[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: A Warm Reception. (See page 46.)]
TOM BURNABY
A STORY OF
UGANDA AND THE GREAT CONGO FOREST
BY
HERBERT STRANG
NEW EDITION
What good gift have my brothers, but it came
From search and strife and loving sacrifice?
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW
TORONTO, MELBOURNE, CAPE TOWN, BOMBAY
REPRINTED 1922 IN GREAT BRITAIN
BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH
_MY DEAR JACK,_
_Your birthday has come round again--and here, with every good wish, is
another book for your shelf. No mailed knights this time; our story is
of the present day. Yet you shall find paynim hordes as many and as
fierce as you please; yes, and chivalry itself, or I am much
mistaken,--although we may not spell it with a capital C. For it is a
theory of mine--"Old Uncle and his theories!" I hear you say!--that the
spirit of chivalry is as much alive to-day as ever, and finds as free a
scope. And if chivalry is, as I take it to be, the championing of the
weak and the oppressed, no region of the world offers a wider field than
Central Africa, where there is still ample work for the countrymen of
Livingstone and Gordon. Some day, perhaps, you may yourself visit that
land, and come back with as deep a sense of its glamour and pathos as
the rest of us. Meanwhile, since even at Harrow the sky is not always
clear, why not on some rainy afternoon pack up your traps and transport
yourself in imagination to Uganda with Tom Burnaby? If you return with
a certain stock of information about the land and its people--well, your
old uncle will be all the better pleased. Not, of course, that this
trip should be a reason for neglecting your football--or other duties!_
_Your affectionate uncle,_
_HERBERT STRANG._
Contents
KABAMBARI
CHAPTER I
FITTING OUT AN EXPEDITION
CHAPTER II
MBUTU
CHAPTER III
ON THE VICTORIA NYANZA
CHAPTER IV
A STERN CHASE
CHAPTER V
A LONG MARCH
CHAPTER VI
UNMASKED
CHAPTER VII
AMBUSCADING AN AMBUSH
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE TOILS
CHAPTER IX
GONE AWAY!
CHAPTER X
THE LAND OF THE PIGMIES
CHAPTER XI
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
CHAPTER XII
BIG MEDICINE
CHAPTER XIII
BLOOD-BROTHERHOOD
CHAPTER XIV
THE SIEGE OF BAREGA’S
CHAPTER XV
ARMS AND THE MAN
CHAPTER XVI
THE MAKING OF AN ARMY
CHAPTER XVII
TREACHERY
CHAPTER XVIII
THE GREAT FIGHT
CHAPTER XIX
TOM’S ARMADA
CHAPTER XX
AN END AND A BEGINNING
ZANZIBAR
Illustrations
PLATE I
A WARM RECEPTION . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
PLATE II
A MÊLÉE IN THE FOREST
PLATE III
TOM SURPRISES MABRUKI
PLATE IV
TOM IN THE BREACH
PLATE V
THE FIGHT ON THE LAKE
Plans
PLAN I THE BATTLE OF IMUBINGA
PLAN II
BAREGA’S VILLAGE DURING THE SIEGE
PLAN III
THE GREAT FIGHT BY THE SWAMP
_A belt of matted woodland. At the edge, three Belgian officers, in
light uniform and white topee, lying prone, and peering cautiously out
through glasses. Before them, a wide clearing, with a mud-walled town
in the midst, and huge forest-trees beyond. Behind, a few score
stalwart Bangala, strewn panting on the ground. Over all, the swarming
sunlit haze of tropical Africa._
_The gates stand open; peace reigns in Kabambari. But what is peace in
Kabambari? Some hundreds of negro slaves are tilling sorghum in the
cultivated tract outside the stockaded walls. Their chains clank as
they move heavily down the field, dogged by an Arab overseer armed with
rifle, scimitar, and whip. The pitiless sun, scorching their bent
backs, blackens the scars left by the more pitiless scourge._
_In the copse there is a whispered word of command; the negro soldiers
spring silently to their feet, line up as best the broken ground
permits, and then, at the heels of their white officers, charge out into
the sunlight. No yell nor cheer, as they dash towards the open gate;
the overseer, ere he can give the alarm, is bayoneted while his finger
is on the trigger; the slaves, listless, apathetic, have scarcely time
to realize their taskmaster’s doom before the thin line has swept past
them and through the gates. Then there is a sudden sharp crackle of
musketry; cries of startled fear and savage triumph; and by ones and
twos and threes, turbaned figures pour out of the far side of the town,
a scanty remnant of the Arab garrison. One by one they drop as they
cross the open; only a few gain the shelter of the forest. The heirs of
Tippu Tib are broken and dispersed. The struggle has been long, the
issue doubtful; but now, after years of stern fighting, the great Arab
empire, founded upon murder, rapine, and slavery, is scattered to the
winds. One thing only is wanting to make this last victory complete.
Rumaliza, the Arab commander, Tippu Tib’s ablest lieutenant, has escaped
the net. Whether to live and build anew the dread fabric raised by his
late chief; or whether to die in the gloomy depths of the Great Forest
by starvation or disease, or by the poisoned arrow of the Bambute--who
can say?_
CHAPTER I
Fitting Out an Expedition
The Major--A New Friend--By Rail to Uganda--Dr. O’Brien Introduces
Himself--The Major Orders a Retreat--Left Behind
A suit of boating flannels and a straw hat are no doubt a convenient,
cool, and comfortable outfit for a July day on the Thames, but they fail
miserably to meet the case on an average hot morning in Central Africa.
So Tom Burnaby found as he walked slowly through Kisumu, stopping every
now and again to mop his face and wish he were well out of it. If his
dress had not betrayed him, his undisguised interest in the scene would
in itself have bespoken the "griffin" to the most casual observer. The
few Europeans whom he met eyed him with looks half of amusement, half of
concern. One advanced as if to address him, then repented of the
impulse and passed on.
Suddenly his attention was arrested by a noise ahead, gradually
increasing in intensity as he approached. "The queerest noise you ever
heard in your life," he wrote in a letter to a chum at home. "Imagine
some score of huge ginger-beer bottles turned topsy-turvy and the fizz
gurgling out, with a glug, glug, glug, and a sort of gigantic fat
chuckle at the end,--then more glugging and chuckling, and chuckling and
glugging. I was wondering what it meant, when suddenly I came to a huge
shed, and then I saw the cause of all the row. About a hundred natives,
as black as your hat, their skins shining like polished bronze, were
working away at baggage and packages of all sorts, rolling up canvas,
packing boxes and bales, tugging at ropes, and all the time jabbering
and cackling and laughing and glug-glugging like a cageful of monkeys.
"I stood still and watched them for a minute, and then there was a
sudden lull in the uproar, and I heard my old uncle’s voice for the
first time. There he was, the dear old chap, perched on a pile of
ammunition-boxes, and the language he was using was evidently so warm
that it was a wonder the whole show didn’t blow up. I could only make
out a word here and there, most of it was double Dutch to me; but
whatever it was, it made those poor black fellows bustle for all they
were worth. Then in the middle of his address the old boy suddenly
caught sight of my unlucky self. You should have seen the expression on
his face! He stopped as if a live shell had pitched into the shed;
and--well, what happened then must keep till our next meeting. I could
never do justice to the interview in a letter."
To say that Major John Burnaby was surprised at the sudden appearance of
his nephew in Kisumu only feebly expresses his state of mind. After a
few seconds of speechlessness, his feelings found vent in the deliberate
exclamation:
"Well--I’m--hanged!"
Tom stood in front of him, looking very warm. There was another
embarrassing silence.
"What do you mean by this?" were the major’s next words.
"I really couldn’t help it, Uncle Jack."
"Couldn’t help it!" gasped the major.
"Oh well, you know what I mean! I saw in the papers that a column was
going up to catch the beggars who killed Captain Boyes, and that you had
got the job. ’Uncle Jack,’ I thought, ’has got his chance at last, and
I’m going to be there.’ And here I am!"
"I see you are! And you mean to say you have left your work, thrown it
all up, ruined your career, to come on a wild-goose chase like this?
You’ll go home by the next boat, sir."
"Don’t say that, Uncle. I know it’s sudden, but you see there was no
time to lose. I couldn’t write; I should never have got your answer in
time; and you surely couldn’t expect me to stop in a grimy engineering
shop on the Clyde when my only uncle had got his chance at last! I must
see it through with you, Uncle Jack."
"Must! must!" repeated the major. "Tom, I’m surprised at you--and
annoyed, sir--seriously annoyed at your folly. The absurdity of it all!
You can’t join the expedition. It’s against the regulations, for one
thing; this is a soldier’s job, and civilians would only be in the way.
Besides, you’re not seasoned; the climate would bowl you over in no
time, and you’re too young to peg out comfortably. What’s more, you’d
be no earthly use. Oh! I can’t argue it with you," pursued the major,
as Tom was about to protest; "you’re demoralizing my men. Cut off to my
bungalow, and keep out of mischief till I have done with them. Then I
shall have something to say to you."
Tom looked pleadingly for an instant into his uncle’s face, but finding
no promise of relenting there, he turned slowly on his heel and walked
away.
"So much for that! I was half afraid I’d catch it," he said to himself.
"My word, isn’t it hot!"
Tom was only eighteen, but he had already had disappointments enough, he
thought, to last him a lifetime. Ever since he could remember, he had
set his heart on being a soldier like his uncle Jack; but the sudden
death of his father, a quiet country parson, had left him with only a
few hundreds for his whole capital, and he had perforce to give up all
ideas of going to Sandhurst. At this critical moment an opening offered
itself in the works of an engineering firm on the Clyde, the head of
which was an old school chum of his uncle’s. It was Hobson’s choice.
He went to Glasgow, and there for a few months felt utterly forlorn and
miserable. Then he pulled himself together, and began to take an
interest even in the grimy work of the fitting-shop. He worked well,
went through various departments, and was gaining experience in the
draughtsman’s office when he read one day in the paper that his uncle
was appointed to the command of a punitive expedition in the Uganda
Protectorate. The news revived his old yearnings; after one restless
night he drew out enough to pay his passage and buy an outfit, and
booked himself on the first P. and O. steamer for Suez.
Among his fellow-passengers the only one with whom he had much to do was
a plump German trader, who joined at Gibraltar from a Hamburg liner. He
amused Tom with his outbursts of patriotic fervour, alternating with
periods of devotion to the interests of his firm. At one moment he was
soaring aloft with the German eagle; at the next he was quoting his best
price for pig-iron. Tom found him useful to practise his German on. He
had always had a turn for languages; indeed, his only distinctions at
school, besides his being the best bat in the eleven and a safe man in
goal, were won in German and French. Naturally, he soon scraped
acquaintance also with the chief engineer, and the pleasantest hours of
the voyage out were those he spent in the engine-room, where he showed
an unusually intelligent interest in the details of the machinery. He
changed ship at Suez, and was heartily glad when, on awaking one
morning, he caught sight of the white houses of Mombasa gleaming amid
the dark-green bush.
The first thing he did on landing was to enquire the whereabouts of the
expedition. He learned that it was fitting out at Kisumu, six hundred
miles inland, on the shore of the Victoria Nyanza, and that he could
reach the terminus at Port Florence by railway in two days. There being
no train till next morning, he swallowed his impatience and roamed about
the town. Amid the usual signs of Arab ruin and neglect he saw
evidences of a new life and activity. He could not but admire the
splendid harbour, in which a couple of British cruisers were lying at
anchor; he climbed up to the old dismantled Portuguese fort, and
examined every nook and cranny of it; he strolled about through the
narrow, twisted streets, finding much to interest him at every
step--grave Arab booth-keepers, sleek and wily Persians, lank Indian
coolies, and negroes of every race and size in every variety of undress.
He put up for the night at the Grand Hotel. At dinner he was faced by
an elderly gentleman with ruddy cheeks, side whiskers, and a shiny pate,
who gave him a casual glance, but, with the Englishman’s usual
taciturnity, for some time said nothing. When, however, he had
comfortably settled his soup, the old gentleman held his glass of claret
to the light, looked at Tom over the rims of his spectacles, and said:
"Just out, sir?"
"Yes; I landed this morning."
"H’m! Government appointment, sir?"
"Well no, not exactly. The fact is, I’ve come out to see my uncle."
"H’m! Many boys do; hard up, I suppose," said the old gentleman under
his breath. "Name, sir?"
"Burnaby--Tom Burnaby. My uncle is Major Burnaby of the Guides."
"Might have known it, h’m! you’re as like as two tom-cats. Jack
Burnaby’s a fine fellow, sir; I know him. Fine country this. We made
it a fine country. Ain’t you proud to be an Englishman? ’Tis four
hundred years or so since Vasco da Gama--heard of him, I suppose?--came
ashore here on his famous voyage to India. To be exact, it was the year
1497. It was a fine place then; did a fine trade, sir. He didn’t get
backed up. No stamina in those Portuguese. Suffer from jumps, don’t
you know. Arabs got in; consequence, rack and ruin. Decay, sir; dry
rot and mildew. We stepped in somewhere in the twenties, and
then--stepped out again. Stupid! Now we’ve got our foot in, and begad
we won’t lift it again, or I don’t know Joe Chamberlain. I know him.
H’m!"
The old fellow’s short snaps of sentences, and the little gasps he gave
at intervals, rather tickled Tom.
"Yes," he continued, "the Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it
provisionally to the British East Africa Company. They were made
definite masters of the place two years later, and also put in
possession of a vast tract of country extending four hundred miles along
the coast. H’m!"
At this Tom began to fear that he was in for a lecture, but he was
reassured the next moment.
"Jack Burnaby’s at Kisumu, six hundred miles up the line. There’s a fine
thing for you, now--this railway. Suppose you are going up to-morrow?
We’re coming on next week. Well, a word of advice, h’m! Don’t go
third-class. Nobody goes third-class. Blacks, you know--and lions. A
lion boarded the train the other day, and swallowed two niggers in a
winking. Strong-flavoured meat, h’m! Lions never touch first-class
passengers--never tackled me! Well, I’ll be glad to see Jack Burnaby
again. He’ll remember Ted Barkworth; yes, begad, and our little
diversion in Tokio in 95. Now, sir, will you come and smoke a cigar
with me? Don’t smoke? Well, well, none the worse for it, at present,
h’m! See you on the veranda, no doubt."
Mr. Barkworth went off to the smoking-room. As Tom got up, he noticed a
red-covered book lying on the chair next to the one occupied by his
talkative neighbour. He picked it up, intending to give it to one of
the waiters, and casually turned over the leaves. The book opened
rather easily at one place, and Tom, glancing at the page, saw: "The
Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it provisionally to the British East
Africa Company. They were made definite masters of the place two years
later, and also--" He read no farther; he had just recognized the
passage which Mr. Barkworth had reeled off so glibly, and was chuckling
at having discovered the source of the old man’s information, when his
glee was checked by a pleasant voice at his elbow saying:
"Excuse me, but have you seen a red-covered guide-book, left on one of
the chairs?"
Tom straightened his face, and, turning, saw a pretty girl of some
seventeen summers, looking very dainty and bewitching in her plain white
frock. He closed the book, and held it out without a word.
"Oh, thank you!" said the girl. "Poor Father is always so careless."
And with a smile she flitted out of the room.
Later in the evening, when Tom strolled on to the veranda, Mr. Barkworth
came up to him.
"H’m! come and let me introduce you to my daughter, sir. Lilian, Mr.
Burnaby, nephew of my old friend Major Jack."
Lilian Barkworth gave Tom a friendly little nod and smile of
recognition.
"My daughter, you know, Mr. Burnaby, wants to see the world--very
restless, h’m! keeps her poor old father constantly on the trot. Two
days in one place, then off we go: here to-day and gone to-morrow, h’m!
But there’s the admiral, I see--I know him; I must go and say how d’e
do. Lilian, you may talk to Mr. Burnaby till nine o’clock. See you
again, sir."
When he had gone over to speak to the admiral, Tom and Miss Barkworth
looked at each other and smiled.
"Dear old Father! How deluded he is!" she said. "He firmly believes he
scours the world for my benefit. I wouldn’t undeceive him, but really,
Mr. Burnaby, I would much rather live a quieter life. Now tell me, did
he quote the guidebook?"
"Well, he did give me some historical information--"
"Ah! I thought so. I fancied you were smiling when you had the book in
your hand. But he’ll forget it all by to-morrow; he gets it up in five
minutes and loses it in ten."
"Here to-day and gone to-morrow," suggested Tom, and the little
quotation put them on good terms with each other, so that Tom was
surprised to find how quickly the evening had flown when Miss Barkworth
by and by held out her hand and said that her time allowance had
expired.
He left Mombasa next morning before the Barkworths appeared. The
journey on the single line of the Uganda railway was full of interest to
him, impatient as he was to arrive at his destination. The train passed
through some of the most wonderful scenery to be found anywhere on the
face of the globe. Here were huge boulders, poised as though by some
giant’s hand, and the craters of long-extinct volcanoes; there, long
stretches of open country, skirted by dense forests of acacias,
banana-trees, and other tropical vegetation. Gazelles, giraffes,
zebras, hartebeest sported in herds over the green plains; an occasional
baboon was seen squatting on a branch; and here and there, by some lake
or riverside, hippopotamuses and rhinoceroses wallowed and revelled in
the shallows. Amid these signs of wild life appeared at intervals the
straw huts of a native village; or a shanty, roofed with corrugated
iron, marked the coming of civilization and trade: and then, towering
high into the sky, rose the gigantic snow-capped form of Mount
Kilimanjaro. The long journey came to an end at last, and Tom found his
uncle--only to meet with sore disappointment, as already related.
He was still feeling rather downhearted as he walked towards Port
Florence in the sweltering heat. It was by this time mid-afternoon, and
every discreet person was indulging in siesta in the shade. Tom met no
one but a few natives, dressed in little but hippo teeth and bead
necklaces, and he was wondering how to find his way to the major’s
bungalow when his ear was caught by unmistakeable cries of pain.
Turning a corner he saw a young black-follow writhing in the grip of a
European in light but dirty attire, who held his victim by his woolly
hair, and was belabouring his bare back with a whip of rhinoceros hide.
"Hi, you there? stop that!" cried Tom.
The man looked up sharply, gave the interrupter one scowling glance;
and, seeing only a stripling, laid on again.
"D’you hear? Stop that!" shouted Tom, hurrying along till he came
within arm’s-length of the bully. "Drop that whip, or I’ll knock you
down."
The man, apparently a Portuguese of the low type that Portugal sends to
her colonies, stared at him, spat out a curse, and raised his whip to
strike again. That instant Tom’s right arm shot out straight from the
shoulder, and before the cruel thong could descend again, the brute
found himself lying on his back in a pool of green mud. By the time he
had picked himself up the negro had slipped away, and soon put enough
ground between himself and his tormentor to make pursuit hopeless.
Quivering with passion the man drew a knife from his belt and glared
menacingly at Tom, who stood with hot brow and clenched fists ready to
repeat the blow. But the sound of the altercation had drawn a few
spectators to the spot, and, fearing the sure hand of British justice,
the discomfited Portuguese furtively replaced his knife, and, with
another ferocious look at Tom, slunk away.
"Fery goot, fery goot, my young friend," said a voice near Tom; "but you
hafe soon forgot vun of my advice-vords."
"Oh, it’s you, is it, Herr Schwab?" said Tom, turning and recognizing
his fellow-passenger on the steamer.
"Yes, it is me," replied the German. "Vat hafe I said? I hafe said:
Before all zings, step never in betveen ze native and ze vite man. Ze
native are all bad lot, as you say. Now you hafe vun enemy, my young
friend."
"Oh, that’s all right! You couldn’t expect me to look on and see that
murderous brute ill-using the poor wretch?"
The German shrugged.
"Black is black, and business are business. Kindness all fery goot,
courage equally all fery goot, but you should hafe--vat you call tact."
"Tact! Tuts! An ounce of common-sense to begin with," broke in another
voice. "Where did you get that fool of a hat? Come along, come along."
Tom felt a firm hand on his sleeve, and, too much surprised to resist,
he allowed himself to be dragged along by the new-comer, who did not
stop till they reached the water’s edge. There he stooped down and
plucked a couple of large green leaves from a strange plant, and a
moment later Tom found them flapping about his ears beneath his hat.
"There, now you’ll do," said his captor. "The idea of coming out and
practising boxing under an African sun in a three-and-sixpenny straw
hat! Sure an’ if I hadn’t met you you would have been food for jackals
in twelve hours. Thank your stars you were taken in hand by Dr. Corney
O’Brien. And now, who are you?"
The little man with the keen gray eyes and pleasant mouth looked up at
Tom and frowned.
"A Burnaby, by the powers! And I never knew the major had a family.
Ah, but you’re a Burnaby, plain enough, whatever they christened
ye--Tom, Dick, or Harry!"
"Right first shot, Doctor," said Tom with a smile. "I’m Tom Burnaby, at
your service. Will you be good enough to direct me to my uncle’s
bungalow?"
"Will I? Indeed I will. Come along."
Talking all the time, the little doctor led Tom in the direction of Port
Florence. A few minutes’ walking brought them to the major’s bungalow,
a one-story building of wood, raised a few inches from the ground, with
a neatly-thatched roof overhanging a sort of veranda. Tom was soon
stretching his legs luxuriously in one of his uncle’s comfortable
chairs, and scanning the walls hung with small-arms, hunting trophies,
and a few choice engravings.
"Ah, this is nice!" he said. "Can I have a drink, Doctor?"
"To be sure. What’ll you have? Your uncle’s burgundy is good. I can
recommend it."
"Really, a drink of water would do me best just now."
"Very well. Here, Saladin, cold water."
The major-domo, a tall muscular Musoga, appeared with a carafe of
sparkling water.
"Lucky you’re this side of the counthry," the doctor went on. "For ten
years, d’ye know, I never wance touched water. ’Twas in Ould Calabar,
where most of the dry land is swamp, and the rest mud, and the rule is,
drink and die. But what are ye doing out here, my bhoy?"
Tom told his story, the doctor breaking in every now and then with
sympathetic little ejaculations.
"’Tis hard luck; to be sure it is," he said, when Tom had told him of
his uncle’s blunt refusal to allow him to accompany the expedition.
"But the major’s right, you know, and I couldn’t venture any attempt to
persuade’m. We call’m Ould Blazes, you see."
"I couldn’t ask you to, Doctor. I’ve come on a fool’s errand, and have
only myself to blame. I must just make the best of it. What is to be
is to be."
"That’s right, now. And sure here’s the major himself."
"Pf! pf!" blew Major Burnaby, as he entered the room. "Glad that’s over
for the day at any rate. You’ve got the young scamp in hand, I see,
Corney. Tom, untwizzle that ringer; I must tub before I do anything
else."
Tom looked up to where his uncle was pointing, above his head, and saw
the wire of an electric bell twisted round a bracket on the wall. He
got up and pressed the button, and the major-domo appeared.
"Tub, Saladin," said the major. "And look here, this is my nephew; put
him up a bed and do him well."
"All right, sah! all same for one," returned the negro cheerfully.
In a few moments the major could be heard splashing and gasping in the
next room, and ere long he returned in mufti, looking cool and
comfortable in a suit of white ducks and a silk cummerbund. He asked
the doctor to stay to dinner, and Tom sat listening eagerly to his
seniors’ conversation, and admiring his uncle’s thorough grasp of even
the minutest details of the expedition.
It was to set out, he learned, in three or four days’ time, some three
hundred and fifty strong, from Port Florence, and was to cross the
Nyanza in steam launches. The only Europeans besides the major and Dr.
O’Brien were Captain Lister and a subaltern, the non-commissioned
officers being trustworthy Soudanese. Their objective was the village
of a petty chief, about a hundred and fifty miles west of the Nyanza,
who had revolted against British authority, and in concert with the
remnants of an old Arab slave-dealing gang had raided his more peaceful
neighbours. In the course of subsequent proceedings he had
treacherously killed a British officer, and a punitive expedition became
inevitable. The greater part of the military forces of the Protectorate
were engaged in police work on the north-eastern frontier; but they were
hastily recalled, and within a month, thanks to Major Burnaby’s energy,
the punitive column was ready to start. The stores for the expedition
were collected at rail-head, and the major had been very busy day and
night in getting them up from the coast, and seeing that everything
possible, to the smallest detail, was done to secure the safety and
success of the column.
After the doctor had gone, the major sat for some minutes silently
puffing his pipe, while Tom nervously turned over the leaves of a
month-old copy of the Times. At length the major laid down his pipe,
cleared his throat, and began:
"Look here, Tom, few words are best. I suppose you realize by this time
that you did a very foolish thing in coming out. What’s more, it was a
very inconsiderate thing. Here am I, with my hands full, toiling day and
night to straighten things out,--and you must come and complicate
matters just as I’m driving in the last peg, and without a moment’s
warning; in fact, making an attempt to force my hand! It was silly, it
was wrong, to say nothing of the waste of time when you ought to be
working at your profession, and the waste of money which you know as
well as I do you can’t afford. There’d be a glimmer of excuse, perhaps,
if I could make any use of you, and I’d stretch a point to do so; but
it’s entirely out of the question. I can’t find any reason, not even a
pretence of one, for bringing you in. There is really nothing for you
to do. So there is no help for it, and, as you can’t possibly stay
here, and are bound to go back, you may as well go at once. If you
really and seriously think of choosing Africa for your career, there’ll
be plenty of time to talk about that when you’ve finished your training;
and we can go into it when I get home."
The major relit his pipe, and hid his sympathetic features behind a
cloud of smoke. After a moment Tom said quietly:
"I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t see it from that point of view. I was an
ass. I’ll go home and do my best."
"That’s right, my boy," said the major heartily. "It’s no good crying
over spilt milk. I was young myself once; we all have to buy our
experience, and ’pon my word I think you’re getting yours pretty cheap
after all."
He rose from his chair, and put his hand kindly on Tom’s shoulder. "I’m
going to turn in," he added; "have to be up at dawn. Call Saladin if
you want anything. Good-night!"
During the next few days Tom almost forgot his disappointment, so much
was he interested in watching the final preparations. There were boxes
and bales everywhere. Empty kerosene cans were shipped on the launches,
to be filled with water when the force began its land march. Boxes of
ammunition, tin-lined biscuit-boxes of provisions, a tent or two for the
officers, canvas bags and smaller cases for the medical stores, were
carried on board on the backs of stalwart negroes, and all their friends
and neighbours crowded around, gesticulating frantically in their
excitement. It was all so novel that Tom had scarcely a minute to
reflect on his hard luck; and, indeed, so far from sulking, he sought
every opportunity of making himself useful, and was well pleased when he
chanced to overhear his uncle one evening say to Dr. O’Brien:
"’Pon my word, Corney, I’m sorry we can’t take the boy. I like his
spirit. He’s willing to turn his hand to anything, and has relieved me
of quite a number of odd jobs during the past few days. But I don’t see
how we can possibly take him, and in any case he will be better at
home."
The last day came. It was a fine Thursday in May. There was a
crispness in the air that set the pulses beating faster and made life
seem worth living indeed. Everything was done. The stores were well
stowed on board, the fighting-men and carriers had answered the
roll-call, and the major, with a final survey, had assured himself that
nothing had been overlooked. The launches had been getting up steam for
an hour or more, and the officers, having seen their men on board, were
standing on the quay to take a farewell of the little group of Europeans
assembled to wish them God-speed.
The whole population of the place seemed to have gathered to witness the
start. Arabs in their long garments, turbaned Indians, and more or less
naked negroes were mingled in one dense mass along the shore. Some of
the natives had donned their best finery for the occasion. One old
fellow appeared in a battered chimney-pot hat and a tattered shirt that
reached his knees, with a red umbrella tucked under his arm. Others
displayed plush jackets of vivid hue, and wore coral charms and
bracelets round their necks and arms. Women with little brown babies
filled the air with their babblement, and the noise was diversified now
and then by the squealing grunt of camels and the whinnying of mules.
Tom was the last to grasp his uncle’s hand.
"Good-bye, Uncle!" he said. "Good luck to you!"
"Good-bye, my boy! Sorry you aren’t with us. But cheer up; please God,
we’ll have a good time together yet."
Then the gangway was removed, and, amid British cheers and African
whoops, the launches puffed and snorted and glided away over the
brownish waters of the great lake.
Tom heaved a sigh as he turned away.
"Well, well, that’s over," said Mr. Barkworth, walking with Lilian by
his side. "We haven’t seen much of you, sir, since we came up on
Monday. Never fear, your uncle will pull it off. I remember, now, at
Calcutta, a year or two ago, he said to me: ’Barkworth, I’m going
downhill fast. Here am I at forty-six the wretchedest dog in the
service, with nothing but half-pay and idleness in front of me.’ ’Cheer
up,’ said I, ’you’ll get your chance. There is a tide in the affairs of
men, you know. You’ll be a K.C.B. yet.’ I knew it, h’m!"
"I’d give anything to have gone too," said Tom.
Lilian looked amazed and shocked.
"Why, Mr. Burnaby, you might get killed!" she said.
Tom laughed.
"I’d chance that. Besides, I might not. Anyhow, it’s better to be
killed striking a blow for England than to peg out with pneumonia in a
four-poster, or die of a brick off a chimney."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Barkworth. "Pure fudge! Gordon said something
of the same sort to me once; I knew him--a sort of forty-eleventh
cousin. ’Barkworth,’ he said, ’Heaven is as near the hot desert as the
cool church at home.’ Now I’m what they call a globe-trotter, through
this restless girl of mine here, and I tell you that when my time comes
I shan’t rest comfortably unless I’m laid in the old churchyard at home.
H’m! But this won’t do. We aren’t skull and crossbones yet. Come and
dine with us to-night, Mr. Burnaby; seven sharp; you’ll meet a padre
too; one of the White Fathers, you understand. Knows every inch of the
country, and speaks the language like a native--only better. Lilian
stayed for a year with some friends of his in France, and we brought out
a letter of introduction. A fine fellow, this White Father--no white
feather about him, ha! ha! You take me, eh! Well, then, we’ll see you
at seven. Mind you--seven sharp!"