Part 7

Returning with his precious "baby," he saw his guest's face clearly for the first time. The natives had lit the camp fire, and the light of it fell upon the strong features of the stranger.

"Good Lord! It's Lindsay!"

"Yes, why not? Didn't you recognise me at once?"

"No. Will you have water or a sparklet with your gin?" asked Knight, pouring out about half a glass of the spirit--a quantity known to travellers as a "three-finger tot."

"I'll chase it," said Lindsay, who, having gulped down the gin, held out his glass for some water.

"Bath ready, Morena," a black boy called from an adjoining hut.

"Have another?" said his host.

"No, thanks. I can face your hot bath now."

The tired man entered the hut, followed by the native who had reached the camp with him.

Knight called his cook and took stock. What was there for dinner? Soup. Oh, yes, there was always soup, made by boiling down bones and meat, throwing in a few dried vegetables and thickening with peaflour.

Fish? Good man; so he had caught some that very evening? Then there was that cold bush-pig's head. Yes, they would like that. What else was there? Remembering the leathery thing his cook called an omelette, he discouraged a suggestion of eggs.

To be sure, there were chickens. They had just gone to roost, and were now quiet after a noisy bed-going. Yes, two very young ones spatchcocked, and with plenty of black pepper and a little salt. And there was one tinned plum pudding in the store; they would have that.

This plum pudding had been suggested daily by the cook, and always rejected because it might be wanted. It was wanted now. Yes, they would have the plum pudding.

And then there was the gin. Well, they wouldn't do so badly after all. Soup, fish, chickens, the cold pig's head and a hot plum pudding; what more could two men want?

By this time Lindsay had splashed to his heart's content, and the generous qualities of the gin were having their effect. He felt a new man.

"Are you out of your bath?"

"Yes; can you give me some clean kit?"

"Certainly, but will it fit you?"

"Oh, near enough. It will be clean, which is the main thing."

Much chaff ensued as Lindsay, who stood six feet three in his socks, got into some of his host's clothes, for Knight was the shorter of the two by some six inches, but fortunately broad in the shoulders.

"Can't do you in boots."

"Oh, that's all right. Give me some limbo[2] to tie up my feet."

[2] Slang term for calico.

During the bandaging the camp dogs began to bark loudly, and both men paused to listen.

"By the way," said Lindsay, "that must be Hobday. I walked on ahead of him; he is so deuced slow. Do you know Hobday? He's 'pills' to our expedition. Not a bad fellow, as doctors go."

"No, I don't know him and you haven't told me what the expedition is or anything about anything yet."

"Well, we've walked across country from Zanzibar, or rather Mombasa, looking for minerals."

"Found anything?"

"No."

"Well, I'd better go and look out for--what did you say his name was?"

"Hobday, quite a little fellow."

Knight went out of the hut and, as he passed the kitchen, ordered another bath and told the cook that as a second white man was arriving he must kill another chicken.

Almost immediately Hobday arrived. He was a short, precise little man, inclined to tubbiness.

"How do you do? My name is Mr. Hobday. I am the medical man attached to an important expedition headed by Mr. J.G. Lindsay, who may not be unknown to you."

To this long-winded greeting Knight replied: "Well, come along and have a drink and a hot bath and a change, and by that time dinner will be ready. Lindsay's here."

"I do not often indulge in alcoholic beverages and never in the daytime, but after a very tiring day----"

"Say when. Will you have a sparklet with it or do you prefer water?"

"Er, thanks, a sparklet if you please. I am of opinion that the sparklet is a very useful invention. What would not that great traveller and hunter, Gordon Cumming, have given for what amounts to a portable soda-water factory? Ah, thank you, that is ample. And, as I always tell my patients, if they must drink alcohol, they will find in gin its least harmful form."

"What a queer little devil," thought Knight.

"I am greatly obliged to you for this stimulant, and now I shall be further and deeply indebted to you if I may have a bath. I always say that a hot bath, when one is tired, revives one more quickly and effectually than anything else."

Knight found it difficult to reply suitably to this, and was relieved when the bath was announced and the doctor disappeared into the hut.

Lindsay looked extremely funny in Knight's clothes. The old shooting jacket was a little short in the skirt and sleeves. The trousers reached half way down the tall man's shins, but he felt clean and comfortable and appearances didn't matter.

"Have another?"

"Thanks."

The two men sat and talked whilst the third bathed.

The rest of the expedition had remained at the Victoria Falls. There were a dozen white men altogether, and about a hundred and fifty natives. Lindsay heard that Knight was at Kazungula and came on to see him. The pair had been through the Matabele rebellion together, and had had other experiences in common. Hobday had insisted on coming too. His devotion to "The Head of the Expedition" rather embarrassed Lindsay. He was not a bad fellow on the whole, and a very capable doctor. The rest of the men with the exception of Gray--Knight knew Gray--were professional prospectors, good enough men at their particular job but a troublesome lot on an expedition.

No, they hadn't found anything really worth while, Lindsay thought, but some indications of oil might turn out a big thing.

Yes, they were going straight home from the Falls by way of Bulawayo, Salisbury and Beira, and if any of them came back to have another look, it would be this way and not in from Mombasa.

The question "Have another?" had been asked and satisfactorily answered before Hobday reappeared. He looked quite as funny in his host's clothes as Lindsay did. The only difference was that the coat and trousers supplied to him were as much too big for him as they were too small for Lindsay.

Hobday began to apologise for his appearance, but the announcement that dinner was ready cut short the unnecessary speech.

All three were hungry, the two visitors especially so.

If, during dinner, Hobday noticed that a native replenished his glass whenever it was empty, he made no protest.

The conversation almost at once turned to England, to London, and what each man had seen and done when last there. Towards the end of the meal dancing was the topic. These new dances, the jazz, the hesitation, the two-step, the fox-trot, and the rest; all agreed that they were impossible, that there was little difference, if any, between them and the average Kaffir dance. Hobday became quite eloquent on the subject, and, as they moved to chairs set ready for them round a camp fire, gravely stepped a measure which he was pleased to call the stately waltz, and then proceeded to contrast it with what he termed the ridiculous prancings of the present day.

Although the uncomplimentary terms which he applied to modern dancing could with equal justice have been applied to the waltz as danced by him, his companions agreed and fell to talking again of dances they had been to when last at home.

Suddenly Lindsay said: "Why shouldn't we have a dance? One could hum the tune while the other two dance. We can take it turn and turn about to him. You and Hobday dance first and I'll hum. Why not?"

And thus began the dance which is talked of to this day by the natives who saw it.

Lindsay hummed the "Eton Boating Song" whilst Knight and Hobday waltzed round and round the fire. Although he bobbed about in an unnecessarily energetic manner, it was clear to Knight that Hobday had been inside a ballroom.

Then Knight sat down and hummed the "Blue Danube," but very badly, and with many notes strange to the tune, for Lindsay was six foot three and Hobday only five foot four!

Then Knight and Lindsay danced to the "Merry Widow," hummed by Hobday. They really got on very well together in spite of Lindsay's bandaged feet, for both, in civilisation, were adjudged good dancing men.

After that they each had some light refreshment in the shape of another tot of gin, and it was then that Hobday showed himself to be a man of imagination.

"Let's all dance now," he said. "Let's dance the Lancers."

"How?" said Lindsay, "we are only three and there should be at least eight for the Lancers."

"That don't matter," replied Hobday, "you two fellows take sides, I'll do top and bottom; our partners--well, they're in England, don't you see?"

And so it came about that in the heart of Africa, under the star-lit sky, three sane and more or less sober Englishmen danced right through the Lancers from beginning to end, one taking top and bottom, the other two the sides, whilst their partners were present only in the mind of each.

After the dance they stood silently round the dying fire, gazing into the embers.

Who can say what fair forms and faces they saw there?

* * * * *

It was Knight who kicked the logs of the fire together and so brought about a sudden blaze.

"What's that?" asked Lindsay, peering into the darkness.

All looked and saw the whites of innumerable black men's eyes reflecting the camp firelight. Then there was a patter of many feet as the silent witnesses to the dance hurried away.

ON THE BUILDING OF BRIDGES.

If, in the course of conversation, a Rhodesian referred to "the Old Man," his fellow Rhodesians knew that Cecil John Rhodes was meant.

No one who knew him personally spoke of that great man as Rhodes; in Rhodesia such familiarity was impertinence.

If anyone in the Bulawayo Club said: "Rhodes told me ..." we turned our backs, as we knew the fellow was about to lie.

No, it must be "Mr. Rhodes" or "the Old Man."

I, personally, never got beyond "Mr. Rhodes" in his lifetime, and I don't see why I should now that he is dead.

As I was about to remark, the best piece of imaginative work that Mr. Rhodes ever did was to plan the Cape to Cairo Railway. It has not been carried out yet, but that doesn't matter; one day we shall see it, unless flying kills the train.

The corner-stone to this imaginative piece of work is, without a doubt, the bridge over the Victoria Falls.

I watched that bridge being built, not girder by girder, of course, but generally speaking. Old Mkuni watched it girder by girder.

Mkuni was a fine old savage, who had, in his far off younger days, carved out a little kingdom for himself. He possessed the left bank of a little river called the Maramba, some square miles of rock, a few acres of good land, and--the Victoria Falls.

A man who could establish his claim to the Falls has a right to be regarded as of some importance.

Within the memory of man a large herd of elephants went over the Falls and whirled in the Boiling Pot below--a noble offering to the spirits who dwell there. Anyone who denies that the Falls are the abode of spirits is a fool, be he white man or black.

Old Mkuni looked after the Falls and ministered in divers ways to the wants of the spirits who inhabited the place. He it was who, in fair and fierce battle, took this precious spot from old Sekute, the wall-eyed ruffian who used to live on the north bank of the Zambesi.

To hide his defeat from the eyes of passing natives, old Sekute set up a noble avenue of poles from the river to his village. On every pole he placed a human skull; these, he vowed, were the headpieces of Mkuni's men. Mkuni could afford to laugh, for did not he and all the world know that some of the grim trophies were the heads of Sekute's own followers, slain by Mkuni's men and added to at the expense of half a hundred of Sekute's own slaves? All this was before Livingstone discovered the Falls.

So you see, when all is said and done, Mkuni was a man worthy of respect. He always had mine, and we were fast friends.

It fell to my lot to tell him of the bridge which would stand astride the tumbling waters. He was interested, and gave his consent without reserve.

When he asked me how it was going to be done, I had to confess I did not know; engineering feats are not in my line.

"Are you going to build it, Morena?"

"No."

"Who then will build this bridge?"

"The people of the Great Man."

"The King of all the white men?"

"No, not he himself, but one of his greatest men."

"If the King would build it, I should believe, or," he added most politely, "if you would build it, I should agree that it can be done, but what do others know of bridges?"

This was a little difficult to answer, so I told him to watch.

Mkuni took my words literally; he did watch. He could be seen daily perched upon a rock overlooking the work, surrounded by a large number of his own people.

From time to time strangers from inland added to the watchers. To all Mkuni held forth:

"Am not I an old man now? Have I not killed many in battle? Did I not take the thundering smoke from a certain person? Who then knows so much of the building of bridges as I?"

With this inconsequent line of argument the crowd of watchers would murmur full agreement.

"When a man builds a small hut, is a pole from the ground to the roof necessary?"

"No," from his audience.

"That is true, but if a man builds a hut as high as Heaven, is not a pole necessary?"

All agreed that it was so.

"But see now these white men, who build a bridge across the thundering smoke. It is not the King of the white men who builds, nor he who collects from us the Hut Tax, but strangers. They build this bridge from the north bank and from the south, but where is the pole to hold up the roof of the bridge?"

From day to day Mkuni's supporters increased in number.

"Come and see the white man's bridge fall into the tumbling waters," was his daily invitation, and many came.

"I am sorry for these white men, for they work to no profit."

And Mkuni's adherents increased.

But, in spite of all, the work progressed. The thin steel arms flung out from either bank crept nearer daily towards the clasping of hands, and yet the bridge did not fall.

Poor old Mkuni, firm in his belief, found it hard to stomach the thinning in the number of his fellow watchers. He became highly indignant. In vain he talked--piled unanswerable argument upon argument unanswerable. Someone put it about that there was nothing the white man could not do. Many agreed with this, and went home.

At last the engineer who built the Victoria Falls Bridge saw his work complete.

Mkuni, too, saw that the work was finished--all but the pole in the middle to keep it from tumbling down.

Under all his anxiety the poor old man had shrunk visibly; so, too, had the number of those who believed in him, and had come at his invitation to watch with him the disaster which he assured them must overtake that bridge.

Poor old Mkuni!

It must be admitted that there is something of the gentleman about the raw, untutored savage, for when the first train had crossed safely over the Victoria Falls Bridge, Mkuni stood alone on his rock. No one remained as witness to his discomfiture.

He climbed slowly down to his village. Everyone in it was busy with his or her ordinary daily occupation; all strangers had quietly gone their several ways.

THE COMPLEAT ANGLER.

R. E. Baker was engaged as conductor of our waggons on one of our journeys from Bulawayo to the Zambesi, and a more capable cattle-man than he did not, I am sure, exist between the Cape and Cairo.

If an ox wouldn't pull, he made it. If an ox went sick, he cured it with amazing rapidity.

Baker, though English by descent, was a Cape Dutchman through and through. A bad-natured ox he named "Englishman," and flogged the wretched beast into a better frame of mind.

On the other hand, he would walk miles to find good grazing for his cattle, and to see Baker caress an ox was a thing to remember. Not being a cattle-man myself, I thought our conductor was gouging out the eye of an ox. It certainly looked uncommonly like it. He was forcing his fist with a rotary movement into the beast's eye.

In answer to my questioning, he explained that he was caressing the ox, that cattle appreciated the attention; you had to be vigorous or you tickled the poor thing, and oxen didn't like being tickled.

He was obviously right, for each ox, as Baker approached, seemed to know what to expect and tamely submitted.

A few days out from Bulawayo Baker came back from the water carrying fish. He had caught them, he said, in the large water-hole. It never occurred to me that there would be any fish in the almost dried-up rivers which we crossed from time to time. Baker assured me that where there was water there were fish, but you must know how to catch them.

A day or two later we outspanned close to some water-holes. Baker said he was going to catch some fish, and asked me whether I would like to come too. I said I should, and began unpacking a rod and some tackle which I had bought in London with the intention of fishing for tiger-fish in the Zambesi.

Baker watched me unpack and make my selection. He seemed much amused. Presently he drew from his pocket his own tackle, which appeared to me to be a confused mass of tangled string and hooks.

We set out. Baker stopped at a small deep hole containing clear water. It was my turn to smile. The pool he was going to fish in was a little larger than a water-butt.

I went on, and found a fairly long pool. The water was rather muddy, and I found little depth anywhere. However, I hoped for the best, and fished just clear of the bottom. I used as bait a small piece of meat from a wild pigeon's breast, recommended by Baker.

I have a certain amount of patience, but not, I fancy, quite sufficient to entitle me to describe myself as a fisherman. After about two hours of this fiddling, I gave it up and went in search of Baker.

To my amazement, he had quite a score of fish on the grass by his side.

"Did you catch all those?" I asked.

"Yes."

"In that hole?"

"Why, yes."

"How on earth do you do it?"

By way of reply he asked me how many I had caught. I said, "None."

"Ah," said Baker, "you shouldn't fish, you should angle. Watch me."

I sat down and watched.

Baker had a short, thick stick in his hand. From the end of the stick hung a thick piece of whipcord. On the end of the cord he had a stone with a hole in it, what we, as children, used to call a lucky stone. Just above the stone he had tied a skinned pigeon--the whole bird. Hooks radiated in every direction from the bird; hooks set at every conceivable angle--dozens of hooks. From time to time Baker threw a few breadcrumbs at his bait. I could plainly see the small fish cluster round. Now and then he struck sharply. Nearly every time he fouled a small fish, mostly under the jaw or in the belly. Each time he hooked a fish he repeated: "My lad, you shouldn't fish; you should angle."

When we reached the Gwai River, Baker produced a long hand-line with an immense hook on the end of it. The bait he used was a lump of washing soap. I didn't go with him because I wasn't ready and he was impatient to begin.

"We shall catch big barbles here," said Baker.

I followed him, and saw him throw his lump of soap well out into the river. I stood on the bank above and watched.

Baker lit his pipe, looked up and down the river, and at his line. Then he shifted the line to his left hand, which he lifted to his left ear. With his right he made a winding movement close to his head, and said: "'Ullo! Exchange; put me on to Mr. Barble, please, miss."

To my intense amusement, and to Baker's obvious surprise, there was a sharp tug at the line. He remained for a while with his hand suspended near his right ear as though still on the handle of the old-fashioned telephone instrument. Then he gave a violent strike. But the barble--if indeed it was a barble--had had time to spit out the piece of soap and so escape.

Baker, still unaware of my presence, said: "Damn the fellow!" He shifted the line to his right hand, and went through the pantomime of getting on to the Exchange again, this time ringing with his left hand.

"'Ullo! Is that you, Exchange? Put me on to Mr. Barble again, please, miss."

No response from the fish.

"'Ullo! Exchange! What? No answer from Mr. Barble? Gone to lunch, eh?"

I moved off quietly up the river, and in course of time succeeded in catching a mud-fish weighing forty-eight pounds. I came back a couple of hours later, and found Baker had landed two immense fish of the same kind; one weighed fifty-three pounds and the other fifty-nine. He had also caught a poisonous looking eel. How he had landed these monsters he would not tell me; he contented himself with repeating: "My lad, you mustn't fish; you must angle."

When we reached the Zambesi, Baker almost neglected his cattle. He had never seen this grand river before. He at once got out a line and went "angling."

Coming down the river bank, I saw Baker standing on a rock a few yards from the bank.

Sitting on the bank was an old man, watching him.

"Any luck?" said I.

"No."

"Been here long?"

"Not very long, but that old man talks too much to please me."

I looked down at the old man. He looked up at me. He greeted me in the local language. In his language I replied. Whereupon he calmly said: "I have been telling that white man that from the rock on which he stands a crocodile took a woman yesterday."

I hurriedly translated. Baker did no more angling that day! He thought the old man had been saying "How do you do?" to him.

In the end we converted Baker to our way of fishing, so that he became an expert spinner and killed many a noble tiger-fish. But he had a mishap the first day he used a rod which almost decided him not to use one again. He was fishing from the bank for bream, which run large in that part of the river. He used a float for the first time. Presently his float disappeared. Baker struck upwards, using both hands. He pulled his fish out of the water, but with such force that it flew over his head and fell with a splash into a pond behind--free.

I think we just saved him from an immediate return to "angling" by pretending not to have seen his discomfiture.

THE SONG OF THE GREAT OCCASION.

The news spread quickly that the "Great Man," his wife and some friends were coming north of the Zambesi to shoot. Williams, the Native Commissioner, heard it from the boy who looked after his fowls a full week before he received official warning from Headquarters.

How the chicken-boy heard of it remains a mystery. He who can tell you how news travels so rapidly in Africa can no doubt explain; but in answer to questioning, the boy replied: "People say so."

Thanks to this advance notice, Williams had time to make his plans at leisure. He had experience of native rumours of this kind, and, invariably acting upon them, gained a reputation for good organising.

No doubt the Sovereign's representative would want to shoot lion, buffalo, eland, sable, and, in addition, at least a specimen of each of the lesser inhabitants of the plain and forest. Well, he would do this and that and the other, and it would not be Williams's fault if a thoroughly representative bag were not made.

Like all sportsmen in official positions, living far from Headquarters and having a large district to control, Williams knew exactly where the game was most plentiful. He kept the information to himself as a general rule, for he well knew that if he did not do so his special reserves would soon cease to exist.

But for the direct representative of the King nothing was too good.

Williams made his plans, built a camp and awaited the arrival of his visitors.