Bones of the River

by Edgar Wallace

  Bones passed the Isisi country according to plan, and his first call was upon Bosambo, Paramount Chief of the Ochori, and thorn in the side of all kings, chiefs and headmen of the Isisi, Akasava and N’gombi. As well he might be, for he was a Krooman by birth, adventurer by instinct, and a great collector of other men’s property by choice.

  “I see you one time: I looka you longa longa times, Bonesi. You be good fellow.” Thus Bosambo in English, for he had been educated in an English mission school.

  Bones struggled hard against resenting the familiarity. Tactfully, he replied in Bomongo.

  “Sandi has sent me to speak with your young men, Bosambo, for Sandi’s heart is troubled because of this secret society.”

  “Lord,” said Bosambo calmly, “there is no secret society in this land. When the older men join together in dances and call themselves by ghostly names, I say no word, for old men are great talkers and nothing comes of that. But when my young men meet in secrecy, then I know that they will talk scandal. And what is scandalous here in the Ochori but taxation and the punishment I give to evil men? These Young Hearts spoke of me badly, and this I discovered. Now the Young Hearts are not in the Ochori,” he added significantly.

  Bones considered the matter, scratching his nose. “Bosambo, in this land all men are equal,” he said, and the big chief regarded him dispassionately.

  “Lord, all men are equal who are equal to one another,” he said. “But no man is equal to me, for I am the chief king of the Ochori. And I am not equal to you, Tibbetti, nor you to Sandi. If you are equal to Sandi, speak.”

  Bones modestly refrained, and the big man went on: “It is right that I should be over the Ochori,” he said, “for someone must stand high above the people, or he would not see them well. When there are ten thousand goats upon the plain, what does any goat see but the goat that is next to him? And how may he know what happens on the edge of the flock, where the leopards come crawling and creeping?”

  “All men – ” began Bones again, but thought better of it. Bosambo was not a man who would be readily convinced.

  He secured a certain amount of information about the Young Hearts – information which Bosambo had taken the most drastic measures to procure.

  “They are of the Isisi,” said Bosambo, “and this king of the Isisi is no man, but a cow. For he sits down and hears these boys speak, and does not beat them. You go to the Isisi, lord?”

  Bones went on his way, and his host watched by the riverside, until the white hull of the little Wiggle had disappeared round a woody headland. Then Bosambo returned to his hut and to his wife, who was also his counsellor.

  “Light of my life,” she said in the Arabic of the coast, “Tibbetti has been in many terrible places, but I think the Isisi country will be worse for him.”

  In two nights and a day Bones came to the Isisi city, and was received in state by the king.

  “Lord, I know nothing of the Young Hearts,” said Bugulu nervously. “The folly of children is not for me and my wise old men, but for their parents. As to N’shimba, what is he but a child?”

  Bones did not attempt to supply an answer to his question. He had not failed to notice, in his walk through the widely scattered city of the king, that, which ever way he looked, he saw no young men. There were those who were old squatting at the fires, and women of all ages going about their proper business. He called the attention of Bugulu to this fact, and the king grew more miserable.

  “Lord, they have gone to a palaver in the deep forest,” he said. “For these night-talk-people must hold palavers at all times.”

  Bones hesitated, and then, accompanied by the king, walked down the broad main street of the city. He stopped at the first hut, where an old woman was crushing meal, and spoke to her.

  “O woman,” he said, “I think you are the mother of sons. Now tell me where your fine son is, that I may speak to him.”

  She glanced from Bones to the king, and then: “Lord, he is gone to make a palaver in the deep forest,” she said.

  “What is your son?” asked Bones.

  “Master, he is a fisherman and is very stout.”

  Bones listened to the recital of the young man’s virtues, and then asked:

  “Bring me his shield and his spear, that I may see them.”

  The woman looked at the king and at Bones, then turned her eyes away.

  “Lord, he has taken his shield and his spear with him, for there is game in the deep forest, and leopards that are terribly fierce,” she said.

  Apparently, every other young man who had departed out from the Isisi city had also gone in the expectation of meeting terrible leopards.

  “These young men say fearful things, Tibbetti,” said the old man, troubled. “My own son, who desires to be chief in my place, brought word that you spoke his mind, and that in your heart you were against all chiefs and kings, and the young men believe him. Also that all that is mine is all men’s. And that my goats belong to the village and my gardens to every mean man.”

  “Good gracious heavens alive!” said Bones, aghast, and for the first time there loomed before his eyes a vision of that vast barrier which stands between Utopia and the everyday world.

  “Also, lord, they say that men are all as one, as N’shimba the Great also said cala cala. And that the young shall rule the world.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Bones, but as he spoke in English the chief thought he was swearing.

  Bones went back to the Wiggle, and his first act was to cast into the swift black waters of the river a learned treatise on equality by a Russian philosopher who had never met cannibals who believed in ghosts. The book was instantly pouched by a waiting and hungry crocodile, who, perhaps, was best competent to digest it.

  Then Bones strapped a Browning to each hip and called Sergeant Ali Ahmed to him.

  “Ahmed, I go to make a palaver with the young men of the Isisi.”

  “Lord comrade – ” began the misguided Ahmed, and Bones showed all his teeth.

  “If you call me comrade, I will beat the soles of your feet until they are sore,” he said. “I want four men who can shoot, and four to carry the little gun that says ‘ha-ha.’”

  Ahmed saluted and went to parade the men.

  An hour’s walking along the narrow forest path brought Bones to a clearing where the ground dipped to form an amphitheatre. N’shimba was waiting for him, for news had been brought of his coming. Tail and lank, his body covered with a close-fitting garment of leopard-skin – the wearing of which was a prerogative of chiefs – N’shimba the inspired leant upon his long spear and watched the khaki figure moving slowly toward him.

  “I see you, Tibbetti,” he called, but did not raise his hand in salute.

  “I see you, N’shimba,” returned Bones, “and I have come to talk to you, because of certain things which have come to the ears of my lord Sandi. For they say you have a society of Young Hearts.”

  “They speak true,” said N’shimba insolently. “And I, N’shimba N’shamba, am their chief and greater than all chiefs. For I have been called by ghosts and devils to make the Isisi a free people. And I shall be the highest in the land, as the great N’shimba was before me, for his spirit is in my belly.”

  To his amazement, Bones was neither excited nor showed any visible signs of annoyance.

  “That is good talk,” said Bones. “Yet those wise men I meet say that the soul of the great N’shimba comes from a black egg. Tell me, man, have you found that egg?”

  N’shimba shuffled uneasily. “That will come, Tibbetti, when I have proved my greatness.”

  “Take me to your Young Hearts,” said Bones.

  Reluctantly, and with an apprehensive glance at the soldiers, N’shimba led him to the amphitheatre, which now Bones saw for the first time. The slopes of the hollow were black with men, black dappled yellow where the oval shields showed, black which glittered at a thousand points where the sunlight caught the polished heads of the spears. And Bones, with
out preamble, spoke, and by his side the red-tarboshed soldiers fixed the tripod of the Maxim.

  Bones spoke the Bomongo tongue as fluently as a native. He had at his command a range of native imagery which covered all things growing and living. And he talked rapidly and convincingly on the laws of property, and the right of men to eminence. They listened in silence, N’shimba scowling.

  When he had finished, they allowed him to go without molestation, Bones in triumph sent a message by pigeon to head-quarters.

  “Settled Isisi perlarver. Talked them sily. Knockked ideas out of their joly old crayniums.”

  Bones had never been strong on spelling.

  He had sent the message when Ahmed came to him with news and something in his hand.

  “Lord, whilst you made palaver with these boys, the chik-chik sought you in the village, and this came in the very street before the king’s house.”

  Bones looked at the egg in the man’s hand and jumped up, his eyes bulging.

  It was jet black!

  “Moses!” he gasped, and then, in Arabic: “Who saw this?”

  “All people, and they were frightened.”

  “Phew!” said Bones, and turned reproachful eyes upon Florence, who was balancing herself on the back of a chair.

  “You’re a naughty, naughty girl!” said Bones. “Yes, you are.”

  Florence made the noise which, in all well-regulated chickens, is the equivalent to a purr.

  An hour later came N’shimba.

  “Lord,” he said respectfully, “there is talk of a wonderful black egg. Now give this to me, and I will be strong for you.”

  “Man, I am strength itself,” said Bones quietly. “As to a black egg, I know of none.”

  N’shimba went away without protesting further.

  At three o’clock, in the dead of the night, the sentry on duty on the Wiggle saw a figure crawling stealthily along the deck plank, and shot at it without warning. Bones, running out of his cabin, saw a dead man lying in the light of Sergeant Ahmet’s lantern, and the knife clenched between the bared teeth told its own story.

  With four men he reached the village. Happily, he had not gone far before the Young Hearts’ attack was launched. Fighting his way back to the river, Bones cast off the two steel hawsers as the forerunners of the Young Hearts reached the beach. The Wiggle possessed no searchlight, but she carried two Maxim guns, and they sprayed the beach industriously.

  In midstream he anchored whilst steam was being raised, and at dawn came a solitary canoe, paddled by a trembling man, who handed up something in a native sack, something that was heavy and wet. Bones guessed the contents before the dead face of the king Bugulu stared up at him.

  “Man, who sent this?” he asked the shivering messenger.

  “Lord, it was N’shimba,” said the man, his teeth chattering. “Also, he spoke to me thus: ‘Say to Tibbetti, that I am N’shimba, King of the Isisi and of the Akasava, and of all the peoples of the mountains, and the highest man in all the land. Bring me the black egg and you shall live.’”

  Bones did not hesitate. “I go with you,” he said, for he knew that the Isisi were night fighters, and that no man would lift spear to him in the open day.

  He went ashore. The body of the old king lay stark in the village street, and Bones saw a dead woman lying where she had been speared, and two old men whose age had been an offence.

  No man hindered him as he walked slowly to the new king’s hut, but the silence was ominous, and, to Bones, menacing.

  Before the old king’s hut sat N’shimba, the medal of kingship about his neck.

  “I see you, white man; give me my pretty egg and you shall live.”

  Bones took something from his pocket and put it in the new king’s hand.

  “N’shimba, by magic this thing was born, and it is an egg like none other I have ever seen. Hold it fast, king, and presently your devil shall come out and speak to you, but I must not be here nor any other.”

  N’shimba nodded gravely. “Let this man go,” he said, and Bones walked quickly down the village street.

  His foot was in the waiting canoe when he heard the harsh sound of the explosion.

  The devil in the black egg had spoken as only a devil can speak when the incautious N’shimba released his grip of the Mills’ bomb which Bones had pressed into his hand.

  A NICE GEL

  Because Terence Doughty was possessed of an immense fortune, was unmarried, and had neither sister nor brother, it was a delicate matter to chide him. At least, so thought his aunts and cousins and other likely beneficiaries of his will.

  He was thirty, a little pompous in a reserved way, exceedingly good-looking, and learned to such a terrifying degree that ordinary people cleared their throats before they so much as remarked to him that it was a fine day.

  He had written a text-book on Arabic, and he spoke most modern languages. It was a chance reference to the irregular Bomongo verbs, that he read in Notes and Queries, that decided him upon taking up the study of native dialects. It happened that there was in London at that time (on sick leave) a missionary from the great river, and from this gentleman Terence learnt, with his usual facility, enough of the language to induce in him a desire for an even further acquaintance.

  He announced his scheme to the one aunt who did not stand in awe of the bachelor-millionaire scientist.

  “Rubbish!” she snapped. “I’ve never heard such nonsense! The idea of going into Central Africa to learn verbs! You’re either a poseur or a fool, Terence. You had much better find a nice gel and settle down in England.”

  Mr Doughty shuddered. “Gel” always made him shudder.

  “My dear aunt! Nice gel!” he mimicked. “I have been looking for that nice gel these ten years! Unfortunately I am cursed with the possession of ideals. These ladies you and the rest of the family have been good enough to choose for me – my God! They are dreadful! There isn’t one that doesn’t shock all the aestheticism in me.”

  “What kind of gel do you want?” asked Lady Morestel, curiously.

  Lying back in his deep chair, his eyes half closed, his fingertips touching, Mr Terence Doughty enumerated the desirable qualities.

  “She must be pretty, of course, that kind of delicate, spiritual prettiness that gives to a woman her most precious mystery. She must be intellectual, yet womanly, in a wistful way. I must be able to love her mind. Refinement of speech and thought, impregnability of ideals – these are amongst the qualities that I seek but do not find.”

  “You’ll not find them in Africa,” said her ladyship grimly, and Terence smiled.

  “I shall be looking for verbs in Africa,” he said. Two months later, Terence Doughty poised himself on the gunwale of the surfboat, his hand upon the bare, brown shoulder of a rower, and, watching his opportunity, jumped almost dry-footed to the yellow sands. One of the crew threw a new suitcase after him.

  “Thanks,” said Terence.

  He was tall and fairly athletic, his face was thin and tanned, his appearance suggested the patronage of a good colonial tailor. Stopping only to light a cigarette, then picking up his grip, he walked toward the residency. Sanders came to meet him.

  “Mr Doughty,” he said, and Doughty lifted his helmet.

  “I’m afraid you hate my coming, sir,” he said apologetically.

  “I have a bad reputation along the coast,” smiled Mr Commissioner Sanders, “and I suppose it is justified. I do not like traders, and I am not, as a rule, enthusiastic about scientific explorers.” He walked by the side of the visitor. “What is your itinerary?” he asked.

  “I intend going up as far as the Akasava country, then, striking across the French territory to the Congo, follow the river as far as Stanley Falls. After I reach Stanley Falls I shall decide whether I go by rail to Tanganyika and on to Rhodesia, or whether I push across Uganda to the sea. There is one point on which I wanted to speak to you, Mr Sanders, and it is this: I have no timetable, I am moving at my leisure, and it is likely t
hat I shall stop over in certain villages for months at a time. So that if I disappear, I hope I shall not give you any uneasiness.”

  “You will,” said Sanders promptly. “I do not think there is any danger, for the tribes are very quiet just now, but in this land ‘to-morrow is a different day,’ as the saying goes.”

  Mr Doughty was introduced to Hamilton of the Houssas, and to Lieutenant Tibbetts, whose other name was Bones, and whilst tiffin was in course of preparation he went down to the quay to examine his heavy baggage that had come on before him, and to try his missionary Bomongo upon the crew of the big canoe which had come down from the Akasava country to take him up river.

  “Deuced nice fellow,” said Bones thoughtfully. “I’ve often wished, as you’ll bear witness, dear old officer, to make a complete study of these jolly old verbs – what about sending me up with the doughty old Doughty to look after him?”

  “I’ll say this for you, Bones,” said Hamilton, “you’re never at a loss to find an excuse for loafing. You stay here and study the jolly old verbs and the payroll and the stores account. And you might give the men a few days’ field exercise; they’re slacking fearfully.”

  Bones sighed and abandoned his dream.

  So Mr Terence Doughty went alone, and after a month’s idling along the river, came in the dark of an evening to a beach.

  “We will sleep here tonight,” he said, and the headman of the boat grew unexpectedly agitated.

  “Lord, we will go on to the city, which we shall reach by the morning. For though my strong paddlers are tired, they will be happy.”

  “Why not here?” asked Terence in surprise.

  The man tapped his teeth with his knuckles. “Lord, this is a magic place. For here is the Tree of the World, and devils live in abundance, so that you cannot walk without treading on their tails. Now let us go on, for my men have fear in their stomachs.”

  “Land me alone and my little tent,” said Terence, now thoroughly interested. “In the morning come for me.”

  He went ashore on the flat beach and watched the hurried and fearful erection of his tent. They lit a fire for him (all in frantic haste) and paddled away.