"I say, Halliday, you're in clover here," said Ferrier, as the two sat
smoking in the bungalow after Said Mohammed had made their hearts glad
with a capital dinner. "My grandfather made his pile ranching in
Manitoba, and you'll do the same here."
John laughed. "We're not paying our way at present," he said, "and I
know my father grudged the money for his passage home again so soon.
He'll grudge it still more now that his journey has turned out useless,
and there are doctors' bills to pay in the bargain."
The two young men had exchanged confidences during the latter part of
their march to the farm. Charles Ferrier's father had been called to
the Canadian bar, but he had never practised, his fortune being
sufficient to keep him and his family in something more than comfort,
and to pay for the sporting expeditions which were his real interest in
life. Charles, who was twenty years old, had just come down from the
McGill university, and his father had brought him to East Africa to
"give him a run," as he put it, before he settled down to work.
"And his ambition for me was that I should enter the Canadian
legislature," said he, with a wry face. "It's not work much after my
mind; I'd prefer ranching like my grandfather. Poor father! D'you
think I ought to stick to his notion now that he's gone?"
"I think every man should follow his own bent," said John. "The
mischief is we mayn't know till it's too late what our bent is. For
instance, I like this life out here, but I don't know I'll succeed at
it, and some day I may eat my heart out because I didn't take up law, as
my father wished. He's a good sort, and didn't urge it. Well,
khansaman, what is it?" he asked, as Said Mohammed entered.
"Entreating your pardon, sir, Coja has made a discovery and is in an
excessive state of amazement, jolly well flabbergasted, as it were. He
declares that when you went on donkeys to visit the honourable gent you
took three rifles marked with initials D.H., but lo! when he examines
the weapons brought back, he finds four. Q.E.D."
"That's rum, certainly," said John. "How did one of our rifles get into
the hands of your men, Ferrier? We took three, as Coja says. Your
messenger had one."
"I don't know. Wait a bit, though: didn't you bring three rifles into
camp? Of course: you took one from the man you half throttled outside
our boma. But how could that be marked with your initials?"
"Tell Coja to bring it here, khansaman," said John. "I've a suspicion,
Ferrier; we'll soon prove it."
When Coja brought the rifle, John examined it carefully. It was a
Snider.
"It's as I thought, Ferrier," he said. "This is one of the rifles run
off with by those porters of ours--the sweeps! I don't like the look of
it. Looks as though they've started an organized band of freebooters.
We shall have to report this at Fort Hall or Nairobi; perhaps you'll do
that. I suppose you'll be off to-morrow to get that arm of yours
properly attended to."
"That's all right. It's beginning to heal, rather slowly though, and if
you can put up with me for a few days I'd like to stay here. Food and
rest is what I want more than doctors. Besides, if your deserters have
joined that pack of savages they may make a raid on you, and I'll be of
some use, even left-handed."
"No, sah," said Coja, "bad man no come all dis way. Juma and dem
debbils, oh yes! but not de Embe, oh no! dey never live for come long
way."
"Coja's right, Ferrier," said John. "By all accounts no natives will go
raiding more than twenty miles from their village, except the Masai, and
we haven't to deal with them. Juma and his Swahilis might come if they
dared, but they won't venture without support. That'll do, Coja. How's
your shoulder, by the way?"
"Jolly fine, sah. Bill him give me stuff to put on, berry good magic."
"There you are, Ferrier," cried John, laughing. "We've got a doctor on
the spot. Bill is a Wanderobbo we've made friends with, a little old
man who lives by himself and tells fairy-tales about a wonderful store
of ivory belonging to him in an enemy's country. He's by way of being a
herbalist, too, it appears. We'll have a look at his 'berry good magic'
by and by."
The magic turned out to be a decoction of herbs which Bill had smeared
on Coja's wound, binding it up with leaves. He begged the new msungu to
make a trial of it, and Ferrier after some hesitation consented. His
wound healed more rapidly after the application, and Bill was delighted
with the present of a few cents--without doubt the first doctor's fee he
had ever earned.
Ferrier remained for the present at the farm, his healthy constitution
soon reasserting itself after the strain of his recent experiences. His
father's death had left him his own master. He had an only sister
living with an aunt at Toronto, and he wrote to her and to the family
lawyers, relating what had happened, but saying nothing of his
intentions. The letters were entrusted to his porters, whom he
dismissed with the exception of three. On reaching Nairobi, the men
would take the train to Kisumu, and reach their homes in Uganda by
steamer across the Victoria Nyanza.
It was more than a month since John had heard from his father. A few
days after Ferrier's arrival he received a note which made him very
angry.
"I'm on the mend. Doctor says my leg couldn't have healed better if I
were ten years younger. Cousin Sylvia has been very good. Insists on
making reparation for the damage (financial and physical) she has done
me. 'Twas _her_ chauffeur, and _her_ motor-car, and so on. Upshot is
that as you're getting on so well I'm inclined to accept her invitation
of a run through the Continent. Will let you know when I sail. Cousin
Sylvia sends her love.
"P.S. Glad to hear you got the lambing over well. Be sure and _don't
wean them too soon_."
This apparently innocent note made John furious.
"You see what it is!" he cried, striding up and down the room. "That
woman's got hold of him, and she'll marry him, and all our plans will be
spoilt by an old--old--I don't know what to call her. Sends her love,
indeed!"
Seeing that John was in a passion, Ferrier wisely said nothing, and the
storm presently blew over.
The presence of Ferrier at the farm solved John's difficulty about the
sheep and calves. He had rather more than 800 lambs altogether, of
which 450 rams were for sale, and might be expected to fetch about L90.
He had also fifteen calves, which might realize L1 each, and the L105
thus gained would relieve his present anxieties and go far towards
defraying the second year's expenses. In addition to these, there was a
considerable weight of cheese to be taken to market. He had become so
chummy with Ferrier that he did not hesitate to mention to him the
difficulty about transporting the animals.
"There's no difficulty at all," said the Canadian at once. "Take them
yourself. I'll stay here while you are gone. A rest will do me all the
good in the world. You must certainly leave a white man in charge, and
I've come in the nick of time."
"It's jolly of you," said John. "I'd accept your offer in a moment if
it weren't for those blackguards who stole our rifles. It would be hard
lines on you if they came and attacked you while I was away."
"They won't do it. You told me yourself that you'd sent Bill out to see
if he could discover their whereabouts, and he didn't hear anything of
them. Besides, if they do come we can defend ourselves. They didn't
show any eagerness to come to very close quarters with us, and I don't
doubt for a moment that with my men and yours--I suppose the Indians can
handle a rifle on occasion?--we could beat them off."
"Very well, then: I'll chance it. I'll take Wasama and three men from
the village: his boy can look after the cattle here. I shall have to
hire another Masai to help when I get back: there's too much work for
two now. You'll find Bill a great help; I wish he would come and live
here, but he's an independent old boy and won't leave his little hut in
the wood."
"Hadn't you better take him with you? Four men won't be enough for the
job. You must carry food and a tent, you know."
"I didn't mean to take a tent. Why not camp in the open?"
"You'd be rather sorry if it happened to rain."
"But the rains aren't due for another month," objected John, looking at
his almanac.
"I dare say not, but they may start a bit earlier, and if you think
you're going to get all those beasts to Nairobi in a week, or even two,
you're mistaken. Remember the streams to cross and the thorn bush to
get through. And you'll have to put a boma round the whole lot every
night, and that will be a long job with so few men. You'll need twenty
at the very least, my boy, so make up your mind for it. Ask Wasama."
John had in fact felt some misgiving lest the party he proposed to take
should not be strong enough to guard the animals against wild beasts, or
natives who chanced to be hostile or predatory; but he was so anxious to
economize that he had stilled his doubts. When Wasama backed up
Ferrier's point, he yielded to the inevitable, and engaged fifteen more
men in the village. Ferrier insisted on his taking the three Uganda men
he had retained out of his safari, because they were not only trained
porters, but very fair shots. John wished he had a horse to ride, or at
least a mule, not caring about donkey-rides: but Ferrier chaffed him on
his singular regard for appearances, and he decided at last to mount the
best of the donkeys.
One fine September day the safari set off, numbering twenty in all. Coja
was very much depressed at not being able to accompany his master, but
his wound was not yet sufficiently healed. The start was watched by the
whole community, and as John rode off in the rear of the caravan he felt
sure he heard Said Mohammed's high-pitched voice quote, "The lowing herd
winds slowly o'er the lea," and proceed to a recitation of the Elegy.
John had had an inkling of the difficulties of droving, but the reality
turned out to be immeasurably worse than the anticipation. The animals,
being young, could not be driven hard; their pace at the best was two
miles an hour, and often less than one, and as frequent halts were
necessary, the longest day's march did not exceed eight miles. The
obstacles which had given only amusement or excitement on the journey
from Nairobi caused exasperation now. There were many streams to cross,
and it was often difficult to induce the sheep to face them. Sometimes
they were almost invisible in the long grass, and when they came among
thorny bush, the men had to use their knives freely in hacking a path
for the beasts, causing hours of delay. For the first week all went
fairly well. The bleating of the sheep attracted hyenas, but by dint of
great vigilance and activity they were kept off, and only two sheep were
seized. In crossing one stream Wasama had a narrow escape from the jaws
of a crocodile; but the water in most ran so low after the dry season
that it was easy to examine the beds and avoid danger of this kind.
On the eighth night, however, John was awakened by the pattering of rain
on his tent. It poured in torrents, and when he got up in the morning
he found half-a-dozen sheep stretched lifeless on the sodden earth. It
was still raining at the usual time for starting, and the animals could
not be induced to move, but turned their backs to the wind and huddled
together in a compact mass. The weather cleared about ten o'clock, and
then a start was made; but the safari had only been an hour on the road
when another downpour checked them. So it continued all day--drenching
rain, with brief intervals of sunshine. John persevered, taking
advantage of every bright period to move on a little farther; but when
the rain finally ceased in the evening he found that during the whole
laborious day he had not covered more than about three miles. Some of
the sheep had lagged terribly, and it was quite dark when the last of
them came into camp, and before they could all be got within the boma a
couple of hyenas sprang among them out of the surrounding bush and
killed several.
This was only the beginning of trouble. It rained nearly every night,
and every night some of the sheep died. The streams were much swollen
and flowed so swiftly that it was only with the utmost difficulty that
the men prevented the animals from being washed away. One river took
two hours to cross, each individual animal having to be passed over from
hand to hand. At another the current was so rapid that it seemed
hopeless to attempt to cross it at all, until John, with a good deal of
risk, managed to swim over slantwise with a rope, which he fastened to a
tree on the further bank. With the help of this, every man and beast
was got across safely, but with such an expenditure of labour that all
were thoroughly exhausted. That night, to add to John's misfortunes,
his donkey was killed by a hyena, and he was in a state of miserable
depression when he started to resume his journey.
The one satisfactory feature of the march was that the natives met _en
route_ had been friendly. The food was exhausted when the safari had
been ten days on the road, but they had no difficulty in purchasing
muhindi or cassava at the villages. John's rifle provided all necessary
meat, and at one stream he shot a crocodile, the flesh of which was
highly prized by his men. But the very friendliness of the people
became a source of anxiety. They offered their services in helping to
drive the animals, and at the end of a day when they had apparently been
very useful, John found that six sheep had mysteriously disappeared. He
blamed Wasama for not warning him of the thievish propensities of the
volunteer drovers, much to the surprise of the Masai, who said he
thought everybody knew that a man would take what he could get if he had
the chance. After that, John refused all assistance, however generously
it was pressed upon him, and kept a sharp eye on the natives who hung
about the flanks of the safari. With all his vigilance he lost a dozen
more sheep and a fine bull calf by theft, and he began despairingly to
wonder whether he would have any animals left by the time he arrived in
Nairobi.
But everything comes to an end. One day, nearly four weeks after
leaving the farm, he caught sight of the chimney-stack of the Nairobi
locomotive works in the distance. Five hours later he trudged wearily
into the town, conscious that he presented a deplorable and disreputable
appearance. His clothes were torn and dirty; the sole of his right boot
had parted from the upper and flapped as he walked, while that of the
left boot had gone altogether, and he trod on his sock. He felt
thoroughly knocked up, and after he had seen his animals safely penned,
he could hardly drag himself to Mr. Gillespie's house. To his surprise
nobody in the streets seemed to pay the least attention to his
appearance; he supposed that such sights were not uncommon; and Mr.
Gillespie did not start back with the look of horror which in his
self-consciousness John had expected. The coffee-planter greeted him
warmly, but had no sooner taken him to his room than he whipped out a
clinical thermometer and stuck it into John's mouth.
"Thought so," he said, when he examined it. "You've a touch of fever,
and no wonder. You'll go straight to bed, my boy. We'll have a talk in
the morning."
After a hot bath, John was tucked up between the blankets and dosed with
quinine by Mrs. Gillespie, and he fell asleep with a happiness and a
sense of security to which he seemed to have been a stranger for years.
He was better in the morning, but Mr. Gillespie would not allow him to
quit his bed.
"You just leave it to me," he said when John protested that he must see
about selling his animals. "I'll go and take a look at them. You won't
sell them for a day or two: they'll be all the better for a rest. I've
just heard from your father, by the way. He's a gay old dog, upon my
word, gadding about on the Continent. You must have written glowing
accounts of the farm, or he'd have been back before this. I dare say
there's a letter for you by the same mail: you'll find it when you get
back. And how do you like ranching, eh?"
They had a long talk, and Mr. Gillespie said he thought he had done very
well for the first year. He laughed when John related the incidents of
his march.
"You'll get used to it," he said. "It's rather disheartening at first,
but you may think yourself lucky the natives didn't bother you. When I
first came out here ten years ago I had a running fight with one of the
tribes for a week, and lost practically everything I possessed. Things
are safer now."
John told him about the desertion of Juma with the rifles, and the
plight from which he had rescued Ferrier.
"That's unpleasant," said Mr. Gillespie. "If you take my advice you'll
go back by way of Fort Hall and report to the District Commissioner. He
may be disposed to send a company of the Protectorate police to deal
with the ruffians. I'm afraid it's not a big enough job for the King's
African Rifles. Probably they won't trouble you again, however. Their
ammunition will soon be exhausted, and they can't get any more."
John remained in Nairobi for a week. He found that he had lost
fifty-two sheep and one calf, besides his donkey; but Mr. Gillespie said
that the animals were a healthy lot, and handed over 1500 rupees as the
proceeds of the sale. The cheese fetched 100 rupees. John banked the
greater part of the money, keeping a little to buy new clothes for
himself, a few articles for the farm, and a fresh stock of "trade" for
the payment of his native workers. Then, feeling that Ferrier might be
growing uneasy at his long absence, he set off one day with his safari
on the return journey, feeling pretty well satisfied with the tangible
result of his first year's labours.
He went by way of Fort Hall, as Mr. Gillespie had suggested. He found
it to be only a fort in the sense in which that word was used to
describe the stations of the Hudson's Bay Company in the Far North. A
substantial house perched on a hill, with a solid stone wall and a ditch
around it, the flag of the Protectorate flying from a staff in the
compound, a few huts and houses, a jail, and an Indian bazaar: that was
Fort Hall. The Commissioner received him hospitably, and listened
attentively to his story.
"Well, Mr. Halliday," he said, "the tribesmen certainly ought to be
taught a lesson: in fact, they clearly have been taught a lesson. I
don't know that I can do anything. I got your message, of course, but
had no men available. You see, we don't care to start police
expeditions if we can avoid it. It means great expense, and we want all
our funds for peaceful development. Of course if you hadn't already
given them a dressing we should have had to do something; but I fancy
you've given them a fright, and they won't bother you again. You're
rather far away, and a few years ago you would have had a very hot time
there; but there are signs all over the country that the natives are
settling down peaceably under our government, and the moral effect of
the crushing of the Masai rebellion has been enormous. Let me know at
once if you have any further trouble."
The interview left John with the impression that he could expect little
assistance from the officials. In this he probably did them an
injustice. It is not altogether harmful that the settler should be
self-reliant.