Tom Willoughby's Scouts: A Story of the War in German East Africa

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER IV--TRAPPED

  "You talked of slavery," said Reinecke one day. "Our niggers were nobetter than slaves! Have you seen anything to confirm that ratherscandalous suggestion?" His tone was lightly sarcastic.

  "If you mean any signs of positive ill-treatment, none," said Tom. (Hewas not aware that Reinecke had given the overseers strict orders not touse their whips while the Englishman was on the spot). "But I hadalways understood that the negro is naturally a cheerful person----"

  "Well!" interrupted Reinecke. "Don't they laugh enough? Don't theymake noise enough?"

  "The youngsters do make a great row," Tom confessed smiling; "of coursechildren always are noisy and happy; they don't understand. But theolder men seem rather apathetic. Apart from actual ill-treatment, ofwhich I do you the justice to say there's no sign, the mere loss ofliberty must be horribly depressing. You admit that they can't leave ifthey want to."

  "Not at all. Some have at times cut a way through the hedge. They'verepented of it." He smiled grimly. "But now, what would be aconvincing proof to you that things here are after all not so bad?--thatthe life has some attractions, even for the freedom-loving negro?"

  "The return of one who had escaped, I suppose."

  "That's a proof I can hardly give you, because the few who haveescaped--or run away, as I should put it--have either been caught andbrought back or have no doubt come to grief in the forest. But I cangive you an instance of a nigger coming here of his own accord, andbeing apparently quite content to remain."

  "Indeed!"

  "Yes; and, strangely enough, he arrived on the same day as you. Youwon't suggest that _you_ are the attraction?"

  Tom resented this unmannerly remark, still more the tone in which it wasuttered, but he said nothing.

  "As you may imagine," Reinecke went on, "I don't know all the people.My Arabs look after them. And I shouldn't have known anything aboutthis voluntary slave but for the fact that I mistook him for Mirambo'sson, and one of the overseers corrected me. It appears that when welanded our stores from the _Hedwig von Wissmann_ that day, we were oneporter short, and this fellow, a sturdy lad, was hanging about andappeared to have nothing to do. He was engaged and came up with theothers and stayed on--works well, and is quite cheerful, I'm told. He'sastonishingly like Mirambo's boy. Some of these niggers claim to bedescended from their old kings or chiefs: Mirambo himself does; and it'squite possible that this youth comes of the same stock. There's ajotting for your note-book, if you are making notes, and I daresay youare."

  Again there was a covert sneer in the German's tone. Tom felt that hewould soon have to quarrel with his host. As soon as he should havecome to a definite conclusion about the man's integrity he would cut hisvisit short.

  It seemed, indeed, as if Reinecke was determined to make him feel thathe had overstayed his welcome. Once or twice, when he asked thatMirambo or his son might accompany him shooting, Reinecke declared thathe could not spare any of the men; it was the busiest time of the year,not a time for amusement.

  "But there's no reason why you shouldn't go alone, if you find idlenessboring," he added once. "There are no dangerous beasts in our immediateneighbourhood. I'd only warn you not to go too far."

  Tom was glad enough to take him at his word. While the fruit-picking wasgoing on, there was nothing for him to learn, and Reinecke had been soungracious lately that companionship was impossible. So he wentoccasionally into the woods alone, never straying more than a mile ortwo from the plantation, and taking even more pleasure in quietlywatching the smaller animals--the tree-lizards, chameleons,iguanas--than in shooting pigeons or teal. His hope of big-game huntingwas apparently to remain unrealised.

  One day on returning he found Reinecke in a particularly good humour.

  "I have had a visit to-day from a high German officer, Major vonRudenheim," he said: "an excellent soldier. He came on the boat withyou, of course: did you have the pleasure of conversing with him?"

  "No. He seemed to me too much of what we call a big pot."

  "True: our German officers are very much above civilians. In any case,however--you are not aware that I hold the rank of Captain of Landwehr?So we met, as it were, on equal terms, though he is a step higher inrank. And I have another piece of news for you. Eland have been seennear that small lake where we shot buck with Captain Goltermann, youremember. Would you like to add elands' horns to your trophies?"

  "I should indeed," replied Tom, again wavering in his estimate ofReinecke. "He really isn't a bad sort at times," he thought.

  Next morning happened to be mail day, and as Reinecke had letters towrite, Tom feared that he was to be disappointed. But the German wasagain in excellent temper.

  "You can start without me," he said. "I shall be through with myletters in an hour or so, and I'll follow you and meet you near the edgeof the lake--you remember, by that fallen tree where we ate our lunch.Don't startle the game away: it will be a little practice in stalkingfor you. I'll bring the men along with me."

  Tom set off, determined to show that the woodcraft he had picked upduring the past few weeks was not inconsiderable. He reached theappointed spot, and ventured to cast about in various directions,without, however, finding any traces of the eland. Returning to therendezvous, he was there joined by Reinecke, alone.

  "I'm afraid the bird has flown," he said ruefully. "I haven't seen asign of them."

  "I will show you," replied Reinecke with a smile. "We shall have tostalk them, and we'll see what we can do without Mirambo's assistance.He'll bring up some men presently to carry home the game."

  He set off along a faint native track, so long disused and so muchovergrown that Tom by himself would hardly have discovered it. Theypushed their way through the vegetation, and after about a quarter of anhour Reinecke whispered to Tom to stop and be careful to make no noise.

  "We ought to find our quarry in a glade just ahead," he said. "I'll goon: follow when I call."

  He disappeared among the undergrowth. In a few minutes Tom heard ashot, then a faint call, and hurried eagerly on. The track widened alittle, and Tom was quickening his steps when he suddenly felt the earthgive way beneath his feet, and next moment found himself lying at thebottom of a deep pit, amidst a litter of earth and brushwood, andconscious of a sharp pain in the calf of his left leg. Almost stunnedby the fall, he lay for a moment or two scarcely able to realise whathad happened. Then he shouted for help.

  There was no answer. All was silent except for the hum of insects andthe rustling of some small animals which his sudden descent upon theirlair had disturbed. He shouted again, more loudly; then, supposing thathis voice from the depth of the pit had not penetrated to Reinecke'sears through the vegetation above, he reached for his rifle, which laybeside him, and fired a couple of shots into the air. Not yet seriouslyuneasy, he stooped to see what caused the pain in his leg, and foundthat it had been gashed by one of some half-dozen sharp-pointed stakesthat were planted in the bottom of the pit.

  "A native game-pit," he thought. "Reinecke might have warned me."

  Standing up, he discovered that his right ankle was sprained.

  "They'll have to carry me home," he thought, "and the sooner the better;the stuff here must have been rotting for years. I wish to goodnessReinecke would come."

  Once more he shouted, then tried to scale the wall of the pit; but thiswas perpendicular, and it was evidently a case of cutting notches init--a tiresome job to a man who could scarcely stand. It struck him thathe had better bind up the gash in his leg as well as he could. When themen came he would get them to carry him to the lake and bathe the wound.How lucky it was that he had escaped with only one wound, and that in novital spot! Looking at that ugly array of spikes, he shuddered at thethought of the hideous injuries they might have inflicted.

  While tying his handkerchief tightly round his leg he shouted from timeto time. Was it possible that Reinecke had met with a similarmisfortune? For the first time Tom felt re
ally uneasy. Reinecke's callto him had been very faint, and had not been repeated. If they wereboth in the same predicament there was no hope of relief until thenegroes came up from the plantation. To make sure of their not missinghim, he shouted and fired at intervals, until almost all his cartridgeswere gone. Still there was no response.

  He looked up the wall of the pit. It was eleven or twelve feet high.If only he could raise himself high enough to get his arms on the edge,the rest would be easy. It should not take very long to cut a fewnotches in the earth: one of the spikes would form a serviceable tool.He worked one out of the ground, and rose to his feet, wincing with thepain that shot through his sprained ankle. To his chagrin, the earth ofthe pit wall was friable. It crumbled as he drove the spike into it; sofar from making a hole that would afford him a firm foothold, hesucceeded only in breaking down a part of the wall.

  "Fairly trapped," he thought, and sat down again to ease his achinglegs.

  His watch announced midday. The men ought to have arrived by this time.They would carry food and drink, and he was very thirsty. Therendezvous was well known to them: surely they had not mistakenReinecke's instructions. And then at last he was startled by a suspicionthat sprang up suddenly in his mind--a suspicion so horrible that hestrove to crush it. Reinecke might have lied to him about the vouchers;was he villain enough to have decoyed him deliberately to this cunninglyconcealed trap--deliberately schemed to clear finally out of his paththe man whom he regarded as a stumbling-block on his way to fortune, thediscoverer of his crimes?

  The thought, terrible as it was, would not be stifled. Tom recalled thegradual changes in the German's manner--the descent from almostexcessive cordiality to stiffness, sarcasm, positive rudeness: then thesudden return to geniality, the apparent eagerness to indulge his guest.For the first time he was struck with the peculiar arrangements for theday's shooting expedition--the sending him on alone, the absence ofgunbearers. This train of thought, once started, was carried onremorselessly by Tom's active imagination. Granted the man's intentionof putting him out of the way, how easily one detail fitted intoanother! How naturally the Englishman's disappearance could beexplained! It was known to every one on the plantation that he hadsometimes gone shooting alone. Reinecke could say, and his statementcould be corroborated, that his guest had started alone on this morning,he himself being engaged with correspondence. He had followed later,according to arrangement, but had failed to meet the Englishman at theappointed spot. He had searched for him, and after some days had foundthe poor fellow's remains at the bottom of an old, long disusedgame-pit. How plausible the story would be! Bob, thousands of milesaway, would grieve: the story might get into the papers: people wouldread the paragraph, perhaps sigh, and pass on to a scandal nearer home,or to the latest news of the trouble in Ireland. In a few weeks TomWilloughby would be only the shadow of a name.

  Impatient with himself at the length his imagination had carried him,Tom shouted again, fired off another cartridge--the last but one. "Imust keep one for emergencies," he thought. He made another attempt tocut holes in the wall, and threw the spike from him in disgust at thesecond failure. It occurred to him to heap up debris at the foot of thewall, to form a mounting block; but at the stirring of the putrid massinnumerable insects, beetles, reptiles, foul nameless things issuedforth, causing him to shudder with loathing, and to shrink at actualpain from their bites and stings. Overcome with nausea, he retreated toa far corner where this creeping population had not been disturbed, andfor a time, weary as he was, sickened by his increasing pain, he leantagainst the wall, rather than sit down again, until sheer fatiguecompelled him to make an uneasy seat of his slanted rifle.

  With the passage of time his thirst became a torture, and the shouts heuttered ever and anon sounded cracked and harsh from his parched throat.A sort of lethargy settled upon him: not a stoic resignation, a calmacquiescence in fate's decree, but a numbness of the senses and themind. For a time he was scarcely conscious of pain, of the thingsmoving at his feet, of the gradual cooling of the air as evening drewon. Then he roused himself with a start, and heedless of stings and theloathsome touch of obscene creatures, he gathered up heaps of rottedleaves and twigs and the litter that had fallen under him, and beganwith frantic energy to pile them against the wall. His weight crushedthem into half their former bulk, and he fell exhausted on the futilepillar.

  Night came on. Alternately he dozed, and awoke to a sharpened keennessof apprehension. Now and then he heard noises above--the harshpersistent note of the nightjar, the hollow melancholy scale of thehornbill, the horrid whine of hyenas prowling in quest of prey andcalling to one another with increasing frequency as the night stoletowards dawn. A sudden raucous cry, apparently near at hand, caused himto seize the spike for defence in case some unwary beast should stumbleinto the pit. Once he beheld a pair of eyes, glaring with greenishlight upon him from the brink. He uttered a hoarse cry: the eyesdisappeared: and he seemed to hear a creaking rustle among the treesabove.

  Slumber again sealed his senses, and when he awoke, the pale misty lightof dawn threw green rays into his prison. His limbs were numb withcold. His dry throat gave forth only a whistling croak when he tried toshout. Scarcely able to move, he watched the mouth of the pit and thesunlight filtering through the foliage and dispersing the mist.Listless, unconscious of the flight of time, he was just aware of thelengthening day as a sunbeam climbed down the side of his prison. Allat once he was shaken into attention by a sound overhead, and while hewas feebly trying to call, a shadow fell across the opening. A man'sform appeared, and with a gasp of unutterable thankfulness he sawReinecke peering down upon him. He struggled giddily to his feet:surely the bitterness of death was past.

  But what was Reinecke saying? What words were these, that struck uponhis ear in spasms, as it were?

  "You came to spy ... enjoy your visit ... mad English ... war withGermany ... learn what it means to provoke the German."

  He tried to collect his bewildered senses. It was Reinecke. What washe talking about? "Expedition to conquer Rhodesia ... months before Ireturn ... a safe resting-place ... gather remains ... nothing but bones... white bones."

  Had Reinecke gone? The voice had ceased; the sunlight fell unchecked:and Tom, in a last flash of illumination before the darkness ofunconsciousness enshrouded him, realised that Reinecke had betrayed himand had left him here to die.