The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ was beyond doubt. There was urgency in the fact that the message had been sent by carrier-pigeon, and Sanders put the nose of his steamer to the north and prepared for the worst.

      At two o’clock in the afternoon, two days’ steaming from headquarters, he came to the junction of three rivers where, according to all plans, his spy should have waited him with further intelligence.

      But there was no sign of the man, and, though the steamer cruised about, crossing from one bank to the other, the spy did not put in an appearance. Sanders had no other course than to continue his voyage. He arrived at the Akasava city at midnight, picking his way through the shoals and sandbanks without difficulty, thanks to his new searchlight.

      He “tied up” to one of the many middle islands in the centre of the river and waited for light. At dawn the Zaire came sidling to the Akasava bank, her soldiers sitting on the iron lower deck, their legs dangling over the side, their loaded rifles at their knees.

      Yet there was no sign of perturbation amongst the people. They flocked down to the beach to watch the steamer come to her moorings, and in half an hour Toloni, the King, came in state with his drummers, his spearmen and his councillors — to pay their respects.

      Sanders went ashore with an orderly, walked through the city’s street by the King’s side, and listened to such news as he had to tell him.

      Sanders made no inquiry as to his spy, because that would be futile, but he kept a sharp lookout.

      The scene was a peaceful one. The women ground corn before their huts, naked babies strutted daringly in the streets, their shrill laughter rising as hut called to hut, and, best of all, the men were in good humour.

      “Lord,” said the King as Sanders took his departure, “all things are well, as you see, and my people are full of food and lazy. There is no sickness, and no man injures another.”

      “Thus it is,” said Sanders, who never failed to take advantage of any opportunity for drawing a moral, “because my lord the king has given you his protection so that every man may live fearless of his enemies.”

      “That is so,” said the other humbly. “We are dogs before your presence, and blinded by the bright face of the Great King our master.”

      Sanders took a short cut to the Zaire.

      There was a little path which led through the tall, rank, elephant grass.

      “Lord,” said Toloni, hesitating at the entrance of the path, “this is not a proper way for your greatness, for there is water in the path, and many snakes who live in the marsh.”

      “This is the way,” said Sanders briefly.

      The Akasava monarch hesitated, then led the way.

      It was, as he had said, an unpleasant road, for the rains had been very heavy and in places the path was ankle-deep in ooze.

      Sanders was regretting his obstinacy when, halfway to the beach, he came upon a place where the earth had been recently dug, and there was a raised mound.

      “What man is buried here?” asked the Commissioner.

      The King looked at him steadfastly.

      “One Karama,” he said.

      “This is not the place of burying,” said Sanders; “for if my memory serves me your dead people sleep in one of the middle islands.”

      “That is so, lord,” replied the chief, “yet this man was dead a long time, and only his bones were left. And because my people feared his spirit they buried him where he was found.”

      The explanation was satisfactory and Sanders passed on, though the grave was the grave of Alt Hazrah, a reliable spy of his, who had been caught by the King’s men and speared to death whilst the pigeon he had just released was still circling above in the blue sky.

      “My lord goes far?” asked the King as he stood by the gangway of the ship.

      “I go north,” said Sanders. “Why do you ask?”

      “There have been heavy rains,” said the King, “and many rivers are swollen. And in such times strangers from the Frenchi and Portagasi lands come into these territories; also, I have heard of an Arabi who is buying people, ten days’ journey from here, on the Calali River.”

      Was this the message Ali had sent? The possibility struck Sanders as being a reasonable one.

      The man might have heard something of the sort, sent his message, and gone north in search of further news.

      Sanders cast off, and, leaving the Isisi River on his right, took the Calali — a little-known stream.

      Toloni, the King, might be sending him on a fool’s errand, but he had to take that chance. As it happened, the Akasava overlord had spoken the truth for a certain purpose.

      El Mahmud, a notorious trader, found his way into Sanders’ territory one springtime when the rivers were flooded and when certain streams were navigable which had never before known canoe, much less El Mahmud’s gay felucca.

      He brought with him rich bales of merchandise, secret bottles of gin, tobacco, hemp, and his own elegant person.

      He was a sallow-faced man who sat under an awning on a silken cushion and smoked, and he was possessed of an insatiable curiosity.

      He had large ideas, and was a man of many schemes.

      He was engaged in arming a Calali village with rifles which had rendered good service to France in ‘75, when Sanders came suddenly upon him.

      El Mahmud was warned, and put his craft, with all sails set, in the direction of safety, which was represented by a creek four miles up river, into which no steamer of the Zaire size could penetrate.

      His little plan, admirable in intention, was somewhat upset by the disconcerting fact that the Zaire had recently been re-equipped. The first shot from Sanders’ new Hotchkiss gun smashed the side of the felucca as a rifle bullet would smash a matchbox. The second carried away the roof of El Mahmud’s private cabin.

      The Zaire swung up to the sinking felucca, and a rope being passed she was towed to shallow water.

      Taking all things into consideration. El Mahmud, who knew something of the English-speaking people and their peculiar ways, would much rather have seen his boat sunk.

      “Sheik,” said his headman as the Zaire took the boat in tow, “there is time to get rid of much that will do us harm when the Englishman inspects this boat.”

      El Mahmud was silent, and his headman drew a long knife from his belt and tested its edge.

      He looked inquiringly at his master, but El Mahmud shook his head.

      “You are a fool! This Americano will hang you like a pig if he smells a spot of blood. Let us wait — what is written must be.”

      He had not long to wait. As soon as the Joy of Night — such was the felicitous name of the craft — was beached, he was escorted before Sanders.

      “How СКАЧАТЬ