The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
“there came from your ship when you sleep tonight news that you were in pain and nigh to death, I would save you a long journey.”
Sanders could not see his face, for the night was dark, and there was only a tangle of stars in the sky above to give light to the world.
“I know you to be a cunning man, Bosambo,” he said quietly; “and I listen to you without doubt. Now you shall tell why this is, and after I will do that which is best.”
“Lord,” said Bosambo quietly, “I am your man, and by all things which men swear by I am ready to die for you, and it seems likely that I shall die one way or the other. For though I vex you, and you have cursed me many times, yet I desire that I and all my house should die before you suffered pain.”
“That I believe,” said Sanders shortly.
“Therefore, lord, trust me without the palaver.”
“That I will do also,” said Sanders.
At five o’clock in the morning — as we count time — Bosambo went swiftly to the forest, taking with him a long-handled native spade. He reeled a little in his walk; the farther he got the more unsteady became his gait.
There was a clearing less than a mile along the forest path, a notable rendezvous for lovers in the soft hours of the evening, and by night the feeding place of devils.
To this spot Bosambo made his way; for this was the place where the Silent Ones awaited report. He came staggering into the clearing, his spade on his shoulder, and five men watching him from the shadows knew that he was drunk.
He came to a halt by the tree of the Weaver Birds, and sat down heavily. From the fold of his cloak he produced a bottle, and this he raised to his lips.
“Bosambo,” said Tambeli, coming noiselessly before him, “this is a good sight, for something tells me that you have done what should be done.”
“He was my father,” whined Bosambo, “and of my blood; he was a great lord, and now that he is dead the white people will come with the guns and say ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ and eat me up.”
He rolled his drooping head in misery.
“None shall know,” soothed Tambeli the strong one, “for here are we all, the five silent men of the good order, and no man knows but us — we say nothing.” He paused, and then added carefully: “So long as you do that which we bid, and send us tributes of women and corn.”
Bosambo heard this programme for his enslavement without visible sign of distress.
“Why have you brought the spade?” asked Tambeli suddenly; “you do not bury Sandi here?”
“Who knows?” said the listless Bosambo.
He took the bottle from his pocket. It was a small square bottle, in which liquor, such as gin, illicitly and secretly trafficked, comes to the backlands.
“This I will take,” said Tambeli. He reached out his hand and wrenched the bottle from the reluctant grasp of the other. “Men who drink spirits talk boastfully, and you shall not talk, Bosambo, till there are many rivers between me and Sandi’s soldiers.”
He took the little wooden stopper from the neck.
“Also,” he said, “it is a long time since ginni came to me.”
He waved his hand to his four shadowy companions.
“These are my brethren,” he said, “and yours; therefore, in the way of the white people of the coast, let us drink for happiness.”
He lifted the bottle and drank, then handed it to the man nearest him. One by one they took long draughts, then the bottle came to Bosambo.
“Tell me, did Sandi die in pain?” asked Tambeli.
“He died peacefully,” said Bosambo.
Tambeli nodded.
“That is the proper way,” he said, “for if he died with a great shouting there would come soldiers. Now none can say but that he died of the sickness Mongo.* There is no medicine like this, being prepared by a celebrated witchdoctor.”
[*Literally the True Sickness, i.e., any sickness which ends life.]
Bosambo said nothing for a while; then he spoke.
“Who is there to betray me?” he asked; “for if it comes to the ears of the High Lords at the Coast that I slew Sandi—”
“Have no fear,” said Tambeli, with a little cough, “for there are none but these” — he waved his hand unsteadily— “and — they — speak — never.” Indeed he spoke the truth, for the men were lying comfortably as though composing themselves for sleep.
“Up — up!” muttered Tambeli.
He went to kick the nearest sleeper, but his legs gave way, and he fell on his knees.
Bosambo watched him, deeply interested.
“Dog!”
Tambeli half turned his body toward the Chief of the Ochori, and spat out the word. He gathered all the great strength that was within him and leapt to his feet, launching himself straight at the other’s throat.
But Bosambo was prepared.
His left hand shot out, caught Tambeli’s shoulder, and half twisted him till he fell.
The man tried to rise, went down again, and soon he, too, fell asleep, uneasily at first, then calmly like a man tired.
Bosambo sat patiently.
After a decent interval, he looked round for the spade he had brought.
“Tambeli,” he said as he went about his business — a hard business, for the digging of a grave big enough for five men needs much muscular strength— “you were foolish, or you would know that no man of my faith slays his friend and patron. And no man of very high temperament sits in the shadow of death. Oh, Silent Ones, you are very silent now!”
He covered up his work and wiped his steaming forehead, standing irresolutely by the grave. Then he scratched his chin thoughtfully. He had an uneasy recollection of a mission-school a thousand miles away and of sad-eyed fathers who had taught him certain rituals.
He dropped the spade and knelt awkwardly.
“Blessed Marki and Luko and Johann,” he prayed, closing his eyes conventionally, “I have slain five men by poison, though they themselves took it without my invitation. Therefore they are dead, which is a good thing for us all. Amen.”
VI. The Village of Irons
Sanders was used to the childlike buttering of his people, and accepted their praise without conviction. It was part of the game. He expected to be termed “Protector of Persecuted People,” “Lord of Wisdom,” and the like, and would have been suspicious if these terms were omitted, because that was all part of the game, and meant no more than the prefix “dear” in the epistles of the civilised.
Just so long as flattery and sycophancy ran along conventional lines, just so long as politeness followed a normal course, Sanders was satisfied; if compliment fell short or slopped over, all his intellectual bristles stood on end, and he looked around with narrowed eyes and a growl in his throat for the danger which lay somewhere to hand.
He was overlord of a million black people, subdivided by language, dialect, prejudice, custom, jealousy, and temperament into twentythree distinct nations. The Bangeli, who lived close to the headquarters and were a selfish, bastard people, made up by accidental unions between Krooman, Congolaise, Angola folk, and Coast peoples, he did not heed, for they were civilised