The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
should be tall and handsome, with flashing eyes; Sanders was not so tall, was yellow of face, moreover had grey hair. Heroes should also be of gentle address, full of soft phrases, for such tender women who come over their horizon; Sanders was a dispassionate man who swore on the slightest provocation, and had no use for women any way.
When you place a man upon a throne, even though that throne be a wooden stool worth in the mart fourpence more or less, you assume a responsibility which greatly outweighs all the satisfaction or personal gratification you may derive from your achievement. There is a grave in Toledo, a slab of brass, over a great kingmaker who lived long enough to realize his insignificance. The epitaph upon that brass tomb of his is eloquent of his sum knowledge of life and human effort. PULVIS ET NIHIL says the inscription, and Powder and Nothing is the ultimate destiny of all kingmakers.
Sanders was a maker of kings in the early days. He helped break a few, so it was in obedience to the laws of compensation that he took his part in reconstructive work.
He broke Esindini, Matabini, T’saki — to name three — and helped, in the very old days, and in another country, to break Lobengula, the Great Bull.
Kingmaker he was beyond question — you could see Republicanism written legibly in the amused grin with which he made them — but the kings he made were little ones — that is the custom of the British-African rule, they break a big king and put many little kings in his place, because it is much safer.
Somewhere about 12° north; and in longitude 0°, is a land which is peculiar for the fact that it is British, French, German, and Italian — according to which map of Africa you judge it by.
At the time of which I write it was neither, but it was ruled by Mensikilimbili for the Great King. He was the most powerful of monarchs, and, for the matter of that, the most cruel. His dominion stretched ‘from moonrise to sunset’ said the natives, and he held undisputed sway.
He had a court, and sat upon an ivory throne, and wore over the leopard skins of his rank a mantle woven of gold thread and scarlet thread, and he administered justice. He had three hundred wives and forty thousand fighting men, and his acquaintance with white men began and ended with the coming of a French Mission, who presented him with a tall hat, a barrel organ, and one hundred thousand francs in gold.
This was Limbili, the great King of Yitingi.
The little kings of the Southern lands spoke of him with bated breath; his name was uttered in a low voice, as of a god; he was the symbol of majesty and of might — the Isisi people, themselves a nation of some importance, and boastful likewise, referred to themselves disparagingly when the kingdom of Yitingi was mentioned.
Following the French Mission, Sanders went up as envoy to the Limbilu, carrying presents of a kind and messages of good will.
He was escorted into the territory by a great army and was lodged in the city of the king. After two days’ waiting he was informed that his Majesty would see him, and was led to the Presence.
The Presence was an old man, a vicious old man, if Sanders was any judge of character, who showed unmistakable signs of anger and contempt when the Commissioner displayed his presents.
“And what are these, white man?” said the king. “Toys for my women, or presents for my little chiefs?”
“These are for your Greatness,” said Sanders quietly, “from a people who do not gauge friendship by the costliness of presents.”
The king gave a little sniff. “Tell me, white man,” he said; “in your travels have you ever seen so great a king as I?”
“Lord king,” said Sanders, frank to a fault “I have seen greater.”
The king frowned, and the crowd about his sacred person muttered menacingly.
“There you lie,” said the king calmly; “for there never was a greater king than I.”
“Let the white man say who is greater,” croaked an aged councillor, and a murmur of approval arose.
“Lord,” said Sanders, looking into the eyes of the old man who sat on the throne, “I have seen Lo Ben.” [Lo Bengola, the King of the Matabele — EW] The king frowned again, and nodded.
“Of him I have heard,” he said; “he was a great king and an eater-up of nations — who else?”
“King,” lied Sanders, “also Ketcewayo”; and something like a hush fell upon the court, for the name of Ketcewayo was one that travelled north.
“But of white kings,” persisted the chief; “is there a white king in the world whose word when it goes forth causes men to tremble?” Sanders grinned internally, knowing such a king, but answered that in all his life he had never met such a king.
“And of armies,” said the king, “have you ever seen an army such as mine?” And so through the category of his possessions he ran; and Sanders, finding that the lie was to save himself a great deal of trouble, lied and acclaimed King Limbili as the greatest king in all the world, commander of the most perfect army, ruler of a sublime kingdom.
It may be said that the kingdom of Yitingi owed its integrity to its faults, for, satisfied with the perfection of all his possessions, the great king confined his injustices, his cruelties, and his little wars within the boundaries of his state. Also he sought relaxation therein.
One day, just after the rains, when the world was cool and the air filled with the faint scent of African spring, Sanders made a tour through the little provinces.
These are those lands which lie away from the big rivers. Countries curled up in odd corners, bisected sharply on the map by this or that international boundary line, or scattered on the fringe of the wild country vaguely inscribed by the cartographer as “Under British Influence.” It was always in interesting journey — Sanders made it once a year — for the way led up strange rivers and through unfamiliar scenes, past villages where other white men than Sanders were never seen. After a month’s travel the Commissioner came to Icheli, which lies on the border of the great king’s domain, and with immense civility he was received by the elders and the chiefs.
“Lord, you have come at a good moment,” said the chief solemnly, “tonight Daihili dances.”
“And who is Daihili?” asked Sanders.
They told him; later they brought for his inspection a self-conscious girl, a trifle pert, he thought, for a native.
A slim girl, taller than the average woman, with a figure perfectly modelled, a face not unpleasant even from the European standpoint, graceful in carriage, her every movement harmonious. Sanders, chewing the end of his cigar, took her in at one glance.
“My girl, they tell me that you dance,” he said.
“That is so, master,” she said; “I am the greatest dancer in all the world.”
“So far I cannot go,” said the cautious Commissioner; “but I do not doubt that your dancing is very wonderful.”
“Lord,” she said, with a gesture, “when I dance men go mad, losing their senses. Tonight when the moon is high I will show you the dance of the Three Lovers.”
“Tonight,” said Sanders briefly, “I shall be in bed — and, I trust, asleep.” The girl frowned a little, was possibly piqued, being a woman of fifteen, and in no wise different to women elsewhere in the world. This Sanders did not know, and I doubt whether the knowledge would have helped him much if he did.
He heard the tom-tom beating, that night as he lay in bed, and the rhythmical clapping of hands, and fell asleep wondering what would be the end of a girl who danced so that men went mad.
The child was the chief’s daughter, and at parting Sanders had a few words to say concerning her.
“This daughter of yours is fifteen, and it would be better if she were married,” he said.
“Lord,