Read Ebook: Tom Willoughby's Scouts: A Story of the War in German East Africa by Strang Herbert Paget Walter Illustrator

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Ebook has 949 lines and 64457 words, and 19 pages

The second presented a striking contrast. Equally tall, he was slim and loosely built, with lean, sunburnt, hairless cheeks, a clean upper lip that curved slightly in a natural smile, and brown eyes that flashed a look of intelligent interest around. He walked with the lithe easy movements of athletic youth, turned to see that the porter was following with his luggage, a single travelling trunk and a rifle case, and satisfied on that score, picked up a deck-chair and planted it for himself where the awning would give shade without shutting off the air.

Both these new arrivals wore suits of white drill, and pith helmets; but whereas the elder man was tightly buttoned, suggesting a certain strain, the younger allowed his coat to hang open, showing his soft shirt and the cummerbund about his waist.

The younger of the two passengers lit a cigarette and unobtrusively took stock of his fellow-travellers. The tall man before mentioned was already puffing at a long black cigar, and a steward, with marked servility, had placed a glass of some lemon-coloured liquid on a table at his elbow. Beyond him four men of middle age, also provided with cigars and glasses, were playing cards, not in dignified silence, like Sarah Battle of immortal memory, but with a sort of voracity, and a voluble exchange of gutturals. Sitting apart, smoking a dark briar pipe, sat a grizzled and somewhat shabby passenger who, though the brim of his panama was turned down over his eyes, had nevertheless watched and drawn conclusions about the two strangers.

"H'm! Public school--nineteen, perhaps--griffin--nice lad--clean," his disjointed thoughts ran. "T'other fellow--Potsdam--goose step--beer barrel--don't like the breed."

For a while he sat smoking, giving a little grunt now and then, and now and then a glance at the young Englishman. Presently he heaved himself out of his chair, tilted back his hat, and waddling a few steps, planted himself with legs apart in front of the youth.

"Harrow or Rugby, sir?" he said without preamble.

"Neither, sir," replied the other with a smile. "I was at quite an obscure grammar school--not a public school in the--well, in the swagger sense."

The old man's grey eyes twinkled.

"H'm!" he ejaculated. "Don't get up." He took a chair that stood folded against one of the stanchions and drew it alongside.

"Name, sir?"

The youth looked into the face of his questioner, saw nothing but benevolence there, and thinking "Queer old stick!" answered--

"Willoughby--Tom Willoughby."

"H'm! Not Bob Willoughby's son, by any chance?"

"My father's name was Robert, sir."

"No: only as far as Bismarckburg: my father was interested in some land on the edge of the Plateau."

"German land, begad!"

"Well, you see he was partner with a German: went equal shares with him in a coffee plantation seven or eight years ago."

"H'm! Why didn't he stick to mines?" said the old gentleman in one of his audible asides. "And you step into his shoes, I suppose?"

"Not exactly, sir. He left his property to my brother and me jointly. We decided that Bob--he's twenty-four--had better stick to the commission business in London, and I should come out and learn planting, or at any rate see if it's worth while going on; the plantation has never paid, and it's lucky for us we don't depend on it."

"Never paid in eight years? It's time it did. What's your German partner about? I'm an old hand; my name's Barkworth, and I was a friend of your father. My advice is, if your coffee hasn't paid in eight years, cut your losses and try cotton."

"Curt Reinecke?" said Mr. Barkworth abruptly.

"Yes."

"Mr. Reinecke has had a lot of bad luck, sir," he said. "He was always hoping the tide would turn, Bob suggested that he might be incompetent, but my father had complete confidence in him."

"Reinecke incompetent! Bosh! He's clever enough."

There was something in Mr. Barkworth's tone that caused Tom to say--

"Yes, of course. Reinecke is a clever fellow; I've nothing against him, but I recommend you to go carefully. I don't like him, but then I don't like Germans."

"You're predisposed in his favour. Naturally. Well, keep an open mind. Don't be in a hurry to decide. That's an old man's advice. I'm nearly seventy, my lad, and the older I get the more I learn. With people, now--there's the man who falls on the neck of the first comer, and wishes he hadn't. There's the man who stiffens his back and freezes, and then finds that he's lost his chance of making a friend. Don't be like either: 'prove all things'--and men--'and hold fast to that which is good.' H'm! I'm beginning to preach: sure sign of dotage.--You haven't seen a view like that before."

It was indeed a new and an enchanting experience to Tom Willoughby, this voyage on the vast lake, or inland sea, that stretches for four hundred miles in the heart of equatorial Africa. Looking eastward to the nearer shore, he beheld a high bank richly clad with forest jungle, fringed and festooned with lovely creepers and climbing plants. Below, the blue waters, tossed by a south-east breeze, broke high upon a wilderness of rugged rocks; above, masses of cloud raced across the green heights, revealing now and then patches of bare brown rock, now and then the misty tops of distant mountains. The coastline was variegated with headlands, creeks, and bays; southward could be discerned the bold mountainous promontory of Kungwe. Here and there Arab dhows with their triangular sails and the low log canoes of native fishermen hugged the shore; and birds with brilliant plumage glittered and flashed as they darted in and out among the foliage or swooped down upon the surface in search of food.

Tom feasted his eyes on these novel scenes until a bugle summoned the passengers to luncheon. He would have found it a slow meal but for his new friend. They were placed side by side at some distance from the captain, the intervening seats being occupied by the Germans. The planters talked shop among themselves, and Tom was amused at the obsequious gratitude they showed to Major von Rudenheim, the newly arrived German officer, when he dispensed them a word now and then, as a man throws a bone to a dog. The major had the place of honour next the captain, whose bearing towards him was scarcely less deferential. Through the meal the two Englishmen were almost ignored by the rest. Afterwards, however, when the planters had returned to their cards and Major von Rudenheim and Mr. Barkworth had both disappeared, Captain Goltermann came up to Tom where he sat alone on deck.

"Fine country, Mr. Villoughby," he said pleasantly. "I hope you like zis trip."

"Thanks, captain, it's quite charming; but I'm not what we call a tripper."

"Thanks again. I expect Mr. Reinecke to meet me at Bismarckburg."

"Mr. Reinecke! He is great friend of mine. You are lucky to go to him--as pupil, perhaps?"

It seemed to Tom that the amiable captain was trying to pump him, and he smiled inwardly.

"I daresay I could learn a good deal from Mr. Reinecke," he said, guardedly, but with great amiability.

Tom was to learn later the methods by which the Germans achieved that desirable end: at present he was slightly amused at the Teutonic self-satisfaction of the speaker. It was so like what he had encountered during his year in Stuttgart.

"Ze German kultur," the captain proceeded--"it is carried verever ze German go. Yes; viz our mezod, our zystem, ve create for our Kaiser a great empire in Africa. In ten, tventy year ze Masai, ze Wanyamwezi, ze Wakamba, ze Wahehe, and all ze ozers--zey shall become Germans--black Germans, but ze colour, vat is it? It is of ze skin; I speak of ze soul, sir."

At this moment there was a great hubbub on the lower deck forward, where a motley assortment of natives and Indian traders was located. The captain hurried away; the planters left their cards and flocked to see what was happening. Tom followed them. Looking over the rail, he saw a young negro being dragged along by two petty officers, who cuffed and kicked him between their shouts of abuse. They hauled him on until they stood below the captain, and then explained in German that they had found him hidden among some bales of cargo: he had not paid his passage and had no money.

"Throw him overboard," cried the captain. The planters laughed.

"Only a stowaway," said one, and their curiosity being satisfied, they went back to the awning.

Whether the captain had meant what he said or not, he had turned away, and the officers were apparently about to carry out the order. Tom, understanding German and knowing something of Germans, was nevertheless amazed. Acting on the impulse of the moment he hurried after the captain.

"I say, captain, I'll pay for the boy," he cried. "Let him go."

Captain Goltermann smiled.

"Ze nigger? You are good Samaritan, sir. Vell, it is your affair, not mine. Pay if you please; you fling money avay."

He called to the officers, who gave the boy a parting kick and shot him into the midst of the crowd of shouting negroes before them. Tom paid the passage money, and went back to his chair. Had he made a fool of himself? It was really absurd to have supposed that the Germans would have drowned the boy. "I wonder what Mr. Barkworth would say?" he thought. And then he sprang up and hastened to find the purser: he had suddenly remembered that if the boy had no money for his fare, neither could he pay for his food. "No good doing things by halves," he thought. He told the purser to charge the boy's keep to him, adding: "and don't make a song about it."

Tom Willoughby's first impression of Curt Reinecke had an element of surprise. Conspicuous on the landing-stage at Bismarckburg was a thin wiry man of middle height, clad in the loose white garments affected by planters, with a large white linen hat, its brim turned down helmet-wise. The coppery hue of his face was accentuated by a huge white moustache, which projected at least two inches beyond the outlines of his shaven cheeks. He might have passed for a South American president.

"That's Reinecke," said Mr. Barkworth, as he stepped on to the gangway in advance of Tom. "Hasn't altered a jot. His moustache was white twenty years ago; and he was as bald as a bladder. Good-bye, my lad: we may meet again: we may not: God bless you!"

It was impossible for Reinecke to mistake the lad he had come to meet. Among the passengers who landed there was none so young as Tom, no other who bore the stamp of Englishman. Reinecke came up to him with a smile, lifted his hat, revealing for an instant his smooth pink crown, and said--

"Mr. Villoughby, vizout doubt. A tousand hearty velcomes."

"How d'you do, Mr. Reinecke?" responded Tom. "Glad to meet you."

"Ve shall go to ze hotel for to-day; I shall see to your baggage. To-morrow ve go to ze plantation. Zat zhentleman you part viz--I zink I know his look, but his name--no, I do not remember: it is--no, it vill not come."

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