The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      “I have sent word to them that I am coming to Akasava,” he said grimly, “and that I will take the first starved-looking man I see and beat him till he is sore.”

      The next day the missionary went, to the intense relief, be it said, of the many white missionaries scattered up and down the river; for, strange as it may appear, a negro preacher who wears a black coat and silk socks is regarded with a certain amount of suspicion. True to his promise, Sanders made his visit, but found none to thrash, for he came to a singularly well-fed community that had spent a whole week in digging out of the secret hiding-places the foodstuffs which, at the suggestion of a too zealous seeker after fame, it had concealed.

      “Here,” said Sanders, wickedly, “endeth the first lesson.”

      But he was far from happy. It is a remarkable fact that once you interfere with the smooth current of native life all manner of things happen. It cannot be truthfully said that the events that followed on the retirement from active life of the Reverend Kenneth McDolan were immediately traceable to his ingenious attempt to engineer a famine in Akasava. But he had sown a seed, the seed of an idea that somebody was responsible for their well-being — he had set up a beautiful idol of Pauperism, a new and wonderful fetish. In the short time of his stay he had instilled into the heathen mind the dim, vague, and elusive idea of the Brotherhood of Man.

      This Sanders discovered, when, returning from his visit of inspection, he met, drifting with the stream, a canoe in which lay a prone man, lazily setting his course with halfhearted paddle strokes.

      Sanders, on the bridge of his tiny steamer, pulled the little string that controlled the steam whistle, for the canoe lay in his track. Despite the warning, the man in the canoe made no effort to get out of his way, and since both were going with the current, it was only by putting the wheel over and scraping a sandbank that the steamer missed sinking the smaller craft.

      “Bring that man on board!” fumed Sanders, and when the canoe had been unceremoniously hauled to the Zaire’s side by a boathook, and the occupant rudely pulled on board, Sanders let himself go.

      “By your infernal laziness,” he said, “I see that you are of the Akasava people; yet that is no reason why you should take the middle of the channel to yourself.”

      “Lord, it is written in the books of your gods,” said the man, “that the river is for us all, black and white, each being equal in the eyes of the white gods.”

      Sanders checked his lips impatiently. “When you and I are dead,” he said, “we shall be equal, but since I am quick and you are quick, I shall give you ten strokes with a whip to correct the evil teaching that is within you.” He made a convert. But the mischief was done.

      Sanders knew the native mind much better than any man living, and he spent a certain period every day for the next month cursing the Reverend Kenneth McDolan.

      So far, however, no irreparable mischief had been done, but Sanders was not the kind of man to be caught napping. Into the farthermost corners of his little kingdom his secret-service men were dispatched, and Sanders sat down to await developments.

      At first the news was good: the spies sent back stories of peace, of normal happiness; then the reports became less satisfactory. The Akasava country is unfortunately placed, for it is the very centre territory, the ideal position for the dissemination of foolish propaganda, as Sanders had discovered before.

      The stories the spies sent or brought were of secret meetings, of envoys from tribe to tribe, envoys that stole out from villages by dead of night, of curious rites performed in the depth of the forest and other disturbing matters.

      Then came a climax.

      Tigili, the king of the N’Gombi folk, made preparations for a secret journey. He sacrificed a goat and secured good omens; likewise three witchdoctors in solemn conclave gave a favourable prophecy.

      The chief slipped down the river one night with fourteen paddlers, a drummer, his chief headsman, and two of his wives, and reached the Akasava city at sunset the next evening. Here the chief of the Akasava met him, and led him to his hut.

      “Brother,” said the Akasava chief, not without a touch of pompousness, “I have covered my bow with the skin of a monkey.” Tigili nodded gravely.

      “My arrows are winged with the little clouds,” he said in reply.

      In this cryptic fashion they spoke for the greater part of an hour, and derived much profit therefrom.

      In the shadow of the hut without lay a half-naked man, who seemed to sleep, his head upon his arm, his legs doubled up comfortably.

      One of the Akasava guard saw him, and sought to arouse him with the butt of his spear, but he only stirred sleepily, and, thinking that he must be a man of Tigili’s retinue, they left him.

      When the king and the chief had finished their palaver, Tigili rose from the floor of the hut and went back to his canoe, and the chief of the Akasava stood on the bank of the river watching the craft as it went back the way it had come.

      The sleeper rose noiselessly and took another path to the river. Just outside the town he had to cross a path of moonlit clearing, and a man challenged him.

      This man was an Akasava warrior, and was armed, and the sleeper stood obedient to the summons.

      “Who are you?”

      “I am a stranger,” said the man.

      The warrior came nearer and looked in his face.

      “You are a spy of Sandi,” he said, and then the other closed with him.

      The warrior would have shouted, but a hand like steel was on his throat. The sentinel made a little sound like the noise a small river makes when it crosses a shallow bed of shingle, then his legs bent limply, and he went down.

      The sleeper bent down over him, wiped his knife on the bare shoulder of the dead man, and went on his way to the river. Under the bush he found a canoe, untied the native rope hat fastened it, and stepping in, he sent the tiny dug-out down the stream.

      *

      “And what do you make of all this?” asked Sanders. He was standing on his broad stoep, and before him was the spy, a lithe young man, in the uniform of a sergeant of Houssa Police.

      “Master, it is the secret society, and they go to make a great killing,” said the sergeant.

      The Commissioner paced the verandah with his head upon his breast, his hands clasped behind his back.

      These secret societies he knew well enough, though his territories had been free of them. He knew their mushroom growth; how they rose from nothingness with rituals and practices ready-made. He knew their influence up and down the Liberian coast; he had some knowledge of the ‘silent ones’ of Nigeria, and had met the ‘white faces’ in the Kassai. And now the curse had come to his territory. It meant war, the upsetting of twenty years’ work — the work of men who died and died joyfully, in the faith that they had brought peace to the land — it meant the undermining of all his authority.

      He turned to Abiboo.

      “Take the steamer,” he said, “and go quickly to the Ochori country, СКАЧАТЬ