The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
looked at the letter, picked it up gingerly, held it up to the light, and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy. The bulk of it was eloquent of reproof, because administrators do not expend overmuch energy in praising the works of their underlings.
Sir Harry Coleby, K.C.M.G., had a reputation which he had acquired in Bermuda, Jamaica, and the Straits Settlements. It was not a reputation for loving kindness exactly. His nickname — he came by this when he was a secretary of Legation at Madrid — was “Calliente,” which he pronounced “Cally-enty,” and means “hot.” And hot he was of head and temper, and the men who worked for him and with him lived in a mild perspiration.
He was extravagant of speech and quick of temper, and he wrote letters which were vitriolic without being offensive within the meaning of the act.
Sanders opened the blue envelope reluctantly and smoothed out the typewritten sheets and read:
“Sir, — I have the honour to inform you that His Excellency the Administrator has received your half-yearly report on the conditions of the tribes and peoples under your honour’s administration.
“His Excellency regrets that the reports you send concerning the spread of sleeping sickness in the Calali district are not as satisfactory as His Majesty’s Government could wish. The measure framed for the restriction of this disease does not seem to have been effectively applied, and he requests that a further report on this matter should be furnished at the end of the present quarter.”
Sanders read so far without being seriously troubled. The Administration was covering itself against any kicks which might come from Downing Street, and by Sanders’ code was justified.
He read on:
“The state of lawlessness which prevails in the Akasava and Ochori countries is, in His Excellency’s opinion, a matter for regret, and he expects your honour to take immediate steps to deal drastically with this condition of affairs. A suggestion which His Excellency makes is that the chief Bosambo should be deposed, and that the Akasava and Ochori should be combined under one chief.”
Sanders, who knew the Ochori and Akasava for hereditary enemies, mopped his forehead with a gaudy bandana handkerchief and swore softly.
“His Excellency desires me to state that considering the natural resources of the lands under your honour’s dominion, the amount of taxes collected would appear to be inadequate and he sends you herewith a revised scale of taxation which shall come into operation as from July ist of the current year.”
That was all.
The reference to the Akasava and Ochori crime left him unmoved. The crime was of no great importance, and was, in point of fact, less serious than in previous years. He could afford to ignore the suggestion concerning Bosambo, though he knew it was made to annoy Bosambo’s patron. But the taxation was another matter — a very serious matter indeed, and he sat down to write on the subject. He pointed out the consequences of increasing the demand upon uncivilised people. He reported means by which an increased revenue might be secured without adding to the burden of the individual, and he ended his letter by expressing his absolute disagreement with the Administration.
“Whilst noting your Excellency’s instructions,” he said, “I decline to accept any responsibility whatsoever for the effect the new imposition may produce.”
In reply, he received a most unpleasant letter which told him, in the stilted and official language of special correspondence, to do as he was bid.
“You will make whatsoever arrangements you deem necessary, without any further reference to His Excellency, to deal with the disorder which in your view will arise as a result of the new taxation. I am to say that in His Excellency’s opinion no such danger is to be apprehended.”
Now Sanders’ position was a difficult one. He was bound hand and foot by service regulations. He knew that the new Administrator was acting off his own bat, and that were the Home Government aware of the innovation of the new taxes, it would make short work of them.
But Sanders could not communicate with Downing Street direct. It would be an unpardonable thing to go behind his superior. In another land where white men were, a newspaper correspondent might reveal the trouble brewing without Sanders being in any way responsible; such things are done — as I know. But the only white men in Sanders’ territory were three missionaries, separated from him by hundreds of miles, a captain of Houssas and himself.
Sanders thought the matter over day and night for a week. Once he almost decided to break through all rules, notify the Government, and resign. He was in the act of penning the cablegram when an inspiration came to him.
“You will make whatsoever arrangements…”
The concluding paragraph of the Administrator’s letter occurred to him.
Very slowly and thoughtfully he tore up the draft of his cable into little pieces and called his orderly, who was half-asleep on the verandah outside.
“Tell Yoka,” he said, “that I will have fire in the Zaire by sunset — take food on board for three weeks. I go to make palaver with the God-men.”
When the sun was throwing mile-long shadows upon the beach, he began his cruise.
His first call necessitated a twenty-mile march through the Isisi country to a place called Konshinda.
Here was the mission station of the Jesuits, and he found Father Wells, a tall, spare man in white, superintending the erection of a new hut.
He was a middle-aged man, grey-haired and cleanshaven, and he greeted Sanders with a smile. Together they went to the mission-house with its big cool stoep.
“Sit down, Commissioner,” said the missionary. He took off his white topee and produced a well-burnt pipe, and Sanders, declining the jar of tobacco the other pushed toward him, lit a cheroot.
“Well,” said the first, “what is the trouble? Have some of my converts been raiding or is this a visit of ceremony? If it is, I am sorry Father Vettechi is not here — he’s rather keen on ceremonies.”
He laughed with the happy boyish laugh of one who has no cares.
“I’m going to turn you out of the country,” said Sanders calmly.
The other looked up quickly, with a smile which was half quizzical and half earnest.
“What is this?” he asked, “a new Expulsion of the Jesuits?”
“Something like that,” said Sanders, “it is a long time since I persecuted anybody.”
“But seriously — ?”
Sanders told the story of the new taxation. He was immensely serious, painting the consequence of the new tariff with vividness of detail.
“I am inclined to agree with you,” said the Jesuit; “but I shall have to protest against being sent down, even though I know that you are acting in my best interest.”
“Protest away,” said Sanders cheerfully.
Father Wells was troubled.
“But I shall have to wire my protest to England,” he said.
“I will give you every facility,” said Sanders.
He left, carrying with him the Jesuit’s cablegram, and when he reached the river sent a special courier to headquarters with orders to dispatch it.
A day later, he entered the narrow river which leads to the Modern Baptist Mission Station.
Along this stream for forty miles Sanders proceeded with caution. It was not easy to navigate. Beneath the smiling surface of smooth waters lay the gentle, sloping crests of sandbanks. These in themselves were fairly innocuous. But the Tembolini River flowed in its earlier stages through miles of primeval forest, and trees would sometimes float down to be caught and embedded in the sand, a blunt branch peeping from its sandy