The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      “They are friends of yours?”

      “Yes, personal friends.”

      “Then,” said the Hon. George, gravely, “perhaps it would be better if I did not see them.”

      “As you wish,” said Sanders.

      With an escort of four Houssas, and fifty carriers recruited from the neighbouring villages, the Hon. George departed into the interior, and Sanders saw him off.

      “I cannot, of course, guarantee your life,” he said, at parting, “and I must warn you that the Government will not be responsible for any injury that comes to you.”

      “I understand,” said the Hon. George knowingly, “but I am not to be deterred. I come from a stock—”

      “I dare say,” Sanders cut his genealogical reminiscences short; “but the last traveller who was ‘chopped’ in the bush was a D’Arcy, and his people came over with the Conqueror.”

      The correspondent took the straight path to Lukati, and at the end of the third day’s march came to the village of Mfabo, where lived the great witchdoctor, Kelebi.

      George pitched his camp outside the village, and, accompanied by his four Houssas, paid a call upon the chief, which was one of the first mistakes he made, for he should have sent for the chief to call upon him; and if he called upon anybody, he should have made his visit to the witchdoctor, who was a greater man than forty chiefs.

      In course of time, however, he found himself squatting on the ground outside the doctor’s house, engaged, through the medium of the interpreter he had brought from Sierra Leone, in an animated conversation with the celebrated person.

      “Tell him,” said George to his interpreter, “that I am a great white chief whose heart bleeds for the native.”

      “Is he a good man?” asked George.

      The witchdoctor, with the recollection of Sanders’ threat, said “No!”

      “Why?” asked the Hon. George eagerly. “Does he beat the people?” Not only did he beat the people, explained the witchdoctor with relish, but there were times when he burnt them alive.

      “This is a serious charge,” said George, wagging his head warningly; nevertheless he wrote with rapidity in his diary:

      “Interviewed Kelebi, respected native doctor, who states:

      “I have lived all my life in this district, and have never known so cruel a man as Sandi (Sanders). I remember once he caused a man to be drowned, the man’s name I forget; on another occasion he burned a worthy native alive for refusing to guide him and his Houssas through the forest. I also remember the time when he put a village to the fire, causing the people great suffering.

      “The people of the country groan under his oppressions, for from time to time he comes demanding money and crops, and if he does not receive all that he asks for he flogs the villagers until they cry aloud.” (I rather suspect that there is truth in the latter statement, for Sanders finds no little difficulty in collecting the hut-tax, which is the Government’s due.)

      George shook his head when he finished writing.

      “This,” he said, “looks very bad.” He shook hands with the witchdoctor, and that aged villain looked surprised, and asked a question in the native tongue.

      “You no be fit to dash him somet’ing,” said the interpreter.

      “Dash him?”

      “Give ‘um present — bottle gin.”

      “Certainly not,” said George. “He may be satisfied with the knowledge that he is rendering a service to humanity; that he is helping the cause of a downtrodden people.” The witchdoctor said something in reply, which the interpreter very wisely refrained from putting into English.

      “How go the investigations?” asked the captain of Houssas three weeks later.

      “As far as I can gather,” said Sanders, “our friend is collecting a death-roll by the side of which the records of the Great Plague will read like an advertisement of a health resort.”

      “Where is he now?”

      “He has got to Lukati — and I am worried”; and Sanders looked it.

      The Houssa captain nodded, for all manner of reports had come down from Lukati country. There had been good crops, and good crops mean idleness, and idleness means mischief. Also there had been devil dances, and the mild people of the Bokari district, which lies contiguous to Lukati, had lost women.

      “I’ve got a free hand to nip rebellion in the bud,” Sanders reflected moodily; “and the chances point to rebellion — What do you say? Shall we make a report and wait for reinforcements, or shall we chance our luck?”

      “It’s your funeral,” said the Houssa captain, “and I hate to advise you. If things go wrong you’ll get the kicks; but if it were mine I’d go, like a shot — naturally.”

      “A hundred and forty men,” mused Sanders.

      “And two Maxims,” suggested the other.

      “We’ll go,” said Sanders; and half an hour later a bugle blared through the Houssas’ lines, and Sanders was writing a report to his chief in faraway Lagos.

      The Hon. George, it may be said, had no idea that he was anything but welcome in the village of Lukati. Olari the chief had greeted him pleasantly, and told him stories of Sanders’ brutality — stories which, as George wrote, “if true, must of necessity sound the death-knell of British integrity in our native possessions.” Exactly what that meant, I am not disposed to guess.

      George stayed a month as the guest of Lukati. He had intended to stay at the most three days, but there was always a reason for postponing his departure.

      Once the carriers deserted, once the roads were not safe, once Olari asked him to remain that he might see his young men dance. George did not know that his escort of four Houssas were feeling uneasy, because his interpreter — as big a fool as himself — could not interpret omens. George knew nothing of the significance of a dance in which no less than six witchdoctors took part, or the history of the tumbledown hut that stood in solitude at one end of the village. Had he taken the trouble to search that hut, he would have found a table, a chair, and a truckle bed, and on the table a report, soiled with dust and rain, which began: “I have the honour to inform your Excellency that the natives maintain their industrious and peaceable attitude.” For in this hut in his lifetime lived Carter, Deputy Commissioner; and the natives, with their superstitious regard for the dead, had moved nothing.

      It was approaching the end of the month, when the Hon. George thought he detected in his host a certain scarcely-veiled insolence of tone, and in the behaviour of the villagers something more threatening.

      The dances were a nightly occurrence now, and the measured stamping of the feet, the clash of spear against cane shield, and the never-ending growl of the song the dancers sang, kept him awake at nights. Messengers came to Olari daily from long distances, and once he was awakened СКАЧАТЬ