The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
in the streets, their shrill laughter rising as hut called to hut, and, best of all, the men were in good humour.
“Lord,” said the King as Sanders took his departure, “all things are well, as you see, and my people are full of food and lazy. There is no sickness, and no man injures another.”
“Thus it is,” said Sanders, who never failed to take advantage of any opportunity for drawing a moral, “because my lord the king has given you his protection so that every man may live fearless of his enemies.”
“That is so,” said the other humbly. “We are dogs before your presence, and blinded by the bright face of the Great King our master.”
Sanders took a short cut to the Zaire.
There was a little path which led through the tall, rank, elephant grass.
“Lord,” said Toloni, hesitating at the entrance of the path, “this is not a proper way for your greatness, for there is water in the path, and many snakes who live in the marsh.”
“This is the way,” said Sanders briefly.
The Akasava monarch hesitated, then led the way.
It was, as he had said, an unpleasant road, for the rains had been very heavy and in places the path was ankle-deep in ooze.
Sanders was regretting his obstinacy when, halfway to the beach, he came upon a place where the earth had been recently dug, and there was a raised mound.
“What man is buried here?” asked the Commissioner.
The King looked at him steadfastly.
“One Karama,” he said.
“This is not the place of burying,” said Sanders; “for if my memory serves me your dead people sleep in one of the middle islands.”
“That is so, lord,” replied the chief, “yet this man was dead a long time, and only his bones were left. And because my people feared his spirit they buried him where he was found.”
The explanation was satisfactory and Sanders passed on, though the grave was the grave of Alt Hazrah, a reliable spy of his, who had been caught by the King’s men and speared to death whilst the pigeon he had just released was still circling above in the blue sky.
“My lord goes far?” asked the King as he stood by the gangway of the ship.
“I go north,” said Sanders. “Why do you ask?”
“There have been heavy rains,” said the King, “and many rivers are swollen. And in such times strangers from the Frenchi and Portagasi lands come into these territories; also, I have heard of an Arabi who is buying people, ten days’ journey from here, on the Calali River.”
Was this the message Ali had sent? The possibility struck Sanders as being a reasonable one.
The man might have heard something of the sort, sent his message, and gone north in search of further news.
Sanders cast off, and, leaving the Isisi River on his right, took the Calali — a little-known stream.
Toloni, the King, might be sending him on a fool’s errand, but he had to take that chance. As it happened, the Akasava overlord had spoken the truth for a certain purpose.
El Mahmud, a notorious trader, found his way into Sanders’ territory one springtime when the rivers were flooded and when certain streams were navigable which had never before known canoe, much less El Mahmud’s gay felucca.
He brought with him rich bales of merchandise, secret bottles of gin, tobacco, hemp, and his own elegant person.
He was a sallow-faced man who sat under an awning on a silken cushion and smoked, and he was possessed of an insatiable curiosity.
He had large ideas, and was a man of many schemes.
He was engaged in arming a Calali village with rifles which had rendered good service to France in ‘75, when Sanders came suddenly upon him.
El Mahmud was warned, and put his craft, with all sails set, in the direction of safety, which was represented by a creek four miles up river, into which no steamer of the Zaire size could penetrate.
His little plan, admirable in intention, was somewhat upset by the disconcerting fact that the Zaire had recently been re-equipped. The first shot from Sanders’ new Hotchkiss gun smashed the side of the felucca as a rifle bullet would smash a matchbox. The second carried away the roof of El Mahmud’s private cabin.
The Zaire swung up to the sinking felucca, and a rope being passed she was towed to shallow water.
Taking all things into consideration. El Mahmud, who knew something of the English-speaking people and their peculiar ways, would much rather have seen his boat sunk.
“Sheik,” said his headman as the Zaire took the boat in tow, “there is time to get rid of much that will do us harm when the Englishman inspects this boat.”
El Mahmud was silent, and his headman drew a long knife from his belt and tested its edge.
He looked inquiringly at his master, but El Mahmud shook his head.
“You are a fool! This Americano will hang you like a pig if he smells a spot of blood. Let us wait — what is written must be.”
He had not long to wait. As soon as the Joy of Night — such was the felicitous name of the craft — was beached, he was escorted before Sanders.
“How came you here?” demanded the Commissioner, and El Mahmud explained calmly and logically that owing to the heavy rains he had adventured along a new river which had never before existed, and thus had come to the Isisi. That was a good excuse, as Mahmud knew. It was more difficult to explain the selling of rifles, for it is a practice which all civilised nations very properly hold as unpardonable. Much more difficult was it to account for twenty-one slaves discovered in the bottom of the felucca. Yet the man had a permit to “recruit labour,” signed by one Dom Reynaldo de Costa y Ferdinez, Portuguese governor of a coast colony.
Sanders had a horror of “complications,” especially with Portuguese authorities, for complications meant long, long letters, reports, minutes, memoranda, and eventually blue books. This meant years of correspondence, official investigations, and a kick at the end, whether he was right or wrong.
“By all laws. El Mahmud,” he said, “you have forfeited your life, yet I accept part of your story, though, God knows, I believe you lie! My steamer shall take you to a place which is twenty miles from the Portuguese, and there you shall be set free with food and arms.”
“What of my ship and cargo?” asked El Mahmud.
“I shall burn the one and confiscate the other,” said Sanders.
El Mahmud shrugged his shoulders.
“All things are ordained,” he said.
Sanders took him on board and steamed to a place indicated by the trader — it was nearer his camp — and released him with rifles and ammunition for his followers and ten days’ supply of food.
“Go with God,” said Sanders in the vernacular.
El Mahmud stood on the bank and watched the steamer sweeping out to midstream.
He waited till its nose was turned downstream and Sanders was plainly to be seen on the bridge, then sat down carefully, raised his rifle, taking deliberate aim, and fired.
Sanders was giving instructions to Abiboo concerning the repacking of Hotchkiss cartridges which had been laid on the deck in preparation for eventualities.
“These—” he said, then stumbled forward.
Abiboo caught him in his arms, and lowered him to the deck.
“The man — do not let him escape,” said Sanders faintly.
Abiboo