by W E Johns
“Well, blow me down!” breathed Bertie.
“That certainly is a corker—something I didn’t expect,” muttered Ginger. “Those blacks are no more natives than we are. They’re negroes imported from the United States. They’re likely to be more dangerous than native tribesmen. This certainly puts a different complexion on things. Good thing we spotted it, but it’s getting dark; we’d better be drifting along towards the lodge. I wonder what Robinson is up to?”
They had not gone far when they encountered Kreeze.
Seeing them, he walked briskly towards them, as if he had been looking for them.
“Ah! There you are, gentlemen,” he said in a business-like manner. “I am just preparing the beats for tomorrow and I should like to know how you feel in the matter of exercise. Do you feel like having a strenuous day on one of the distant beats, or would you prefer to be nearer home?”
Now, while it would not be strictly true to say that Ginger had no interest in the country, his main concern lay in the real purpose of his visit. Journeys to distant parts of the territory, where he could not expect to learn anything, were therefore a waste of time. For which reason he was not long making up his mind.
“I think for the first day we’d better stay near home,” he decided. “We’ve had a long and tiring journey getting here, and I think it would be a good thing if we got our muscles into shape before taking on the real hard going.”
“I think you are wise,” agreed Kreeze. “I’ll make arrangements accordingly.”
“We should like to do our hunting together, if it’s all the same to you,” suggested Ginger.
“Certainly. It makes no difference, except that you’ll have to share the shooting, of course; but you probably won’t mind that. If you’re going together one hunter will be enough. You can have Kisumo. He’s a good man. By the way, it’s nearly dinner-time.” With a curt nod Kreeze walked away in the direction of his office.
Ginger and Bertie carried on towards their quarters to have a wash before dinner. In doing this they had to pass near the taxidermist’s building. They had just gone by when the turning of a door handle made Ginger look back. He saw Robinson and Doctor Dorov come out. Engaged in earnest conversation they walked down a barely-discernible track towards the power-house. Doctor Dorov had lost his shuffle.
“So that’s it,” breathed Ginger. “It looks as if our venerable naturalist, like everything else here, is a fake. We’ll bear it in mind.”
They went on to the bungalow. At the door they encountered Colonel Dupray.
“Here, I say you fellows!” he exclaimed. “What’s all this I hear about officers of the Indian Army having to carry radio when on leave outside the range of ordinary communications?”
Ginger experienced a sinking sensation in the stomach.
He drew a deep breath. “How did you hear about it, sir?” he inquired.
“Kreeze asked me about it.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him it was a lot of nonsense, of course. I’m on the General Headquarters Staff and any such order would have to go through my office.”
“Must be a mistake somewhere, sir,” said Ginger lamely.
“Can’t imagine who’d start that silly rumour,” muttered the colonel.
“Nor I, sir,” said Ginger sadly.
He walked on, followed by Bertie. As soon as they were out of earshot of the colonel he stopped, and looking Bertie in the eyes, made a grimace. “I’m afraid that’s torn it,” he observed quietly. “How were we to know that Dupray was Indian Army? That’s sheer bad luck. If Kreeze didn’t suspect us before, on account of our trying to bring radio in, he does now. Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. He won’t be long showing his hand, I fancy.”
Chapter 7
Ginger Climbs A Tree
GINGER was awakened the following morning by the unmistakable noise of an aircraft being started up. It was still very early. Going to the window he saw that the sun was just rising in a crystal-clear African sky. The aircraft that had brought them down was preparing to leave. The pilot who had flown it on that occasion was there, obviously intending to take it back. The only passenger as far as Ginger could make out was the Frenchman; he was there, watching his luggage and trophies being put aboard. Presently Kreeze went out and spoke to him. They shook hands and parted, Kreeze returning to the lodge. In another few minutes the machine was in the air, heading north. It disappeared, and silence settled over the scene.
Thinking things over Ginger dressed leisurely. Bertie joined him at breakfast. They lingered over coffee half expecting to be called to the manager’s office for an explanation of the matter in which Colonel Dupray, in all innocence, they were convinced, had let them down—why they had made up the story of Indian Army officers being compelled to carry radio. However, they saw nothing of Kreeze. A steward presented them with their luncheon sandwiches neatly wrapped in paper and told them that Kisumo, their hunter, was waiting on the verandah; so they had no choice than to proceed with the roles they were playing. In view of what Kreeze now knew, that they had tried surreptitiously to bring in a radio transmitter, Ginger had an uncommfortable feeling that these roles were getting a bit thin. If they were watching Kreeze, then it was certain that he would be keeping an eye on them.
Having collected their hunting gear from their quarters they joined the hunter who was to be their guide and general adviser for the day. He turned out to be a big, surly-looking type of native African, dressed partly in native style and partly European—a mixture that is never attractive. It seemed that he was able to speak only a little English, and very broken English at that; but in view of what Ginger and Bertie had overheard the previous evening, when they had caught two of the blacks arguing, they resolved not to put too much reliance in this apparent ignorance. They would be wiser, opined Ginger, to set a guard on their tongues, taking the view that what they said would be reported to Kreeze. For the rest, they could only accept the black at his face value; they felt sure that if he was a fraud he would sooner or later give himself away.
Kisumo began by indicating with his spear the general direction of their march. That he knew his way about was not to be doubted. Somewhat to Ginger’s surprise it now transpired that their beat was inside the crater. He had assumed—not that he had any particular reason for the assumption—that they would be going down to the plains. This was not so. Kisumo explained haltingly that a few miles beyond the forest belt that came up over the lip of the crater, and ran down the inside as far as the bamboo swamp, there was an old river-bed, mostly dry but with stagnant pools at intervals, in which game was always to be found. There would certainly be antelope of different kinds; there might be lion, and rhino, and buffalo in the reed-beds.
They set off, taking a course round the lip of the crater to the forest-belt, which in no place was more than a mile in width—less in most places. The timber turned out to be no obstacle, for a well-worn game track took them to the far side. Bertie, who looked with the eyes of experience, saw numerous tracks in the soft earth. It was evident that there was plenty of game in the forest, but he did not need to be told that it would be a dangerous, if not impossible, place to look for it. Once they were in the heavy shade of the trees, surrounded by dark rank undergrowth, they could no longer see the lodge.
From the far side, where the timber gave way to a sunny grassy slope with frequent small outcrops of weathered grey stone, they were able to overlook the beat that had been allotted to them. It was, naturally, of considerable extent, and a good deal rougher than might have been supposed from a distance, with the ground falling away all the time towards the great central depression. The only living creature that could be seen in a preliminary survey was a rhino, standing on the edge of some scrub about two miles away. As Ginger focussed his binoculars on the beast Kisumo said that he knew the animal well. He was a wary old brute that had been shot at more than once, so it was a waste of time to try to stalk him. With his spear the na
tive pointed to the old river-bed, which could easily be followed by the more verdant colour of its vegetaation. There lay the best chance of sport, he stated, and suggested that they should make straight for it.
While the man was talking an idea had been taking shape in Ginger’s mind. The scene in front of him was quite interesting in a way, but he was far more concerned with what lay behind; for the belt of trees through which they had passed was the one which, at its lower extremity, ended in the bamboo swamp in which the power-house was situated. The forest sloped down steeply inside the crater, and it seemed certain that could he be left alone he ought to have no difficulty in finding a place that commanded a near view of the area that had been put out of bounds. The powerhouse drew him like a magnet. How near it might be possible to get to it was a matter for conjecture, but his binoculars should enable him to inspect it more closely than from any other viewpoint.
So desirable an objective did this seem that he determined to try a plan which, if it succeeded, might be profitable, and if it failed could do no harm. The difficulty was to advise Bertie of the scheme without being overheard by Kisumo, whom he did not trust. If they were seen whispering together the black might well wonder what was going on, and if his real job was to spy on them then he would at once be on the alert. Having thought the matter over Ginger resolved to prooceed with the plan, trusting that a wink would be sufficient to tell Bertie all that was necessary. Conseequently, when they had gone on for perhaps a quarter of a mile, he tripped over a loose piece of rock, which brought him with a cry of pain to his knees. When he attempted to rise he caught his breath sharply, dropped his rifle, and sank back, clutching at his ankle. “That’s done it,” he muttered bitterly.
“Here, I say, old boy, what’s wrong?” asked Bertie with deep concern.
“I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle,” Ginger told him with a wry face.
“What a bally nuisance.”
Kisumo had also turned, of course. He was watching closely, too closely for Ginger to make any sort of signal to Bertie, who suggested that they had better go back.
“Nothing of the sort,” argued Ginger. “You push along. I’ll stay here. I shall be all right. I don’t think I’ve done any serious damage and it might soon get all right with a rest; but if I go on walking it will probably get worse, and we might finish up with you having to carry me home.”
Bertie looked doubtful. At that moment something attracted Kisumo’s attention and he glanced away. This was the opportunity for which Ginger had been waiting and he did not let it slip. He flashed a wink. Bertie started; then a light of understanding dawned in his eyes.
“I’d like to get a shot if I can,” he observed.
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” asserted Ginger.
“You are sure you’ll be all right here for a bit?”
“Right as rain. You go on with Kisumo. I’ll stay here and rest; you can pick me up on the way home.”
Bertie turned to Kisumo. “Is that all right with you?” he asked.
It was obvious from the expression on his face that the black was in a quandary. Here was a contingency for which he was not prepared. Whatever his instructions might have been they did not cover the case. He hesitated.
That he did not suspect a trick was clear, but plainly he was worried by the thought of having his charges separated.
“That’ll be all right, Kisumo,” prompted Ginger. “I’ll wait here. Make a short day of it if you like. Collect me on the way back.” He smiled. “All I ask is, don’t leave me here after dark.”
Bertie settled the matter. “All right, but don’t go away from this spot,” he adjured. “We shan’t be late.” With that he shouldered his rifle and strode on. Kisumo followed without another word.
Ginger sat and watched them until, at a distance of about a mile, they disappeared into a dip in the ground not far from the nearest point of the river-bed. He knew that once they started hunting seriously they would not expose themselves unnecessarily, so he did not expect to see them again. Nor did he. Well satisfied with the success of his subterfuge he got up, and taking advantage of all the cover available made his way back to the forest. He expected to be away for an hour or two at the most. In any case, in order to avoid explanations that might prove embarrassing it was certainly his intention to be back well before Bertie and Kisumo returned to pick him up. That he might be prevented from doing this was a thought that did not occur to him.
Reaching the fringe of the forest he stopped, and turning round made a careful scrutiny of the area in which Bertie and Kisumo had disappeared, to confirm that they had not changed their minds and were coming back. They were not in sight, but he saw somethmg which for a moment or two held his attention. A lion, or lioness—he was too far off to be sure which—disturbed by the hunters, had broken cover and was slinking away towards some tall elephant grass. He fully expected to hear the crack of Bertie’s rifle; but the sound did not come, so he could only assume that the animal had slipped away unnoticed. Presently it disappeared from sight.
Entering the forest he at once turned downhill, the direction which was bound to take him to the bamboo swamp. Once off the track, the going, he found, was not so easy; the ground was boggy; everything was dripping wet and rather unpleasant; but he encountered no serious obstruction until he reached the first of the bamboos, when he came upon something which he had overlooked. It was the fence—or a fence. He had not realized that it went right on through the forest, to prevent an approach to the power-house from any direction.
To climb the fence was manifestly impossible. A monkey might have managed it, but nothing else. To stay where he was would not solve the problem, for what with bamboos and undergrowth he could not see more than a dozen yards.
So, for want of a better plan, he set off along the fence, hoping to find a place where the foliage was sufficiently thin for him to see the power-house. He found something better. A tree had fallen—recently, judging from the earth that clung to its roots—right across the fence, breaking it down. All he had to do was walk through the gap thus made. He smiled as he did so. For all the company’s elaborate precautions they had been defeated by so simple a thing as a fallen tree. They should, he thought, have anticipated the possibility. With such satisfying thoughts as these he went on down into the bamboos.
Here the ground began to fall more sharply so that in places he could almost see over the tops of the green fronds in front of him and look down on the building that was his objective. Exactly how far he was away from it he did not know, for there was nothing to guide him. The engine was not running; at any rate he couldn’t hear it. His chief concern was the ground under his feet, which was fast becoming a morasss—although this, as he realized, was the very reason why the bamboos grew there. The bog, obviously, was caused by sub-surface water seeping down from the higher ground. The only places where the earth was at all firm was round the roots of occasional trees, a species of willow, that occurred from time to time.
Curiously enough—at least, it seemed curious to him afterwards—he forgot all about the swamp’s reputation for snakes. It may be that he did not seriously believe the story. But he remembered it with a jolt, when, springing down from one piece of firm ground to another, he nearly jumped on what is perhaps the most loathsome reptile in creation, and the most deadly—the African puff-adder. It was about three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm, with a blunt head from which projected two fangs. He saw the snake just as he moved. It was lying quite still, curled up, but its little boot-button eyes were on him. He had gone too far to draw back, so with a convulsive effort he jumped clean over it. The snake struck at him in passing, its fangs missing his leg by a matter of inches. His jump must have been in the nature of a record. Landing, he did not stop, but plunged on for several yards before pulling up against a tree, white and shaken, cold with shock at the narrowness of his escape. Wiping perspiration from his forehead with a trembling hand he watched the snake glide away into som
e thick grass.
For a moment or two he stood there, looking about him furtively, for the encounter had put a new complexion on his venture. He tried to tell himself that the reptile was probably an odd one which might have been anywhere, for the puff-adder is fairly common all over Central Africa; but he perceived that it would be foolish indeed to deceive himself. It was far more likely that the swamp was infested with snakes for it was an ideal place for them.
Proceeding now with apprehensive caution he reached a tree, about thirty feet high, which had its roots in firm clay. Just in front of it there had been a minor landslide which had cleared the ground and thus opened up the view beyond. Even from his own level he could see the upper part of the power-house, no more than forty yards ahead, which was a good deal closer than he expected; and it was apparent that from the branches of the tree he would be able to see the entire building from the most advantageous angle—that is, from one side and slightly above. He started to climb the tree but finding the rifle impeded his movements, and not supposing that he would find any use for it in the tree, he propped it against the mossy trunk and in a couple of minutes was securely ensconsed in a fork some fifteen feet up, a position from which, through a leafy screen, he could see his objective clearly. Indeed, no place better suited for his purpose could have been designed, and he settled down to make a thorough survey.
The power-house, as he already knew, was built of wood, but only now did he perceive how robust was its construction. In the matter of size it was some twelve or fourteen yards long by half that width. The roof was reed-thatched, covered with small mesh wire to hold the reeds secure. There were windows at intervals. Indeed, there was only one feature that caused him any surprise, and it was this. He had naturally supposed that the place was built on more or less dry land, even though it was near the edge of the small black lake that occupied the central depression of the swamp. But on looking closer he perceived that the building was constructed in two halves; that it was in fact not one building but two, although the gable ends had been fitted so snugly together that at first this was not apparent. It was fairly evident that there was a connecting door inside. The remarkable thing about the arrangement was, while one part of the building had its foundations on the bank, which had at this spot been levelled for the purpose, the other half projected over the lake. The weight was carried by a stout raft comprising four pontoons, set flush and decked over, the decking extending all round beyond the walls for a distance of about a yard, so as to form a sort of gangway. This floating part of the structure was rather in the nature of a houseboat. Three strong planks had been laid lengthways to form a connecting-link between the part that had its foundations on the shore and the end of the track that came down from the lodge. The distance between the power-house and the lodge, as he could now see, was about half a mile, the track being protected on both sides by a tall wire fence until it joined the main fence higher up. Here there was a gate—the one with a padlock which they had seen from the lodge grounds. The purpose of this double fence was plain enough. It prevented any unauthorized person from getting on the track, and so gaining access to the power-house, from any direction except the direct route from the lodge. No doubt, pondered Ginger, it would also serve to protect those who used the path from wild animals that might lie hidden in the forest.
