Tom Burnaby: A Story of Uganda and the Great Congo Forest

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER II

  Mbutu

  Mbutu--Hatching a Plot--The Padre--A Consultation

  The sun had set, and Tom was sitting in his uncle's bungalow,ruminating. He had changed his clothes in preparation for dining withMr. Barkworth; but there was still nearly an hour to spare, so he satback in his chair with his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes.In a few more hours he would be jolting down to Mombasa. There was nogetting over that. He pictured his uncle penetrating the forest at thehead of his men; the cautious advance; the first sight of the enemy. Heheard in imagination the rattle of musketry, and the major's ringingvoice giving orders and cheering the combatants. And while thesestirring events were in progress, he himself was to be condemned toinactivity on a passenger steamer! Tom was hit harder than he hadbelieved.

  Sitting brooding on these things, and feeling the reaction doubly afterthe excitement of the past few days, he suddenly became fully consciousof a sensation that had for some time been creeping over him unawares.He felt that he was not alone, that someone was looking at him. Therewas no one with him in the room, he knew; no one in the bungalow even,except the grave, silent Indian servant, who was the only member of thehousehold left behind.

  "Rummy feeling this," said Tom to himself, pinching himself to make surethat he was awake. He jumped up and switched on the electric-light, andin the first flash thought he saw a black face pressed against thenarrow window-panes. Instantly he ran to the door, flung it open, andreturned in a moment with a woolly-pated black boy in his grasp.Gripping him firmly with one hand, he locked and bolted the door withthe other, then loosed his hold and stood with arms akimbo.

  "Now then, who are you? What does this mean?" he said.

  The boy stuck his arms akimbo in imitation of Tom, grinned, and chortledrather than said:

  "Me run away!"

  "Oh indeed! Run away, have you? And where from, may I ask?"

  "Me Mbutu, sah! Mbutu servant dago man; sah knock him down; me no goback--no, no; me hide; now me heah."

  He chortled again with a childish air of satisfaction which made Tomsmile.

  "Oh! So you're the beggar I saved from the whip, are you? Well, myboy, I'm very glad to have helped you; but really I don't see what moreI can do for you. Hungry, eh?"

  "No, no."

  "Well, then, what do you want?"

  "Me and you, sah; you me fader and mudder, sah; all same for one; mestop, long stop."

  "Oh, come! it's kind of you to say so, but I'm off to Mombasa to-morrow,and then home--over the big water, you understand. Don't want to adoptanyone yet, and can't afford a tiger."

  The boy's face fell. Then he clasped his hands and poured out a rapidtorrent of the queerest English, evidently an account of his career.Tom made out that he belonged to an ancient Bahima tribe, and was theson of a chief whose village had been raided by Arabs, all his peoplebeing killed or carried off as slaves. The boy himself, after two yearsof captivity, had escaped, through a series of lucky accidents, toBritish territory, and had since been more or less of an Ishmael,picking up a precarious living in doing odd jobs about the Europeanbungalows. His last master had treated him with a brutality thatrecalled his years of captivity with the Arab slavers. Tom's short waywith the bully had won the boy's unbounded admiration and gratitude. Hehad remained in hiding until he knew that the Portuguese had taken hisdeparture, and then had felt that he could not do better than attachhimself to his benefactor.

  Such was his story, told disconnectedly, the English pieced out withoccasional phrases in Swahili, the _lingua franca_ of Eastern andCentral Africa. Through all the narrative there was a convincing noteof reality. The boy pleaded to be allowed to serve Tom for the rest ofhis life till, as he said, the "long night" came. He would not ask forwages, he could live on anything--nothing; and he flung himself down atTom's feet, imploring him not to drive him away.

  "Poor chap!" said Tom. "Sorry for you, but what can I do? My unclewouldn't have me, or I might have made some use of you. And there's nochance now; he's away with the expedition to Ankori."

  Mbutu's eyes opened to their fullest extent.

  "Sah him uncle!" he cried.

  He looked puzzled and anxious, and yet seemed to hesitate.

  "Well, what is it?" asked Tom.

  "Sah him uncle!" repeated the boy; and then, to Tom's amazement, herattled off a story of how, some ten days before, he had overheard aconversation between his late master and the interpreter to theexpedition.

  "Palaver man bad man, sah. Much bad. Talk bad things. Say black manhide; white man walk so." He took a pace or two with head erect, eyeslooking straight ahead, and arms straight down his thighs. "White manno see not much; bang! soosh! white man all dead."

  Everything he said was illustrated with many strange pantomimicgestures, and Tom was at first puzzled what to make of it all. Then heset himself patiently to question the boy, using the simplest words, andfrom his answers he put together, bit by bit, a most astonishing story.About a fortnight before, the Portuguese had come with Mbutu from theforest west of the Nyanza, accompanied by an Arab, and had taken up hisquarters in a small bungalow not far from rail-head. He was in and outall day, engaged in some mysterious business which the boy had neversucceeded in fathoming, while the Arab had disappeared on their arrivalin Kisumu. One hot night Mbutu, feeling restless and unable to sleep,went outside the bungalow with a pipe of his master's which he intendedto smoke. He was fumbling in his loin-cloth for a match, when he saw afigure slinking cautiously towards him. His movements were so stealthyand furtive that Mbutu's curiosity was at once aroused. Unfortunatelyfor the stranger, who clearly wished to escape observation, the moon washigh, and Mbutu, concealed by a friendly post in the compound, watchedhim steal up to the bungalow, enter quietly, and shut the door. Theboy, avoiding the patches of moonlight, crept round the veranda with thenoiselessness of a cat till he came to a half-open window. A lamp wasburning in the room, throwing a long beam of light into the darknesswithout, and in skirting this bright zone the boy tripped over an emptywooden crate from which the cook obtained his supply of firewood. Theimpact of Mbutu's shins against the sharp edges of the crate set thething creaking, but the noise was drowned by the yelp of a jackal in anullah hard by, and after a few moments of anxious suspense Mbutubreathed again. He peeped cautiously round the edge of the window. Theroom was empty, but as the light had not been removed Mbutu concludedthat his master would soon return. This proved to be the case, for inless than a minute the Portuguese appeared, moved quickly to the window,and lifted the iron rod as though to close it. But the night was so hotthat he changed his mind, comfort prevailing over caution. He left thewindow as it was, and simply lowered the blind. Then, turning to thedoor, he beckoned his visitor into the room. A thin beam of light stillfiltered between the bottom of the blind and the window-sill, andMbutu's sharp eyes noticed that the sill was wide, projecting someinches from the wall. He saw that under this he could lie without fearof detection, and probably hear all that passed inside. So he creptbeneath the shelter of the sill, and strained his quick ears.

  For a time he could make out little of what the two men were saying.Then their voices rose, they became "much jolly", as he said, after thePortuguese had produced a flask of his own special brandy, and Mbutuheard every word distinctly. They were discussing a plan concertedbetween them during the journey to Kisumu, and congratulating each otheron its success. The Arab, apparently, was connected with the chiefagainst whom the punitive expedition was directed, and the dago havingreasons of his own for desiring its failure, they had put their headstogether. The result of their scheming was that the Arab had somehowgot himself recommended to Captain Lister, the intelligence-officer ofthe expedition, as interpreter and guide, his real intention being tolead it into an ambush, cunningly devised between the chief and thePortuguese. The European officers were to be killed by picked marksmenin the first moments of con
fusion and the plotters hoped to lay theirtrap so carefully that not a soul would escape. What his master'smotives were Mbutu had been unable to discover, though he had heard amysterious reference to a store of ivory and a run of slaves. After atime the "special brandy" began to take effect, and both the men fellasleep. The light went out, and Mbutu stole away.

  Tom only pieced this together by degrees. When the meaning of it allwas clear to him, he gave a long whistle and stood staring at the blackboy. Suddenly a suspicion flashed across his mind as he remembered whathe had read of the imaginativeness of the African native and his geniusfor inventing fairy tales.

  "You're not making this up?" he said sternly. "Why didn't you tell allthis before the expedition started?"

  Mbutu spread out his hands.

  "What for good?" he said. "Me tell? White man say 'Bosh! Liar! Getout!'" He shook his fist and lifted his foot with the accuracy of longexperience. "Mbutu no lub kiboko. White man all same for one."

  He pointed expressively to the scars and weals left on his shoulders byhis recent thrashings with the kiboko.

  "Then why have you told me now?" demanded Tom.

  The boy for a few instants looked puzzled; then his features expanded ina cheerful smile as he said:

  "No kiboko heah, sah! Sah little son of big sah! Sah Mbutu him faderand mudder!"

  Tom could doubt no longer; truth spoke in every line and dimple of theboy's earnest face. But what was he to do? Glancing at the carriageclock on the mantel-piece, he saw that it wanted only ten minutes ofseven, the hour fixed by Mr. Barkworth for dinner. He wondered if hehad better consult his new friend, for whom he had already begun toentertain warm feelings of regard. Calling the major's Indian servant,he gave the boy into his hands with instructions to keep a sharp eye onhim, and hurried off, his brain in a whirl.

  "Ah, here you are, then!" said Mr. Barkworth, coming forward as Tomentered the bungalow, and laying a friendly hand on his shoulder."Punctuality, now; that's a fine thing. The padre came a moment ago.I'll introduce you, h'm!"

  He turned and led the way into an inner room, where Tom saw a figurethat would have commanded attention in any company. It was that of atall man of about fifty years, with clean-cut features of olive hue,mobile lips with the fine curves of a Roman orator's, and grayish hairfalling back in flowing lines from his temples. He was dressed in thesimple white robe of an Arab, with no ornament save a small gold crosspendent on his breast. The simplicity of his attire served only toheighten the natural dignity of his bearing.

  "H'm! Mossoo--Mossoo-- Now, what on earth's the French for Thomas!Mossoo Tom Burnaby, Pere Chevasse. And a fine fellow, sir," he added toTom, _sotto voce_.

  The missionary smiled as he shook hands.

  "I have seen you already," he said in French. "I was a spectator theother day of that little scene, Mr. Burnaby, when you played the part ofGood Samaritan."

  "Ah!" said Mr. Barkworth, catching the phrase. "Who's been fallingamong thieves, padre?"

  The missionary briefly told the story of Tom's summary treatment of thePortuguese, and though Mr. Barkworth's French was decidedly shaky, hemade out a few leading words here and there, and got a tolerable graspof the incident.

  "Well now, I call that fine," he said; "Rule Britannia, and all thatsort of thing, you know. And what became of the black boy? I warrant,now, he never even said thank you. No gratitude in these natives; I know'em."

  Tom was on the point of confuting Mr. Barkworth with the best ofevidence, but Lilian's entrance checked the words as they rose to hislips, and by the time they were seated at the dinner-table his host'svolatile mind was occupied with other matters.

  Looking back on this dinner afterwards, Tom wondered how he managed toget through it without breaking down. He listened to the quiet, mellowvoice of the missionary, and envied the fluency of Lilian's French; hesmiled inwardly at Mr. Barkworth's desperate efforts to follow theconversation, and good-humoured laughter at his own mishaps; he evenmade his own modest contribution, and, after the first moments ofdiffidence, was put quite at his ease by the Frenchman's perfectcourtesy. And yet, all the time, through all the talk, he felt onesentence dinning and throbbing in his head: "What am I to do? What am Ito do?" He imagined his uncle in the depth of the forest, fighting fordear life amid a horde of savage blacks, and overborne at the last bysheer weight of numbers! A cold thrill shot through him, and hestarted, to answer haphazard some remark from Lilian or the missionary,not knowing what he said. Once or twice Lilian looked at himenquiringly, wondering at his strange absent-mindedness, and then hecollected himself with an effort and tried to appear unconcerned.

  After dinner Mr. Barkworth settled himself in an easy-chair and lit acigar, and while the others sat chatting together he dropped asleep.The missionary gave his listeners an account of the work of the WhiteFathers' mission to which he belonged, and chanced to mention anincident that had occurred among a Bahima tribe. Bahima! That was thename of the race to which Mbutu belonged. Tom knew that his time wascome. Speaking as quietly as his excitement allowed, he told Mbutu'sstory. The missionary looked incredulous; Lilian's fair cheeks paled,and she cried:

  "Oh, what a wicked, wicked thing!"

  "Eh? What?" said Mr. Barkworth, waking with a start. "As I was saying,these natives never show any gratitude. Now I remember a case when I wasin Trinidad. An overseer there--"

  But Lilian had seated herself at her father's feet, and laid her hand onhis knee.

  "Father," she said, "Mr. Burnaby has some strange and terrible news totell you."

  "God bless my soul, you don't say so! What in the world has happened?"

  "Mr. Barkworth," said Tom, "the boy I saved from the Portuguese came tome to-day and told me of a diabolical plot between his master and thedragoman of the expedition to lead my uncle into a trap. What can bedone to warn him?"

  "What! What! Ambush Jack Burnaby! Ridiculous nonsense! Never heard ofsuch a thing. More like a bit out of Henty than a real thing. H'm!Come now, what did the young rascal say?"

  Tom repeated the story, giving, as nearly as he could, the minutestdetails told him by Mbutu.

  Mr. Barkworth took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "H'm!Cock-and-bull story altogether. I know these natives. Taradiddles,sir!"

  "But why doubt the boy, sir? His story was so circumstantial, and helooked so earnest and truthful."

  "H'm! What do you say about it, mossoo?"

  "It is extraordinary, certainly," replied the Frenchman. "Could we notsend for the boy? He would not try any tricks with me."

  "Right! we'll have the boy. Fine thing--a knowledge of their gibberish.Hi, you there! Go down at once to Major Burnaby's bungalow and bringback the black boy there. Clutch him by the hair or he'll wriggle away.I know them."

  One of the servants disappeared, and soon returned with Mbutu. The boyhad been waked out of a sound sleep, and looked rather scared, but a fewwords in his own tongue from the missionary soon put him at ease, and heanswered all his questions readily. After a searching examinationFather Chevasse turned to Mr. Barkworth, saying:

  "The boy's story is consistent in every part. I think he is telling thetruth."

  "Well, you ought to know, padre. What's to be done, then? We can't leta fine fellow like Jack Burnaby be snuffed out by a parcel of heathens.Suppose we tell the man in charge here--Captain Beaumont, isn't it?"

  "Little use, I am afraid. Captain Beaumont doesn't understand thenatives; and I fear he would scoff at Mbutu's story and refuse tobelieve it. The boy has an animus against the dago, you see."

  "Why couldn't I go after the expedition myself along with Mbutu?" brokein Tom eagerly.

  Mr. Barkworth looked dubiously at him, as though he half suspected foran instant that the story was got up for the occasion. But a glance atthe young fellow's anxious face made him repent at once. He blew hisnose again and said:

  "I'm an old fool, h'm! Well now, let's talk it over."

  A long and serious
discussion ensued, in which Tom and Mr. Barkworthbore the greater part.

  "Well, well," said Mr. Barkworth at length, "have your own way. Yes, myboy, you must go. You have a valid reason--the strongest motive anyonecould have. And your uncle, sir--begad, if he takes you to task fordisobedience, why, just refer him to me, and say that I'll get TommyBowles to ask a question in the House. I know him!"

  "But how can Mr. Burnaby go after them?" put in Lilian. "They have takenall the launches, I know."

  Mr. Barkworth's countenance fell.

  "Whew!" he ejaculated. "That's a facer! Never do to go on foot, Tom;never overtake 'em in time round the north shore. H'm!"

  "I have a launch," said the missionary quietly. "Quite a small thing,steaming only a few knots. I am starting to-morrow to visit our stationat Bukumbi, at the other end of the Nyanza, and if Mr. Burnaby cares tocome with me, I can take him on afterwards to the river for which theexpedition is making."

  "Couldn't you go straight across, sir?" asked Tom eagerly. "You see howimportant it is to lose no time."

  "I am sorry I cannot. I have important letters from my superior to thefather in charge of the mission, and I am bound to deliver them at once.Besides, not much time will be lost. The launches are calling atEntebbe to pick up a draft of the King's African Rifles, so that weshall probably be only a day behind them, and you should overtake youruncle some days before he reaches the place where the fighting willbegin."

  "What's he say, Lilian?" said Mr. Barkworth in a stage whisper."Capital!" he cried, when she had briefly explained; "his head's clearenough for an Englishman's. Close with Mossoo's offer, Mr. Burnaby.Ask the padre what time he starts, Lilian; for the life of me I nevercan think of the French for start."

  "At eight in the morning," said the missionary. "If all goes well weshall cover a hundred miles before we anchor for the night."

  "Well, now, that is what I call business. Now, Tom, you'll be ready ateight with this Booty, or whatever you call him, and I'll be there tosee you off. Gad, if I hadn't a girl to drag me about I'd come too,though I'm sixty-three next week. Now, good-night, my boy, and God blessyou!"

  Tom gripped the old gentleman's hand warmly, and after wishing Liliangood-bye, went off with the White Father to talk over their plans andtrace out their route before turning in for the night.