, as was learnt afterwards, to Masai raids in a not remote past.

It was close upon nightfall when, on topping a rise, they came in sight of the spot where, as the Baganda said, his master was beset by the bad men. It appeared to be about three miles off. The actual place could not be seen, owing to intervening patches of woodland, but on proceeding a little farther, the guide pointed out a dark shape on the plain which he said was a camp of bad men, and some distance beyond it John was able to descry the boma within which the white man had entrenched himself.

On the way he had succeeded in getting a few more details from the Baganda, by the interpreting aid of Coja. It appeared that two wasungu had been making a sporting expedition from northern Uganda by way of Lake Rudolf to the Kenya district. The elder msungu had been seized with swamp fever in the neighbourhood of the lake, but had pushed on southward instead of resting, with the result that he became worse and worse and at last died near Mount Sil, eighty miles north of Mount Kenya. The safari had already found the tribes through which it had passed somewhat troublesome, and as after the bwana's death it travelled southward, it came into a region where the people were openly hostile, and hung on its skirts, watching for any opportunity of taking it at a disadvantage. The party had, however, got safely to the Waso Nyiro river, which they had crossed a week ago; but then they had been attacked one night by a tribe of Embe, one of the fiercest and most quarrelsome of East African peoples. Some of the porters were killed, others deserted, and the young msungu himself was wounded. The attack had been beaten off, and the boma round the camp had been strengthened, and when the messenger left they were holding out against a much larger body of natives and in dire straits because their food was running short.

The safari consisted of forty men, with only ten rifles among them. John tried to ascertain how many the assailants numbered, but the Baganda could only speak vaguely of a very great host. Moving forward cautiously so as not to be seen by the enemy, John soon perceived a second camp on the further side of the boma: it was plain that the savages were subjecting the camp to a strict investment, knowing that, even if they could not break in, want of food would soon compel the beleaguered to surrender. But while it was clearly impossible for the white man's party to make any movement as a body without discovery, it did not appear to John that the blockade was so close as to prevent individuals from entering or leaving the camp under cover of night; indeed, the Baganda had slipped out in the darkness and escaped detection. John therefore asked him whether he was willing to make an attempt to get in during the coming night, and tell his master that help was coming. The man said that he thought he could pass the enemy safely, but he would certainly be shot at from the msungu's camp if his approach was heard, and that was a risk he did not care to run. With some persuasion and the promise of a handsome present John induced the messenger to try his luck, instructing him to make a big fire if he got in safely, or if that was impossible through lack of fuel, to ask his master to fire two shots in rapid succession. John would then endeavour to enter the camp. He did not suppose, of course, that a reinforcement of two would enable the besieged party to turn the tables on the besiegers, but he hoped that his presence would be taken as an earnest of help to come from Fort Hall, and would at least encourage the men to hold out.

The three waited until darkness covered the ground, having meanwhile tethered the animals. Then the Baganda set off on foot just after seven o'clock with a small bundle of food strapped to his back so as not to encumber his movements. The minutes passed slowly; there was no sign from the encampment; and after what seemed hours John ventured to strike a match under cover of the bush and look at his watch. It was only eight. But there had been time enough for the Baganda to have reached the encampment, and John wondered what had happened to him. He did not think he had been captured, for that would have been announced by a shout or a shot. Only a few minutes after he had looked at his watch there was a sudden bright glare in the direction of the encampment: one flash and then darkness. This was followed by a confused murmur of voices, and then by several irregular shots. At the same time two fires were lighted, one on the north and the other on the south of the encampment--a clear sign that the besiegers meant to hold their ground during the night, the fires having been kindled to keep off wild beasts. John guessed that the white man within the boma had adopted the flare as a better signal than the one he had suggested; undoubtedly the Baganda had reached the camp in safety.

The problem now was to follow him without being detected. The flare had shown John the exact direction in which he should go; but it had also put the besiegers on the alert, though it was unlikely that they had any suspicion at present of the meaning of the light. Luckily no fire had been kindled on the west side of the camp, on which there was no gate, and as the night was pitch dark, John hoped with care to escape the notice of the savages. Leaving the animals tethered, he crept forward with Coja, a little nervous lest he should stumble upon some obstruction or go astray in the darkness. The plain was covered with grass up to his knees, and here and there clumps of mimosa. As the two crept forward the sky in front of them was momentarily lit up by another flare. "He's got his wits about him, whoever he is," thought John. Again he heard shots, but he could not tell whether they were fired within or without the boma. The Baganda had not reported that the besiegers had rifles: one or two of them, he said, had very old guns; but the shots were evidently those of rifles, and John wondered whether the besiegers had been reinforced during the day.

The two men, making slow progress, and guided by the flares which were shown at intervals, drew gradually nearer to the camp. Suddenly a flash showed them a clump of bush between them and the boma, which John guessed to be now about a hundred and fifty yards distant. They lay flat in the grass until the flare had died down, then crept to the edge of the bush, John hoping to find a speedy opportunity of making a dash for the camp. Just as they reached the clump Coja stumbled over his rifle, making a slight rustle among the grass. Instantly there was a low call, apparently from the other side of the bush. A man was on the watch there. "Speak to him," John whispered to Coja, who whispered back that he did not know what tribe the man belonged to, and to speak might be dangerous. John felt that the critical moment was come. He dared not retreat: that would arouse suspicion: nor durst he stay inertly where he was, for the man might come towards them. Yet to attempt to dash past him across the open would be to risk a shot or a spear at such close range that the chance of escape would be small, for though the night was dark, there was enough glimmer from the stars to enable an alert enemy to take aim, besides a reflected glow from the camp fires. He made up his mind instantly to venture on a bold course. Whispering to Coja to follow him closely, he wriggled as quietly as possible through the bush, and came upon a man sitting on his haunches with a rifle or musket across his knees, watching the boma. He half turned his head as he heard the slight rustle of John's approach, but did not rise. Dropping his rifle, John gathered himself together and sprang full upon the man, throwing his left arm round his neck in a strangling embrace. Before the captive could utter more than a gurgle, John's handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth. Then in a swift whisper, while he still held the savage firmly, John ordered Coja to take the man's weapon and creep towards the boma. Giving him a minute's start, John suddenly flung the man from him, seized his own rifle, and sprinted across the open, overtaking Coja just as he reached the fence. At the same moment a shout was raised from the rear: the sentry had apparently been too much dazed to give the alarm before. Calling in Swahili and English to warn the garrison of their presence, John and Coja stood at the boma, looking vainly for a place to enter. There was an answering shout of "This way!" They ran towards it, and after stumbling for a few seconds, came to a narrow gap. John felt his hand grasped and was lugged into the enclosure: Coja followed him; and they were barely inside when a spattering volley of bullets tore through the thorn defences.

"You did that jolly well," said a pleasant voice, and John was shaking hands with a young man of about his own height. "Come and have a talk in my blockhouse."

CHAPTER THE NINTH--A Rearguard Fight

The stranger led the way to the centre of the enclosure.

"Here's my blockhouse," he said. "We've piled up the baggage, you see. I say, you're a trump, you know. Are any more coming up?"

"I sent word to Fort Hall, but that's seventy miles from here, and we can't expect help for two or three days."

"That's bad. We've been on short rations for a week and haven't got a single full meal left. My men are as weak as rats, and I've had a knock myself, as you see"--his right arm was in a sling--"so that if those fellows outside pluck up their courage to make a rush I'm afraid we shall be done for."

"Not a bit of it," said John cheerfully. "How did you get hurt?"

"An arrow made a gash in my forearm. I was in a bit of a funk at first; my men said it was sure to be poisoned. But I'm all right so far: had some antiseptic lotion, and the wound seems to be healing. My man told you how we got into this mess, didn't he? We've had an awful time of it; for six weeks on end had to fight and dodge these ruffians; and my poor father----"

"Yes, I'm very sorry," said John, as the other stopped.

"What I can't make out," went on the young man presently, "is why these fellows haven't rushed our boma. They were reinforced yesterday by six or eight men with rifles, Swahilis, too, to judge by their dress, and as I've only sixteen men left out of the forty we started with, and only five have rifles (four deserted with rifles yesterday), we couldn't have held out for an hour. There's a couple of hundred of them, I guess, and a dozen or more have got rifles or else smooth-bore muskets, and those at close quarters are just as dangerous as rifles, as we know to our cost."

He did not say, but John learnt afterwards, that it was probably his own fearlessness and activity which had daunted the besiegers. He had had to get assistance in loading his rifle, and could only fire from the left shoulder; but as sure as one of the enemy showed himself within range he became a target, and several had been accounted for during the past few days. Having no doubt been informed by the deserters from his safari, however, that provisions had run short, the besiegers were quite content to play a waiting game.

"What do you think we can do?" asked the stranger.

John said nothing for a few moments: he was thinking hard.

"I wish I could see your face," went on the other. "It's rather odd, this--two fellows who don't know each other talking in the dark. I don't even know your name."

"Halliday," said John, adding with a laugh, as he struck a match; "take a good look while the light lasts."

By the feeble light each saw a clean-shaven face burnt almost the colour of copper by the sun.

"You aren't a bad-looking chap, and my name's Ferrier," said the stranger. "Can we do anything, do you think?"

A listener might have smiled at the quick transition from banter to serious business. During the brief illumination, John had observed, how thin and worn Ferrier looked, and it seemed to help him to make up his mind.

"Well," he said, "it's risky, but I vote we make a bolt for it."

"Now?" asked Ferrier quietly.

"No, but you'll do it, I can see. You don't say, 'How can we?' You see, we can't expect help for two days at the least, and it may be much more. You look worn out as it is, and another day without proper food might do for you. But we can save time by fighting our way southward, though it'll be a pretty risky business, as I said. The best time to clear out will be just about dawn; the fellows outside will be dead tired with watching and won't expect any movement then. With luck we may get a mile or two away before they find out we've gone."

"Why not start in the dark?"

"Safer not, I think. We could easily be rushed in the darkness, and any damage we might do among them wouldn't have half the moral effect it would have in the light, because they couldn't see it. Now give me an idea how the land lies round this place: I only saw it from the side I came in at."

"Well, there's bush pretty well all round, but the ground's clearest on the east side. There's a gap in the bush there which would be the best road."

"We'll make for that, then. But look here, you're dead tired, and you'll want all your strength to-morrow. Get a sleep: I'll see to everything and wake you when the times comes. What are your men, by the way? Swahilis?"

"No, most of them are Bantus of one sort or another. I've got one Swahili; he's headman; and two or three Wakikuyu, strapping fellows who can shoot."

"That's all right, then. Now go to sleep like a good chap, and don't worry."

It was so long since Ferrier had enjoyed a good night's rest that he thankfully availed himself of the presence of a white man capable of taking command. John immediately set about his preparations for the sortie. He ordered the porters to make their loads ready as quickly as possible, discarding everything that was heavy or cumbersome and likely to impede rapidity of movement. Thinking over the position, he decided that the best plan would be to issue from the boma on the east side as if to pass through the gap. This movement, if detected, would probably draw the enemy to both sides of the gap, where they would wait in the bush, thinking they had the safari ambushed. But before reaching the gap he proposed to turn sharp off to the right, seizing a tongue of woodland jutting southward which he had noticed from his post of observation in the wood. Beyond that he could not make any plans, but must trust to the inspiration of the moment and the nature of the ground.