CHAPTER XIII
THE FUGITIVE
On the evening of the capture of M'ganga a white man, fatigued and desperately hungry, stood irresolute upon the banks of the Kiwa River, roughly forty miles from the scene of the Waffs' successful operations.
It would have been a difficult matter to recognise in the jaded man the once well-set-up individual known in certain quarters as Robert MacGregor; nor was there much resemblance between the fugitive and the German secret service agent, Ulrich von Gobendorff—yet the man was none other than he whom the officers of the Haussa regiment particularly wished to lay by the heels.
By a series of hair-breadth escapes von Gobendorff had succeeded in making his way past the Pathan infantry picquets. For twenty minutes he had crouched up to his neck in the miasmatic waters of a forest pool, with thousands of mosquitoes buzzing round his unprotected head, while a patrol of the Rhodesian Light Horse halted within twenty yards of his place of concealment.
And now, with a strip of linen tied round his head, a ragged cotton shirt, a pair of "shorts" that were hardly any protection from the thorny cacti, and a pair of badly-worn "veldt schoen" as the sum total of his clothing and footgear von Gobendorff awaited the fall of night in the depths of a tropical forest.
His limbs were covered with scratches that were causing him intense pain and irritation; his face was swollen under the attacks of mosquitoes, until his bloodshot eyes were hardly visible above his puffed up cheeks. Unarmed with the exception of an automatic pistol, he was about to brave the dangers of a night 'midst malarial mists and wild beasts of an African forest.
As the sun sank von Gobendorff collected a heap of wood and leaves and kindled a fire. For the present he judged that he was practically free from pursuit. In any case he would take the risk of lighting a fire. It was not likely that British patrols would be wandering through the dense tropical vegetation during the hours of darkness.
Under the wide-spreading branches of a baobab the Hun was able to make one fire serve his purpose. Ordinarily he would have lighted three or four at a distance of five or six yards from each other, and thus found comparative immunity from the attacks of lions and hippos, but the baobab—it reminded him of a certain incident when he was "attached" to the Haussas—was able to protect both rear and flank from the voracious assaults of any four-footed creatures.
As the fire blazed brightly von Gobendorff consumed his last ration—a small cube of highly-concentrated food, which he had in his possession on the development of the attack on M'ganga. Throughout his flight, although tormented with the pangs of hunger, he had resolutely refused to draw upon his scanty commissariat. And now it was eaten: for the rest of his journey he would have to depend upon his wits to obtain food. Rather grimly he reflected that an automatic .302, although an efficient "man-stopper" in a mêlée, was not to be compared with a rifle as a means of procuring food.
Although inured to exposure in a tropical country von Gobendorff was feeling severely the effect of the sun upon his insufficiently protected limbs. In the rapidly cooling air his blistered skin was stretched so tightly that every movement of his neck, arms and legs gave him intense pain. The mosquitoes, owing to the glare of the burning wood, had ceased their attacks, but the effect of their previous onslaughts was greatly in evidence.
Slowly and carefully lying down on a pile of broad leaves the Hun tried to fall asleep, but in vain. Racked in every limb, his head throbbing as if it harboured a rapidly working piston, he endured—waiting for the dawn that would give him no respite from his torments.
Presently the denizens of the forest began their nocturnal activities. In the sluggishly-flowing river hippopotami floundered noisily. Elephants crashed through the brushwood making their way to the water, while at intervals rhinoceri and bush-cows charged blindly past the fiercely burning fire. Von Gobendorff was in a big game hunter's paradise, but he failed utterly to show enthusiasm at the prospect.
At intervals he crawled to his reserve stock of fuel to replenish the fire, knowing that if he allowed the comforting and protecting flame to die out he stood an almost certain chance of falling a victim to a four-footed foe. Once a large bush-cow thundered almost through the blazing logs, bellowing frantically as a panther with its claws deeply dug into the huge brute's hide was remorselessly tearing at the throat of its prey.
Monkeys, too, huge simians looking human-like in the dull red glare, came shuffling from the shadow of the neighbouring trees to gaze fixedly at the unusual sight of a fire. Muttering, chattering and gesticulating they watched the Hun's bivouac for several minutes until the sudden spring of a large cat-like animal claimed one victim and sent the rest of the monkeys flying for their lives.
With the first streak of dawn the nocturnal Bacchanalia ceased. Von Gobendorff, who had longed for the break of day in order to resume his flight to a supposedly safe refuge in the Karewenda Hills, found himself unable to resist the sleep of utter exhaustion, and as the last faint wreath of pale grey smoke rose from the dying embers he dropped into a deep slumber.
He awoke to find the glade bathed in brilliant sunshine. The sun was almost overhead, while he himself was lying in the dense shadow cast by the overspreading branches of the baobab. Through an opening in the otherwise dense foliage he could see the river rippling in the dazzling light, while partly hauled up the bank and partly resting between the reeds was a canoe—a dug-out of about twenty-five feet in length.
"Himmel!" muttered the German. "This is indeed good fortune."
The means of crossing the broad Kiwa River was at his command. He had made up his mind on the previous evening to risk a horrible death by attempting to swim the stream. He had seen what appeared to be logs drifting silently with the eddying current—logs that on the approach of danger would reveal themselves in their true characters, for the river swarmed with hippopotami.
Von Gobendorff was on the point of issuing from his retreat when the sound of voices and the rustling of the brushwood warned him that the owners of the canoe were returning.
Listening intently he recognised the dialect as that of the Birwas—a native tribe occupying a considerable tract of the hinterland. He knew the language well—he had the Hun's typical capability of acquiring a knowledge of foreign tongues.
Presently the blacks came in sight—two lithe and stalwart natives armed with primitive bow and spear. One man carried the hindquarters of a gnu, the other had a brace of birds dangling from the haft of his spear.
With an effort von Gobendorff pulled himself together and strode boldly into the open.
Halting, he signed imperiously to the Birwas to approach.
The blacks obeyed promptly. Experience had taught them to carry out the behests of their German masters with the utmost celerity. With every indication of abasement they approached and awaited the white man's orders.
Von Gobendorff pointed to the still warm embers of the fire.
"I am hungry," he said. "Get me something to eat and drink, and be sharp."
While one of the Birwas cut strips of flesh from the gnu and spitted them on skewers, the other placed more wood on the fire and coaxed it into a blaze. The grilling operation in progress the fire-tender ran to the canoe to return with a couple of small gourds of water, some dried berries somewhat resembling coffee beans and a flat cake of mealie bread.
Von Gobendorff soon discovered that the natives had been serving in the German outpost at G'henge, a position overrun and captured by a Sikh battalion about three months previously. They had, they declared, been very well treated by their new masters.
The fugitive smiled grimly, immediately wincing as the movement of the facial muscles gave him a thrill of pain. It was evident, he reasoned, that the Birwas had mistaken him for an officer of the British forces.
Hardly able to wait until the meal was prepared von Gobendorff turned to and ate with avidity, washing down the food with copious draughts of hot and far from palatable beverage. Having refreshed he ordered the blacks to hide all traces of his bivouac and made them carry him to the canoe. He realised how imperative it was that he should cover his tracks, and by no means the least important measure was to prevent any prints of his veldt schoen being discovered on the moist marshland on the river bank.
"Take me to Kossa," ordered von Gobendorff, naming a small military post on the Kiwa about thirty miles down the river, and at a point where the stream made a semi-circular bend before running in a south-westerly direction to join the Rovuma.
For the first time the Birwas demurred.
"There are strong rapids a little distance down stream," declared one. "We are not skilled in working a canoe. Can we not take you across to our village, where there are plenty of men who will paddle you to Kossa?"
"My word," said von Gobendorff, "is law."
To add greater emphasis to his words he produced his automatic pistol. The argument was conclusive. With every indication of fear the two natives pushed off, and seizing the paddles they propelled the unwieldy craft down stream.
Compared with his previous mode of travelling the Hun found the journey bordering almost upon the luxurious. He would have preferred a cushion, a double helmet and a sun-umbrella with a canopy thrown in, but reflecting that he was fortunate in being able to tackle the Kiwa without having to resort to swimming, he endured the glare with comparative equanimity.
Concerning the perils of the rapids he decided to take his chances. It was just possible that the Birwas had lied, hoping to deter him from his purpose. That they were fairly experienced in the art of canoeing was evident by the way in which they skilfully avoided the numerous hippopotami, their broad-bladed paddles entering the water without the faintest suspicion of a splash.
Whenever, as frequently happened, the canoe passed a native village von Gobendorff, no doubt with the loss of a certain amount of prestige, took up a position at full length at the bottom of the canoe, strictly warning his boatmen that they were to maintain absolute silence as far as his presence was concerned.
The canoe had barely passed a small collection of huts when the two Birwas began to jabber vociferously, pointing at an object a hundred yards ahead.
"Why this noise?" demanded von Gobendorff, who understood the cause of the conversation. "You have passed dozens of 'river-cows' before?"
"This one is awake and furious," replied one of the natives. "We sought to keep to the bank, and the animal has seen us."
The Hun sat up and drew his pistol. A brief glance on either hand showed that there were no signs of escape by running the canoe ashore. The banks were here quite twenty feet in height, precipitous and topped with dense vegetation. There was deep water close to land, while in mid-stream a mud-bank just showed above the swirling current.
"Go on!" he ordered.
The men plied their paddles vigorously. Although the heavily-constructed canoe was incapable of any great speed, and was also undermanned, the commotion of the paddles and the frantic shouts of the two blacks made up for the lack of manoeuvring powers. The hippo dived. The canoe shot past.
Von Gobendorff breathed freely, but he was too premature. The hippopotamus reappeared amidst a smother of foam. Its wide-open jaws closed up on the gunwale of the dug-out.
The canoe listed dangerously. The Birwas still further endangered its stability by standing upright and raining absolutely ineffectual blows with their paddles upon the armour-plated head of the amphibian. The air in the vicinity of the heeling craft was thick with spray and flying fragments of woodwork.
Raising his pistol von Gobendorff placed the muzzle within an inch of the hippo's right eye, and fired two shots in quick succession. Then, without waiting to observe the effect, he put two bullets into the animal's left eye.
With a stupendous jerk that dipped the badly shattered gunwale under the water the hippo relaxed its grip and disappeared. Whether mortally wounded or not there were no means of ascertaining, but the brute was seen no more.
Throwing their paddles into the bottom of the canoe the two natives, crouching on the uninjured side to keep the jagged hole above the surface, plied their gourds frantically in order to get rid of the quantity of water that had poured over the gunwale. This task having been completed von Gobendorff noticed with a certain amount of apprehension that the freeboards betwixt the edge of the gaping hole and the water was less than four inches.
In the excitement of the encounter the Hun had overlooked the fact that already the canoe was within the influence of the rapids. The Birwas had spoken truly—there were cataracts; what was more there was now no means of avoiding them.
The banks on either hand were still steep and precipitous, while, undermanned, the heavy canoe could not be propelled against the stream, the speed of which exceeded five miles per hour and was steadily increasing as the rapids drew nearer and nearer.
The thunder of the foaming water could now be heard distinctly, as the canoe, held in the inexorable grip of the swirling torrent, swayed towards the danger. The two natives realised their peril. Their black faces were suffused with an ashy grey hue; their eyes were wide open with fear.
"Paddle backwards!" ordered von Gobendorff, knowing that to attempt to turn the canoe would mean both loss of time and increased chances of being immediately swamped.
With every muscle strained to its utmost capacity the Birwas strove desperately to back up-stream. Anxiously von Gobendorff kept his eyes fixed upon a mark in the bank. For a few minutes he watched—then he muttered curses under his breath. The canoe was slowly yet surely losing ground. He was fully aware that, apart from its damaged condition, the cumbersome craft stood no possible chance of escape in the maelstrom-like eddies of the rapids, unless by sheer good fortune combined with the skill of the two natives the canoe could be made to avoid the jagged rocks between which the waters of the Kiwa rushed.
Suddenly the German caught sight of a huge teak-tree that, having been uprooted, was trailing over the banks. It was a faint chance, but von Gobendorff decided to risk it.
Raising his hand he pointed towards the tree-trunk. Already the roar of the water made it impossible for the Birwas to hear him speak. The men nodded and again began to ply their paddles vigorously, keeping close to the border between the main stream and a back-eddy by this part of the right bank.
With a quick turn of his broad blade the bowman urged the canoe's bows diagonally against the mass of timber. Caught by the full force of the current the dug-out swung round, crashed against the tree and, listing, was immediately swamped by the inrush of water.
Von Gobendorff leapt to safety. With cat-like agility he swarmed up the inclined bank. Here he stood and waited, watching the efforts of the two natives to save themselves.
The bowman had succeeded in getting astride the massive log and was endeavouring to extricate his companion from the peril that threatened him, for the other had been thrown out of the canoe and was pinned between the tree and the side of the water-logged craft.
In spite of the Birwa's most strenuous efforts the trapped man was unable to extricate himself from the vice-like grip, for edges of the jagged hole in the canoe's side were pressing hard against his thigh, while the canoe itself, forced against the tree-trunk by the swiftly-running current, could not be moved in spite of the combined efforts of the two blacks.
A third man would have made all the difference. The trapped Birwa raised his eyes appealingly to the white man, but von Gobendorff stirred not so much as a little finger.
The Hun, having no further use for the natives, was merely awaiting the catastrophe that would effectually cover his tracks. Without the need of further aid from the Birwas he was now within measurable distance of the Karewenda Hills. Another six hours ought to find him in at least the temporary shelter of the German fortified post of Twashi.
With a sardonic expression on his face von Gobendorff waited and watched. For a full five minutes the grim struggle was maintained. The trapped Birwa's strength was fast failing. Already greatly exhausted by his strenuous work with the paddle he was rapidly collapsing under the strain.
Suddenly he relaxed his grip. The water-logged canoe dipped, and was swept under the tree, taking with it the doomed native, whose last despairing cry was drowned in the roar of the rushing river. For a few moments the surviving Birwa remained kneeling on the inclined mass of timber, trembling in every limb, then, slowly and with every sign of temerity he began to make his way up the trunk to dry land.
Raising his pistol the Hun fired straight at the man's head. The Birwa's arms collapsed, he fell at full length upon the rounded mass of timber, and, slipping sideways, toppled inertly into the foaming torrent.
"Hamba gachle!" exclaimed von Gobendorff, using a Zulu expression that he had picked up in his many and diverse wanderings through South and Central Africa. "Dead men tell no tales, and you were in my way."
Then, recharging the magazine of his automatic pistol, the German turned, and, setting his face towards the north-west, strode rapidly towards the Karewenda Hills.