Mbutu
Mbutu--Hatching a Plot--The Padre--A Consultation
The sun had set, and Tom was sitting in his uncle’s bungalow,
ruminating. He had changed his clothes in preparation for dining with
Mr. Barkworth; but there was still nearly an hour to spare, so he sat
back in his chair with his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes.
In a few more hours he would be jolting down to Mombasa. There was no
getting over that. He pictured his uncle penetrating the forest at the
head of his men; the cautious advance; the first sight of the enemy. He
heard in imagination the rattle of musketry, and the major’s ringing
voice giving orders and cheering the combatants. And while these
stirring events were in progress, he himself was to be condemned to
inactivity on a passenger steamer! Tom was hit harder than he had
believed.
Sitting brooding on these things, and feeling the reaction doubly after
the excitement of the past few days, he suddenly became fully conscious
of a sensation that had for some time been creeping over him unawares.
He felt that he was not alone, that someone was looking at him. There
was no one with him in the room, he knew; no one in the bungalow even,
except the grave, silent Indian servant, who was the only member of the
household left behind.
"Rummy feeling this," said Tom to himself, pinching himself to make sure
that he was awake. He jumped up and switched on the electric-light, and
in the first flash thought he saw a black face pressed against the
narrow window-panes. Instantly he ran to the door, flung it open, and
returned in a moment with a woolly-pated black boy in his grasp.
Gripping him firmly with one hand, he locked and bolted the door with
the other, then loosed his hold and stood with arms akimbo.
"Now then, who are you? What does this mean?" he said.
The boy stuck his arms akimbo in imitation of Tom, grinned, and chortled
rather than said:
"Me run away!"
"Oh indeed! Run away, have you? And where from, may I ask?"
"Me Mbutu, sah! Mbutu servant dago man; sah knock him down; me no go
back--no, no; me hide; now me heah."
He chortled again with a childish air of satisfaction which made Tom
smile.
"Oh! So you’re the beggar I saved from the whip, are you? Well, my
boy, I’m very glad to have helped you; but really I don’t see what more
I can do for you. Hungry, eh?"
"No, no."
"Well, then, what do you want?"
"Me and you, sah; you me fader and mudder, sah; all same for one; me
stop, long stop."
"Oh, come! it’s kind of you to say so, but I’m off to Mombasa to-morrow,
and then home--over the big water, you understand. Don’t want to adopt
anyone yet, and can’t afford a tiger."
The boy’s face fell. Then he clasped his hands and poured out a rapid
torrent of the queerest English, evidently an account of his career.
Tom made out that he belonged to an ancient Bahima tribe, and was the
son of a chief whose village had been raided by Arabs, all his people
being killed or carried off as slaves. The boy himself, after two years
of captivity, had escaped, through a series of lucky accidents, to
British territory, and had since been more or less of an Ishmael,
picking up a precarious living in doing odd jobs about the European
bungalows. His last master had treated him with a brutality that
recalled his years of captivity with the Arab slavers. Tom’s short way
with the bully had won the boy’s unbounded admiration and gratitude. He
had remained in hiding until he knew that the Portuguese had taken his
departure, and then had felt that he could not do better than attach
himself to his benefactor.
Such was his story, told disconnectedly, the English pieced out with
occasional phrases in Swahili, the _lingua franca_ of Eastern and
Central Africa. Through all the narrative there was a convincing note
of reality. The boy pleaded to be allowed to serve Tom for the rest of
his life till, as he said, the "long night" came. He would not ask for
wages, he could live on anything--nothing; and he flung himself down at
Tom’s feet, imploring him not to drive him away.
"Poor chap!" said Tom. "Sorry for you, but what can I do? My uncle
wouldn’t have me, or I might have made some use of you. And there’s no
chance now; he’s away with the expedition to Ankori."
Mbutu’s eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Sah him uncle!" he cried.
He looked puzzled and anxious, and yet seemed to hesitate.
"Well, what is it?" asked Tom.
"Sah him uncle!" repeated the boy; and then, to Tom’s amazement, he
rattled off a story of how, some ten days before, he had overheard a
conversation between his late master and the interpreter to the
expedition.
"Palaver man bad man, sah. Much bad. Talk bad things. Say black man
hide; white man walk so." He took a pace or two with head erect, eyes
looking straight ahead, and arms straight down his thighs. "White man
no see not much; bang! soosh! white man all dead."
Everything he said was illustrated with many strange pantomimic
gestures, and Tom was at first puzzled what to make of it all. Then he
set himself patiently to question the boy, using the simplest words, and
from his answers he put together, bit by bit, a most astonishing story.
About a fortnight before, the Portuguese had come with Mbutu from the
forest west of the Nyanza, accompanied by an Arab, and had taken up his
quarters in a small bungalow not far from rail-head. He was in and out
all day, engaged in some mysterious business which the boy had never
succeeded in fathoming, while the Arab had disappeared on their arrival
in Kisumu. One hot night Mbutu, feeling restless and unable to sleep,
went outside the bungalow with a pipe of his master’s which he intended
to smoke. He was fumbling in his loin-cloth for a match, when he saw a
figure slinking cautiously towards him. His movements were so stealthy
and furtive that Mbutu’s curiosity was at once aroused. Unfortunately
for the stranger, who clearly wished to escape observation, the moon was
high, and Mbutu, concealed by a friendly post in the compound, watched
him steal up to the bungalow, enter quietly, and shut the door. The
boy, avoiding the patches of moonlight, crept round the veranda with the
noiselessness of a cat till he came to a half-open window. A lamp was
burning in the room, throwing a long beam of light into the darkness
without, and in skirting this bright zone the boy tripped over an empty
wooden crate from which the cook obtained his supply of firewood. The
impact of Mbutu’s shins against the sharp edges of the crate set the
thing creaking, but the noise was drowned by the yelp of a jackal in a
nullah hard by, and after a few moments of anxious suspense Mbutu
breathed again. He peeped cautiously round the edge of the window. The
room was empty, but as the light had not been removed Mbutu concluded
that his master would soon return. This proved to be the case, for in
less than a minute the Portuguese appeared, moved quickly to the window,
and lifted the iron rod as though to close it. But the night was so hot
that he changed his mind, comfort prevailing over caution. He left the
window as it was, and simply lowered the blind. Then, turning to the
door, he beckoned his visitor into the room. A thin beam of light still
filtered between the bottom of the blind and the window-sill, and
Mbutu’s sharp eyes noticed that the sill was wide, projecting some
inches from the wall. He saw that under this he could lie without fear
of detection, and probably hear all that passed inside. So he crept
beneath the shelter of the sill, and strained his quick ears.
For a time he could make out little of what the two men were saying.
Then their voices rose, they became "much jolly", as he said, after the
Portuguese had produced a flask of his own special brandy, and Mbutu
heard every word distinctly. They were discussing a plan concerted
between them during the journey to Kisumu, and congratulating each other
on its success. The Arab, apparently, was connected with the chief
against whom the punitive expedition was directed, and the dago having
reasons of his own for desiring its failure, they had put their heads
together. The result of their scheming was that the Arab had somehow
got himself recommended to Captain Lister, the intelligence-officer of
the expedition, as interpreter and guide, his real intention being to
lead it into an ambush, cunningly devised between the chief and the
Portuguese. The European officers were to be killed by picked marksmen
in the first moments of confusion and the plotters hoped to lay their
trap so carefully that not a soul would escape. What his master’s
motives were Mbutu had been unable to discover, though he had heard a
mysterious reference to a store of ivory and a run of slaves. After a
time the "special brandy" began to take effect, and both the men fell
asleep. The light went out, and Mbutu stole away.
Tom only pieced this together by degrees. When the meaning of it all
was clear to him, he gave a long whistle and stood staring at the black
boy. Suddenly a suspicion flashed across his mind as he remembered what
he had read of the imaginativeness of the African native and his genius
for inventing fairy tales.
"You’re not making this up?" he said sternly. "Why didn’t you tell all
this before the expedition started?"
Mbutu spread out his hands.
"What for good?" he said. "Me tell? White man say ’Bosh! Liar! Get
out!’" He shook his fist and lifted his foot with the accuracy of long
experience. "Mbutu no lub kiboko. White man all same for one."
He pointed expressively to the scars and weals left on his shoulders by
his recent thrashings with the kiboko.
"Then why have you told me now?" demanded Tom.
The boy for a few instants looked puzzled; then his features expanded in
a cheerful smile as he said:
"No kiboko heah, sah! Sah little son of big sah! Sah Mbutu him fader
and mudder!"
Tom could doubt no longer; truth spoke in every line and dimple of the
boy’s earnest face. But what was he to do? Glancing at the carriage
clock on the mantel-piece, he saw that it wanted only ten minutes of
seven, the hour fixed by Mr. Barkworth for dinner. He wondered if he
had better consult his new friend, for whom he had already begun to
entertain warm feelings of regard. Calling the major’s Indian servant,
he gave the boy into his hands with instructions to keep a sharp eye on
him, and hurried off, his brain in a whirl.
"Ah, here you are, then!" said Mr. Barkworth, coming forward as Tom
entered the bungalow, and laying a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"Punctuality, now; that’s a fine thing. The padre came a moment ago.
I’ll introduce you, h’m!"
He turned and led the way into an inner room, where Tom saw a figure
that would have commanded attention in any company. It was that of a
tall man of about fifty years, with clean-cut features of olive hue,
mobile lips with the fine curves of a Roman orator’s, and grayish hair
falling back in flowing lines from his temples. He was dressed in the
simple white robe of an Arab, with no ornament save a small gold cross
pendent on his breast. The simplicity of his attire served only to
heighten the natural dignity of his bearing.
"H’m! Mossoo--Mossoo-- Now, what on earth’s the French for Thomas!
Mossoo Tom Burnaby, Père Chevasse. And a fine fellow, sir," he added to
Tom, _sotto voce_.
The missionary smiled as he shook hands.
"I have seen you already," he said in French. "I was a spectator the
other day of that little scene, Mr. Burnaby, when you played the part of
Good Samaritan."
"Ah!" said Mr. Barkworth, catching the phrase. "Who’s been falling
among thieves, padre?"
The missionary briefly told the story of Tom’s summary treatment of the
Portuguese, and though Mr. Barkworth’s French was decidedly shaky, he
made out a few leading words here and there, and got a tolerable grasp
of the incident.
"Well now, I call that fine," he said; "Rule Britannia, and all that
sort of thing, you know. And what became of the black boy? I warrant,
now, he never even said thank you. No gratitude in these natives; I know
’em."
Tom was on the point of confuting Mr. Barkworth with the best of
evidence, but Lilian’s entrance checked the words as they rose to his
lips, and by the time they were seated at the dinner-table his host’s
volatile mind was occupied with other matters.
Looking back on this dinner afterwards, Tom wondered how he managed to
get through it without breaking down. He listened to the quiet, mellow
voice of the missionary, and envied the fluency of Lilian’s French; he
smiled inwardly at Mr. Barkworth’s desperate efforts to follow the
conversation, and good-humoured laughter at his own mishaps; he even
made his own modest contribution, and, after the first moments of
diffidence, was put quite at his ease by the Frenchman’s perfect
courtesy. And yet, all the time, through all the talk, he felt one
sentence dinning and throbbing in his head: "What am I to do? What am I
to do?" He imagined his uncle in the depth of the forest, fighting for
dear life amid a horde of savage blacks, and overborne at the last by
sheer weight of numbers! A cold thrill shot through him, and he
started, to answer haphazard some remark from Lilian or the missionary,
not knowing what he said. Once or twice Lilian looked at him
enquiringly, wondering at his strange absent-mindedness, and then he
collected himself with an effort and tried to appear unconcerned.
After dinner Mr. Barkworth settled himself in an easy-chair and lit a
cigar, and while the others sat chatting together he dropped asleep.
The missionary gave his listeners an account of the work of the White
Fathers’ mission to which he belonged, and chanced to mention an
incident that had occurred among a Bahima tribe. Bahima! That was the
name of the race to which Mbutu belonged. Tom knew that his time was
come. Speaking as quietly as his excitement allowed, he told Mbutu’s
story. The missionary looked incredulous; Lilian’s fair cheeks paled,
and she cried:
"Oh, what a wicked, wicked thing!"
"Eh? What?" said Mr. Barkworth, waking with a start. "As I was saying,
these natives never show any gratitude. Now I remember a case when I was
in Trinidad. An overseer there--"
But Lilian had seated herself at her father’s feet, and laid her hand on
his knee.
"Father," she said, "Mr. Burnaby has some strange and terrible news to
tell you."
"God bless my soul, you don’t say so! What in the world has happened?"
"Mr. Barkworth," said Tom, "the boy I saved from the Portuguese came to
me to-day and told me of a diabolical plot between his master and the
dragoman of the expedition to lead my uncle into a trap. What can be
done to warn him?"
"What! What! Ambush Jack Burnaby! Ridiculous nonsense! Never heard of
such a thing. More like a bit out of Henty than a real thing. H’m!
Come now, what did the young rascal say?"
Tom repeated the story, giving, as nearly as he could, the minutest
details told him by Mbutu.
Mr. Barkworth took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "H’m!
Cock-and-bull story altogether. I know these natives. Taradiddles,
sir!"
"But why doubt the boy, sir? His story was so circumstantial, and he
looked so earnest and truthful."
"H’m! What do you say about it, mossoo?"
"It is extraordinary, certainly," replied the Frenchman. "Could we not
send for the boy? He would not try any tricks with me."
"Right! we’ll have the boy. Fine thing--a knowledge of their gibberish.
Hi, you there! Go down at once to Major Burnaby’s bungalow and bring
back the black boy there. Clutch him by the hair or he’ll wriggle away.
I know them."
One of the servants disappeared, and soon returned with Mbutu. The boy
had been waked out of a sound sleep, and looked rather scared, but a few
words in his own tongue from the missionary soon put him at ease, and he
answered all his questions readily. After a searching examination
Father Chevasse turned to Mr. Barkworth, saying:
"The boy’s story is consistent in every part. I think he is telling the
truth."
"Well, you ought to know, padre. What’s to be done, then? We can’t let
a fine fellow like Jack Burnaby be snuffed out by a parcel of heathens.
Suppose we tell the man in charge here--Captain Beaumont, isn’t it?"
"Little use, I am afraid. Captain Beaumont doesn’t understand the
natives; and I fear he would scoff at Mbutu’s story and refuse to
believe it. The boy has an animus against the dago, you see."
"Why couldn’t I go after the expedition myself along with Mbutu?" broke
in Tom eagerly.
Mr. Barkworth looked dubiously at him, as though he half suspected for
an instant that the story was got up for the occasion. But a glance at
the young fellow’s anxious face made him repent at once. He blew his
nose again and said:
"I’m an old fool, h’m! Well now, let’s talk it over."
A long and serious discussion ensued, in which Tom and Mr. Barkworth
bore the greater part.
"Well, well," said Mr. Barkworth at length, "have your own way. Yes, my
boy, you must go. You have a valid reason--the strongest motive anyone
could have. And your uncle, sir--begad, if he takes you to task for
disobedience, why, just refer him to me, and say that I’ll get Tommy
Bowles to ask a question in the House. I know him!"
"But how can Mr. Burnaby go after them?" put in Lilian. "They have taken
all the launches, I know."
Mr. Barkworth’s countenance fell.
"Whew!" he ejaculated. "That’s a facer! Never do to go on foot, Tom;
never overtake ’em in time round the north shore. H’m!"
"I have a launch," said the missionary quietly. "Quite a small thing,
steaming only a few knots. I am starting to-morrow to visit our station
at Bukumbi, at the other end of the Nyanza, and if Mr. Burnaby cares to
come with me, I can take him on afterwards to the river for which the
expedition is making."
"Couldn’t you go straight across, sir?" asked Tom eagerly. "You see how
important it is to lose no time."
"I am sorry I cannot. I have important letters from my superior to the
father in charge of the mission, and I am bound to deliver them at once.
Besides, not much time will be lost. The launches are calling at
Entebbe to pick up a draft of the King’s African Rifles, so that we
shall probably be only a day behind them, and you should overtake your
uncle some days before he reaches the place where the fighting will
begin."
"What’s he say, Lilian?" said Mr. Barkworth in a stage whisper.
"Capital!" he cried, when she had briefly explained; "his head’s clear
enough for an Englishman’s. Close with Mossoo’s offer, Mr. Burnaby.
Ask the padre what time he starts, Lilian; for the life of me I never
can think of the French for start."
"At eight in the morning," said the missionary. "If all goes well we
shall cover a hundred miles before we anchor for the night."
"Well, now, that is what I call business. Now, Tom, you’ll be ready at
eight with this Booty, or whatever you call him, and I’ll be there to
see you off. Gad, if I hadn’t a girl to drag me about I’d come too,
though I’m sixty-three next week. Now, good-night, my boy, and God bless
you!"
Tom gripped the old gentleman’s hand warmly, and after wishing Lilian
good-bye, went off with the White Father to talk over their plans and
trace out their route before turning in for the night.