Hunting the Lions

But the way was toilsome, the heat intense, and the water scarce—more so than it had been on the outward journey. To add to their troubles, fever and ague attacked most of the white men, and one of them (Ogilvie) died on the journey.

At last Tom Brown, who had up to that time been one of the strongest of the party, broke down, and it was found to be necessary to leave him behind at a native village, for it would have been certain death to the others to have remained with him, and their doing so could have done him no good.

“I cannot tell you, Tom,” said the major, as he sat beside his friend’s couch the night before they parted, “how deeply it grieves me to leave you in this way, but you see, my dear fellow, that the case is desperate. You are incapable of moving. If we remain here the most of us will die, for I find that it is all I can do to drag one leg after the other, and I have grave doubts as to whether I shall ever get out of this rascally country alive. As to poor Bob Wilkins, he is in a worse condition than myself. Now, our intention is to leave you all the physic, push on as fast as possible to the nearest settlement, where we shall get more for ourselves, and send out a party of natives under some trustworthy trader to fetch you out of the country.”

“You are very kind, major,” said Tom languidly, “but I cannot allow you to leave me all the physic. Your own life may depend on having some of it, and—”

“There, don’t exhaust yourself, Tom, with objections, for Bob and I have made up our minds to do it. The very fact that every day we are getting nearer the habitable parts of the world will keep our spirits up and give us strength, and you may depend upon it, my poor fellow, that we won’t waste time in sending help to you.”

The major’s voice trembled a little, for he had become very weak, and had secret misgivings that he would never see his friend again.

“We are going to leave Mafuta with you,” he added quickly.

“That’s right,” exclaimed Tom, with an expression of satisfaction. “If any one is able to pull me through this bout, Mafuta is the man. By the way, major, will you do me the favour to open my portmanteau and fetch me the Bible you will find there. I mean to read it. Do you know I have been thinking that we are great fools to keep calling ourselves Christians when we have scarcely any of the signs of Christianity about us, and particularly in putting off the consideration of our souls’ interests to a time like this?”

“Upon my word, Tom, I agree with you,” said the major.

“Well, then,” said Tom, “like a good fellow, get the Bible for me, and let me advise you as a friend to make use of the one the missionary gave you. I mean to turn over a new leaf. My only fear is that if I get well I shall become as indifferent as I was before.”

“No fear of that, Tom, you are much too honest-hearted to be so changeable.”

“H’m, I don’t know,” said Tom, with an attempt at a smile; “I should not be easy if my salvation depended on the honesty of my heart. I rather fear, major, that your method of comforting me is not what the missionary would call orthodox. But good night, old fellow; I feel tired, and find it wonderfully difficult not only to speak but to think, so I’ll try to sleep.”

Saying this our hero turned on his side and soon fell into a quiet slumber, out of which he did not awake until late the following morning.

The major, meanwhile, sought for and found the Bible in his portmanteau, and laid it on his pillow, so that he might find it there on awaking. For a long time he and Wilkins sat by the sick man’s side next morning, in the hope of his awaking, that they might bid him good-bye; but Tom did not rouse up, so, being unwilling to disturb him, they left without having the sad satisfaction of saying farewell.

When Tom Brown awoke, late in the day, he found Mafuta sitting at his feet with a broad grin on his dusky countenance.

“What are you laughing at, you rascal?” demanded Tom, somewhat sternly.

“Me laffin’ at you’s face!”

“Indeed, is it then so ridiculous?”

“Yis, oh yis, you’s bery ri’clous. Jist no thicker dan de edge ob hatchet.”

Tom smiled. “Well, I’m not fat, that’s certain; but I feel refreshed. D’you know, Mafuta, I think I shall get well after all.”

“Ho, yis,” said Mafuta, with a grin, nodding his woolly head violently, and displaying a magnificent double row of teeth; “you’s git well; you had slep an’ swet mos’ bootiful. Me wish de major see you now.”

“The major; is he gone?”

“Yis, hoed off dis morrownin.”

“And Mr Wilkins?”

“Hoed off too.”

Tom Brown opened his eyes and stared silently for a few minutes at his companion.

“Then we are all alone, you and I,” he said suddenly.

“Yis, all alone, sept de two tousand Caffres ob de kraal; but dey is nobody—only black beasts.”

Tom laughed to hear his attendant talk so scornfully of his countrymen, and Mafuta laughed to see his master in such good spirits; after which the former became grave, and, feeling a slight twinge of hunger, made a sudden demand for food. Mafuta rose and left the tent, and Tom, turning on his side, observed the Bible lying on the pillow. He opened it, but forgot to read, in consequence of his attention being arrested by the extreme thinness of his hands. Recovering himself, he turned to the twenty-first psalm, but had only read the first verse when the book dropt from his fingers, and he again fell sound asleep.

This was the turning-point in his illness. He began to mend a little, but so slowly, that he almost lost heart once or twice; and felt convinced that if he did not make an attempt to get out of the unhealthy region, he should never regain strength.

Acting on this belief, he left the native village on foot, carrying nothing but his rifle, which seemed to him, in his weak condition, to be as heavy as a small cannon. Mafuta went on in advance, heavily laden with the blankets, a small tent, provisions, ammunition, etcetera, necessary for the journey.

At first Tom could scarcely walk a mile without sitting down several times to rest, on which occasions Mafuta endeavoured to cheer him up by threatening to leave him to his fate! This was a somewhat singular mode of stimulating, but he deemed it the wisest course, and acted on it. When Tom lay down under the shade of a tree, thoroughly knocked up, the Caffre would bid him farewell and go away; but in a short time he would return and urge him to make another attempt!

Thus Tom Brown travelled, day after day, under the broiling sun. During that period—which he afterwards described as the most dreadful of his life—fever and ague reduced him to a state of excessive weakness. In fact it was a battle between the dire disease and that powerful constitution for which the Brown family is celebrated. For a considerable time it appeared very doubtful how the battle would end.

One morning Tom was awakened by his faithful attendant to resume his weary journey. He got up with a heavy sigh, and almost fell down again from weakness.

“I think, Mafuta,” said Tom gravely, “that I’m pretty nearly used up. You’ll have to leave me, I fear, and make the best of your way out of this wretched country alone.”

“Dis a fuss-rate kontry,” said the Caffre quietly.

“Ah, true, Mafuta, I forgot for a moment that it is your native land. However, I am bound to admit that it is a first-rate country for sport—also for killing Englishmen. I don’t feel able to move a step.”

Tom sat down as he said this, and, uttering a sort of groan, leaned his back against a tree.

“W’at, yous no’ go fadder?”

“No,” said Tom, with some asperity, for he felt too much exhausted to speak.

“Berry good, me say good-bye.”

Mafuta nodded his head as he spoke, and, gravely shouldering his load, marched away.

Tom looked after him with a melancholy smile; for he quite understood the ruse by this time, and knew that he would return, although the simple native sincerely believed that his motives and intentions had been concealed with deep wisdom. Tom was not sorry to get a respite, and threw himself flat down, in order to make the most of it, but Mafuta was more anxious than usual about his companion that morning. He returned in ten minutes or so, having sat for that period behind a neighbouring tree to brood over his circumstances.

“Yous come on now, eh?” he said gently, regarding Tom with an anxious expression of countenance.

“Well, well,” replied our hero, getting up with a sort of desperate energy, “let’s push on; I can at all events walk till my legs refuse to carry me, and then it will not be I who shall have given in, but the legs!—eh, Mafuta?”

Smiling languidly at this conceit, Tom walked on, almost mechanically, for nearly twenty miles that day, with scarcely any shelter from the sun.

At night he reached a native village, the chief of which considerately let him rest in an old hut. When Tom flung himself down in a corner of this, he felt so ill that he called his servant and bade him fetch the package which contained his slender stock of medicine.

“Open it, Mafuta, and let’s see what we have left. I’m resolved to make some change in myself for better or worse, if I should have to eat up the whole affair. Better be poisoned at once than die by inches in this way.”

“No more kineen,” said the Caffre, as he kneeled by his master’s side, turning over the papers and bottles.

“No more quinine,” repeated Tom sadly; “no more life, that means.”