ON THE TRACK
"Mr. Wilmshurst, I shall require you to proceed on special service,"
said Colonel Quarrier.
"Very good, sir," replied Dudley promptly, and awaited the C.O.'s
instructions.
It was the evening of the fall of M'ganga. The prisoners had been
collected and were about to be sent under escort to Kilwa. Fully under
the impression that he was to be detailed for this monotonous but
necessary duty Wilmshurst had reported himself to his colonel, but to
his intense satisfaction he soon found that such was not the C.O.'s
intention.
"Concerning this MacGregor-Gobendorff fellow," continued Colonel
Quarrier. "It seems as if he has slipped through our fingers. We have
been robbed of much of the satisfaction of capturing the position on
that account. The Rhodesian Light Horse patrols are all back and
report no luck as far as the capture of von Gobendorff is concerned,
and the same applies to the Indian troops. From some of the prisoners
we learnt that the fellow slipped away during the preliminary
bombardment, and that he was not mounted. I have arranged with Colonel
Mopesson, of the Light Horse, for a mounted patrol to be sent in
pursuit, and since it is desirable for some one to identify the Hun--it
sounds like counting our chickens before they are hatched, by the
bye--I propose that you accompany the Rhodesians."
"Yes, sir," replied the subaltern.
"Very good. You have half an hour to make preparations," resumed the
C.O. "Take a batman with you--a man who can ride well. You will
rejoin your battalion at Kossa in three days' time, circumstances
permitting."
Wilmshurst saluted and withdrew to make his brief preparations. Having
given Tari Barl instructions to pack his kit the subaltern sent for
Sergeant Bela Moshi.
"Find me a man who can ride well," he said.
A broad grin overspread the Haussa non-com.'s face.
"No go for look, sah," he replied. "Me know one time quick. Good man;
him ride like de wind."
"Then bring him here," continued Wilmshurst.
"Him here, sah--me, Bela Moshi."
"I didn't know that you could ride," remarked the subaltern dubiously,
fancying that Bela Moshi in his desire to accompany him was inventing a
fairy tale concerning his equestrian abilities.
"Me one-time groom in Freetown, sah," declared Bela Moshi. "Me lib for
ride any old hoss till him bust."
"I'll try you," announced Wilmshurst. "If you are wasting my time look
out for squalls."
At the lines where the horses were picketed the Haussa picked out a
powerful-looking brute--a "salted" Cape horse which had shown
considerable temper at previous times.
Vaulting upon the animal Bela Moshi rode it barebacked, urging it at a
gallop and finishing by taking a formidable obstacle in the shape of a
cactus-bush.
"How can do, sah?" he asked.
"Good enough," replied Wilmshurst. "Cut off and pack your kit. We
have only ten minutes."
Well within the time specified the Haussa was ready for the trek, his
kit consisting of a blanket, rifle and ammunition, a haversack and his
cooking utensils. In addition he carried his master's water-filter and
a light waterproof tent weighing together with the socketed poles a
little over two pounds.
"Good luck, old man!" exclaimed Spofforth, as his brother subaltern
rode off to join the patrol. "Kindest regards to MacGregor when you
meet him. Tell him how awfully delighted all of us will be to see him."
Wilmshurst's new comrades were all men of the Rhodesian farmer type,
well set-up, sturdy, independent and resourceful--a band of chums
voluntarily taken from their homesteads to render them immune from
invasion by tackling the Hun on his own ground.
All were splendidly mounted on horses inured to the miasmic climate,
"led" animals carrying their necessary equipment. Each man knew how to
take care of himself. He knew only the elementary principles of drill,
but was none the less a very tough proposition for a Hun to tackle.
Skilled in woodcraft and travelling, able to cover great distances with
the minimum of fatigue, and capable of going on short rations without
loss of efficiency the Rhodesians were ideal men for the work on hand.
One and all had a score to wipe off; though few, if any, had fallen in
with von Gobendorff they deeply resented the Hun's audacity in posing
as a Rhodesian, while those who were of Scots descent and bore Scottish
names were highly indignant at the idea of a German adopting the
honourable and ancient cognomen of MacGregor.
Through the far-flung Pathan outposts they passed and rode into the
night. Scores of Askaris, who had thrown away their arms, signified
their willingness to surrender. Some were questioned concerning the
flight of von Gobendorff, their replies confirming the reports of the
prisoners taken at M'ganga; and the surrendered men were ordered to
return and give themselves up to the Indian troops, since the main
objective of the patrol was the pursuit of the spy, von Gobendorff.
That night the patrol bivouacked a short distance from a native kraal,
the inhabitants of which gave them a warm, demonstrative and noisy
welcome, at the same time providing them with a goat, plenty of mealies
and water. Enquiries elicited the information that a party of
villagers had seen a white man hurrying through the bush, and
fortunately had not given any indication of their presence. According
to the natives' report the fugitive was making in a north-westerly
direction.
"He'll have his work cut out to cross the Kiwa," declared the sergeant
of the patrol. "The river's pretty full just now and swarms of hippos.
I doubt whether he'll tackle it at night."
"In that case we'll boot and saddle an hour before sunrise," declared
Wilmshurst. "My man, Bela Moshi, will be able to follow the spoor like
a cat.... Oh, yes, light as many fires as you like. Von Gobendorff is
too far away to see the glare."
The night passed quietly. Although there were wild animals prowling
round they kept a respectful distance. Men in pairs took turn in
keeping watch, their comrades lying wrapped in blankets, with their
feet towards the fire, each with his loaded rifle by his side.
After a good meal, consisting of roast goat's-flesh, millet bread and
hot chocolate, the trek was resumed, the Haussa following the spoor
with the sagacity and skill of a sleuth-hound until it was light enough
to enable the Rhodesians to follow up the trail.
After a distance of five miles had been covered the patrol halted in
perplexity, for, seemingly from nowhere another spoor joined that of
the one they were following. There were distinct imprints of two men
walking--one wearing veldt-schoen, the other the heavy marching boot
supplied to the German colonial units.
The latter was of slightly recent origin, as witnessed by the fact that
here and there the footprints of the boots had partly obliterated those
of the veldt-schoen.
"It strikes me we've only just tumbled on the right spoor," declared a
Rhodesian. "Of the two I should imagine von Gobendorff was wearing
military boots. I suppose you didn't happen to notice what he wore
while he was attached to the Waffs?"
"Boots and gaiters," replied Wilmshurst. "But, of course, that was
some time ago."
"And boots are scarce in this show," rejoined the other tentatively.
"When a man gets used to wearing a certain pair he's not likely to
discard them in a hurry. I'll bet that is von Gobendorff's trail."
"And the other?" asked Dudley.
"A nigger might be wearing veldt-schoen," suggested another Rhodesian.
"Perhaps he looted them, and in his natural vanity, decided to put them
on instead of slinging them round his neck. In my experience I find
that a native 'boy' will wear veldt-schoen, but he'll draw the line at
boots."
"In any case," remarked Wilmshurst, "the two spoors lead the same way,
so we'll carry on."
Half a mile further the tracks separated, the older ones continuing
straight on, those of the boots breaking away to the left.
After a brief debate the pursuers decided to follow the latter spoor.
This they followed for another four miles until it vanished on an
expanse of hard, sun-baked ground.
"We're close to the Kiwa," announced one of the patrol, who had pushed
on ahead for fifty yards. "There's a kraal over yonder, and I can see
the water between the trees."
Into the native village the pursuers rode, to hear a tale of woe from
the headman. An armed German had passed through not an hour
previously. He had demanded food and native beer; he had made no
attempt to pay for the articles, and out of sheer mischief had set fire
to a hut. Commandeering a canoe he had compelled the natives to ferry
him across the river, and the four blacks who manned the craft had just
returned with the news that he had gone into the bush.
"What was the German like?" asked a Rhodesian, who spoke the language
of the natives with the utmost fluency.
The headman began to give an elaborate and detailed description, but it
was soon evident that the pursuers were on the wrong track.
"Dash it all!" exclaimed Wilmshurst impetuously. "We've lost the
fellow--what's that, Bela Moshi?"
"Go ober dem water one-time quick, sah; den you catch Bosh-bosh as him
go for run away."
"That's a smart idea," declared Dudley, never backward in giving credit
for other persons' ideas.
"Quite good," agreed the section commander of the patrol. "Over we go;
the horses will have to swim."
Borrowing a couple of canoes the pursuers stepped into the cumbersome
craft, four men in each had their loaded rifles ready to fire at any
hippos that might attack the horses; the others, grasping the reins of
the well-trained animals, guided them across.
The passage of the Kiwa--which was here about one hundred and twenty
yards in breadth--was performed without mishap, in spite of the fact
that the current ran at a speed of two knots, for the spot where the
crossing was effected was two miles below the rapids that had all but
claimed von Gobendorff as a victim.
Just as the second canoe was running aground one of the natives uttered
a cry of surprise, and pointed to a water-logged dug-out drifting
broadside on down stream. It was a prize well worth having, and
without waiting to put Wilmshurst and the rest of the passengers ashore
the blacks paddled out and secured the derelict.
"Golly, sah!" exclaimed the Haussa sergeant. "Him canoe have one-time
man alive. Now him dead as mutton."
Lying on the bottom of the canoe with his head raised above the water
was a native. As the rescuing craft ran alongside the man opened his
eyes.
The call of humanity having a prior claim to the importance of the
pursuit Wilmshurst and the Rhodesians rendered all the aid in their
power to revive the badly-wounded man. Examination showed that he had
been shot at close range by a small-bore high velocity bullet. The
missile had scraped his right ear, and entering at the shoulder had
emerged just above the third rib. It was a nasty wound, but with
ordinary attention it ought not to prove fatal.
Finding that he was being well treated the injured man recovered
sufficiently to explain what had occurred. There was no mistaking the
description of his assailant--also another crime had been added to the
list against Ulrich von Gobendorff, that of attempted murder.
"So the blighter is making for Twashi," remarked Wilmshurst, consulting
his field service map. "That's well up in the Karewenda Hills. We may
head him off even yet."
Mounting, the patrol, their energies quickened by the evidence of this
latest Hunnish atrocity, set off at a gallop across the comparatively
open country betwixt the Kiwa and the base of the Karewenda Hills. Woe
betide von Gobendorff should he be spotted by one of the lynx-eyed
Rhodesians.