The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
said Sanders, pointing with his finger, “lies your land and the village you came from is near enough. Let the storeman pay you your wages and never see me again.”
“Lord,” stammered the headman, “if the stacking of wood was a fault — ?”
“Well, you know it is a fault,” said Sanders; “you have eaten my bread and now you have sold me to the White Goats.”
The old man fell sobbing at his feet.
“Lord master,” he moaned, “I did this because I was afraid, for a certain man told me that if I did not delay your lordship I should die, and, lord, death is very terrible to the old, because they live with it in their hearts.”
“Which man was this?” asked Sanders.
“One called Kema, lord.”
Sanders turned to his orderly.
“Find me Kema,” he said, and Abiboo shifted his feet.
“Lord, he has died the death,” he said simply, “for whilst you slept he came to slay you. And I had some palaver with him.”
“And?”
“Lord, I saw him for an evil man and I smote his head from his body with a machette.”
Sanders was silent. He stood looking at the deck, then he turned to his cabin.
“Master,” said the waiting headman, “what of me?”
The Commissioner stretched his finger towards the shore, and with bowed shoulders Lobolo left the ship that had been his home for many years.
It took the greater part of an hour to trim the vessel.
“We will make for the mission station,” said Sanders, though he had no doubt in his mind as to what he would find…
The mission house was still burning when the Zaire rounded the river’s head.
He found the missionary’s charred body among the smouldering wreckage.
Of Ofalikari he found no trace.
There had been a secret society suppressed in Niger-land, and it had been broken by three regiments of native infantry, a battery of mountain guns and some loss of life. The “British victory” and the “splendid success of our arms” had given the people of the islands a great deal of satisfaction, but the Commissioner who let the matter get to the stage of war was a ruined man, for governments do not like spending the millions they have put aside for the creation of a national pension scheme which will bring them votes and kudos at the next election, on dirty little wars which bring nothing but vacancies in the junior ranks of the native army.
Sanders had a pigeon post from headquarters containing a straightaway telegram from the Administrator.
“Your message received and forwarded. Ministers wire settle your palaver by any means. For God’s sake keep clear necessity employing army. Sending you one battalion Houssas and field gun. Do the best you can.”
There was not much margin for wastage. The whole country was now rotten with rebellion. It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. From being law-abiding and inoffensive, every village had become of a sudden the headquarters of the White Goats. Terrible rites were being performed on the Isisi; the N’Gombi had danced by whole communities the dance of the Goat; the Akasava killed two of Sanders’ spies and had sent their heads to Sanders as proof of their “earnest spirits” — to quote the message literally.
There was a missionary lady at Kosumkusu. Sanders’ first thought was for her. He steamed direct from the smouldering ruins of Haggin’s hut to find her.
She was amused at the growth of the secret societies, and thought it all very interesting.
Sanders did not tell her the aspect of the situation which was not amusing.
“Really, Mr. Sanders,” she smiled, “I’m quite safe here — this is the second time in three months you have tried to bring me into your fold.”
“This time you are coming,” said Sanders quietly. “Abiboo has turned my cabin into a most luxurious boudoir.”
But she fenced with him to the limits of his patience.
“But what of Mr. Haggin and Father Wells?” she asked. “You aren’t bothering about them.”
“I’m not bothering about Haggin,” said Sanders, “because he’s dead — I’ve just come from burying him.”
“Dead!”
“Murdered,” said Sanders briefly, “and his mission burnt. I’ve sent an escort for the Jesuits. They may or they may not get down. We pick them up tomorrow, with luck.”
The girl’s face had gone white.
“I’ll come,” she said, “I’m not afraid — yes, I am. And I’m giving you a lot of worry — forgive me.”
Sanders said something more or less incoherent, for he was not used to penitent womankind.
He took her straight away, and the Zaire was hardly out of sight before her chief convert set fire to the mission buildings.
Sanders picked up the Jesuits. His rescue party had arrived just in time. He landed his guests at headquarters and went back to the Upper River to await developments.
The Zaire had a complement of fifty men. They were technically deck hands and their duty lay in collecting wood, in taking aboard and discharging such stores as he brought with him and in assisting in the navigation of the boat.
He went to a wooding on the Calali River to replenish his stock of fuel and very wisely he “wooded” by daylight.
The same night the whole of his men deserted, and he was left with twenty Houssas, Yoka, the engineer, and a Congo boy, who acted as his cook.
This was his position when he dropped down stream to an Isisi river where he hoped news would await him.
For all the volcano which trembled beneath his feet, he gave no outward sign of perturbation. The movement could be checked, might indeed be destroyed, if Ofalikari were laid by the heels, but the “missioner” had vanished and there was no reliable word as to his whereabouts.
Somewhere in the country he directed the operations of the society.
There was a lull; a sudden interval of inactivity That was bad, as bad as it could be.
Sanders reviewed the position and saw no good in it; he remembered the Commissioner who brought war to the Niger and shivered, for he loved the country and he loved his work.
There were two days of heavy rains, and these were followed by two days of sweltering heat — and then Bosambo, a native chief, with all a native’s malignity and indifference to suffering grafted to knowledge of white men, sent a message to Sanders.
Two fast paddlers brought the messenger, and he stood up in his canoe to deliver his word.
“Thus said our lord Bosambo,” he shouted, keeping a respectful distance from the little boat. “‘Go you to Sandi, but go not on board his ship on your life. Say to Sandi: The White Goat dies, and the people of these lands come back to wisdom before the moon is full.’”
“Come to the ship and tell me more,” called Sanders. The man shook his head.
“Lord, it is forbidden,” he said, “for our lord was very sure on that matter; and there is nothing to tell you, for we are ignorant men, only Bosambo being wiser than all men save your lordship.”
Sanders was puzzled. He knew the chief well enough to believe that he did not prophesy lightly, and yet —
“Go back to your chief,” he said, “tell him that I have faith in him.”
Then he sat down at the junction