At breakfast on the day after the lion-hunt Ferrier, who was silent and
seemed embarrassed, said suddenly--
"I say, old boy, d'you know I've been here nearly two months?"
"What! Getting tired of it?" said John, with a smile.
"Not a bit; only--well, to put it straight, I've been here so long that
I ought to pay for my keep."
"Rot!"
"I mean it. It's all very well to be your guest for a week or two, and
I'm jolly comfortable, but to hang on like this--no, really, I ought to
pay something to help keep the pot boiling."
"Now look here, Charles Ferrier, you're a very good sort, but I'm hanged
if I stand that. If there's any talk of pay, I ought to pay you for
your services. Five weeks in charge while I was droving--name your
figure. Rounding up strayed cattle; looking after the natives--how much
that lot? You do far more in a day than any hired man, as I believe you
call 'em in your part of the world."
"Well, I like it, and I've nothing else to do; in fact, I've a great
mind to settle about here myself, and I would, like a shot, if it
weren't for Hilda. I'm afraid it wouldn't do to bring her among the
lions, as your khansaman said. But here I am, learning all about it on
the cheap, and with no responsibility."
"Look here, we'll leave it at that. I'm very glad of your company, to
say nothing of your help, and as by the look of it that misguided father
of mine has been hooked, and the widow must be rolling in money, I don't
suppose we shall see him back here. He'll settle down in Park Lane, and
die before his time of overfeeding. You stay on as long as you like,
and if you're getting experience, I'm getting your services, so we'll
cry quits."
So it was left. The two young fellows shared in the management of the
farm. They found their time pretty fully occupied, and a portion of a
letter which John wrote to his father a week or two later may be quoted
as showing how affairs at the farm were progressing.
The rains have stopped, and I've got all the planting done. I'm trying
some radish and rhubarb this season; also carrots, which Mr. Gillespie
told me are good for the cattle. By the way, that bull we called Moses
because he's fierce, is off his feed; I don't know what's wrong with
him, and you might send me Barton's book on common ailments. I don't
suppose you'll find a copy in Geneva, or wherever you are now, but if
you're not too busy to send a card in London, I dare say I'll get it
when Moses is dead.
"That'll touch him up, Charley; he'll think Moses would be all right if
he were here."
I bought a few fat-tailed sheep from old Sobersides (the chief of the
neighbouring village) the other day. He got them, he says, from a party
of Rendili who were driven south of the Waso Nyiro by the drought in
their own country. I don't suppose it's true, for Coja tells me the
Rendili live a big long way beyond the mountain, and we've seen nothing
of them.
Sobersides tells us, too, that a gang of Swahilis have established
themselves somewhere north of Kenya, and are raiding the surrounding
tribes. As they've got guns, I bet they're that sweep Juma and his
crew. That's all we've heard of them since we licked them.
Ferrier is still here; says he's in loco parentis, and won't leave me
till you return to your duties. I wonder if you tell the widow's
children that you're in loco parentis?
The lions have been quiet lately, since Said Mohammed saved my life; but
as the mistris had next to nothing to do and were getting too fat, I
have set them to build a stronger boma, of stout poles fastened together
with transverse logs. That ought to keep the beasts out; at any rate it
will give the place more the look of a respectable stockyard.
I wish you'd ship a few merinos for cross-breeding. Our half-breeds
aren't much good for wool. The May lambs were born with long coarse
hair, though they grew a poor sort of wool at three months. Wasama
doesn't like the woolled sheep; he says they're not like the sheep of
his country, and persists in believing that the first woolled beasts
were the offspring of lions and hyenas. What ignorance! as old Martha
used to say.
Out shooting the other day we saw a herd of zebras, and Ferrier has got
a mad idea of catching some of the foals and taming them. We may try it
if we come across them again, so don't be surprised if you see us riding
to meet you on striped chargers. You, I expect, will be wearing striped
trousers, light gloves, and a new silk topper.
The failed B.A. is a perpetual joy. His latest. Ferrier found a hair
in his soup the other night. "Accept humble apologies, sir," says Said
Mohammed, as he took it away. "In such circs. I can best cheer you up
by reminding you of a verse of the little but divine Alexander Pope:
'And beauty draws us with a single hair.'" That may appeal to you, dad.
I hope your leg is all right, and you're enjoying yourself. _I've_ got
to work for my living.
One day the younger Masai, who had taken a flock of sheep out to graze
at the extreme west of the estate, came rushing in breathless and
reported with intense excitement that the sheep had been driven off by
some men who had pounced suddenly out of the bush. One was a Swahili,
the rest negroes. They had carried him along with them for some
distance and then let him go.
"How many were they?" asked John.
"Eight," replied the boy. "One had a gun."
"Which way did they go?"
The boy pointed to the west.
"We can tackle eight, Charley. Coja, saddle up the two best donkeys and
bring us our rifles. This is something new, Charley. I wonder if it's
our friend Juma again?"
"Rum thing, their letting the boy go, don't you think?" said Ferrier.
"They must know we'll be after them, especially if the Swahili is Juma;
it's not the first time you've chased him."
"He reckons on getting away, or on our not finding the trail, I suppose.
We'll take Bill with us."
But when, riding their donkeys hard, they came to the little hut in the
wood, they found that the Wanderobbo was not there.
"He's gone for honey, I suppose," said John. "Never mind; we oughtn't
to find it difficult to track sheep."
They set off at full speed, and easily picked up the trail at the place
where the marauders had rushed from their hiding-place in the bush. They
followed it without difficulty so long as it led across grass country,
but lost it for a time soon after they entered the bush, because there
were evident signs that a herd of animals larger that sheep had recently
forced a way. However, they recovered it again after ten minutes'
search, and found from that point that it led in almost a straight
line--so straight that John was puzzled.
"I can't make out why they haven't tried to blind their trail and lead
us astray," he said. "They must be very cocksure, or else they're
trying to ambuscade us. We'd better keep a sharp look-out."
They rode more slowly now, yet at a brisk pace, narrowly examining every
specially thick bush as they approached it, and avoiding any clump of
woodland that might give cover to the marauders.
Suddenly, when they were a good five miles, as John estimated, from the
farm, on ascending a gradual slope they saw from its crest the flock of
sheep placidly grazing on a little patch of grass about half-a-mile
below. There was no sign of the raiders, and the surrounding bush being
very thin, they must have been visible had they remained in the
immediate vicinity. Cantering down towards the sheep, which scattered
as they approached, the riders dismounted, rounded them up, and
proceeded to count them.
"They're the Welsh crosses," said John. "Forty-nine--one missing. I
can't make this out at all. Look, here's the trail of the men, let's
follow it up. We'll tether the donkeys. The sheep won't leave this
grass."
The trail led them straight towards a wood a mile further on. At the
edge of this they saw clear signs of a sheep having been slaughtered and
cut up. Entering the wood cautiously, they followed the trail for some
distance, finding that it wound towards the north. Both were itching to
punish the raiders, but the trail became more and more difficult to
distinguish as the wood grew denser, and at length, hot and tired, and
as much mystified as angry, they turned back and came out once more into
the open.
"It's something to have got the sheep," said John. "But what was the
beggars' game? They couldn't have seen us after them, and they wouldn't
drive the whole flock so far for the sake of cutting up one."
"Sheer devilry, perhaps," suggested Ferrier. "They knew we'd overtake
'em before they had got very far, and I dare say are chuckling at having
given us all the trouble for nothing. Rather a poor game, one would
think."
"Well, we'd better drive the sheep home. It's a long march, and they'll
be pretty well done up by the time we get there."
They remounted, and headed the flock towards the farm. Sheep, as every
one knows, and as John had experienced on the road to Nairobi, are very
slow travellers.
"By Jove!" said Ferrier, when they had marched for an hour and covered
perhaps two miles, "I begin to understand what your droving job was
like. I should never have had the patience."
"I'd give anything for a good sheep-dog. I must ask my father to bring
one with him--or send one, if he doesn't intend to come himself."
It was on the verge of nightfall when, tired and hungry, they came to
the outskirts of the farm. They heard the bleating of the animals that
had been already penned, and the flock, weary as they were, moved a
little faster to rejoin their kind. Coming to the gate of the boma,
John was surprised to find it open, having given strict orders that it
should always be closed immediately after the animals were brought in
for the night. There was not a man to be seen. Having driven the sheep
into their pens, they hurried on towards the farm buildings.
"What a smell of wood smoke!" said Ferrier, sniffing.
"Yes; I hope they haven't set fire to anything. Ah! here's Wasama."
The Masai came running towards them, followed by his son, the Indians,
Coja and Lulu, all in great haste.
"The bad men, _bwana_!" cried Coja, and began to pour out a story so
rapidly that John, familiar as he now was with Swahili, could make
little of it, especially as Lulu and the Masai joined in with great
excitement. John silenced them, and asked Said Mohammed to explain what
had happened. His story, told in more direct and natural language than
John had ever heard from him before, was as follows. About half-an-hour
after John had started in pursuit of the raiders Bill had rushed in,
dripping wet, and reported that a large party of armed men, having
raided the village north of the river, were marching rapidly down with
the evident intention of swimming across and making an attack on the
farm. The Bengali, according to his own account, wished to close the
gate and bar the doors of the bungalow, and defend it to the last; but
John afterwards had reason to believe that this was Coja's proposal, and
he had found nobody to support him. Only a few minutes after Bill's
arrival the strangers were seen rushing into the farmstead. The
mistris, the Masai, Lulu, and the few women of the village who had been
working in the fields instantly fled and hid themselves, who knows
where. Said Mohammed went into his own house, and there awaited the
coming of the enemy, resolved to die for the sahib whose salt he had
eaten. The men seized him and dragged him forth, demanding that he
should tell them where the rifles and ammunition were kept.
"That made me very ratty, sir," said the Bengali. "What! should I tell
tales out of school? But when those fearful bounders threatened to
roast me at my own fire I reflected that it could not be your wish, nor
the wish of your excellent progenitor, that a failed B.A. of Calcutta
University should be roast joint for the sake of a quantity of
villainous saltpetre, et cetera, and therefore I owned up. But while
the banditti were gloating and slapping their backs I took French leave
by the back door, and lo! ensconced behind the barn was Coja, who like
me had saved his bacon."
From their hiding-place they watched the proceedings of the enemy. They
first of all carried all the rifles out of the bungalow; then from the
little outhouse adjoining it they brought all the ammunition and all the
"trade." The place had been stripped bare, as the Bengali found when he
examined it after the men had gone. The negroes had then shouldered the
loot under the direction of three Swahilis who had guns, and when they
had marched off, the Swahilis had kindled a fire in the little space
between the floor of the bungalow and the ground. Then they had hurried
off after the rest. As soon as they had disappeared, Coja and the
Bengali emerged from their hiding-places, and extinguished the fire with
water from the rain-water tank near the dairy. Very little damage had
been done, the incendiaries having been in such haste to overtake the
rest of their party that they had not waited to ensure a good blaze.
In the first shock of hearing this bad news both John and Ferrier used
such language as might have been expected of them. It was only too
clear now that the sheep-stealing had been a mere blind, cunningly
devised to decoy them from the farm while the real raid was effected. To
John it was a disaster. When he hurried into the outhouses and bungalow
and found that rifles, ammunition, and every bundle of "trade" were
gone, he felt that ruin stared him in the face. It is not surprising
that, tired out after his long day's work, he saw things even blacker
than they were. There was still a balance at the bank, Cousin Sylvia
having insisted on paying all the expenses of Mr. Halliday's tour;
though if John drew upon that there would be little or no reserve in
case the second year's working turned out unprofitable. Meanwhile the
actual loss was heavy, and the inconvenience perhaps greater, for
without the "trade" he could not pay the labourers from the village, and
what with the lack of wages and the damage to their employer's prestige,
John foresaw a refusal to work any more.
An examination of the bungalow showed that the floor was little more
than scorched. Nothing had been taken from it except the rifles, so far
as John could see. He kept very little cash, but that was intact. His
rupee notes were always stowed for security in the pockets of his belt.
It was clear that the raiders had come for arms and "trade" only, and
having got what they wanted had wasted no time in merely looting.
"We can't sit down under this," said John, when he had realized the
extent of his loss. "Yet I don't know what on earth we can do. We've
two rifles and twenty rounds apiece, against--how many did these
ruffians number, khansaman?"
"In mental arithmetic, sir, I am mere greenhorn, rank duffer; but from
cursory squint I figure them at five hundred."
"Oh, come now, that won't do. If they had been so many they wouldn't
have been in such a hurry, Where's Bill?"
"He has not come within my sphere of influence since he ran in like
drowned rat to give us the straight tip, sir."
"Well, get us something to eat. We're famished. By the way, did any
one recognize Juma among them?"
"No, sah; no Juma to-day, sah," said Coja. "Him berry much 'fraid to
come heah, 'cause of Lulu, sah. Him show him face, ha! ha! she give him
what for, sah."
"Go and get your supper."
John spoke irritably. Normally good-tempered, he was now unlike
himself.
"And I might have guessed it if I had any gumption," he said to Ferrier.
"Juma took advantage of the sheep straying to run off with our rifles
before, and it didn't require much ingenuity to invent the ruse."
"Cheer up, old chap. You'll feel better when you've had some grub. It's
very sickening, but as you say, I don't see what we can do."
It was now quite dark, and they ate their supper in silence. Even Said
Mohammed's excellent cookery could not overcome John's furious disgust
at having been tricked. When the Bengali brought in an omelet he said--
"A thousand and one pardons, sir. The wanderer, videlicet Wanderobbo,
has returned, and asks for honour of confab."
"Bring him in, and fetch Coja; it takes too long to understand Bill
without him."
Bill had come to report that he had followed up the raiders for several
miles to the north. They had robbed the villagers of all their
foodstuffs, and all the "trade" which they had received as wages for
their work on the farm, and then marched directly northward, coming
after a few miles to an encampment where they were presently joined by a
smaller party from the west. When he came to this part of his story
Bill grew much excited. In the leader of the smaller party he
recognized one of the safari which years before had attacked his
village, killed his people, and plundered their store of ivory--the
ivory which by rights belonged to him, and which he would yet recover.
"But that's nonsense," said John. "If these people seized his ivory
years ago, it has all been sold long before this."
When this was interpreted to Bill he was like a man demented, and poured
out a torrent of incoherent speech which even Coja was unable to
understand. John dismissed them both, thinking that the Wanderobbo must
have brooded over some old grievance until it had turned his brain.
"Bill's report has given me a notion," he said to Ferrier presently. "If
they looted the village they'll be pretty heavily loaded and will go
slowly. They won't march during the night, and if this business
happened about five hours ago we ought to be able to overtake them if we
start early in the morning."
"But, my dear fellow----" began Ferrier.
"Oh, I know it's a risk, and we're outnumbered, and we ought to be
prudent, and all the other things that people say who sit in easy-chairs
and wear goloshes. But it's the only thing to be done, and I'm going to
do it."
"But do you think it's right to leave the farm? Wouldn't your
father----"
"Hang--no, I don't mean that; I'm afraid I'm rather a bad-tempered brute
to-night, old fellow; but look at it clearly, and you'll agree with me.
If we sit down under this they'll try it on again. The farm will never
be safe. We might as well cut our sticks at once."
"Why not apply to the Government?"
"Absolutely useless. To begin with, it would take time, and the raiders
would be who knows how far away? If they belong to that gang we heard
of who've got some sort of a fort up north, they're in a country where
precious few white men have ever been, if any. It would be sheer folly
to send a police column into the hills after a roving band of this sort.
No, it's a settlers' job; it's one of the risks we run, like the lions,
and we've got to deal with it."
"Well, but how are you going to set about it?"
"How are _we_ going to, you mean."
"A slip of the tongue, old chap. Of course I'm with you, all along the
line. How are we going to set about it, then?"
"Don't know yet. That's what we've got to decide before we go to bed
to-night. One thing's certain, we must make up our minds quickly, start
soon, and hurry like the very dickens, for if there's any truth in this
tale of a fort, we must collar our rifles and ammunition before they get
to it, or we're done. That's the first thing: to get our rifles back."
"That's a large order. How many did they take?"
"Four and a shot-gun. If they're the same lot we dealt with before
they'll have about a dozen now. I know we don't stand the ghost of a
chance of recovering them in a fight; that's absurd; but I rather think
if we put our heads together we can find some way of diddling them."
"If it's a matter of brains I'm conceited enough to believe we have the
odds, but there's a lot to consider besides. We shall have to take a
safari to carry provisions, and a pretty big one if we're going to bluff
them. They won't bolt as they did before. Well, where will you get
your safari from?"
"The village. What are you smiling at? Snakes, I forgot they've run
off with all my "trade." I've nothing to pay porters with. That's bad.
Still, the chief has known us some time, and perhaps he'll trust us.
I'll see, first thing in the morning."
"Who will you leave in charge of the farm? Not the Bengali?"
"Rather not. He may be a very Nimrod in the Sunderbunds, but he's a
funk-stick here. No; Coja's a better man."
"But you'll want him to interpret."
"'M. Afraid I shall. I can rub along pretty well with Swahili by this
time, but we may come across a tribe who don't know it, and that would
certainly be awkward. Well, Coja must come with us, then."
"What I suggest is that you should send a note to Mr. Gillespie and ask
him to send up a respectable European to take charge. He might come
himself; he hasn't paid you the visit he promised, and if you tell him
what you're after I'm sure he'll do what he can. Besides, if we get
bowled over, you know, it would be just as well he should have heard
about the business beforehand, for your father's sake. And I'd send a
note to the Commissioner at Fort Hall too; he may be inclined to stretch
a point."
"I'll do both. A good idea to get Gillespie up here, or some one he can
trust. Of course if we're lucky we shall get our rifles and things and
be back here long before he could arrive. But then we mayn't. I'll
write before we turn in. That's settled."
"Don't you think we ought to have some sort of a plan before we start?"
"Our plan is to go straight after the raiders, and march two miles or
more to their one."
"That's all right; but what if they reckon on being pursued and lay a
trap for us? You see, they were pursued last time, and they hadn't done
nearly so much damage then."
"That's true," said John; "but on the other hand there's such a lot of
them this time--we can divide Mohammed's five hundred by five--there's
such a lot that they may think we'll not attempt to bring them to book.
Still, we ought to be on our guard. The worst of it is that if we have
to go carefully we shall have to go slowly, and time's everything in
this job. Hand me a cigarette and let's think it over."
"Any good asking Bill?"
"Not a bit. He can do tracking, follow his nose, but that's about all.
Besides, he's so cranky just now that he's fit for nothing. I wonder
how much truth there is in this ivory yarn of his? We may get to the
bottom of it by and by. But this plan of ours--any ideas, Charley?"
"Not a ghost of one. We _must_ follow the track, and that may lead us
into an ambush."
"Wait a bit, though. If we could march on a line parallel to it we
might go as fast as we liked without much danger."
"How could we do that--far enough away from it not to be spotted, and
yet near enough not to lose it?"
"Of course we couldn't all go together; some one must keep on the track,
and that must be Bill for one."
"That wouldn't be much good. How could we keep in touch with him? I've
got a field-glass, but that will be useless if we have to go through
much wood. We can't rig Bill up with wireless!"
"No, but I'll tell you what we can do. You take the safari on the
parallel line; I'll go with Bill and take my pocket-mirror with me. It
will make a fine heliograph. You know the code, of course?"
"I do, as it happens. I could signal back with my watch-case. But that
won't help us if there's a wood or a hill between us."
"Well, we must chance that; and as Bill and I shall be able to go much
faster than you with the safari, we can come over to you if necessary;
you see what I mean: come and go between the two tracks and yet keep up
with you."
"I think that's got it. I suppose it's no use thinking what we'll do
when we come up with the raiders?"
"No; all will depend on when we find them, and where. I'm not going to
think of that, and as we shall have to be up early to interview the
chief and get our things together, I vote we go to bed."
"Don't forget your letters."
"Right. Off you go. Goodness knows when we'll sleep next."
John wrote the two letters he had spoken of, and a third, a brief note
to his father explaining what had happened. Then he went to bed
thoroughly tired out, and slept like a top.
Next morning one of the most serious of his difficulties was
unexpectedly removed. As soon as it was light, the chief came over from
the village with some of his people to beg the msungu to follow up the
bad men and recover the stores they had stolen. John jumped at the
opportunity. He agreed to do so if the chief would allow forty of his
strongest young men to act as porters. He pointed out that the
villagers had as great a cause of quarrel with the raiders as he had
himself, so that the bargain he proposed was reasonable. The chief
agreed to it at once. John's recent exploits in slaying the rhinoceros
and the lion, his former successes against the raiders, and above all
his fairness and punctuality in paying the villagers for their labour,
had won him the respect of his neighbours, and they joined him with full
confidence that the expedition would be successful. Preparations were
quickly made, a considerable quantity of food was packed up, two runners
were sent off with the letters, and by seven o'clock the safari was
ready to start.
At the last moment Said Mohammed came up to John.
"With submission, sir," he said, "I offer myself as unit in this
expeditionary force. I undertake to be no cipher, but integer, sir, and
not a minus quantity. Need I remind you of the saying of some great and
glorious general whose name I have forgotten, that an army marches upon
its tummy? _Verb. sap_. Grub, sir, is the sinews of war, and
astounding military gumption is no go without a cook. Furthermore, was
I not honoured to interpose unworthy corpus between raging lion and your
honour's nobility? If so, what is a life saved if not also preserved?
Permit me, therefore, to be the life-preserver."
"All right. Hurry up! No time to waste," said John, remarking to
Ferrier, as the Bengali went off to fetch his bundle: "I suppose he's
afraid the place will be attacked again in our absence."
"A bad look-out if it is."
"Well, we shall soon find out whether the whole gang of the raiders are
on the march. If they are, I don't think they'll come back, and as
nobody else has molested us for more than a year I think we may be
pretty easy. Now, khansaman, buck up; we're off."
John had already decided that every member of the party should go on
foot. Donkeys might prove a great nuisance if the country was
difficult; moreover, mounted men would form conspicuous objects in the
plains. Accordingly Ferrier and he had donned stout-soled boots, and
set off to tramp after Bill and Coja, who had gone ahead with the chief
to select the men for the safari. Said Mohammed brought up the rear.