The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and with subtle exhibitions of her charms.

      “Woman,” said the messenger, “the greatest of kings desires you, will you come?”

      “Lord,” said the girl, “I wish for nothing better.” With that, the hundred armed warriors in attendance at the palaver closed round the girl.

      “And so,” said Sanders, “you got nothing?”

      “Lord, it is as you say,” moaned the old chief.

      “It is evident,” said Sanders, “that an injustice has been done; for no man may take a woman unless he pay. I think,” he added, with a flash of that mordant humour which occasionally illuminated his judgments, “that the man pays twice, once to the father, and all his life to his wife — but that is as may be.”

      Six weeks later, after consultation, Sanders sent a messenger to the great king, demanding the price of the woman.

      What happened to the messenger I would rather not describe. That he was killed, is saying the least. Just before he died, when the glaze of death must have been on his eyes, and his poor wrecked body settling to the rest of oblivion, he was carried to a place before the king’s hut, and Daihili danced the Dance of the Spirits. This much is now known.

      Sanders did nothing; nor did the British Government, but hurried notes were exchanged between ambassadors and ministers in Paris, and that was the end of the incident.

      Two Icheli spies went up into the great king’s country. One came back saying that the dancing girl was the favourite wife of the old king, and that her whims swayed the destinies of the nation. Also he reported that because of this slim girl who danced, many men, councillors, and captains of war had died the death.

      The other spy did not come back.

      It may have been his discovery that induced the girl to send an army against the Icheli, thinking perchance that her people were spying upon her.

      One day the city of Icheli was surrounded by the soldiers of the great king, and neither man, women nor child escaped.

      The news of the massacre did not come to Sanders for a long time. The reason was simple; there was none to carry the message, for the Icheli are isolated folk.

      One day, however, an Isisi hunting party, searching for elephants, came upon a place where there was a smell of burning and many skeletons — and thus Sanders knew— “We cannot,” wrote Monsieur Leon Marchassa, Minister for Colonial Affairs, “accept responsibility for the misdoings of the king of the Yitingi, and my Government would regard with sympathetic interest any attempt that was made by His Majesty’s Government to pacify this country.” But the British Government did nothing, because war is an expensive matter, and Sanders grinned and cursed his employers genially.

      Taking his life in his hands, he went up to the border of Yitingi, with twenty policemen, and sent a messenger — a Yitingi messenger — to the king. With the audacity which was not the least of his assets, he demanded that the king should come to him for a palaver.

      This adventure nearly proved abortive at the beginning, for just as the Zaire was steaming to the borders Sanders unexpectedly came upon traces of a raiding expedition. There were unmistakable signs as to the author.

      “I have a mind to turn back and punish that cursed Bosambo, Chief of the Ochori,” he said to Sergeant Abiboo, “for having sworn by a variety of gods and devils that he would keep the peace; behold he has been raiding in foreign territory.”

      “He will keep, master,” said Abiboo, “besides which, he is in the neighbourhood, for his fires are still warm.” So Sanders went on, and sent his message to the king.

      He kept steam in his little boat — he had chosen the only place where the river touches the Yitingi border — and waited, quite prepared to make an ignominious, if judicious, bolt.

      To his astonishment, his spies brought word that the king was coming. He owed this condescension to the influence of the little dancing girl, for she, womanlike, had a memory for rebuffs, and had a score to settle with Mr Commissioner Sanders.

      The great king arrived, and across the meadow-like lands that fringe the river on both sides Sanders watched the winding procession with mingled feelings. The king halted a hundred yards from the river, and his big scarlet umbrella was the centre of a black line of soldiers spreading out on either hand for three hundred yards.

      Then a party detached itself and came towards the dead tree by the water side, whereon hung limply in the still air the ensign of England.

      “This,” said Sanders to himself, “is where I go dead one time.” It is evidence of the seriousness of the situation, as it appealed to him, that he permitted himself to descend to Coast English.

      “The king, the Great One, awaits you, white man, offering you safety in his shadow,” said the king’s messenger; and Sanders nodded. He walked leisurely toward the massed troops, and presently appeared before the old man squatting on a heap of skins and blinking like an ape in the sunlight.

      “Lord king, live for ever,” said Sanders glibly, and as he raised his hand in salute he saw the girl regarding him from under knit brows.

      “What is your wish, white man?” said the old king; “what rich presents do you bring, that you call me many days’ journey?”

      “Lord, I bring no presents,” said Sanders boldly; “but a message from a king who is greater than you, whose soldiers outnumber the sands of the river, and whose lands extend from the east to the west, from the north to the south.”

      “There is no such king,” snarled the old man. “You lie, white man, and I will cut your tongue into little strips.”

      “Let him give his message, master,” said the girl.

      “This is the message,” said Sanders. He stood easily, with his hands in the pockets of his white uniform jacket, and the king was nearer death than he knew. “My master says: ‘Because the Great King of Yitingi has eaten up the Icheli folk: because he has crossed the borderland and brought suffering to my people, my heart is sore. Yet, if the Great King will pay a fine of one thousand head of cattle and will allow free access to his country for my soldiers and my commissioners, I will live in peace with him.’”

      The old man laughed, a wicked, cackling laugh.

      “Oh, ko!” he chuckled; “a great king!” Then the girl stepped forward.

      “Sandi,” she said, “once you put me to shame, for when I would have danced for you, you slept.”

      “To you, Daihili,” said Sanders steadily, “I say nothing; I make no palaver with women, for that is not the custom or the law. Still less do I talk with dancing girls. My business is with Limbili the king.” The king was talking rapidly behind his hand to a man who bent over him, and Sanders, his hands still in his jacket pockets, snapped down the safety catches of his automatic Colts.

      All the time the girl spoke he was watching from the corners of his eyes the man who talked with the king. He saw him disappear in the crowd of soldiers who stood behind the squatting figures, and prepared for the worst.

      “Since I may not dance for you,” the girl was saying, “my lord the king would have you dance for me.”

СКАЧАТЬ