The plan seemed feasible, and indeed the only possible one under the circumstances. To force a way for a quarter of a mile from the track, clear a space, and build a grass hut upon it was the work of rather more than two hours. When it was done, the two Bahima gently carried Tom to the resting-place and laid him down on a comfortable couch of leaves, and then the chief, tightening his strip of bark cloth around his loins, started, promising to travel, without resting, through the night, and to use his utmost speed.
Mbutu, left alone with the invalid, spent the last half-hour of daylight in collecting a small quantity of ripe berries, and then sat down to watch. He dared not light a fire in case the Arabs happened to be near enough to see or smell the smoke. It was no small testimony to Mbutu's devotion that he was so willing, for all his dread of goblins, to remain with his master, unable now to talk the boy's fears away or to defend him against danger.
As Mbutu sat, touching his master's hand and brow occasionally, and trembling as he felt how hot they were, he suddenly remembered that he had seen him put a packet of the quinine given him by the missionary into his vest pocket. He wondered whether it was still there. The Arabs were not likely to have taken it; he only feared lest, with the wettings it had suffered, the drug should have lost its virtue.
Gently lifting the burnous which he had thrown over his master, and feeling in his clothes, he was overjoyed to find in the pocket where he had seen it put a small paper packet, showing only too plain signs of the soakings it had gone through. He opened it, the paper dropping to pieces under his touch. There was a little something there, not a powder any longer, but a paste. Was there the least remnant of virtue in it? There could be no harm in trying a dose, and Mbutu carefully and tenderly put a small quantity of the paste between Tom's parted lips. Twice again during the night he repeated the dose, anxiously feeling the invalid's brow each time, as though hoping for an instant result. Not for a moment did he close his eyes, but when he felt drowsiness stealing upon him he rose and walked to and fro before the hut, murmuring the half-forgotten words of some fetish spell he had learnt when a child. But he had little faith in fetish now. If only the white medicine-man were there! He had unbounded confidence in Dr. Corney O'Brien.
Dr. Corney O'Brien was, alas! more than a thousand miles away, sitting in the smoking-room of the Mombasa club, waiting with some impatience for Major Burnaby to finish the letter he was writing at the table. It was a letter home, to Mr. Barkworth, and the doctor knew why his friend's face wore such a look of concern as his pen scratched over the paper.
... "I thought," he wrote, "that I knew my nephew pretty well, but I know only now--alas! too late, I fear--what grit there was in him. We old stagers are too much inclined, perhaps, to pooh-pooh the enthusiasms of our juniors. The boy was built for a soldier and nothing else, and I blame myself now for not moving heaven and earth to get him into the service. When I saw him come into camp that evening, I own I was at first desperately annoyed with you for allowing him to follow us up; although I could not help admitting it was an uncommonly plucky thing of the youngster to undertake such an enterprise through a strange and savage country. He showed both courage and resource in the adventure with that rascally Portuguese; but what I feel most proud of is the grit with which he stuck to his task when every step must have been agony. But for him the expedition might easily have come to grief. The enemy's plan was as good as any I ever met with; if it had come off it would have been touch and go with us. You may be quite sure that in my report home I have taken care to represent in its true light the service he did us. Nothing has yet been heard of him. I've offered the most tempting rewards. He either died of his wound, or is a prisoner with the Arabs. In the latter case the strange thing is that no attempt has been made to get a ransom for him. Perhaps the Portuguese is in some way concerned; if so, then God help him! I have asked Father Chevasse to do what he can--the missionaries have as good a chance to get news of him as anyone,--and be sure that I will let you know if anything turns up. I am entitled to come home on furlough, but I've arranged to stay out here a month or two longer. It was very pleasant to get your cable of congratulation, and to hear of all the nice things said of me at home; but you'll believe me when I say that I'd give it all up and drop out of sight gladly, if by so doing I could get a glimpse of Tom."
For three terrible nights and days Mbutu kept faithful watch over his sick master in the forest. It seemed an age to the poor boy. Tom was unconscious almost all the time, his eyes burning bright, his cheeks flushed, his lips ever and anon muttering and babbling of things incomprehensible to Mbutu. The Muhima hardly dared to leave him for a moment, and when he did leave him, wore himself out in scouring the forest within a short radius in search of food. He ventured on the second day to light a fire, over which, in a bowl he carved out of hard Wood, he tried to brew a decoction from some leaves and berries, for he found it impossible to get his master to take such solid roots as those on which he barely sustained himself. The quinine was soon exhausted. Fortunately there was plenty of good water, and at short intervals he poured a small quantity between Tom's parched lips. He hoped that the pigmies would again provide food, but there was never a sign of the little people. As hour after hour dragged slowly by, the boy fretted, feeling his helplessness, in an agony of grief for his master, and beside himself with despair when, after brief intervals of semi-consciousness, Tom relapsed into delirium, tossing and moaning on his couch of leaves.
At sundown on the third day after the chief's departure Mbutu was walking restlessly up and down the track, peering into the tunnel of foliage. The night before, he had been scared by the cries of animals in his near neighbourhood, and his nerves were in a state of tremor. He had kept a large watch-fire burning beside his master's hut, for he felt now that, even if it did attract the Arabs, it was no worse to be slain by them than by wild beasts. More than once during this third day he had put his ear to the ground, hoping to hear the tramp of feet from the direction in which Barega had gone. Now he walked farther along the path, thinking that, if the chief had reached his village, as he had promised, in a night and a day, surely there had been time for him to return. He lay down again and pressed his ear to the beaten path. The air was still, not a leaf rustled; the sounds of day had ceased, and the nightly hum and murmur had not yet begun. What was that? Faintly, like the sound of ripples on a stream, rather a movement than a sound, something touched his ear. He got up and ran still farther along the track, then flung himself down again. He could hear nothing but the throbbing of his heart. He held his breath; yes, the sound was growing, growing; it was the sound of running feet. Was it of animals or men? It was too regular, too heavy, to be the pad of animals; it was coming nearer! He almost screamed in his excitement. Thud! thud! thud! nearer and nearer--not one sound now, but many sounds conjoined. Yes, his doubts were gone; it was a force of men, running steadily towards him. He got up, and stood, his lips parted, his eyes astare, his body bent forward in the direction of the sound, every nerve tingling, every sinew tense. Minute after minute passed; he stood alone in vaulted darkness. Now the sound was audible through the air: the steady thud of runners, broken in upon at moments by the faint far jingle of metal. Hark! there was the hum of voices, like the sound of water stirred by gusts of wind. Louder and louder it came; Mbutu's sharp ears were strained towards it. It rose and swelled; he recognized it; it was a marching-song he had not heard for years! His heart gave a great leap for joy; beyond a doubt these were Barega's men approaching; his agony was over. Hardly knowing whether to run back to his master or to run forward to meet his fellow-countrymen, he stood irresolute, his breath coming and going in quick pants. He tried to join in the song, but his throat was parched, and his voice broke in a soundless sob. He waited, waited; there was commotion in the forest; crickets and cicadas had raised their notes, as though to drown the unaccustomed sounds. He heard the crackle of snapped twigs and the rustle of parted leaves; then, a deeper blackness in the black, a form appeared, and another, and another.
"Wekaine kenaina? Can you see me?"
The words, shrilled from Mbutu's lips, brought the runners to a dead stop. There was silence for a brief moment.