The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      He was ten miles down the river before he remembered that the reproof he had framed for the girl had been undelivered.

      “That is very extraordinary,” said Sanders, with some annoyance, “I must be losing my memory.”

      Three months later young Penson came out from England to take the place of the returned Ludley. He was a fresh-faced youth, bubbling over with enthusiasm, and, what is more important, he had served a two-years’ apprenticeship at Sierra Leone.

      “You are to go up to Isisi,” said Sanders, “and I want to tell you that you’ve got to be jolly careful.”

      “What’s the racket?” demanded the youth eagerly. “Are the beggars rising?”

      “So far as I know,” said Sanders, putting his feet up on the rail of the verandah, “they are not — it is not bloodshed, but love that you’ve got to guard against.” And he told the story of M’Lino, even though it was no creditable story to British administration.

      “You can trust me,” said young Penson, when he had finished.

      “I trust you all right,” said Sanders, “but I don’t trust the woman — let me hear from you from time to time,” if you don’t write about her I shall get suspicious, and I’ll come along in a very unpleasant mood.”

      “You can trust me,” said young Penson again; for he was at the age when a man is very sure of himself.

      Remarkable as it may read, from the moment he left to take up his new post until he returned to headquarters, in disgrace, a few months later, he wrote no word of the straight, slim girl, with her wonderful eyes. Other communications came to hand, official reports, terse and to the point, but no mention of M’Lino, and Sanders began to worry.

      The stories came filtering through, extraordinary stories of people who had been punished unjustly, of savage floggings administered by order of the sub-commissioner, and Sanders took boat and travelled up the river hec dum.

      He landed short of the town, and walked along the river bank. It was not an easy walk, because the country hereabouts is a riot of vegetation. Then he came upon an African idyll — a young man, who sat playing on a squeaky violin, for the pleasure of M’Lino, lying face downwards on the grass, her chin in her hands.

      “In the name of a thousand devils!” said Sanders wrathfully; and the boy got up from the fallen tree on which he sat, and looked at him calmly, and with no apparent embarrassment. Sanders looked down at the girl and pointed.

      “Go back to the village, my woman,” he said softly, for he was in a rage.

      “Now, you magnificent specimen of a white man,” he said, when the girl had gone — slowly and reluctantly— “what is this story I hear about your flogging O’Sako?”

      The youth took his pipe from his pocket and lit it coolly. “He beat M’Lino,” he said, in the tone of one who offered full justification.

      “From which fact I gather that he is the unfortunate husband of that attractive nigger lady you were charming just now when I arrived?”

      “Don’t be beastly,” said the other, scowling. “I know she’s a native and all that sort of thing, but my people at home will get used to her colour—”

      “Go on board my boat,” said Sanders quietly. “Regard yourself as my prisoner.”

      Sanders brought him down to headquarters without troubling to investigate the flogging of O’Sako, and no word passed concerning M’Lino till they were back again at headquarters.

      “Of course I shall send you home,” said Sanders.

      “I supposed you would,” said the other listlessly. He had lost all his self-assurance on the journey down river, and was a very depressed young man indeed.

      “I must have been mad,” he admitted, the day before the mail boat called en route for England; “from the very first I loved her — good heavens, what an ass I am!”

      “You are,” agreed Sanders, and saw him off to the ship with a cheerful heart.

      “I will have no more sub-commissioners at Isisi,” he wrote acidly to the Administration. “I find my work sufficiently entertaining without the additional amusement of having to act as chaperon to British officials.” He made a special journey to Isisi to straighten matters out, and M’Lino came unbidden to see him.

      “Lord, is he gone, too?” she asked.

      “When I want you, M’Lino,” said Sanders, “I will send for you.”

      “I loved him,” she said, with more feeling than Sanders thought was possible for a native to show.

      “You are an easy lover,” said Sanders.

      She nodded. “That is the way with some women,” she said. “When I love, I love with terrible strength; when I hate, I hate for ever and ever — I hate you, master!”

      She said it very simply.

      “If you were a man,” said the exasperated Commissioner, “I would tie you up and whip you.”

      “F-f-b!” said the girl contemptuously, and left him staring.

      To appreciate the position, you have to realize that Sanders was lord of all this district; that he had the power of life and death, and no man dared question or disobey his word. Had M’Lino been a man, as he said, she would have suffered for her treason — there is no better word for her offence — but she was a woman, and a seriously gifted woman, and, moreover, sure of whatever powers she had.

      He did not see her again during the three days he was in the city, nor (this is the extraordinary circumstance) did he discuss her with the chief. He learned that she had become the favourite wife of O’Sako; that she had many lovers and scorned her husband, but he sought no news of her. Once he saw her walking towards him, and went out of his way to avoid her. It was horribly weak and he knew it, but he had no power to resist the impulse that came over him to give her a wide berth.

      Following this visit, Sanders was coming down stream at a leisurely pace, — he himself at the steering wheel, and his eyes searching the treacherous river for sand banks. His mind was filled with the problem of M’Lino, when suddenly in the bush that fringes the Isisi river, something went “woof,” and the air was filled with flying potlegs. One struck his cabin, and splintered a panel to shreds, many fell upon the water, one missed Sergeant Abiboo’s head and sent his tarbosh flying.

      Sanders rang his engines astern, being curious to discover what induced the would-be assassin to fire a blunderbuss in his direction, and Abiboo, bareheaded, went pattering forward and slipped the canvas cover from the gleaming little Maxim.

      Then four Houssa soldiers jumped into the water and waded ashore, holding their rifles above their heads with the one hand and their ammunition in the other, and Sanders stood by the rail of the boat, balancing a sporting Lee-Enfield in the crook of his arm.

      Whoever fired the shot had chosen the place of killing very well. The bush was very thick, the approach to land lay through coarse grass that sprang from the swamp, vegetation ran rank, СКАЧАТЬ