In the course of an hour or two Mr. Martindale's canoe reached the camp, on a piece of rising ground immediately above the river. Here he found the rest of his party—some fifty strong West African natives—the three canoes in which they had come up stream lying nose to stern along the low bank, only the first being moored, the others roped to it.
The party had reached the spot three days before, and were resting after the fatigues of their journey. These had been by no means slight, for the men had had to haul the canoes through the rapids, and sometimes to make portages for a considerable distance. Fortunately the canoes were not heavily laden. They contained merely a good stock of food, and a few simple mining tools. This was only a prospecting trip, as Mr. Martindale was careful to explain before leaving Boma.
His friend Barnard's instructions had been clear enough. The discovery had been accidental. Coming one day, in the course of his wanderings, to the village of Ilola, he happened to learn that the chief's son was down with fever. The villagers had been somewhat unfriendly, and Barnard was not loth to purchase their goodwill by doing what he could for the boy. He cured the fever. The chief, like most of the negroes of Central Africa, had strong family affections, and was eager to give some practical token of his gratitude for his son's recovery. When taking the boy's pulse, Barnard had timed the beats by means of his gold repeater. The chief looked on in wonderment, believing that the mysterious sounds he heard from the watch were part of the stranger's magic. When the cure was complete, he asked Barnard to present him with the magic box; but the American made him understand by signs that he could not give it away; besides, it was useful only to the white man. Whereupon the chief had a happy thought. If the yellow metal was valuable, his friend and benefactor would like to obtain more of it. There was plenty to be found within a short distance of the village. The chief would tell him where it was, but him alone, conditionally. He must promise that if he came for it, or sent any one for it, the people of Ilola should not be injured; for every month brought news from afar of the terrible things that were done by the white men in their hunt for rubber. Perhaps the same might happen if white men came to look for gold.
Barnard gave the chief the desired assurance, undertaking that no harm should come to him or his people if he showed where the gold was to be found. The American was then led across a vast stretch of swampy ground to a rugged hill some three or four miles from Ilola. Through a deep fissure in the hillside brawled a rapid stream, and in its sandy bed the traveller discerned clear traces of the precious metal.
Barnard explained to Mr. Martindale that Ilola was several days' journey above the rapids on the Lemba, a sub-tributary of the Congo, and provided him with a rough map on which he had traced the course of the streams he would have to navigate to reach it. But even without the map it might be found without much difficulty: its name was well known among the natives along the upper reaches of the river, the chief being lord of several villages.
So far Mr. Martindale's journey had been without a hitch, and he was now within three or four days of his destination. It was the custom of the party to stay at night in or near a native village. There a hut could usually be got for the white men, and Barnard had told them that a hut was for many reasons preferable to a tent. Sudden storms were not infrequent in these latitudes, especially at night—a tent might be blown or washed away almost without warning, while a well-built native hut would stand fast. Moreover, a tent is at the best uncomfortably hot and close; a hut is more roomy, and the chinks in the matting of which its sides commonly consist allow a freer passage of air. The floor too is dry and hard, often raised above the ground outside; and the roof, made of bamboo and thatched with palm leaves and coarse grasses, is rain-tight.
Up to the present Mr. Martindale had met with nothing but friendliness from the natives, and a hut had always been at his disposal. But he had now reached a part of the river where the people knew white men only by hearsay, and could not distinguish between inoffensive travellers and the grasping agents whose cruelty rumour was spreading through the land. The people of the village where he wished to put up for this night were surly and suspicious, and he decided for once to sleep in his tent on the river bank instead of in a hut.
The party had barely finished their evening meal when the sun sank, and in a few minutes all was dark. Samba had been handed over to Barney, whose hospital experience enabled him to tend the boy's wound with no little dexterity, and the boy went happily to sleep in Barney's tent, his arm round Pat's neck. Jack shared his uncle's tent. He had been somewhat excited by the scenes and events of the day, and did not fall asleep the moment he lay down, as he usually did. The tent was very warm and stuffy; the mosquitoes found weak spots in his curtains and sought diligently for unexplored regions of his skin, until he found the conditions intolerable. He got up, envying his uncle, who was sound asleep, his snores vying with the distant roars of hippopotami in the river. Taking care not to disturb him, Jack stepped out of the hut, and understood at once why the air was so oppressive. A storm was brewing. Everything was still, as if weighed down by some monstrous incubus. Ever and anon the indigo sky was cut across by steel-blue flashes of forked lightning, and thunder rumbled far away.
Jack sauntered on, past Barney's tent, towards the river bank, listening to noises rarely heard by day—the grunt of hippopotami, the constant rasping croak of frogs, the lesser noises of birds and insects among the reeds. The boatmen and other natives of the party were a hundred yards away, beyond the tents he had just left. Sometimes they would chatter till the small hours, but to-night they were silent, sleeping heavily after their toil.
He came to a little eminence, from which he could look down towards the stream. Everything was black and indistinguishable. But suddenly, as a jagged flash of lightning momentarily lit the scene, he fancied he caught a glimpse of a figure moving below, about the spot where the nearest of the canoes was moored. Was it a wild beast, he wondered, prowling for food? Or perhaps his eyes had deceived him? He moved a little forward; carefully, for the blackness of night seemed deeper than ever. Another flash! He had not been mistaken; it was a figure, moving on one of the canoes—a human form, a man, stooping, with a knife in his hand! What was he doing? Once more for an instant the lightning lit up the river, and as by a flash Jack guessed the man's purpose: he was about to cut the mooring rope!
Jack's first impulse was to shout; but in a moment he saw that a sudden alarm might cause the natives of his party to stampede. The intruder was alone, and a negro; Why not try to capture him? Jack was ready with his hands: his muscles were in good order; he could wrestle and box, and, as became a boy of Tom Brown's school, fight. True, the man had a knife; but with the advantage of surprise on his side Jack felt that the odds were fairly equal. He stole down the slope to the waterside, hoping that the darkness would remain unbroken until he had stalked his man. A solitary bush at the very brink gave him cover; standing behind it, almost touching the sleeping sentry who should have been guarding the canoes, Jack could just see the dark form moving from the first canoe to the second.
He waited until the man bent over to cut the connecting rope; then with three long silent leaps he gained the side of the foremost canoe, which was almost resting on the bank in just sufficient water to float her. The man had already made two or three slashes at the rope when he heard Jack's splash in the shallow water. With a dexterous twist of his body he eluded Jack's clutch, and swinging round aimed with his knife a savage blow at his assailant. Jack felt a stinging pain in the fleshy part of the thigh, and, hot with rage, turned to grapple with the negro. His fingers touched a greasy skin; the man drew back, wriggled round, and prepared to leap overboard. At the moment when he made his spring Jack flung out his hands to catch him. He was just an instant too late; the negro had splashed into the shallow water on the far side of the canoe, and disappeared into the inky blackness beyond, leaving in Jack's hands a broken string, with a small round object dangling from the end. At the same moment there was a heavy thwack against the side of the canoe; and Jack, mindful of crocodiles, bolted up the bank. He turned after a few yards, shuddering to think that the man had perhaps escaped him only to fall a victim to this most dreaded scourge of African rivers. But if he was indeed in the jaws of a crocodile he was beyond human help. He listened for a time, but could detect no sound betraying the man's presence. Pursuit, he knew, was useless. Except when the lightning flashed he could scarcely see a yard beyond him.
A midnight encounterA midnight encounter
Jack did not care to disturb his uncle. He went round the camp, found Nando with some difficulty in the darkness, and ordered him to send ten of the crew to occupy the canoes for the rest of the night. Then he went back to his tent, bound up his wound, and stretched himself on his mattress. He lay awake for a time, wondering what motive the intruder could have for damaging the expedition. At last, from sheer weariness, he dropped off into a troubled sleep in which he was conscious of a deluge of rain that descended upon the camp.
The morning however broke clear. Jack told his uncle what had occurred.
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Martindale. "What's the meaning of it, I wonder?"
"Do you think it was a move of that Belgian fellow, uncle?"
"Mr. Elbel? No, I don't. He has no reason for interfering with us. I've bought the rights from his company, and as they'll get royalties on all the gold I find, he's not such a fool as to hinder us."
"But Samba, uncle?"
"Bah! He was egged on to demand the boy by that villainous-looking nigger, and his dignity being a trifle upset, he thought he'd try it on with us. No, I don't think he was at the bottom of it. I've always heard that these niggers are arrant thieves; the villagers were unfriendly, you remember, and most likely 'twas one of them who took a fancy to our canoes. Glad you frightened him off, anyway. What about your wound?"
"It's nothing to speak of—a slight flesh wound. I washed it with alum solution, and don't think it will give me any bother."
"Lucky it's no worse. We'll set a careful watch every night after this. And take my advice: if you can't sleep, don't go prowling about; it isn't safe in these parts. Try my dodge; shut your eyes and imagine you see forty thousand sheep jumping a patent boundary fence in single file; or if that don't work, say to yourself: 'How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?'—and keep on saying it. I've never known it fail."
"Perhaps it's a good job I didn't know it last night," replied Jack, laughing. "We should have been minus four canoes."
"And all our stores. But don't do it again, there's a good fellow. I've paid double passage, and I don't want to go home alone."
The camp was by this time astir. The natives, chattering like monkeys, were busily preparing their breakfast. Barney was engaged in a like service for the white men, and Samba proved himself to be an adept at cleaning the fish which some of the men had caught in the early morning.
"Sure an' he'll be a treasure, sorr," said Barney, as he handed Mr. Martindale his cup of tea and plate of broiled fish.
"Is the boy getting better?"
"As fast as he can, sorr. 'Twas want uv food more than wounds that was wrong wid him. All he really needs is a dish uv good honest murphies twice a day, and sorry I am they do not grow in this haythen counthry."
It was one of Barney's crosses that the only potatoes obtainableen routewere the sweet variety. Mr. Martindale rather liked them—a weakness which Barney regarded with sorrow as an injustice to Ireland.
Breakfast finished, the canoes were manned and the expedition resumed its journey. Samba kept the negroes amused with his songs and chatter and clever imitations of the cries of birds and beasts. His restless eyes seemed to miss nothing of the scenes along the river. He would point to what appeared to be a log cast up on the sand and exclaim "Nkoli!" and utter shrill screams: and the log would perhaps disappear, leaving no trace, or move and open a sleepy eye, and Barney ejaculate, "A crocodile, by all the holy powers!" Once he drew Jack's attention to a greenish lizard, some eight inches long, creeping down an ant-hill towards a tiny shrew mouse. Spying the enemy, the little creature darted down the slope, and took a header into the water; but the lizard came close upon its heels, sprang after it, and dragged it down into the deep.
"And what do you make of this?" said Jack suddenly, showing Samba the amulet he had torn from the neck of the midnight marauder. The boy started, stared at the piece of bone, looked up in Jack's face and exclaimed—
"Bokun'oka fafa!"[1]
"Him say belong him uncle," Nando interpreted.
Samba spoke rapidly to Nando.
"Him say belong berrah bad uncle on smoke-boat, sah. Him say how massa get him?"
Jack related the incident of the night, Nando translating to the boy, who listened gravely, but smiled at the end.
"Why does he smile?" asked Jack.
"He say him uncle no lib for good any more: lost medicine ring; he no fit for do bad fings any more: get cotched ebery time."
"Begorra, sorr, 'tis like me very own uncle Tim, who niver had a day's luck after he lost the lucky sixpence given to 'm by a ginerous kind gentleman for holding a horse in Sackville Street whin he was a bhoy. He had always been unlucky before that, sorr, and sure the lucky sixpence would have made a rich man uv him in time; but he lost it the very same day, sorr, and had no luck at all at all."
"Well," said Mr. Martindale, laughing, "if the loss of this amulet means that the owner will never succeed in any tricks against us, I congratulate you, Jack. Will you wear it yourself?"
"No, uncle; I'll give it to Samba."
But Samba, when the charm was given to him, looked at it seriously for a moment, then his face broke into a beaming smile as he slipped the string about Pat's neck.
"Mbua end' ólótsi!"[2] he cried, clapping his hands.
Pat barked with pleasure and licked the boy's face.
"They're great chums already," remarked Mr. Martindale pleasantly, as he bit the end off a cigar.
That evening, when the time for camping came, there was no village in sight from the river, and Nando reported that the nearest lay too far from the stream to suit his employer. The banks were thickly wooded, and it appeared as if there would be some difficulty in finding a space sufficiently clear for a camp. But at last the travellers came to a spot where a stretch of level grassland ran wedge-like into the vegetation. At one end the ground rose gradually until it formed a bluff overhanging the river at a considerable height. This seemed as favourable a place as was likely to be discovered, and here the camp was pitched, the evening meal was eaten, and the travellers sought repose.
The night was very dark, and deep silence brooded over the encampment—such silence as the dweller in towns can never know. Not even the shriek of a nocturnal monkey or the splash of a fish pursued by a crocodile broke the stillness. Every member of the party was asleep. But all at once, Samba, lying just within the flap-door of Barney O'Dowd's tent, one arm pillowing his head, the other clasping the terrier, was disturbed by a low whine. He was awake in an instant. He had never heard Pat whine; the dog barked at everything; why had he changed his manner of speech? Samba got up: Pat had left him and stood in the entrance to the tent; the whine had become a growl. The boy followed him, stooped and felt in the dark for his head, then lifted him in his arms and went out, laying a hand on the dog's muzzle to silence him. Like other terriers, Pat objected to be carried.
The whine had wakened Barney also; Pat and he had passed many a night together. He heard the slight sound made by Samba's departure, and rising, went out in his stockings to follow him. He walked a few yards in the direction he supposed Samba to have taken; but it was too dark to see him, and neither boy nor dog made any further sound. Barney retraced his steps, and, wandering a little from the way he had come, stumbled over the sleeping body of one of the men placed as sentinels. He gave him a kick.
"Get up, you varmint!" he cried. "Is that the fashion uv keeping gyard?"
But as soon as he had passed on the man rolled over, gave a grunt, and was fast asleep again.
Meanwhile Samba had walked on towards the river bank, stopping at intervals to listen. He heard nothing; not even the usual nightly sounds came to him; the surrounding forest seemed asleep. But suddenly, Pat became restless and uttered a rumbling growl. Samba held him close and whispered to him, and the dog apparently understood, for the growl ceased. Then Samba caught the faint sound of paddles up-stream—a sound so familiar to him that he could not be mistaken.
He crept cautiously along, up the gradual ascent, until he came near the summit of the overhanging cliff. Moving stealthily to the edge he peered over; but in the blackness he could see nothing. The sound had ceased.
Feeling his way carefully with his bare feet, Samba slowly made his way down the grassy cliff until he came near the water's edge, then crept along the bank up stream. Again Pat uttered his low growl, but was instantly silent in response to the boy's whispered warning. Samba seemed to find his way by instinct over the uneven ground. Now and again he heard a beast scurry away at his approach and rustle through the bushes or plunge into the river; but he was not afraid: there was little risk of encountering a dangerous animal, and he was too far above the sandy level to stumble upon a crocodile lying in wait.
He went on steadily. It was not a native custom to move about in the dark hours, and, remembering what had happened the night before, he was intent upon discovering the business of the mysterious paddlers. After Pat's last smothered growl he proceeded more cautiously than ever. At last the sound of low voices ahead made him halt. Whispering again to Pat, who licked his hand as if to reassure him, he set the dog down and crept forward again, bending low, and taking care, dark as it was, to avail himself of every bush for cover. To judge by the voices, a large number of men must have gathered at some point not far ahead. He drew still nearer. All at once he halted again, and laid a hand on Pat's neck. Among the voices he had distinguished one that he knew only too well: it was that of his uncle Boloko. He stood rooted to the spot with dismay.
A few minutes later his quick ears caught the sound of men moving off at right angles to the river in a direction that would enable them to skirt the cliff and come upon the sleeping camp through the forest in its rear. In a flash he saw through their scheme. Bidding Pat in a whisper to follow him, he turned and hurried back, climbing the face of the cliffs with a panther's surefootedness, and racing along at his top speed as soon as he came to the downward slope. With Pat at his heels he dashed into Barney's tent.
"Etumba! Etumba!"[3] he exclaimed breathlessly. "Ba-lofúndú bao ya!"[4]
And Pat chimed in with three rapid barks.
[1] My father's younger brother.
[2] Good dog!
[3] Fight! (the natives' alarm signal).
[4] The villains are upon us!
"Bad cess to you, you young varmint!" exclaimed Barney, waking with a start. "What do you say at all?"
"Ba-lofúndú bao ya! Boloko!"
"Be jabers if I know what you'd be meaning. Off! Run! Nando! And it's pitch dark it is."
The boy scampered, Pat still at his heels. The dog had evidently been impressed by Samba's warnings, for he ran silently, without growl or bark. They came to the spot where Nando lay, beneath a spreading acacia. Samba shook him without ceremony.
"Ba-lofúndú bao ya!" he cried. "Betsua! Betsua!"[1]
Nando growled and bade him be off; but when the boy poured his story with eager excitement into the big negro's sleepy ears, Nando at last bestirred himself, and hurried to Mr. Martindale's tent, bidding Samba remain at hand.
"Samba him uncle, berrah bad man, come to fight," said Nando breathlessly when Jack came to the door of the tent. "Bad man go round round, hide in trees, come like leopard. Massa gone 'sleep: massa him men all lib for big sleep; Boloko shoot; one, two, massa dead all same."
"What, what!" said Mr. Martindale, flinging off his rug. "Another alarm, eh?" He pressed the button of an electric torch and threw a bright light on the scene.
"An attack in force this time, uncle," said Jack. "Some black fellows are coming to surprise us in the rear."
"How many are the villains?" said Mr. Martindale, pulling on his trousers.
"Two, free, hundred, fousand."
"A dozen all told, I suppose! Well, we'll fight 'em."
"Rather risky that, uncle," said Jack. "There may be more than a dozen, after all, and our men are not armed: we two couldn't do much against a hundred, say."
"True. Why was I such a fool? That Britisher at Matadi said I'd better arm my men, and I wish I'd taken his tip. We're in a tight corner, Jack, if the nigger is correct. Here, Nando, are you sure of this?"
"Sartin sure, sah. Me see fousand fifty black men creep, creep 'long ribber, sah: big lot guns, 'Bini guns, massa, go crack, crack. Come all round, sah; run like antelope: no time for massa run away."
Nando's face expressed mortal terror; there was no doubt he believed in the reality of the danger.
"How did they come?" asked Mr. Martindale.
"In boat, sah."
"Where are they?"
"Small small up ribber, sah."
"And I suppose you've alarmed the camp?"
"No, sah, no. Me no tell one boy at all."
"Well, it looks as if we're going to be wiped out, Jack. We can't fight a hundred armed men. If our fellows were armed, we might lay a trap for 'em; but we aren't strong enough for that. But perhaps if we show we're ready for 'em, and they're not going to surprise us, they may sheer off."
"Then why not take the offensive, uncle?"
"What d'you mean?"
"Attack the canoes while the most of them are marching round. They'd hear our shots and bolt back, as sure as a gun."
"That's slim. We'll try it. Go and wake Barney, Jack."
Barney, however, was already on his way to the tent, Jack explained the situation to him.
"Here's a revolver, Barney," said Mr. Martindale, as the Irishman came up. "You must do the best you can if there's a rush. Jack and I are going right away to the river: you're in charge."
Barney handled the revolver gingerly.
"Sure I'd feel more at home wid me shillelagh!" he muttered as he went away. Mr. Martindale turned to the negro.
"Now you, Nando, lead the way."
The man's eyes opened wide with fear.
"Me plenty sick in eyes, sah," he stammered. "Me only see small small. Boy Samba him eyes berrah fine and good, see plenty quick, massa; he show way."
"I don't care who shows the way," said Mr. Martindale, too much preoccupied with his hunting rifle and ammunition to notice the inconsistency between Nando's statement and the story he had already told. Nando called to Samba and told him what was required, and the party set off, the boy going ahead with Pat, Mr. Martindale and Jack following with their rifles, and Nando in great trepidation bringing up the rear.
Mr. Martindale puffed and panted as he scaled the bluff, and breathed very hard as he followed Samba down the rough descent to the brink of the river. When they came to comparatively level ground they halted.
"How far now?" asked Mr. Martindale, in a whisper.
"Small small, massa," replied Nando.
"Well, Jack, when we come near these precious canoes we'll fire both barrels one slick after the other, then reload."
"And go at them with a rush, uncle?"
"Rush! How can I rush? I'm pretty well blown already. But I could fetch wind enough to shout. We'll shout, Jack. Nando, you'll bawl your loudest, and the boy too. If I know these niggers they'll bolt. And look here, Jack, fire in the air: we don't want to hit 'em. If they stand their ground and resist, we can fire in good earnest; but they won't."
They took a few cautious steps forward, then Samba ran back, clutched Nando by the arm and whispered—
"Boat dah, sah," said the negro, under his breath. "Oh! me feel plenty sick inside!"
"Hush! Howl, then, when we fire. Now, Jack, ready? I'll let off my two barrels first."
Next moment there was a flash and a crack, followed immediately by a second. Nando and Samba had begun to yell at the top of their voices. Mr. Martindale bellowed in one continuous roll, and Pat added to the din by a furious barking. The noise, even to those who made it, was sufficiently startling in the deep silence of the night. Jack fired his two shots, but before his uncle had reloaded there was a yell from the direction of the canoes, then the sound of men leaping on shore and crashing through the bushes. Immediately afterwards faint shouts came from the forest at the rear of the bluff.
"We've done the trick," said Mr. Martindale with a chuckle. "Now we'll get back. They've had a scare. Let's hope we shall have no more trouble to-night."
He flashed his electric torch on the river bank below, and revealed five large canoes drawn up side by side.
"There must be more than a hundred of them," he added. "Each of those canoes can carry thirty men."
On the way back to the camp, they heard renewed shouts as the men who had marched into the forest broke out again in a wild dash for the threatened canoes. The camp was in commotion. Barney was volubly adjuring the startled natives to be aisy; but they were yelling, running this way and that, tumbling over one another in the darkness. The sight of Mr. Martindale's round red face behind his electric torch reassured them; and when Nando, who had now quite recovered his spirits, told them that he, with the white men's assistance, had put to flight twenty thousand bad men and Boloko, they laughed and slapped their thighs, and settled down in groups to discuss the event and make much of Nando during the rest of the night.
There was no more sleep for any of the party except Samba. He, satisfied that his new friends were safe, curled himself up on his mat with the inseparable terrier, and slept until the dawn. But Mr. Martindale sat smoking in his tent, discussing the events of the night with his nephew.
"I don't like it, Jack. We're on top this time, thanks to a little bluff. But there must have been a large number of them to judge by the canoes and the yells; and but for that fellow Nando we might easily have been wiped out. And from what Nando says they are those villainous forest guards of the Concession. What's the meaning of it? It may be that the Concession have repented of their bargain and want to keep me out, or perhaps Elbel is terrified lest I shall expose him when I get back to Boma. Either way, it seems as if we're going to have a bad time of it."
"I don't think it can be Elbel's doing, uncle. It's such a risky game to play, your expedition being authorized by his own people."
"I don't imagine Elbel is such a fool as to attack us officially. He can always disavow the actions of those natives. At any rate, I shall make a point of getting rifles for the men as soon as I can."
"They can't use them."
"Of course they can't; but you'll have to turn yourself into a musketry instructor. Meanwhile I must give that fellow Nando some sort of reward. It will encourage him and the others too."
When daylight broke Mr. Martindale went down to the river while Barney was preparing breakfast. There was no trace of the enemy. Presumably they had set their canoes afloat and drifted down stream in the darkness. They had no doubt reckoned on surprising the camp, and their calculations had been upset by the certainty of meeting with resistance, the fact that the travellers were poorly armed being forgotten in the panic bred of the sudden uproar in the night.
After breakfast Mr. Martindale had the men paraded in a semicircle around the tent, and, sitting on a stool in front of it, with Jack on one side and Barney on the other, he called Nando forward.
"We are very much pleased with your watchfulness, Nando."
The negro grinned, and with a ludicrous air of importance translated the sentence to his comrades.
"It is due to you that we were not surprised in the dark: you did very well, and set an excellent example to the men."
"Me plenty clebber, sah, oh yes!"
"I shall take care in future to have our camp more closely guarded, and punish any carelessness. But now, to show how pleased I am with you, I am going to give you a little present."
Nando's mouth spread from ear to ear. He translated the announcement to the negroes, looking round upon them with an expression of triumphant satisfaction that tickled Jack's sense of humour. Barney had shut one eye; his lips were twitching.
"But before I do that," went on Mr. Martindale, "I want you to tell us how you came to discover the enemy in the darkness."
Nando for a moment looked a little nonplussed, scratching his head and shifting from foot to foot. Then inspiration seized him; he elaborately cleared his throat, snapped his fingers, crossed his arms on his brawny chest, and began—
"Me no get sleep, me get up and go round about, fink see if massa's fings all right. Me stop, go sick inside; one, two eyes like twinkle twinkle look down out of tree." He waved his arm towards the acacia under which he had been sleeping. "Me fink dis plenty bad; what for man lib for hide in tree and look at Nando? Me no 'fraid, no, no; me walk all same, like me no see nuffin. Yah! me see all same, wait long time, man no fit for see Nando. Bimeby man come down like snake, creep, creep, 'long, 'long; me go too, what for? 'cos man plenty bad man, him go 'Bini gun, him go into wood. What for? Muss see; s'pose he go fetch bad man and shoot massa? He no come dis way 'less he lib for do bad fings. Him got 'Bini gun, me got spear; no good! Me no 'fraid. Plenty debbils in forest! Me no 'fraid. Massa say Nando look after fings; all same: Nando look after, no 'fraid, 'Bini gun, debbils and all. What for? Massa him Nando him fader and mudder. S'pose bad men shoot; s'pose debbil come; all same: muss do what massa say, look after fings, look after massa. Me no 'fraid!"
Again Nando paused and scratched his head, looking troubled. Then his face cleared; he took a deep breath and continued—
"Me go 'long 'long after bad man. He come to place no trees, grass all same: one, two, twenty, fousand bad men dah. Bad man say 'Kwa te! Kwa te!'[2] Dey talk, oh yes! whish! whish! same as trees when wind make talk. Me get behind tree; me hab got two, four, twenty ears. Me listen! Dey say come, creep, creep, bring 'Bini gun; white man all 'sleep; black man come, no nise, shoot: oh my gracious! White man all lib for dead! Me no 'fraid!"
"Who was the chief of these bad men?" interrupted Mr. Martindale.
"Boloko, sah!—Samba him uncle."
"But how could you tell that in the dark?"
"Dey hab got light: one, two, twenty tiny small fire on stick."
"Torches, he means, I suppose," said Mr. Martindale. "How did you find your way back in the dark?"
"Yah! Me know all 'bout dat. Me lib long time in forest, oh yes! Me fight little tiny men; dey plenty small, plenty good fighter all same; shoot one, two, free arrow; one, two, free fings gone dead. Me fight dem; so me find way like leopard."
"Well, you're a clever fellow, and you did very well. Here is a present for you."
He took from his pocket a huge bone-handled penknife, and displayed its various parts one by one: four blades, a corkscrew, a file, a hook, and an awl. Nando's eyes opened wide with delight; he chuckled gloatingly as one after another these treasures came to view. Mr. Martindale was shutting them up before handing over the knife when Barney stepped quietly forward, touched his cap and said—
"If you plase, sorr, before you part wid this handsome presentation, will I have yer leave to ax Mr. Nando wan question?"
"Why, you can if you like," said Mr. Martindale in surprise.
"Thank you, your honour. Now Mr. Nando, would you plase tell us if you ate a big supper uv maniac last night?"
"Manioc, Barney," corrected Jack with a smile.
"Sure that's what I said, sorr! Would you plase tell his honour, Mr. Nando?"
The man looked in amazement from one to another. He seemed to suspect a pitfall, but was puzzled to make out the bearing of the question.
"Sure I speak plain. Did ye, or did ye not, eat a big supper uv anything at all last night?"
"Me eat plenty little manioc," said Nando, thinking he was expected to defend himself against a charge of gluttony. "Me no pig like common black man."
"And you did not get a pain?"—here Barney helped out his meaning with pantomime—"nor dream all that terrible wild stuff you have just been telling us?"
"Me no can dream!" cried Nando, indignantly. "Me say true fings all same."
"Sure, thin, if your supper didn't give ye the nightmare, mine did. Begorra! 'twas a mighty terrible dream I dreamt, indeed, Mr. Nando. I dreamt you was snoring like a pig—like a common black pig, to be sure; and there came a little spalpeen uv a black bhoy, a common black bhoy, and shook ye by the shoulder, and called 'Baa! Baa! Bloko!' and some more I disremimber now; and thin——"
Nando, who had been looking more and more uneasy, here interrupted, hurriedly addressing Mr. Martindale—
"Me plenty sick inside, sah," he said, pressing his hands to the pit of his stomach. "Me eat plenty too much manioc all same."
Crestfallen and abashed the big fellow slunk away, Jack roaring with laughter, Mr. Martindale looking on in speechless amazement.
"Begorra, sorr," said Barney, "'tis a born liar he is. He was fast in the arms uv murphies, or maniac, speaking by the card, till the bhoy Samba woke him up. 'Twas Samba, sorr, that spied the enemy, and 'twas me little darlint uv a dog that gave the first alarm. Give a dog his due, sorr, and if you plase, give Samba the knife."
Mr. Martindale first looked annoyed, then broke into hearty laughter. He called for Samba, who came up smiling, with Pat at his heels.
"Where's that villain Nando?" cried Mr. Martindale. "He shall come and interpret."
In response to a summons Nando came from behind the crowd of natives. He had recovered his composure, and translated with glib and smiling unconcern the story which Samba told. Only when Mr. Martindale handed Samba the knife did the negro look sorry.
"Me no lib for eat too big lot manioc nudder time," he said glumly, as he went away.
[1] Wake up!
[2] Hush!
Nando was like a child in his humours. His broad face could not long be overclouded. When the party once more embarked he performed his work as chief paddler with his usual cheerfulness. All that day the river washed the edge of a continuous forest tract—a spur, as Jack understood from Nando's not too lucid explanations, of the vast Upper Congo forest that stretched for many hundreds of miles across the heart of Africa. Jack gazed with great curiosity, merged sometimes in a sense of awe and mystery, at the dark impenetrable woodland. It was only a year or two since he had read Stanley's account of his wonderful march through the forest, and his vivid recollection was quickened and intensified by the sight of the actual scene.
"And are there pigmies in that forest—little men, you know?" he asked Nando.
"Sartin sure, sah. Me fight fousand hundred little tiny men: me no 'fraid. Dey shoot plenty good, sah: one arrow shoot two free birds. Dey hab berrah fine eye, sah; see what big man no can see. Massa see dem some day: make massa laugh plenty much."
Here and there, in places where the river widened out, the travellers came upon herds of hippopotami disporting themselves in the shallows. Their presence was often indicated first by strange squeals and grunts: then a huge head would be seen on the surface of the water as the beast heard the regular splash of the paddles and was provoked to investigate its cause; his jaws would open, disclosing a vast pink chasm; and having completed his long yawn, and satisfied himself that the strangers intended no harm, he would plunge his head again beneath the water, or turn clumsily to wallow in uncouth gambols with his mates. The negroes always plied their paddles more rapidly at such spots. Nando told stories of hippopotami which had upset canoes out of sheer mischief, and of others which, pricked and teased by native spears, had lain in wait among the rushes and wrecked the craft of fishers returning to their homes at dusk.
"Me no 'fraid of little man," said Nando; "me plenty much 'fraid of hippo."
Now and again a crocodile, disturbed in his slumbers by the splashing of the paddles or the songs of the men, would dart out of a creek and set off in furious chase; but finding the canoe a tougher morsel than he expected, would sink after a disappointed sniffing and disappear. Occasionally Mr. Martindale or Jack would take a shot at the reptiles, but they were so numerous that by and by the travellers desisted from their "potting," Mr. Martindale regarding it as a waste of good ammunition.
The natives whom they saw at riverside villages were now sometimes suspicious, and disinclined to have any communication with the strangers. Returning from interviews with them, Nando reported that they had heard of the massacre at Banonga, and though he assured them that his employer was no friend of the tyrants, he failed to convince them: he was a white man; that was enough. It was with some difficulty, and only after the exercise of much tact, patience, and good humour on Nando's part, that he managed to secure enough food to supply the needs of the men.
Two days passed amid similar scenes. The journey never became monotonous, for in that wonderful land there is always something fresh to claim the traveller's attention. Jack began to give Samba lessons in English, and found him an apt enough pupil, though, in practising his newly-acquired words afterwards, the boy, to Jack's amusement, adopted a pronounced Irish accent from Barney.
On the morning of the third day, when the camp became active, Barney was somewhat surprised to find that Samba and Pat did not join him as usual at breakfast. Boy and dog had gone to sleep together in his tent, and he had not seen or heard their departure. Breakfast was cleared away, everything was packed up in readiness for starting, and yet the missing members of the party had not appeared. Both were very popular; Samba's unfailing cheerfulness had made him a general favourite, and Pat's sagacity, his keen sporting instincts, and the vigour of his barking when hippopotami or crocodiles came too near the canoe, won for him a good deal of admiration from the natives.
"What! Samba gone!" exclaimed Mr. Martindale, when Barney told him of the disappearance. "Have you called him?"
"Sure me throat is sore wid it, sorr," said Barney, "and me lips are cracked wid whistling for Pat, bad cess to 'm."
"The dog has gone too, eh? I reckon Samba's a thief like the rest of 'em."
"Begging yer pardon, sorr, it takes two to make a thief, one to steal, the other to be stolen. Pat would never agree to be stolen, sorr; besides, he would never be such an ungrateful spalpeen uv a dog, not to speak uv the bad taste of it, as to desert his ould master for a nigger bhoy."
"Well, what's become of them, then? Nando, where's Samba?"
"Me no can tell, sah. Me fink crocodile eat him, sah. Little tiny black boy go walk all alone alone night time. Yah! crocodile come 'long, fink black boy make plenty good chop. Soosh! little black boy in ribber, crocodile eat him all up, sah. What for black boy go walk alone? One time all right, Nando eat manioc[1]; nudder time all wrong, crocodile eat Samba."
Nando shook his head sententiously; Samba's exploit on the night of the alarm was evidently still rankling.
"That's not it at all," said Barney. "Pat would niver permit any crocodile, wid all his blarney, to eat him; and if a crocodile ate Samba, sure Pat would have been the first to come and tell us."
"No, it's your Irish that has frightened the boy," said Jack gravely. "I've been trying to teach him a few words of English; but I've noticed once or twice, after I've done with him, that he pronounces the words as if he'd learnt them in Ireland. No decent black boy could stand that, you know, Barney."
"Faith, 'tis Irishmen that speak the best English," returned Barney; "did I not hear them wid me very own ears in the house uv Parlimint?"
"Well, Jack, we must go on," said Mr. Martindale. "I was afraid the boy would be a botheration."
"He has done us a good turn, uncle. Couldn't we wait an hour or two and see if he appears?"
"It's not business, Jack."
"My dear uncle, it's no use your posing as a hard-hearted man of business. You know you're quite fond of the boy."
"Eh! Well, I own he's a likely little fellow, and I sort of felt he's a part of the concern; in short, Jack, we'll put in an hour or two and give him a chance."
An hour passed, and Pat made his appearance. He trotted soberly into the camp, not frisking or barking joyously as was his wont.
"Arrah thin, ye spalpeen, where's Samba?" cried Barney as the dog came to him.
Pat hung his head, and put his tail between his legs and whined.
"Go and fetch him, then," cried Barney.
The terrier looked at his master, turned as if to do his bidding, then moved slowly round and whined again.
"Sure 'tis not devoured by a crocodile he is, or Pat would be in a terrible rage. The bhoy has deserted, sorr, and Pat's heart is after being broken."
"Well, we'll wait a little longer, Barney," said Mr. Martindale; "he may turn up yet."
The day wore itself out, and Samba had not returned. Mr. Martindale and Jack spent part of the time in shooting, adding a goodly number of wild ducks, a river hog and an antelope to the larder. Part of the time they watched the men fishing, or rather harpooning, for they caught the fish by dexterous casts of their light spears. Towards evening Mr. Martindale became seriously anxious, and a little testy.
"I'm afraid a crocodile has made a meal of him, after all," he said. "I don't reckon he'd any reason for leaving us; he got good victuals."
"And a good knife, uncle. Perhaps he has gone to find his father."
"No, I don't bank on that. Too far for a young boy to go alone, through the forest, too, on foot. Anyway, he's an ungrateful young wretch to go without saying a word; I've always heard these blacks don't measure up to white people in their feelings."
Mr. Martindale delayed his departure until the middle of the next day in the hope that Samba would return. Then, however, he declared he could wait no longer, and the party set off.
Late in the afternoon of the next day they came to a spot where a gap occurred in the thick vegetation that lined the bank. Here, said Nando, they must land. Ilola, the principal village of the chief to whom they were bound, stood a short distance from the river, and the way to it lay through the clear space between two forest belts. A quarter of an hour's walking brought them to the village, a cluster of tent-shaped grass huts almost hidden in the bush. The settlement was surrounded by a stockade, and the plantations of banana, maize, and ground-nuts showed signs of careful cultivation.
Nando went alone to interview the chief, bearing a present of cloth and a small copper token which Mr. Martindale had received from his friend Barnard. The chief would recognize it as the replica of one given to him. Nando returned in an hour's time, troubled in countenance. Imbono the chief, he said, had refused to meet the white man, or to have any dealings with him. He well remembered the white man who had cured his son and given him the token two years before; had they not become blood brothers! But since then many things had happened. Dark stories had reached his ears of the terrible consequences that followed the coming of the white man. One of his young men—his name was Faraji—who had joined a party of traders carrying copper down the Congo, had just come back with dreadful tales of what he himself had seen. When Imbono was a boy his people had lived in terror of the white-robed men from the East.[2] There had been a great white-robed chief named Tippu Tib, who sent his fighting men far and wide to collect ivory and slaves. These men knew no pity; they carried destruction wherever they went, tearing children from parents, husbands from wives, chaining them together, beating them with cruel whips, strewing the land with the corpses of slaves exhausted by long marching or slain because they were ill or weak.
But terrible as were the warriors of Tippu Tib, surely the servants of the Great White Chief[3] were more terrible still; for it often happened that the slave hunters, having come once, came not again; like a fierce tempest they passed; but as, when a storm has devastated a forest, new trees grow and flourish in the room of the old, so when a village had been robbed of its youth, their places were in course of time filled by other boys and girls. And even when the slave hunters came some villagers would escape, and hide in dens or among the forest trees until the danger had passed. But the servants of the Great White Chief were like a blight settling for ever on the land. They came, and stayed; none could escape them, none were spared, young or old. Imbono feared the white man; he prayed him to go in peace; the men of Ilola were peaceable, and sought not to make enemies, but they had bows and arrows, and long shields, and heavy-shafted spears, and if need be they would defend themselves against the stranger.
"I guess this is kind of awkward," said Mr. Martindale when Nando had finished his report. "You can't trade with a man who won't see you. Did you explain that we don't belong to the Great White Chief, Nando?"
"Me say all dat, sah; chief shake him head."
"I suppose you told him our men are not armed?"
"No, sah; me forgot dat, dat am de troof."
"Well, go back; tell the chief that I'm a friend and want to see him. Say that I'll come into the village alone, or with Mr. Jack, and we'll leave our guns behind us. Tell him the white man he saw two years ago said he was a very fine fellow, and I'll trust myself unarmed among his people, bows and arrows and spears and all."
Nando went away, and after another hour returned and said that Imbono, after much persuasion, had agreed to receive the white man because he was a friend of his blood brother. Leaving their rifles and revolvers in Barney's charge, Mr. Martindale and Jack accompanied Nando to the village. The single entrance to the stockade was guarded by a throng of tall warriors with curiously painted skins, and armed with the weapons Nando had described, carrying in addition knives with long leaf-shaped blades.
"They ain't the daisiest of beauties," said Mr. Martindale as he passed them.
"Ugly fellows in a scrimmage," said Jack.
They went on, past the first huts, stared at by knots of the villagers, until they came to the chief's dwelling in the centre of the settlement. Imbono was a tall, well set up, handsome negro, standing half a head taller than the men about him. He received the strangers with grave courtesy, offered them a cup of palm wine, and motioned them to two low carved stools, seating himself on a third.
Through Nando Mr. Martindale explained his business, dwelling on the friendly relations which had existed between the chief and the white man, and assuring him of his peaceable intentions and of his absolute independence of the servants of the Great White Chief. Imbono listened in silence, and made a long reply, repeating what he had already said through Nando. Suddenly he turned to the young man at his side, whom he called Faraji, and bade him tell the white man what he had seen.
"Ongoko! Ongoko!"[4] exclaimed the other men. Faraji stepped forward and told his story, with a volubility that outran Nando's powers as an interpreter, and at the same time with a seriousness that impressed his hearers.
"I come from Mpatu," he said. "It is not my village: my village is Ilola. I passed through Mpatu on my way home. It is no longer a village. Why? The servants of the Great White Chief had come up the river. They told the people that the lords of the world, the sons of heaven, had given all the land to the Great White Chief. Mpatu belonged no more to the chief Lualu: it belonged to the Great White Chief. But the Great White Chief was a good chief; he would be a father to his people. Would he take their huts, their gardens, their fowls, their children? No, he was a good chief. Everything that was theirs should be left to them; and the Great White Chief would keep peace in the land, and men should live together as brothers. Only one thing the Great White Chief required of them. In the forest grew a vine that yielded a milky sap. This stuff when hardened with acid from another plant would be of use to the Great White Chief, and he wished them to collect it for him, and bring to his servants every fourteenth day so many baskets full. Every man of Mpatu must bring his share. And they said too that the Great White Chief was just: for all this rubber they collected he would pay, in brass rods, or cloth, or salt; and seeing the Great White Chief was so kind and good, only a bad man would fail in the task set him, and such bad men must be punished. And two servants of the Great White Chief would be left in Mpatu to instruct the people as to the furnishing of the rubber; and these kind teachers the men of Mpatu would surely provide with food and shelter.
"The men of Mpatu laughed at first. Well they knew the vine! Was there not enough of it and to spare in the forest? How easily they could collect what was demanded! How soon would they become rich! And they set the women and children to weave new baskets for the rubber, and made ready new and well-built huts for the men who were to teach them their duty to the Great White Chief.
"But as time went on, woe came to Mpatu. The two servants of the Great White Chief were bad men, selfish, cruel. They stalked about the village, treating the people as their slaves; they seized the plumpest fowls and the choicest fruits; if any man resisted, they whipped him with a long whip of hippopotamus hide.
"But the servants of the Great White Chief demanded still more. It was not only rubber the men of Mpatu were bade to bring them, but so many goats, so many fowls, so many fish and cassava and bananas. How could they do it? The rubber vines near by were soon exhausted. Every week the men must go farther into the forest. They had not enough time now to hunt and fish for their own families. How supply the strangers too?
"Grief came to Mpatu! For long days there was no man in the village save the chief Lualu and the forest guards. The women cowered and crouched in their huts. No longer did they take pride in tidy homes and well-tended hair; no longer sing merrily at the stream, or croon lullabies to their babes; all joy was gone from them.
"Some of the men fled, and with their wives and children lived in the forest, eating roots and leaves. But even flight was vain, for the forest guards tracked them, hunted them down. Some they killed as soon as they found them; others they flogged, chained by the neck, and hauled to prison. There they are given heavy tasks, carrying logs and firewood, clearing the bush, cutting up rubber; and there is a guard over them with a whip which at a single blow can cut a strip from the body. Many have died; they are glad to die.
"And now Mpatu is a waste. One day the rubber was again short; the soldiers came—they burned the huts; they killed men, women, and children; yea, among the soldiers were man-eaters, and many of Mpatu's children were devoured. Only a few escaped—they wander in the forest, who knows where? I tell what I have seen and heard."
When Faraji had finished his story, there was silence for a time. The chief seemed disposed to let the facts sink into the minds of the white men, and Mr. Martindale was at a loss for words. Faraji's story, so significantly similar to what he had himself discovered at Banonga, had deeply impressed him. Were these atrocities going on throughout the Congo Free State? Were they indeed a part of the system of government? It seemed only too probable—the rubber tax was indeed a tax of blood. And what could he say to convince Imbono that he was no friend of the white men who authorized or permitted such things? How could the negro distinguish?
"'Pon my soul," said the American in an aside to Jack, "I am ashamed of the colour of my skin."
Then the chief began to speak.
"The white man understands why I will have nothing to do with him—why I will not allow my people to trade with him. It may be true that you, O white man, are not as these others; you may be a friend to the black man, and believe that the black man can feel pain and grief; but did not the servants of the Great White Chief say that they were friends of the black man? Did they not say the Great White Chief loved us and wished to do us good? We have seen the love of the Great White Chief; it is the love of the crocodile for the antelope: we would have none of it. Therefore I say, O white man, though I bear you no ill-will, you must go."
Courteously as the chief spoke, there was no mistaking his firmness.
"We must go and take stock of this," said Mr. Martindale. "It licks me at present, Jack, and that's a hard thing for an American to say. Come right away."
They took ceremonious leave of the chief, and were escorted to their camp at the edge of the stream.
"What's to be done, my boy?" said Mr. Martindale. "We can't find the gold without the chief's help, unless we go prospecting at large: we might do that for months without success, and make Imbono an open enemy into the bargain. We can't fight him, and I don't want to fight him. After what we've seen and heard I won't be responsible for shedding blood; seems to me the white man has done enough of that already on the Congo. This is a facer, Jack."
"Never say die, uncle. It's getting late: I vote we sleep on it. We may see a way out of the difficulty in the morning."
[1] The native word for any food or meal.
[2] Arab slave raiders.
[3] Leopold II, sovereign of the Congo Free State and king of the Belgians.
[4] Yes, do so.
But in the morning the situation appeared only more grave. Provisions were threatening to run short. Hitherto there had been no difficulty in procuring food from the natives meten route, and Mr. Martindale's party had carried with them only a few days' provisions, and the "extras" necessary for the white men's comfort. But now they were come to a less populous part of the country: Imbono's villages were the only settlements for many miles around; and unless Imbono relaxed the rigour of his boycott Mr. Martindale's party would soon be in want.
Mr. Martindale was talking over matters with Jack when, from the slight eminence on which the camp was pitched, they saw a canoe, manned by six paddlers, pass up stream. Jack took a look at the craft through his field glass.
"It's Imbono, uncle," he said; "I wonder what he is up to."
He followed the progress of the canoe for some distance through the glass; then, looking ahead, his eye was caught by a herd of eight or nine hippopotami disporting themselves on a reedy flat by the river bank.
"What do you say, uncle? Shall we go and get some hippo meat? It will relieve the drain on our stores, and Nando told me the men are rather fond of it."
"We'll go right away, Jack. We must keep the larder full at any rate. I suppose we shall have to stalk the beasts."
"I don't think so, uncle. Those we saw as we came up seemed pretty bold; they've such tough hides that they've no reason to be much afraid of the native weapons."
"Well, we'll paddle up to them and see how we get on."
A canoe was launched, and Mr. Martindale set off with Jack, Barney, and the terrier, Nando and six of the men paddling. By the time they arrived opposite the feeding ground several hippos had come out from the reeds for a bath in the shallows of the river, only their heads and backs showing above the water. The rest had moved off into the thicker reeds and were hidden from sight.
"One will be enough for the present," said Mr. Martindale. "Our fellows are great gluttons, but there's enough meat in one of those beasts to last even them a couple of days; and we don't want it to go high!"
"Let us both aim at the nearest," suggested Jack. "Fire together, uncle: bet you I bag him."
"I guess I won't take you, and betting's a fool's trick anyway. We'll aim at the nearest, as you say; are you ready?"
Two shots rang out as one. But apparently there had been a difference of opinion as to which of the animals was the nearest. One of them disappeared; another, with a wild roar of pain and rage, plunged into the reeds; the rest sank below the surface. Nando, knowing the ways of hippopotami, began to paddle with frantic vigour, and set the canoe going at a rapid pace down stream, much to the indignation of Pat, who stood with his forefeet on the side of the canoe, barking fiercely. Half a minute later a head appeared above the surface some fifty yards behind; then another and another: but the beasts seemed to have recovered from the alarm, for after a long cow-like stare at the receding canoe, they turned and swam ashore, to rejoin their companions in the reeds.
"Easy all!" said Mr. Martindale. "We'll give 'em a quarter of an hour to settle down, then we'll go back. What about your bet, eh, Jack?"
"It's your hippo, uncle, no doubt of that," said Jack with a rueful smile. "An awful fluke, though; you didn't hit once to my twice coming up stream."
"A fluke, was it? I kind o' notice that when you young fellows make a good shot or pull off a good stroke at billiards or anything else, it's real good play; whereas an old boy like me can only do anything decent by a fluke."
"Well, you've lost him, anyway. The hippo hasn't come up."
"Too cocksure, my boy; he's only just below the surface."
The beast mortally wounded by Mr. Martindale's rifle was lying in shallow water. Pat could no longer restrain himself. He leapt overboard and swam towards the hippo, barking with excitement, and becoming frantic when he found that it was just out of his reach. In his eagerness to attack the animal he even made an attempt to dive, so comical that all on board the canoe were convulsed with laughter. Being paddled to the spot, Mr. Martindale found that the beast was quite dead.
"Now what are we to do with him?" said Mr. Martindale. "Shall we go back and send a party to cut him up?"
"No, no, sah," said Nando instantly. "Tie rope; pull, pull; hippo he come 'long all behind."
"Tow him, eh? Very well. I allow that'll save time."
A rope was fastened firmly about the beast's neck and jaws; the other end was fixed to the canoe; and the men began to paddle down stream, towing the hippo. The tendency of the animal being to sink, the canoe seemed to Jack to be dangerously low in the water at the stern. But they had only a part of the usual complement of men on board, and the paddlers were among the most skilful on the Congo. They had gone but a few strokes when Jack, glancing back, caught sight of Imbono's canoe returning. Like Mr. Martindale's it was keeping fairly close to the bank. All at once a great shout of alarm broke from the chief's paddlers; their easy swing was quickened to desperate exertion, and they pulled out violently towards the middle of the stream.
"By Jove! uncle, a hippo's after them," cried Jack.
Just astern of the chief's canoe, between it and the shore, a huge hippopotamus, with jaws distended, showing his gleaming tusks, was swimming along in pursuit. For a little he gained, and Jack's pulse beat more quickly with excitement as he saw that the enraged beast was not more than half a dozen yards from the canoe. But the gap widened as soon as the six strong paddlers had settled down to their quickened stroke.
Imbono, sitting in the stern, had caught sight of the white men as his canoe cut for a few moments across the current, and with the natural vanity of the negro he began to show off. At a word from him one of the crew dropped his paddle, and, catching up a spear, hurled it at the pursuing hippo. There was a hoarse bellow from the animal, and a wild cheer from the men; the shaft of the spear was seen standing almost perpendicularly above the hippo's shoulder. With fierce exertion the beast increased his pace, and the gap momentarily diminished; but the negro resumed his paddle, and again the canoe drew away.
As the canoe came almost level with the towed hippo at a considerable distance towards mid-stream, Imbono ordered the same manoeuvre to be repeated. But fortune doubly befriended the pursuing animal. Just as the negro was poising his spear, a submerged tree stopped the canoe with a sudden jerk; the man lost his balance and fell overboard; half of the crew followed him into the water, the rest tumbled over one another into the bottom of the canoe. Imbono had been thrown backward as the vessel struck the snag. He had barely time to rise and plunge into the water when there was a hideous crackling sound; the stern of the canoe was caught between the hippo's gaping jaws and crunched to splinters.
The consequences of the chief's temerity would have been amusing but for his manifest danger. The negroes were swimming in all directions, keeping as much as possible under water to escape the eyes of the hippo; but Imbono, an older man than the rest, was not so expert a swimmer, and Jack saw with concern that the hippo, leaving the sinking canoe, was making straight for the chief.
A hippopotamus may be distanced by a canoe, but not by a man swimming. Imbono did not look behind, but seemed to know instinctively that death was within a few yards of him, and he struck out more and more desperately for the bank.
At the moment when the canoe struck the snag, Jack had seized his rifle; but after the catastrophe, canoe, hippo, and swimming natives were so intermingled that he could not venture a shot at the beast without the risk of hitting a man. The hippo's huge body provided a target sufficiently broad, indeed; but Jack knew that to strike it anywhere save at a vital spot would merely add to the beast's rage and make it doubly formidable to the men in the water. When he saw the plight of the chief, however, the great head now only a couple of yards behind him, the jaws already opening, disclosing the vast red chasm flanked by gleaming tusks and molars—when Jack saw Imbono thus in the very article of peril, he could no longer hesitate. The canoe was already at rest. Bidding Nando keep it steady, Jack raised his rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim.
The chief was gasping for breath after a vain attempt to dodge the beast by diving; the horrid jaws were just about to snap, when a shot rang out. A squealing grunt came from the closing gullet; the uncouth actions of the beast ceased; and he began to sink slowly and silently beneath the surface.
"A1!" ejaculated Mr. Martindale. "That makes up for your miss, Jack."
"Oka mö!"[1] shouted the negroes. Imbono's men had gained the bank, but the chief himself, overcome more by his fright than his exertions, seemed unable to swim any farther.
"Quick, haul him in, Jack," said Mr. Martindale. "There may be a crocodile after him next!"
A few strokes of the paddles brought the canoe within reach of the chief. Laughing heartily—the negro's laugh is always very near the surface—Nando and a comrade hoisted Imbono into the canoe.
"Me tell Imbono he oughter die of shame," said Nando gravely.
"What on earth for?" asked Mr. Martindale.
"What for, sah! Has he not made big puddle in massa's canoe? He plenty much wet, sah."
"Well, he couldn't help that. Tell him we're glad he came off so well. You need not say anything about the puddle."
But Nando had his own views as to the proper thing to do. As he spoke the chief glanced at the pool of water that had flowed from his body, and replied in a tone that was clearly apologetic.