The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      The Prologue

       Table of Contents

      The road from Alebi is a bush road. It is a track scarcely discernible, that winds through forest and swamp, across stretches of jungle land, over thickly vegetated hills.

      No tributary of the great river runs to the Alebi country, where, so people say, wild and unknown tribes dwell; where strange magic is practiced, and curious rites observed.

      Here, too, is the River of Stars.

      Once there went up into these bad lands an expedition under a white man. He brought with him carriers, and heavy loads of provisions and landed from a coast steamer one morning in October. There were four white men, one being in supreme authority; a pleasant man of middle age, tall, broad, and smiling.

      There was one who made no secret of the fact that he did not intend accompanying the expedition.

      He also was a tall man, heavier of build, plump of face, and he spent the days of waiting, whilst the caravan was being got ready, in smoking long cigars and cursing the climate.

      A few days before the expedition marched he took the leader aside.

      “Now, Sutton,” he said, “this affair has cost me a lot of money, and I don’t want to lose it through any folly of yours — I am a straight-speaking man, so don’t lose your temper. If you locate this mine, you’re to bring back samples, but most of all are you to take the exact bearings of the place. Exactly where the River is, I don’t know. You’ve got the pencil plan that the Portuguese gave us—”

      The other man interrupted him with a nervous little laugh.

      “It is not in Portuguese territory, of course,” he said.

      “For Heaven sake, Sutton,” implored the big man in a tone of exasperation, “get that Portuguese maggot out o’ your brain — I’ve told you twenty times there is no question of Portuguese territory. The River runs through British soil—”

      “Only, you know, that the Colonial Office—”

      “I know all about the Colonial Office,” interrupted the man roughly, “it’s forbidden, I know, and it’s a bad place to get to, anyhow — here “ — he drew from his pocket a flat round case, and opened it—” use this compass the moment you strike the first range of hills — have you got any other compasses?”

      “I have got two,” said the other wonderingly.

      “Let me have ‘em.”

      “But—”

      “Get ‘em, my dear chap,” said the stout man testily; and the leader, with a good-humoured shrug of his shoulders, left him, to return in a few minutes with the two instruments. He took in exchange the one the man held and opened it.

      It was a beautiful instrument. There was no needle, the whole dial revolving as he turned it about. Something he saw surprised him, for he frowned.

      “That’s curious,” he said wonderingly; “are you sure this compass is true? The north should lie exactly over that flagstaff on the Commissioner’s house — I tested it yesterday from this very—”

      “Stuff!” interrupted the other loudly. “Rubbish; this compass has been verified; do you think I want to lead you astray — after the money I’ve sunk—”

      On the morning before the expedition left, when the carriers were shouldering their loads, there came a brownfaced little man with a big white helmet over the back of his head and a fly whisk in his hand.

      “Sanders, Commissioner,” he introduced himself laconically,” I’ve just come down from the interior; sorry I did not arrive before: you are going into the bush?”

      “Yes.”

      “Diamonds, I understand?”

      Sutton nodded.

      “You’ll find a devil of a lot of primitive opposition to your march. The Alebi people will fight you, and the Otaki folk will chop you, sure.” He stood thinking, and swishing his whisk from side to side.

      “Avoid trouble,” he said, “I do not want war in my territories — and keep away from the Portuguese border.”

      Sutton smiled.

      “We shall give that precious border a wide berth — the Colonial Office has seen the route, and approves.”

      The Commissioner nodded again and eyed Sutton gravely. “Good luck,” he said.

      The next day the expedition marched with the dawn, and disappeared into the wood beyond the Isisi River.

      A week later the stout man sailed for England.

      Months passed and none returned, nor did any news come of the expedition either by messenger, or by Lokali. A year went by, and another, and still no sign came.

      Beyond the seas, people stirred uneasily, cablegram and letter, and official dispatch came to the Commissioner, urging him to seek for the lost expedition of the white men who had gone to find the River of Stars. Sanders of Bofabi shook his head.

      What search could be made? Elsewhere, a swift little steamer following the courses of a dozen rivers, might penetrate — the fat water-jacket of a maxim gun persuasively displayed over the bow — into regions untouched by European influence, but the Alebi country was bush. Investigation meant an armed force; an armed force meant money — the Commissioner shook his head.

      Nevertheless he sent two spies secretly into the bush, cunning СКАЧАТЬ