The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
Village of Irons for the good of the Empire, his work went on, for he had been a busy man. There were unaccountable deaths. Men and women lay down in health and woke only to die. And none thought it remarkable or made report, for M’dali had dreamt thus, and thus it happened.
Yet rumour has feet to carry and mouth to tell; and in course of time Sanders went up country with a hastily-summoned doctor from headquarters, and there were people who were sorry to see him.
Men who had lost inconvenient wives, others who had buried rich relations, wives who found freedom by the fulfilment of M’dali — his dreams — sat down and waited for Sanders, gnawing their knuckles.
Sanders administered justice without any other evidence than his doctor could secure in unsavoury places; but it was effective, and M’dali, a chopper of wood in the Village of Irons, saw many familiar faces.
The Village of Irons stands on a tongue of land which thrusts the Isisi River to the left and the Bokaru River to the right. It is the cleanest village in Sanders’ land, save only headquarters; but nobody appreciated its cleanliness except Sanders.
Here the streams run so swiftly that even strong swimmers dare not face them. At the base of the triangle a broad canal had been cut for five or six hundred yards connecting the two rivers, so that the little tongue of land was less a peninsula than an island, and a difficult island to leave — since a barbed-wire fence had been erected on both sides of the canal. Moreover, this canal was the abiding-place of three crocodiles — thoughtfully placed there by Mr. Commissioner Sanders — and their egress at either end of the canal was barred by stout stakes.
The village itself was divided into three parts, one for men, one for women, and a third — and this overlooking the only landing-place — for half a company of Houssas.
Though it was called the Village of Irons, none but shameless or hardened men wore the shackles of bondage, and life ran smoothly in this grim little village, save and except that the men were on one side of a tall wire and the women on the other. M’dali arrived, and was given a number and a blanket. He was also told off to a hut with six other prisoners.
“I am M’dali of Isisi,” he said, “and Sanders has sent me here because I dreamt.”
“That is strange,” said the headman of the hut, “for he sent me here because I beat one of his spies — I and my brother — till he died.”
“I came here,” said another man, “because I was a chief and made war — behold I am Tembeli of the Lesser Isisi.”
One by one they introduced themselves and retailed him their discreditable exploits with simple pride.
“I am a dreamer of dreams,” said M’dali in explanation. “When I dream a thing it happens, for I am gifted by devils and see strange things in my sleep.”
“I see,” said Tembeli wisely. “You are mad.”
It is not difficult to explain how it came about that M’dali secured a hold upon the credulity and faith of his new companions.
There is a story that he predicted the death by drowning of one of the guards. Certainly such a fatality occurred. Every new prisoner from Tombolini was a fresh witness to his powers.
And in his most fluent manner M’dali dreamt for them. And this is one great dream he had:
It was that Sandi came to inspect the Village of Irons, and that when he reached a certain hut six men fell upon him and one cut his throat, and all the soldiers ran away terrified, and the prisoners released themselves, and there was no more bother.
He dreamt this three nights in succession.
When he retailed his first dream, Tembeli, to whom he related it, said thoughtfully:
“That is a good thought, yet we are without any weapon, so it cannot come true.”
“In my dream tonight it will be revealed,” said M’dali.
And on the next morning he told them how he had seen in his vision a Congo man among the prisoners, and how this Congo man carried a little razor stuck in his hair.
And, truth to tell, there was such a Congo man who carried such a razor.
“Who struck the blow?” asked Tembeli. “That is a matter which requires great revelation.”
Accordingly M’dali dreamt again, and discovered that the man who killed Sanders was Korforo, a halfwitted prisoner from Akasava.
All things were now ready for the supreme moment. There was a certain missionary lady, a Miss Ruth Glandynne, who had come to the Great River to work for humanity.
There were reasons why Sanders should not be on excellent terms with her, not the least of these being his ever-present fear for her safety, and the knowledge that she did not know as much about native people as she thought she knew — which was the gravest risk.
One day he received a letter from her asking permission to visit the Village of Irons.
Sanders groaned.
He was not proud of the village — it advertised the lawlessness of a section of his people, and he was absurdly sensitive on this point. Moreover, he was, as he knew, a gauche showman.
With some ill-grace, he replied that he would be ready to show her the village at any time that was convenient, except — here followed a maddening list of forbidden dates.
In the compilation of this list Sanders showed more than usual guile. He racked his brain for exceptions. On such a date she could not visit the village because of “quarterly inspection,” on another because of “medical inspection”; yet another forbidden day was the “inspection of equipment.”
With great ingenuity he concocted thirty-five periods in the year, varying from one to seven days, when the convict establishment was not visible; and he hoped most earnestly that she would be sufficiently annoyed to give up the visit altogether.
To his despair, she replied immediately, choosing a day that was sandwiched between a spurious “appeal day” and a “mending week” — both of which occasions were the products of Sanders’ fertile imagination.
She came down stream in her canoe, paddled by twenty men, and Sanders met her halfway and transferred her to his steamer.
Sanders in dazzling white, but a little stiff and very formal.
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” he said, “I’d much rather you hadn’t attempted this little jaunt.”
“It is hardly a jaunt, Mr. Sanders,” she replied coldly. “I have a duty to these people — you admit that they are seldom seen by missionaries — and I should feel that I had tailed in that duty if I did not take the opportunity which you so kindly offer me” (Sanders swore to himself at her brazen effrontery) “of visiting them.”
From under the shade of his big helmet Sanders glanced at her.
“I shouldn’t like you to go through life under the impression that I wanted you to come,” he said bluntly — and Ruth Glandynne’s nose rose ever so slightly, for if she was a missionary she was also a woman.
They reached the Village of Irons at eight o’clock one blazing morning.
“Now what the devil does this mean?” said Sanders. For there were only two Houssas on the beach — one of them on sentry duty and the other his relief.
“Lord!” said this man when Sanders stepped ashore. “The men of the company have journeyed down stream to a Place of Palms.”
“By whose orders?” asked Sanders.
“It was revealed them, lord,” said the man, “they being of the Sufi sect, that the blessed son of the Prophet would appear to them in this place and show them many miracles.”
A light dawned on the Commissioner, and he half smiled,