Tom Burnaby Part 1

TOM BURNABY.

by Herbert Strang.

_MY DEAR JACK,_

_Your birthday has come round again--and here, with every good wish, is another book for your shelf. No mailed knights this time; our story is of the present day. Yet you shall find paynim hordes as many and as fierce as you please; yes, and chivalry itself, or I am much mistaken,--although we may not spell it with a capital C. For it is a theory of mine--"Old Uncle and his theories!" I hear you say!--that the spirit of chivalry is as much alive to-day as ever, and finds as free a scope. And if chivalry is, as I take it to be, the championing of the weak and the oppressed, no region of the world offers a wider field than Central Africa, where there is still ample work for the countrymen of Livingstone and Gordon. Some day, perhaps, you may yourself visit that land, and come back with as deep a sense of its glamour and pathos as the rest of us. Meanwhile, since even at Harrow the sky is not always clear, why not on some rainy afternoon pack up your traps and transport yourself in imagination to Uganda with Tom Burnaby? If you return with a certain stock of information about the land and its people--well, your old uncle will be all the better pleased. Not, of course, that this trip should be a reason for neglecting your football--or other duties!_

_Your affectionate uncle,_ _HERBERT STRANG._

_A belt of matted woodland. At the edge, three Belgian officers, in light uniform and white topee, lying p.r.o.ne, and peering cautiously out through gla.s.ses. Before them, a wide clearing, with a mud-walled town in the midst, and huge forest-trees beyond. Behind, a few score stalwart Bangala, strewn panting on the ground. Over all, the swarming sunlit haze of tropical Africa._

_The gates stand open; peace reigns in Kabambari. But what is peace in Kabambari? Some hundreds of negro slaves are tilling sorghum in the cultivated tract outside the stockaded walls. Their chains clank as they move heavily down the field, dogged by an Arab overseer armed with rifle, scimitar, and whip. The pitiless sun, scorching their bent backs, blackens the scars left by the more pitiless scourge._

_In the copse there is a whispered word of command; the negro soldiers spring silently to their feet, line up as best the broken ground permits, and then, at the heels of their white officers, charge out into the sunlight. No yell nor cheer, as they dash towards the open gate; the overseer, ere he can give the alarm, is bayoneted while his finger is on the trigger; the slaves, listless, apathetic, have scarcely time to realize their taskmaster's doom before the thin line has swept past them and through the gates. Then there is a sudden sharp crackle of musketry; cries of startled fear and savage triumph; and by ones and twos and threes, turbaned figures pour out of the far side of the town, a scanty remnant of the Arab garrison. One by one they drop as they cross the open; only a few gain the shelter of the forest. The heirs of Tippu Tib are broken and dispersed. The struggle has been long, the issue doubtful; but now, after years of stern fighting, the great Arab empire, founded upon murder, rapine, and slavery, is scattered to the winds. One thing only is wanting to make this last victory complete.

Rumaliza, the Arab commander, Tippu Tib's ablest lieutenant, has escaped the net. Whether to live and build anew the dread fabric raised by his late chief; or whether to die in the gloomy depths of the Great Forest by starvation or disease, or by the poisoned arrow of the Bambute--who can say?_

CHAPTER I

Fitting Out an Expedition

The Major--A New Friend--By Rail to Uganda--Dr. O'Brien Introduces Himself--The Major Orders a Retreat--Left Behind

A suit of boating flannels and a straw hat are no doubt a convenient, cool, and comfortable outfit for a July day on the Thames, but they fail miserably to meet the case on an average hot morning in Central Africa.

So Tom Burnaby found as he walked slowly through Kisumu, stopping every now and again to mop his face and wish he were well out of it. If his dress had not betrayed him, his undisguised interest in the scene would in itself have bespoken the "griffin" to the most casual observer. The few Europeans whom he met eyed him with looks half of amus.e.m.e.nt, half of concern. One advanced as if to address him, then repented of the impulse and pa.s.sed on.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a noise ahead, gradually increasing in intensity as he approached. "The queerest noise you ever heard in your life," he wrote in a letter to a chum at home. "Imagine some score of huge ginger-beer bottles turned topsy-turvy and the fizz gurgling out, with a glug, glug, glug, and a sort of gigantic fat chuckle at the end,--then more glugging and chuckling, and chuckling and glugging. I was wondering what it meant, when suddenly I came to a huge shed, and then I saw the cause of all the row. About a hundred natives, as black as your hat, their skins s.h.i.+ning like polished bronze, were working away at baggage and packages of all sorts, rolling up canvas, packing boxes and bales, tugging at ropes, and all the time jabbering and cackling and laughing and glug-glugging like a cageful of monkeys.

"I stood still and watched them for a minute, and then there was a sudden lull in the uproar, and I heard my old uncle's voice for the first time. There he was, the dear old chap, perched on a pile of ammunition-boxes, and the language he was using was evidently so warm that it was a wonder the whole show didn't blow up. I could only make out a word here and there, most of it was double Dutch to me; but whatever it was, it made those poor black fellows bustle for all they were worth. Then in the middle of his address the old boy suddenly caught sight of my unlucky self. You should have seen the expression on his face! He stopped as if a live sh.e.l.l had pitched into the shed; and--well, what happened then must keep till our next meeting. I could never do justice to the interview in a letter."

To say that Major John Burnaby was surprised at the sudden appearance of his nephew in Kisumu only feebly expresses his state of mind. After a few seconds of speechlessness, his feelings found vent in the deliberate exclamation:

"Well--I'm--hanged!"

Tom stood in front of him, looking very warm. There was another embarra.s.sing silence.

"What do you mean by this?" were the major's next words.

"I really couldn't help it, Uncle Jack."

"Couldn't help it!" gasped the major.

"Oh well, you know what I mean! I saw in the papers that a column was going up to catch the beggars who killed Captain Boyes, and that you had got the job. 'Uncle Jack,' I thought, 'has got his chance at last, and I'm going to be there.' And here I am!"

"I see you are! And you mean to say you have left your work, thrown it all up, ruined your career, to come on a wild-goose chase like this?

You'll go home by the next boat, sir."

"Don't say that, Uncle. I know it's sudden, but you see there was no time to lose. I couldn't write; I should never have got your answer in time; and you surely couldn't expect me to stop in a grimy engineering shop on the Clyde when my only uncle had got his chance at last! I must see it through with you, Uncle Jack."

"Must! must!" repeated the major. "Tom, I'm surprised at you--and annoyed, sir--seriously annoyed at your folly. The absurdity of it all!

You can't join the expedition. It's against the regulations, for one thing; this is a soldier's job, and civilians would only be in the way.

Besides, you're not seasoned; the climate would bowl you over in no time, and you're too young to peg out comfortably. What's more, you'd be no earthly use. Oh! I can't argue it with you," pursued the major, as Tom was about to protest; "you're demoralizing my men. Cut off to my bungalow, and keep out of mischief till I have done with them. Then I shall have something to say to you."

Tom looked pleadingly for an instant into his uncle's face, but finding no promise of relenting there, he turned slowly on his heel and walked away.

"So much for that! I was half afraid I'd catch it," he said to himself.

"My word, isn't it hot!"

Tom was only eighteen, but he had already had disappointments enough, he thought, to last him a lifetime. Ever since he could remember, he had set his heart on being a soldier like his uncle Jack; but the sudden death of his father, a quiet country parson, had left him with only a few hundreds for his whole capital, and he had perforce to give up all ideas of going to Sandhurst. At this critical moment an opening offered itself in the works of an engineering firm on the Clyde, the head of which was an old school chum of his uncle's. It was Hobson's choice.

He went to Glasgow, and there for a few months felt utterly forlorn and miserable. Then he pulled himself together, and began to take an interest even in the grimy work of the fitting-shop. He worked well, went through various departments, and was gaining experience in the draughtsman's office when he read one day in the paper that his uncle was appointed to the command of a punitive expedition in the Uganda Protectorate. The news revived his old yearnings; after one restless night he drew out enough to pay his pa.s.sage and buy an outfit, and booked himself on the first P. and O. steamer for Suez.

Among his fellow-pa.s.sengers the only one with whom he had much to do was a plump German trader, who joined at Gibraltar from a Hamburg liner. He amused Tom with his outbursts of patriotic fervour, alternating with periods of devotion to the interests of his firm. At one moment he was soaring aloft with the German eagle; at the next he was quoting his best price for pig-iron. Tom found him useful to practise his German on. He had always had a turn for languages; indeed, his only distinctions at school, besides his being the best bat in the eleven and a safe man in goal, were won in German and French. Naturally, he soon sc.r.a.ped acquaintance also with the chief engineer, and the pleasantest hours of the voyage out were those he spent in the engine-room, where he showed an unusually intelligent interest in the details of the machinery. He changed s.h.i.+p at Suez, and was heartily glad when, on awaking one morning, he caught sight of the white houses of Mombasa gleaming amid the dark-green bush.

The first thing he did on landing was to enquire the whereabouts of the expedition. He learned that it was fitting out at Kisumu, six hundred miles inland, on the sh.o.r.e of the Victoria Nyanza, and that he could reach the terminus at Port Florence by railway in two days. There being no train till next morning, he swallowed his impatience and roamed about the town. Amid the usual signs of Arab ruin and neglect he saw evidences of a new life and activity. He could not but admire the splendid harbour, in which a couple of British cruisers were lying at anchor; he climbed up to the old dismantled Portuguese fort, and examined every nook and cranny of it; he strolled about through the narrow, twisted streets, finding much to interest him at every step--grave Arab booth-keepers, sleek and wily Persians, lank Indian coolies, and negroes of every race and size in every variety of undress.

He put up for the night at the Grand Hotel. At dinner he was faced by an elderly gentleman with ruddy cheeks, side whiskers, and a s.h.i.+ny pate, who gave him a casual glance, but, with the Englishman's usual taciturnity, for some time said nothing. When, however, he had comfortably settled his soup, the old gentleman held his gla.s.s of claret to the light, looked at Tom over the rims of his spectacles, and said:

"Just out, sir?"

"Yes; I landed this morning."

"H'm! Government appointment, sir?"

"Well no, not exactly. The fact is, I've come out to see my uncle."

"H'm! Many boys do; hard up, I suppose," said the old gentleman under his breath. "Name, sir?"

"Burnaby--Tom Burnaby. My uncle is Major Burnaby of the Guides."

"Might have known it, h'm! you're as like as two tom-cats. Jack Burnaby's a fine fellow, sir; I know him. Fine country this. We made it a fine country. Ain't you proud to be an Englishman? 'Tis four hundred years or so since Vasco da Gama--heard of him, I suppose?--came ash.o.r.e here on his famous voyage to India. To be exact, it was the year 1497. It was a fine place then; did a fine trade, sir. He didn't get backed up. No stamina in those Portuguese. Suffer from jumps, don't you know. Arabs got in; consequence, rack and ruin. Decay, sir; dry rot and mildew. We stepped in somewhere in the twenties, and then--stepped out again. Stupid! Now we've got our foot in, and begad we won't lift it again, or I don't know Joe Chamberlain. I know him.

H'm!"

The old fellow's short snaps of sentences, and the little gasps he gave at intervals, rather tickled Tom.

"Yes," he continued, "the Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it provisionally to the British East Africa Company. They were made definite masters of the place two years later, and also put in possession of a vast tract of country extending four hundred miles along the coast. H'm!"

At this Tom began to fear that he was in for a lecture, but he was rea.s.sured the next moment.