CHAPTER IV

"REGARDLESS OF THE RISK"

THE two chums berthed in separate cabins. On account of Desmond's weak lungs he was compelled by the company's rules to sleep in a part of the ship set apart for persons suffering from pulmonary complaints.

Consequently Colin had to have another cabin-mate, since every available berth had been booked weeks before the _Huldebras_ was due to sail.

When Colin went below to see to his cabin trunk, he found his future "opposite number" engaged upon the same errand--a tall, heavily-built bearded man of about forty years of age.

"Don't apologise," said the man. "You have as much right here as I have. We're cabin-mates, are we not? What is your name?"

Colin told him.

"Mine's Van der Wyck," volunteered the other. "Heard that name before?"

"It's Dutch, isn't it?" asked Colin.

The bearded man laughed, displaying a double row of large white teeth.

"Was once," he replied. "I'm an Afrikander; do you know what that is? Well, a Boer, if you like! See that?"

He turned up his coat-sleeve, revealing a bluish mark on his bronzed skin.

"That's a bullet wound," he continued. "I got that twenty years ago at Paardeberg, fighting against the British. See that?"

Van der Wyck lifted one leg, and, pulling up the trouser-leg a few inches, revealed the fact that he wore an artificial foot.

"Got that in 1916 fighting for the British in German East Africa," he explained proudly. "Bit of a scrap close to a place called Kilembonga. Don't suppose you've ever heard of the place."

"I have," declared Colin. "That's where I'm going."

"_Allemachtag!_" exclaimed the Afrikander. "I hope you will enjoy the place better than I did. But, then, Fritz with a rifle is no longer there. What are you going to Kilembonga for--ivory? There are plenty of elephants, and lions, too."

"No, mining," replied Colin, "or, rather, mining engineering."

Van der Wyck looked at his youthful cabin-companion with a quizzical air.

"You would do better in the Witwatersrand," he observed, and without offering any explanation, he busied himself with the contents of his trunk.

For the next three days Colin kept to his bunk. His high hopes of becoming a good sailor were rudely dashed, not exactly to the ground, but somewhere else of a less solid nature. In nautical parlance, he was "mustering his bag," or, in plain language, he was horribly seasick.

All the way down Channel and across the Bay the _Huldebras_ was followed by a strong nor'-easterly wind, that made the ship roll far worse than if she had encountered a head wind.

Colin had some slight satisfaction in the knowledge that he was not the only passenger out of action with _mal-de-mer_. The steward, who brought and took away twelve untasted meals, informed him that only half-a-dozen of the second-class were up and about.

On the morning of the fourth day Colin dressed and went on deck. He still felt far from well, but he was able to eat breakfast. There was no sign of Tiny Desmond, and it was not until late that afternoon that that very woe-begone-looking youth staggered out of his cabin.

But before the _Huldebras_ sighted Las Palmas Colin had recovered his normal spirits, while Desmond looked better than he had done for weeks past. The rest of the passengers, too, were finding their sea-legs, and taking an interest in deck games.

In spite of the difference of ages, the two chums got on splendidly with Van der Wyck. Apart from the fact that he knew the district to which they were bound, he was a "thundering good sort." He retained the quiet, unassuming manner of a veldt farmer, combined with the experience gained by travelling in other portions of the Empire to which he was proud to belong.

Like many of his veldt friends and neighbours, he had been an ardent supporter of President Kruger, but the generous concessions accorded the conquered Boers had speedily been vindicated. Except for a minority, the Afrikanders were genuinely loyal to the British Government.

"There is a very remarkable tribe living in the district around Kilembonga," remarked Van der Wyck one evening, as the Afrikander and the two chums were standing on a secluded portion of the promenade deck, watching the sun set. The _Huldebras_ was now approaching the Tropics, steaming at seventeen knots through a perfectly calm sea. From below came the strains of the ship's band discoursing the music of the latest London comedy.

"Savages?" queried Tiny.

"Yes," replied Van der Wyck. "Savages with qualities that a good many white men lack. The Makoh'lenga, as they call themselves, are big fellows--the average height is six feet two--of a mixed stock. Report has it that a Zulu impi, which had incurred the wrath of King Dingaan, fled northwards more than eighty years ago and 'ate up' almost every tribe they encountered until they struck the Arab races inhabiting the region between Lakes Tanganyika and Victoria Nyanza. Apparently Arab and Zulu blood fused, and the Makoh'lengas were the result.

"Then the Huns got possession of the territory lately known as German East, but they were unable to exercise any authority over the Makoh'lengas. Even the Askaris--the German native levies--failed to subdue them; and, as you probably may know, the Askaris under Hun officers made admirable soldiers.

"Several expeditions into the Makoh'lenga territory resulted in disaster, till at length the Askaris, also influenced by superstitious fears, point blank refused to fight the powerfully-built natives. So the German sub-Governor, von Spreewald, ordered a cordon to be placed round the Makoh'lenga country and tried to starve the tribe into submission."

"And did he succeed?" asked Colin.

"He succeeded in making a rod for his own back," replied Van der Wyck. "The Makoh'lengas are self-supporting. They grow enough maize and rear enough cattle to be independent of outsiders for food. So the blockade failed, but von Spreewald by his action created a menace to the German rule in East Africa. When the War broke out the Makoh'lengas were actively pro-British. Yet as far as I know only one white man ever set foot in the Secret City of Makoh'lenga."

"Did you ever meet him?" asked Desmond.

"Yes," replied Van der Wyck, as he deliberately filled his large Boer pipe. "And so did you."

"I did!" exclaimed Tiny.

"Yes, a fellow called Piet Van der Wyck," replied the owner of that name gravely.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Colin excitedly. "And what was the place like? How did you manage to get there?"

"Sort of accident," explained Van der Wyck. "You know what a swastika is? Well, years ago, when I was about eighteen or nineteen, I went with a friend, Cornelius Hoog, to Jo'burg for a holiday. Amongst other irresponsible things we did we went to a tattooist's, and the man tattooed a swastika on my arm. Here it is as plain as the day it was done. In '16 I was with Deventer's column operating in the region of Tabora. There I happened to do what you English call a 'good turn' to an induna, or chief. It was quite a trivial thing as far as I was concerned, and at the time I thought nothing of it.

"As a matter of fact, I didn't know the fellow was an induna. Three days later I was out on patrol and we got into a nasty corner--six of us cut off by a couple of hundred Askaris. They got me just as I was getting into my saddle--a soft-nosed bullet through the ankle. What happened after that I have no recollection. None of my comrades returned. Their bodies were found the next day. Read this."

Van der Wyck produced a pocket-book filled with folded papers, many of them torn and faded. Holding the pocket-book in the rays of an electric lamp, for darkness had now fallen over the surface of the tranquil sea, he drew out a scrap of newspaper. On it was printed the names of five men killed in action; below were the words: "Missing, believed killed: P. v. d. Wyck."

"When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying in a kloof. I suppose I had somehow got into the saddle, and my horse had got through and galloped miles. To this day I do not know how I contrived to get away. But I was in a bad state--my ankle pulverised and my horse gone.

"There I lay for three days and three nights, tormented by the sun by day and scared by prowling animals by night. Several times I lost consciousness, and once an assvogal--you'd call it a vulture--sat on my chest and began pecking at my eyes.

"At last I was found by a party of Makoh'lengas. One of them was the induna I had befriended. They were going to carry me back to the laager. If they had I should have doubtless died on the way, for our detachment had moved eighty miles to the south-east.

"Then the induna--Umkomasi was his name--noticed the swastika tattooed on my arm. That was a sort of passport, for the Makoh'lenga have a very similar symbol that is supposed to possess magical properties. In my case it qualified me for admission into the Secret City of Makoh'lenga. I was there eleven weeks. They couldn't save my foot; but they prevented me from having bloodpoisoning and pulled me through a bout of black-water fever. You see, I can speak Zulu, and the Makoh'lenga tongue is a sort of Zulu dialect."

"And what sort of place is Makoh'lenga?" asked Tiny.

Van der Wyck was on the point of answering the question when he leant against the rail and stretched his leg to full length.

"Sort of cramp in my artificial foot," he explained apologetically. "You may think that's an absurd thing to say, but it's a fact. Sometimes I feel sensations just as if my foot were still there. Once, I remember----"

A rending of wood, a stifled exclamation, and a warning shout from Tiny Desmond, and then a heavy splash. A portion of the rail had given way under the pressure of the Afrikander's bulk. Unable to recover his balance, Van der Wyck had fallen overboard.

Colin knew that the man was unable to swim. He rushed to the side and looked down to the phosphorescent water, then with Tiny's shout of "Man overboard!" ringing in his ears, Colin hurled a lifebuoy over, and, regardless of the consequences, almost immediately took a header into the sea.

The _Huldebras_ was doing between sixteen and seventeen knots, which meant that she was forging through the water at the rate of nine yards a second. Consequently Sinclair was hurled obliquely against the surface with terrific force.

Well-nigh winded and swallowing a liberal quantity of the Atlantic, he came to the surface without any rational idea of how he had got "in the ditch." He realised that he was overboard, and that the _Huldebras_ seemed miles away. The blaze of light from her scuttles and portholes was receding rapidly. Something floating on the adjacent water in the ship's wake a good fifty yards away and clearly visible in the starlight attracted his attention. It was the white-painted lifebuoy he had hurled overboard.

Instinct prompted him to strike out for it, and as he swam laboriously--for his limbs, owing to the force with which he had struck the water, seemed almost devoid of action--his reasoning powers began to resume their normal functions.

He remembered Van der Wyck falling overboard. Where was he? To Colin it seemed as if hours had elapsed since he dived, although actually less than a couple of minutes had passed.

Swimming stolidly, Sinclair gained the lifebuoy. It was with a sense of thankfulness that he gripped the rounded, canvas-painted surface. He even suffered the rebuff of a sharp blow on the head as the lifebuoy dipped and capsized under the one-sided weight of the swimmer. Then with more caution, Colin rested one hand lightly on the buoy, and looked for the unfortunate Van der Wyck.

He knew in which direction to look. The Afrikander, if he still remained afloat, must be somewhere in the phosphorescent trail known as the ship's wake.

His quick eyes detected something floating about a hundred yards away, a round black object rising and falling in the undulations caused by the 16,000 tons steamer cutting through the sea at full speed.

Colin, pushing the buoy before him, swam towards the spot where he imagined Van der Wyck to be floating. Before he had covered half the distance he knew that his surmise was correct. It was his cabin-mate.

"Hold up!" he shouted, his voice sounding painfully feeble in the solitude of the night. "I'm coming to you."

Nearer and nearer Colin swam, pushing the buoy in front of him. Van der Wyck was floating perfectly motionless with his arms behind his head. Although he was unable to swim, he possessed sufficient confidence to lie on his back, keep his arms well submerged, and breathe regularly and deeply.

Nevertheless, he was unfeignedly glad to be able to grasp the buoy, but his surprise was unrestrained when he recognised Colin Sinclair. "How on earth----" he began, then, struck by the absurdity of the question, he added: "Did you fall overboard too?"

"Sort of," replied Colin. "Luckily the sea's warm. Wonder how long they'll take to pick us up. Hello, where's the ship now?"

There was no reply from his companion.

Colin repeated the question, conscious for the first time of their joint peril. The _Huldebras_ was no longer in sight.