The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      “By the Ochori country, lord,” he said, and Sanders groaned. “And he asked what manner of people the Ochori were.”

      “And what said you?” asked Sanders, interested.

      “I said they were fools,” said the headman, “and very fearful.”

      “And how long have you sat in this village?” asked Sanders.

      “Lord, I was born here and here I have lived.”

      There was a twinkle in the eyes of Mr. Commissioner Sanders. This old man had never heard of Bosambo the chief. Suppose Abdul yielded to temptation and arrested his flight at the city of that great man?

      Abdul Azrael came to the Ochori village singing a song. He was cheerful because a few miles up the river was a crocodile creek, broad enough and deep enough for a fast canoe, but having neither depth nor the width for a steamer such as the Zaire.

      He had intended going straight to his hiding-place, but judged very shrewdly that so far he had a day the better of the chase.

      It would have been wiser of him to continue his journey, but this he did not know. He was in high spirits, for a few hours before he had sold one of the canoes he had borrowed to a N’Gombi chief, who had, moreover, paid him in Frankies.*

      [* The franc was the only coinage known in Sanders’ territory, and on the Upper River. It came from the adjoining French territories.]

      In various portions of his attire Abdul Azrael secreted the result of many pilgrimages. He had dirty Turkish notes, golden coins of Tunis, English sovereigns, marks, twenty-peseta pieces, heavy golden eagles from a land he had never seen, not a few black and chocolate hundred-franc notes of the Bank Nationale de Belgique (these he had come by on the Congo), to say nothing of the silver coinage of dubious quality which the Shereefian Government issue at odd moments.

      He strutted through the main street of the Ochori city and came before Bosambo. “Peace be upon your house,” he said, and Bosambo, who had a working knowledge of Arabic, bade him welcome.

      “I have come from Sandi, our lord,” said Abdul gravely; “he has sent me with these words, ‘Give unto Abdul Azrael the best of your hospitality and regard him as me.’”

      “I am Sandi’s dog,” said Bosambo, “though he is, as you know, my half-brother of another mother.”

      “This he has often told me,” said Abdul.

      They exchanged compliments for twenty minutes, at the end of which time the Moor excused himself.

      “For I must say my prayers,” he said.

      “I will also say my prayers,” said Bosambo promptly, “according to my custom, and I thank Allah that you are here that I may pray in peace.”

      Abdul had been on the point of telling his story of the Holy Man of Tangier, but stopped.

      “That is strange talk,” he said, “for there is one custom as there is one God. And all men pray in peace.”

      Bosambo shook his head sadly.

      “I live amongst thieves,” he said, “and I am a rich man. It is the custom in this part of the country to remove all clothes, placing them before the door of the dwelling, then to enter the hut and pray.”

      “That is a good custom,” said Abdul eagerly. “It is one I have often practised.”

      “Yet,” Bosambo went on, “how may a believer go about his proper business? For if I leave my clothes, with all my precious jewels concealed, my people will rob me.”

      “Bismallah!” cried the pious Moor, “this is a happy day, for we will pray together, you and I. And whilst I am at prayers you shall guard my robes, and whilst you are at your prayers, behold, I will be Azrael, the Angel of the Sword, and none shall touch your jewels by my life.”

      It is said that they embraced. Abdul in the excess of his emotion running his deft fingers lightly over the other’s waist, noting certain bulky protuberances which were unknown to nature.

      “I will pray first,” said Abdul, “and I will pray for a long time.”

      “I also will take a long time,” said the simple Bosambo.

      Abdul stripped to his under robe, collected his djellab and his long gabardine into a convenient bundle and placed them on the ground before the hut and entered.

      Sanders arrived six hours later and Bosambo awaited him.

      “Lord,” said the chief, “the Arabi I have arrested as your lordship directed, for your pigeon was a cunning one and came swiftly though there are many hawks.”

      “Where is he?” asked Sanders.

      “He is in my hut,” said Bosambo, “and, master, deal gently with him, because he is of my faith; also he is a little mad.”

      “Mad?”

      Bosambo nodded his close-cropped head. “Mad, master,” he said sadly, “for he says I have robbed him, taken from him such as gold and book money — a large fortune.”

      Sanders eyed him keenly.

      “Did you?” he asked.

      “Lord,” said Bosambo with simple dignity, “he was my guest and of my faith, how could I rob him?”

      Sanders’ interview with the wrathful Moor was not a protracted one.

      “I send you to labour in the Village of Irons for a year,” he said, “for you are a liar, a thief, and a maker of mischief.”

      “I will go to your prison, lord,” said Abdul; “but tell this black man to restore the money he has stolen from me; lord, it was hidden in my clothes, and by a trick—”

      “That is not my palaver,” said Sanders shortly. The Houssas were marching the Moor away when he turned to Bosambo.

      “After I come back from the Village of Irons,” he said, “I will come to you, Bosambo, thou infidel, and eater of pig. And—”

      Bosambo waved his hand with an airy gesture. “You will never come from the Village of Irons,” he said, “for Sandi, who is my cousin, has told me secretly that you will be poisoned. As to the money, I think you are an evil liar.”

      “Six hundred Spanish dollars!” hissed Abdul.

      “Four hundred and half a hundred,” corrected Bosambo blandly, “and much of the silver breaks when you bite it. Go in peace, O my angel!”

      XV. The Sickness Mongo

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      Sanders taught his people by example, by word of mouth, and by СКАЧАТЬ