"Sorry, uncle. That's only my way of saying I should like it immensely."

"I've been turning it over in the night. I want to make a man of you, Jack; I want to see if there's any grit in you. There ought to be, if you're your mother's boy. Anyway this will give you a chance. Things are this way. We've struck a fortune here. Well, I'm an old miner, and I don't allow anybody to jump my claim. I don't reckon any one is likely to jump it; still, you never know. That fellow Elbel, now; he's an official of the Belgian company, and he knows what I'm here for. He might take it into his head to steal a march on me, and though I've got the mining monopoly for all this district, you bet that won't be much of a protection of my claim all these miles from civilization. So it's advisable to have a man on the spot, and it's either you or me. You don't know anything about mining machinery, so I guess it's no good sending you to Boma. Consequently, you must stay here."

"I'm jolly glad of the chance, uncle. I'll look after your claim."

"Spoiling for a fight, eh? But we mustn't have any fighting. Mind you, all this is only speculation--foresight, prudence, call it what you like. I don't calculate on any one trying to do me out of my rights. And if any one tries to jump my claim, it won't do for you to make a fool of yourself by trying to oppose 'em by force. All you can do is to sit tight and keep an eye on things till I get back. I don't know I'm doing right to leave you: you're the only nephew I've got, and you can't raise nephews as you raise pumpkins. But I thought it all out while you were snoring, and I've made up my mind to give it a trial. Patience and tact, that's what you want. You've got 'em, or you haven't. If you have, I reckon it's all right: if you haven't----"

"Your cigar has gone out, dear old man," said Jack, laying his hand on his uncle's.

"So it has. I'll try another. Well, that's settled, eh? I'll be as quick as I can, Jack: no doubt I'll find a launch when I reach the Congo, or even before if Elbel's boss at Makua likes to make himself pleasant. But I've no doubt Elbel has coloured up our little meeting in his report to headquarters. Anyhow, I should be right back in two or three months--not so very long after all. I'll forward some rifles and ammunition from the first station where I can get 'em: the sale of arms is prohibited in this State, of course; but that isn't the only law, by all accounts, that's a dead letter here, and I don't doubt a little palm-oil will help me to fix up all I want. You'll have to teach the men how to use 'em, and remember, they're only for self-defence in the last extremity. See?"

"I'll be careful, uncle. It's lucky we've a friend in Imbono. I think we'll get along first-rate. Nando can do the interpreting till I learn something of the language."

"Jingo! I'd forgotten Nando. That's a poser, Jack. I shall want him to pilot me down to Boma. I can't get along without an interpreter.

That's a nailer on our little scheme, my boy; for of course you can't stay here without some one to pa.s.s your orders to the men."

Jack looked very crestfallen. The prospect of being left in charge was very delightful to him, and he had already been resolving to show himself worthy of his uncle's trust. The thing he had regretted most in leaving Rugby was that he would never be in the Sixth and a "power."

He did not shrink from responsibility; and it was hard to have his hopes of an independent command dashed at the moment of opportunity.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him. "Are you sure none of the other men know enough English to serve my turn?" he said.

"Nando said not a man jack of 'em knows it but himself. I'll call him up and ask him again."

Nando came up all smiles in answer to the call. "You told me that none of the men speak English but yourself," said Mr. Martindale; "is that true?"

"Too plenty much true, sah. Me speak troof all same, sah."

"That's unfortunate. We're going back to Boma. I wanted to leave Mr.

Jack here, but I can't do that unless he has some one to do the talking for him. Go and get the things packed up, Nando."

The negro departed with alacrity. But not five minutes later he returned, accompanied by a negro a little shorter than himself, but otherwise showing a strong resemblance. Both were grinning broadly.

"My brudder, sah," said Nando, patting the younger man on the shoulder.

"He berrah fine chap. Him Lepoko. Speak Inglesa; berrah clebber.

Nando go with big ma.s.sa, Lepoko stay with little ma.s.sa; oh yes! all too fine and jolly."

"Lepoko speaks English, does he?" said Mr. Martindale. "Then you're a liar, Nando!"

"No, sah, me no tell lies, not at all. Lepoko no speak Inglesa all de time, sah. What for two speak Inglesa one time? Too much nise, ma.s.sa no can hear what Nando say. Nando go, all same; ma.s.sa muss hab some one can talk. Berrah well; den Lepoko hab go; can talk all right. He show ma.s.sa what can do."

"One, two, free, forty, hundred fousand," began Lepoko glibly. "Ten little n.i.g.g.e.r boys. What de good of anyfink? Way down de Swannee ribber----"

"That'll do, that'll do!" cried Mr. Martindale, laughing. "You've got your interpreter, Jack. Nando, get ready to start. Bring nine men with you, the rest will stay with Mr. Jack. The fellow was hankering after the flesh-pots of Boma, I suppose," he added, when Nando had gone, "and that accounts for his sudden discovery of his brother's eloquence--too jealous of his own importance to give it away before.

Now there's Barney, Jack. I don't know how he'll take being left here."

Barney took it very well. When Mr. Martindale mentioned that he would be absent for at least two months, he remarked--

"Bedad, sorr, I'll be getting fat at last. Imbono sent another heap of maniac this morning, and seeing that I'll have nothing whativer to do for two months, sure I'll be a different man entirely by the time you come back."

An hour later the sh.o.r.e was crowded with natives come to bid the white man farewell. Imbono was there with all the men of his village. At his final interview with Mr. Martindale he had promised to watch carefully over the welfare of his young blood brother; he would supply him and his men with food, and defend him from wild beasts and aggressive black men, and his villagers should at once set about building new huts for the party.

"Remember, Jack, patience--and tact. G.o.d bless you, my boy."

"Good-bye, uncle. Hope you'll have a pleasant journey. And on the way down keep an eye lifting for Samba."

Then the ten natives struck the water with their paddles, the canoe glided down the stream, and as it disappeared round a bend of the river Jack heard the men's voices uplifted in a new song composed for the occasion.

"What are they singing, Lepoko?" he asked of his new interpreter.

"Me tell ma.s.sa.

"Down brown ribber, Broad brown ribber, White man go In canoe.

Good-bye, Ilola, Good-bye, Imbono, Good-bye, Jacko, Brave Jacko, Young Jacko.

He save Imbono, Lucky Imbono; Down brown ribber White man go."

CHAPTER IX

Samba Meets the Little Men

Samba had cheerfully accompanied Mr. Martindale's expedition, in the confidence that one of its princ.i.p.al objects, if not indeed its main one, was the discovery of his parents. Nando had told him, on the ruins of Banonga, that the white man would help him in his search, and the white man had treated him so kindly that he believed what Nando said. But as the days pa.s.sed and the canoes went farther and farther up stream, miles away from Banonga, the boy began to be uneasy. More than once he reminded Nando of his promise, only to be put off with excuses: the white man was a very big chief, and such a trifling matter as the whereabouts of a black boy's father and mother could not be expected to engage him until his own business was completed.

Samba became more and more restless. He wished he could open the matter himself to the white men; but the few words of English he had picked up from Jack and Barney were as useless to him as any schoolboy's French. Jack often wondered why there was so wistful a look upon the boy's face as he followed him about, much as Pat followed Samba. He spoke to Nando about it, but Nando only laughed. Samba began to distrust Nando. What if the man's a.s.surances were false, and there had never been any intention of seeking his father? The white men had been kind to him; they gave him good food; he was pleased with the knife presented to him as a reward for his watchfulness; but all these were small things beside the fact that his parents were lost to him. Had the white men no fathers? he wondered.

At length he came to a great resolution. If they would not help him, he must help himself. He would slip away one night and set off in search. He well knew that in cutting himself adrift from the expedition many days' journey from his old home he was exchanging ease and plenty for certain hardship and many dangers known and unknown.

The forest in the neighbourhood of Banonga was as a playground to him; but he could not know what awaited him in a country so remote as this.

He had never been more than half a day's journey from home, but he had heard of unfriendly tribes who might kill him, or at best keep him enslaved. And the white men of Bula Matadi--did not they sometimes seize black boys, and make them soldiers or serfs? Yet all these perils must be faced: Samba loved his parents, and in his case love cast out fear.

One morning, very early, when every one in the camp was occupied with the first duties of the day, Samba stole away. His own treasured knife was slung by a cord about his neck; he carried on his hip, negro-fashion, a discarded biscuit tin which he had filled with food saved from his meals of the previous day; and Mr. Martindale's knife dangled from his waist cord. It was easy to slip away unseen; the camp was surrounded by trees, and within a minute he was out of sight. He guessed that an hour or two would pa.s.s before his absence was discovered, and then pursuit would be vain.

But he had not gone far when he heard a joyous bark behind him, and Pat came bounding along, leaping up at him, looking up in his face, as if to say: "You are going a-hunting: I will come too, and we will enjoy ourselves." Samba stopped, and knelt down and put his arms about the dog's neck. Should he take him? The temptation was great: Pat and he were staunch friends; they understood each other, and the dog would be excellent company in the forest. But Samba reflected. Pat did not belong to him, and he had never stolen anything in his life. The dog's master had been good to him: it would be unkind to rob him. And Pat was a fighter: he was as brave as Samba himself, but a great deal more noisy and much less discreet. Samba knew the ways of the forest; it was wise to avoid the dangerous beasts, to match their stealth with stealth; Pat would attack them, and certainly come off worst. No, Pat must go back. So Samba patted him, rubbed his head on the dog's rough coat, let Pat lick his face, and talked to him seriously. Then he got up and pointed towards the camp and clapped his hands, and when Pat showed a disposition still to follow him, he waved his arms and spoke to him again. Pat understood; he halted and watched the boy till he disappeared among the trees; then, giving one low whine, he trotted back with his tail sorrowfully lowered.

Samba went on. He had come to the river, but he meant to avoid it now.

The river wound this way and that: the journey overland would be shorter. He might be sought for along the bank; but in the forest wilds he would at least be safe from pursuit, whatever other dangers he might encounter. At intervals along the bank, too, lay many villages: and Samba was less afraid of beasts than of men. So, choosing by the instinct which every forest man seems to possess a direction that would lead towards his distant village, he went on with lithe and springy gait, humming an old song his grandfather Mirambo had taught him.

His path at first led through a gra.s.sy country, with trees and bush in plenty, yet not so thick but that the sunlight came freely through the foliage, making many shining circles on the ground. But after about two hours the forest thickened; the sunlit s.p.a.ces became fewer, the undergrowth more and more tangled. At midday he sat down by the edge of a trickling stream to eat his dinner of manioc, then set off again.

The forest was now denser than anything to which he had been accustomed near Banonga, and he went more warily, his eyes keen to mark the tracks of animals, his ears alive to catch every sound. He noticed here the scratches of a leopard on a tree trunk, there the trampled undergrowth where an elephant had pa.s.sed; but he saw no living creature save a few snakes and lizards, and once a hare that scurried across his path as he approached. He knew that in the forest it is night that brings danger.

The forest became ever thicker, and as evening drew on it grew dark and chill. The ground was soft with layers of rotted foliage, the air heavy with the musty smell of vegetation in decay. Samba's teeth chattered with the cold, and he could not help longing for Barney's cosy hut and the warm companionship of the terrier. It was time to sleep. Could he venture to build a fire? The smoke might attract men, but he had seen no signs of human habitation. It would at any rate repel insects and beasts. Yes--he would build a fire.

First he sought for a tree with a broad overhanging branch on which he could perch himself for the night. Then he made a wide circuit to a.s.sure himself that there were no enemies near at hand. In the course of his round he came to a narrow clearing where an outcrop of rock had prevented vegetation, and on the edges of this he found sufficient dry brushwood to make his fire. Collecting an armful, he carried it unerringly to his chosen tree, heaped it below the hospitable branch, and with his knife whittled a hard dry stick to a sharp point. He selected then a square lump of wood, cut a little hollow in it, and, holding his pointed stick upright in the hollow, whirled it about rapidly between his hands until first smoke then a spark appeared.

Having kindled his fire he banked it down with damp moss he found hard by, so as to prevent it from blazing too high and endangering his tree or attracting attention. Then he climbed up into the branch; there he would be safest from prowling beasts. The acrid smoke rose from the fire beneath and enveloped him, but it gave him no discomfort, rather a feeling of "homeness" and well-being; such had been the accompaniment of sleep all his life long in his father's hut at Banonga. Curled up on that low bough he slept through the long hours--a dreamless sleep, undisturbed by the bark of hyenas, the squeal of monkeys, or the wail of tiger-cats.

When he awoke he was stiff and cold. It was still dark, but even at midday the sun can but feebly light the thickest parts of the Congo Forest. The fire had gone out; but Samba did not venture to leave his perch until the glimmer of dawn, pale though it was, gave him light enough to see by. He was ravenously hungry, and did not spare the food left in his tin; many a time he had found food in the forest near his home, and now that he felt well and strong, no fear of starvation troubled him. Having finished his simple breakfast, he slung the empty can over his hip and set off on his journey.

For two days he tramped on and on, plucking here the red berries of the phrynia, there the long crimson fruit of the amoma, with mushrooms in plenty. Nothing untoward had happened. In this part of the forest beasts appeared to be few. Now and again he heard the rapping noise made by the soko, the gibber of monkeys, the squawk of parrots: once he stood behind a broad trunk and watched breathlessly as a tiger-cat stalked a heedless rabbit; each night he lighted his fire and found a serviceable branch on which to rest.

But on the third day he was less happy. The farther he walked, the denser became the forest, the more difficult his path. Edible berries were rarer; fewer trees had fungi growing about their roots; he had to content himself with forest beans in their brown tough rind. When the evening was drawing on he could find no dry fuel for a fire, and now, instead of seeking a branch for a sleeping place, he looked for a hollow tree which would give him some shelter from the cold damp air of night. Having found his tree he gathered a handful of moss, set fire to it from his stick and block, which he had carefully preserved, and threw the smouldering heap into the hollow to smoke out noxious insects, or a snake, if perchance one had made his home there.