But the Arab had not much to add to the Zulu's information. Him, however, Oakley understood, and needed no translation.

"Did you ever notice those two chaps; what an extraordinary family likeness there is between them?" said Haviland, as the two departed.

"If you clapped a turban and long clothes on to k.u.mbelwa he'd pa.s.s for Somala's brother, and if you rigged out Somala in a _mutya_ and head-ring he'd pa.s.s for a Zulu. The same type of face exactly."

"By Jove it is! Think there's a lot of Arab in the Zulu, then?"

"Not a doubt about it. You see, the Zulus didn't originally belong where they now are. They came down from the north, somewhere about where we are now, I shouldn't wonder. They had another custom, too, which was Mohammedan, as most of the other tribes have at the present day, but Tshaka stopped it among them. And I have a theory that the head-ring is a survival of the turban."

"That might be. But, I say, Haviland, you seem to have got their lingo all right. Were you much in the country?"

"A good bit. I haven't got it by any means all right, though I know a great number of words, but my grammar's of the shakiest. I often set them roaring with laughter over some absurd mistake; and I don't even know what it is myself. By the way, there was a chap at school with me--a Zulu from Zululand. He conceived a sort, of attachment for me because I smacked a fellow's head for bullying him when he first came, and he was a useful chap too; first-rate at egg-hunting, and we got into all sorts of rows together. The other fellows used to call him 'Haviland's Chum,' to rag me, you know; but I didn't mind it. Well, he taught me some of his lingo, and made me want to see his country."

"I wonder they took a black chap in an English school," said Oakley.

"So did I. So did most of us. But he was put there by a missionary, and old Bowen was nuts on the missionary business."

"Old Bowen? Was that at Saint Kirwin's, then?"

"Yes. Why, were you ever there?"

"No. By the way, what sort of a chap was old Bowen?"

"A regular old Tartar. I hated him like poison the last part of the time I was there; but right at the end--at the time I lost my poor old dad--he was awfully decent. He's a good chap at bottom, is Nick--a real good chap."

"It's extraordinary how small the world is," said Oakley. "The old chap happens to be an uncle of mine, on the maternal side, and I own I like him better in that capacity than I should as a headmaster; but, as you say, he's a real good chap at bottom."

"What a rum thing!" declared Haviland. "Yes, as you say, the world is small indeed. Yet when I was in Zululand, I tried to find out about Cetchy--we called him that at Saint Kirwin's, after Cetywayo of course, his real name was Mpukuza--but could simply hear nothing whatever about him. The world wasn't small in that instance. Hallo! There's something up over yonder."

There was. Excitement had risen and spread among the bearers, causing them to spring up and peer cautiously forth, notwithstanding that the heat was sweltering, and the hour was that of rest. The sentry on that side had pa.s.sed the word that people were approaching the camp.

The ground there was thinly timbered, and it was seen in a moment that these new arrivals, whoever they might be, were fugitives. They bore the unmistakable look of men and women--for there were several women among them--flying for their lives. They were not even aware of the proximity of the camp until right into it; and then, at the sight of armed men confronting them, they fell on their faces with a howl for mercy.

"Who are these, Somala?" said Haviland, not without a touch of anxiety; foreseeing the possibility of the flight of these people drawing down some formidable enemy upon his expedition.

And, indeed, their tidings confirmed his worst misgivings. They were natives of a small tribe, themselves of indifferent physique. Their village had been attacked the evening before, and burned, but they, being outside, had escaped. They had heard rumours of Mushad being out with a strong force. Without doubt, he it was who had a.s.sailed them.

The name of the dreaded slave-hunting chief caused Haviland, and indeed others who heard it, to look grave.

"Well," he said, "give these people food, such as we have, and let them go on their way."

But this dictum was greeted by the refugees with a howl of dismay. If they went on further, why, then they were already dead, they protested.

Would not the great white lords protect them? They would be safe within the shadow of their camp. Even Mushad would not dare interfere with them there.

"Wouldn't he?" said Haviland, in English. "I'm pretty sure he would-- and will. These wretched devils have just about brought a hornet's nest about our ears, I more than expect. What are we to do, doctor?"

"Why, get out into more open country and beat them off. I figure out that this is just the way Mushad would take, in any event; so, perhaps, it's just as well these poor devils turned up to warn us."

"What do you say, Oakley?"

"I'm entirely with the doctor."

"Right. A couple of miles ahead, by the lay of the ground, we ought to find just the position we want."

Within ten minutes of the order being issued the camp was struck. Every man took up his load, and the whole line filed briskly forth through the steaming, sweltering forenoon heat. There was no hanging back. The excitement of impending battle lent a springiness to the step of some, the instinct of self-preservation to that of others; the refugees the while chanting the most fulsome praises in honour of their new protectors.

"There's the very place we want!" cried Haviland, when they had thus advanced a couple of miles. "Looks as if it had been made on purpose."

The ground had been growing more and more open, and now the spot to which he referred was a ring of trees surmounting a rise. This would afford an excellent defensive position if they were called upon to fight, and ample concealment in any case. In an inconceivably short s.p.a.ce of time the whole expedition was safely within it.

Nor had they been long there before the instinct of their leaders realised that they had gained the place none too soon. Something like a flash and gleam in the far distance caught their glance, to disappear immediately, then reappearing again. The three white men, with their powerful gla.s.ses, soon read the meaning of this. It was the gleam of arms. A very large force indeed was advancing, taking a line which should bring it very near their position. Would they be discovered and attacked; or would the enemy, for such he undoubtedly was, fail to detect their presence and pa.s.s on? Well, the next hour would decide.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

MUSHAD THE SLAVER.

In an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time the position was placed in a very effective state of defence. Even as Haviland had remarked, it might have been made on purpose for them: for it was neither too large nor too small, but just of a size to contain the whole outfit comfortably and without crowding. Just inside the ring of trees, a sort of breastwork had been constructed with the loads--those containing the stores and barter-truck that is, for the precious cases of specimens had been placed in the centre, and buried flush with their lids, so as to be out of the way of damage from flying bullets. As far as possible, too, this breastwork had been supplemented by earth and stones, hastily dug up and piled.

The demeanour of those awaiting battle was varied and characteristic.

Of the bearers, those of the more timid races were subdued and scared.

The temerity of their white leaders in thinking to resist Mushad and his terrible band was simply incomprehensible. Why did they not pay him the usual blackmail and be suffered to pa.s.s on? Some of the bearers--the braver ones, to the number of about a score--though not usually entrusted with firearms, were now supplied with rifles, in the use of which they had already been drilled, and had even experienced some practice in the shape of a petty skirmish or two. These were now turning on swagger. The ten Arabs, Somala's clansmen, who were always armed, were simply impa.s.sive, as though a b.l.o.o.d.y fight against overwhelming odds were a matter of every-day occurrence, which could have but one result--victory to themselves. Yet there was a gleam in their keen sunken eyes, and a nervous handling of their weapons, as they trained and sighted their rifles experimentally, and fingered the blades of their ataghans, that betrayed the martial eagerness that bubbled beneath the concealing mask. But the most striking figure of all was that of the Zulu, k.u.mbelwa. From a private bundle of his own he had fished out a real Zulu war-shield of black and white bull-hide, with a jackal tail tuft, and a short-handled, broad-bladed a.s.segai--the terrible conquering weapon of his race. He had also brought forth a great head-dress of towering black ostrich feathers, and sundry tufts of white cow-hair, which he proceeded to tie round his arms and legs, and thus accoutred, he stood forth, a magnificent specimen of the most magnificent race of fighting savages in the world.

"By Jove, that's a grand chap!" exclaimed Oakley, as he gazed with interest upon this martial figure. "Do they grow many like that in the Zulu country, Haviland?"

"A good few, yes. Mind you, I'd sooner have k.u.mbelwa with me in a rough and tumble than any dozen ordinary men."

"How did you pick him up? Save his life, or anything of that sort?"

"No. A sort of mutual attraction. We took to each other, and he wanted to come away with me, that's all. D'you see that string of wooden beads hung round his neck? That represents enemies killed, and I strongly suspect most of them wore red coats, for, like every man-jack of his nation, he fought against us in the war of '79. But wild horses wouldn't drag from him that he had killed any of our people, and it's the same with all of them. They're too polite. If you were to ask them the question, they'd tell you they didn't know--there was too much racket and confusion to be sure of anything. But--look at him now."

The Zulu, half squatted on his haunches, was going through a strange performance. His rifle lay on the ground beside him, but his left hand grasped his great war-shield, while with the right he was alternately beating time with his a.s.segai to his song, or making short, quick lunges at empty air. For he was singing in a low, melodious, deep-voiced chant. At him the whole crowd of bearers was gaping, in undisguised admiration and awe.

"He's singing his war-song," explained Haviland. "I've never seen him do this before any other row we've been in. Evidently he thinks this is going to be a big thing."

"And he's right," said the doctor. "Look there?"

He pointed in the direction of their late halting-place. From their present one, the ground fell away almost open, save for a few scattered shrubs or a little heap of stones, to the thin timber line. Within this forms could now be seen moving--more and more were coming on, until the place was alive with them--and the gleam of arms, the light falling on the blades of long spears and shining gun-barrels, scintillated above and among the approaching force. And this was coming straight for their position. Decidedly, our party had gained the latter none too soon.

As the new arrivals debouched from the timber, the three white men scanned them anxiously through their field-gla.s.ses. The leaders, and a goodly proportion, seemed to be pure blood Arabs, but the bulk consisted of negroids and the undiluted negro--these latter naked savages of ferocious aspect, incorporated probably from the fierce cannibal tribes along the Upper Congo. The Arabs, in their turbans and long-flowing garments, wore a more dignified and civilised aspect, yet were hardly less ruthless.

This formidable force, once clear of the timber, halted, drawn up in a kind of battle line, possibly expecting to strike terror by reason of its numerical strength and sinister aspect, and those watching reckoned it to consist of not less than five hundred men. Above bristled a forest of long spears, the sun flashing back from their shining tips.

But higher still, reared above these, there floated a flag. In banner shape, so as to display, independently of any breeze, its ominous device, it was turned full towards them. Upon a green ground a red scimitar, dripping red drops.

"That is the standard of Mushad," whispered Somala, touching Haviland's elbow.

A vivid interest kindled the features of the three white men, also those of the Zulu. Here, then, was the renowned slaver, the man whose name was a byword from Zanzibar to Morocco. They were about to behold him face to face. Upon the bulk of the native bearers the effect produced was different. The ruthlessness of the terrible slaver chief, his remorseless cruelties--ah! of such they had heard more than enough. And then a man was seen to leave the opposing ranks and walk towards them.

Halfway, he halted and cried in a loud voice: