"I say, Halliday, you're in clover here," said Ferrier, as the two sat smoking in the bungalow after Said Mohammed had made their hearts glad with a capital dinner. "My grandfather made his pile ranching in Manitoba, and you'll do the same here."
John laughed. "We're not paying our way at present," he said, "and I know my father grudged the money for his passage home again so soon. He'll grudge it still more now that his journey has turned out useless, and there are doctors' bills to pay in the bargain."
The two young men had exchanged confidences during the latter part of their march to the farm. Charles Ferrier's father had been called to the Canadian bar, but he had never practised, his fortune being sufficient to keep him and his family in something more than comfort, and to pay for the sporting expeditions which were his real interest in life. Charles, who was twenty years old, had just come down from the McGill university, and his father had brought him to East Africa to "give him a run," as he put it, before he settled down to work.
"And his ambition for me was that I should enter the Canadian legislature," said he, with a wry face. "It's not work much after my mind; I'd prefer ranching like my grandfather. Poor father! D'you think I ought to stick to his notion now that he's gone?"
"I think every man should follow his own bent," said John. "The mischief is we mayn't know till it's too late what our bent is. For instance, I like this life out here, but I don't know I'll succeed at it, and some day I may eat my heart out because I didn't take up law, as my father wished. He's a good sort, and didn't urge it. Well, khansaman, what is it?" he asked, as Said Mohammed entered.
"Entreating your pardon, sir, Coja has made a discovery and is in an excessive state of amazement, jolly well flabbergasted, as it were. He declares that when you went on donkeys to visit the honourable gent you took three rifles marked with initials D.H., but lo! when he examines the weapons brought back, he finds four. Q.E.D."
"That's rum, certainly," said John. "How did one of our rifles get into the hands of your men, Ferrier? We took three, as Coja says. Your messenger had one."
"I don't know. Wait a bit, though: didn't you bring three rifles into camp? Of course: you took one from the man you half throttled outside our boma. But how could that be marked with your initials?"
"Tell Coja to bring it here, khansaman," said John. "I've a suspicion, Ferrier; we'll soon prove it."
When Coja brought the rifle, John examined it carefully. It was a Snider.
"It's as I thought, Ferrier," he said. "This is one of the rifles run off with by those porters of ours--the sweeps! I don't like the look of it. Looks as though they've started an organized band of freebooters. We shall have to report this at Fort Hall or Nairobi; perhaps you'll do that. I suppose you'll be off to-morrow to get that arm of yours properly attended to."
"That's all right. It's beginning to heal, rather slowly though, and if you can put up with me for a few days I'd like to stay here. Food and rest is what I want more than doctors. Besides, if your deserters have joined that pack of savages they may make a raid on you, and I'll be of some use, even left-handed."
"No, sah," said Coja, "bad man no come all dis way. Juma and dem debbils, oh yes! but not de Embe, oh no! dey never live for come long way."
"Coja's right, Ferrier," said John. "By all accounts no natives will go raiding more than twenty miles from their village, except the Masai, and we haven't to deal with them. Juma and his Swahilis might come if they dared, but they won't venture without support. That'll do, Coja. How's your shoulder, by the way?"
"Jolly fine, sah. Bill him give me stuff to put on, berry good magic."
"There you are, Ferrier," cried John, laughing. "We've got a doctor on the spot. Bill is a Wanderobbo we've made friends with, a little old man who lives by himself and tells fairy-tales about a wonderful store of ivory belonging to him in an enemy's country. He's by way of being a herbalist, too, it appears. We'll have a look at his 'berry good magic' by and by."
The magic turned out to be a decoction of herbs which Bill had smeared on Coja's wound, binding it up with leaves. He begged the new msungu to make a trial of it, and Ferrier after some hesitation consented. His wound healed more rapidly after the application, and Bill was delighted with the present of a few cents--without doubt the first doctor's fee he had ever earned.
Ferrier remained for the present at the farm, his healthy constitution soon reasserting itself after the strain of his recent experiences. His father's death had left him his own master. He had an only sister living with an aunt at Toronto, and he wrote to her and to the family lawyers, relating what had happened, but saying nothing of his intentions. The letters were entrusted to his porters, whom he dismissed with the exception of three. On reaching Nairobi, the men would take the train to Kisumu, and reach their homes in Uganda by steamer across the Victoria Nyanza.
It was more than a month since John had heard from his father. A few days after Ferrier's arrival he received a note which made him very angry.
"I'm on the mend. Doctor says my leg couldn't have healed better if I were ten years younger. Cousin Sylvia has been very good. Insists on making reparation for the damage (financial and physical) she has done me. 'Twas her chauffeur, and her motor-car, and so on. Upshot is that as you're getting on so well I'm inclined to accept her invitation of a run through the Continent. Will let you know when I sail. Cousin Sylvia sends her love.
"P.S. Glad to hear you got the lambing over well. Be sure and don't wean them too soon."
This apparently innocent note made John furious.
"You see what it is!" he cried, striding up and down the room. "That woman's got hold of him, and she'll marry him, and all our plans will be spoilt by an old--old--I don't know what to call her. Sends her love, indeed!"
Seeing that John was in a passion, Ferrier wisely said nothing, and the storm presently blew over.
The presence of Ferrier at the farm solved John's difficulty about the sheep and calves. He had rather more than 800 lambs altogether, of which 450 rams were for sale, and might be expected to fetch about £90. He had also fifteen calves, which might realize £1 each, and the £105 thus gained would relieve his present anxieties and go far towards defraying the second year's expenses. In addition to these, there was a considerable weight of cheese to be taken to market. He had become so chummy with Ferrier that he did not hesitate to mention to him the difficulty about transporting the animals.
"There's no difficulty at all," said the Canadian at once. "Take them yourself. I'll stay here while you are gone. A rest will do me all the good in the world. You must certainly leave a white man in charge, and I've come in the nick of time."
"It's jolly of you," said John. "I'd accept your offer in a moment if it weren't for those blackguards who stole our rifles. It would be hard lines on you if they came and attacked you while I was away."
"They won't do it. You told me yourself that you'd sent Bill out to see if he could discover their whereabouts, and he didn't hear anything of them. Besides, if they do come we can defend ourselves. They didn't show any eagerness to come to very close quarters with us, and I don't doubt for a moment that with my men and yours--I suppose the Indians can handle a rifle on occasion?--we could beat them off."
"Very well, then: I'll chance it. I'll take Wasama and three men from the village: his boy can look after the cattle here. I shall have to hire another Masai to help when I get back: there's too much work for two now. You'll find Bill a great help; I wish he would come and live here, but he's an independent old boy and won't leave his little hut in the wood."
"Hadn't you better take him with you? Four men won't be enough for the job. You must carry food and a tent, you know."
"I didn't mean to take a tent. Why not camp in the open?"
"You'd be rather sorry if it happened to rain."
"But the rains aren't due for another month," objected John, looking at his almanac.
"I dare say not, but they may start a bit earlier, and if you think you're going to get all those beasts to Nairobi in a week, or even two, you're mistaken. Remember the streams to cross and the thorn bush to get through. And you'll have to put a boma round the whole lot every night, and that will be a long job with so few men. You'll need twenty at the very least, my boy, so make up your mind for it. Ask Wasama."
John had in fact felt some misgiving lest the party he proposed to take should not be strong enough to guard the animals against wild beasts, or natives who chanced to be hostile or predatory; but he was so anxious to economize that he had stilled his doubts. When Wasama backed up Ferrier's point, he yielded to the inevitable, and engaged fifteen more men in the village. Ferrier insisted on his taking the three Uganda men he had retained out of his safari, because they were not only trained porters, but very fair shots. John wished he had a horse to ride, or at least a mule, not caring about donkey-rides: but Ferrier chaffed him on his singular regard for appearances, and he decided at last to mount the best of the donkeys.
One fine September day the safari set off, numbering twenty in all. Coja was very much depressed at not being able to accompany his master, but his wound was not yet sufficiently healed. The start was watched by the whole community, and as John rode off in the rear of the caravan he felt sure he heard Said Mohammed's high-pitched voice quote, "The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea," and proceed to a recitation of the Elegy.
John had had an inkling of the difficulties of droving, but the reality turned out to be immeasurably worse than the anticipation. The animals, being young, could not be driven hard; their pace at the best was two miles an hour, and often less than one, and as frequent halts were necessary, the longest day's march did not exceed eight miles. The obstacles which had given only amusement or excitement on the journey from Nairobi caused exasperation now. There were many streams to cross, and it was often difficult to induce the sheep to face them. Sometimes they were almost invisible in the long grass, and when they came among thorny bush, the men had to use their knives freely in hacking a path for the beasts, causing hours of delay. For the first week all went fairly well. The bleating of the sheep attracted hyenas, but by dint of great vigilance and activity they were kept off, and only two sheep were seized. In crossing one stream Wasama had a narrow escape from the jaws of a crocodile; but the water in most ran so low after the dry season that it was easy to examine the beds and avoid danger of this kind.
On the eighth night, however, John was awakened by the pattering of rain on his tent. It poured in torrents, and when he got up in the morning he found half-a-dozen sheep stretched lifeless on the sodden earth. It was still raining at the usual time for starting, and the animals could not be induced to move, but turned their backs to the wind and huddled together in a compact mass. The weather cleared about ten o'clock, and then a start was made; but the safari had only been an hour on the road when another downpour checked them. So it continued all day--drenching rain, with brief intervals of sunshine. John persevered, taking advantage of every bright period to move on a little farther; but when the rain finally ceased in the evening he found that during the whole laborious day he had not covered more than about three miles. Some of the sheep had lagged terribly, and it was quite dark when the last of them came into camp, and before they could all be got within the boma a couple of hyenas sprang among them out of the surrounding bush and killed several.
This was only the beginning of trouble. It rained nearly every night, and every night some of the sheep died. The streams were much swollen and flowed so swiftly that it was only with the utmost difficulty that the men prevented the animals from being washed away. One river took two hours to cross, each individual animal having to be passed over from hand to hand. At another the current was so rapid that it seemed hopeless to attempt to cross it at all, until John, with a good deal of risk, managed to swim over slantwise with a rope, which he fastened to a tree on the further bank. With the help of this, every man and beast was got across safely, but with such an expenditure of labour that all were thoroughly exhausted. That night, to add to John's misfortunes, his donkey was killed by a hyena, and he was in a state of miserable depression when he started to resume his journey.
The one satisfactory feature of the march was that the natives met en route had been friendly. The food was exhausted when the safari had been ten days on the road, but they had no difficulty in purchasing muhindi or cassava at the villages. John's rifle provided all necessary meat, and at one stream he shot a crocodile, the flesh of which was highly prized by his men. But the very friendliness of the people became a source of anxiety. They offered their services in helping to drive the animals, and at the end of a day when they had apparently been very useful, John found that six sheep had mysteriously disappeared. He blamed Wasama for not warning him of the thievish propensities of the volunteer drovers, much to the surprise of the Masai, who said he thought everybody knew that a man would take what he could get if he had the chance. After that, John refused all assistance, however generously it was pressed upon him, and kept a sharp eye on the natives who hung about the flanks of the safari. With all his vigilance he lost a dozen more sheep and a fine bull calf by theft, and he began despairingly to wonder whether he would have any animals left by the time he arrived in Nairobi.
But everything comes to an end. One day, nearly four weeks after leaving the farm, he caught sight of the chimney-stack of the Nairobi locomotive works in the distance. Five hours later he trudged wearily into the town, conscious that he presented a deplorable and disreputable appearance. His clothes were torn and dirty; the sole of his right boot had parted from the upper and flapped as he walked, while that of the left boot had gone altogether, and he trod on his sock. He felt thoroughly knocked up, and after he had seen his animals safely penned, he could hardly drag himself to Mr. Gillespie's house. To his surprise nobody in the streets seemed to pay the least attention to his appearance; he supposed that such sights were not uncommon; and Mr. Gillespie did not start back with the look of horror which in his self-consciousness John had expected. The coffee-planter greeted him warmly, but had no sooner taken him to his room than he whipped out a clinical thermometer and stuck it into John's mouth.
"Thought so," he said, when he examined it. "You've a touch of fever, and no wonder. You'll go straight to bed, my boy. We'll have a talk in the morning."
After a hot bath, John was tucked up between the blankets and dosed with quinine by Mrs. Gillespie, and he fell asleep with a happiness and a sense of security to which he seemed to have been a stranger for years.
He was better in the morning, but Mr. Gillespie would not allow him to quit his bed.
"You just leave it to me," he said when John protested that he must see about selling his animals. "I'll go and take a look at them. You won't sell them for a day or two: they'll be all the better for a rest. I've just heard from your father, by the way. He's a gay old dog, upon my word, gadding about on the Continent. You must have written glowing accounts of the farm, or he'd have been back before this. I dare say there's a letter for you by the same mail: you'll find it when you get back. And how do you like ranching, eh?"
They had a long talk, and Mr. Gillespie said he thought he had done very well for the first year. He laughed when John related the incidents of his march.
"You'll get used to it," he said. "It's rather disheartening at first, but you may think yourself lucky the natives didn't bother you. When I first came out here ten years ago I had a running fight with one of the tribes for a week, and lost practically everything I possessed. Things are safer now."
John told him about the desertion of Juma with the rifles, and the plight from which he had rescued Ferrier.
"That's unpleasant," said Mr. Gillespie. "If you take my advice you'll go back by way of Fort Hall and report to the District Commissioner. He may be disposed to send a company of the Protectorate police to deal with the ruffians. I'm afraid it's not a big enough job for the King's African Rifles. Probably they won't trouble you again, however. Their ammunition will soon be exhausted, and they can't get any more."
John remained in Nairobi for a week. He found that he had lost fifty-two sheep and one calf, besides his donkey; but Mr. Gillespie said that the animals were a healthy lot, and handed over 1500 rupees as the proceeds of the sale. The cheese fetched 100 rupees. John banked the greater part of the money, keeping a little to buy new clothes for himself, a few articles for the farm, and a fresh stock of "trade" for the payment of his native workers. Then, feeling that Ferrier might be growing uneasy at his long absence, he set off one day with his safari on the return journey, feeling pretty well satisfied with the tangible result of his first year's labours.
He went by way of Fort Hall, as Mr. Gillespie had suggested. He found it to be only a fort in the sense in which that word was used to describe the stations of the Hudson's Bay Company in the Far North. A substantial house perched on a hill, with a solid stone wall and a ditch around it, the flag of the Protectorate flying from a staff in the compound, a few huts and houses, a jail, and an Indian bazaar: that was Fort Hall. The Commissioner received him hospitably, and listened attentively to his story.
"Well, Mr. Halliday," he said, "the tribesmen certainly ought to be taught a lesson: in fact, they clearly have been taught a lesson. I don't know that I can do anything. I got your message, of course, but had no men available. You see, we don't care to start police expeditions if we can avoid it. It means great expense, and we want all our funds for peaceful development. Of course if you hadn't already given them a dressing we should have had to do something; but I fancy you've given them a fright, and they won't bother you again. You're rather far away, and a few years ago you would have had a very hot time there; but there are signs all over the country that the natives are settling down peaceably under our government, and the moral effect of the crushing of the Masai rebellion has been enormous. Let me know at once if you have any further trouble."
The interview left John with the impression that he could expect little assistance from the officials. In this he probably did them an injustice. It is not altogether harmful that the settler should be self-reliant.