The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ were touching, and he was gazing with goodnatured tolerance at the little green garden which was the Commissioner’s special delight.

      He was black, very black; but his manners were easy, and his bearing self possessed.

      He nodded smilingly to Sanders and extended a lazy hand.

      “Ah, Mr Commissioner,” he said in faultless English, “I have heard a great deal about you.”

      “Get out of that chair,” said Sanders, who had no small talk worth mentioning, “and stand up when I come out to you! What do you want?” The Reverend Kenneth rose quickly, and accepted the situation with a rapidity which will be incomprehensible to any who do not know how thumbnail deep is the cultivation of the cultured savage.

      “I am on a brief visit,” he said, a note of deference in his tone. “I am taking the small towns and villages along the coast, holding services, and I desire permission to speak to your people.” This was not the speech he had prepared. He had come straight from England, where he had been something of a lion in Bayswater society, and where, too, his theological attainments had won him regard and no small amount of fame in even a wider circle.

      “You may speak to my people,” said Sanders; “but you may not address the Kano folk nor the Houssas, because they are petrified in the faith of the Prophet.”

      Regaining his self-possession, the missionary smiled. “To bring light into dark places—” he began.

      “Cut it out,” said Sanders briefly; “the palaver is finished.” He turned on his heel and reentered the bungalow.

      Then a thought struck him.

      “Hi!” he shouted, and the retiring missionary turned back.

      “Where did you pick up the ‘Kenneth McDolan’?” he asked.

      The negro smiled again. “It is the patronymic bestowed upon me at Sierra Leone by a good Christian white man, who brought me up and educated me as though I were his own son,” he recited.

      Sanders showed his teeth. “I have heard of such cases,” he said unpleasantly.

      The next day the missionary announced his intention of proceeding up country. He came in to see Sanders as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he expected to find the Commissioner a little ashamed of himself; but if this was so he was disappointed, for Sanders was blatantly unrepentant.

      “You’ve got a letter from the Administration,” he said, “so I can’t stop you.”

      “There is work for me,” said the missionary, “work of succour and relief. In India some four hundred thousand—”

      “This is not India,” said Sanders shortly; and with no other word the native preacher went his way.

      Those who know the Akasava people best know them for their laziness — save in matter of vendetta, or in the settlement of such blood feuds as come their way, or in the lifting of each other’s goats, in all which matters they display an energy and an agility truly inexplicable. “He is an Akasava man — he points with his foot,” is a proverb of the Upper River, and the origin of the saying goes back to a misty time when (as the legend goes) a stranger happened upon a man of the tribe lying in the forest.

      “Friend,” said the stranger, “I am lost. Show me the way to the river”; and the Akasava warrior, raising a leg from the ground, pointed with his toe to the path.

      Though this legend lacks something in point of humour, it is regarded as the acme of mirth-provoking stories from Barna to the Lado country.

      It was six months after the Reverend Kenneth McDolan had left for his station that there came to Sanders at his headquarters a woeful deputation, arriving in two canoes in the middle of the night, and awaiting him when he came from his bath to the broad stoep of his house in the morning — a semicircle of chastened and gloomy men, who squatted on the wooden stoep, regarding him with the utmost misery.

      “Lord, we are of the Akasava people,” said the spokesman, “and we have come a long journey.”

      “So I am aware,” said Sanders, with arid dryness, “unless the Akasava country has shifted its position in the night. What do you seek?”

      “Master, we are starving,” said the speaker, “for our crops have failed, and there is no fish in the river; therefore we have come to you, who are our father.”

      Now this was a most unusual request; for the Central African native does not easily starve, and, moreover, there had come no news of crop failure from the Upper River.

      “All this sounds like a lie,” said Sanders thoughtfully, “for how may a crop fail in the Akasava country, yet be more than sufficient in Isisi? Moreover, fish do not leave their playground without cause, and if they do they may be followed.”

      The spokesman shifted uneasily.

      “Master, we have had much sickness,” he said, “and whilst we cared for one another the planting season had passed; and, as for the fish, our young men were too full of sorrow for their dead to go long journeys.” Sanders stared. “Therefore we have come from our chief asking you to save us, for we are starving.”

      The man spoke with some confidence, and this was the most surprising thing of all. Sanders was nonplussed, frankly confounded. For all the eccentric course his daily life took, there was a certain regularity even in its irregularity. But here was a new and unfamiliar situation. Such things mean trouble, and he was about to probe this matter to its depth.

      “I have nothing to give you,” he said, “save this advice — that you return swiftly to where you came from and carry my word to your chief. Later I will come and make inquiries.”

      The men were not satisfied, and an elder, wrinkled with age, and sooty-grey of head, spoke up. “It is said, master,” he mumbled, through his toothless jaws, “that in other lands when men starve there come many white men bringing grain and comfort.”

      “Eh?” Sanders’ eyes narrowed. “Wait,” he said, and walked quickly through the open door of his bungalow.

      When he came out he carried a pliant whip of rhinoceros-hide, and the deputation, losing its serenity, fled precipitately.

      Sanders watched the two canoes paddling frantically up stream, and the smile was without any considerable sign of amusement. That same night the Zaire left for the Akasava country, carrying a letter to the Reverend Kenneth McDolan, which was brief, but unmistakable in its tenor.

      “DEAR SIR,” — it ran— “You will accompany the bearer to headquarters, together with your belongings. In the event of your refusing to comply with this request, I have instructed my sergeant to arrest you. Yours faithfully, H. SANDERS, Commissioner.”

      “And the reason I am sending you out of this country,” said Sanders, “is because you have put funny ideas into the heads of my people.”

      “I assure you—” began the negro.

      “I don’t want your assurance,” said Sanders, “you are not going to work an Indian Famine Fund in Central Africa.”

      “The people СКАЧАТЬ