Kitobni o'qish: «Haviland's Chum», sahifa 10

Chapter Nineteen.
Danger Signals

The odd man joining a party of two is by no means necessarily an acquisition, or invariably bound to preserve and promote the harmony already existing. In this case, however, the best happened. No more harmonious trio could be imagined than this one, as, having recovered the lost treasure, the expedition resumed its way. For Oakley proved to be the best of good fellows, and though several years older than Haviland, and with a great deal wider experience, he never for a moment forgot that he was with them now solely in the capacity of a guest. If his advice was asked he gave it, if not, he never by any chance volunteered it. Ahern and Haviland were, of course, tried comrades; and two years of sharing the same hardships, the same dangers, and the same aims, had bound them together as no period of acquaintance within the limits of conventional civilisation could ever have done.

The camp had been set for the day, whose full heat had already begun to strike in through the shading trees. The tired bearers were lying around, for the moon was again bright, and the marches were effected during the comparatively cool hours of the night. Some were cooking their root and grain diet, for game was exceedingly scarce, and they seldom tasted meat – as to which, by the way, they expected soon to strike a river, and all hands looked forward eagerly to a possible and plenteous feed of sea-cow flesh. Haviland and Oakley were seated together, consulting maps, the doctor the while was busy at the other end of the camp with a porter who had somewhat badly hurt his foot.

“By the way, Haviland,” said Oakley, suddenly, “do you believe in the existence of that curious tribe of the Spider? I’ve known at least two men who believe in it firmly. One claims to have actually come into contact with it. If there is such a thing, we can’t be far from its reputed country.”

“H’m!” answered Haviland, musingly. “The more experience you gain of the interior, the more disinclined you are to say straight out that you disbelieve in anything. Now, that Spider tribe, if it exists at all – and, mind you, I don’t say it doesn’t – would be a good deal further to the west than we are now. I don’t think we have much to fear from it. But there’s a far nastier crowd than that, and within tolerable striking distance, too. It’s a Zulu-speaking tribe, not so very numerous, but occupying difficult country, and the very deuce of a fighting mob. Some say it’s of direct Zulu origin, others that it originated in a split among the Wangoni down on the lakes. But I don’t want to rub against it if I can help it. Ho, Kumbelwa!” he called.

In response there came up a magnificent specimen of a man. His skin was of a dark rich copper colour, and save for a mútya of cat’s tails, he wore no clothing whatever. His finely shaped head was shaven, and crowned with the Zulu head-ring. In comparison with the inferior natives who constituted the carrying staff – though some of these were of powerful and muscular build – he looked like an emperor.

“Nkose!” he cried, saluting, with right hand uplifted.

Then Haviland, speaking in Zulu, questioned him at some length. The man professed but a scant knowledge with regard to the tribe under discussion. He could not even tell its name for certain. It was reputed to change its name with every new king, and he had heard that a new king had succeeded rather lately. He was said to be quite a young man, but very stern and merciless in his rule. It was said, too, that towards white men he entertained a most extraordinary hatred. Anyhow, more than one who had entered his country had never been known to come out again. He had made himself troublesome, too, to more than one exploring party.

“Well, we’d better keep our eyes open, so as to give them a warm reception if they bother us,” said Oakley, when this was translated.

“I know, and that’s why I’m not over-keen on this hippo-shoot when we strike the river,” said Haviland. “Far better go without meat a little longer than get ourselves into a beastly unequal fight. And the banging of guns can be heard a deuce of a distance. We’ll call Somala, and get his opinion.”

But the Arab had not much to add to the Zulu’s information. Him, however, Oakley understood, and needed no translation.

“Did you ever notice those two chaps; what an extraordinary family likeness there is between them?” said Haviland, as the two departed. “If you clapped a turban and long clothes on to Kumbelwa he’d pass for Somala’s brother, and if you rigged out Somala in a mútya and head-ring he’d pass for a Zulu. The same type of face exactly.”

“By Jove it is! Think there’s a lot of Arab in the Zulu, then?”

“Not a doubt about it. You see, the Zulus didn’t originally belong where they now are. They came down from the north, somewhere about where we are now, I shouldn’t wonder. They had another custom, too, which was Mohammedan, as most of the other tribes have at the present day, but Tshaka stopped it among them. And I have a theory that the head-ring is a survival of the turban.”

“That might be. But, I say, Haviland, you seem to have got their lingo all right. Were you much in the country?”

“A good bit. I haven’t got it by any means all right, though I know a great number of words, but my grammar’s of the shakiest. I often set them roaring with laughter over some absurd mistake; and I don’t even know what it is myself. By the way, there was a chap at school with me – a Zulu from Zululand. He conceived a sort, of attachment for me because I smacked a fellow’s head for bullying him when he first came, and he was a useful chap too; first-rate at egg-hunting, and we got into all sorts of rows together. The other fellows used to call him ‘Haviland’s Chum,’ to rag me, you know; but I didn’t mind it. Well, he taught me some of his lingo, and made me want to see his country.”

“I wonder they took a black chap in an English school,” said Oakley.

“So did I. So did most of us. But he was put there by a missionary, and old Bowen was nuts on the missionary business.”

“Old Bowen? Was that at Saint Kirwin’s, then?”

“Yes. Why, were you ever there?”

“No. By the way, what sort of a chap was old Bowen?”

“A regular old Tartar. I hated him like poison the last part of the time I was there; but right at the end – at the time I lost my poor old dad – he was awfully decent. He’s a good chap at bottom, is Nick – a real good chap.”

“It’s extraordinary how small the world is,” said Oakley. “The old chap happens to be an uncle of mine, on the maternal side, and I own I like him better in that capacity than I should as a headmaster; but, as you say, he’s a real good chap at bottom.”

“What a rum thing!” declared Haviland. “Yes, as you say, the world is small indeed. Yet when I was in Zululand, I tried to find out about Cetchy – we called him that at Saint Kirwin’s, after Cetywayo of course, his real name was Mpukuza – but could simply hear nothing whatever about him. The world wasn’t small in that instance. Hallo! There’s something up over yonder.”

There was. Excitement had risen and spread among the bearers, causing them to spring up and peer cautiously forth, notwithstanding that the heat was sweltering, and the hour was that of rest. The sentry on that side had passed the word that people were approaching the camp.

The ground there was thinly timbered, and it was seen in a moment that these new arrivals, whoever they might be, were fugitives. They bore the unmistakable look of men and women – for there were several women among them – flying for their lives. They were not even aware of the proximity of the camp until right into it; and then, at the sight of armed men confronting them, they fell on their faces with a howl for mercy.

“Who are these, Somala?” said Haviland, not without a touch of anxiety; foreseeing the possibility of the flight of these people drawing down some formidable enemy upon his expedition.

And, indeed, their tidings confirmed his worst misgivings. They were natives of a small tribe, themselves of indifferent physique. Their village had been attacked the evening before, and burned, but they, being outside, had escaped. They had heard rumours of Mushâd being out with a strong force. Without doubt, he it was who had assailed them.

The name of the dreaded slave-hunting chief caused Haviland, and indeed others who heard it, to look grave.

“Well,” he said, “give these people food, such as we have, and let them go on their way.”

But this dictum was greeted by the refugees with a howl of dismay. If they went on further, why, then they were already dead, they protested. Would not the great white lords protect them? They would be safe within the shadow of their camp. Even Mushâd would not dare interfere with them there.

“Wouldn’t he?” said Haviland, in English. “I’m pretty sure he would – and will. These wretched devils have just about brought a hornet’s nest about our ears, I more than expect. What are we to do, doctor?”

“Why, get out into more open country and beat them off. I figure out that this is just the way Mushâd would take, in any event; so, perhaps, it’s just as well these poor devils turned up to warn us.”

“What do you say, Oakley?”

“I’m entirely with the doctor.”

“Right. A couple of miles ahead, by the lay of the ground, we ought to find just the position we want.”

Within ten minutes of the order being issued the camp was struck. Every man took up his load, and the whole line filed briskly forth through the steaming, sweltering forenoon heat. There was no hanging back. The excitement of impending battle lent a springiness to the step of some, the instinct of self-preservation to that of others; the refugees the while chanting the most fulsome praises in honour of their new protectors.

“There’s the very place we want!” cried Haviland, when they had thus advanced a couple of miles. “Looks as if it had been made on purpose.”

The ground had been growing more and more open, and now the spot to which he referred was a ring of trees surmounting a rise. This would afford an excellent defensive position if they were called upon to fight, and ample concealment in any case. In an inconceivably short space of time the whole expedition was safely within it.

Nor had they been long there before the instinct of their leaders realised that they had gained the place none too soon. Something like a flash and gleam in the far distance caught their glance, to disappear immediately, then reappearing again. The three white men, with their powerful glasses, soon read the meaning of this. It was the gleam of arms. A very large force indeed was advancing, taking a line which should bring it very near their position. Would they be discovered and attacked; or would the enemy, for such he undoubtedly was, fail to detect their presence and pass on? Well, the next hour would decide.

Chapter Twenty.
Mushâd the slaver

In an incredibly short space of time the position was placed in a very effective state of defence. Even as Haviland had remarked, it might have been made on purpose for them: for it was neither too large nor too small, but just of a size to contain the whole outfit comfortably and without crowding. Just inside the ring of trees, a sort of breastwork had been constructed with the loads – those containing the stores and barter-truck that is, for the precious cases of specimens had been placed in the centre, and buried flush with their lids, so as to be out of the way of damage from flying bullets. As far as possible, too, this breastwork had been supplemented by earth and stones, hastily dug up and piled.

The demeanour of those awaiting battle was varied and characteristic. Of the bearers, those of the more timid races were subdued and scared. The temerity of their white leaders in thinking to resist Mushâd and his terrible band was simply incomprehensible. Why did they not pay him the usual blackmail and be suffered to pass on? Some of the bearers – the braver ones, to the number of about a score – though not usually entrusted with firearms, were now supplied with rifles, in the use of which they had already been drilled, and had even experienced some practice in the shape of a petty skirmish or two. These were now turning on swagger. The ten Arabs, Somala’s clansmen, who were always armed, were simply impassive, as though a bloody fight against overwhelming odds were a matter of every-day occurrence, which could have but one result – victory to themselves. Yet there was a gleam in their keen sunken eyes, and a nervous handling of their weapons, as they trained and sighted their rifles experimentally, and fingered the blades of their ataghans, that betrayed the martial eagerness that bubbled beneath the concealing mask. But the most striking figure of all was that of the Zulu, Kumbelwa. From a private bundle of his own he had fished out a real Zulu war-shield of black and white bull-hide, with a jackal tail tuft, and a short-handled, broad-bladed assegai – the terrible conquering weapon of his race. He had also brought forth a great head-dress of towering black ostrich feathers, and sundry tufts of white cow-hair, which he proceeded to tie round his arms and legs, and thus accoutred, he stood forth, a magnificent specimen of the most magnificent race of fighting savages in the world.

“By Jove, that’s a grand chap!” exclaimed Oakley, as he gazed with interest upon this martial figure. “Do they grow many like that in the Zulu country, Haviland?”

“A good few, yes. Mind you, I’d sooner have Kumbelwa with me in a rough and tumble than any dozen ordinary men.”

“How did you pick him up? Save his life, or anything of that sort?”

“No. A sort of mutual attraction. We took to each other, and he wanted to come away with me, that’s all. D’you see that string of wooden beads hung round his neck? That represents enemies killed, and I strongly suspect most of them wore red coats, for, like every man-jack of his nation, he fought against us in the war of ’79. But wild horses wouldn’t drag from him that he had killed any of our people, and it’s the same with all of them. They’re too polite. If you were to ask them the question, they’d tell you they didn’t know – there was too much racket and confusion to be sure of anything. But – look at him now.”

The Zulu, half squatted on his haunches, was going through a strange performance. His rifle lay on the ground beside him, but his left hand grasped his great war-shield, while with the right he was alternately beating time with his assegai to his song, or making short, quick lunges at empty air. For he was singing in a low, melodious, deep-voiced chant. At him the whole crowd of bearers was gaping, in undisguised admiration and awe.

“He’s singing his war-song,” explained Haviland. “I’ve never seen him do this before any other row we’ve been in. Evidently he thinks this is going to be a big thing.”

“And he’s right,” said the doctor. “Look there?”

He pointed in the direction of their late halting-place. From their present one, the ground fell away almost open, save for a few scattered shrubs or a little heap of stones, to the thin timber line. Within this forms could now be seen moving – more and more were coming on, until the place was alive with them – and the gleam of arms, the light falling on the blades of long spears and shining gun-barrels, scintillated above and among the approaching force. And this was coming straight for their position. Decidedly, our party had gained the latter none too soon.

As the new arrivals debouched from the timber, the three white men scanned them anxiously through their field-glasses. The leaders, and a goodly proportion, seemed to be pure blood Arabs, but the bulk consisted of negroids and the undiluted negro – these latter naked savages of ferocious aspect, incorporated probably from the fierce cannibal tribes along the Upper Congo. The Arabs, in their turbans and long-flowing garments, wore a more dignified and civilised aspect, yet were hardly less ruthless.

This formidable force, once clear of the timber, halted, drawn up in a kind of battle line, possibly expecting to strike terror by reason of its numerical strength and sinister aspect, and those watching reckoned it to consist of not less than five hundred men. Above bristled a forest of long spears, the sun flashing back from their shining tips. But higher still, reared above these, there floated a flag. In banner shape, so as to display, independently of any breeze, its ominous device, it was turned full towards them. Upon a green ground a red scimitar, dripping red drops.

“That is the standard of Mushâd,” whispered Somala, touching Haviland’s elbow.

A vivid interest kindled the features of the three white men, also those of the Zulu. Here, then, was the renowned slaver, the man whose name was a byword from Zanzibar to Morocco. They were about to behold him face to face. Upon the bulk of the native bearers the effect produced was different. The ruthlessness of the terrible slaver chief, his remorseless cruelties – ah! of such they had heard more than enough. And then a man was seen to leave the opposing ranks and walk towards them. Halfway, he halted and cried in a loud voice:

“Who are ye – and what do ye here? Are ye friends or foes?”

Somala, instructed by Haviland, replied:

“We are no man’s foes. Our mission here is a peaceful one – to collect the strange rare plants and insects of the land. That is all. Who are ye, and who is your chief?”

The herald broke into a loud, harsh, derisive laugh.

“Who is our chief?” he echoed. “You who gaze upon our standard, and ask ‘Who is our chief?’ Ye must be a kafila of madmen.”

“Is it the great Mushâd? If so, we would fain see him, and talk. Yonder, where the stones rise upon the plain,” went on Somala, prompted by Haviland, and indicating a spot about a third of the distance between their position and the hostile line. “If he will advance, with three others – unarmed – we will do likewise, pledging our oath on the blessed Koran and on the holy Kaba that we meet only in peace.”

“I will inquire,” replied the emissary, and turning, he went back.

“Supposing he accepts – which of us shall go?” said Oakley.

“I and Somala, and Kumbelwa,” answered Haviland. “And I think Murâd Ali,” designating a dark sinewy Arab, a blood brother of Somala’s.

“I claim to go instead of him,” said Dr Ahern, quietly, but firmly. “Oakley can remain in command.”

“Very well,” said Haviland. “Will they really be without arms, Somala?”

“They will perhaps have small arms concealed, Sidi. But they will not break faith.”

“Then we will do the same, and on the same terms. Look! Here they come!”

Four men were seen to detach themselves from the group, and advance, one bearing the chief’s terrible standard. When they were near the appointed spot, Haviland and the doctor, followed by Somala and Kumbelwa, also stepped forth.

“Whou!” growled the tall Zulu to himself. “A warrior without arms is like a little child, or an old woman.”

For all that, he had taken the precaution of secreting a formidable knife beneath his mútya. He also carried his great war-shield.

The Arabs stood, coldly impassive, awaiting them. They were stern, grim-looking, middle-aged men – their keen eyes glowing like coals beneath their bushy brows as they exchanged curt salutations. The chief differed not at all from the others in outward aspect: the same spare, muscular frame; the same grim and hawk-like countenance, haughty, impassive; the same turbaned head and flowing white garments. For all the solemn pledge of peace they had exchanged, it was evident that neither party trusted the other overmuch. They had halted a dozen paces apart, and were silently scanning each other. But what seemed to impress the Arabs most, as could be seen by their quick eager glances, was the aspect of Kumbelwa. They gazed upon the towering Zulu with undisguised admiration.

Haviland opened the talk with a few civilities in the current dialect, just to let them see he was no novice at interior travel, then he left the negotiations to Somala. They were peaceful travellers, and desired to quarrel with no man, but were well armed, and feared no man. They would send a present of cloth and brass wire for Mushâd and some of his more distinguished followers, then they would go their different ways in peace and amity.

The ghost of a contemptuous smile flickered across the features of the Arabs at this prospect. Then Mushâd said:

“And my slaves? They will be sent too?”

“Slaves?”

“My slaves. Those who have fled to your camp, O travellers. They must be sent back.”

“But they have taken refuge with us. They have eaten our salt, O chief. We cannot yield them up. Take presents from us instead.”

“You are young, and therefore foolish,” replied Mushâd, staring Haviland in the eye with haughty contempt. “My slaves must be given up. I have said it.”

“And if we refuse?”

“Look yonder. Have you as many fighters as these?”

“Not quite as many. But we are well armed, and, fighting in a good cause, we fear no man.”

For a few moments neither party addressed the other. Meanwhile the doctor said hurriedly in English:

“What do you think, Haviland? Is it worth while risking all the expedition, and throwing away the fruits of these two years – and all their gain to science, mind – for the sake of a few miserable niggers? If we send them back, they’ll only make slaves of them, and indeed that’s all they’re fit for.”

“Let’s see.” And, turning to the chief, he resumed: “If we send back those who have sought refuge with us, will the chief solemnly promise that they shall not be harmed – that beyond the labour required of them they shall not be killed, or tortured, or ill-treated?”

A low growling chuckle escaped the Arab’s deep chest, and his eyes flashed in haughty contempt.

“La Illah il Allah!” he blazed forth. “I will promise this much. They shall groan beneath heavy loads, and shall eat stick in plenty. But first, six of them shall hang by the heels till they are dead, with their eyes scooped out, and a live coal inserted in each socket. Further I promise – that this last shall be the fate of every one in your camp who shall fall into our hands alive, if you hesitate further to send back my slaves. On the holy Kaba I swear it. Now, make your choice. Will you return them, or will you not?”

Haviland looked at Ahern, who nodded his head.

“That settles it,” he said in a cold, decisive tone, turning again to the slaver chief. “Big words, big threats do not frighten us. We send not back to you these people who have sought our protection, to be put to your devilish tortures.”

For a moment, the two parties stood staring at each other in silence. Then Mushâd and his followers withdrew, feeing the others for a little distance, after which they turned, and stalked back to their awaiting forces, the green banner with its sinister symbol seeming to wave defiance and menace as it receded.