Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  One man, thin as a wisp of smoke, rushed at me from the shadow of a hut door and tried to bite my leg. The merest push sent him rolling over, and there he lay, too overcome by inertia to move another inch, his arm uplifted in the act of self-defense. Nobody else in the village stirred. There were more huts than people, more kites on the roofs than huts. Some of the littlest children played in the hut doors, but nearly all of them were listless like the grown folk. The only sign of normal activity was the big black earthen jars that witnessed that the women performed part at least of their daily round by bringing water from the lake.

  I returned late that afternoon, walking, as it were, out of a belt of tetse flies. On one side of a narrow stream they were thick together; to the west of it there were scarcely any, although the wind blew from east to west.

  “There’s no fear of news about us reaching any government official,” I announced. “There’s a curtain of death between us and the government that even suspicion couldn’t penetrate!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE SLEEP THAT IS NO SLEEP*

  Ten were the plagues that Israel fled, and leaving left no cure,

  Whose progeny self-multiplied a million-fold remain,

  The cloak of each one ignorance, idolatry its lure,

  And death the goal till, clarion-called, lost Israel come again.

  Till then that loaded lash that bade the tale of bricks increase

  (Eye for an eye, and limb for limb!) shall fail not though

  ye weep;

  The conqueror’s heel for Africa! — The fear that shall not cease! —

  Desire, distrust, the alien law! — The sleep that is no sleep!

  —— —— —— —— — * It is a characteristic of the so-called Sleeping Sickness that is decimating the tribes around Victoria Nyanza that the victim, although he goes into a coma, never actually sleeps from the time of taking the disease until the end, usually more than a year later. The natives, a tribe that came originally down from Egypt, themselves say that the dreaded sickness is a “visitation” by way of revenge on them for former sins, although what sins, and whose vengeance, they are at a total loss to explain. —— —— —— —— —

  Kazimoto was gone five days, and then came preceded by proof of the news he brought. He came in the evening. In the morning, unaccountably from the northward, instead of from the westward where Uganda lay, — avoiding the regular safari route and the belt of sleeping sickness villages, came a genial, sleek, shiny Baganda, arrayed in khaki coat, red fez, and bordered loin-cloth, gifted with tongues, and self-confident beyond belief.

  He knew nothing of us at first, for we sat in our hut with a smudge going, nervous about flies, even Coutlass, reckless as a rule of anything he could not see, and perfectly indifferent to death for others, now fidgety and afraid to swagger forth.

  One of our Nyamwezi porters suddenly made a great shout of “Hodi!”* and came stooping through the low door, standing erect again inside to await our pleasure. We could hear others outside, listening under the eaves. When we had kept him waiting sufficiently long to prevent his getting too much notion of his own importance, Fred nodded to him to speak. [* Hodi! Equivalent to “May I come In!”]

  “Is it true, bwana,” he asked, “that the Germans will come soon and conquer this part of Africa?”

  “Certainly not!” said Fred.

  “There is one out here, a Baganda, who says they will surely come. He says the religion of Islam will be preached from end to end of everywhere, and that the Germans are the true priests of Islam. They will come, says he, when the time is ripe, and call on all the converts of Islam to rise and slay all other people, including all white folk, like the English, who do not accept that creed. If that is true, bwana, whither shall we go, and whither shall you go, to escape such terrible things?”

  “Does the Baganda know there are white men in this village?” Fred asked.

  “Not yet, bwana.”

  “Don’t tell him, then, but bring him in here. Tell him there are folk in here who say he is a liar.”

  The Nyamwezi backed out, and we heard whispering outside. There is precious little performance in Africa without a deal of talk. At the end of about ten minutes the porter again shouted “Hodi!” and this time was followed in by the stranger, seven other of our own men, uninvited, bringing up the rear.

  “Jambo!”* said the Baganda, with a great effort at bravado, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and the first severe surprise of seeing white men had worn off. He was a very cool customer indeed. [* Jambo! Kiswahili equivalent of “How d’you do?”]

  “Whose pimp are you?” demanded Fred, without answering the salutation.

  The man fell back on insolence at once. There is no native in Africa who takes more keenly to that weapon than the mission-schooled Baganda.

  “I am employed by a gentleman of superior position,” he answered in perfectly good English.

  “In what capacity?” demanded Fred.

  “I am not employed to tell his secrets to the first strangers who ask me!”

  “Do you obey him implicitly?”

  “I do. I am honorable person. I receive his pay and do his bidding.”

  “Is his name Schillingschen?”

  The Baganda hesitated.

  “All right,” said Fred. “I know his name is Schillingschen. You have boasted that you do what he orders you. These men tell me you have said that the Germans are coming to conquer the country and destroy all people, including the English, who have not accepted Islam!”

  The man hesitated again, glancing over his shoulder to discover his retreat cut off by our porters, and eying Fred with malignity that reminded one of a cornered beast of prey. He could control his face, but not his eyes.

  “Oh, no, sir!” he answered after swallowing a time or two. “How could they tell such lies against me! I am a person born in Uganda, now a British protectorate and enjoying all blessings of British rule. I am educated at the mission college at Entebbe. How should I tell such a tale against my benefactors?”

  “That is what you are here to explain!” Fred answered. “No! You can’t escape, you hellion! Squat down and answer!”

  “All this stuff is pretty familiar,” Will interrupted. “In the States there are always people going the rounds among our darkies preaching some form of treason. Over there we can afford to treat it as a joke — now and then an ugly one, and on the darkies!”

  “This is an ugly joke on a darkie, too!” grinned Fred.

  The Baganda made a sudden dive and a determined struggle to get through the door, but our porters were too quick and strong for him.

  “Confession is your one chance!” said Fred.

  “Put hot irons to his feet!” advised Coutlass. (The native beer had left him villainously evil-tempered.) “Gassharamminy! Leave me alone with that fat Baganda for half an hour, and I will make him tell me what is on the far side of the moon, as well as what his mother said and did before she bore him!”

  “Shall I hand you over to this Greek gentleman?” suggested Fred.

  “Oh, my God, no!” the Baganda answered, trembling. “Hand me over to the bwana collector! He will put me in jail. I am not afraid of British jail! It will not be for long! The English do not punish as the Germans do! You dare not assault me! You dare not torture me! You must hand me over to the bwana collector to be tried in court of law. Nothing else is permissible! I shall receive short sentence, that is all, with reprieve after two-thirds time on account of good conduct!”

  “Make him prisoner in the sleeping sickness village you told us about!” advised Coutlass, lolling at ease on his elbow to watch the man’s increasing fear.

  “Oh, no, no! Oh, gentlemen! That is not how white Englishmen behave!

  You must either let me go, or—”

  He made another terrific dive for liberty, biting and kicking at his captors, and finally lying on his back to scream as if the hot irons Coutlass had recommended were being applied
in earnest.

  “What shall we do with the beast?” asked Fred. The hut was so full of his infernal screaming that we could talk without his hearing us.

  “Tie him up,” I said. “If we let him go he’ll run straight to

  Schillingschen.”

  “Leave him here with Coutlass and me!” urged Brown. (He and Coutlass had grown almost friendly since getting drunk together on the native beer.)

  “I recommend,” said Will, “that we take the law in our own hands—”

  The Baganda ceased screaming and listened. For some reason he suspected Will of being the deciding factor in our councils — perhaps because Will had said least.

  “ — take the law in our own hands, and thrash him soundly. Later on we can report what we have done to the British government, and ask for condonation under the circumstances or pay whatever piffling fine they care to impose for the sake of appearances. The point is, there’s no court of law in these parts to hand him over to, and he needs punishing.”

  “I agree,” said Fred. “Let’s thrash him to begin with.”

  “Let’s thrash him,” went on Will, “as thoroughly as we’ve seen his friends the Germans do the job!”

  “Both sides!” agreed Brown.

  “Oh, no, no, no! You can not do that, gentlemen!”

  “Lay him out!” ordered Fred. “Let’s begin on him. Who shall beat him first?”

  At a nod from Fred our porters stretched him face downward on the dry dung floor, and knelt on his arms and legs. One of them staffed a good handful of the dry dung into his mouth to stop his yelling.

  “Of course,” said Will, rather slowly and distinctly, “if he told us about Schillingschen, we’d have to let him off. Let’s hope he holds his tongue, for I never wanted to flog a man so much in all my life!”

  The most palpable absurdity at the moment was that there was nothing in the hut to beat him with. There were dozens of strips of the recently shot hippo hide hanging in the sun outside to dry, with stones tied to the end of each, to keep them taut and straight, but nobody made a move to bring one in.

  “Take off his loin-cloth!” ordered Fred. “It won’t hurt him enough with that thing on!”

  The Baganda spat the cow-dung from his mouth and struggled violently.

  “Oh, no, no!” he shouted. “I will tell! I will tell everything!”

  “Too late now!” said Will jubilantly.

  “No, gentlemen, no! Not too late! I tell all — I tell quickly! Only listen! Bwana Schillingschen will shoot me if he knows! He is very bad man — very kali — very fierce — and oh, too clever! You must protect me!”

  He could hardly get the words out, for the knees of our porters pinned him down, and his chin was pressed hard on the floor.

  “I ordered that loin-cloth removed!” was all Fred commented. One of the porters attended to the task, and the Baganda hurried with his tale, drawing in breath in noisy gasps like a man with asthma because of the weight of his captors on him and the strained position of his neck.

  “Bwana Schillingschen is sending me and many other men — not all Baganda, but of many tribes — to go through all parts and say Islam is the only good religion — all Germans are high-priests of Islam — soon the Germans are coming with great armies to destroy the British and all other foolish people who have not accepted Islam as their creed! All are to get ready to receive the Germans.”

  “Where is Schillingschen now?” demanded Fred.

  “Beyond Mumias.”

  “How far beyond Mumias?”

  “Who knows? He is marching.”

  “In which direction? What for?”

  “To Mount Elgon. I do not know what for.”

  “How do you know he is going to Mount Elgon?”

  “He told me to go there and find him after my work is done.”

  “How long were you to continue at what you call your work?”

  “A month or five weeks.”

  “So he expects to stay a long time up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Has he many loads with him?”

  “Very many provisions for a long time.”

  “Guns?”

  “Several. I do not know how many. He gives guns to some of his men when he gets to where the government will not know about it.”

  “How many men has he?”

  “Not many. Ten, I think.”

  “How can they carry all those loads?”

  “He brought a hundred porters from Kisumu to Mumias, and there bought more than forty donkeys, sending the porters back again.”

  “Then are the men he has with him his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “From German East?”

  “Yes.”

  “What orders did he give you besides to tell these lies about German conquest?”

  “None.

  “Pass me that whip!” ordered Fred. There was no whip, but the Baganda could not know that.

  “He gave the same order to all of us,” he yelled. “We are to stay out a month or five weeks unless we meet white men. If we meet white men we are to discover the white men’s plans by talking with their servants, and then hurry to him and report.”

  “Ah! How many other spies has he out in this direction?”

  “None.”

  “Why don’t you pass me that whip when I ask for it?” demanded Fred.

  “None! None! None, bwana! I am the only man in this direction! He has sent them north, south, east and west, but I am the only one down here.”

  “He has a lot more to tell yet,” said Coutlass. “Let me put hot irons on his feet!”

  Fred demurred. “He couldn’t march with us if we did that!” he said with a perfectly straight face.

  “Who cares whether or not he marches!” answered Coutlass. “To tell all he knows is his business! Wait while I heat the iron!”

  The Baganda began to scream again, babbling that he knew no more. He assured us that Schillingschen had set the closest watch along the old caravan route, and toward his own rear in the direction of Kisumu, whence officials might come on chance errands.

  “All right,” said Fred. “Truss him up tight and keep him prisoner among our men in their hut.”

  “Our men are likely to get drunk tonight,” warned Will.

  “Let me watch him!” urged Coutlass. “Leave me with him alone!”

  To the Greek’s disgust we decided to trust the prisoner with our own men, and to keep very careful watch on them, threatening them with loss of all their pay if they dared get drunk and lose him — a threat they accepted at its full face value, but resented because of Brown’s and the Greek’s behavior the night before. They begged to get a little drunk — to get half as drunk as Brown had been — half as drunk as Coutlass had been — not drunk at all, but just to drink a little. We were adamant, and Brown added to their resentment by preaching them a sermon in their own tongue on the importance of being respectful toward white folk.

  Kazimoto came in toward dark, foot-weary, but primed with news, and most of what he had to say confirmed the Baganda’s story. Schillingschen, he said, was making for Mount Elgon in very leisurely stages, letting his loaded donkeys graze their way along, and spending hours of his time in questioning natives along the way on every subject under the sun.

  Besides the fact of his leisurely progress, which was sufficiently important in itself, we learned from Kazimoto that Schillingschen’s own ten boys were unable to speak the language of the country beyond a few of the commonest words — that they all slept in a tent together at night, usually quite a little distance apart from Schillingschen’s — and that the donkeys were usually picketed between the two tents in a long line. He also told us the ten men had five Mauser rifles between them, in addition to the German’s own battery of three guns, one of which he carried all day and kept beside his bed at night; the other two were carried behind him in the daytime by a gun-bearer.

  That
was good news on the whole. Coutlass went out on the strength of it and began to drink beer from the big earthenware crock in which the women had just brewed a fresh supply. Brown joined him within five minutes, and at the end of an hour, they were swearing everlasting friendship, Coutlass promising Brown his cattle back, and Brown assuring him that Greece and the Greeks had always held his warmest possible regards.

  “Thermopylae, y’know, old boy, an’ Marathon, an’ all that kind o’ thing! How many miles in a day could a Greek run in them days? Gosh!”

  They two drank themselves to sleep among the gentle cattle in the circular enclosure in the midst of the village, and we — going out in turns at intervals to make sure our own boys were not drinking — matured our plans in peace.

  We were too few to dare undertake the task in front of us without the aid of Brown and the Greek. It was a case of who was not against us must be for us, and the end must justify both men and means. We tried to work out ways of managing without them, but when we thought of our Baganda prisoner, and the almost certainty that both he and Coutlass would race to give our game away to Schillingschen if let out of sight for a minute, the necessity of making the best, not the worst, of the Greek seemed overwhelming.

  Early next morning, before the village had awakened from its glut of beer and hippo meat, we shook Coutlass and Brown to their feet none too gently, and, with the Baganda firmly secured by the wrists between two of our men, started off, Fred leading.

  The village awoke as if by magic before we had dragged away the thorns from the gate, and the chief leaped to the realization that the beads he had promised his women were about as concrete as his drunken dreams. He and a swarm of his younger men followed us, begging and arguing — mile after mile — growing angrier and more importunate. It was by my advice that we crossed the stream into the sleeping sickness zone and left them shuddering on their own side. Our own men did not know so much about the ravages of that plague, and in any case were willing to dare whatever risks we despised. But we took a long bend back and crossed the stream again higher up as soon as the chief and his beggars were out of sight. It was a pity not to keep exact faith and give them the promised beads, if only for the sake of other white men who might camp there in the future; but more than two tons of hippo meat was not bad pay for their hospitality.