The little band swept on, out of the lane, past the outhouses, into the open ground again. There they learnt that some twelve men had suddenly dashed out into the open, headed by Mustapha and the "small devil", as the Bahima called De Castro. The Arabs had rushed across towards the western part of the palisade, burst open a gate which had hitherto escaped the notice of the attackers, and clambered over the outer stockade. Six of their number were shot as they mounted, but the rest succeeded in getting clear away and disappeared.

Hearing this, Mwonda dashed in hot pursuit with his party. But though, utterly regardless of their own safety, they ran madly down the glacis, into the copse, through the plantation, down to the sh.o.r.e, they saw no trace of the enemy, who, knowing the ground perfectly, had made good their escape. Mbutu had hurried after the pursuers at Tom's command, and ordered them to waste no time in searching. Tom was himself unable to walk farther than the stockade, where he met them as they returned, and, learning that they had failed to find the fugitives, he instantly instructed Mbutu to hurry down to the landing-place and order ten canoes to be manned and to patrol round the island.

"Let them go in opposite directions, and watch every yard of the sh.o.r.e,"

he said. "I will come myself immediately."

The sky was now lightening with the dawn. Tom ordered four of his men to carry him down to the landing-place on one of the scaling-ladders.

His wound was giving him intense pain, but feeling that if Mustapha, and above all De Castro, escaped, his victory would be shorn of half of its glory, and his work be left incomplete, he resolved that at whatever cost he would personally direct the search for the fugitives. While he was being carried to the sh.o.r.e he ordered the katikiro to despatch parties into every corner of the island to search the woods thoroughly.

Just as he arrived at the landing-place, Mbutu came hastily to his side, and declared that he had that instant seen a small canoe stealing westward. It was now half a mile from the sh.o.r.e.

"Put me into one of the Arab canoes," said Tom; "the lightest you can find to hold twenty paddlers. Order two other canoes to follow."

A few minutes later his canoe was being rapidly propelled in the direction of the chase, which Tom could now see was manned by a crew of six, and had one man in the stern who was not paddling and who had a bandage on one arm.

"Paddle your hardest, men," cried Tom; "that is our arch enemy."

The negroes responded vigorously, and it was soon evident that the chase was being gradually overhauled. The crew of six were straining every nerve to escape, and every now and then the man in the stern turned his head to look at the pursuing craft, and then cried aloud to his men to increase their efforts. Tom fixed his eyes unswervingly on the stern of the fleeing canoe.

"It is De Castro unmistakeably," he said to himself, as the man turned once more. The expression of mingled despair, rage, and fright on his face was fearful to behold. Suddenly he turned completely round, leant over the stern of the canoe, and took aim with his rifle at the canoe now so rapidly overtaking him. The bullet whizzed past Tom's ear. Tom looked round for a weapon with which to return the fire, but saw that not one of his crew was armed with a musket, so great had been the haste of the embarkation. But from the first of the other pursuing canoes, now close up to Tom's, a shot rang out. It struck the side of De Castro's canoe. The Portuguese took aim again, and this time the bullet struck one of Tom's men, who screamed and dropped his paddle. A rain of bullets from the other canoes fell around the fugitive, but he seemed to bear a charmed life.

"He is a devil," said one of Tom's men; "shots cannot hurt him."

Suddenly Tom observed a commotion among the six Arabs. A man that looked like Mustapha rose in the boat, raised his paddle above his head, and, just as De Castro was about to fire a third time, brought it down with tremendous force upon his unsuspecting head. He was leaning forward over the stern; his head fell on the edge, and in an instant the Arab had caught his legs and thrown him over into the water. He sank like a stone, and a dark circle formed in the frothing wash of the canoe.

Within two minutes Tom's canoe arrived at the scene of the tragedy, but there was no sign of the victim. Tom stopped the canoe, to cruise round on the chance of De Castro reappearing. The other canoes stopped also, and loud cries of satisfaction rose from their crews. But when after a minute or two it became evident that the Portuguese would be seen no more, Mwonda uttered a yell of rage at his being thus s.n.a.t.c.hed from personal vengeance. Tom meanwhile had ordered two canoes to continue the chase after the Arabs; but their craft, lightened by the loss of De Castro, was bounding over the water, the paddlers profiting by the temporary cessation of the pursuit. The Bahima paddled hard, and called to the crew of one of the patrol-canoes approaching from the north to join in the chase. But their efforts were vain. The fugitives gained the western sh.o.r.e, ran the canoe between two banks of reeds, and plunged into cover before the pursuers could overtake them. Mwonda dropped his head on his sound arm, and burst into tears. Then, lifting his huge body, and standing to his full height in the canoe, he pa.s.sionately called upon all the evil spirits of his tribe by name, and adjured them to shrivel up the escaped Arabs with their blighting influence, and to inflict upon them tortures unspeakable until they were dead. Then the canoes were put about. Mwonda uttered one more bitter malediction as he pa.s.sed over the spot where De Castro had sunk, and was still bemoaning his ill-luck when he overtook his victorious but weary and fainting master.

CHAPTER XX

An End and a Beginning

Mr. Barkworth keeps Cool--In Suspense--Tom's Escort--The Padre's Story--An Appreciation--Tom's Reward--Farewell--Herr Schwab's Lament--Fame--Mbutu Returns Home--Inspiration--Proposals

One morning, towards the end of March, Mr. Barkworth was seated at breakfast at The Orchard, Winterslow, dividing his attentions impartially among his food, his letters, and his daughter, who sat facing him at the other end of the table. His day was never properly begun unless the letters and the bacon arrived together. He had opened two letters, and cut the third, and Lilian was pouring out his second cup of coffee, when a sudden e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n from her father caused her to hold her hand.

"Scandalous, 'pon my soul and body, perfectly scandalous!" he exclaimed.

"What is it, Father?" asked Lilian, not very anxiously, for she was accustomed to little volcanic explosions at home: plenty of rumble but no fire.

"What, indeed! Just listen to this, h'm! 'My dear Barkworth, I found an opportunity in the lobby last night of speaking to the Prime Minister on the matter of a search-expedition for your friend Mr. Burnaby. He was very sympathetic, but said that, much as he should have liked to serve me, he was afraid our hands were too full just now to think of it.

One can understand it, poor man. You see, what with these complications threatening in Persia, and the various little troubles in all parts of the world, connected with our imperial policy, one can hardly expect--'

Faugh!" He tore the letter across. "Fiddlesticks! I'd like to see Palmerston back for a week. We'd soon see then, h'm! We'd have an expedition off to Central Africa in a winking. We want a little more of the 'Civis Roma.n.u.s sum' in our milk-and-water politicians. Cicero, you know, my dear."

"But, Father, I don't understand what Cicero and Lord Palmerston have to do with Mr. Burnaby."

"Now, that's just it. Women never can see that sort of thing; your mother couldn't, poor woman! I'll explain so that any child could understand it. Cicero was a great Roman orator and statesman, you know, my dear. In one of his speeches he asked how many Roman citizens his hearers imagined had been insulted with impunity, how many Roman merchants robbed, or ship-owners kept in captivity,--meaning that he defied 'em to say a single one. Now suppose that Cicero had been Lord Palmerston, what would he have said?--tell me that, now!"

"Wasn't Lord Palmerston an Irish peer, Father?"

"Eh! what? Yes, must have been, or he couldn't have sat in the House.

But what's that to do with it?"

"Why, Father, if Cicero had been Lord Palmerston, would not he have said: 'Just thread on the tail of me coat', or something to that effect?"

Mr. Barkworth looked sharply at his daughter, but she was demurely peeling an egg. As he was hesitating whether to explode or not, there was a knock at the door, and a maid entered bearing a salver.

"A telegram, sir, and there's a shilling to pay."

"Con-found these extra charges!" broke out Mr. Barkworth irritably.

"What's the good of paying taxes to bolster up a wretched Post Office that can't give us free delivery? Give the man his shilling, and tell him not to dare show his face again!"

He tore open the envelope, stared at the message for some moments in inarticulate surprise, and then e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed:

"G.o.d bless my soul, he's found! Tom's found! We can do without the Prime Minister! 'Gad, didn't I say he'd turn up some day! Listen, Lilian; a despatch from the cable company forwarded by the Post Office: 'Tom found; mail follows.--O'Brien.' Might have said a little more; what's a shilling or two, eh?--Well, Jane, what is it now?"

"Another telegram, sir, and, if you please, this man wants a shilling too."

Mr. Barkworth pulled out a handful of silver, and picked it over.

"Here, I can't find a shilling; give him this half-crown and tell him to put it in the Post Office Savings Bank. Now what's this about, h'm?"

Lilian watched him anxiously as he opened the brown envelope, half fearing it might contain a contradiction of the good news.

"Eh! what!" he exclaimed. "It's from Jack Burnaby himself. 'Tom found; am starting for Mombasa to-morrow; will you come?'"

"Oh, do take me, Father!" cried Lilian, clasping his arm. "I'm sure you won't go without me."

"H'm! Don't know that I'll go at all. Running your poor father off his legs again! Very short notice, too. Just like Burnaby; just as young as ever he was, spite of the K.C.B.--What are you doing, Lilian, waggling your hand about so frantically at the window?"

"Just calling the telegraph man, Father. You didn't give him a reply."

"That's true; well, we'll go, begad. Here's a form. Write it for me.

'Yes, tickets for two via Ma.r.s.eilles and Brindisi.' That's right.

Another one to Dr. O'Brien. 'Hurray! always said so.' Now, we must go by the 6.15 up-train to-night, so get your packing done. And for pity's sake don't get excited; try to keep as cool as I am. And so that fine young fellow's found, eh? Where, and how, and when, and what's he been doing? Gad, I want to know all about it. Think we'll catch the 4.20, Lilian; the packing will do itself if only you keep cool."

Mr. Barkworth showed his wonderful coolness by setting everybody in a fl.u.s.ter for the rest of the day. The whole household was called upon to a.s.sist him in his preparations. He had a genius for mislaying his things, and then accused the first person he came across of deliberately putting them out of their places; and when the gardener had been called in to find his master's newest suit of pyjamas, and the cook to rout out the straps of his hold-all, everybody was quite ready to see the back of the fussy old gentleman. Lilian got him safely away in the nick of time to catch the 6.15, and after spending the night at Claridge's, they sought out Tom's uncle, and arranged to meet him at Charing Cross for the night French mail.

It was Major Burnaby no longer. His services had been recognized by promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy, an honour crowned by the conferment of a Knight Commandership of the Bath. Mr. Barkworth was vastly proud of the fame of Sir John Burnaby, K.C.B., and regarded his honours as a remarkable testimony to his own foresight and discrimination. All the way down to Dover he plied his friend with questions, comments, and suggestions, though Sir John explained more than once that he knew nothing beyond the bare fact that Tom was at last found. Ever since the news of his disappearance reached England, Mr. Barkworth had at intervals fired off cable messages at Dr. O'Brien in Kisumu, asking for information, or upbraiding him for not displaying greater activity in the search; and he was now firmly convinced that the recovery of the long-lost Tom was in great part due to his indefatigable enquiries.

On the voyage out he lost no opportunity of telling the whole story, and magnified Tom's achievements (of which, since the fight by the bridge, he, of course, knew nothing), until the young Englishman appeared a new Cincinnatus, the saviour of his country. He became more and more fidgety as he drew nearer to the journey's end.

"I never in my life so took to a young fellow, never," he would say, to excuse his excitement; "if he had been my own son I couldn't have felt it more."

When the boat steamed slowly into the harbour at Mombasa, Mr. Barkworth was the first of the pa.s.sengers to cross the gangway.