It was in truth a remarkable scene. Arranged in three concentric semicircles stood the throng of a thousand negroes, including representatives of almost every race known to the eastern half of Central Africa. A few steps in advance of the rest stood Mwonga, the young Bahima chief, with the katikiro and a few other of his princ.i.p.al officers. Their black faces were all aglow, their bright eyes fixed on the tall figure of Sir John Burnaby, who stood just within the veranda of the bungalow. By his side lay Tom--the black man's loved Kuboko--thin as a lath, pale and haggard, the head of his couch raised so that he might see the crowd of natives. On one side, a little in advance, for he had offered to interpret the katikiro's speech, stood the tall dignified White Father, his lips parted in a slight smile, his eyes beaming a compa.s.sionate kindliness. With him stood the little doctor, a striking contrast with his short, neat, wiry frame, his twinkling gray eyes, his stubby beard. And on the other side was the stout figure of Mr. Barkworth, his rubicund side-whiskered face cheerful and benevolent as ever; and the fair girl at his elbow, white and radiant, looking alternately at the negroes and at Tom.

The signal being given, the katikiro stepped forward and stood before Sir John. He had never before had the opportunity of addressing a group of white men, and his gait showed that he fully realized the importance of the occasion. Sticking his spear in the ground, so as to have the use of both arms for gesture, he began his oration. The exordium was a long account of himself, his family, his achievements in hunting and war, his importance as katikiro first to Barega and then to Barega's successor, Mwonga. He proceeded to recount with minute circ.u.mstantiality how he found Kuboko in the forest, carried him to the village, and from that time on had been his most devoted friend and disciple. He pa.s.sed on to a chronological narrative of the subsequent events in the village: the contest with Mabruki, the making of big medicine, the protracted siege, the wonderful machines invented by Kuboko for the discomfiture of the enemy, and, finally, the formation of the great confederacy which, by obedience to Kuboko, had succeeded in defeating time after time the enemy who had for many years crushed native Africa beneath his iron heel. All this was narrated with many repet.i.tions, many picturesque adornments, much extravagance of language and gesture, and the padre's translation in French almost did justice to the Muhima's fervour.

But Msala's eloquence was to soar a still higher pitch. So far he had dealt with facts, with just enough embroidery to make the presentment of them artistic. He went on to express the opinions and emotions of his community.

"Never was such a white man seen," he said. "We have had nothing to do with white men. We have heard about them,--about the Wa-daki, who live day and night with kiboko; about the white men of the Lualaba, who buy rubber and ivory at their own prices, or for nothing at all. But never such a white man as this. Surely he must be a mighty chief in his own land. Never did he raise his hand to strike us; Kuboko was his name, but kiboko had he none" (he evidently deeply relished the jingle).

"When Mabruki did him wrong, and Barega would have cut off the villain's head, Kuboko said: 'Nay, let him pay back the bulls.' Did he order a thing to be done? He showed how to do it. Was there little food?

Kuboko had no more than the rest. He did justice and showed mercy; he even sported with the little children, teaching them how to smite b.a.l.l.s with a stick, and giving them turns equally, doing favour to none above the others. And what was all this to gain? The Wa-daki, as men tell us, give one and take two; but Kuboko took nothing. He might have been chief, but would not. 'Nay,' he said, 'I will stay with you until the Arabs are destroyed, and then I go to my own people, and Mwonga shall be chief.' In the caverns of Rumaliza lay thousands of tusks, long as a man, the spoils of our hunting and the hunting of our fathers. All this belonged by right to the victor; but did he say: 'It is mine, I will take all of it'? Nay, he said: 'My brothers, it is yours; divide it among yourselves.' We threw ourselves at his feet, and implored him to take this great treasure, but he shook his head, and even waxed angry, and bade us hold our peace. Only at the last, when Mwonga himself offered the two tusks that have come down from chief to chief, and begged Kuboko, if he loved him, to take them for his own,--only then did he yield and say: 'I will take them as a gift from your people, and keep them ever to remind me of you.' That is Kuboko.

"And now he leaves us. Our women and children are wailing, and our hearts are heavy and sad. Who will lead us now in war? Who will guide us in peace? True, we have Kuboko's words, and treasure them in our hearts; but even as water dries up in the sun, even as smoke rises into the sky and is seen no more, so Kuboko's words, as the days pa.s.s, will fade from our memories. Yet how could we keep him? We are black; he is white. He comes from the land of the Great White King, who will a.s.suredly make him his katikiro when he hears what he has done, even as I, Msala, am Mwonga's katikiro. But though he be far away, in the land of big medicine, our thoughts will turn to him. He will be to us as a Good Spirit, to hearten us against Magaso, and Irungo, and all the other evil spirits who blight our crops and steal our cattle. He will be even as the Buchwezi, the spirits of our ancestors, whom we do not see, but who nevertheless see us and watch our doings and maybe help us in our hour of need. We, Bahima and Bairo, Ruanda and Banyoro, bid Kuboko farewell. I, Msala, say it."

It is impossible to do justice in sober English to the impa.s.sioned eloquence of the katikiro. As he paused at the end of every sentence to allow the missionary to interpret, loud grunts and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of approval burst from the throats of the throng behind him. When the speech was ended, one great voluminous shout rent the air, and every man held out his spear in front of him with the precision of an automaton.

The drums gave forth three solemn rolls, and then Mwonga and the kasegara advanced to the veranda, and twenty bearers laid two great tusks beside Kuboko's litter.

"Thank you, thank you!" said Tom. "Uncle, will you speak to them for me?"

Sir John stepped forward and, gripping his coat-collar, began:

"My friends, I am touched by the eloquent words of your excellent katikiro. For many months I had mourned my nephew as dead, and now my joy at seeing him again is all the greater because I know that during his long absence he has been doing good things. I thank you, my friends, for bringing him back to me. I thank you, too, for the respect and affection you have shown for him. The story your katikiro has told is a wonderful one. I cannot profess yet to understand it; but I do understand that by your willing obedience, loyalty, and devotion to my nephew you have been able to rid yourselves, once for all as I hope and believe, of the enemy who has oppressed you for so many years.

Men"--here Sir John's right hand left his coat-collar and was stretched out towards his attentive audience--"men, now that you are free, remember the price of your freedom. My nephew owes his life to your late brave chief, whose own life he had saved; since then he has spent himself in your service. Nothing good was ever done except at some cost. You know what Kuboko did for you. The katikiro has spoken of it.

Now in his name I beg you to turn his self-sacrifice to lasting account.

Obey and support your young chief. You have learnt what union means.

Don't quarrel among yourselves and eat your hearts out in miserable little jealousies. Other white men will come to your village. The officers of the Congo State will visit you. Render them willing obedience, and though at times they may be severe, though among white men there are bad as well as good, remember that the great white nations mean nothing but good to their black brethren. My nephew, you tell me, has sought nothing for himself. He takes with him nothing but your good-will and the memory of your common sufferings and common triumphs.

It is what I should have expected of him, and I am proud of it. Now we are going home, and very likely we shall never see you again. But Kuboko will not forget you; nor shall I forget this great throng, come so many miles to do him honour. Men, for him and for myself, I say good-bye, and good luck to you!"

When the shouts with which the natives received Sir John's brief speech had subsided, Tom asked that the princ.i.p.al men might be allowed to come to his litter and bid him a more personal farewell. Accordingly, Mwonga, with Msala, Mwonda, the kasegara, and eight others marched up in single file. They pa.s.sed by the left side of the litter, and as Tom gave them his limp hand in turn, each stooped down, pressed it lightly to his brow, and descended in solemn silence to his place in front of the attentive crowd. The simple scene was too much for Mr. Barkworth's feelings; his handkerchief was diligently employed, and he was unfeignedly glad when, the ceremony being now at an end, the procession re-formed in preparation for starting on the long homeward march. The drums gave out their hollow notes, the mult.i.tude swayed as they marked time, and striking up an improvised song in which Kuboko's uncle and the white lady had the largest mention next to Kuboko himself, they filed off westward towards the forest.

Dr. O'Brien insisted on Tom's having a clear day's rest before his journey was resumed. On the second morning, therefore, the party of seven embarked on the launch, and were conveyed rapidly across the Nyanza to Port Florence. Tom thought of the many things that had happened since he last saw the lake, and laughed with something of his old spirit when the padre reminded him of the fight with the hippopotamus. On reaching the eastern sh.o.r.e they took up their quarters in Sir John's old bungalow, and there Mr. Barkworth pestered Mbutu constantly to tell him again and again of the momentous doings in Mwonga's village.

One day, happening to be at Port Florence, he went down to the quay among other curious spectators to watch the arrival of a German steamer from down the lake. As the pa.s.sengers came off, Mr. Barkworth was puzzled by one face among them, which he seemed to recognize without being able to remember whose it was or where he had seen it. The pa.s.senger was a thick-set, bearded man, wearing gold spectacles, limping badly, and carrying a big leather valise in his left hand. As he stepped off the gangway he stumbled, and would have fallen but for the purser's sustaining arm. He poured out a stream of very warm German, and as he limped away the purser turned to a man standing near and made some remark about the testy pa.s.senger. Mr. Barkworth caught the name.

"Swob! Swob!" he muttered. "Thought I knew him. It's the German trader I saw last year. And a prisoner in the Arab fort! Hi, Mr. Swob!"

He toddled after the German, who turned as he heard his name thus travestied.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Swob," said Mr. Barkworth, coming up with him.

"Extremely sorry to hear of your sad experiences. It must have been a terrible time, sir. And but for that fine young fellow--

"Ach ja!" interrupted Herr Schwab; "I know all zat. I vant to forget it, nozink else."

"Naturally, my dear sir. I do hope that you will not suffer permanently, and that--"

"Not per-ma-nent-ly! Look at me, look at me, I say. I hafe vun leg qvite caput, goot for nozink. I hafe marks on my body zat vill remain till my death-day. Not suffer! Vy, I suffer vizout end: I suffer in my person, I suffer in my pockett, I suffer in my pride. I suffer allofer.

And vy? I did nozink. I go to sell zinks--nozink more--and zey keep me, vill not let me go. Naturally, I protest. I say I appeal to Berlin, and zen zey chain me opp--yes, to a post--me, a Gairman sobjeck--and so am I chained for veeks and veeks. Himmel, but I grow meagre--vat you call skinny. I lose almost all ze flesh from my bones. Zen come Mr.

Burnaby. By night zere is vun colossal combat. In ze yard of ze chief's house, zink I, I must be secure. But not so. Ofer ze vall come tousand fire-b.a.l.l.s. I call: 'Hafe care, mind me, I am Schwab.' But zere hears none. A fire-ball fall upon my toe, and I am in com-bus-tion. Zen, my goodness! from ze chief's house run hundert shrieking defils.

Portuguese, De Castro, so vas his name, struck me vid his sword as he pa.s.s me by. Zerefore am I lame to-day. Never shall I forget zat most fear-ful night. Efen still I shiver before ze zought. I vas let free; Mr. Burnaby, I must say, vat you call did me vell; but I hafe some grudge against him. Sir, zere vas hundert tousand pound sterling ifory in ze vaults below zat house: hundert tousand, sure as a gun. Now I did expect Mr. Burnaby to gife me at least--at least, vun tousand pound vorth for damages. I lose qvite so much in commission, to say nozink about ze vear and tear of my intellecks. No more is my brain as it vas.

But Mr. Burnaby shut me opp, sir, shut me opp. He say somezink about ze ifory belong on account of law to ze Congo State and on account of right to ze blacks. Zat is not business, it is vat you call rot. He vill not gife me vun single tusk, and ven I say I vill write to ze Kaiser he say: 'Hang ze Kaiser!' Vat is zat for a kind of business, sir!"

The German's dudgeon was too much for Mr. Barkworth's gravity, and he had recourse to the never-failing safety-valve for his feelings--his handkerchief. When he had blown off his amus.e.m.e.nt, he asked:

"And what have you been doing since you left the fort?"

"I vent to all ze places vere I had left bags. Now I return to my home.

Of Africa I hafe now enough. I travel to Dusseldorf, and zere, if ze Kaiser vill not gife me a pension, and if nozink more remains, I establish myself as barber, for I am at least--Mr. Burnaby vill say it,--at least vell capable to cut his hair!"

His tone was indescribably bitter. He continued:

"But first of all I go to Kisumu to despatch vun cable to ze Kaiser. I tell him he shall take ze Congo State. Ze Belgians, vat are zey? No good. Ze Congo State shall be Gairman, sir."

"Well! well!" said Mr. Barkworth, humouring him; "let's hope it's not so bad as that. In the meantime, you'll come and see Mr. Burnaby to say good-bye?"

"I zink not, sir. I nefer forgif him; he owe me tousand pound.

Business are business. Long ago I say: 'Step nefer in betveen ze vite man and ze black.' He step in,--and I step out, sir."

And with that he walked away.

Three days after this, the travellers left for Mombasa. Father Cheva.s.se saw them off at the railway-station.

"But we shall see you again?" said Lilian warmly, as they shook hands.

"You will come and see us in England some day, won't you?"

The padre smiled a strange, almost wistful smile.

"I may not," he said quietly. "We White Fathers, when we put our hands to the plough, never turn back. I shall never even see my beloved Normandy again. I shall live and die in Africa.--G.o.d bless you!" he said to Tom; "I shall not forget you, though I may never see you again."

All Mombasa was on tiptoe with excitement when it was flashed along the line that the wanderer was returning. Everybody knew that he had saved the expedition, but what had happened since then was a mystery, and a fruitful subject for speculation among the European colony. Dr. O'Brien grumbled a little when he saw the crowd awaiting the train at the terminus.

"They might have had the common sense, not to say common decency, to keep out of the way just now. Making a peep-show of us, indeed!"

But he managed to get the invalid into the hotel without mishap, and afterwards referred everybody who applied to him for information to Mr.

Barkworth. "He's brimmin' with it," he said. Mr. Barkworth, indeed, was pounced on at once by an inquisitive stranger, who included among his numerous avocations that of occasional correspondent to the _Times_, and who cabled a column of extremely good 'copy' as soon as he had sufficiently pumped the garrulous old gentleman. This fact, no doubt, explained the number of telegrams which came during the next few days addressed to Tom--telegrams of congratulation from strangers, requests from publishers for the offer of his forthcoming volume, an invitation from a New York agency to undertake a lecture tour in the States. And yet not one-tenth of his story had been told. Mbutu had not vocabulary enough to give a consecutive narrative; it was only when Tom himself, after being mercifully spared excitement for a fortnight, was at last p.r.o.nounced well enough to talk, that his friends wormed out of him bit by bit the whole story of his adventures. He dwelt lightly upon his own achievements, and Mr. Barkworth, when he retailed the narrative afterwards to all and sundry, did not fail to eulogize the "astonishing modesty of this fine young fellow; a true Englishman, you know." All which was duly doled out to the British public by the indefatigable newspaper-man.

One evening, when they had been in Mombasa for about six weeks, Sir John Burnaby was sitting with Mr. Barkworth, Major Lister, and the doctor in the smoking-room of the hotel. They were the only occupants of the room. The doctor had just announced that Tom would be well enough to leave for home by the boat sailing in three days, and the pleasure of all the gentlemen had been expressed in Mr. Barkworth's exclamation: "That's capital!" For a time they sat in silence, puffing at their cigars, each thinking over the events of the past twelvemonth in his own way. Then Major Lister, who was not usually the first to speak, said suddenly:

"Tom going back to Glasgow, sir?"

"That's a question that's been puzzling me," returned Sir John. "On the one hand, he has gone a certain way in his profession and might do well in it; on the other--"

"On the other, Burnaby," interrupted Mr. Barkworth, "he's not going back if I know it. Why, the boy's a born soldier and administrator, h'm; I knew it!"

"To tell the truth," said Sir John, "I've been wondering whether, on the strength of his doings out here, we couldn't get him a crib in the Diplomatic Service, or, if he wants to stay in Africa, in the service of one of the companies or protectorates. He asked me the other day if the Congo Free State people would give him something to do."

"That's out of the question," said Mr. Barkworth decisively. "I've read a lot of things I don't like about these Belgians, and if there is anything fishy in their methods of administration, the youngster would only eat his heart out. No; he's an Englishman; let him stick to the old country and the old flag, h'm!"

"We'll leave it till we get home," suggested Sir John. "I've a little more influence than I had a year ago, and I dare say we shall be able to get the boy something to suit him. Depend upon it I'll do my best; I don't forget that but for him I might be a bleached skeleton to-day."

"And that boy Booty--what about him, now?" asked Mr. Barkworth. "He's a fine fellow, you know. Too bad to leave him among these heathens to bow down to wood and stone, h'm! What can we do for him?"

"Put him in the K.A.R.," suggested Major Lister.