The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
Mahmud was running swiftly toward the cover of the forest. He had two hundred yards of bare ground to cover, and Abiboo was firing a gun which was as accurately sighted as a rifle. Moreover, he had plenty of time, and was not flurried.
The terrified followers of El Mahmud, returning that night to search for their master, were constantly finding him.
The moon came up over the forest and fretted the river with silver, and Toloni, King of the Akasava, watched from the shore for the omen which Tilagi, the witchdoctor, had promised.
He had long to wait before he saw the ripple which a swimming crocodile makes, but when it came into view, crossing the river in a straight line from shore to shore, he had no eyes for aught else.
Straight as an arrow it sped, undeviating by a single curve from the true line.
“That is a good omen,” said Toloni, and rose from the shadow of the bush which hid him from view.
He waited a little while, then struck noiselessly into the forest, swinging his spears.
He came upon his six councillors sitting patiently by the side of the forest path.
“All is as should be,” he said. “Tilagi has spoken the truth, for the crocodile crossed from bank to bank, and the day of the Akasava has come.”
He led the way back to the sleeping city and gained his big hut. It was empty, by his orders. A fire smouldered in the centre of the hut, and his bed of skins was ready for him on the raised frame bedstead.
He went out again into the open.
“Send Tilagi to me,” he said to the waiting headman.
When the old man came — a skinny old man, walking laboriously by the aid of a stick, Toloni called him into the hut.
“Father,” he said, “at the full of the moon, as the tide was high, I saw the black crocodile leave his pool on the Isisi bank, and he swam from shore to shore even as you said.”
The old man said nothing, nodding his head.
“All this is favourable to my plans,” said the King, “and it shall fall out as you say.”
“You are a great king,” croaked the old man. “There never was in this land so great a king, for you have the mind of a white man, and are greater than Sandi. Other kings and chiefs of the Akasava were fools, and died like fools on a certain high tree, Sandi putting a rope about their necks; but they had black men’s brains.”
The King walked up and down the length of his hut. He was a tall man, splendidly built, and he carried his head high.
“All men are with me,” he said. “Isisi, N’Gombi, Bomongo — —”
He paused.
“And the Ochori, lord king,” said the witchdoctor. “Yes, they are with you, though the foreigner who rules them is one with Sandi.”
“That is a matter which needs settlement,” said the King; “yet we must move quickly, for Sandi will soon be back. It is now three days since he left, and the boat-with-the-wheel travels swiftly.”
Messengers came and went all that day. Five times was the King aroused from his slumbers to receive messages and to answer questions. The Isisi people were nervous; they feared Sandi.
Would the King swear by death that if the plan did not prosper he would tell Sandi that he forced the Isisi to act by threats and cruelties? The N’Gombi had a queen of Sandi’s house; should they slay her? She had a lover who would kill her very quickly, having access to her hut.
“Do not kill her,” was the message Toloni sent, “for I know she is very beautiful. She shall have a hut in the shadow of my great house.”
The Lesser Isisi people were impatient. There were two mission stations in their country; should they stay and burn?
“These are small matters,” said Toloni the King. “First we must take Sanders, and him we will sacrifice according to ancient practice. Then all other matters will be simple and easy.”
That night when darkness came and his unconscious people gossiped about the fires — none were in the secret of the coming great events save Toloni’s councillors and certain headmen of other tribes — a lokali rattled musically on the outskirts of the town.
The King, in his hut, heard the signal-drum, and knew from its note that it answered some far-off fellow.
Very faintly the distant drum was sounding news from village to village, every roll, every staccato tap, every crescendo having its special meaning.
Before his hut, with both hands to his ears, the King listened.
Three rolls, rising and falling, a slow rattle, a roll, a tattoo, another roll.
That stood for Sandi — Sandi the swift, Sandi the sharp in anger, Sandi the alarmer, Sandi the giver of justice.
All these qualities and characteristics were expressed by the distant drummer.
Twice the faraway lokali spoke Sandi’s name, then a long roll, a short roll, and silence.
Again — a long roll, a short roll — silence.
“Sandi dies!”
Toloni’s voice was harsh and exultant.
“Listen!” he whispered.
A metallic tattoo, punctuated by an irregular procession of low, deep notes — that stood for the Arabi.
“Tap — tap — tap — tap.”
There had been more shooting.
Then Sanders’ name occurred again — the long roll, the short roll, and silence.
It was clear to those who could read the message — the message that ten miles away had been received by the lokali man and hammered forth from his hollow tree trunk to yet another village.
Even now Toloni’s signaller was sending the message on. All night long, through the length and breadth of the land, the message would be repeated till it came to the edges of wild lands, where Sandi was unknown and the message itself incomprehensible.
“All gods and devils are with me,” said the King of the Akasava. “Now is the time.”
Stretched on his bunk, Sanders, with the aid of Abiboo and a small hand-mirror, located his injury.
He had suffered the slightest of wounds — the bullet had struck a steel chain purse he carried in his pocket and had deflected and taken a piece of flesh out of his left forearm, and had fetched up in the roof of the cabin before which he had been standing.
Beyond a pained bruised side and the wound in his arm, he had suffered no hurt. Abiboo dressed both places from the medicine chest, and there the matter should have ended, for Sanders was a healthy man.
But the next morning found him in a highly feverish condition. The arm had swollen to twice its normal dimensions, and was terribly painful. Sanders suspected a poisoned bullet, and was probably justified. He did not consider the matter very fully, for he was too busily engaged in an impossible argument with the Administration to give much heed to such trivialities. It was a tedious argument about a tall hat. Should Sanders wear a tall hat for the Coronation Naval Review, or should he not? The Administration was firm, but Sanders was equally determined.
“I’ve a shocking headache, and you ask me to wear a tall hat, your Excellency,” he said in anger, and burst into tears.
It was so unlike Sanders, and he knew it was so unlike him, that by a tremendous effort of will, he came back to actualities.
He was lying in his cabin. His head and his arm ached diabolically. His face was wet with perspiration and his tongue was like a strip of leather.
Abiboo, squatting by the side of the bed, rose as Sanders