The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ sorry nor glad to see him.

      “Lord King,” said he, “I am Tambeli of Isaukasu by the little river, and I have served you many times, as you well know.”

      The king blinked at him with dull eyes, and said nothing.

      “We are a people without a chief,” said Tambeli; “and the men of my village desire that I shall rule them in place of C’fari, who is dead.”

      The king scratched his neck thoughtfully, but said nothing for a while; then he asked: “What do you bring?”

      Tambeli detailed a magnificent list, which comprehended goats, salt, and rods to a fabulous amount. He added a gift which was beyond price.

      “Go back to your people — chief,” said the king, and Tambeli embraced the knees of his master, and called him his father and his mother.

      That is how Tambeli came to be sitting on the stool of chieftainship when Mr. Commissioner Sanders arrived unexpectedly from the south in his tiny steamboat.

      *

      NOW, Isaukasu lay on the very border line of the Ochori country, and was a village of some importance since the back country produced rubber and gum. It was the kind of village which became a city in the twinkling of an eye.

      The steamer was tied up to the bank, a gangway was thrown ashore and Sanders, in shining white, came briskly to the beach.

      Tambeli, a picturesque figure, awaited him.

      “Lord Master,” he said, “C’fari has died, and I am chief of this town by order of my father the king.”

      Sanders perked his head on one side, like a curious bird, and eyed the man with interest.

      “Your father the king is king no more,” he said softly, “being at this moment on my ship, very sick; and though he were well and on his throne, no man says who may be chief of town or village save I. And truly, Tambeli, you are no chief for me.”

      Tambeli stuck out his jaw a little, for he was a very determined man.

      “I have paid for my honour with salt and rods,” he said.

      “And gin,” said Sanders gently. “Now you shall tell me how gin comes into my country when I forbid it.”

      Tambeli faced the white man squarely. “Master,” said he, twiddling the brass-bound haft of his spear, “I have been in many countries, and know many customs; also, they tell me, the black people of the coast, that there is no law, white or black, which prevents a man from buying or selling squarefaces if he so wishes.”

      “I am the law,” said Sanders, and his voice was softer than ever. “If I say thus, it is thus. And gin you shall neither buy nor sell nor barter, though the black lawgivers of the coast be as wise as gods.”

      “In this matter of chiefship—” said Tambeli.

      “You are no chief for me,” said Sanders, “neither now nor at any time, for you are an evil man and a robber of that which men prize dearly. I have spoken; the palaver’s finished.”

      Tambeli hesitated. Behind Sanders stood a sergeant and two men of the Houssas, and as Tambeli stood irresolutely, the sergeant stepped forward and grasped him by the shoulder.

      “Aleki!” he said, which is an invitation to hurried movement.

      As the sergeant’s grip tightened, Tambeli, the strong one, caught him by the slack of his uniform jacket and sent him spinning — then he stood stiffly, for the warm muzzle of Sanders’ revolver was pressing against his stomach, and Tambeli, who had, as he claimed, a knowledge of countries and customs, knew Sanders for a man with little or no regard for human life.

      They handcuffed Tambeli and ironed his leg to a staple in the deck of the Zaire, for he had shamed the authority of the Crown, had unceremoniously flung a full sergeant of Houssas down the bank that leads to the river, and such things are not good for people to see.

      The steamer went thrashing down the river towards headquarters and Sanders gave himself over to the question of Tambeli.

      There was, as he had boldly said, no law prohibiting the sale of strong drink in the territory under his care; but Sanders never consulted constitutions. He had kept his lands free of the gin curse, and he had no intention of adding to the list of his responsibilities, which was already too long.

      There was drink in the country; this he had reason to know. Polambi of Isisi, Sakalana of the Akasava, Nindino of the N’Gombi, all chiefs of parts, had gone from the straight path. There had been certain indiscretions which had sent Sanders hurrying “all ways at once.” There had been, too, some drastic readjustment of authority.

      The gin problem was half solved by the arrest of Tambeli; there remained the problem of the man. This he settled for himself.

      The Zaire was tied to a wooding, and Sanders had retired to his cabin and was sleeping when a noise on deck aroused him and he came out in a hurry to find Tambeli, the strong man, gone, and with him the chain that fastened him to the staple and the staple that fastened him to the deck. He left behind him a private of Houssas with a cracked head.

      Sanders whistled a little tune to himself all the way to headquarters. He sat in a deckchair under the striped awning, whistling tunefully and very softly for the greater part of two days and his men, who knew him well and understood his mood, were careful to keep out of his way.

      He arrived at headquarters still whistling. He was the only white man on the station and was thankful. He had put one of his guests, a somewhat frightened king of the Isisi, under escort, but that was no satisfaction to him, for Tambeli had set the law at defiance and had broken for the bush.

      News came down from Nushadombi at fitful intervals, because there was good reason why no courier should come from that country; better reason why its inhabitants should be bad travellers. Sanders hated Nushadombi with all the fierce hatred which a lawgiver extends to a lawless community. He hated it worse because there was always at the back of his mind the uneasy conviction that he was rightly responsible for its government.

      This responsibility he had triumphantly repudiated on more occasions than one; but, none the less, there was a voice which spoke very softly to Sanders in his silent moments, and that voice said: “Nushadombi is British, if you’ve the courage.”

      It was as a sop to conscience that he spied upon the People-Who-Were-Not-All-Alike. His spies came and went. He lost a few men in the process, but that was the luck of the game. He learnt of little murders, of family feuds, and the like, but nothing of moment.

      On a sultry afternoon in March Sanders was sitting on a rock overlooking the mouth of the big river, fishing for Cape salmon, and thinking, curiously enough, of the Nushadombi folk. Whilst so engaged Sergeant Abiboo, his Houssa orderly, ran towards him, picking a dainty way over the sharp stones, his long bayonet flapping his thigh with every wild leap he made.

      Sanders looked up inquiringly.

      “Lord,” explained Abiboo, his hand steadfast at the salute, “there has come a listener from Nushadombi, having much to tell your honour.”

      “Let him come here,” said Sanders.

      “Lord, СКАЧАТЬ