The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ hit him with the flat of your bayonet.”

      Abiboo saluted stiffly — after the style of native noncommissioned officers — and departed, to return with Ofalikari, whom he drew with him somewhat unceremoniously by the ear.

      “Now,” said Sanders to the man, “we will have a little talk, you and I.”

      The sun went down, the moon came up, flooding the black river with mellow light, but still the talk went on — for this was a very serious palaver indeed.

      A big fire was built in the very middle of the village street and here all the people gathered, whilst Sanders and the man sat face to face.

      Occasionally a man or a woman would be sent for from the throng; once Sanders dispatched a messenger to a village five miles away to bring evidence. They came and went, those who testified against Ofalikari.

      “Lord, one night we gathered by his command and he sacrificed a white goat,” said one witness.

      “We swore by the dried heart of a white goat that we would do certain abominable things,” said another.

      “By his order we danced a death dance at one end of the village, and the maidens danced the wedding dance at the other, then a certain slave was killed by him, and…”

      Sanders nodded gravely.

      “And he said that the sons of the White Goat should not die,” said another.

      In the end Sanders rose and stretched himself.

      “I have heard enough,” he said, and nodded to the sergeant of Houssas, who came forward with a pair of bright steel handcuffs.

      One of these he snapped on the man’s wrist, the other he held and led him to the boat.

      The Zaire swung out to midstream, making a difficult way through the night to the mission station.

      Ill news travels faster than an eight-knot steamboat can move up stream.

      Sanders found the missionary waiting for him at daybreak on the strip of white beach, and the missionary, whose name was Haggin, was in one of those cold passions that saintly men permit themselves, for righteousness’ sake.

      “All England shall ring with this outrage,” he said, and his voice trembled. “Woe the day when a British official joins the hosts of Satan…”

      He said many other disagreeable things.

      “Forget it,” said Sanders tersely; “this man of yours has been playing the fool.”

      And in his brief way he described the folly.

      “It’s a lie!” said the missionary. He was tall and thin, yellow with fever, and his hands shook as he threw them out protestingly. “He has made converts for the faith, he has striven for souls…”

      “Now listen to me,” said Sanders and he wagged a solemn forefinger at the other. “I know this country. I know these people — you don’t. I take your man to headquarters, not because he preaches the gospel, but because he holds meetings by night and practises strange rites which are not the rites of any known Church. Because he is a son of the White Goat, and I will have no secret societies in my land.”

      If the truth be told, Sanders was in no frame of mind to consider the feelings of missionaries.

      There was unrest in his territories — unrest of an elusive kind. There had been a man murdered on the Little River and none knew whose hand it was that struck him down.

      His body, curiously carved, came floating down stream one sunny morning, and agents brought the news to Sanders. Then another had been killed and another. A life more or less is nothing in a land where people die by whole villages, but these men with their fantastic slashings worried Sanders terribly.

      He had sent for his chief spies.

      “Go north to the territory of the killing, which is on the edge of the N’Gombi country and bring me news,” he said.

      One such had sent him a tale of a killing palaver — he had rushed north to find by the veriest accident that the threatened life was that of a man he desired most of all to place behind bars.

      He carried his prisoner to headquarters. He was anxious to put an end to the growth of a movement which might well get beyond control, for secret societies spread like fire.

      At noon he reached a wooding and tied up.

      He summoned his headman.

      “Lobolo,” he said, “you shall stack the wood whilst I sleep, remembering all the wise counsel I gave you.”

      “Lord, I am wise in your wisdom,” said the headman, and Abiboo having strung a hammock between two trees, Sanders tumbled in and fell asleep instantly.

      Whilst he slept, one of the wooders detached himself from the working party, and came stealthily towards him.

      Sanders’ sleeping place was removed some distance from the shore, that the noise of chopping and sawing and the rattle of heavy billets on the steel deck should not disturb him.

      Noiselessly the man moved until he came to within striking distance of the unconscious Commissioner.

      He took a firmer grip of the keen steel machette he carried and stepped forward.

      Then a long sinewy hand caught him by the throat and pulled him down. He twisted his head and met the passionless gaze of Abiboo.

      “We will go from here,” whispered the Houssa, “lest our talk awake my lord.”

      He wrenched the machette from the other’s hand and followed him into the woods.

      “You came to kill Sandi,” said Abiboo.

      “That is true,” said the man, “for I have a secret ju-ju which told me to do this, Sandi having offended. And if you harm me, the White Goat shall surely slay you, brown man.”

      “I have eaten Sandi’s salt,” said Abiboo, “and whether I live or die is ordained. As for you, your fate is about your neck…”

      Sanders woke from his sleep to find Abiboo squatting on the ground by the side of the hammock.

      “What is it?” he asked.

      “Nothing, lord,” said the man. “I watched your sleep, for it is written, ‘He is a good servant who sees when his master’s eyes are shut.’”

      Sanders heard the serious undertone to the proverb; was on the point of asking a question, then wisely checked himself.

      He walked to the shore. The men had finished their work, and the wood was piled in one big, irregular heap in the well of the fore deck. It was piled so that it was impossible (1) for the steersman on the bridge above to see the river; (2) for the stoker to get anywhere near his furnace; (3) for the Zaire to float in anything less than three fathoms of water.

      Already the little ship was СКАЧАТЬ