The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
to which all the chiefs of all the land had been invited.
“For,” he explained to Sanders in a grieved tone, “it seems to me that the only way to ensure peace is to get at the minds of these people, and the only method by which one can get at their minds is to bring them all together.”
Sanders stretched his legs contemptuously and sniffed. They sat at chop on the broad stoep before the Commissioner’s house, and Mr. Franks — so the deputy Commissioner was named — was in every sense a guest. Sanders checked the vitriolic appreciation of the native mind which came readily to his lips, and inquired:
“When is this prec — when is this palaver?”
“This evening,” said Franks.
Sanders shrugged his shoulders.
“Since you have gathered all these chiefs together,” he said, “and they are present in my Houssa lines, with their wives and servants, eating my ‘special expense’ vote out of existence, you had better go through with it.”
That evening the chiefs assembled before the residency, squatting in a semicircle about the chair on which sat Mr. Franks — an enthusiastic young man with a very pink face and gold-mounted spectacles.
Sanders sat a little behind and said nothing, scrutinising the assembly with an unfriendly eye. He observed without emotion that Bosambo of the Ochori occupied the place of honour in the centre, wearing a leopard skin and loop after loop of glittering glass beads. He had ostrich feathers in his hair and bangles of polished brass about his arms and ankles and, chiefest abomination, suspended by a scarlet ribbon from that portion of the skin which covered his left shoulder, hung a large and elaborate decoration.
Beside him the kings and chiefs of other lands were mean, commonplace men. B’fari of the Larger Isisi, Kulala of the N’Gombi, Kandara of the Akasava, Etobi of the River-beyond-the-River, and a score of little kings and overlords might have been so many carriers.
It was M’laka of the Lesser Isisi who opened the palaver.
“Lord Franki,” he began, “we are great chiefs who are as dogs before the brightness of your face, which is like the sun that sets through a cloud.”
Mr. Franks, to whom this was interpreted, coughed and went pinker than ever.
“Now that you are our father,” continued M’laka, “and that Sandi has gone from us, though you have summoned him to this palaver to testify to your greatness, the land has grown fruitful, sickness has departed, and there is peace amongst us.”
He avoided Sanders’ cold eye whilst the speech was being translated.
“Now that Sandi has gone,” M’laka went on with relish, “we are sorry, for he was a good man according to some, though he had not the great heart and the gentle spirit of our lord Franki.”
This he said, and much more, especially with regard to the advisability of calling together the chiefs and headmen that they might know of the injustice of taxation, the hardship of life under certain heartless lords — here he looked at Sanders — and need for restoring the old powers of chiefs.
Other orations followed. It gave them great sorrow, they said, because Sandi, their lord, was going to leave them. Sandi observed that the blushing Mr. Franks was puzzled, and acquitted him of spreading the report of his retirement.
Then Bosambo, sometime of Monrovia, and now chief of the Ochori, from-the-border-of-the-river-to-the mountains-by-the-forest.
“Lord Franki,” he said, “I feel shame that I must say what I have to say, for you have been to me as a brother.”
He said this much, and paused as one overcome by his feelings. Franks was doubly affected, but Sanders watched the man suspiciously.
“But Sandi was our father and our mother,” said Bosambo; “in his arms he carried us across swift rivers, and with his beautiful body he shielded us from our enemies; his eyes were bright for our goodness and dim to our faults, and now that we must lose him my stomach is full of misery, and I wish I were dead.”
He hung his head, shaking it slowly from side to side, and there were tears in his eyes when he lifted them. David lamenting Jonathan was no more woeful than Bosambo of Monrovia taking a mistaken farewell of his master.
“Franki is good,” he went on, mastering himself with visible effort; “his face is very bright and pretty, and he is as innocent as a child; his heart is pure, and he has no cunning.”
Franks shifted uneasily in his seat as the compliment was translated.
“And when M’laka speaks to him with a tongue of oil,” said Bosambo, “lo! Franki believes him, though Sandi knows that M’laka is a liar and a breaker of laws, who poisoned his brother in Sandi’s absence and is unpunished.”
M’laka half rose from his seat and reached for his elephant sword.
“Down!” snarled Sanders; his hand went swiftly to his jacket pocket, and M’laka cowered.
“And when Kulala of the N’Gombi raids into Ala-mandy territory stealing girls, our lord is so gentle of spirit—”
“Liar and dog and eater of fish!”
The outraged Kulala was on his feet, his fat figure shaking with wrath.
But Sanders was up now, stiffly standing by his relief, and a gesture sent insulter and insulted squatting to earth.
All that followed was Greek to Mr. Franks, because nobody troubled to translate what was said.
“It seems to me,” said Sanders, “that I may divide my chiefs into three parts, saying this part is made of rogues, this part of fools, and this, and the greater part, of people who are rogues in a foolish way. Now I know only one of you who is a pure rogue, and that is Bosambo of the Ochori, and for the rest you are like children.
“For when Bosambo spread the lie that I was leaving you, and when the master Franki called you together, you, being simpletons, who throw your faces to the shadows, thought, ‘Now this is the time to speak evilly of Sandi and well of the new master.’ But Bosambo, who is a rogue and a liar, has more wisdom than all of you, for the cunning one has said, ‘I will speak well of Sandi, knowing that he will stay with us; and Sandi, hearing me, will love me for my kindness.’”
For one of the few times of his life Bosambo was embarrassed, and looked it.
“Tomorrow,” said Sanders, “when I come from my house, I wish to see no chief or headman, for the sight of you already makes me violently ill. Rather I would prefer to hear from my men that you are hurrying back with all speed to your various homes. Later, I will come and there will be palavers — especially in the matter of poisoning. The palaver is finished.”
He walked into the house with Franks, who was not quite sure whether to be annoyed or apologetic.
“I am afraid my ideas do not exactly tally with yours,” he said, a little ruefully.
Sanders smiled kindly.
“My dear chap,” he said, “nobody’s ideas really tally with anybody’s! Native folk are weird folk — that is why I know them. I am a bit of a weird bird myself.”
When he had settled his belongings in their various places the Commissioner sent for Bosambo, and that worthy came, stripped of his gaudy furnishings, and sat humbly on the stoep before Sanders.
“Bosambo,” he said briefly, “you have the tongue of a monkey that chatters all the time.”
“Master, it is good that monkeys chatter,” said the crestfallen chief, “otherwise the hunter would never catch them.”
“That may be,” said Sanders; “but it their chattering attracts bigger game to stalk the hunter, then they are dangerous beasts. You shall tell me later about the poisoning of M’laka’s brother; but first you shall say why you desire