The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      For answer the canoes formed like magic into first two, then three, then four lines, and down stream they came at a furious rate.

      Then one of the maxims jammed and as it did there came a shower of spears, one of which just missed Sanders.

      In an instant the little boat was surrounded — the magic of the maxim had failed for the first time on the big river. It was so unexpected, so inexplicable, that a man might be excused if he lost his head; but Sanders’ hand did not tremble as he swung the wheel over, and the steamer turned in a full circle.

      The Houssas were shooting point-blank with their carbines; the Houssa captain, bleeding from the head, was readjusting the breech-lock of the maxim without concern.

      Downstream at full speed went the Zaire. The canoes could not keep up with it save one that had fastened itself to the side; the Houssas bayoneted the occupants without asking or accepting explanation.

      “I’ve got the gun fixed,” said the Houssa officer as he slipped in a fresh belt of cartridges.

      Sanders nodded. A word to the steersman and the Zaire turned. She came back towards the lines of canoes, her maxim firing steadily.

      The second line wavered and broke; the third never formed. In the centre of the fleeing canoes was one larger than another. At the stern stood a woman, waving her arms and talking.

      “Abiboo,” said Sanders, and the Houssa turned his gun over to a comrade and came to his master. “Do you see that woman in the canoe?”

      “Lord, I see her,” said Abiboo.

      “It seems to me,” said Sanders gravely, “that this woman would be better dead.”

      He rang the telegraph to stop, and the grind of the engines ceased. The Zaire moved slowly forward without a tremble, and Abiboo, lying on the deck with the butt of his rifle pressed to his cheek, took careful aim.

      They found Bosambo conscious beneath a heap of dead. He lay across the Kano woman, who was also alive, for Bosambo had taken the spear-thrusts meant for her.

      He had, as Sanders counted, twentyfive wounds.

      “Lord,” he whispered as Sanders stood by his side, “did I not tell you the Ochoris could fight?”

      “They have fought to some purpose, my child,” said Sanders grimly.

      Bosambo grinned faintly.

      “Lord,” he said softly, “when I go back to them they will be sorry.”

      And sorry indeed they were, as I will tell you.

III. The Affair of the Lady Missionary

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      The house of De Silva, Mackiney and Company is not so well known as, say, the Rockefeller or the house of Marshall Field; nor does it inspire the same confidence in circles of world-finance as, say, the house of Rothschild or Pierpoint Morgan. Yet on the coast De Silva and Mackiney (where they dug up the last ethnological abomination, I know not) held a position analogous to all the houses I have named in combination. They were the Rothschilds, the Marshall Fields, the Pierpoint Morgans, of that particular coast. It is said that they put up a proposition that they should coin their own money, but a conservative government — with a small “c” — politely declined to sanction the suggestion.

      They had a finger in all the pies that were baked in that part of the world. They had interests in steamship companies, controlled banks, financed exploration and exploitation companies, helped in the creation of railways, floated gold mines, but before and above all, they sold things to the natives and received in exchange other things of infinitely greater value than they gave. The trading store and the trading caravan were the foundation of the house of De Silva and Mackiney — De Silva had long since retired from the business, and was the Marquis de Something-or-other of the Kingdom of Portugal — and even in the days of its greater prosperity native truck was its long suit.

      A little steamer would come slowly to a sandy beach, where the only sign of civilisation was a tin-roofed shanty and a flagstaff. Great hogsheads bound together by rope would be cast overboard, and a steam pinnace would haul the consignment to land.

      Then would follow lighter after lighter loaded with straw-packed cases, and these a solitary white man, sweating under a huge sun-helmet, would receive on behalf of Messrs. De Silva and Mackiney and carefully remove to the store of De Silva and Mackiney till the caravans which had been despatched by the same reputable firm had returned from the dark interior. Then would the carriers be paid their wages — in gin. Some there were who preferred rum, and for these the big hogsheads would be tapped; but in the main the favourite form of recompense was to be found in the lightly packed cases, where between straw lay the squarefaced bottles of German spirit.

      Emanuel Mackiney was worth, if rumour be true, something over a million and, like John Bright’s visitor, that was all he was worth. He was immensely wealthy and immensely unscrupulous, so that while his cheques were honoured from French Dacca to Portuguese Benguela, he himself was not honoured anywhere.

      Though his English was not perfect, though his origin was obvious, he invariably spoke of England as “home.”

      That is all it is necessary to tell about Emanuel Mackiney. His son is entitled to a distinct description.

      Burney Mackiney had completed his education in England, having exploited it with less profit than his father had exploited the coast.

      He was big and coarse and strong. He had lived long enough in England to elaborate the vices he had acquired on the coast — for he had grown up in the business, knew the language of a dozen peoples, and the habits of every nation from the borders of Dahomey to Angola. A tall man, with plump cheeks of bronze rosiness, full of lip and plump of chin, he had all the confidence in himself which unlimited possessions beget.

      And Burney was in love.

      He made the girl’s acquaintance before the ship which was carrying him back to the handsome stucco mansion at Sierra Leone had reached Teneriffe.

      A slim girl, with a wise, sad face, delicately moulded. This was Ruth Glandynne.

      “Missionary, eh?” Burney’s goodnatured contempt, like Burney’s wealth, was obvious. “Africa isn’t the sort of place for a girl.”

      “I know worse,” she said with a smile.

      “And what part of the coast are you going to?” he asked.

      “I am going to open a mission on the Isisi River.”

      “Alone?”

      “It isn’t very unusual, you know,” she said. “There were two missionaries coming, but my companion fell sick — she will come out later.”

      “H’m!” said Burney. “Isisi River, eh?”

      “Do you know it?”

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