The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
Jesus, but woe, because of the assembly of a great day to those who believe not!’” Abiboo bore the title of Haj because he had been to Mecca and knew the Koran better than most Christians know the Bible.
Sanders said nothing. He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, casting his eyes around.
No building stood. Where the mission station with its trim garden had been, was desolation. He saw scraps of cloth in the fading light. These were other victims, he knew.
In the mellow light of the moon he buried the missionary, saying the Lord’s Prayer over him, and reciting as much of the Burial Service as he could remember.
Then he went back to the Zaire and set a guard. In the morning Sanders turned the nose of the Zaire down stream, and at sunset came to the big river — he had been sailing a tributary — and where the two rivers meet is the city of the Akasava.
They brought a paramount chief of all the people to him, and there was a palaver on the little bridge with a lantern placed on the deck and one limp candle thereon to give light to the assembly.
“Chief,” said Sanders, “there is a dead white man in your territory, and I will have the hearts of the men who killed him, or by The Death I will have your head,” he said this evenly, without passion, yet he swore by Ewa, which means death and is a most tremendous oath.
The chief, squatting on the deck, fidgeting with his hands, shivered. “Lord,” he said, in a cracked voice, “this is a business of which I know nothing; this thing has happened in my territory, but so far from my hand that I can neither punish nor reward.” Sanders was silent save for an unsympathetic sniff.
“Also, master,” said the chief, “if the truth be told, this palaver is not of the Akasava alone, for all along the big river men are rebellious, obeying a new ju-ju more mighty than any other.”
“I know little of ju-jus,” said Sanders shortly, “only I know that a white man has died and his spirit walks abroad and will not rest until I have slain men. Whether it be you or another I do not care — the palaver is finished.” The chief rose awkwardly, brought up his hand in salute, and went shuffling down the sloping plank to land.
As for Sanders, he sat thinking, smoking one cigar after another. He sat long into the night. Once he called his servant to replace the candle in the lantern and bring him a cushion for his head. He sat there until the buzzing little village hushed to sleep, until there was no sound but the whispering of bat wings as they came and went from the middle island — for bats love islands, especially the big vampire bats.
At two o’clock in the morning he looked at his watch, picked up the lantern, and walked aft.
He picked a way over sleeping men until he came to that part of the deck where a Houssa squatted with loaded carbine watching the two prisoners.
He stirred them gently with his foot, and they sat up blinking at his light.
“You must tell me some more,” he said. “How came this bad ju-ju to your land?” The man he addressed looked up at him.
“Lord, how comes rain or wind?” he said. “It was a sudden thought amongst the people. There were certain rites and certain dances, and we chopped a man; then we all painted our faces with camwood, and the maidens said ‘Kill!’”
Sanders could be very patient. “I am as your father and your mother,” he said. “I carry you in my arms; when the waters came up and destroyed your gardens I came with manioc and salt and saved you. When the sickness came I brought white men who scraped your arms and put magic in your blood; I have made peace, and your wives are safe from M’Gombi and Isisi folk, yet you are for killing me.”
The other nodded. “That is true talk, master — but such is the way of ju-jus. They are very High Things, and do not remember.”
Sanders was worried; this matter was out of his reach. “What said the ju-ju?”
“Lord, it said very clearly, speaking through the mouth of an old man, M’fabaka of Begeli—”
“M’fabaka of Begeli?” repeated Sanders softly, and noted the name for a speedy hanging.
“This old man saw a vision, and in this vision, which he saw with great pain and foaming at the mouth and hot eyeballs, he saw white men slain by black men and their houses burnt.”
“When was this?”
“When the moon was full” — six days ago, thought Sanders— “and he saw a great king with many legions marching through the land making all white men fear him.” He went on to give, as only a native memory can recall, the minutest detail of the king’s march; how he slew white men and women and put their house to flames; how his legions went dancing before him.
“And all this happened at the full of the moon,” he finished; “therefore we, too, went out to slay, and, knowing that your Highness would be coming as is your custom to give judgment at this season of the year, it was thought wise to kill you, also the Christ-man.” He told all this in a matter-of-fact tone, and Sanders knew that he spoke the truth.
Another man would have been more affected by that portion of the narrative which touched him most nearly, but it was the king (“a great man, very large about the middle”), and his devastating legions who occupied the Commissioner’s thoughts.
There was truth behind this, he did not doubt that. There was a rising somewhere that he had not heard of; very quickly he passed in mental review the kings of the adjoining territories and of his own lands.
Bosambo of Monrovia, that usurper of the Ochori chieftainship, sent him from time to time news of the outlying peoples. There was no war, north or south or east.
“I will see this old man M’fabaka of Begeli,” he said.
Begeli is a village that lies on an in-running arm of the river, so narrow that it seems like a little river, so still that it is apparently a lake. Forests of huge trees slope down on either bank, and the trees are laced one to the other with great snakelike tendrils, and skirted at foot with rank undergrowth. The Zaire came cautiously down this stretch of calm water, two Maxim guns significantly displayed at the bridge.
A tiny little steamer this Zaire. She had the big blue of England drooping from the flagstaff high above the stern wheel — an ominous sign, for when Sanders flew the Commissioner’s flag it meant trouble for somebody.
He stood on the deck coatless, signalling with his raised fingers to the man at the wheel.
“Phew!” An arrow was shivering in the wooden deckhouse. He pulled it out and examined its hammered steel point carefully, then he threw it overboard.
“Bang!” A puff of smoke from the veiling foliage — a bullet splintered the back of his deckchair. He reached down and took up a rifle, noticed the drift of the smoke and took careful aim.
“Bang!” There was no sign to show where the bullet struck, and the only sound that came back was the echo and the shrill swish of it as it lashed its way through the green bushes.
There was no more shooting.
‘Puck-apuck-puck-apuck-puck,’ went the stern wheel slowly, and the bows of the Zaire clove the calm waters and left a fan of foam behind. Before the village was in view six war canoes, paddling abreast, came out to meet the Commissioner. He rang the engines to ‘Stop,’ and as the noise of them died away he could hear in the still air the beating of drums; through his glasses he saw fantastically-painted bodies, also a head stuck upon a spear.
There had been a trader named Ogilvie in this part of the world, a mild, uncleanly man who sold cloth and bought wild rubber.
“Five hundred yards,” said Sanders, and Sergeant Abiboo, fiddling with the grip of the port Maxim, gave the cartridge belt a little pull, swung the muzzle forward, and looked earnestly along the sights. At the same time the Houssa corporal, who stood by the tripod of the starboard gun, sat down on the little saddle seat