The picture of the year! And why shouldn’t she paint it? She seemed a very intelligent young woman, her paint-box was almost new, and must have cost a lot of money. And, anyway, painting was only a question of putting the right colours in the right places.
With a long and ecstatic sigh he turned and swam through the shallow water, and came, pink and dripping, to a patch of grass where he had left his clothing and a towel. But even the towel was gone. His pyjamas, jacket, and trousers had vanished. His slippers, however, he found.
“Hi!” yelled Bones, wrathfully, and the echoed “Hi!” that came back to him from the wood had the quality of derision.
“Goodness gracious heavens alive!” said Bones aghast. He was not three minutes’ walk from his hut, but there was no way of reaching that shelter without passing through the village street.
Bones looked round helplessly for leaves, having a vague recollection that somewhere or other he had read of somebody who had formed an extemporised costume from this flimsy material. But the only leaves in view were the smallest leaves of a gum-tree; and Bones remembered he had neither needle nor thread.
“Hi!” he yelled again, purple in the face, but there was no answer.
He turned and looked at the boat. The current was running swiftly, but he was a good swimmer, and –
He saw a swirl of water, the comb of a rugged back, as a crocodile swam down river. It passed, only to turn in a wide circle and swim up again.
“Oh, confound and dash it!” wailed Bones. “Go away, you naughty old crustacean!”
He meant “silurian,” but it did not matter.
There was nothing to do but to make a dive for his hut, and he edged cautiously forward down the little path to the village, and presently came within a stone’s throw of the nearest hut. A woman passed down to the river with a stone jar on her head. Bones gazed enviously at the grass kilt she wore. Nobody else came into view, and he crept nearer to the hut, and, flattening himself against the rush walls, peeped into the interior. It was empty, and he dashed inside.
But it was not literally empty: stretched on two pegs was one of those identical kilts he had envied – a kilt made of long, pliant grass fixed to a string. And the maker had evidently just completed her labour, for the last strand of grass was not tied. Bones snatched the kilt from the wall and wrapped it round him. It had evidently been intended for a lady of more generous proportions, for the kilt passed twice round his body before it met. There was nothing left but to march up the street. The horrified people of Lugala gathered at the doors of their huts to see the strange and even appalling sight; but Bones, mindful of his dignity, screwed his eyeglass in his eye – thank heaven the unknown robbers had not stolen that – and walked with majesty the length of the street, apparently oblivious to the bewildered or guilty eyes that stared as he passed.
His servant had gone on board the Wiggle. His host was not in sight. Bones dived in and began a frantic search for clothes. They also had gone! His bedding had been taken away, his breeches – everything, indeed, except a short silk singlet which seemed, in all the circumstances, inadequate.
Bones put his head out of the door and yelled for the chief, but there was no response. Not that Borobo did not hear him. Indeed, he took trouble to explain to his impressed wives what the commotion was all about.
“The Lord Tibbetti sings every morning, being a young and joyous man. Now listen to his beautiful voice. Such is singing in the way of his people.”
“Heavens and Moses!” gasped Bones when no succour came, and he was on the point of stepping out, made shameless by his misfortune, when a familiar sound came to his ear. It was the “honk honk!” of the Zaire’s siren. Bones sat down and wiped his forehead. Sanders was here! And Hamilton, whom he had dropped at the mouth of the Isisi River to meet Sanders. And the Hon. Muriel! There was a scamper of feet past the door of the hut. All the village was tearing down to the beach to welcome the Commissioner.
Bones waited till he thought the coast was clear, then stepped out of the hut. There was a shriek from the girl attending a cooking-pot before the chief’s hut, and he dashed back again. He must be dreaming, he thought; pinched himself – and it was so easy to pinch himself – to make sure, and had very convincing proof that he was awake.
He waited, every second an hour, every minute an eternity, and then there came to him the voice of Sanders.
“That is the chief’s hut, Miss Witherspan, and this hut near is the guest-house. You’d better look inside the guest-house: it is less objectionable than the others.”
There was a patter of light feet, and Bones screamed: “Keep out, honourable miss! Jolly old Muriel, keep out!”
“Who’s that – Bones?” asked Sanders in amazement. “What the dickens are you doing here?”
“Don’t come in!” squeaked Bones. “I’ve got no clothes on.”
Incoherently he told his story. There was a sound of suppressed laughter. Of course, Ham would laugh!
“Don’t laugh, you silly old ass,” said Bones wrathfully. “Go along and get me some clothes, you naughty old captain.”
“I had to laugh,” said the musical voice of Muriel.
“Good heavens, young miss! Was it you?” stammered Bones.
“It was me. Captain Hamilton has gone down to get you some clothing. Can’t I just peep in?”
“No, you can’t,” said Bones loudly. “Have a sense of decency, dear old artist!”
“Who did this – the Wazoos?”
There was a malignity in her cooing voice that made Bones shiver. Hamilton had told her! The cad!
“Now listen, dear old painter and decorator – ” began Bones.
“Mr Tibbetts – you pulled my leg.”
“Be decorous!” urged Bones.
“You pulled my leg. I shan’t forget it. I’m coming in to sketch you!”
“I’ve got nothing on,” roared Bones, untruthfully, “except a pair of slippers and a kilt!”
Hamilton returned with a mackintosh and a sun helmet, pleading that that was all he could raise. The mackintosh was one which was slightly too short for Sanders. On the lank figure of Bones it had the appearance of a covert coat.
* * *
It was three months later before the illustrated newspaper came into the residency; and, opening it idly, Hamilton saw a picture and yelled. It was a black-and-white sketch, which bore in the corner the scrawled signature “MW”. It showed Bones in all the glory of singlet and grass kilt, with a sun helmet on his head and an eyeglass in his eye; and beneath was the superscription: “British officer wearing the native costume of the Wazoos.”
THE ALL-AFRICANS
The mind of Mr Commissioner Sanders was as two books, the one open for inspection, and, by its very accessibility, defying the suspicion that any other could exist; the second a small tome, bound in steel and fastened with many locks.
Once upon a time Hamilton, skimming his newspapers newly arrived from home, read something and laughed.
“I wish, dear old officer, you wouldn’t,” said Bones irritably, glaring up from the torture of simple addition. “Just as I was totting up the jolly old pay sheet. I’ll have to do it all over again.”
“And you’ll do it wrong,” said Hamilton. “Can’t you take that infernal sheet somewhere else, or learn to count to yourself?”
Bones shrugged. “There’s only one way, dear old Ham, and that’s the right way,” he said, and began his labours anew. “Eight and four’s fourteen,” he muttered fiercely, “and nine’s twenty-two and three’s twenty-five and nine’s thirty-two an’ seven’s thirty, one, two, three, four…”
“What were you laughing at?” asked Sanders, smoking a meditative cheroot, his eyes on the parade ground.
“Something in one of the papers about an All-Africa Empire, with an army of its own, organised by American negroes and having their Inspector-General – where do they get such rot from?”
“And nine’s a hundred and five, and six is a hundred and ten a
nd three’s ninety-nine…” struggled Bones.
“It’s true.”
Hamilton sat up. “What…? But not here…in the territory?”
Sanders nodded. “I’ve known about it for three years,” he said with surprising calm, “and of course it is inevitable. Clever and rich American negroes were certain to exploit Africa sooner or later.”
Bones had dropped his accountancy, and was listening open-mouthed.
“You don’t mean to tell me, sir an’ excellency, that the jolly old indigenous native is organisin’ a – a…?”
“I mean even to tell you,” said Sanders with a smile. “There’s a French boat calling next week with a man named Garfield on board and a lady etymologist from England. She wants to go up country to hunt butterflies, and I’m rather worried about the lady.”
It seemed that Sanders was changing the subject, but that impression was to be corrected.
“Bones and I will leave tonight,” he said, surprisingly, “and you will send me on the letter she brings – open and decode it, and fly me a pigeon with the gist of it. By the way, she is rather pretty, which makes me just a little scared. Yes, the African Empire movement is a reality – I wish it wasn’t. Look at Mr Garfield’s hands, by the way, particularly his fingernails. He has the permission of Downing Street to explore the country – hoof him along and tell him I’m tax-collecting.”
He got up and walked out of the room, and the two men stared at one another.
“It may be sun or it may be fever, dear old Ham,” said Bones solemnly. “And yet he must be right in his head – he’s taking me along with him.”
“It is incredible,” said Hamilton, too perturbed to be offensive. “And yet, when Sanders talks and looks like that… You lucky young devil!”
The Zaire left at sunset, which was unusual, for the river is full of shoals and navigation a danger. By night (the third night) Sanders brought his steamer to a creek near the village of Kafu…
And then a whisper ran through the village, a whisper that had a gasp at the end, and at that whisper even old men slapped their lean thighs as at the prospect of tribulation, and said in dismay, “Ok’ok’ok’ok a!” which is misery’s own superlative on the big river.
For a malign miracle had happened, and there had materialised, under their very eyes, in shape to be seen and in substance which daring men might feel, the most horrific of the river legends.
Sandi-by-night had come, and Sandi-by-night was a distinct and deadly personality. He had arrived from nowhere between sunset and moonrise, and now sat before the hut of Molaka the fisherman. Bold men, peering fearfully from their little houses, saw him, a stooping figure in a grey-green suit, which in the flooding moonlight seemed to possess a radiance of its own. His face was in darkness, for the brim of his big helmet threw a black shadow, and, moreover, his back was toward the serene orb that touched the fronds of the palms with a silver edging.
Whence he came none knew or troubled to think. For Sandi was well known to possess magical qualities, so that he could fly through the air or skim on his feet across the water at an incredible speed.
And he had come, not to the chief’s hut, but to the humble dwelling of this eloquent fisherman, who told such beautiful stories.
Sandi was talking in liquid Bomongo. “Also it seems you have spoken to the people of the Forest, Molaka.”
“Lord, they like my pretty stories,” pleaded the man; “and because I am a poor spearer of fish and desire to please all people, I tell them tales, though I am often weary.”
Sanders chuckled softly. “What race are you, Molaka, for I see that you have no cuts on your face such as the people of the Middle River make upon their children?”
“I am from the Lapori River near Bongunda,” replied Molaka.
Again he laughed, this slim figure that crouched on the stool which Molaka had brought for him.
“O Bantu, you lie!” he said, and then he spoke in English. “Your name is Meredith; you are a native of Kingston, Jamaica, and you are a general in the All-Africa Army.”
There was a silence.
“You are one of five hundred specialists especially trained by the Black Africa Syndicate to organise native rebellion,” Sanders went on in an almost monotonous tone. “My men have been watching you for two years! You were trained at Louisville College for coloured men for this job, and you receive two hundred dollars a month for your services.”
“Sic itur ad astra,” Molaka quoted with a certain smugness.
“It is indeed the way to immortality,” said Sanders grimly. “Now, tell me, my man, when did you last see a Supreme Councillor of your pestiferous order?”
Molaka yawned ostentatiously. “I’m afraid I cannot afford you any information, Mistah – er – I haven’t the honour of knowing your name. I suppose you are Sanders, that these dam’ niggers talk about?” (He himself was as black as the ace of spades, though his English was excellent.) “So far I have had the luck to miss you.”
Sanders said nothing, then: “When did you see one of your bosses last?”
“I can give you no information,” said Molaka, or Meredith, rising. “I presume you will deport me? I shall not be sorry. I have spent two miserable years in this wilderness, and I shall be glad to go home to my dear home town.”
Sanders rose too, and now he towered above the squatting figure.
“Come,” he said, and strode through the village behind his prisoner.
The people saw them pass, and tapped their teeth in terror. The two men vanished into the forest path. At two o’clock in the morning, the village watchman, dozing over his fire, heard a shriek and leapt up. The cry was not repeated, and he went to sleep again.
In the morning they found a place, just outside the village, where a man had evidently been pegged, spread-eagle fashion, to the ground, for the thongs that had bound his ankles and wrists were still attached to the peg. Also, there were the ashes of a fire and a piece of iron which had been heated. From these indications, the men of the village concluded that Molaka had been asked questions.
It is certain that he did not tell Sanders of the great palaver which was to be held in the country south of the Isisi River, because the messenger who brought him a summons to the likambo arrived after he had disappeared – whither, no man ever knew, though the slaves who toil for Government in the Village of Irons might have given information. As to the palaver and its venue, Sanders was to make discovery in another way.
* * *
There was a man who lived in the country behind Bolibi, who was very wealthy. He ate dog every day of his life, and his wives occupied seventeen different huts. Therefore they called him “Jomo-Nsambo,” which means “ten and seven.” His plantations of corn and manico covered the land in patches, and in these his wives worked constantly. He was a just man and used the chicotte with great discernment, never beating even a woman unless she had committed a foolish act.
One day he went hunting with his young men, for, although he was neither chief by choice nor Government-appointed capita, he exercised a lordship even over chiefs, by reason of his wealth, and crooked his finger for all the following he needed.
Whilst he was in the forest, his tenth wife, N’kama, received a lover near the Pool of the Skies, which is a dry pan in the summer and a marsh in the rainy season, and for this reason is so called.
The lover was a tall young man and a greatly popular man with women. Yet because he loved the tenth wife of Jomo-Nsambo, he was faithful to her for one season. His name was Lolango, which in the Bomongo language is “The Desired.”
“Woman, I have slept seven nights in this forest waiting for you,” he said, “and it is very good to touch you. For two moons I have wanted you, as you know, for was I not a guest in your husband’s hut, and did I not say exciting things to you when he slept? But you have been as cold as a dead fish, though I have sent you wonderful words by the woman Msaro who is your servant.”
“Lord,” she said meekly, “I could not
believe that the Desired would desire. And all the stories Msaro told me I thought were foolish. Now I am here.”
He made love to her in his fashion. The woman was wonderful to him, and he did not wish to leave her, but because there was a secret likambo, or council, in the forest by the Kasai River, and that was a two days’ journey, he must be parted from her.
“Let me go with you, Lolango,” she said, “for I think Msaro hates me, and will speak to my husband when he returns.”
But this, in terror of death, Lolango would not do.
“Woman,” he said, in a hushed voice, “this likambo is ‘Ta ’.” And he made a whistling noise to express the awfulness of the occasion, and opened his eyes wide.
The woman heard the forbidden word without displaying any emotion.
“Then I will give you magic to protect you,” she said, and he waited two hours whilst she returned to her village and brought back a bag which was filled with little red berries such as are not seen in this country.
“These I bought from a white trader,” she said, “and in each lies a very powerful devil called ‘The Looker-Behind.’ And when you come to the great forest by the Kasai, which, as all men know, is full of ghosts, you shall drop a red berry every time your feet say bonkama.[6] And the red devil shall come out and no ghost shall follow after you.”
He shivered, but eyed the handful of berries in his palm with friendliness.
“There are ghosts of great size and ugliness in the forest,” he agreed. “Now, I love you for this magic, N’kama, and I will bring back to you a wonderful cloth such as the Jesus women wear to hide their skins.”
So he went away, and she looked after him and spat on the ground. Then she bathed her body in the river and walked with swaying hips toward her hut. She had done her part and had no regrets, save for the bag of beautiful red berries. She would gladly have made a necklace of these. But better he took them than that she should tramp two days with him, she thought.
Bones of the River Page 16