THE COLOURS
The whole camp was gathered about a number of M'tela's people, who were
all talking at once. The din was something prodigious. Kingozi pushed
his way rather angrily to the centre of disturbance.
"Here, what is this?" he demanded to know.
But a dead, astonished silence fell upon them all. They stared at him
gaping.
"What is it?" repeated Kingozi impatiently.
"But _bwana!_" cried Cazi Moto. "You see!"
"That is a magic," replied Kingozi curtly. "Now what is all this
_kalele_ about?"
"Bwana, these people say that messengers have come in telling of many
white men and _askaris_ marching in this direction."
"From where? But that does not matter--are they _Inglishee_ or
_Duyche?_"
"These _shenzis_ do not know the difference."
"That is true. How far away are they?"
"Very near, _bwana_."
"Get my gun. Have Simba follow me. Here, you lead the way." They
marched rapidly through the forest path and past the palace of M'tela,
which Kingozi had never seen. The savage king came out, and Winkleman
and his bodyguard soon followed.
"Oh, King," said Kingozi. "Now is the time to show to me that your
friendship is true. As you know, other white men are coming, with
warriors. I do not know yet whether these are _Inglishee_, who are my
friends--and yours--or _Duyche_, who are my enemies. If they are
_Duyche_ they must be attacked and killed or captured, for we are at
war."
He watched M'tela carefully while he spoke, and felt satisfaction at
what he saw.
"Have no fear, papa," replied M'tela easily. "I will cause the great
drums to be beaten. My warriors are as the leaves of the grass; and
these are few."
"Nevertheless they will kill many of yours," said Kingozi with great
earnestness; "for they have guns that kill many times and at a long
distance. When your warriors hear the great noise they make, and see
the dead men, they will run." "You do not know the warriors of M'tela,"
replied the king with dignity. "Should the half of them fall, the other
half will give these to the hyenas. Yes, even if they had the thunder
itself as weapon!"
"How many are there, oh, King?" asked Kingozi, greatly relieved.
"My men report thirty-one white men and many black men."
"I go now," advised Kingozi, "to look upon these men. Give me guides,
and a messenger to send back with news of what I find."
M'tela issued the orders. A moment later Kingozi started on. Winkleman,
who had spoken no word, waved him a friendly good-bye. Before they had
reached the forest edge the great war drums began to roar.
The guides took them swiftly down the forest path and across the
rolling country with the groves. Kingozi looked at it all with
curiosity and delight. It seemed to him that never in all his
wanderings had he seen so beautiful and variegated a prospect. His
blindness had overtaken him, it must be remembered, out on the open dry
veldt, between the Great and the Little Rains. It was as though he had
awakened from a sleep to find himself in this watered, green, and
wooded paradise.
At the top of a hill the guide stopped and pointed. Kingozi gathered
that through the distant cleft he indicated the strangers must come.
All sat down and waited.
[Illustration: "At the top of the hill the guide stopped and pointed.
Kingozi gathered that through the distant cleft he indicated the
strangers must come"]
An hour passed. Simba uttered an exclamation. Kingozi raised his
glasses. Tiny figures on foot were debouching from the forest. They
spread in all directions, advancing in fan-formation. Evidently the
scouts. Then more tiny figures, figures on horseback. Kingozi counted
them. There were, as M'tela had said, just thirty-one; a gallant little
band, but at this distance indistinguishable. They rode out some
distance. And at last the first files of the black troops appeared.
Kingozi dropped his glasses to the end of its thong with a cheer.
Drooping in the still air the colours were nevertheless easily
recognized. The flag was of England.
"_Inglishee! Inglishee!_" he repeated to M'tela's messengers, and made
a motion back toward the palace. The men departed at a lope. Kingozi
and Simba took the other direction.
They met the newcomers halfway across the long, shallow dish between
the wooded hills. On catching sight of them the mounted white men
spurred forward. A confusion of greetings stormed them.
"It's Culbertson!" "Where did _you_ rain down from?" "We've been
looking for you without end! Isn't this a lark, old man!"
In the meantime, in the personal attendants of these white men, Simba
had discovered acquaintances; among them the two messengers Kingozi had
despatched back in quest of Doctor McCloud.
Kingozi stood in the middle of the group, his heart overflowing. It was
good to see so many white faces again; it was good to see the faces of
friends; it was good to know that his labours had not been in vain, and
that the border was assured. And underneath it was a great exaltation.
He walked on air. For she had not known! The blank astonishment of her
face had proved that to him beyond a doubt. She really thought that she
had destroyed the pilocarpin; she had not deliberately held from him
the light of day!
His high spirits expressed themselves in an animation and volubility so
unlike the taciturn Culbertson that many of his acquaintances stared.
"Seems quite bucked up," commented one to another. "Must have had a
deuce of a time back here."
"What is this arm of His Majesty's Service, anyway?" Kingozi was asking
in general. "I mean the mounted and disreputable portion, not the
decent infantry."
"This, my son, is the Settlers' Own Irregulars; and we've come out for
to hunt the shy and elusive German."
"Good heads scarce up this way," rejoined Kingozi. "I've caught one
specimen myself, however."
"Specimen of what?"
"German. Ever hear of Winkleman?"
"Rather! The native _fundi?_[19] You don't mean to say you've got him!"
[Footnote 19: Fundi--expert.]
"I've got him. He's the only specimen in these parts. But I can show
you several thousand of the best fighting men in Africa--all loyal
British allies."
"Good man!" cried a grizzled old settler. "I told 'em you'd do it!"
"But the war?" demanded Kingozi eagerly. "What of the war? Tell me? I
know nothing whatever."
One of the younger men dismounted and insisted on delivering his animal
to Kingozi.
"Do me good to stretch my legs," said he. "And you've walked your
share."
Riding in a little group of the officers Kingozi listened attentively
to an account of affairs as far as they were known. The Marne, and the
Retreat from Mons straightened him in his saddle. It was worth it; he
had done his bit! Whatever the price, it was worth it!
The account finished, Captain Walsh began questioning in his turn.
"Excellent!" he greeted Kingozi's account. "Couldn't be better! We have
reasons to believe that the water-holes on this route are mapped by the
Germans."
"They are," interrupted Kingozi.
"And that the plan contemplated coming through here, gathering the
tribes as they advanced, and finally cutting in on us with a big force
from the rear."
"They'll run against a stone wall hereabouts," said Kingozi with
satisfaction.
"Lucky for us. I've only four companies--and these settlers. We are
really only a reconnaissance."
"How did you happen to follow my route?"
"Ran against the messengers you sent back to get Doctor McCloud. They
guided us. By the way, what is it? Must have been serious. You're not a
man to run to panics. You look fit enough now."
"Eyes," explained Kingozi. His heart sank, for the failure of his
messengers to go on after McCloud took away the last small hope of
saving his eyesight.
"Fancy it will be all right," said Captain Walsh vaguely. He was
thinking, quite properly, of ways and means and dispositions. "About
this sultan, now; what do you advise----"
They rode forward slowly through the high, aromatic grasses, discussing
earnestly every angle of policy to be assumed in regard to M'tela. At
its close all the white men were called together and given
instructions. Even the youngest and most flippant knew natives well
enough to realize the value of the structure Kingozi had built, and to
listen attentively.
These alternate marches and halts had permitted the foot troops to
close up. Kingozi turned in his saddle to look at them. Fine,
upstanding black men they were, marching straight and soldierly, neat
in their uniforms of khaki, with the dull red tarboush, the blue
leggings, the bare knees and feet. They were picked troops from the
Sudan, these, fighting men by birth, whose chief tradition was that in
case his colonel was killed no man must come back to his woman short of
wiping out the last of the enemy. In spite of a long march they walked
jauntily. Two mounted white men brought up the rear.
Now they entered the cool forest trail. The sound of distant drums
became audible. Men straightened in their saddles. Captain Walsh gave
crisp orders. They entered the cleared space before M'tela's palace
with colours flying and snare drums tapping briskly.
The full force of M'tela's power seemed to have been gathered, gorgeous
in the panoply of war. The forest threw back the roar of drums, of
horns, of people chanting or shouting. Straight to the middle of the
square marched the Sudanese, wheeled smartly into line. At a command
they raised their rifles and fired a volley, the first gunfire ever
heard in this ancient forest.