The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ — the result of a raid upon the unoffending Bokari. He dressed, in a sweat of indignation and fear, and went to the chief’s hut, fortunately without his interpreter, for what Olari said would have paralysed him.

      In the morning (after this entirely unsatisfactory interview) he paraded his four Houssas and such of his carriers as he could find, and prepared to depart.

      “Master,” said Olari, when the request was interpreted, “I would rather you stayed. The land is full of bad people, and I have still much to tell you of the devilishness of Sandi. Moreover,” said the chief, “tonight there is to be a great dance in your honour,” and he pointed to where the three slaves were engaged in erecting a big post in the centre of the village street.

      “After this I will let you go,” said Olari, “for you are my father and my mother.” The Hon. George was hesitating, when, of a sudden, at each end of the street there appeared, as if by magic, twenty travel-stained Houssas. They stood at attention for a moment, then opened outwards, and in the centre of each party gleamed the fat water-jacket of a Maxim gun.

      The chief said nothing, only he looked first one way and then the other, and his brown face went a dirty grey. Sanders strolled leisurely along toward the group. He was unshaven, his clothes were torn with bush-thorn, in his hand was a long barrelled revolver.

      “Olari,” he said gently; and the chief stepped forward.

      “I think, Olari,” said Sanders, “you have been chief too long.”

      “Master, my father was chief before me, and his father,” said Olari, his face twitching.

      “What of Tagondo, my friend?” asked Sanders, speaking of Carter by his native name.

      “Master, he died,” said Olari; “he died of the sickness mongo — the sickness itself.”

      “Surely,” said Sanders, nodding his head, “surely you also shall die of the same sickness.”

      Olari looked round for a way of escape. He saw the Hon. George looking from one to the other in perplexity, and he flung himself at the correspondent’s feet.

      “Master!” he cried, “save me from this man who hates me!” George understood the gesture; his interpreter told him the rest; and, as a Houssa servant reached out his hand to the chief, the son of the house of Widnes, strong in the sense of his righteousness, struck it back.

      “Look here, Sanders,” forgetting all his previous misgivings and fears concerning the chief, “I should say that you have punished this poor devil enough!”

      “Take that man, sergeant,” said Sanders sharply; and the Houssa gripped Olari by the shoulder and flung him backward.

      “You shall answer for this!” roared the Hon. George Tackle, in impotent wrath.

      “What are you going to do with him? My God! No, no! — not without a trial!” He sprang forward, but the Houssas caught him and restrained him.

      “For what you have done,” said the correspondent — this was a month after, and he was going aboard the homeward steamer— “you shall suffer!”

      “I only wish to point out to you,” said Sanders, “that if I had not arrived in the nick of time, you would have done all the suffering — they were going to sacrifice you on the night I arrived. Didn’t you see the post?”

      “That is a lie!” said the other. “I will make England ring with your infamy. The condition of your district is a blot on civilization!”

      “There is no doubt,” said Mr Justice Keneally, summing up in the libel action, Sanders v. The Courier and Echo and another, “that the defendant Tackle did write a number of very libellous and damaging statements, and, to my mind, the most appalling aspect of the case is that, commissioned as he was to investigate the condition of affairs in the district of Lukati, he did not even trouble to find out where Lukati was. As you have been told, gentlemen of the jury, there are no less than four Lukatis in West Africa, the one in Togoland being the district in which it was intended the defendant should go. How he came to mistake Lukati of British West Africa for the Lukati of German Togoland, I do not know, but in order to bolster up his charges against a perfectly-innocent British official he brought forward a number of unsupported statements, each of which must be regarded as damaging to the plaintiff, but more damaging still to the newspaper that in its colossal ignorance published them.” The jury awarded Sanders nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.

VI. The Dancing Stones

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      Heroes should be tall and handsome, with flashing eyes; Sanders was not so tall, was yellow of face, moreover had grey hair. Heroes should also be of gentle address, full of soft phrases, for such tender women who come over their horizon; Sanders was a dispassionate man who swore on the slightest provocation, and had no use for women any way.

      When you place a man upon a throne, even though that throne be a wooden stool worth in the mart fourpence more or less, you assume a responsibility which greatly outweighs all the satisfaction or personal gratification you may derive from your achievement. There is a grave in Toledo, a slab of brass, over a great kingmaker who lived long enough to realize his insignificance. The epitaph upon that brass tomb of his is eloquent of his sum knowledge of life and human effort. PULVIS ET NIHIL says the inscription, and Powder and Nothing is the ultimate destiny of all kingmakers.

      Sanders was a maker of kings in the early days. He helped break a few, so it was in obedience to the laws of compensation that he took his part in reconstructive work.

      He broke Esindini, Matabini, T’saki — to name three — and helped, in the very old days, and in another country, to break Lobengula, the Great Bull.

      Kingmaker he was beyond question — you could see Republicanism written legibly in the amused grin with which he made them — but the kings he made were little ones — that is the custom of the British-African rule, they break a big king and put many little kings in his place, because it is much safer.

      Somewhere about 12° north; and in longitude 0°, is a land which is peculiar for the fact that it is British, French, German, and Italian — according to which map of Africa you judge it by.

      At the time of which I write it was neither, but it was ruled by Mensikilimbili for the Great King. He was the most powerful of monarchs, and, for the matter of that, the most cruel. His dominion stretched ‘from moonrise to sunset’ said the natives, and he held undisputed sway.

      He had a court, and sat upon an ivory throne, and wore over the leopard skins of his rank a mantle woven of gold thread and scarlet thread, and he administered justice. He had three hundred wives and forty thousand fighting men, and his acquaintance with white men began and ended with the coming of a French Mission, who presented him with a tall hat, a barrel organ, and one hundred thousand francs in gold.

      This was Limbili, the great King of Yitingi.

      The little kings of the Southern lands spoke of him with bated breath; his name was uttered in a low voice, as of a god; he was the symbol of majesty and of might — the Isisi people, themselves a nation of some importance, and boastful likewise, referred to themselves disparagingly when the kingdom of Yitingi was mentioned.

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