The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
from putting into English.
“How go the investigations?” asked the captain of Houssas three weeks later.
“As far as I can gather,” said Sanders, “our friend is collecting a death-roll by the side of which the records of the Great Plague will read like an advertisement of a health resort.”
“Where is he now?”
“He has got to Lukati — and I am worried”; and Sanders looked it.
The Houssa captain nodded, for all manner of reports had come down from Lukati country. There had been good crops, and good crops mean idleness, and idleness means mischief. Also there had been devil dances, and the mild people of the Bokari district, which lies contiguous to Lukati, had lost women.
“I’ve got a free hand to nip rebellion in the bud,” Sanders reflected moodily; “and the chances point to rebellion — What do you say? Shall we make a report and wait for reinforcements, or shall we chance our luck?”
“It’s your funeral,” said the Houssa captain, “and I hate to advise you. If things go wrong you’ll get the kicks; but if it were mine I’d go, like a shot — naturally.”
“A hundred and forty men,” mused Sanders.
“And two Maxims,” suggested the other.
“We’ll go,” said Sanders; and half an hour later a bugle blared through the Houssas’ lines, and Sanders was writing a report to his chief in faraway Lagos.
The Hon. George, it may be said, had no idea that he was anything but welcome in the village of Lukati. Olari the chief had greeted him pleasantly, and told him stories of Sanders’ brutality — stories which, as George wrote, “if true, must of necessity sound the death-knell of British integrity in our native possessions.” Exactly what that meant, I am not disposed to guess.
George stayed a month as the guest of Lukati. He had intended to stay at the most three days, but there was always a reason for postponing his departure.
Once the carriers deserted, once the roads were not safe, once Olari asked him to remain that he might see his young men dance. George did not know that his escort of four Houssas were feeling uneasy, because his interpreter — as big a fool as himself — could not interpret omens. George knew nothing of the significance of a dance in which no less than six witchdoctors took part, or the history of the tumbledown hut that stood in solitude at one end of the village. Had he taken the trouble to search that hut, he would have found a table, a chair, and a truckle bed, and on the table a report, soiled with dust and rain, which began: “I have the honour to inform your Excellency that the natives maintain their industrious and peaceable attitude.” For in this hut in his lifetime lived Carter, Deputy Commissioner; and the natives, with their superstitious regard for the dead, had moved nothing.
It was approaching the end of the month, when the Hon. George thought he detected in his host a certain scarcely-veiled insolence of tone, and in the behaviour of the villagers something more threatening.
The dances were a nightly occurrence now, and the measured stamping of the feet, the clash of spear against cane shield, and the never-ending growl of the song the dancers sang, kept him awake at nights. Messengers came to Olari daily from long distances, and once he was awakened in the middle of the night by screams. He jumped out of bed and pushed aside the fly of his tent to see half a dozen naked women dragged through the streets — the result of a raid upon the unoffending Bokari. He dressed, in a sweat of indignation and fear, and went to the chief’s hut, fortunately without his interpreter, for what Olari said would have paralysed him.
In the morning (after this entirely unsatisfactory interview) he paraded his four Houssas and such of his carriers as he could find, and prepared to depart.
“Master,” said Olari, when the request was interpreted, “I would rather you stayed. The land is full of bad people, and I have still much to tell you of the devilishness of Sandi. Moreover,” said the chief, “tonight there is to be a great dance in your honour,” and he pointed to where the three slaves were engaged in erecting a big post in the centre of the village street.
“After this I will let you go,” said Olari, “for you are my father and my mother.” The Hon. George was hesitating, when, of a sudden, at each end of the street there appeared, as if by magic, twenty travel-stained Houssas. They stood at attention for a moment, then opened outwards, and in the centre of each party gleamed the fat water-jacket of a Maxim gun.
The chief said nothing, only he looked first one way and then the other, and his brown face went a dirty grey. Sanders strolled leisurely along toward the group. He was unshaven, his clothes were torn with bush-thorn, in his hand was a long barrelled revolver.
“Olari,” he said gently; and the chief stepped forward.
“I think, Olari,” said Sanders, “you have been chief too long.”
“Master, my father was chief before me, and his father,” said Olari, his face twitching.
“What of Tagondo, my friend?” asked Sanders, speaking of Carter by his native name.
“Master, he died,” said Olari; “he died of the sickness mongo — the sickness itself.”
“Surely,” said Sanders, nodding his head, “surely you also shall die of the same sickness.”
Olari looked round for a way of escape. He saw the Hon. George looking from one to the other in perplexity, and he flung himself at the correspondent’s feet.
“Master!” he cried, “save me from this man who hates me!” George understood the gesture; his interpreter told him the rest; and, as a Houssa servant reached out his hand to the chief, the son of the house of Widnes, strong in the sense of his righteousness, struck it back.
“Look here, Sanders,” forgetting all his previous misgivings and fears concerning the chief, “I should say that you have punished this poor devil enough!”
“Take that man, sergeant,” said Sanders sharply; and the Houssa gripped Olari by the shoulder and flung him backward.
“You shall answer for this!” roared the Hon. George Tackle, in impotent wrath.
“What are you going to do with him? My God! No, no! — not without a trial!” He sprang forward, but the Houssas caught him and restrained him.
“For what you have done,” said the correspondent — this was a month after, and he was going aboard the homeward steamer— “you shall suffer!”
“I only wish to point out to you,” said Sanders, “that if I had not arrived in the nick of time, you would have done all the suffering — they were going to sacrifice you on the night I arrived. Didn’t you see the post?”
“That is a lie!” said the other. “I will make England ring with your infamy. The condition of your district is a blot on civilization!”
“There is no doubt,” said Mr Justice Keneally, summing up in the libel action, Sanders v. The Courier and Echo and another, “that the defendant Tackle did write a number of very libellous and damaging statements, and, to my mind, the most appalling aspect of the case is that, commissioned as he was to investigate the condition of affairs in the district of Lukati, he did not even trouble to find out where Lukati was. As you have been told, gentlemen of the jury, there are no less than four Lukatis in West Africa, the one in Togoland being the district in which it was intended the defendant should go. How he came to mistake Lukati of British West Africa for the Lukati of German Togoland, I do not know, but in order to bolster up his charges against a perfectly-innocent British official he brought forward a number of unsupported statements, each of which must be regarded as damaging to the plaintiff, but more damaging still to the newspaper that in its colossal ignorance published them.” The jury awarded Sanders nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.
VI. The Dancing Stones