A Stern Chase
An African Village--A Bargain--A False Scent--Up the Ruezi--A Night
Vigil--Followed--The Bend in the River--A Man Wounded--No Thoroughfare
The two youths found themselves on a narrow spit of sand projecting some
hundred yards into the river-mouth. On the land side Tom saw nothing
but a dense wall of elephant-grass and papyrus standing nearly twice as
high as himself, into which the river disappeared. On the other side
was the blue expanse of the Nyanza, shading into the lighter blue of the
cloudless sky. In the distance he could see the faint coast-line of the
Sese Islands, and, between himself and them, the smoke of the departing
launch stretching across the sky like a long smudge on a clean page.
For the first time a shadow of misgiving crossed his mind, but with a
silent "This will never do" he pulled himself together, and set himself
resolutely to face the task he had undertaken.
He looked meditatively for a few moments at Mbutu.
"Now, Mbutu," he said, "we are left to our own devices. I must trust to
you to help me through; I suppose you can make yourself understood in
any of these parts, eh? Well now, you stick by me and do your best, and
you and I’ll be great friends. Now for this village."
Mbutu shouldered the baggage, and they set off towards the apparently
impenetrable wall. They were soon ankle-deep in swamp, but, rounding a
point and wading a little creek, they came upon a narrow path, evidently
worn away by many feet tramping down in single file to the river-side.
Striking up this path they were met in another ten minutes by signs of
human habitation. There were fields of sweet-potatoes, Indian-corn, and
millet, traversing which they came plump upon an irregular circle of
grass huts, half-hidden by the surrounding bush.
Tom called a halt. It would be well, he thought, to impress the
villagers with an idea of his importance, so he despatched Mbutu in
advance, as a herald, to announce his arrival to the chief of the
village. Passing the line of grass huts, and picking his way amid fowls
and goats and a rather unsavoury litter, Tom found himself in a spacious
enclosure, which was already filling with a crowd of jabbering natives.
The centre of this open space was occupied by a hut of larger dimensions
than the rest. It was a round structure, consisting of boughs of trees
held together by grass and mud, and surmounted by a conical roof,
roughly thatched. The doorway was low, and not more than eighteen
inches wide; Tom wondered whether the chief would come out, and if not,
how he himself was to get in. Mbutu, he saw, was talking rapidly and
with much gesticulation to a corpulent negro at the door of the hut,
while a group of natives stood intently watching at a respectful
distance.
As Tom approached, Mbutu came towards him grinning.
"Him say him katikiro," he said. "Him lie; him katikiro not much. Big
chief hab katikiro, little chief no hab."
"What on earth is katikiro?" asked Tom.
Mbutu looked puzzled and scratched his head. After pondering a while,
and searching for words to make the matter clear to his master’s
intelligence, he said:
"Katikiro palaver man. Chief want eat--call katikiro. Chief want
wife--call katikiro. Want gib bad man kiboko--call katikiro all same."
"Sort of head cook and bottle-washer, lord high executioner and prime
minister all in one, eh? Well, tell the right honourable katikiro I
want to see the chief."
"Him say chief asleep."
"Then he must wake him up."
Mbutu spoke to the negro, who shook his head, looked very serious, and,
pointing to the hut behind, answered quickly and earnestly.
"Him say chief chop off head," grinned Mbutu. "Chief berrah big, oh!"
"He must chance that!" replied Tom. "Tell him that if he and his master
keep me dawdling here any longer, I shall report both of them to the
government at Entebbe, and then they’ll be sorry."
If Tom had understood Mbutu’s interpretation of his speech he would have
heard him inform the native that his master’s big brother, the Great
White King, would take away the chief’s wives and goats, charms and
beads, and leave him not so much as an anklet to call his own. He would
pull his teeth, shave his head, and make him wash himself in hot water
twice a day. Mbutu was proceeding to amplify these threats with great
eloquence when Tom, losing patience, cried: "If he doesn’t hurry up, I
shall go in and wake the chief myself," and he made a movement towards
the hut. Instantly the man, with a terrified look, took a long breath,
turned sideways, and squeezed his rotundity through the narrow aperture.
His entrance was followed by a stream of very hot language, and in a
moment the katikiro reappeared, looking somewhat crestfallen. He was
followed immediately by the chief, a well-made negro, scowling and
rubbing his eyes. He presented a comical appearance in his torn calico
shirt and head-dress consisting of a piece of lion’s skin ingeniously
ornamented with stork’s feathers. Tom went up to him and held out his
hand frankly, a courtesy he regretted at once, for on emerging from the
chief’s grip he found his hand covered with dirty grease. Still
smiling, however, he made as impressive an oration as he could, and then
asked through Mbutu if the chief could tell him anything about the
expedition. Mbutu added on his own account that he had better tell no
lies, for his master was a near relative of the Great White King, and
moreover had been given by a medicine man the power to see through the
back of any black man’s head. He further promised on Tom’s behalf that
the truth would be repaid with a good many beads, while falsehood would
entail unspeakable consequences.
Thus encouraged, the chief spat on the ground and began. He stated that
the expedition had arrived at the mouth of the Ruezi two days before.
The river being impracticable for launches, the men had landed at a
creek a mile or two away, and had there begun their overland march.
They were bound for Mpororo, a place the chief knew only by hearsay, as
he himself had never ventured farther than the southern end of Lake
Mazingo. Beyond that, he understood, were the tents of the Wa-daki, who
lived night and day with kiboko; and as he named the dreaded Germans,
his eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated.
"I don’t understand this," said Tom. "The Ruezi looks a big enough
river. Why couldn’t the launches sail up?"
The chief explained that the bed was here and there silted with mud, and
everywhere more or less overgrown with reeds.
"Then I suppose we shall have to tramp after them. Couldn’t we reach
this Lake Mazingo by the river?"
The chief was sorry to say that they would have to walk through the
forest.
"Isn’t your river deep enough for a canoe, then?"
Oh yes! A light canoe could paddle up to Lake Mazingo, but beyond that
were the tents of the Wa-daki, who lived night and day--
"Yes, yes," interrupted Tom. "Why couldn’t the old guy tell us that
before! Tell him I’ll hire a canoe with its crew, and that we’ll start
at once."
But he reckoned without his chief. It took Mbutu over an hour to
conclude the bargain, the chief asking for one thing after another in
payment, and showing a special desire for Tom’s scarf-pin. When the
price had finally been fixed at a number of beads, an old clasp-knife,
ten yards of calico, and a couple of boot-laces, a further difficulty
arose. The chief absolutely refused to allow his men to start at night:
journeys begun beneath a full moon were of ill omen, he said, and Mbutu
himself was superstitious enough to sympathize with him. Anxious as Tom
was to get on, he saw that it would be unwise to press the chief any
further, and accordingly arranged that the light canoe, with a crew of
four strong paddlers, should be at his disposal at daybreak next
morning.
"Now, Mbutu," said Tom, "just ask him if he has seen anything of the
Portuguese we caught a glimpse of just now."
No, the chief had not seen the white man in the green coat, but a moon
before he had seen one of the Wa-daki, who lived night and--
"Bother the Wa-daki! Just tell him that if he does see anything of the
dago he is to say nothing about us. Does he understand? And none of
his men is to say anything either. You’d better impress that on the
katikiro too."
Mbutu having carried out his master’s instructions in his own decorative
way, Tom, with much ceremony, presented the chief with half a dozen
yellow beads and a pocket handkerchief, dexterously avoided his greasy
paw, and despatched Mbutu to find a place, away from the malodorous
village, where they might comfortably pass the night.
Next morning they were up betimes. Tom was ravenously hungry, but did
not feel happy at the thought of eating anything prepared in the
village. He was surprised when Mbutu brought him an earthen pot filled
with excellent tea, a slice of fried goat, and a few chapatties made, as
he afterwards learnt, of banana-flour.
"Upon my word, Mbutu," he said, "I shall have to make you my katikiro
right away."
Mbutu beamed his delight. Their breakfast finished, they went to find
their canoe. It was already lying in the creek they had crossed on the
previous evening. The crew were four muscular Baganda dressed in
nothing but loin-cloths and grease, who all began to jabber at once as
Tom approached.
"What do they say?" Tom asked.
"Say you fader and mudder, sah. All belong sah; huts belong sah; food
belong sah; eberyfing belong sah."
"That’s very kind of them, I’m sure. I wish they’d wash off that
grease, though. What shall I say to them, Mbutu?"
"Me palaver man; me katikiro, sah."
Mbutu told the men that his master was their father and mother; would
build up their huts if by any chance they were destroyed during their
absence; would give their children charms to preserve them from
snake-bites and the sleeping sickness; and as a token of sincerity in
these pledges would eat a sheep with them at the first opportunity.
They snapped their fingers and smiled, and looked with great reverence
at the unconscious Tom, who had been in a brown study while his henchman
was speaking.
"I’ve been thinking, Mbutu," he said; "suppose the Portuguese has been
hanging about. If he recognized you he is sure to suspect that I know
rather too much about him now, and he may be on the watch for us. We
should be no match for him and his eight men if they happen to be armed.
What do you think?"
"Sah fink; tell Mbutu."
"Well now, if they are on our track they won’t be far away. Just ask
these fellows if the river bends at all."
The men declared that the water bent like a bow to south, a half-hour’s
paddling from where they were.
"Then you and I, Mbutu, will cut across country and meet the canoe by
and by. I suppose there’s a way?"
Yes; the crew said there was a path through a stretch of thin forest,
which rejoined the river after about five miles.
"The very thing. Now, tell these fellows that if a white man in a green
coat meets them, and asks after us, they are to say that a white man is
in their village, and that they are sent to summon the chief of another
village--they can give it a name--to a grand palaver about food for the
expedition on its way back."
Mbutu repeated these instructions, adding that the green-coated man had
a particularly keen kiboko. The quick-witted natives appreciated at
once the part they were to play, and chuckled with enjoyment. They took
their seats on the poles which, placed transverse through holes in the
sides of the canoe, served as thwarts, struck their paddles into the
water, and, raising their voices in a curious chant, drove their
red-coloured bark rapidly up-stream.
Tom watched them till they were out of sight among the reeds, then
turned and strode off with Mbutu. All their baggage and a stock of food
were in the canoe; Tom had nothing but his field-glass and a light
switch he had cut that morning from a tree. It was seven o’clock, and
the sun being not yet high, marching would not have been unpleasant but
for the heavy dew upon the long grass and spreading plants over which
they had to walk. Very soon they were soaked to the waist, and Tom
thought that Mbutu with his bare legs had decidedly the best of it.
Their progress through the forest was not rapid, owing to the tangle of
vegetation through which they had at times to force a way. It was
nearly nine before they saw the river again. The canoe was waiting for
them, and Mbutu ran ahead. Tom could see by the excited way in which
the crew gabbled and gesticulated that something had happened. When he
reached them, Mbutu informed him that the canoe had been hailed by the
Portuguese, who had been lying in wait for them in a creek some three
miles up the river. He had questioned the crew, who, after giving him
the message as had been arranged, had seen him paddle back hurriedly
towards the mouth of the river. They had noticed that all his men were
armed with rifles, and volubly regretted that they had been unable to
fight him.
"They’re as pleased as Punch at having outwitted him, anyhow," said Tom.
"Tell them I’ll give them some beads for doing so well. Now, Mbutu, you
go in the bow, I’ll take the stern, and we’ll see how these fellows
paddle."
The men struck their paddles into the water, and, keeping perfect time,
sent the canoe along at a swinging pace. They accompanied their strokes
with a crooning chant, the words sounding something like this--
Nsologumba kanpitepite kunyanja
Nsologumba oluilaita kunyanja
Nsologumba lekanpitepite kunyanja.
Tom knew his elements of music, and could take his part in "Willow the
King"; but the notes of this tune fitted no scale he had ever heard of.
The same words were repeated again and again for half an hour at a
stretch, until he felt rather tired of them.
"I wish they’d turn on another tap," he said to himself, "but I suppose
their feelings would be hurt if I told them so. Mbutu, my boy, what’s
their song about?"
Mbutu turned up the whites of his eyes in the effort to translate, then
chanted solemnly:
"Man all alone row up de ribber, man all alone row up de ribber, man all
alone row up de ribber; alone de man row up ribber, alone de man row
up--"
"Thanks! I know it by heart now. D’you think you could tell them a
story, Mbutu? Anything to keep them quiet. The man all alone wants to
think, tell them."
"All right, sah! berrah well, sah! Me tell story about uncle and
croc’dile--berrah nice story, sah!"
"Very well; make it as long as you like."
"Uncle, sah, in canoe, all alone row up de ribber. Uncle, sah--"
"Quite so, but you can tell me the story another time. I want you to
keep the crew amused, you understand."
Mbutu looked rather disappointed, but at once began to unfold his story
to the negroes, who listened with strained attention, breaking out at
intervals into guffaws of pleasure and cries of amazement.
Meanwhile Tom looked about him. The crew had evidently performed this
journey before, for they dexterously skirted the shallows, and appeared
to know exactly where to pull to avoid the encroaching reeds. Beyond
the reeds the banks were lined with splendid trees, some with white
trunks, others with gray, others with black; the foliage of vivid green;
the blossoms of many hues--crimson, scarlet, lilac, yellow, white. On
some of them india-rubber vines had fastened themselves in long loops
and festoons. The river itself shone in the sunlight like a pathway of
polished metal. Here and there it seemed to cease to be a river at all,
and became a mere lagoon, and at such spots Tom saw more than one
rhinoceros wallowing, their horned snouts just out of the water. As the
canoe progressed, the rushes were less dense; a thick wall of soft-wood
plants came into view; raphia-palms with their huge fronds, wild bananas
with their enormous leaves, the slender stems of date-palms, crowned
with graceful plumage of the richest green. The air was still, save now
and again when the canoe disturbed a haunt of water-fowl, or a parrot
flew squawking among the reeds, or a covey of beautifully-coloured
widow-finches darted from shrub to shrub uttering their harsh little
cries. Occasionally the canoe passed a tree on which innumerable
monkeys were chattering and squabbling. Once Tom’s ear caught the
inimitable trill of a thrush, reminding him of Home; and as the canoe
glided beneath the branches of a spreading plantain, a number of large
birds, with gorgeous blue bodies, crimson pinions, and tufted heads,
sportively pursued one another among the foliage, boo-hooing, braying,
shrieking uproariously.
"What’s that noisy fowl?" asked Tom, interrupting Mbutu as he was
regaling the crew for the tenth time with the moving story of his uncle
and the crocodile.
"Dat, sah? Dat big plantain-eater, sah. Berrah brave bird, sah! Him
come see me in hut; see uncle, sah, all alone row up ribber. Uncle go
sleep, sah; leg ober side--"
At this moment the crew, deprived of their recent amusement, struck up
again--
Nsologumba kanpitepite kunyanja
Nsologumba oluilaita kunyanja.
"Couldn’t you tell them another story?" suggested Tom.
With a glance in which Tom detected a shade of reproach, the boy resumed
his narrative, and kept the crew engrossed until his master called "easy
all" for dinner.
Running the canoe up a narrow creek, the men sprang on shore with their
axes, and returned by and by bearing with them a huge bunch of ripe
bananas, culled from a river-side plantation. These, with some of the
biscuits which the padre had thoughtfully packed among his baggage, and
a draught of not very palatable water lapped up from the river, Tom
found quite sufficient to stay his hunger and thirst. The crew
diversified their meal with ground-nuts and a stuff that looked like
moist almond-rock, which they took out of a wrapping of leaves. One of
them offered Mbutu a small hunk, and he broke off about a fourth part of
it, handing the rest to Tom.
"Not to-day, thanks! What is it, may I ask?"
"Berrah nice, sah! Cheese, sah!"
"Really! And what is it made of? Not milk, judging by the look of it."
"Mango, sah! Chop mango stone; take out all inside; knock him about,
sah; make cheese. Berrah nice, sah!"
"Well, eat it up, and then we’ll be off again. Tell the men I’m pleased
with them, and hope they’ll do as well all day."
On the way back to the canoe, Tom happened to tread on a pair of large
ants crawling on the grass. He was almost overcome by the stench from
their crushed bodies. Then every exposed part of his body was stung by
mosquitoes, and his head became enveloped in a swarm of yellowish gnats,
which Mbutu called kungu-flies.
"Berrah nice, sah!" he said, as they got into the canoe. "Black man
catch kungu, sah! Mash, mash, all one cake. Make little fire; fry cake;
eat all up."
Tom ruefully thought of his small stock of biscuits, and in this
alternative diet recognized an additional motive for pressing on.
It was a broiling hot afternoon, and as the canoe sped on its way Tom
saw scores of crocodiles lying on the bank half out of the water,
basking in the sunlight, and digesting their food, their eyelids
drowsily drooping, their jaws wide open in a sort of prolonged yawn.
Just above one of these dozing reptiles, a number of storks and cranes
and herons stood perched on one leg, regarding the crocodile, Tom
fancied, with a contemplative air, more in sorrow than in anger.
Farther on, he was amused to see a young elephant twining its trunk
about the neck of a graceful zebra, as in an affectionate embrace. All
the afternoon, indeed, he was kept interested by an ever-changing
panorama, eye and ear being alike captivated incessantly by something
new and strange. He was naturally observant, and many curious details
impressed themselves upon his mind without his being conscious of them.
He would have liked to stay and study this new world at his leisure, but
the temptation to linger was counteracted by his sense of the urgency of
his mission. The only other drawback to his enjoyment was the pain
caused by the mosquito bites, which increased as the day wore on.
At sundown, having covered some twenty-two miles, and made, as Tom
considered, very satisfactory progress for the day, he ordered the men
to run the canoe up a creek that promised well as a halting-place.
After a good supper, they went on shore to find sleeping quarters for
themselves, and in a very short time ran up a wattled hut, and built
fires round it to keep off lions and other undesirable visitors. Tom
wrapt himself in a rug, gave another to Mbutu, and settled himself to
sleep in the stern of the canoe. He was kept awake for some time by the
bright moonlight, the splashes of fish, quaint creakings and groanings
from the trees, the grunt of rhinoceroses, the strange whine and sighing
cough of crocodiles, and the inevitable howl of jackals. He fell asleep
at last.
Mbutu, meanwhile, sat in the bows, dreamily watching the shimmer of the
moonbeams on the water, and pondering on his wonderful luck in the
change of masters. He was just dozing off to sleep when he noticed a
dark form edging along the bank. A swift glance showed him that it was
a crocodile, leaving on its nightly prowl for food. It slid noiselessly
into the water, and, thinking that the beast was making for the opposite
bank, Mbutu paid no further attention to it. But suddenly he became
aware of a small dark object approaching the canoe. There was not a
sound nor even a ripple on the water; but one glance was enough to a boy
born and bred as Mbutu had been in the African wilds. It was the snout
of the crocodile! At the same moment he observed with horror that his
master, restless in his sleep, had thrown one arm over the side of the
canoe, and that the hideous jaws of the reptile were within a few feet
of snapping distance. Quick as thought he stooped, clutched at the rope
mooring the canoe to a small overhanging acacia, and pulled with all his
strength. The canoe lurched forward, striking heavily against the
bulging root of the tree,--and Tom awoke with a start, to see Mbutu
smite the crocodile savagely over the head with a paddle.
"What is it?" he said sleepily.
"Sah nearly gobble up. Croc’dile berrah hungry. Arm berrah nice; soon
all gone, sah."
Tom shivered.
"You’re a brick, Mbutu," he said, "and your head’s screwed on right.
But for you!--ugh! it’s horrid to think of!"
"Uncle, sah--" began Mbutu.
"Yes, yes; tell me all about him another time. Call up the crew. They
must take turns at watching; and tell them to do it thoroughly."
No further hazards marred Tom’s rest. In the morning, while Mbutu was
preparing their simple breakfast, Tom strolled up the reddish hillside
above the river to survey his surroundings, carrying the field-glass
presented to him by Father Chevasse. At this spot the larger trees were
absent, and the country around was for the most part flat and marshy,
the dark-green broken here and there by patches of gaudy blossom and red
clay soil. The hill commanded a view of the river for some two or three
miles, but Tom could see little but reeds, the stream itself, indeed,
being scarcely perceptible as it wound in and out among the aquatic
vegetation. Some distance, however, in the direction from which the
canoe had come, there was a stretch of about a quarter of a mile of
clear water, looking like a blue lake amid the green, and on this Tom’s
eye rested. Suddenly he saw a cloud rise up from the water, which he
instantly judged to be a huge flock of water-fowl. Then a dark object
appeared, slowly crossing the surface of the patch of blue towards him.
"Some hippo out catching the early worm," said Tom to himself, smiling
afterwards as the inaptness of the phrase struck him. He raised the
glass to his eyes. "No, it’s not a hippo; it’s a canoe! By Jove! what
if it’s the dago!"
While he was still gazing at it, the canoe came within the circle of
papyrus, and disappeared from view. Seeing another clear stretch on the
near side of this clump of reeds, Tom called to Mbutu to run up the
hill. It was important to know whether they were indeed pursued. Not
that Tom was alarmed--he felt himself a match on even terms for any
Portuguese,--but he preferred not to be taken by surprise, whatever
happened. The canoe emerged from the reeds just as Mbutu reached the
top of the hill. He looked in the direction Tom pointed, and with his
naked eye at once descried the canoe. The next moment he declared
excitedly:
"Dago man in canoe!"
"Bosh!" said Tom, to test him. "You have dago on the brain, I’m
afraid."
"White man all say bosh!" returned the boy. "No bosh! no bosh! Dago
man in canoe all same!"
Again the canoe vanished, and both observers watched tensely for its
reappearance. Twenty minutes elapsed; then it glided into view again.
It was now no more than a mile away.
"Sah, see!" cried Mbutu. "Dago sure nuff."
"You are right, Mbutu. We are being followed. We needn’t get
flustered, but we must start at once, and eat our breakfast as we go."
Hurrying down the hill, he ordered the crew on board, and loosed the
rope. In another minute the canoe was bounding like a racer rapidly
up-stream.
"The dago has not yet seen us, at any rate," said Tom, "and we may get
clear away without being observed at all if the men put their backs into
it."
"No, sah! Birds fly up; tell dago canoe in front. Dago know all same."
"Then it’s a question of speed, eh? Well, we’ve the lighter canoe; crew
four and passengers two. He has the heavier canoe; crew eight and
passenger one. We shall get through where he would stick in the mud;
though the water seems to have a fair depth here, worse luck. Well,
Mbutu, we’re not going to be overhauled; tell the men there’s kiboko
after them; that’ll make them hurry."
The crew paddled away swiftly, and began to sing. Tom was relieved to
find that words and tune were changed at last, but after a few bars he
peremptorily stopped them.
"The dago will hear them," he said, "and it will be just as well for us
not to let him know our whereabouts. Tell them another story, Mbutu."
Tom sat rigidly in the stern, wondering how the Portuguese had got on
their track. The course of events since he had been turned back by
Tom’s crew twenty-four hours before was as follows. He had paddled
down-stream till he reached the place where Tom had embarked, and then
sent one of his men to the village to find out what was going on there.
The man returned, bringing the news that the white man had left. Furious
at being so easily outwitted, the Portuguese had then gone up himself,
seized the first negro he came upon, and demanded information about
Tom’s route. This the negro, obeying the instructions of his chief,
given to the whole village, at first refused; whereupon the Portuguese
tied him to a tree and thrashed him till the poor wretch, in sheer
desperation, told all he knew. Without wasting another moment the
Portuguese started in pursuit, enraged at having lost five hours through
so simple a trick. Pressing his men, he arrived within five miles of
Tom before dark, and starting again before sunrise, he had by seven
o’clock crept up to within a mile of his quarry, as Tom had fortunately
discovered.
Tom knew nothing of all this, except that the Portuguese was close on
his heels. As his crew bent themselves to their task, he sat reviewing
the situation. He had this advantage over the Portuguese, that, having
seen the pursuer while himself unseen, he could ply his men with a
stronger, because more actual, incentive to speed. But he had no idea
how much farther they had yet to paddle before they reached Lake
Mazingo, and though two of the natives had performed the journey before,
their ideas of distance were vague. If many miles remained to be
covered, and the chase resolved itself into a prolonged race, Tom saw
clearly enough that the Portuguese was bound to win, for, having the
larger crew, he could divide his men into relays. Given even chances,
then, Tom recognized the impossibility of outdistancing the pursuer.
There remained two alternative courses: either to beach the canoe at
once and take to the woods, or to attempt some ruse. A moment’s
reflection showed him that the first was unwise, for it would mean
finding a way laboriously through unknown forest, necessarily at a slow
pace, and the result might be that before he could overtake the
expedition the mischief would be done. As to the second alternative,
Tom racked his brains for a trick likely to succeed in throwing the
Portuguese off the scent; but the only thing that suggested itself was
to run his canoe up some deep creek, and remain in hiding there until
the larger canoe had passed and might be deemed out of harm’s way. On
second thoughts Tom gave this up also. Failure to sight the canoe he
was chasing, and the sudden cessation of disturbance among the
water-fowl ahead, might arouse suspicion in the pursuer’s mind, and
provoke him to search the creeks; and even supposing it did not, Tom’s
own progress after the larger canoe had gone by would have to be
regulated so cautiously that in this case also precious time would be
lost. Reviewing all these points, Tom came to the conclusion that his
best plan was to hold on as he was going as long as he could, and then
trust to the accidents of the chase to make his way clear.
On they went, then, for mile after mile. The sun was now high, and the
willing negroes were panting and perspiring freely. Mbutu in the bows
kept a sharp eye on the winding river behind, but so far had not caught
so much as a glimpse of the pursuing craft. About ten o’clock, when the
crew were patently flagging, the head-man spoke rapidly to Mbutu,
dropping his paddle for a moment, and pointing eagerly ahead.
"What does he say?" asked Tom, observing this.
"Him say ribber make bow, sah," said Mbutu, describing an arc in the
air. "Ribber go round hill; way ober hill soon, much soon. Canoe stop,
master walk ober."
Tom was at first somewhat perplexed at this vague statement, but by
questioning the men he learnt that the canoe was approaching a great
bend in the river, which wound about the base of a hill some two hundred
feet high, thickly covered with scrub. The distance round the hill by
the river was about a mile and a half, while overland across the hill it
was little more than three-quarters of a mile. Mbutu explained this by
comparing the curving stream to a bent bow, and the hill path to the
bow-string. Tom at once saw that if the Portuguese were close on their
heels, and chanced to know of the short cut, he might disembark half his
crew, cross the hill, and possibly arrive at the farther end of the arc
before Tom’s canoe. In any case, if he were armed, as the natives had
declared, there was little chance of escaping with a whole skin, or even
of escaping at all.
Tom did not take long to make up his mind what to do. The canoe was
already approaching the bend, and he saw the hill looming up to the
right, covered with purple and dark-green scrub.
"Mbutu," he said, "you take the head-man’s paddle. He and I will go
across the hill and watch for the enemy. The rest of you will paddle
with all your might round the bend, and wait for me at the other end of
it. I shall then know exactly what we have to expect."
"All right, sah!" returned Mbutu. "Me paddle well too much."
The men cleverly ran the canoe alongside a moss-covered rock, and Tom
sprang out, followed by the man who had given the information. Tired as
he was, the native started to run at Tom’s bidding, and picked his way
deftly through what from the riverside looked impenetrable scrub, Tom
sprinting behind with never a pause till they reached the top. There
they stooped behind a low, dense bush, and scanned the horizon. From
this point of vantage the whole of the shining river could be seen, save
where a knoll or bluff intercepted portions of it. Tom looked eagerly
in the direction whence he had come. Not more than a minute after he
had reached the hill-top the nose of the long canoe shot into sight.
Tom scanned it through his field-glass. The crew were going strong, but
there was nothing to show whether the Portuguese had sighted the fleeing
canoe. Tom was relieved to see that he had increased his lead slightly
since the morning. On came the graceful craft; four minutes passed, and
the silent watchers saw that it was making for the bank.
"The dago, or one of his men, knows of this short cut, then," said Tom
to himself. "I wonder if we left any footprints on the rock."
But the canoe grounded some distance on the farther side of Tom’s
landing-place. The Portuguese jumped ashore, followed by four of his
crew, all armed with rifles. They began the ascent, not so nimbly as
Tom and his companion, and without discovering any traces of earlier
pedestrians. Tom gave an anxious glance at the river. His canoe was
still a quarter of a mile from the spot which he had already marked for
rejoining it. The other canoe was rounding the bend, going rather less
rapidly. A glance to the left showed him the Portuguese and his men
advancing steadily through the scrub. It was time to be off. Signing
to his man to lead the way, Tom plunged after him downhill. It was even
rougher going than on the other side. Scrambling here and sliding
there, at the imminent risk of breaking his neck, or at least spraining
an ankle, Tom pelted along after his nimble guide, and arrived
breathless at the water’s edge, his clothes torn and his hands scratched
by the scrub and thorn. His canoe arrived a few moments later, and,
wading quickly through the shallows, Tom and the Muganda clambered on
board.
At that instant the still air was cleft by two sharp cracks, and two
bullets whizzed past, dropping harmlessly into the water. Tom looked up
and saw the Portuguese, clearly in a wild state of excitement, pounding
down the hill with his four negroes. Tom’s crew, exultant at having so
successfully escaped, raised their lusty voices in the war-chant of
their tribe, hurling defiance at the baffled pursuers. Tom sternly bade
them cease, pointing to the quarter of a mile of clear water which they
had still to traverse before they reached the shelter of a new clump of
reeds. Again came the crack! crack! of rifles, but the Portuguese and
his men were out of breath, and their fire was wild. One bullet hit the
side of the canoe. A splinter flew up, striking one of the crew in the
fleshy forearm and making a nasty gash. In a moment Tom tore a strip
from one of his bundles of calico, and, recalling his experience of
ambulance work in the cadet corps at school, swiftly bound up the wound.
He then ordered Mbutu to take the wounded man’s paddle, and turned to
watch the doings of the enemy.
But he was already out of sight. The larger canoe, now hidden by the
reeds, had just reached the horn of the curve, where the Portuguese was
awaiting it. He was in a towering passion, and heaped unmeasured abuse
on his luckless crew for failing to overtake their expected prey. By
the time he and his men were afloat again, Tom’s canoe was fully a mile
and a half in advance, and out of sight.
It was now past mid-day. The heat was terrible, and there had been no
time for a meal since starting. Tom had nibbled a few biscuits and
drunk a little water, and his crew had munched some of their ground-nuts
and cheese, relieving each other in pairs for a few minutes at a time.
Tom did not dare to allow them to stop paddling altogether, for the
pursuing crew could divide into larger relays, and he guessed that,
having once sighted him, the Portuguese would give his men no respite
until they overtook him. He wondered how long his own men’s marvellous
staying-power would hold out. Watching them anxiously, he saw with
concern that, as the afternoon wore on, their strokes became less
certain and put less and less way on the canoe. Mbutu, willing lad,
relieved the others in turn at intervals, but, though he had said that
he could "paddle well too much", it was obvious that he was out of
training, as well as muscularly less hardy than the stalwart negroes.
About five o’clock Mbutu, again in his old place in the bow, cried
suddenly:
"Dago man come close!"
Tom glanced round. The larger canoe was no more than three-quarters of
a mile behind, and its crew gave a whoop of delight when they saw how
they had gained on the other. The Portuguese stood up in the stern, and,
raising his rifle to his shoulder, fired. Mbutu instinctively ducked,
and it was well he did so, for the bullet flew by within an inch of his
head and plumped into the water a few yards beyond. Tom’s canoe then
rounded a bend, and once more the pursuers were lost to view.
Half an hour later the two vessels were again in sight of each other,
and now were scarcely half a mile apart. Another shot came whizzing
through the air, and passed between the two Baganda nearest Mbutu. They
gave a slight shudder as they heard its weird ping, and bent frantically
to their paddles. Tom’s mouth was set, and there came into his blue
eyes the steely expression which had always given his school-fellows a
feeling of expectancy and apprehension. He did not think of himself.
He thought only of his uncle and the Portuguese, of how for his uncle’s
sake he must by hook or by crook evade the clutches of the conspirator
behind. His feeling towards the pursuer was curiously impersonal, the
same kind of feeling that he would have had towards a bowler at
cricket--a skilled player to keep his eye on and beat if he could. He
saw that but for some unforeseen accident he would be compelled to take
to the woods within a very few minutes, and then, though he was resolved
not to be captured, he would give little for his chances of reaching the
expedition in time.
At this critical moment his eye lit on a tree overhanging the river,
which had here narrowed to little more than a gorge between steep banks.
It was light in the trunk, but very thick in foliage. A second glance
showed him that the roots, protruding from loose red soil, were almost
bare, and he instantly inferred that a recent storm, and probably the
flooding of the river, had shaken their hold. A third glance as the
canoe brought him nearer made it plain that, but for a rope-work of
climbing plants which had woven itself about the trunk, the tree would
have already fallen across the stream.
Tom saw here a bare chance of escape, and, with characteristic readiness
to seize the merest semblance of an opportunity, he prepared to make the
most of it. As the canoe shot along beneath the overhanging branches,
he marked a small rivulet that cut a way through the bank just beyond
the tree. In a ringing voice, careless now whether his pursuer heard
him or not, he ordered the men to run the canoe ashore, then to follow
him up the narrow watercourse with their axes. In half a minute he had
swarmed up the bank; in another half the men’s keen axes had torn away
the climbing-plant supports. His men threw themselves _en masse_ upon
the trunk, and just as the enemy’s canoe came within two hundred paces,
the tree fell with a loud crash, and lay across from bank to bank,
completely blocking the waterway with its tangle of boughs and leaves.
Springing down the bank again, Tom and his panting crew jumped into the
canoe, and were three hundred yards up-stream and nearly out of sight
before the Portuguese had realized the impossibility of continuing the
chase on the water. He wasted some minutes in a vain attempt to drag
his craft over the obstruction, and a few more in flinging curses after
Tom and firing at random over the tree; then he landed with his crew,
and began to chase his quarry along the shore. But before he had run a
quarter of a mile he found himself up to his knees in ooze, and, after
floundering helplessly about for a time, he fired one vindictive shot
and relinquished the pursuit.
Not till then did Tom allow his crew to relax their efforts.
"Easy all; you have done well!" he cried.
They shipped their paddles gladly. They were gasping for breath; the
sinews of their arms stood out like whip-cord, and their streaming faces
had taken on the livid hue that is the only paleness a black knows. Tom
himself, after the tension of the last hour, felt limp and unstrung, and
it was with a sigh of thankfulness that he heard Mbutu, interpreting one
of the natives, inform him that the marshy flats at which they had
arrived formed the eastern extremity of Lake Mazingo. The sun was just
setting, and in the fast-gathering darkness he could descry the gigantic
forms of hippopotamuses and rhinoceroses taking their evening bath in
the mud.
Feeling assured that the surrounding swamp would effectually protect him
from any nocturnal surprise on the part of the Portuguese, Tom gave
orders to the men to make as good a meal as they could, and then to
sleep in the canoe, taking turns to watch. For himself, he stayed his
hunger with a few bananas that Mbutu had put aside for him, some
biscuits, and a cake of unleavened millet produced by his thoughtful
henchman. He examined the wounded man’s arm, and gave it a fresh
dressing; then, worn out by the anxieties and excitements of the day, he
wrapped himself in his rug, gazed up at the benignant stars, and fell
fast asleep.