Father O'Hara and Major Folliot crossed the dirt- packed area that served in Bagomoyo as a village green and stood beside the chief.
Clive started to speak, but the mandarin shot him a look that spoke volumes. If this was Sergeant Smythe—and Clive knew that it had to be Smythe— the man did not wish to be identified, nor his former relationship with Folliot revealed.
Father O'Hara—remarkable man!—began to address the mandarin. His words came slowly and his face creased with concentration and the recollection of long-unused knowledge, but he was speaking Chinese!
The mandarin smiled at the priest and responded in the same language. He too spoke slowly, but he did so with the same confidence and precision with which he had performed at the piano.
Father O'Hara translated for the mandarin and for both Clive Folliot and the chief of the village, speaking Chinese, ki-Swahili, and English in turn. A villager took the mandarin's camel to be watered, while the Celestial climbed from its back and moved with the others into the chief's hut.
While this building was of the same crude architecture as the rest of Bagomoyo, it was by far the largest and most comfortably furnished house in the village. The chief offered seats to O'Hara and to Folliot as well as to the Chinese.
As the latter descended from his camel he had carefully removed a carved chest or strongbox the size of a large volume. This he now placed on the packed earth before Clive Folliot. He spoke for a time to Father O'Hara.
As the Chinese spoke, Clive watched both his face and that of the priest. When the mandarin was finished, O'Hara turned toward Clive, wonder and puzzlement on his features.
"The Chinese gentleman says that he came across this object"—he indicated the strongbox—"on the beach near the mouth of the Wami River. He states that he believes it to be your property, Major Folliot."
Clive looked into the eyes of the mandarin. Had he not known better he would have been utterly deceived into thinking the man an authentic Oriental who spoke not a word of English. To O'Hara, Clive said, "Please tell the gentleman that I believe he has indeed recovered an object of mine which I had thought to lie at the bottom of the Strait of Zanzibar, in the hulk of the dhow Azazel. Please tell the gentleman that I am most grateful for the return of my box."
When O'Hara had translated, the mandarin smiled ingratiatingly, inclined his head, and murmured a few words in Chinese. He reached forward and opened the box, revealing a scattering of gold and gems and neatly arranged stacks of bank notes. The notes, issued by the Bank of London, ranged in value from single pounds to thousands.
CHAPTER 9
Lord Baker
"And how well does the major know the local terrain, sah?” Smythe asked Clive Folliot. The erstwhile mandarin had retransformed himself, and now sported the khaki garb of a European explorer on the African continent. There were no military markings on his clothing, but at this moment it would have been hard to take Horace Hamilton Smythe for anything other than a soldier.
"I know it moderately well, Smythe.” Clive was uncertain as to how to address this chameleonic individual, but since Smythe had lapsed into military forms of address, Folliot found himself doing the same.
"Before leaving England I read all the published works I could lay hand upon,” Folliot continued. "I also attended lectures given by Sir Richard Burton, and I had the pleasure on one occasion of meeting the lamented Mr. John Hanning Speke.”
Smythe grunted. From somewhere in the pockets of his bush outfit he produced a pipe and tobacco pouch, and proceeded methodically to load and fire his pipe.
Folliot waited impatiently while Smythe went through the slow procedure. Folliot knew that the other man could act with speed and decision when the case was urgent, but at his leisure he could spin out the most trivial act until he had tried the patience of saints.
Finally Smythe returned to the topic. "I was hoping," and he paused to puff on his short-stemmed briar, "that the major," and he drew again on the pipe, "I refer to Major Folliot," and he took the pipe from his mouth and nodded in agreement with himself, "Major Neville Folliot, that is, sah—"
"Yes," Clive cut him off, "yes, my brother Neville. What about him, Smythe?"
"Well, sah," Smythe studied his pipe, "I was wondering, I might even say hoping, that Major Neville Folliot had written some letters to his brother, that is, to you, sah."
"Letters from Africa, Smythe?"
"Precisely, sah. I knew the major would understand, sah." Smythe beamed. He put down his pipe, quaffed a quantity of native beer, and picked up his pipe again.
"Neville wrote home to our mutual parent, Smythe. He did not write to me. We were not—are not—on so close or cordial a basis as that."
"Oh." Smythe nodded. "I see." He hummed tunelessly, then looked into Clive's face. "If I may make so bold, sah—did the major—you—chance to read the major's—your brother's—letters to the baron— your father?"
"Thank you, I know who my father is, Smythe. And my brother, for that matter. Baron Tewkesbury was in the habit of reading aloud to me such portions of Neville's letters as were not of a wholly personal nature. They included considerable information regarding the geography of the region, thank you."
"And does the major know the route that his brother followed, sah? Did the major's letters provide that information? The other major's letter, that is, sah."
"Quite so, Smythe. Neville headed northwest from Bagomoyo, skirted the southern shore of Victoria Nyanza, and headed northward. He stopped and refitted at Bukoba, then moved parallel to the Ruwenzori Range—""The Mountains of the Moon, sah!"
"Quite. And disappeared somewhere to the north of the village of Gondokoro. At least, that was the place from which he dispatched his final missive to Baron Tewkesbury."
"Perhaps the major will share his familiarity with the region with me. It should make it easier for me to serve the major," Smythe said.
"Quite so, Smythe, quite so." Folliot unlaced his boots and lay back on his field cot. He closed his eyes, wondering at the talents and versatility of Horace Hamilton Smythe, and at the man's density at other times.
By the time they approached Bukoba, the party was not in nearly the fine condition it had been upon leaving Bagomoyo.
A daily routine had been established, with bearers assigned specific duties. There were the beaters and hunters, the animal drivers and equipment carriers, the cooks, and the scouts. Some of the Africans had wanted to bring their women along as cooks and companions, but Clive had vetoed this. His military career had taught him that women on such an expedition meant nothing but trouble.
The men had grumbled at that, and Sergeant Smythe had told them that some of the better prospects for the party had refused to join up when they learned that they could not bring their wives with them. But Clive had been adamant.
The scouts moved ahead of the main party, and others served as flankers. There were no known groups in the region, but after the disappearance of Neville, Clive wished to take no unnecessary risks.
Three days out of Bagomoyo, a pair of men had deserted, returning to their homes and families. "Can't be helped, sah," was Sergeant Smythe's comment. "The men miss their women and children. Those two wanted to bring 'em along to start with. I know those two. Good men, aye, but they miss their mates and kiddies. I'm a lifelong bachelor myself, but if I were a married man, I can't say as how I'd blame 'em. Well, sah, it can't be helped."
Clive was more worried about further desertions than he was about the two men who had already left. He asked Smythe if he expected more men to decamp.
"Can't say as how one can predict that, sah. Treat 'em well, and let 'em know that there's a generous pay packet awaiting 'em at the end of the trail, and they'll likely stay. But if too many men gets eaten up by beasts or comes down with fevers or if the food runs out—well, sah, 'tain't as if they'd taken Her Majesty's shilling, sah. They're employees, if you takes my meaning, sah. Employees. They can quit, you see, sah. 'Tain't as if they'd sworn a soldier's oath, yo
u see."
They lost more men in Bukoba. Word came through the rumor mill of the party, to Sergeant Smythe, and from him to Clive Folliot, of what had happened. Tribal loyalties were strong in East Africa, and word of any important event could spread by jungle telegraph from village to village. The men involved were bachelors with relatives in Bukoba, and when they heard of available brides with temptingly low prices, they opted to make their acquisitions while the opportunity was presented, and not risk losing the brides to other suitors.
Before Smythe or Folliot even knew about it, the eager bridegrooms and their blushing fiancées were gone, en route back to Bagomoyo.
They tried to hire replacements in Bukoba, but the men of that village refused to serve with men from Bagomoyo, and vice versa. It was one thing to purchase a bride in another village. But it was a far more serious matter to travel on safari with men you hadn't known all your life.
Four days out of Bukoba, a hunting lioness brought down a pack mule, and the drivers attempted to kill the big cat. The result was one death among the courageous drivers, and two men slashed by the big cat's powerful talons.
The lioness tore a haunch from the dead beast of burden and loped away with it. Only Clive and Horace Hamilton Smythe carried firearms on the expedition, and neither had been near enough the point of attack to bring down the lioness. It was all over in the batting of an eye, or so it seemed.
Once the lioness was out of sight and order had been restored, Clive drew Horace Hamilton Smythe aside. "We've discussed this before, Smythe. Is this going to cost us more desertions?"
Smythe shook his head. "Don't know, sah. These are good solid men. About as reliable as you'll find on the continent. But they've had a good fright now." They buried the dead man, and the two who had been slashed turned back to Bagomoyo. It was fortunate that they were both able to walk, and to carry enough supplies and weapons for their own needs. "Will they get back safely?" Folliot asked Smythe. "There's no way to know that, sah. Man could walk ten thousand miles unscathed on this continent, then die of a scorpion's sting sitting in his easy chair at home." He paused, rubbed his chin reflectively, then went on. "Couple things we might do, though, sah, to help ourselves. Always a risk, there is, but a smart gambler can help his odds, if the major takes my meaning."
Clive asked him what he had in mind, and Smythe outlined his plan. Increase the number of scouts, set them farther from the main party. Set up a double screen, so that predators that slipped through the first row might be detected by the second. Arrange a system of signals between the main party and the two rows of scouts.
CHAPTER 10
Into the Sudd
Clive slept not a wink. His mind was in a turmoil of thoughts, images, recollections, regrets, resentments.
Neville had ruined his boyhood. Though twins, the brothers had, technically, been born on different days. And Neville, as heir presumptive to the Barony of Tewkesbury, had received first preference in all things, from the day of his birth forward.
Long before dawn Clive gave up any attempt at sleep. He crawled from beneath the light covering that had kept him warm. He could hear Horace Hamilton Smythe's breathing from the other folding cot in his tent.
He slipped from the tent fully clothed and walked through the encampment. The remnants of a few cooking fires still glowed redly, sending thin fibers of smoke coiling upward into the cool air. At the center of the encampment a watchfire danced and guardsmen kept vigil.
Clive walked to the boma. He pulled aside a tangle of vines and twigs and thorns. There was little serious concern at this place; predators were few and were more likely to regard man as a dangerous interloper, to be avoided for safety's sake, than as fair prey.
He stepped onto the plain and closed the gap he had made in the boma. He walked quietly beneath equatorial stars. The constellations were strange in this latitude; some of them he had learned, others he had not. Clive seated himself on the ground. He pulled up his knees and rested his elbows on them, gazing into the blackness.
A soft breeze blew from the west, bringing with it still cooler air from the Ruwenzori Mountains. The sounds of small creatures came to Clive from every direction. He felt a sense of peace such as he had known seldom in his life, a communion with whatever god had made this wondrous, spacious continent.
Not only Tewkesbury but London, all of England, seemed not merely thousands of miles away but millions. For all that they mattered now, Clive might have been sitting on a grassy plain on the surface of Mars. If he were indeed on another world, perhaps he could send his thoughts whirling across the millions of miles of interplanetary vacuum to the waiting brain of George du Maurier. Or perhaps, the thought struck him, to that of Annabella Leighton.
What was Annabella doing now? What was the hour in London? Surely it was the next day, and Annabella was up and bustling about her appointed duties, instructing her charges. Unless it was the Sabbath! With a start Clive realized that he had lost track of the day and date.
When had he last sent a dispatch to Maurice Carstairs? He could—
A talonlike hand dug long, bony Fingers into his shoulder, breaking the distracted reverie into which he had fallen. He whirled and looked into a face made all the more terrifying by its grin.
The sky was growing lighter to the east. The glittering stars had disappeared against a field of brightening colors, and there was sufficient illumination to reveal a physiognomy as black as the blackest Folliot had seen in Equatoria. The eyes gleamed at him with a feverish intensity. The grin was huge, and revealed a pattern of snaggled teeth that would have sent any London dentist into perforations of rage.
The face was surmounted by a makeshift turban of loosely wrapped white linen. The man wore a thin sheet draped toga-fashion from his shoulder, and leaned on a crooked staff taller than he was.
"Englishman," a rasping voice emerged from the snaggle of teeth, "Englishman, why are you not resting? You have hard times to face."
Clive leaped to his feet, escaping the grasp of the man's talons. "Who the devil are you? What do you want?" He brushed at his shoulder, trying to give the appearance of wiping away the man's dirty touch but in actuality attempting to restore the circulation that the other's iron grasp had cut off.
"I, sir? I am the Englishman's servant, his friend, his helper and guide. I am called Sidi Bombay."
Clive peered into the man's deep eyes. He burst out laughing. "Smythe! Sergeant Smythe! You are indeed a master of disguise, although I cannot fathom your reasons for such conduct."
Sidi Bombay shook his head. "I am not the Sergeant Smythe. I am knowing the most excellent sergeant. He it was who approached me, who asked me to be your aide. A most admirable man is he, yes, Englishman. But I am not he, no, Englishman."
Clive took the man's chin in one hand, rubbed the other vigorously on his cheek. Then he peered at his fingers, then at Sidi Bombay's face. "It isn't greasepaint," he stammered. "It's your real color!"
"So it is, Englishman. My real color, indeed. As it has been my whole life through, yes."
"And you say that Sergeant Smythe hired you?" The black man nodded.
"But—why?"
Sidi Bombay grinned again'. "He and I are acquaintances of old, Englishman. Yes. You are going to the Sudd, this I know. You cannot walk through the Sudd, know you not that?"
Folliot declined to give a direct answer. "What's your job, then? What did Smythe hire you to do? And why the deuce didn't he ask me about it first?"
"I came to your tent and spoke with your sergeant. He told me you were walking about. He said that if he had known I was hereabouts he would have asked you first, yes, but he did not know."
"But—why?"
"I can find boatmen to carry you through the Sudd. I can guide you myself. Otherwise, Englishman, you will die in the Sudd. You will never emerge from the Bahr-el-Zeraf. You will never see Fashoda. No, Englishman, never."
Clive thought of his continuing journey, of the chance of finding Neville and returning
safely to England. Even under the most favorable of conditions, the odds he faced were long.
He made his decision.
"Come along then, Sidi Bombay." He started to turn back toward the encampment, but stopped to stare at a single patch of sky that seemed to have remained in night's darkness while dawn filled the rest of the firmament with light and glorious colors. The dark patch was to the north, the direction in which he planned to march.
A few stars remained visible, and even as Clive stared they rearranged themselves into a spiral and began to whirl, to whirl like a hypnotist's disk, faster and faster, tighter and tighter.
And then, suddenly, they were gone, and the patch of darkness was gone. The brilliant tropical dawn had broken fully.
Folliot grasped Sidi Bombay by the shoulders. "Did you see that, man? Did you see that—in the sky?"
He released one of the black man's bony shoulders and pointed.
"I see only the morning, Englishman, yes."
"But—you didn't see the patch of darkness? The spiral of stars?"
Sidi Bombay shook his head. "We must hasten back to camp, Englishman. Sergeant Smythe and the bearers await us. We must be on our way. A long journey awaits."
The boma was dismantled, the last embers of the watchfire stamped into gray ash, tents struck and packed onto the backs of patient animals.
The Ruwenzori Range fell away to the west and the land dipped almost imperceptibly with each passing mile as the party moved toward the Sudd.
The Sudd was where Neville had been when he sent his last letter home to England. He had described the swamp as a fetid region filled with wildlife that ranged from the pestiferous to the deadly. Thus far Clive had traced his brother's path without great difficulty. He had no idea of how much farther he had to go, or of whether he would find Neville alive or dead or not at all.