by Talbot Mundy
“Telling him the truth wouldn’t be accepting favors from him,” counseled Fred.
“I wouldn’t tell him the time!”
That attitude — and Will insisted that all the officials in the land would prove alike — limited our choice, for unless we were to allay official suspicion it would be hopeless to get away northward. Southward into German East seemed the only way to go; there was apparently no law against travel in that direction. On our way to the hotel we passed Coutlass, striding along smirking to himself, headed toward the office from which we had just come.
“I’ll bet you,” said Will, “he’s off to get an ammunition permit, and permission to go where he damned well pleases! I’ll bet he gets both! This government’s the limit!”
We laughed, but Will proved more than half right. Coutlass did get ammunition. Lady Saffren Waldon’s influence was already strong enough for that. He did not ask for leave to go anywhere for the simple reason that his movements depended wholly on ours — a fact that developed later.
At the hotel there was a pleasant surprise for us. A squarely built, snub-nosed native, not very dark skinned but very ugly — his right ear slit, and almost all of his left ear missing — without any of the brass or iron wire ornaments that most of the natives of the land affect, but possessed of a Harris tweed shooting jacket and, of all unexpected things, boots that he carried slung by the laces from his neck-waited for us, squatting with a note addressed to Fred tied in a cleft stick.
It does not pay to wax enthusiastic over natives, even when one suspects they bring good news. We took the letter from him, told him to wait, and went on in. Once out of the man’s hearing Fred tore the letter open and read it aloud to us.
“Herewith my Kazimoto,” it ran. “Be good to him. It occurred to me that you might not care after all to linger in Nairobi, and it seemed hardly fair to keep the boy from getting a good job simply because he could make me comfortable for the remainder of a week. So, as there happened to be ae special train going up I begged leave for him to ride in the caboose. He is a splendid gun-bearer. He never funks, but reloads coolly under the most nerve-trying conditions. He has his limitations, of course, but I have found him brave and faithful, and I pass him along to you with confidence.
“And by the way: he has been to Mount Elgon with me. I was not looking for buried ivory, but he knows where the caves are in which anything might be!
“Wishing you all good luck, Yours truly,
“F. Courtney”
For the moment we felt like men possessed of a new horse apiece. We were for dashing out to look the acquisition over. But Will checked us.
“Recall what Courtney said about a dog?” he asked. “We can’t all own him!”
Fred sat down. “Ex-missionaries own dice,” he announced. “That’s how they come to be ex! You’ll find them in the little box on the shelf, Will. We’ll throw a main for Kazimoto!”
“I know a better gamble than that!’
“Name it, America.”
“Bring the coon in and have him choose.”
So I went out and felt tempted to speak cordially to the homeless ugly black man — to give him a hint that he was welcome. But it is a fatal mistake to make a “soft” impression on even the best natives at the start.
“Karibu!”* I said gruffly when I had looked him over, using one of the six dozen Swahili words I knew as yet. [*Karibu, enter, come in.]
He arose with the unlabored ease that I have since learned to look for in all natives worth employing; and followed me indoors. Will and Fred were seated in judicial attitudes, and I took a chair beside them.
“What is your name?” demanded Fred.
“Kazimoto.”
“Um-m! That means ‘Work-like-the-devil.’ Let us hope you live up to it. Your former master gives you a good character.”
“Why not, bwana? My spirit is good.”
“Do you want work?”
“Yes.”
“How much money do you expect to get?”
“Sijui!”
“Don’t say sijui!” I cut in, remembering Schillingschen’s method.
“Six rupees a month and posho,” he said promptly. Posho means rations, or money in lieu of rations.
“Don’t you rather fancy yourself?” suggested Fred with a perfectly straight face.
“Say two dollars a month all told!” Will whispered to me behind his hand.
“I am a good gun-bearer!” the native answered. “My spirit is good. I am strong. There is nobody better than me as a gun-bearer!”
“We happen to want a headman,” answered Fred. “Have you ever been headman?”
“Would you like to be?”
“Yes.”
“Are you able?”
“Surely.”
“Choose, then. Which of us would you like to work for?”
“You!” he answered promptly, pointing at Fred.
It was on the tip of the tongue of every one of us to ask him instantly why, but that would have been too rank indiscretion. It never pays to seem curious about a native’s personal reasons, and it was many weeks before we knew why he had made up his mind in advance to choose Fred and not either of us for his master.
His choice made, and the offer of his services accepted, he took over Fred forthwith — demanded his keys — found out which our room was — went over our belongings and transferred the best of our things into Fred’s bag and the worst of his into ours — remade Fred’s bed after a mysterious fashion of his own, taking one of my new blankets and one of Will’s in exchange for Fred’s old ones — cleaned Fred’s guns thoroughly after carefully abstracting the oil and waste from our gun-cases and transferring them to Fred’s — removed the laces from my shooting boots and replaced them with Fred’s knotted ones — sharpened Fred’s razors and shaved himself with mine (to the enduring destruction of its once artistic edge) — and departed in the direction of the bazaar.
He returned at the end of an hour and a half with a motley following of about twenty, arrayed in blankets of every imaginable faded hue and in every stage of dirtiness.
“You wanting cook,” he announced. “These three making cook.”
He waved three nondescripts to the front, and we chose a tall Swahili because he grinned better than the others. “Although,” as Fred remarked, “what the devil grinning has to do with cooking is more than anybody knows.” The man, whose name was Juma, turned out to be an execrable cook, but as he never left off grinning under any circumstances (and it would have been impossible to imagine circumstances worse than those we warred with later on) we never had the heart to dismiss him.
After that, Will and I selected a servant apiece who were destined forever to wage war on Kazimoto in hopeless efforts to prevent his giving Fred the best end of everything. Mine was a Baganda who called himself Matches, presumably because his real name was unpronounceable. Will chose a Malindi boy named Tengeneza (and that means arrange in order, fix, make over, manage, mend — no end of an ominous name!). They were both outclassed from the start by Kazimoto, but to add to the handicap he insisted that since he was a headman he would need some one to help look after Fred at times when other duties would monopolize his attention. He himself picked out an imp of mischief whose tribe I never ascertained, but who called himself Simba (lion), and there and then Simba departed up-stairs to steal for Fred whatever was left of value among Will’s effects and mine.
We had scarcely got used to the idea of once more having a savage apiece to wait on us when Kazimoto turned up at the door with a string of porters and a Goanese railway clerk. We had left our tents and heavy baggage checked at the station, but had said nothing about them to our new headman; however, he had made inquiries and worked out a plan on his own account. The railway clerk asked to know whether he should let Kazimoto have our things.
“Why?”’ demanded Fred.
“This hotel no good!” announced Kazimoto. “No place for boys. Heap too many plenty people. Pitching camp, that go
od!”
“All right,” said Fred, and then and there paid our baggage charges.
Presently Brown of Lumbwa, who had spent most of the daylight hours in the little corrugated iron bar run by a Goanese in the bazaar, came lurching past the township camping ground, and viewed Kazimoto with his gang pitching our tents. He asked questions, but could get no information, so came along to us.
“Where you schaps going?” he demanded, leaning against the wall. Fred took advantage of the opportunity and examined him narrowly as to his knowledge of German East and ways of getting there. He was in an aggravating mood that made at one moment a very well of information of him, and at the next a mere garrulous ass.
“Come along o’ me t’ Lumbwa,” was his final word on the matter. “I’ll put you on a road nobody knows an’ nobody, uses!”
We spent that night under canvas and talked the matter out. The usual way to reach Lumbwa was to wait for a freight, or construction train and beg leave to ride on that, for as yet, no passenger trains were running regularly on the western section of the line. But there was no rule against traveling anywhere south of the equator, and it was our purpose to march down into German East without any one being the wiser.
The next morning we imagined Brown was sober and sorry enough to hold his tongue, so, without going into details with him, we agreed to go with him “some of the way,” and Fred spent the whole of that morning in the bazaar buying loads of food and general supplies. Will and I engaged porters, and with Kazimoto’s aid as interpreter, had fifty ready to march that afternoon.
The whole trick of starting on a journey is to start. If you only make a mile or two the first day you have at least done better than stand still; loads have been apportioned and porters broken in to some extent; you have broken the spell of inertia, and hereafter there is less likely to be trouble. We made up our minds to get away that afternoon, and I was sent back to the hotel to find Brown, who had gone for his belongings.
If Brown had stayed sober all might have been well, but his headache and feeling of unworthiness had been too much for him and I found him with a straw in the neck of a bottle of whisky alternately laying down law to Georges Coutlass and drinking himself into a state of temporary bliss.
“You Greeks dunno nothin’!” he asserted as I came in. “You never did know nothin’, an’ you’re never goin’ to know nothin’! ‘Cause why? ‘I’ll tell you. Simply because I am goin’ to tell! I’m mum, I am! When s’mother gents an’ me ‘ave business, that’s our business — see! None o’ your business— ‘ss our business, an’ I’m not goin’ to tell you Greeks nothin’ about where we’re off to, nor why, nor when. An’ you put that in your pipe an’ smoke it!”
I sat in the dining-room for a while, hoping that the Greek would go away; but as Brown was fast drinking himself into a condition when he could not have been moved except on stretcher, and was momentarily edging closer to an admission of all he knew or guessed about our intention, I took the bull by the horns at last — snatched away his whisky bottle, and walked off with it.
He came after me swearing like a trooper, and his own porters, who had been waiting for more than an hour beside his loads, trailed along after him. Once in our camp we made a hammock for him out of a blanket tied to a pole, and made him over to two porters with the promise that they would get no supper if they lost him. Then we started — uphill, toward the red Kikuyu heights, where settlers were already trying to grow potatoes for which there was no market, and onions that would only run to seed.
To our left rear and right front were the highest mountain ranges in Africa. Before us was the pass through which the railway threaded over the wide high table-land before dipping downward to Victoria Nyanza. On our left front was all Kikuyu country, and after that Lumbwa, and native reserves, and forest, and swamp, and desert, and the German boundary.
We made a long march of it that first day, and camped after dark within two miles of Kikuyu station. Most of the scrub thereabouts was castor oil plant, that makes very poor fuel; yet there were lions in plenty that roared and scouted around us even before the tents were pitched.
Nobody got much sleep that night, although the porters were perfectly indifferent to the risk of snoozing on the watch. Kazimoto produced a thing called a kiboko — a whip of hippopotamus-hide a yard and a half long, and with the aid of that and Will’s good humor we constituted a yelling brigade, whose business was to make the welkin ring with godless noises whenever a lion came close enough to be dangerous.
I made up a signal party of all our personal boys with our lanterns, swinging them in frantic patterns in the darkness in a way to terrify the very night itself. Fred played concertina nearly all night long, and when dawn came, though there were tracks of lions all about the camp we were only tired and sleepy. Nobody was missing; nobody killed.
We never again took lions so seriously, although we always built fires about the camp in lion country when that was possible. Partly by dint of carelessness that brought no ill results, and partly from observation we learned that where game is plentiful lions are more curious than dangerous, and that unless something should happen to enrage them, or the game has gone away and they are hungry, they are likely to let well alone.
If there are dogs in camp — and we bought three terrier pups that morning from a settler at Kikuyu — leopards are likely to be more troublesome than lions. The leopards seemed to yearn for dog-meat much as Brown of Lumbwa yearned for whisky.
The journey to Lumbwa is one of the pleasantest I remember. We took Brown’s supply of whisky from him, locked up with our own, sent him ahead in the hammock, and let him work as guide by promises of whisky for supper if he did his duty, and threats of mere cold water if he failed.
“But water rots my stomach!” he objected.
“Lead on, then!” was the invariable, remorseless answer. So Brown led until we reached Naivasha with its strange lake full of hippo at an elevation so great that the mornings are frosty (and that within sight of the line). There was never a day that we were once out of sight of game from dawn to dark. When we awoke the morning mist would scatter slowly and betray sleepy herds of antelope, that would rise leisurely, stand staring at us, suddenly become suspicious, and then gallop off until the whole plain was a panorama of wheeling herds, reminding one of the cavalry maneuvers at Aldershot when the Guards regiments were pitted against the regular cavalry — all riding and no wits.
Although we had to shoot enough meat for ourselves and men, we never once took advantage of those surprise parties in the early morning, preferring to stalk warier game at the end of a long march. The rains were a thing of the past, and we seldom troubled to pitch tents but slept under the stars with a sensation that the universe was one vast place of peace.
Occasionally we reached an elevation from which we could look down and see men toiling to build the railway, that already reached Nyanza after the unfinished fashion of work whose chief aim is making a showing. Profits, performances were secondary matters; that railway’s one purpose was to establish occupation of the head waters of the Nile and refute the German claim to prior rights there. At irregular intervals trains already went down to the lake, and passengers might ride on suffrance; but we deluded ourselves with the belief that by marching we threw enemies off the scent. It was pure delusion, but extremely pleasant while it lasted. Where Africa is green and high she is a lovely land to march across.
Brown grew sober on the trip, as if approaching his chosen home gave him a sense of responsibility. His own reason for preferring the march to a ride in a construction train was simple:
“Every favor you ask o’ gov’ment, boys, leaves one less to fall back on in a pinch! Ask not, and they’ll forget some o’ your peccadillos. Ask too often, and one day when you really need a kindness you’ll find the Bank o’ Good Hope bu’sted! And, believe me, boys, that ‘ud be a hell of a predicament for a poor sufferin’ settler to find himself in!”
The approach to Lumbwa was over st
eep hilly grass land, between forests of cedar — perfect country, kept clean by a wind that smelt of fern and clover.
“You can tell we’re gettin’ near my place,” said Brown, “by the number o’ leopards that’s about.”
We had to keep our three pups close at heel all the time, and even at that we lost two of them. One was taken from between Will’s feet as he sat in camp cleaning his rifle. All he heard was the dog’s yelp, and all he saw was a flash of yellow as the leopard made for the boulders close at hand. The other was taken out of my tent. I had tied it to the tent pole, but the stout cord snapped like a hair and the darkness swallowed both leopard and its prey before I could as much as reach my rifle to get a shot.
“Splendid country for farmin’,” Brown remarked, “Splendid. Only you can’t keep sheep because the leopards take ’em. You can’t keep hens for the same reason. Nor yet cows, because the leopards get the calves — leastways, that’s to say unless you watch out awful cautious. Nor yet you can’t keep pigeons, ‘cause the leopards take them too. I sent to England for fancy pigeons — a dozen of em. Leopards got all but one, so I put him in the loft above my own house, where it seemed to me ‘tweren’t possible for a leopard to get, supposin’ he’d dared. Went away the next day for some shootin’, an’ lo and behold! — came back that evenin’ to discover my cook an’ three others carryin’ on as if Kingdom Come had took place at last. Never heard or saw such a jamboree. The blamed leopard was up in the loft; and had eaten the pigeon, feathers and all, but couldn’t get out again!”
“What happened? Nothin’! I was that riled I didn’t stop to think — fixed a bayonet on the old Martini the gov’ment supplies to settlers out of the depths of its wisdom an’ generosity — climbed up by the same route the leopard took — invaded him — an’ skewered him wi’ the bayonet in the dark! I wouldn’t do it again for a kingdom — but I won’t buy more pigeons either!”
“What do you raise on your farm, then — pigs?” we asked.
