"My dear Barttelot, take my word for it, I don't remember to have heard the name of Barttelot before I heard your name. But you interest me. What could 1887.
June 24.
Yambuya. I have possibly said that was any way peculiar to cling to your memory like this? I remember the circumstance well?"
"The fact is," he said, "you said something about 'forbearance,' which reminded me that I had heard that word before, when General —— pitched into me about punishing a Somali mutineer in the desert during the Soudan campaign. I was all alone with the Somalis when they turned on me, and I sprang upon the ringleader at last when there was no other way of reducing them to order and pistolled him, and at once the Somalis became quiet as lambs. I thought that General ——, who is not remarkable for goodwill to me, had mentioned the affair to you."
"Indeed. I never heard the story before, and I do not understand how General —— could have warned me, considering he could not have known you were going to apply for membership. It was your own face which inspired the word forbearance. Your friend introduced you to me as a distinguished officer full of pluck and courage; upon which I said that those qualities were common characteristics of British officers, but I would prefer to hear of another quality which would be of equal value for a peculiar service in Africa—and that was forbearance. You will excuse me now, I hope, for saying that I read on your face immense determination and something like pugnacity. Now a pugnacious fellow, though very useful at times, you know, is not quite so useful for an expedition like this—which is to work in an atmosphere of irritability—as a man who knows not only how and when to fight, but also how to forbear. Why, a thousand causes provoke irritation and friction here between himself and fellow-officers his own followers and natives, and frequently between himself and his own person. Here is bad food always, often none at all, a miserable diet at the best, no stimulant, incessant toil and worry, intense discomfort, relaxed muscles, weariness amounting to fainting, and, to cap all, dreadful racking fevers, urging one to curse the day he ever thought of Africa. A pugnacious man 1887.
June 24.
Yambuya. is naturally ill-tempered, and unless he restrains his instincts, and can control his impulses, he is in hot water every minute of his existence, and will find cross rubs with every throb of his heart. To be able to forbear, to keep down rigorously all bitter feelings, to let the thoughts of his duty, his position, plead against the indulgence of his passions. Ah, that quality, while it does not diminish courage, prevents the waste of natural force; but I don't wish to preach to you, you know what I mean.
"And now to close—one word more about Tippu-Tib. Do you see that Maxim out there with its gaping muzzle. I regard Tippu-Tib somewhat as I do that. It is an excellent weapon for defence. A stream of bullets can be poured out of it, but it may get jammed, and its mechanism become deranged from rust or want of good oil. In that event we rely on our Remingtons, and Winchester Repeaters. If Tippu-Tib is disposed to help us—he will be a most valuable auxiliary—failure becomes impossible, we shall complete our work admirably. If he is not disposed, then we must do what we can with our own men, and goodwill covers a multitude of errors.
"Do you remember that in 1876 Tippu-Tib broke his contract with me, and returned to Nyangwe, leaving me alone. Well, with about 130 of my own men, I drove my way down the Congo despite his sneer. You said you met Dr. Lenz, the Austrian traveller, at Lamu, after having failed to reach Emin Pasha. Why did he fail? He relied on Tippu-Tib alone; he had no private reserve of force to fall back upon. You have over 200 carriers and 50 soldiers, besides servants and efficient companions. On the Congo work I was promised a contingent of natives to assist me. Only a few came, and those deserted; but I had a faithful reserve of sixty-eight men—they were the fellows who made the Congo State. You remember my letter to the Times, where I said, 'We do not want Tippu-Tib to assist us in finding Emin Pasha. We want him to carry ammunition, and on his return to bring away ivory to help pay the expenses of 1887.
June 24.
Yambuya. the Mission.' Then, as a last proof of how I regard Tippu-Tib, do not forget that written order to Lieutenant Stairs a few days ago, to rake his settlement with the machine gun upon the least sign of treachery. You have read that letter. You ought to know that the gage of battle is not thrown in the face of a trusted friend.
"Now, Major, my dear fellow, don't be silly. I know you feel sore because you are not to go with us in the advance. You think you will lose some kudos. Not a bit of it. Ever since King David, those who remain with the stuff, and those who go to the war, receive the same honours. Besides, I don't like the word 'kudos.' The kudos impulse is like the pop of a ginger-beer bottle, good for a V.C. or an Albert medal, but it effervesces in a month of Africa. It is a damp squib, Major. Think rather of Tennyson's lines:—
"Not once or twice in our fair island story
Has the path of duty been the way to glory."
There, shake hands upon this, Major. For us the word is 'Right Onward'; for you 'Patience and Forbearance.' I want my tea. I am dry with talking."
On the 25th the stockade was completed all round the camp, the ditch was approaching completion. Barttelot superintended the works on one side; Jephson, in shirt-sleeves, looked over another. Nelson was distributing the European provisions—share and share alike; our Doctor, cheery, smiling, anxious as though he were at a surgical operation, was constructing a gate, and performed the carpenter's operation in such a manner that I wrote in my diary that evening, "He is certainly one of the best fellows alive." Jameson was busy copying the letter of instructions. Stairs was in bed with a severe bilious fever.
A Soudanese soldier, as innocent as a lamb cropping sweet grass before a fox's covert, trespassed for the sake of loot near a native village, and was speared through the abdomen. It is the second fatal case resulting from looting. It will not be our last. We place a Soudanese 1887.
June 25.
Yambuya. on guard; his friend comes along, exchanges a word or two with him, and passes on, with the completest unconsciousness of danger that can be imagined. If not slain outright, he returns with a great gash in his body and a look of death in his face. The Zanzibari is set to labour at cutting wood or collecting manioc; he presently drops his task, utters an excuse for withdrawing for a moment—a thought glances across his vacuous mind, and under the impulse he hastes away, to be reported by-and-by as missing.