"Well, take it away and bring something else! What is there?"
"Guinea-fowl and some native peas, sir."
"All right, and give me a drink."
"Whisky or gin, sir?"
"Whisky to-night; not much, just a little."
After a drink Wrenshaw felt more settled and attacked the guinea-fowl.
Presently he started up and walked a few paces from his camp and
listened.
His message must have reached Nanzela: a roar of distant laughter,
followed by a hum of voices, arose from the encamped Barushu. Then the
drums began again, but this time they beat to a song well known to
Wrenshaw, a song to which natives dance.
Stop the pig and see where he will pass;
Stop him! Stop him! Stop him!
That Nanzela should see in his message a huge joke slightly annoyed
Wrenshaw, but he reflected that people with a sense of humour were more
easily dealt with than those in a sullen mood. Yes, it was, perhaps, a
ridiculous thing for him to have come alone on such an errand.
He went back to his table and attacked the guinea-fowl once more, this
time with vigour.
After dinner he lit his pipe and ordered a large billy-can of coffee
made very strong. He had a long night in front of him.
He made no attempt to sleep; he wouldn't risk it. The Barushu had, in
days gone by, a nasty habit of making a night attack. He didn't expect
them to attack him, especially after their laughter; but he intended to
take no risks.
He had the fire piled up and saw that a plentiful supply of wood had
been collected and placed handy. He told his natives to turn in, and
walked across to where the horses were tethered. The animals seemed
comfortable: one was lying down and the other standing with drooping
head, dozing. He satisfied himself that their blankets were secure and
that they had emptied their nosebags.
Next he loaded his rifle and tied it lightly to the tent pole; he also
loaded a double-barrelled horse-pistol, a twenty-bore, shooting large,
leaden slugs; very handy for close quarters.
Then he sat down and listened. The camp fires over the way were for the
most part dying down. Wrenshaw had no illusions: he knew that he was
being watched; by how many, he could not tell. It might be the intention
of the Barushu to make a sudden end of him during the night. If he had
brought a dog with him it would have given him timely warning; but,
then, no dog can travel comfortably for twenty miles in the heat of the
day without water.
And supposing they did wipe him out, what then? His mind flew back to
England. Would she care? He supposed she would; hoped she would. Well,
no, not exactly hoped; that was hardly the word. But did she care? Did
she care enough to make her home with him in this rough country?
She certainly seemed sorry when he left England a few months before. Her
letters, too, were a source of encouragement to him, for she dwelt upon
the good times they had had together when he was on leave.
He took her last letter from his pocket. "Dear Mr. Wrenshaw." How bald
it looked to be sure. If only she had written "Dear Dick," or "My dear
Dick," or.... However, she hadn't; but she did sign herself "Your
friend." Into this simple signature Wrenshaw read a whole world of
meaning, which, of course, might not have been intended; again, it
might.
By Jove! Why not write to her? It might be his last chance. Those fools
on the high ground over the way might blot him out. He had his writing
gear with him. He would write.
He must, however, be careful what he wrote. No pathetic sort of last
letter. No heroics of the penny novelette type. If he did go under,
well, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that just before the
event he had thought of her.
Wrenshaw got some paper and an indelible pencil and began: