Part 45 (1/2)
Riding in a little group of the officers Kingozi listened attentively to an account of affairs as far as they were known. The Marne, and the Retreat from Mons straightened him in his saddle. It was worth it; he had done his bit! Whatever the price, it was worth it!
The account finished, Captain Walsh began questioning in his turn.
”Excellent!” he greeted Kingozi's account. ”Couldn't be better! We have reasons to believe that the water-holes on this route are mapped by the Germans.”
”They are,” interrupted Kingozi.
”And that the plan contemplated coming through here, gathering the tribes as they advanced, and finally cutting in on us with a big force from the rear.”
”They'll run against a stone wall hereabouts,” said Kingozi with satisfaction.
”Lucky for us. I've only four companies--and these settlers. We are really only a reconnaissance.”
”How did you happen to follow my route?”
”Ran against the messengers you sent back to get Doctor McCloud. They guided us. By the way, what is it? Must have been serious. You're not a man to run to panics. You look fit enough now.”
”Eyes,” explained Kingozi. His heart sank, for the failure of his messengers to go on after McCloud took away the last small hope of saving his eyesight.
”Fancy it will be all right,” said Captain Walsh vaguely. He was thinking, quite properly, of ways and means and dispositions. ”About this sultan, now; what do you advise----”
They rode forward slowly through the high, aromatic gra.s.ses, discussing earnestly every angle of policy to be a.s.sumed in regard to M'tela. At its close all the white men were called together and given instructions. Even the youngest and most flippant knew natives well enough to realize the value of the structure Kingozi had built, and to listen attentively.
These alternate marches and halts had permitted the foot troops to close up. Kingozi turned in his saddle to look at them. Fine, upstanding black men they were, marching straight and soldierly, neat in their uniforms of khaki, with the dull red tarboush, the blue leggings, the bare knees and feet. They were picked troops from the Sudan, these, fighting men by birth, whose chief tradition was that in case his colonel was killed no man must come back to his woman short of wiping out the last of the enemy. In spite of a long march they walked jauntily. Two mounted white men brought up the rear.
Now they entered the cool forest trail. The sound of distant drums became audible. Men straightened in their saddles. Captain Walsh gave crisp orders. They entered the cleared s.p.a.ce before M'tela's palace with colours flying and snare drums tapping briskly.
The full force of M'tela's power seemed to have been gathered, gorgeous in the panoply of war. The forest threw back the roar of drums, of horns, of people chanting or shouting. Straight to the middle of the square marched the Sudanese, wheeled smartly into line. At a command they raised their rifles and fired a volley, the first gunfire ever heard in this ancient forest.
CHAPTER x.x.xIII
CURTAIN
The sun was setting. In a few minutes more the swift darkness would fall. After delivering the astonis.h.i.+ng volley the troops wheeled and under Kingozi's guidance proceeded down the forest path to the great clearing. It was the close of a long, hard day, but under the scrutinizing eyes of these thousands of proud _shenzis_ the Sudanese stepped forth jauntily. Camping places were designated. All was activity as the tents were raised.
But now rode in the two white men who had closed the rear of the column, not only of the fighting men, but of the burden bearers as well. They were covered with dust and apparently very glad to arrive.
One of them rode directly to the group of officers and dismounted stiffly.
”McCloud!” cried Kingozi.
”The same,” replied that efficient surgeon. ”And now let's see the eyes. I have your scrawl.” He stumped forward, looking keenly for what he wanted. ”Sit here in this chair. Boy!” he bawled. ”_Lete taa_--bring the lantern. And my case of knives. No, my lad, I'm not going to operate on you instanter, but I do want my reflector. Hold the light just here. Now, don't any of you move. Tip your head back a bit, that's a good chap.” He went methodically forward with his examination as though he were at home in his white office. ”H'm. How long this been going on? Five weeks, eh! Been blind? Oh--why didn't you use that pilocarpin I gave you--I see.” The officers and other white men stood about in a compact and silent group. A sudden grave realization of the situation had descended upon them, sobering their careless or laughing countenances. No one knew exactly what it was all about, but some had caught the word ”blindness” and repeated it to others. Some one yelled ”_kalale_” savagely at the chattering men. Almost a dead stillness fell on the clearing, so that in the falling twilight the tree hyraxes took heart and began to utter their demoniac screams. The darkness came down softly. Soon the group in the centre turned to silhouettes against the light of the two lanterns held head high on either side the patient.
Absorbedly Doctor McCloud proceeded. Kingozi sat quietly, turning his head to either side, raising or lowering his chin as he was requested to do so. At last McCloud straightened his back.
”It is glaucoma right enough,” said he; ”fairly advanced. The pilocarpin has been a palliative. An operation is called for--iridectomy.”
He paused, wiping his mirror. n.o.body dared ask the question that Kingozi himself at last propounded.