Witch-Doctors
by Charles Beadle · English · Gutenberg #22099 · 462,058 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Witch-Doctors
Author: Charles Beadle
Release date: July 18, 2007 [eBook #22099]
Most recently updated: June 20, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22099
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITCH-DOCTORS ***
Witch-Doctors
_by_ Charles Beadle
_Author of “A Whiteman’s Burden”_
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
1922
_Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner, Frome and London_
CHARACTERS
LUCILLE CHARLTRAIN (Mrs. Gerald Birnier) A Photograph
USAKUMA (The Incarnation of the
Unmentionable One) An Idol
GERALD BIRNIER A Professor
ZU PFEIFFER (Hermann von Schnitzler und) German Kommandant
ZALU ZAKO (son of Kawa Kendi) Heir Apparent
BAKUMA (daughter of Bakala) in love with Zalu Zako
MYALU (son of MBusa) a chief in love with Bakuma
BAKAHENZIE (son of Maliko) Chief Witch-Doctor
MARUFA (son of MTungo) another Witch-Doctor
KAWA KENDI (son of MFunya MPopo) King-God and Rainmaker
MFUNYA MPOPO (son of MKoffo) Predecessor of Kawa Kendi
KINGATA MATA (son of Kabolo) Keeper of the Sacred Fires
SAKAMATA deposed Witch-Doctor and spy
YABOLO another Witch-Doctor
MUNGONGO Birnier’s servant
SCHULTZ German sergeant
LUDWIG German sergeant
SCHNEIDER German sergeant
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Extra Pages
Errata
WITCH-DOCTORS
CHAPTER 1
In a bayou in the south-eastern corner of the Victoria Nyanza was the
station of Ingonya, a brown scab on the face of the green earth. The round
mud huts of the askaris were like two columns of khaki troops marching
rigidly on each side of the parade ground. To the north, upon a slight
rise of ground, were the white men’s quarters; the non-commissioned
officers had four bungalows to the south of the orderly room and Court
House; and beyond a green plot flanked by a store house and an ordnance
building, was a bigger bungalow, florid in the amplitude and colour of the
red pillared verandah, the residence of the Kommandant, Herr
Ober-Lieutenant Hermann von Schnitzler und zu Pfeiffer.
On the northern side, overlooking the swamp and the distant lake, was a
flagpole, before which paced an ebon sentry in a uniform of white
knickers, tunic and lancer cap, red faced. The glow of sunrise stained the
green of the moon with crimson. A trumpet blared. From the rear of the
Residence marched with stiff-legged precision a squad of askaris and the
stocky figure of a non-commissioned officer in a white helmet.
Simultaneously appeared on the verandah of the large bungalow the tall
form of a white man in pink silk pyjamas. The sergeant barked. The squad
presented arms. A coloured ball slid up the flagpole. The first rays of
the sun splintered the bloodied waters beyond into silver spikes and
caressed a fluttering black, white and red flag.
Then the squad ported arms, relieved the sentry, and retired, their black
legs gleaming blue points as they rose and fell. The pink figure
disappeared. Sergeant Schultz strutted back to his bungalow, in the
verandah of which squatted a native girl clad in gay trade cloths. He
emerged lighting a cigar, and sjambok in hand, returned to the orderly
room. Another trumpet blared. From beyond the askaris’ camp came a line of
natives, young and old, their scrawny necks linked together by a light
iron chain which clanked musically. Filing on to the parade ground they
were divided into gangs by Sergeant Schneider to labour under guard at the
interminable work of the camp.
The air above the swamp began to sizzle in the heat. The same slender
figure clad in immaculate white reappeared upon the south verandah of the
florid bungalow. Herr Ober-Lieutenant stood staring about the small square
with a peevish glint in the fair eyes. A big negro in spotless white
hurried around the house bearing a brass tray set with a cup, a liqueur
glass and a decanter. Herr Lieutenant sprawled his legs on either arm of a
Bombay chair. As he delicately mixed cognac with his coffee, his jewelled
fingers sparkled in a shaft of sunlight which set afire the sapphires
mounted in an ivory bracelet.
At a yard from the table stood the servant as rigid as the flagpole. With
a lazy insolence which marked his movements, the lieutenant sipped the
café-cognac and smoked a cheroot, as if he were seated on the terrace of
the Café de la Paix. The brutality of the round skull, emphasized by the
cropped blonde hair, seemed at variance with the boyish rotundity of the
face and the small, but dominant, nose. Two separate moustaches bristled
so fiercely that they suggested sentries on guard over the feminine
softness of the lips. When he had finished zu Pfeiffer arose languidly,
lighted a fresh cigar, adjusted his helmet with care, took a gold-mounted
sjambok from his servant, and strode across the square. The lines of his
torso were so perfect that they suggested artificial aid.
The orderly room was square and whitewashed; grass matting was upon the
floor, and high screened doors opened on to the north verandah. Zu
Pfeiffer sprawled in a swing chair before the office desk placed at an
oblique angle to the wall, encumbered with books and papers. After tapping
reflectively on a book cover with a polished nail zu Pfeiffer’s hand
sharply struck the bell. Instantly a corporal appeared at the farther door
and stood as if petrified, black hand to black temple. Zu Pfeiffer snapped
instructions in Kiswahili without removing his cigar. The man grunted,
shot his hand away at right angles with as much energy as if he were
trying to knock down an elephant, and vanished.
“Sergeant!”
“Ja, Excellence.”
At the other door like another Jack-in-the-box appeared Sergeant Schultz
in exactly the same attitude. At a nod the sergeant melted into the
semblance of human movement: he drew aside a chair, selected a certain
document from a pile of them, and handed it to the lieutenant. Zu Pfeiffer
pushed a box of cigars across the table, lolled back with one foot on the
table, and began to peruse lazily. The sergeant retired respectfully with
the cigar to the outer office. A fly buzzed hopefully at the mosquito
wire. The tap of a typewriter sounded like some other insect. On the hot
air came the faint barks of a drill-sergeant on the parade ground. From
behind the building rose fitfully the murmur of voices from a herd of
natives squatted in the sun awaiting the opening of the Court House.
Leaves rustled largely under the Lieutenant’s fingers.…
At length he pitched the report on to the table, carefully placed the butt
of his cigar in an ash-tray, lighted another, and disposed of the match
with equal care.
“Sergeant.”
“Ja, Excellence!”
Zu Pfeiffer indicated a chair by a thrust of the chin. The sergeant sat.
Tapping the report with the highly polished and very long finger-nail of
the left hand, the lieutenant demanded:
“Who is the man who gave you this report?”
“Ali Ben Hassan, an Arab trader, Excellence.”
“Trustworthy?”
“Ja, Excellence. He has done much work for us.”
“Where?”
“On the Tanganika district, sub-division B II, Excellence. He brought
papers of first-class recommendation from the Kommandant.”
“Ben Hassan speaks of one Sakamata, nicht wahr?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Of what tribe is he?”
“Wongolo.”
“A witch-doctor?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“He is here? Let him come in.”
The sergeant rose, saluted and departed. Gutturals sounded lazily. The
sergeant reappeared and behind him shuffled a native. Clad only in a dirty
loin-cloth, his brown skin was wrinkled in scaly folds upon his chest and
belly; his face was like an ancient tortoise; the small lack-lustre eyes
were bloodshot and furtive; the limbs were almost fleshless. He squatted
upon the ground and with lowered lids appeared to be absorbed in the
contemplation of a white man’s table leg. Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man as
one would a stray dog and nodded to the sergeant, who sat down.
“Does he speak Kiswahili?”
“Nein, Excellence. Only his monkey speech.”
“Why do you suppose that he is trustworthy?”
“Because, Excellence, his interests are with ours. There is no
competition. The Schweinhünde Engländer have no interest there—yet. They
are too busy with the Uganda railroad.”
“Ja, ja. Again what is the tribal system there, King-God or——” The
lieutenant permitted a slight smile—“or Dis-established Church?”
“King-God, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz gravely.
“This fellow then is an apostate priest, nicht wahr?”
The sergeant noticed the movement of one of the sentry moustaches. A
twitch of the lips recognized his superior’s pleasantry.
“Ja, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and regarded idly
the dumb figure on the floor against the wall.
“We must have the Wongolo country, c’est entendu. Now what’s your opinion
of the method, sergeant?”
“With due deference, Excellence,” responded Sergeant Schultz, “I propose
that we advance and bring them to subjection in the usual manner.”
Zu Pfeiffer fingered a ring and stared out into the yellow glare.
“Nein,” he said at length, meditatively, removed the cigar from his lips
and delicately knocked off the ash. “Circumstances alter cases. That
method is too expensive. Son Altesse cannot afford the blood of the
Fatherland in return for such ignoble carcasses. We—the price paid in the
Herrero campaign was insupportable.”
“Pardon, Excellence, but Treitschke said——”
“I know, sergeant. But Treitschke did not live in Central Africa.”
“True, Excellence.”
“Die Schweinhünde Engländer have had more experience than we have. Even a
fool learns wisdom by experience—sometimes.”
“True, Excellence.”
Again fell a silence save for the buzz of the persistent fly.
“Also psychological research is more valuable than artillery—sometimes—in
spite of Napoleon and Treitschke.” Zu Pfeiffer glanced at the sergeant
who, beneath the mask of his features, appeared shocked. “Blasphemy, nicht
wahr, sergeant?”
“If your Excellence thinks——”
“But remember if Napoleon invented the science of artillery, we invented
psychology.”
“True, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smiled complacently and stroked his moustaches.
“Now for this animal here. Who and what was he?”
“One of the principal witch-doctors, Excellence, wealthy and powerful. He
attempted to overthrow the Chief Witch-doctor, one Bakahenzie, and was
discredited.”
“How discredited?”
“He attempted some form of magic, Excellence, which failed. Details are
not given.”
“Who gave the dossier?”
“Ali ben Hassan, Excellence.”
“From whom did he get his information?”
“Name given as one Yabolo, another witch-doctor and relative.”
“This Saka—Saka”—zu Pfeiffer glanced at the document—“Sakamata. Is he in
communication with this Yabolo?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smoked reflectively.
“When did the last agent come in?”
“But yesterday, Excellence.”
“And no report of any other white men in the country? No British
missionaries or traders?”
“Nein, Excellence.”
“Where is Saunders?”
“On Lake Kivu.”
“No report?”
“Not since the last three months ago, Excellence.”
“Umph!—Now, pay attention.” Schultz leaned forward dutifully. Zu Pfeiffer
unrolled a map on the wall beside him. “Here’s Ingonya. The Wongolo
country is twenty days’ march from here, but across the lake it’s twenty
hours with the launch, and five days from there.” The delicate finger-nail
indicated a spot on the opposite side of the lake. “From here—what’s the
place? Ach—Timballa. To hell with the British boundary! We must not give
them time to get the news. Always rush the seat of government. Surprise
them and they’re done.”
“But, Excellence, Treitschke says regarding retreat——”
“There will be no retreat. At MFunya MPopo’s is the idol, the fetish. We
destroy it and they’re done!” He brought down his fist with a crash on the
table. “Faith unites a people; in unity is strength. Break the faith and
you’ve broken the people.”
“But, Excellence!” exclaimed the Lutheran sergeant, aghast.
Zu Pfeiffer’s blue eyes hardened.
“Understand, you fool, these are savages. _You_ have an abstract
deity—which you cannot break in the concrete—obviously: they have a
concrete god which we can and shall smash.”
“Excellence, you are right,” said the sergeant humbly.
Zu Pfeiffer flicked cigar ash from his sleeve and lolled back.
“Those are your orders. Commandeer the necessary canoes and notify Ludwig
to have the men in readiness for the full moon. Work out the details and
give them to me to-morrow.”
“Ja, Excellence.” Schultz stood to attention. “But, Excellence, this
creature——”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced casually at Sakamata.
“Oh, that? Take it away!”
Schultz saluted smartly and wheeled about.
“Njoo!” he commanded sharply.
Sakamata rose up quietly and disappeared through the door without glancing
to the right or the left.
“The Court awaits your Excellence,” reminded the sergeant.
As zu Pfeiffer nodded languidly, a booted foot clopped on the verandah.
“Wa da?” queried Sergeant Schultz, startled at the intrusion of a
stranger.
“Oh, only I,” responded a soft voice in English.
Through the screen door a tall figure in a Tirai hat was silhouetted in
sepia against the yellow glare. A brown hand pushed open the door.
“Mon nom est Birnier, Gerald Birnier—er—Does any one speak English?”
Zu Pfeiffer, in the act of rising, sank back into the chair, placing his
left leg in a favourite position and selecting a cigar simultaneously.
“Yes,” said he, almost without accent. “What do you want?”
“I wish to see the—the Herr Kommandant.”
Zu Pfeiffer struck a match without looking up.
“I am he.”
One hand upon the open door, Birnier stroked his shaven chin perplexedly
with the other. He glanced from the sergeant, standing rigidly by the
table, to the lieutenant engaged in stoking his cigar to a nicety.
“Well, it’s usual to invite a white man to sit down, isn’t it?” suggested
Birnier, with a note of irritation.
Zu Pfeiffer looked across the table.
“Nein. This is the Orderly Room; not a general office.”
“Oh, I see. I beg your pardon!” There was a note of laughter in the voice.
“Will you kindly instruct me where I am to apply?”
Zu Pfeiffer continued to regard the stranger from head to foot, smoking
slowly.
“Please to come in,” he said at length, gesturing with his cigar, “and sit
down.”
“Thanks so much!”
The trace of irony seemed to escape zu Pfeiffer. He gave a guttural order
to the sergeant, who saluted and disappeared. The stranger placed his
Tirai hat on the table, revealing rumpled brown hair flecked with grey, a
high white forehead, and long features; the slight stoop of the shoulders
and general carriage rather suggested a professional type than a hunter or
trader. He regarded the slim figure staring insolently at him with a
hardening look of disapproval.
“What is it you wish?”
“Well, principally I require an elephant licence and the usual permit to
trade.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Kivu country.”
Zu Pfeiffer regarded his cigar tip interestedly.
“You are going to the Wongolo country,” he stated.
Birnier’s mouth tightened.
“Quite possibly.”
“You have been to the Wongolo country already?”
“Yes, I have been there, but what has that to do with it?”
“We know all about you,” stated zu Pfeiffer coldly, twiddling his cigar
between slender fingers. He glanced at a gold repeater. “Pardon, but I
must request you to return later. The Court is already awaiting me.”
Birnier frowned slightly. “If you will be so good as to return at, let us
say, five o’clock, I will be pleased to listen to your application.”
Birnier rose, taking his hat.
“Certainly,” he said curtly. “Good morning!”
Zu Pfeiffer watched him depart; then he struck the bell sharply. Sergeant
Schultz appeared, a line of nervous expectancy upon his sallow face.
“Why have you not reported that man’s arrival?” demanded zu Pfeiffer
harshly.
“Excellence,” returned Schultz, saluting, “he has but arrived within the
hour in a launch, loaned to him by the Engländer.”
“Ach! An English spy!”
“I do not know, Excellence.”
“We ought to know. Why have you not a report of the man’s movements? He
admits that he has been in the Wongolo country.”
“Excellence, it is already done.” Schultz hurriedly searched a card index
cabinet and handed a document to the lieutenant. “There is Saunders’
report, Excellence; more than six months old.”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced at the page indicated and began to read while the
sergeant stood stiffly at attention.
“You may go, sergeant,” announced zu Pfeiffer without looking up. Schultz
saluted and departed. Zu Pfeiffer finished the report leisurely, put down
the paper, and stared meditatively.
No, he decided, as he rose, all the English are spies.
CHAPTER 2
Like a topaz set in a jade ring was the city of the Snake, the place of
Kings, a village of some eight hundred huts huddled upon a slight rise
above a sea of banana fronds, some two hundred miles to the west of
Ingonya.
On the summit was a large conical hut like an enormous candle snuffer, the
dwelling place of Usakuma, the spirit of the Snake, whose name was
forbidden to all save the Priest-God and Rain Maker, King MFunya MPopo,
who was so holy that after succeeding to the sacred office he was doomed
to live within the compound, even as were the Kings of Eutopia, Sheba and
China, a celibate for the remainder of his life: for, as the incarnation
of the Idol, Usakuma, and therefore the controller of the Heavens and the
Earth, his body must be kept from all danger of witchcraft lest the rains
cease and the blue skies fall.
From the compound, looking towards the north-west where the snow-capped
Gamballagalla rose violet against the horizon, another brown cone peeped
above the green fronds, the late residence, and now the tomb of King
MKoffo, predecessor of MFunya MPopo. For where a King-God dies there is he
buried, he and his wives after him; the site becomes holy ground, a place
of pilgrimage and sanctuary.
In each of the small huts to the rear of the temple of MFunya MPopo, but
outside the sacred enclosure, lived his wives who, although forbidden to
their husband, were permitted a royal promiscuity. Just within the
precincts was a small replica of the temple where dwelt a young chief,
also bound to celibacy, whose duties were to keep the royal fire burning
as long as the king should reign. No one was allowed to converse with the
king, save on matters of state, except this man; through him was spoken
the royal will—what there was left of it—to the council which sat in a
long rectangular building opposite to the temple entrance and open to the
village, a body of witch-doctors and chiefs.
Solely the kingly office existed as a beneficent agent, a matter of
self-preservation on the part of the tribe. The King-God’s functions were
divine; to make magic for the victory of his warriors and principally to
make rain, on which, of course, the alimentary needs of his subjects
depended—an incarnation of a god who was in reality the scapegoat of the
god’s omissions.
The office was hereditary. Perhaps no one else would willingly accept such
an onerous post. The making of magic was performed before the god with the
assistance of the chief witch-doctor, an exceedingly lucrative post won
upon merit, occupied by one Bakahenzie, a tall muscular man in the prime
of life, whose bearing was that of the native autocrat, fierce and
remorseless. The King’s personal wishes could be safely granted as long as
he did not endanger the existence of the people by a desire to break any
of the meshes of the tabus designed to ensure the safety of his sacred
body, and therefore that of the tribe, on the assumption that if the
incarnation were injured the god would be injured, and so would his
creations be affected: any infringement of these laws entailed the penalty
of death, a code which revealed the native logic in the confusion of cause
and effect, the concrete and the abstract.
In the door of a hut on the outskirts of the village squatted a wizened
man with a tuft of grey beard upon his chin. He was clad in a loin-cloth
fairly clean, and about his neck was suspended by a twisted fibre an
amulet wrapped in banana leaves containing the gall and toenail of an
enemy slain by a virgin warrior, a specific against black magic whose
powerful properties were proven by the undisputed influence and wealth of
the owner.
A tall lithe savage, bearing upon his arms and ankles the ivory bracelets
of the royal house and the elephant hair chaplet of the warrior, advanced
leisurely towards him from the banana plantation. Marufa continued to gaze
in rumination at the opposite hut. But as they had not met since the
rising of the sun, he did not fail to make the orthodox greeting at the
exact moment that the chief’s shadow passed in front of him, which Zalu
Zako returned punctiliously, thereby averting an evil omen. As soon as the
young man had passed beyond the next hut appeared in the grove a girl,
modelled like a bronze wood nymph. She wore the tiny girdle of the
unmarried and walked furtively, carrying in her hand a parcel wrapped in
banana leaves. In the shadow of a compound fence she halted, one slender
brown arm set back in apprehension as her eyes followed the lithe figure
of Zalu Zako.
Motionless sat Marufa staring in mystic contemplation. Bakuma glanced
swiftly about her. Apparently satisfied that no one was observing her save
a lean dog and two gollywog children, she continued on as if to pass the
old man, her eyes still ranging like a fawn’s. But when she was beside
Marufa she subsided on her haunches beside him, clutching the bundle as
she whispered:
“Greetings, O wise one!”
“Greeting, daughter,” returned Marufa without lessening the fixity of his
gaze.
“I would talk with thee.”
“Aye.”
Again she glanced around furtively.
“I would talk in thine ear, O my father.”
“The knots of my hair are tied.”
“I thank thee. There’s a fluttering bird in my breast.”
“And a snake around thy heart, O my daughter.”
“Aie-e!”
“The grandson of the snake hath tied thy girdle.”
“Ehh!”
The girl clasped her breast in surprised terror.
“How dost thou know?”
“All things are known to the son of MTungo,” declared Marufa solemnly,
still regarding the opposite wall. “Thou desirest a love charm.… What hast
thou?”
Tremulously Bakuma put down the green package on the ground, darting
terrified glances to right and left. Slowly the skinny hand of the wizard
gently tore open the leaves; very impressively the eyes slanted down to
appraise the stock of blue and white beads.
“The spirit of Tarum hath a big belly,” he announced tonelessly.
“O wise one, intercede for me,” pleaded Bakuma, “for more have I none, I,
Bakuma, daughter of Bakala, a girl of the hut thatch.”
“The true love charm, infallible and powerful, is difficult to obtain, O
Bakuma. The young huntress aims at big game.”
“Ehh! But I have no more, great one!”
“The hair of a rutting leopardess, the liver of a forest rat, the tongue
of a Baroto bird—these must I have to mix with thy blood to be drunk by
thy man when the moon is full.”
“Ehh! Ehh!”
“Such is the magic that no young man can resist.”
“Ehh-h!”
“But these things are difficult to obtain.”
“Aie! Aie!” wailed Bakuma, clasping her hands in despair.
“Difficult to obtain.”
“Aie-e!”
“On the night of the half-moon will I take upon me the leopard form.”
“Ehh!”
“I will talk with the spirits.”
“Ehh! Ehh!”
“But they must be propitiated with the blood of a fat goat.”
“Aie! Aie! But I have no fat goat.”
“If there be no fat goat then will the spirits be wroth with me.”
“Aie-e-e!”
Bakuma sat staring in dismal perplexity.
“No fat goat have I, a girl of the hut thatch! Aie! Aie!”
Marufa fumbled within the loin-cloth and thrust a tiny package along the
ground.
“See and know the power of my magic.” Bakuma greedily snatched up the
amulet. “Begone!” he whispered, jerking the parcel of beads behind him.
“MYalu approaches.”
“Ehh!”
Bakuma rose and fled with the grace of a startled antelope as appeared a
tall, strongly built man, having a low-browed face, across which was a
deep scar. Behind MYalu came two young slaves bearing a small elephant
tusk. Opposite to Marufa the slaves stopped. Their master, careful that
his shadow fell well away from the figure of the magician—for the shadow
is one of the souls, so woe unto him who shall leave his soul in the hands
of an enemy!—squatted gravely.
“Greeting, son of MTungo!”
“Greeting, son of MBusa!” returned Marufa.
Gravely they spat into each other’s palm, the sign of amity as they who
exchange bonds of good behaviour inasmuch, as is well known, magic can be
worked upon that which has been a part of the body as upon the body
itself. Then solemnly they rubbed the spittle upon their respective
chests.
“The spirit of the snake nourisheth not the life of the banana.”
“Nay, for nigh unto two moons hath there been no blood of the snake,”
returned the old man perfunctorily, as he lifted his eyes from a swift
appraisement of the tusk to his favourite mud wall.
“Nay, the crops sprout not. Maybe the Dweller in the Place of the Snake
hath been visited by one from the forest.”
“Aye, but old blood runs not as swiftly as young blood.”
“Nay,” replied MYalu, in answer to the reference to himself, “but the
girdle is not yet tied by another.”
“When the first twig of the nest is laid,” remarked Marufa, indolently
eyeing the tusk, “it is difficult to entice the hen to another tree.”
“Here is a goodly twig with which to tempt spirits of the forest,” and
significantly, “Maybe there are others.”
“A mighty potion shall be prepared for thee, O son of MBusa,” declared
Marufa, moving slightly to conceal the package of beads. “A mighty potion,
infallible; made from the hair of a rutting leopardess, the liver of the
forest rat and the tongue of the Baroto bird; these must she take that she
shall speak thee softly, together with a portion of that which remains
from the ceremony of the lobolo. Infallible is it; never known to fail.”
“Ehh!”
Marufa stared interestedly at a wandering hen. MYalu watched him covertly.
Like bronzes sat the two young slaves. From the distance came a faint
chanting and the beat of a drum.…
“The tusk is here, Marufa,” remarked MYalu casually.
“My eyes see it,” observed Marufa, without altering his observation of the
hen.
“Where then is the potion?”
Marufa glanced at the tusk, appraised it again, and fumbling within his
loin-cloth, thrust another tiny package along the ground. MYalu greedily
picked up the amulet and stared in awe, turning it over and about.
“The tusk,” murmured Marufa.
MYalu gestured to his slaves. They rose and placed the tusk beside the old
man, shuffled backwards and squatted again. After lifting one end to test
the weight, Marufa examined the grain. Then sliding it behind him as if he
wished to sit upon it, remarked:
“The potion must be eaten at the full moon.”
“Ehh!”
MYalu glanced up from an absorbed examination of the amulet.
“And within the quarter shall the fruit be ripe for the plucking.” The
whites of MYalu’s eyes gleamed. “Unless,” continued the old man
uninterestedly, “there be stronger magic made against thee.”
“Ehh!”
The two hands holding the amulet came down.
“If,” explained Marufa, “another hath tied the grasses of her father’s
roof, will there be required a stronger spirit to overcome such magic.”
“But thou hast told me,” expostulated MYalu, regarding the tusk
regretfully, “that this is a mighty magic, powerful and infallible, never
known to fail.”
“Thus is it,” asserted the old man imperturbably, “for all save a stronger
magic.”
MYalu’s eyes wandered from the tusk to Marufa and back. He scowled.
“Why didst thou not tell me?” he demanded sourly, dropping the amulet on
the ground.
“It is for thee to tell the wizard all that thou knowest. How else may he
reckon with thine enemies?”
“Enemy!” exclaimed MYalu. He stared questioningly at Marufa. “Enemy! Dost
thou know whom I seek?”
“Do not all the hens remark the strutting of the cock?” inquired Marufa
unconcernedly, tapping his snuff box.
“Ehh!”
MYalu observed the taking of snuff as if he had never seen the operation
before.
“Ehh!” he remarked again succinctly.
Marufa replaced the cork of twisted leaves, let fall the snuff box made of
rhinoceros horn suspended from his neck by a copper wire, and contemplated
a skinny goat scratching itself violently. MYalu stirred as if to rise,
but subsided, cogitated and said slowly:
“In the house of MYalu are four more tusks.”
“Four more tusks,” repeated Marufa dreamily.
“Bigger than this one,” said MYalu suggestively.
“Bigger than this one.”
“Knowest thou by whom the girdle is tied?”
“By the grandson of the Snake.”
“Ehh!”
MYalu squatted motionless. The old man appeared to doze. Women bearing
gourds of water upon their heads passed in single file, their loins
swaying rhythmically. The shadows dwindled. From close at hand began the
rapid beat of a drum. A stir began through the village as each man herded
his women and slaves to his own hut.
“O Marufa,” said MYalu, speaking with a slight snarl, “hast thou such a
powerful medicine that can surely trap the soul of Zalu Zako when
perchance it wanders (in sleep)?”
“All things are possible to the son of MTungo,” mumbled the old man.
Two chiefs appeared walking through the grove at a middle distance. MYalu
glanced round apprehensively.
“Two tusks will I give thee,” he whispered, “if thou wilt do this thing.”
“Three tusks. No less, for the matter is dangerous.”
“Two, two.”
“Nay.”
The old man stirred to rise.
“Three be it,” gasped MYalu. “But I must see the magic done.”
They rose together.
“Bring me of his toe-nails one paring, of his hair one, and his spittle
and a footprint. Then shalt thou come with me to the sacred grove where
the magic shall be done.”
“Ehh!”
“But the three tusks must be given to Yanoka, my first wife.”
MYalu hesitated.
“Aye, thus shall it be done,” he assented reluctantly.
“It is agreed?” inquired Marufa.
“May my cord be lost!” swore MYalu, and gesturing to the slaves, hurried
away.
A slight grin flecked the old man’s eyes as he turned into the hut.
“Already hath he drunken of her blood,” he mumbled. “Ya, Inkombana! take
the tusk!”
When Marufa emerged, a head-dress of the tail feathers of the green
parrot, professional uniform and potent specific against evil spirits,
fluffed gently as he slowly stalked towards the council house. From the
other side of a hut walked MYalu as if he had come from a different
direction. In the open gate of the royal enclosure sat a muscular young
man upon his haunches, tending the royal fire, which fed hungrily upon
small faggots. Beyond him across the yellow glare upon the cleared ground
beneath a thatched awning, stood an idol of wood, whose lopsided mouth
snarled beneath a bridgeless nose; narrow slits for eyes squinted; baby
arms stuck down beside triangular breasts above a melon belly having a
protuberant navel like a small cucumber—the incarnation of the Snake-god,
Usakuma.
Without the palisade of the sacred ground was a taller one, barring the
doings of the council of witch-doctors and chiefs from the lay public, who
were confined to their own huts under the penalty of a hideous death, or
an enormous fine, as the witch-doctors should decide.
To the rear of the idol, cross-legged against the wall of the entrance to
the conical hut, were the musicians beating a monotonous rhythm upon big
and small drums and twanging a primitive lyre of five strings. Just as
Marufa and MYalu took their respective places without among the wizards
and the chiefs, a young goat skipped into the open and stared
inquisitively at the Keeper of the Fires. As the man waved the animal back
from the sacred ground, the goat lowered its head and threatened to
charge, suddenly recollected its mate lying in the shade a few feet away,
and began to bleat absent-mindedly.
Gravely and silently sat the assembly: continuously throbbed the drums.
The sun beat diagonally. As a lizard darted like a flash of a prism from
the grass palisade, the band ceased. A man emerged from behind the idol.
Although the grey woolly tufts upon his chin, the sacred snake skin around
his waist above the cat skin loin-cloth, the jingle of the ivory bangles
on arms and ankles, and his stature, imparted an air of barbaric royalty,
King MFunya MPopo advanced with the manner of a pariah dog ordered to his
master’s side.
As the King approached, the Keeper of the Fires hastily threw on a handful
of faggots and bowed his head. In the centre of the opening of the
enclosure the King squatted down with his back to the fire which streamed
blue smoke. Not a limb or a muscle moved among the group of wizards and
chiefs in the council house. Attracted by the movement, the goat stopped
bleating and stared at the King; then, putting down its head, charged him.
With a horrified click, the Keeper of the Fires sprang. But he was not
swift enough to prevent the impact of the animal’s horns with the royal
arm thrust out in self-defence. Three young chiefs came running; one
caught up the goat and carried it away bleating bellicosely; the others
knelt, and while one carefully collected a gout of blood upon the King’s
forearm in a piece of banana leaf, his companion wiped the wound. When
they were satisfied that the bleeding had ceased, the pieces were
meticulously wrapped in another leaf and borne away by the Keeper of the
Fires to be deposited in the temple: for as every man knows, the royal
blood must not be spilt upon the ground lest the site be accursed for ever
and like the tooth of the dragon of Colchis, arise from the spot ghostly
warriors to annihilate the tribe.
Neither upon the face of any of the elders nor upon the features of MFunya
MPopo, the King, had a muscle moved. Yet the incident was regarded as an
evil omen.… Then suddenly did Bakahenzie, the chief witch-doctor, plumed
with a tall scarlet feather in addition to the green ones and a necklace
of finger bones upon his bronze chest, who sat in the centre with Kawa
Kendi, the King’s son upon his right, and Zalu Zako, the grandson, upon
his left, begin to chant in a high wailing voice to the rapid rhythm of
the drums:
“Is there not a shadow come over the land?
The frown of the One-not-to-be-mentioned?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen it! have seen it!”
And from the group within the council house, immobile, came the bass
chorus of assent:
“Ough! Ough!”
“Is there not a dry curse come over the land?
Is it not the hot breath of the soul of the Snake?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen it! have seen it!”
“Ough! Ough!”
“Where is the false spirit that hath sinned in the act?
He that hath sinned in the shade of the name?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen him! have seen him!”
“Ough! Ough!”
“Does not the keen sting of him scorch up the land?
Hath not the young bread of our bellies been slain?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen it! have seen it!”
“Ough! Ough!”
The throb of the drums grew faster. Bakahenzie leaped from the crowd.
Immediately in front of the King he began to dance and to scream:
“Is the Burden too great for the Guard of the Name?
Aie! Aie!
Hath the Bearer, too, fumbled the weight of the World?
Aie! Aie!
Is His spirit bewitched by the soul of a girl?
Aie! Aie!
Hath His magical power been slain by the sin?
Aie! Aie!
Hath a prophet made words in the act of a goat?
Aie! Aie!
Does a saviour in hairs thirst the blood of a King?
Aie! Aie!
Shall we hearken, O Chiefs, to the wish of the One?
Aie! Aie!
Or be shrivelled and die in the drought of His wrath?
Aie! Aie!”
Kawa Kendi, a man in early middle age, powerful and lithe-limbed, sat as
motionless as the King, his father, staring, as did all, with the fixed
stare of the anagogic.
Abruptly the drums ceased. Again came a hot silence as Bakahenzie paused
in front of MFunya MPopo. Then with a piercing yell, the witch-doctor spun
on his toes. The drums broke into an hysterical rhythm. Bakahenzie leaped
high in the air; whirled around and around screaming hoarsely; leaped and
spun continually.
The chiefs and doctors began to grunt; continued in crescendo until the
whole body throbbed and grunted to the rhythm of the drums. Yet immobile
sat MFunya MPopo.
Suddenly Bakahenzie changed the erratic course of his wild dance. He
whirled and screamed in front of the King and fell headlong, as if in a
fit, with eyes injected and foam upon the black tufts of beard. Bakahenzie
clutched his belly and began to howl like a hyena at the moon. The drums
stopped. Howl and writhe did Bakahenzie as if a thousand fiends were
tearing out his entrails.
He lay rigid. The air seemed to quiver. The lines of every man’s limbs,
except the King’s, were drawn in tension. Then from the prostrate body of
the witch-doctor, whose legs and arms were twisted as in agony, whose
dribbling mouth was closed like a vise, came a ventriloquous falsetto:
“Aie-e! Aie-e! I am the spirit of Kintu!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I am he who first was!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I am the banana from whom I was made!
Aie-e! Aie-e! The Keeper of the Name hath betrayed me!
Aie-e! Aie-e! The Bride of me is defiled!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let him arise who is pure!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let him arise who is bidden!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let the fires be put out!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let a new fire arise from the ashes!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I have spoken, I, the Father of men!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I, Tarum, the soul of your ancestors!”
From the assembly came the belly grunt of acceptance. In silence rose Kawa
Kendi, the heir-apparent. His face was as expressionless as his father’s.
He stepped around the body of Bakahenzie and across the open space
followed by a young man, Kingata Mata. Ten feet away from the enclosure,
Kingata Mata sank upon his haunches. Before MFunya MPopo squatted his son.
They spat each in the other’s hand and swallowed the spittle. Then the
head of Kawa Kendi bent to the lips of MFunya MPopo to receive the sacred
Name.
In unison with Kawa Kendi rose Kingata Mata, who to him handed a cord of
twisted bark. Bending behind the King, who remained motionless with the
closed eyes of one already dead, Kingata Mata swiftly adjusted the cord
and handed it back to the son, Kawa Kendi.…
When the muscular young Keeper of the Fires had poured solemnly a gourd of
water upon the royal fire of MFunya MPopo, he knelt submissively and was
strangled beside his master.…
From the assembly went up a great shout:
“The fire is put out!”
And from the village, listening in awe to the mighty doings, came like an
echo:
“The fire is put out! Aie! Aie-e!”
Then shouted the elders and wizards:
“Let there be a new fire!”
Again came the wailing repetition from the village:
“Let there be a new fire!”
As in the Place of Fires was kindled a new fire by Kingata Mata with two
sacred sticks, one of which is male and the other female, the assembled
chiefs and magicians groaned in allegiance to the new King-God of the
unmentionable spirit of the Snake, Usakuma, the Idol.
CHAPTER 3
At five-thirty zu Pfeiffer was stretched in the long Bombay chair in the
coolest portion of the screened verandah. On the table beside him was a
tall glass, a decanter of cognac and a box of cigars; and suspended from
the roof swung a canvas bag of water with a syphon attachment. A gape fly,
which somehow had gotten through the screen, hit the lieutenant’s
forehead, fell on to the book and whirred up against the wire.
“Ach, Gott verdammt!” exclaimed zu Pfeiffer irritably and shouted: “Ho,
Bakunja—la.” Instantly appeared the tall negro in white. “You son of a
god! Look at that!”
Bakunjala looked, leaped, and caught the fly in his hand.
“Ow!” he exclaimed as the hornet stung him.
“Ach, you woman of shame, catch it instantly!”
Without hesitation Bakunjala made another grab, and clutching the fly
tightly, made to open the screen door.
“Halt!” commanded the lieutenant.
Bakunjala obeyed.
Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man standing with the wasp sting buried in his
palm with a slight smile of amusement.
“It hurts?” he inquired amiably.
“Indio, Bwana!” asserted Bakunjala.
“Good! Now stop there.”
Motionless remained the negro. Zu Pfeiffer leisurely selected a fresh
cigar, lighted it, stoked it, and inhaling smoke stroked his left
moustache.
“It still hurts?”
“Indio, Bwana!” said Bakunjala with a high note in his voice.
“Splendid!” assured the lieutenant: and after a full minute added: “Now
you may go. And remember if you are frightened of a fly’s pain again I
will give you twenty lashes.”
“Indio, Bwana,” answered Bakunjala humbly and departed swiftly with the
hornet in his clenched fist. Zu Pfeiffer smiled, again stared reflectively
at the violet shadows creeping lazily across the square, sipped some
brandy and picking up his book, began to read.…
“Excellence!”
Zu Pfeiffer frowned and looked round. Outside the screen stood Sergeant
Schultz at the salute. Zu Pfeiffer nodded.
“Well?”
“Excellence,” said the sergeant at attention, “the Englishman is here.”
“Ach, tell him to go——” The lieutenant drew out his gold chronometer. “It
is my bath time. I cannot see him.”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Wait.” Zu Pfeiffer withdrew his legs and rose. “Ach, tell the fool to
come over here and wait till I have had my bath.”
“Excellence!” agreed the sergeant and saluting, marched away. Zu Pfeiffer
entered the bungalow. Across the square came Birnier with the sergeant who
ushered him into the screened portion of the verandah.
“His Excellence gom bresently,” said the sergeant and left him.
Birnier put his Tirai hat on the table, and seeing no other, sat in the
Bombay chair; looked about him; idly examined the brand on the box of
cigars and smiled. “Makes himself mighty comfortable,” he remarked to
himself. “Pity he appears such a boor.” He glanced at the book on the
armchair. _Allgemeine Geschichte der Philosophie_ von Prof. Dr. Paul
Deussen. “And a philosopher, eh!” Having little German he turned away and
lighted his pipe. After a while he began to fidget, wondering how long he
was to be kept waiting. “Damn the fellow!” he muttered and picked up one
of the books on the table, _Les Ba-Rongas_, par A. Junod, opened it at
random and began to read.
The shadows of one bungalow reached the verandah on the opposite side of
the square. And still he read on, the dead pipe in his hand. Just as the
twilight was snuffed out like a candle, a sharp step heralded the arrival
of the lieutenant. Birnier rose, the book in his hand.
“Good evening, sir!”
“Good evening,” responded zu Pfeiffer, who was in an undress uniform of
white. “What is it that you require?”
“Well,” said Birnier, “first of all I must apologise for using your chair
and reading your book. Most interesting, by the way.”
“That is nothing,” said zu Pfeiffer as Bakunjala came in with a lamp and a
chair. “Please to be seated.”
“Thank you.”
Birnier took the small chair and the lieutenant the Bombay.
“I—er I—am sorry that I disturbed you this morning,” began Birnier
diffidently. “But I did not know——”
“That is nothing. It was the fault of the sentry. He should not have
allowed you to pass.”
“Regarding my application for the licence, Herr Lieutenant?”
“I regret,” said zu Pfeiffer coldly, using a cigar cutter, “that I am
unable to grant you the licence you ask.”
“You cannot grant me a trading or shooting licence?”
“I regret, no.”
Birnier stared.
“May I inquire why I am refused?”
“You may. We do not wish undesirables in the country.”
“Undesirables!” Birnier’s lips tightened. “I am afraid that I do not
understand you.” The lieutenant was engaged in carefully stoking his
cigar. “Will you kindly afford me a reason for—for such an insulting
remark?”
Zu Pfeiffer blew smoke luxuriously. Birnier stared for a moment, stuck his
pipe in his mouth and bit the stem; removed it and snapped:
“You can have no adequate reason for such action.… If you intend to
continue this ridiculous farce I shall be compelled to make a complaint
through Washington.”
“Washington?” Zu Pfeiffer removed one leg from the chair-rest and the
cigar from his mouth. “You are an American?”
“I am.”
“So? We understood that you were an English agent. You have papers?”
“Certainly. If you wish——”
“We do not demand. No. My agent was wrong. He shall be punished.” Then in
an amiable voice: “I, too, have been a long time in America. Please to
have a cigar, Mr. Birnier.”
Birnier hesitated, puzzled.
“Thank you,” he said diffidently, selected one, bit off the end and spat
it into the corner. Zu Pfeiffer shuddered delicately; but as Birnier
lighted his cigar he studied his face in the glow of the match; noted the
breadth of the jaw, the width between the eyes and the slightly hard line
at the corner of the mouth.
“And forgive me!” Zu Pfeiffer shouted to Bakunjala. “I presume that you
have been in Africa a long time,” he continued.
“Some ten years.”
“You do find the Wongolo country interesting?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You were there long?”
“No, I had been two years in the Congo and passed through on my way to
Uganda to refit.”
“Ach. You permit me? You are mining?”
“No.” Birnier smiled thinly. “I have a professorial job in the American
Museum of Natural History, Anthropological department.”
“Professor! Ach!” Zu Pfeiffer looked at him interestedly.
“Yes. That is why I was so absorbed in _Les Ba-Rongas_ which I found here.
You are interested in anthropology?”
“Ach, yes, I love to study the animals. I have a library—a small one,
here. You must see it.”
“Thank you.”
“You were studying the animals’ ways and how d’you call it?—das
Volkskündliches—in Wongolo?”
“Yes. I do nothing else.”
“So?” Bakunjala arrived with fresh glasses and vermouth. “Which do you
prefer, French or Italian, Herr Professor?”
“French, please.”
“You will dine with me, please?”
“That is very kind of you, Lieutenant.” Birnier gazed quizzically, rather
amused at the complete change of manner. Quite charming when he likes, he
reflected.
“From what part do you come, Herr Professor?” inquired zu Pfeiffer as he
set down his glass.
“Oh, I’m a Southerner. Louisiana. My name is French, you know.”
“Ach so? Che les aimes, les Français. Les femmes sont adorables!”
“Oui, je les trouve comme ça!” agreed Birnier, smiling. “Ma femme est
française.”
“So? … I, too, Professor, I am in love with a Française. She is wonderful!
superbe! Ach, ent zückend!” The lieutenant gazed into the warm darkness.
“Always I see her—in the darkness, the—chaleur—parmis les animaux.” In the
glow of the lamp, the blue eyes were soft, the feminine lips curved in a
tender smile as he murmured:
“Die Jahre kommen und gehen,
Geschlechter steigen ins Grab,
Doch nimmer vergeht die Liebe,
Die ich im Herzen hab!
Nur einmal noch möcht ich dich sehen,
Und sinken vor dir aufs Knie
Und sterbend zu dir sprechen:
‘Madam, ich liebe Sie!’ ”
“Thank you,” said Birnier quietly. “I, too, would say that.”
“Ach, sprechen Sie Deutsch?” demanded zu Pfeiffer quickly.
“No, unfortunately I don’t speak it, but I understand a little; and
particularly Heine.”
“Ach, Gott!”
The note was of satisfaction. A gong sounded. Zu Pfeiffer turned sharply:
“Come, Herr Professor, let us go to dinner. You would wish to wash?”
The bungalow, unusually lofty, was divided into three compartments. The
ceiling, made of stout white calico, to shelter from snakes and the
continual dust from the wood borers, was suspended from the rafters like
the roof of a marquee tent. The centre room was furnished with cane lounge
chairs like a smoking-room and decorated with skins, native musical
instruments, spears and shields; drums served as small tables with
elephant’s toe-nails for ash trays.
In the bedroom was a brass bedstead and mosquito net. Behind was a
bathroom having a corrugated cistern upon the cross beams which gave force
for a shower. The towels and appointments were specklessly clean. When
Birnier appeared he found zu Pfeiffer sprawled in the lounge. On a red
lacquer tray upon a great war drum, covered with the striped skin of a
zebra, was a crystal liqueur set and a large silver box of Egyptian
cigarettes.
“Ach, Professor,” said he, “it is good to speak to a white man again” (by
which he meant an equal). “Please be seated, I beg you. A little liqueur
is good for the aperitif and a cigarette; for there is no time for another
cigar.”
As Birnier sat he remarked the blonde head of the lieutenant in his
meticulous uniform touched with gold and caught a glimpse of the jewelled
bracelet of ivory and the Chinese finger-nail.
Another summons of the gong brought zu Pfeiffer to his feet. As he led his
guest out through the side verandah along a screened porch to the mess
room, built away from the main building to keep away the plague of flies,
a native girl whose close-wrapped white robes revealed a lithe figure,
flitted through a doorway. The table was set in immaculate linen, aglitter
with glass and decorated with a profusion of wild orchids. Behind the
chairs stood two negroes in spotless white, immobile. On each plate were
hors d’œuvres of anchovy and cheese upon a patterned piece of toast.
Salted almonds, sweets, and olives were in green china; wine glasses of
three kinds. Broiled fish followed the soup.
“So, Professor,” remarked the lieutenant, “you will go back some day to
Wongolo?”
“Yes, I—unless I discover some tribe who have a more interesting system
of—er—theology.”
“They are a powerful tribe, nicht wahr?”
“Oh yes, very. Their system ensures unity which provides for concerted
action. Here I believe it is different.”
“Yes, yes; they are poor here. Each village was at war with the
other—before we came. Their superstitions are not—how would you say it?”
“Systematised?”
“Yes. They have neither any supreme chief nor god. There you see,” he
added, smiling, “that autocracy is the only form of government.
Democracy—pah! … I apologise, Professor!”
“Please don’t,” replied Birnier, “although of course I cannot agree with
you.”
“But the Wongolo, they have a god and king?”
“Yes, the King-Priest system. One of the most interesting I have ever
encountered or read of.”
“You did see the King-God, MFunya MPopo?”
“Oh no. He is forbidden to be seen by a foreigner—a similar law to that of
the Medes; only by the witch-doctors—and by the people once a year at a
harvest festival. That is why I intend to go back. It is impossible to
procure reliable statistics of their customs, practices and real beliefs
without—without winning their confidence. That is my mission.”
“I do not longer wonder, Herr Professor, that you were most justly
annoyed. Ach, yes. But please do not worry about your ridiculous licence.
It is not necessary in my jurisdiction, I assure you. You may come and go
as you please, shoot what you wish. I will always be so glad to help so
distinguished a professor.”
“I thank you very much.”
“It is nothing. And perhaps when you are there, you will be so kind as to
write to me? To tell me things that are not known—so that I may, too,
continue to study the animals—again what is it? das Volkskündliches?”
“Folk-lore, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Please to have some more wine, Herr Professor. Please, I insist. It
is the real Mumm. That is a promise? I thank you. And if—— Were there any
others—whites—when you were there?”
“Only one.”
“Where was he, I wonder?”
“On the southern boundary.”
“Near lake Kivu?”
“Yes.”
“Saunders,” muttered zu Pfeiffer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was nothing, but I do not like to have—aliens in my province. They
are—missionaries and traders—spies.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, it is always so. Herr Professor, I ask you a favour. Will you be so
kind as to write to me if some other white comes into the Wongolo
country?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Birnier.… “Do you intend to come there some
day, Herr Lieutenant?”
“Ach, no, it is not—not our territory; although I should very much like to
see it and to shoot. There is much elephant there?”
“Oh yes, quantities.”
“Please to try some of this curried egg, Herr Professor. It is excellent,
I assure you. I thank you.… And rubber, is there much rubber there?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Now I wonder if you noticed whether it was tree or vine?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Birnier smiled thinly. “I am not interested in
such things.”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced at him keenly and changed the subject. When they had
finished the best boned chicken that Birnier had ever tasted in Africa, zu
Pfeiffer rose.
“Let us go to my study, Herr Professor, if you so permit, for some coffee
and a little good port—and I will have the pleasure to show you my little
library.”
“I should be delighted,” assented Birnier willingly.
Around the white walls of the cool room which was zu Pfeiffer’s study, ran
low bookshelves made of native wood, containing some hundreds of volumes
which had been carried five hundred miles on the heads of porters. Grass
mats and leopard skins were upon the floor. In the centre, upon a heavy
table, was a green shaded lamp set in a silver-mounted elephant’s foot.
Upon the bookcases were various odd curios, and a coffee service in
copper; and from opposite sides, marbles of Bismarck and Voltaire stared
into each other’s eyes. On the south wall was a large oil of Kaiser
Wilhelm II; and in the centre of the other wall a photograph of a woman
set in an ivory frame made from a section of a tusk.
Zu Pfeiffer strove to be more agreeable than ever. They talked mythology
and folklore. With the port, zu Pfeiffer rose, an erect martial figure
above the glow of the lamp.
“Herr Professor!” he remarked. “I beg you.”
Slightly bewildered, Birnier rose, too, glass in hand. Wheeling with
military precision zu Pfeiffer raised his glass to the great portrait on
the wall.
“Ihre Hochheit!”
Politely Birnier followed suit, his democratic ideas slightly astonished
at the veneration of the kingly office; almost, he reflected, as curious
as the native superstition of the King-God. Then zu Pfeiffer turned to the
left and lifting his glass to the portrait in the ivory frame, drank
silently.
“I was wondering, Professor,” remarked he, as he resumed his seat without
explanation, “from what college—you call it?—you come?”
“Harvard,” said Birnier, rather amused and noticing that as a true
connoisseur, zu Pfeiffer refrained from smoking while drinking his port.
“I have met many of the Harvard men—at Washington.”
“Ah, you know Washington?”
“Yes, I was there nearly two years.”
Zu Pfeiffer drained his port, selected a cigar, lighted it and gazed
abstractedly towards the ivory frame. The lips softened and he smiled
gently.
“Do you know many people there?”
“Oh, a few.”
“Ach … I wonder.… You must know that I met her there, my divine Lucille!”
“Lucille! How strange! That is my wife’s name too.”
“Really?” Zu Pfeiffer still peered dreamily at the corner. He gathered up
his legs and rose like an eager boy. “Permit me, Herr Professor, she is
so—so——” He bent over the portrait and struck a match. Politely Birnier
stooped to look. He saw a portrait of a French woman in an evening gown, a
woman of charm with the vivacious eyes and tempting mouth of the coquette.
“My God!”
Birnier bent closer and stared intently. Across the corner of the
photograph were written in ink in familiar characters the words: ‘à toi,
Lucille.’
“Lucille!” he gasped. “Lu—Good God!” He stood up abruptly. “I—What in
God’s name—who is this woman?”
The match fell to the floor. He was vaguely conscious of the tall white
figure stiffening as a dog does.
“That lady is my fiancée.”
“Fiancée! She—Good God, you’re mad! She is my wife!”
“Wife!… Gott verdampf, der Teufel solls holen! Das ist der Schweinhünd!”
The gutturals exploded from zu Pfeiffer. The sleeve of his white jacket
quivered, the arm came up to the gold braided chest and jerked out a
silver whistle. He hesitated, glaring at the astonished figure of Birnier.
Suddenly zu Pfeiffer sat down by the table. His blue eyes were as hard as
malachite.
“Sit down!” he commanded harshly.
Birnier did not appear to notice him. He struck a match and bent over the
photograph again.
“Good God!” he muttered. “I—I—don’t understand—O God!”
“Sit down!” shouted zu Pfeiffer. Birnier merely blinked at him.
“Would you mind explaining?” demanded Birnier.
“Explain!… Is your wife Mademoiselle Lucille Charltrain?”
“Why, of course. That is her professional name. But how on earth has this
mistake happened? I—I—that is her writing—but it can’t be. I mean it’s
impossible.…” Birnier put his hand to his head. “I—God, it can’t be! I or
you must be mad! Which is——”
A prolonged whistle startled him. He saw the whistle at zu Pfeiffer’s
lips, but the act conveyed no meaning. He turned away, struck another
match and peered again at the photograph.
“Lucille! Lucille!” he whispered. “What on earth——”
A powerful clutch closed upon his arm. He was whirled backwards into a
chair. For a moment he was too dazed to grasp what had happened. He saw zu
Pfeiffer’s face. The sentries over his moustaches quivered like a row of
fixed bayonets. The eyes seemed needle points. Then the fact of the
assault penetrated beyond the unprecedented incident of finding his wife’s
photograph in another man’s room. The ugly line about the mouth hardened.
He rose slowly.
“Am I to understand that you have laid your hands upon your guest?” he
began, stuttering over the choice of words. “I am—I am——”
The scuffle of many feet interrupted him. Into the room rushed Sergeant
Schultz and several soldiers. Zu Pfeiffer stood up and pointed.
“Sergeant, arrest that man!” he barked.
“Ja, Excellence!”
The sergeant saluted and barked at the askaris. Birnier gazed stupidly at
the uniforms around him as if unable to comprehend. He looked at zu
Pfeiffer who stood erect, his face lost in shadow above the lamp, and back
at the soldiers.
“Is this a joke, Lieutenant—or are you mad?” he demanded angrily.
“Sergeant, put that man in the guard-room,” zu Pfeiffer commanded.
Zu Pfeiffer sat down with his back to Birnier and facing the photograph.
Birnier’s face twitched; he raised his arm. The sergeant barked and the
line of bayonets lowered menacingly.
“You gom with me, Herr American,” ordered the sergeant.
Birnier controlled himself.
“One moment, sergeant, please! Herr Lieutenant, on what charge do you
arrest me?” The perfect lines of the white-clad back did not quiver. “Very
good! I give you warning, Herr Lieutenant, that you have committed an
assault upon an American citizen.”
“Gom! Gom!” insisted the sergeant impatiently.
Birnier raised his head and walked as indicated by the sergeant. As the
footsteps plodded across the square zu Pfeiffer turned to the table,
examining his left hand.
“Ach!” he growled gutturally, “the dirty pig has broken my nail!”
CHAPTER 4
Over the city of the Snake the sun sank red dry, leaving the Place of
Kings hot in the electric air of magic and world happenings. The people
were still confined to their huts, trembling in the knowledge that for
three days love must be eschewed, no water drawn nor any food cooked with
fire; nor might any man, woman or child leave the precincts of the
compound.
All the night Bakuma crouched in her hut listening in awe to the swish of
the ghosts through the air, to the moans, groans and howls of the wizards
doing battle with them. Tightly did she hold the amulet as she strove to
conceal curiosity regarding the welfare of Zalu Zako; for did her mother
suspect the presence of this evil spirit would she cause Bakuma to take a
decoction of the castor-oil plant in order that the demon might be
expelled; and the more to aid her conquer this unlawful impulse to peep
without did she most persistently recite to herself the fate of the
daughter of MTasa, the foolish Tangulbala whose body had been discovered
impaled upon a tree by the angry spirits of the dead, because she had
rashly ventured forth the third day after the death of the grandfather of
Zalu Zako. Bakuma dared not mention the name of one who had died, for, as
everybody knows, such an impious person runs the risk of summoning the
ghosts to their presence.
The “putting out of the fire” had changed Bakuma’s prospects, had made
Zalu Zako heir-apparent, implying half a hundred responsibilities, the
chief of which was that now he was compelled to choose his official first
wife, she who would be the mother of the “divine” Son of the Snake: an
alteration that excited Bakuma to frantic clutching at the amulet. Would
the charm work or would it not? How to insure that it would be
efficacious? Marufa’s greedy demands worried her. She feared even if she
obtained the goat that he might require something else as well. Anybody
knows how greedy doctors are and how wealthy. He would be sure to increase
the fee, knowing the value of the prize. Bakuma only possessed one really
valuable article, and that was a charm against sterility; but this was the
last thing that she wished to part with as the only possible occurrence
that could ever divorce her from the position of chief wife, once she had
won Zalu Zako, would be failure to provide the male heir. She was
impatient, too, at the delay caused by the three days’ tabu. Time was
important. Soon she would be under the ban of the unclean which entailed
the curtailment of her liberty again, and she dreaded that possibly the
charm might grow stale. The greatest need for speed was MYalu’s suit. As
her father was dead she belonged to his brother. Already MYalu had offered
four tusks of ivory and three oxen for her. Her uncle was lazy, mean, and
greedy. Fortunately he thought that by waiting he could get double that
amount. Yet MYalu might decide to pay the price demanded. Once Zalu Zako
had selected her as his bride, her uncle dared not accept any other man’s
offer, no matter how wealthy he might be; besides, the old man would not
wish to refuse a relationship with the heir to the king-godhood.
Again her cousin was sick. The diagnosis of Yabolo, the wizard, was that
her soul had wandered in sleep down to the river and had been swallowed by
a fish. Yabolo had caught the fish and lured the soul into a tree, but now
he demanded such a big price to restore the errant soul to the girl that
her father, Bakuma’s uncle, would not pay it, so she would surely die;
then they would all have to be exorcised, which inferred a further loss of
relative freedom for another four days. Indeed with all these actual and
possible delays it seemed to Bakuma that some one had made much magic
against her. Unless she knew who he or she was, how could she employ the
same means to annul the terrible effects? And more, how could she obtain
the wherewithal to pay the fees of the best doctors? Life was very
complicated to the daughter of Bakala.
Up on the hill of MFunya MPopo had the magicians been busy all the
afternoon after the “putting out of the fire.” Zalu Zako and the chiefs
also were barred from the sacred enclosure; for being mere laymen they
could not hope to withstand the evil spirits of the dead. Even Bakahenzie
and the inner circle of the cult were compelled to employ the most potent
methods of protection to preserve them from being bewitched or slain
outright.
After Bakahenzie, Marufa, Yabolo and two other master magicians had
released the souls of the dead King by making incisions in the body with a
sacred spear to the thrumming of the drums, the mighty groaning of the
other wizards, and the persistent wailing of the dead man’s wives, the
corpse was borne by twelve doomed slaves to the temple and there interred
with the gouts of blood shed by the prophetic goat, the nail parings and
hair clippings of his lifetime, and his personal effects.
Upon the hill of MFunya MPopo, soon to be a temple and sanctuary, sat Kawa
Kendi beside the New Fire tended by Kingata Mata, facing Zalu Zako, MYalu
and the lay chiefs, while upon his own hill slaves were tearing down his
old hut, erecting a temporary palisade around the quarters of his wives
who were forever forbidden to him, and beginning the building of the new
temple.
As the violet shadows were creeping from one hut to another did Bakahenzie
and his satellites return from the ghoulish offices of the dead. Zalu
Zako, the chiefs and magicians arose to the wild beating of the drums and
the wailing chant of the hereditary troubadour with the five stringed
lyre. With Kingata Mata carrying a brand of the newly lighted sacred fire,
was Kawa Kendi led in procession through the deserted village to his
sacred home.
Under the hard stars set in a dry sapphire, the fire cast yellow flickers
upon the carven features of Kawa Kendi. In the still heat the distant
wailing of the women from the opposite hill drifted into the continuous
throb of the drums, the plaintive wail of the singer, and the hysterical
groaning of the magicians, yelling ferociously ever and again to
intimidate the baulked spirits around the magic circle.
Then was a white goat, previously selected from the flock of Kawa Kendi,
slain by Zalu Zako, disembowelled by Bakahenzie, and the entrails rubbed
upon the brow, the chest and the right arm of the slayer of man, a
ceremony of purification designed to protect the royal executioner by
appeasing the justly angry spirits of the dead; to Marufa were given other
parts of the slain beast to smear likewise upon Zalu Zako, the son; and
Yabolo ran screaming with portions to the quarters of the women of Kawa
Kendi: for must every blood relative be so enchanted lest the vengeful
ghost seek substitute victims.
As a pallid moon rose, as if fearfully, above the deep ultramarine of the
banana fronds, was a magic potion brewed from certain herbs in enchanted
water, with which the King, Zalu Zako, his son, and the King’s wives were
laved. Amid a tempest of screams and drums rose Kawa Kendi purified, to be
driven by Bakahenzie and the wizards back to the hill of his father,
leaving the assembled lay chiefs squatting humbly and in dread of the
spirits abroad in the night. While the procession leaped and twirled,
screamed and groaned to the frantic thrum of the drums through the blue
darkness, the magicians ran and pranced through and around the village,
seeking any blasphemer who dared to look upon sacred things; banging on
hut doors and shaking thatches, the more to terrify the shrinking
inhabitants.
Without the gate of the old enclosure all remained, except Bakahenzie and
the four wizards who encircled Kawa Kendi and Kingata Mata and hustled
them across the clearing. With his back to the dim form of the idol stood
Kawa Kendi as behind it grouped the master magicians. From the base
Bakahenzie took two large gourds and gave them into the keeping of Kingata
Mata.
Came an abrupt cessation of the drums and cries. The wailing of the women
behind the temple died. The tense air pulsed with electricity. A cock
crowed feebly in the village. Then at a rippling splash of the drums and
the sudden screaming of the wizards, they began to push the idol. The base
had already been loosened in the earth by the slaves. The idol began to
totter. Louder screeched the magicians; faster fled the drums. Slowly the
idol leaned and subsided on to the shoulders of Kawa Kendi. Grasping the
mass firmly upon his bent back, he bore the burden out of the enclosure
and down the hill.
Behind his unsteady steps pranced and yelled the doctors with more
prodigious a noise than ever before as they scourged the King’s legs and
arms with cords of fibre. Through the listening village panted the King.
As he gasped slowly up the hill the thrashing was redoubled. But into the
new enclosure the King staggered, let slide the heavy mass into a hole
prepared for the sacred feet and, gleaming blue points of sweat in the
faint moon, let out a hoarse yell, proving to the assembly of magicians
and chiefs that he was powerful enough to bear the burden of the world and
moreover that none could wrest his office from him.
No time was given for the incarnation of a god to recoup from his labours.
The motive principle of the accusation and for the death of the king was
the drought. That only concerned the soul of the tribe in the person of
Bakahenzie. For him and his brothers of the inner cult, while certain
pretensions of power over the supernatural were for the “good of the
people,” the truths of magic and divine functions were inviolable. The
person of Kawa Kendi, heretofore merely one in whom was a potentiality,
became after the purification and “coronation” the very incarnation of the
god. Kawa Kendi had crossed from the comparative safe haven of the
potential into divine activity.
Also there were, as ever, political reasons for the hastening of the
offices of the god. Should the new King-God fail, as his father had done,
to accomplish the duties of the rainmaker, then, as no precedent had ever
been known for the failure of two kings in succession, an enemy might
accuse Bakahenzie of having committed some sacrilege which had displeased
the Unmentionable One. Politics and religion are often inseparable.
Therefore, as soon as Zalu Zako had witnessed the ascent of his father
into the dangerous zone of the gods, was he bidden as the victim apparent,
to produce the sacred rain-making paraphernalia. From the Keeper of the
Fire, Kingata Mata, Zalu Zako received one of the large gourds, which he
deposited at the feet of his father squatting before the sacred fire, and
retired to his allotted place among the other lay chiefs. Only Bakahenzie
and the four of the inner cult were permitted within the enclosure.
Fumbling within the pot Kawa Kendi produced a bundle of twigs tied with
banana fibre, which he unbound and cast into the fire. The herbs
smouldered and sent up a pungent smoke forming a heavy cloud like some
strange blue tree sheltering the form of the idol against the green sky.
Save for the faint wailing of the distant women there was silence, in
which an owl screeched harshly, a good omen. Little flames flickered. The
smoke grew denser, obliterating the figure of the King. The drums began to
mutter, Bakahenzie cried out in a loud voice:
“O great God, the Unmentionable One! let thy powers be made manifest!”
The Keeper of the Fires came forward upon his hands and thrust the other
sacred gourd in front of the King, a deep one containing water, and a wand
made from a sacred tree which had upon the end a crook. To the groaning of
the magicians, the King took from the one gourd two stones of quartz and
granite, the male and the female, and spat upon each one, thus placing
part of his royal body upon them; then did he put them on the ground, and
pouring water, chanted:
“Go forth, male spirit, with my ghost in thy hands!
Go forth, female soul, with my ghost in thy breast!
Make love together in the shade of great Tarum,
Of him whom fear of me hath frozen the breath!”
“Ough! Ough!”
grunted the priests and magicians.
“Go forth, male spirit, with my ghost in thy hand!
Go forth, female soul, with my ghost in thy breast!
Love one another that the crops of our land
May marry as well and be as fruitful as thee!”
“Ough! Ough!”
“Go forth, male spirit, with my ghost in thy hand!
Go forth, female soul, with my ghost in thy breast!
Rise high up to heaven and mount on the black back
Of the bird of the wet wind: poke your hands in his eyes!”
“Ough! Ough!”
Save for the distant wailing, there was the silence of those waiting for a
miracle. In the sky, at the back of the idol, was the paling of dawn.
Suddenly, as if exasperated by the non-obedience of the elements, Kawa
Kendi sprang to his feet, with the magic wand in his right hand, turned
and stared apparently into the face of the idol. For a full two minutes he
stood as if carven, while the doctors and the chiefs moaned dismally.
Around him like a pall still hovered the smoke of the magic fire. From the
village a cock’s challenge was answered from point to point. Then shooting
out his right hand, Kawa Kendi made gestures as if hooking something
invisible and began to scream furiously:
“Thus do I, the One-not-to-be-mentioned,
Drag forth from the belly of heaven
The disobedient One, the lazy One!
The insolent One who sinneth in sleep!
The black-snouted One whose udders are choked!
The womanly One whose nipples are dry!
The sluttish One who refuseth her milk!
The gorbellied One whose voice is a wind!
Come forth, lest I give thee sorrow and pain!
And make thee to weep the bitterest tears!
Come forth, lest I tear out thy black bosom!
Tear out thy guts for a feast unto Tarum!
Come forth, lest I throw off the yoke of the burden
Of the Earth and the Sky upon thy sweating black belly!”
In a slight puff of wind, the smoke, lace-edged with the dawn light,
swayed, seeming to twine about the figure of the King as he stood with the
wand outheld, as if firmly hooked in the guts of the recalcitrant
elements.
Against the rose of the dawn appeared a dark line which increased as the
magicians and chiefs moaned and groaned in sympathy with the furious
efforts of the rainmaker, who threatened and pulled with the magic crook,
so that everybody could see that he was indeed dragging the reluctant
clouds from over the end of the earth. As the dark mass swelled the more
he wrestled and screamed abuse at the dilatory spirit of the rain.
And behold, within half an hour, great black spirits sailed across the
scarlet sunrise and wept exceeding bitterly; while from the village went
up a great shout of praise to the triumphant King still prancing and
cursing to such good effect up on the hill.
CHAPTER 5
The same vast balloons of sepia rolled over the lake, vomited a host of
liquid ramrods and, after short intervals of brilliant glare, were
succeeded by others. The gutters of the station were turned into burbling
brooks and the grass plot into a morass.
Behind the screen on the south verandah sat zu Pfeiffer in his pink silk
pyjamas, a scowl upon his brow. He sipped his café cognac distastefully
and inhaled a cigarette so fiercely that the heat burned his tongue. He
had not slept. Yet the broken nail on the left little finger had been cut
and polished. Half the night he had sat before the photograph in the ivory
frame, pondering upon, and rehearsing, the past; muttering aloud to
Lucille, sometimes words of love and sometimes savage curses; wondering
what she was doing and where she was; gritting his teeth at visions which
aroused insane jealousy; calculating what the consequences of his action
would be were he to obey the impulse that had leaped into his mind in the
first flush of passion. If he were to release the prisoner the fellow
would probably expect an explanation and an apology which was, of course,
out of the question. No, he must carry out the thing thoroughly without
leaving any chance for the man to make trouble at the coast, or through
the Embassy at Washington; at all costs not through Washington. For him,
Birnier merely existed as a person whose feelings mattered nothing.
With the greening of the moon zu Pfeiffer had retired. As he had lain
sleeplessly watching the pallor of the dawn he had savagely corroborated
the decision. Now the roar of the deluge appeared to him in the form of an
abettor to his plan. He watched the grey wall of rain with satisfaction,
stroking the left sentry moustache as if to tame the fierce bristles of an
outraged dignity. When he had emerged from the bath, the pink of his face
appeared to have spread to the whites of his eyes, a fact which Bakunjala
had noted with sullen dread.
Between the storms the sun glared yellow upon the smoking earth. Across
the square squelched zu Pfeiffer to the orderly room. He grunted at
Sergeant Schultz’s greeting and sprawled in the chair. When Schultz
proffered him some official documents he waved them aside irritably.
“Bring the prisoner to the Court, sergeant. I will try him immediately.”
“Excellence!” said the sergeant, saluting. “What charge am I to enter
against him, Excellence?”
“Arms and liquor running,” responded zu Pfeiffer quickly. “I hold papers
which prove the case completely; moreover you will see that Ali ben Hassan
and others are prepared to testify. But—the charge will be margined as
political: not criminal. Understand, sergeant?”
“Perfectly, Excellence. Ali ben Hassan and the others have to testify
before your Excellence now?”
“There will be no need.”
“Very good, Excellence.”
“And, sergeant, what is the personnel of the launch and the prisoner’s
party?”
“The launch returned immediately to Jinja, Excellence, as soon as the
prisoner had landed.”
“Ach, good.”
“The prisoner has a considerable battery, equipment and provisions; a
headman and personal servants. He intended to obtain porters here,
Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer meditated, tapping the desk with a gold pencil.
“What is the headman?”
“Bambeeba, Excellence.”
“Good. And the servants?”
“One is a Wongolo youth, the others are mixed Walegga and Kavirondo.”
“Arrest them all and see that none gets away.”
“Excellence!”
Schultz saluted and departed. Zu Pfeiffer frowned at the glare which was
suddenly extinguished by falling water. He lighted a cigar and waited.
Presently the sergeant returned in a waterproof cape, dripping, and
announced that the prisoner was ready. Zu Pfeiffer gathered up his long
legs and marched stiffly into the Court House adjoining.
Upon a slight dais was a large desk and a cane armchair beneath the
Imperial Eagles and a portrait of the Kaiser Wilhelm II. Pale, stubble
bearded, and tense eyed with anger, sat Birnier upon a form against the
wall; beside him stood Sergeant Schneider, for it is not usual etiquette
to put a white prisoner in charge of a black guard. The grizzled sergeant
stood stuffy to attention, which zu Pfeiffer acknowledged. Although he did
not meet Birnier’s gaze, he scowled as if he had expected him to salute
the majesty of the judge as well.
But as zu Pfeiffer mounted the step to the chair of justice he looked up
at the portrait of the Kaiser, stopped, and hesitated; then he wheeled
abruptly, and barked:
“Sergeant, bring the prisoner to the orderly room!”
In the orderly room Birnier was placed between Sergeant Schultz at his
table and Sergeant Schneider by the door. Birnier watched zu Pfeiffer
intently, but zu Pfeiffer regarded him icily as if he were a piece of
furniture. Without a word Birnier reached out and lifted a chair. Sergeant
Schneider started forward, evidently fearing that the prisoner was about
to attack his officer. Birnier said acidly: “I merely wish to sit down.”
Zu Pfeiffer scowled again, but he made no objection. He took up some
papers at random and began to peruse them. Said Birnier sharply:
“When you have finished with this farce I shall be obliged if you will
kindly explain your insane actions!”
The tap-tap of a typewriter sounded from another room. A fly buzzed. Zu
Pfeiffer’s eyelids did not blink. The sergeants stared woodenly to the
front. Birnier looked from one to the other, bit his lips, and then
exclaimed in exasperation: “What in hell do you mean by this damned
nonsense?”
The tap-tap continued; the fly buzzed irritatedly. Birnier clenched his
fist. But he sat still. Another storm so darkened the room that zu
Pfeiffer could scarcely have seen the print, but apparently he read on.
The deluge roared, passed, and the glare came as suddenly. Zu Pfeiffer
lifted his head and said in German:
“Sergeant, record the opening of the Court.”
“Excellence!” assented Sergeant Schultz and poised his pen ready to write.
“The prisoner, a Swiss subject——”
“I am American, as I have told you,” said Birnier in leashed anger.
“A pseudo trader and hunter, named Carl Bornstadt,” continued zu Pfeiffer
imperturbably, “is charged under sub-section 79 of section 8 with
supplying guns and liquor to the native subjects of his Imperial Majesty.”
“Good God!” began Birnier. But as he realised zu Pfeiffer’s purpose and
his own position, he closed his lips tightly.
Methodically the sergeant finished the entries and waited. Zu Pfeiffer
stroked his favourite moustache and considered. He glanced at Birnier, but
without a vestige of expression and continued:
“Make a special note, sergeant, that we have reason to suspect that the
prisoner is in the political service of”—a slight smile flicked the
lieutenant’s face—“in the service of the Portuguese, and so under
sub-section 109 of section 8, I am referring the case to Dar-es-salaam for
investigation; witnesses, documentary and personal, to accompany the
prisoner. Owing to unusual pressure of service we are unable to afford the
prisoner, although apparently of European descent, a white guard;
therefore, Sergeant Ludwig will detail a corporal and six men for the
duty.”
He paused. The sergeant’s pen scratched on. Zu Pfeiffer lighted a cigar
and added impersonally:
“The prisoner and escort will leave to-morrow morning. Sergeant Schneider,
remove the prisoner!”
Birnier’s face was a little paler, the eyes were slightly more bloodshot;
but he did not attempt to speak. Zu Pfeiffer rose. The sergeants stood to
attention and saluted. As he left the room towards the Court House, he
smiled with slight satisfaction as the gruff voice of Sergeant Schneider
barked: “Prisoner, shun! Right turn! Quick marrch!”
But zu Pfeiffer did not remain long in the Court House. After fidgeting
about with papers on the table and reprimanding Sergeant Schultz because
he had not arranged the next native case to his satisfaction, he rose
abruptly and marched swiftly across the square in the brilliant glare
without his helmet and into his study. There he straddled a chair and
leaned on the back sucking a dead cigar absent-mindedly. As he stared at
the portrait in the ivory frame, the blue eyes grew soft and the delicate
lips quivered like a child about to weep. He sighed heavily and then
rapping out an oath, rose violently, overturning the chair, poured out a
half-glass of neat cognac, and drank it at a gulp. As he neared the Court
House the sentry, turning at the end of his short beat, was so startled at
the proximity of the Kommandant, or incompletely disciplined, that he
became flurried. Zu Pfeiffer clicked his heels together and haughtily
watched the fumbled efforts to salute. The bolt caught in the man’s tunic.
Gold flashed in the sun as the sjambok descended. Zu Pfeiffer walked on
unconcernedly, leaving a grey weal on the terrified native’s face. To
Sergeant Schultz, rigid in the doorway, he snapped an order to have fifty
lashes given to the “clumsy dog.”
Sentences were harsher than usual that morning. All the native world about
him knew that a demon had taken possession of the Eater-of-men; he was
usually inhabited by an evil spirit, but this time the demon of Bakra who,
as everybody knows, tears the vitals with hot claws, making the victim to
have fits, to foam at the mouth, to be quite mad, had entered the white
man. Bakunjala, coming to the Court House with vermouth and biscuits at
eleven o’clock, distinctly saw the devil glaring through zu Pfeiffer’s
eyes, and was so scared that he let fall the tray, which was the reason
that he also was doomed to have twenty-five lashes that evening. Even the
stolid Sergeant Schultz remarked that the Herr Lieutenant had gotten a
touch of the sun; but the grizzled Schneider, who came from Luthuania,
opined that the Herr Kommandant had left his table knife edge uppermost.
When zu Pfeiffer went across to tiffin the hot sun had dried up the
gutters and the plot of grass. He did not return to the Court House, much
to the gratitude of many innocent and guilty. After drinking more wine
than usual he lay down for the siesta and fell asleep. But at five he
awoke with a mouth like a burnt cooking pot and the temper of the said
devil. He yelled for Bakunjala, who came, so trembling with fright that he
stuttered. Zu Pfeiffer threw a glass which missed him and broke a mirror.
“Another seven years’ ill luck!” shouted zu Pfeiffer, sitting on the bed
in his shirt. He glared at Bakunjala standing in the door, too
terror-stricken to flee, convinced that he would be blamed for breaking
the glass. “You—you superstitious nigger!” yelled zu Pfeiffer, and added
more calmly in Kiswahili: “Fetch me a brandy-soda! Upesi, you son of a
baboon!”
“Bwana!” exclaimed Bakunjala and fled gladly.
Zu Pfeiffer sat and scowled at the scattered pieces of mirror until
Bakunjala arrived with the drink. An hour later he emerged in his
immaculate undress uniform and sat on the north verandah, drank vermouth
and smoked cigars, staring out across the flat swamp where the pewter of
the lake was flecked with silver and blood of the sinking sun. From beyond
the fort came the yaps of the drill-sergeant busy in the cool of the
afternoon. At the bark of the relieving guard, zu Pfeiffer rose and walked
around the house to watch, with tetchy eyes, the saluting of the flag.
As he stalked off to dinner in the messroom eyes glimmered in the darkness
about him. Bakunjala, after receiving punishment, was indisposed, in fact
incapable of attending to his duties in the spritely manner required.
Another servant, who had taken his place, was nervous of the probable
consequences, and had a keen eye for the appearance of the devil so
realistically described by Bakunjala. But the demon apparently slept, for
zu Pfeiffer took the dishes placed before him with an unaccustomed
meekness, pushed them away absent-mindedly, and rising, retired to his
study. Even when the deputy brought the wrong bottle he reprimanded him
mildly without taking his eyes off the photograph in the ivory frame.
Yet, with the port, he did not omit to rise, and heels together, raise his
glass to the “Ihre Hochheit.” Then sprawling in the chair he began to
drink and to smoke steadily.
As the notes of the last post stuttered out in the clammy stillness he
summoned the “boy” and bade him fetch Sergeant Schultz. At the sound of
the sergeant’s steps on the verandah zu Pfeiffer stiffened up and patted
his lips as if desiring to erase the lines that were graven thereon; and
with one foot pushed the chair from the direct angle to the photograph.
“Take a cigar,” said zu Pfeiffer, when the man had entered. The words were
rather an order than an invitation. Sergeant Schultz obeyed. Zu Pfeiffer
smoked reflectively, still regarding the photograph out of the corner of
his eyes as if unable to resist the fascination.
“How long have you been in this benighted country, sergeant?”
“Nine years, Excellence.”
“You wish to retire on the pension at the year’s term?”
“I have not seen my wife and children for three years, Excellence.”
“You shall have special leave as soon as the Wongolo affair is over.”
“I thank you, Excellence.”
“And I will recommend you for the special colonial service medal and
pension.”
“I thank you, Excellence.”
“Take a drink, sergeant.”
“I thank you, Excellence.”
The sergeant obeyed with some semblance of initiative and he remarked that
the lieutenant drank half a tumbler of neat brandy at a gulp. As if to
drag himself away from the contemplation of the photograph zu Pfeiffer
stood up and sat on the arm of the chair with his face in shadow above the
lamp-shade. Gazing keenly at the sergeant, he said sharply:
“You are quite aware of the regulations regarding official secrets,
sergeant?”
“Ach, yes, Excellence!”
As the sergeant paused to answer with the glass in his hand there was just
a suspicion of astonishment in the tone.
“Good. Don’t forget it!” A note of menace was in zu Pfeiffer’s voice. He
added more mildly, “Political reasons may cause stringent measures
sometimes.”
“Yes, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smoked, coldly regarding the sergeant.
“Who is Sergeant Schneider detailing for the prisoner’s escort to-morrow?”
“Corporal Inyira, Excellence.”
“A long service man?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Good. Go and fetch him here.”
Not a shadow of surprise showed on Sergeant Schultz’s face as he departed.
Zu Pfeiffer smoked hard and drank another brandy thirstily with a slight
unsteadiness as he lifted the glass to his mouth. The sergeant returned
and stood at attention just within the door.
“The man is here, Excellence.” Zu Pfeiffer nodded.
“Forward, quick marrch,” commanded the sergeant in a muffled bark.
“Halttt!”
“Very good, sergeant, you may wait.”
Schultz saluted and retired without. The tall powerfully built native in
uniform stood as if he had a bayonet beneath his chin. There was a slight
nervousness about the blues of the eyes as he squinted in the attempt to
look straight ahead and to watch the Kommandant at the same time. One
nostril was slit, in the lobes of the ears were three can keys, and the
temples were tattooed with tribal scars.
“Corporal Inyira!” said zu Pfeiffer sharply. The black body twitched at
the voice. “You are to leave to-morrow for Dar-es-salaam and you will take
as a prisoner a white man who has been taking your tribe as slaves and
selling them to the Abyssinians. The Bwana Mkubwa protects you from these
evil white men and Arabs. You know that?” sharply.
“Bwana!”
“Very good. You know what would happen to you if you were sold as a slave?
You have had many brothers who have been sold to the Abyssinians?”
“Bwana! Many, Bwana!”
“Very good. Now listen! This white man is very bad. He leaves with you
to-morrow morning for Dar-es-salaam, but—he is never to arrive there. I
give him to you. You may do what you like with him, but never let me see
him again. You have my protection. Understand?”
“Bwana!”
The rubber lips pouted in the emphatic utterance.
“These are your secret orders. But you are not to tell them to any man,
woman, or child here; you may tell your men when you are gone. If you
disobey I will cut out your tongue and give you three hundred lashes.
Understand?”
“Bwana!”
“This man is the enemy of the Bwana Mkubwa. His enemies are your enemies.
His goods are yours. Begone!”
The black hand came up jerkily to the black forehead, shot away out and
down; the polished calves moved like the eccentrics of an engine, and
Corporal Inyira melted into the shadows.
“Sergeant Schultz!”
To smart heel taps on the verandah entered the sergeant.
“You will see that Corporal Inyira and the escort leave before daybreak;
moreover, that he talks with no one before he leaves.”
“Excellence.”
“Take a drink, sergeant.”
With legs as stiff as his sjambok, Sergeant Schultz obeyed the order;
lifted the glass and drank.
“You may go! Good night, sergeant.”
“Excellence, good night!”
As zu Pfeiffer shifted from the chair-arm to the seat his movements were
slightly erratic. He sat forward, staring at the photograph, as he drank
more brandy. Outside, the pæan of the frogs pulsed steadily. From a
distance came the throb of a native drum. A cricket shrilled
intermittently.
“Bwana!”
The ghostly figure of Bakunjala whispered from the doorway. Zu Pfeiffer
started nervously.
“Zingala,” began Bakunjala timorously.
“Gott verdamf—Emshi!” snapped zu Pfeiffer, his ring flashing in an
irritable gesture.
Bakunjala melted. Came a mutter of voices and a subdued giggle.
Zu Pfeiffer sat and drank and stared. Above the insectile anthem of the
night, rose a gurgling voice in a drinking song.… Later the crash of a
breaking glass was accompanied by an oath. The glimmer of three pairs of
eyes through the window screen vanished and reappeared.… Once more rose
the voice singing:
“Scheiden tut weh,
Scheiden, ja scheiden, scheiden tut weh!”
Just as the cricket began anew, after having politely ceased to hear the
lieutenant’s song, trickled out upon the clammy air the sound of weeping.
CHAPTER 6
In the violet shadow of his square hut inside the compound, squatted Zalu
Zako. The lips and nose were nearer to the Aryan delicacy than the negroid
bluntness; for the Wongolo, like the Wahima, are a mixed Bantu-Somali
race. In colour his skin had the red of bronze rather than the blue of the
negro, and the planes of his moulded chest were as light as the worn ivory
bracelets upon his polished limbs. Broad in the shoulders he had almost
the slender hips of a young girl and his carriage was as balanced as a
dancer’s.
From a group of small round huts behind his square hut, where dwelt his
two wives, concubines and slaves, came the clutter of voices. A distant
drum throbbed gently on the hot air. Away in the cool green of the banana
plantation rose the crooning chant of the unmarried girls and slaves
bringing water from the river.
Apparently Zalu Zako was absorbed in the movements of a diminutive chicken
scratching in the soil. The omen of the goat was occupying his mind: that
and the death of his grandfather, MFunya MPopo. There was no sense of
grief, for he was not a woman. Now, at the beginning of his warrior’s
career, he had not any desire for divine honours and celibacy. No man had.
Yet Zalu Zako no more dreamed of questioning the necessity than of
spitting in the face of an enemy. Always had the first born male of his
family been doomed to the kingly office. There was never a second born
male, for it was not meet that a god should have paternal brothers. The
wives of his youth and his concubines could have as many children as they
could bear; but according to the law, did he select the chief wife from
whom should spring the one regal son only when he had become heir
apparent; for then was he not already half divine, being so near the
sacred enclosure up on the hill?
The choice of that chief wife was free as there were no royal families in
the sense of divine descent save the direct male line of the King-God. But
the mind of Zalu Zako dwelt more upon his personal career. The life of a
warrior was frequently short and that of a god even briefer. MFunya MPopo
had reigned but twenty moons; MKoffo, so said the elders, had reigned for
full two hundred moons; but then he had been a mighty magician.
With a harsh squawk a brilliant scarlet and blue bird with an enormous
yellow bill perched on the palisade of the compound. Immediately the young
man forgot his musing and rose, calling for his spear. A stocky man, coal
black, with a fuzzy tuft of a beard, came out of the hut. From the slave
Zalu Zako took a broad-bladed spear with a short haft. Watching to see
that the bird was still sitting on the fence as he passed out of the
compound, he set off rapidly through the village and into the banana
plantations in search of a wart hog which had been rooting up one of his
fields of sweet potatoes. Just as he came within sight of them a black
field rat sprang out of the grass in his path, glanced round at him, and
disappeared. The young man’s steps slackened, for he knew that the black
rat had spoiled the luck which the banana eater had portended. Scarcely
troubling to glance around the field, he diverged across at an angle
making for a break in the jungle where he knew was the trail of the boar.
But he grunted contemptuously as he examined the last spoor, which was at
least half a day old. Of course the hog would not be there.
He bethought himself of another field where sometimes came buck. But there
was no game. The black rat again! Yet if one waited long enough a good
omen might appear. As he squatted beneath a banana plant to take snuff
came a squawk and the banana eater—for it appeared to be the same
one—alighted on a frond near to him. Zalu Zako waited. Leisurely and
cautiously he arose. The bird peered at him. Zalu Zako passed and left the
banana eater still sitting there. He felt the weight of his spear
tentatively, for a double omen of luck must mean big game: possibly an
eland or a leopard.
He circled right round the outskirts of the plantation. But he saw no
signs. As he began to make the big circle again the shadows were
lengthening appreciably. Passing by the ford of the small river, which was
swollen from the rains, he heard a group of young girls chattering on the
river bank as they filled their gourds. He paused to test which way the
wind was blowing in order to avoid going down wind where the sound of
their voices would scare away any game.
But as he turned to move on he caught a glimpse of a figure mounting the
incline. The motion was as lithe as a young giraffe; the legs were as
straight as spears and as supple as a kiboko; the moulded hips swayed
rhythmically like a banana frond in the breeze; the fluted arch of her
back swelled proudly upwards to the resilient shoulders; and an arm as
slender as a lizard’s tail steadied the gourd upon a small black head set
upon a neck like a sapling. The dappled shadows of a tree played hide and
seek upon the tiny hills that were her firm young breasts, upon the
smoothness of her torso of light bronze. As he gazed her face came into
view in speaking to a comrade just beneath. An errant shaft of sunlight
glinted the pearl of teeth, glowed the tiny nose and blued the whites of
eyes which were as soft as any antelope.
Zalu Zako clicked the syllable that means astonishment.
“Wait there, O Bayakala,” she called, “for I have to do the making of
mighty magic with the spirits of the wood.”
“Eh, eh!” responded one of those left by the water edge, “a girl of the
hut thatch hath nought to do with spirits of the wood for their bellies
are as big as a pregnant woman!”
The young girl laughed and her notes seemed to Zalu Zako like the dripping
of water upon a river rock.
“Thou knowest less than the Baroto bird who as everybody knows is the
spirit of one!”
“’Tis more than thou wilt ever be!” retorted the rival beneath.
“Ehh! Ehh!” exclaimed the girl at the sneer, “thy girdle is rotted long
since with juice!”
“And thine,” shouted the insulted one, who was old for a spinster, “wilt
rot with the dryness!”
“Tscch! It is dry for the lord whom I will conquer with magic such as thou
hast never dreamed on, O Bayakala!”
“And who is he for whom thou makest magic, O daughter of the hut thatch?”
demanded Zalu Zako, stepping from the shelter of the tree.
“Ehh!” ejaculated Bakuma. “I—we do but tickle the fronds (jest), O Chief!”
The only sign of her nervousness was the slight swaying of the gourd of
water upon her head as she turned up her eyes to the young chief who
regarded her slowly. She edged away. He moved a pace in front of her. She
clutched at the amulet around her neck as she turned her eyes and said:
“The cooking fires are low, O Chief, and need be tended.”
“Thy breasts are like unto small anthills,” he said, “and thy belly is as
smooth as yonder river rock.”
“Thy tongue is sweeter than the honey of the kinglan tree.”
“Thy voice is softer than the muted lyre and thy nose is formed of two
petals of an orchid.”
“Thy praise is more refreshing than the morning dew to a thirsty flower.”
“And by thy figure am I made more drunken than by the wine of the Soka
palm.”
For a full minute they stood, a study in light bronze against the dappled
green foliage. The shrill chatter of the other girls approaching startled
Bakuma into action. She swayed to one side.
“The spirits of the cooking pot cry aloud for me, O Chief.”
“Who is thy father, little one?” he demanded.
“I am Bakuma, the daughter of Bakala, O Chief.”
“There has been a veil before my eyes that I have not seen thee before.”
“The mountains see not the tiny brooks amid the mighty forests,” murmured
Bakuma and sped up the path.
Zalu Zako stood motionless watching her form melt into the green, and as
he turned towards the river he met Bayakala and the other women who shrank
aside from the path to allow the Son of the Snake to pass in silence. Yet
at the ford he paused. He had forgotten the omen of the banana eater and
the purpose for which he had come.
As Bakuma sped along in a gliding lope the amulet swayed rhythmically to
the whispered praises of the power of Marufa, mixed with ardent prayers to
the spirits to provide the fat goat with which to propitiate the spirit of
the woods; for had not the love charm already manifested its wondrous
power? As she hastened through the banana plantation she could not resist
diverging a little in the direction of the magician’s hut. As she passed,
she saw him seated on the threshold of the compound gathering inspiration
from his favourite wall. But Marufa observed her demeanour, and being
something of a student of men, he deducted that the charm had already
begun to work.
Marufa, as all successful men, had a strain of luck. Before the shadows
had crept a hand’s breadth came MYalu, indignant and exasperated. The
three tusks had been paid and the footprint obtained; but he had
discovered that it was no easy matter to procure the other ingredients
which he suspected the wizard had known well and intended as a means to
extract more ivory. After the ceremonious greetings he protested that the
task given was almost impossible to execute. Marufa remained imperturbably
interested in his wall.
“But as thou knowest,” insisted MYalu, “the hair and the toe-nail and the
spittle of the Son of the Snake are more than difficult to obtain. Does a
man so carelessly render himself unto his enemies, and he the Son of the
Snake? None save one of his household could purloin a single hair. Even
this morning was his hair shaved and the remnants, as thou knowest well,
deposited in the temple with him who was his father.”
“The hair, the toe-nail, and the spittle,” mumbled the old man, “must I
have for such mighty magic.”
“Ehh!” snorted MYalu, “with a man of the clay, but with one who is half
divine, the Son of the Snake! Ehh!”
“The bow is useless without the arrows,” mumbled the old man.
“Tsch. ’Tis a mighty hunter that hath not the arrows for his bow,” sneered
MYalu.
“Verily,” retorted Marufa disinterestedly, “and still more a mighty man
who cannot do his own hunting!”
“No warrior hath been purified more frequently than I,” boasted MYalu,
referring to the ceremony incumbent upon those who have taken life to
appease the ghosts of the slain.
“The spirits obey not the crowing of a cockerel,” reminded Marufa.
“Tsch!” For a while both sat silent, MYalu gloomily watching a hen.
“Aie! Aie!” he lamented at last, “what is there that I may do, for indeed
she hath caught my soul in a trap. Aie! Aie!”
“If the hunter cannot make arrows, he may buy them,” remarked Marufa, who
had been patiently waiting for this state of mind.
“Eh! The bowstring hath been costly but the arrows! Aie! Aie! What
would’st thou?”
“The rich man payeth in his kind. Four tusks of fine grain.”
“Eh! Eh!”
“Maybe there are others whose hands are not withered.”
“Others than the Son of the Snake?” demanded MYalu quickly.
“Who knows? There are more fools than chickens,” muttered the old man.
MYalu stared disconsolately at the distant bananas. Perhaps, he reflected,
it would be cheaper to pay the price the girl’s uncle demanded, yet——
MYalu had bought other wives whose unimpassioned charms had quickly
staled. His soul, as he put it, had indeed been tempted into a trap by
Bakuma; for he wished only that she should desire him as he desired her.
Yet was he angry. Love seemed to be a costly business. Marufa tapped out
snuff and sniffed delicately with the air of a connoisseur devoting
himself to the pleasure of the moment. Replacing the cork of twisted
leaves he stirred as if to rise.
“Canst thou procure then the nail and the hairs that are asked by the
spirits?” inquired MYalu sulkily.
“All things are possible to the son of MTungo,” asserted Marufa. “Four
tusks, and these things are found; but of fine grain, for the others were
old and coarse.”
“Ehh! How wilt thou procure these things?” demanded MYalu sceptically.
“The ways of the wise are not the ways of fools.”
“The tusks are thine,” said MYalu reluctantly, “if thou wilt tell me how
thou wilt procure them.”
“Thy words are like unto the vomit of a dog,” muttered the old man.
“But how? My heart is not bound in clay.”
“Tch!” clicked Marufa contemptuously. “Every fool must needs see the spoor
of the god which he cannot read. I have spoken.” MYalu regarded the old
wizard incredulously. “Tch! Send the four tusks as we have agreed and so
shall it be. Begone!”
Slowly MYalu rose, made his greeting, and departed more impressed than
ever that the old man was a mighty magician.
During the hour when the soul is small and dwells timidly around the feet
Marufa dozed in the cool of his hut; but later when it spread boldly out
was he squatted once more in his favourite seat at the entrance to the
compound, taking snuff and contemplating. The shadows grew from violet to
blue; the small hens pecked for worms with avidity and the goats scratched
with vigour in the cool. Patiently Marufa sat. At length that for which he
had waited with a sound though primitive knowledge of psychology, came to
pass. Bakuma appeared, apprehensive, but with yet an abandon which sang
her happiness. Beside Marufa she sat so as to avoid the shadow of one foot
protruding beyond that of the fence.
“O great and mighty magician,” she began eagerly, after the formal
greetings. “Indeed all that thou hast said hath come to pass. Thy charm is
infallible.”
“Ugh!” grunted Marufa unconcernedly.
“All that my heart desireth hath already begun to be. I thank thee.”
“Ugh!”
“O mighty son of MTungo, what must I now do?”
“Thou knowest,” mumbled Marufa, fumbling for the snuff case.
“Aie! Aie! but I have no fat goat!” cried Bakuma, who had hoped fatuously
that the wizard would have forgotten. “I, a girl of the hut thatch, how
should I have a goat?” Marufa tapped snuff as if no romance were in the
making. Bakuma’s bright eyes, sharpened by the proximity of the promise of
her love, watched the old man keenly. “Listen, O great and mighty son of
MTungo, to whom all things are known, who canst accomplish all that thou
desireth, Bayakala, my cousin, hath a goat, but it is old and skinny.
Perhaps——”
“In the nostrils of the spirits,” asserted Marufa instantly, “all odours
are the same except that of the fat goat whom they love.”
“Aie! then am I undone, for no fat goat have I!” wailed Bakuma. “Know I
not one who hath a goat who would smile on me, a girl of the hut thatch.”
“Ugh!”
Bakuma regarded him imploringly, but Marufa’s gaze was fixed upon the wall
as if his mind were turned to matters of more importance.
“O mighty wizard, what must I do?” implored Bakuma desperately.
“Ugh!”
After a prolonged contemplation, said Marufa: “If thou canst get no goat,
then is there another path by which thou mayest accomplish thy end.”
“Eh!”
“But it is very difficult.”
“By my cord, will I do all that thou canst bid me to do!” swore Bakuma in
anxious haste.
“Ugh! This path is more certain of success for the will of the spirits are
oftentimes chary of their favours.”
“O mighty one!” breathed Bakuma, as he paused tantalisingly.
“But the matter is exceedingly difficult—and dangerous.”
“If the flower hath no sun hath it ever lived?”
“As even thou shouldst know,” mumbled Marufa, more casually than ever, “he
who possesses a part of the soul may do magic thereon.”
“Aye! Aye!”
“Bring me then of the nail parings one, of his hairs one, and of his
spittle. Then may I do magic thereon which he cannot resist.”
“O mighty magician!” gasped Bakuma, appalled at the difficulty and the
danger of the task.
“That path is sure. There is no other.”
“Eh! … But if they of thy craft should know then am I doomed!”
“There is no other.”
Torn between her love and the dread of the penalty incurred by the
sacrilege of the theft of the parts of one who might any day be King-God,
Bakuma stared distraught.
“Were not my words white? Hath not the love charm thou hast already had
done even as I did say?”
“O mighty one!”
“But that is only as the goat to the leopard. The trap must be dug—or the
scent of the bait will be blown.”
“Ehh!” gasped Bakuma, in desperation, “by my twin soul which dwells
beneath the banana plant, will I do it!”
CHAPTER 7
Gerald Birnier had flattered himself that he was a philosopher with a
sense of humour, fairly well developed by ten years’ wandering about
Central Africa, but deep emotions submerge such cherished qualities.
The presence of the photograph was explicable by several surmises: zu
Pfeiffer might have met Lucille at Washington, Paris, or Berlin: she might
have given him the photograph or he might have bought it, or even stolen
it. But—the signature “à toi, Lucille”! There lay the sting which maddened
Birnier and strangled reason, the fact at which his mind yawed futilely.
So great had been the shock that the arrest had seemed but a secondary
matter in accord with the insanity of zu Pfeiffer’s statement that he was
engaged to Lucille. The affair had been so sudden that for some time he
could progress no farther in an attempt to think than a gasp, pawing
mentally at an intangible substance which eluded him like a child’s small
hand trying to grasp a toy balloon. Sense of reality appeared to have been
dissolved. He had followed the sergeant across the square meekly without
realising what was happening, and when he had been placed in a whitewashed
room at the back of the native guard house which served as a jail, he sat
down upon a chair, too bewildered to comprehend where he was. That “à toi,
Lucille” rang like the clanging in a belfry, drowning the sound of other
thoughts.
By the light of a hurricane lamp he regarded the soldiers bringing in an
old camp bed with indifference. When they had gone he began to pace up and
down the small room frantically trying to gain control. To the first
prompting of a logical reason for the whole affair he did not dare to
listen. The disrupting cause was the complete inability to explain the
familiar signature. To his Anglo-Saxonised mind, bred in the strict code
of the south, tutoyer was only permissible to dogs, inferiors, most
intimate relations and lovers. He was far too unbalanced to see the humour
as he solemnly announced that certainly zu Pfeiffer was not a dog, nor in
the social code an inferior; he was not a relation; therefore.… His mind
baulked and raced into incoherence.
A point of view which added false premises, as well as his attitude to
those two little words, was the consciousness that many would consider
that he had not treated his wife as a husband should do. This possibility
had never occurred to him before, so that it came with disproportionate
emphasis.
As a young man he had been too absorbed in his profession to be a lady’s
man; and of love he had reckoned little until he had met the Lucille
Charltrain with whom half the world was in love. And she doubtless, like
many a spoiled beauty, was a little piqued that the professor did not join
the throng of her courtiers. In Birnier’s mind there had ever been
associated with love the fear that the woman would demand too much, that
no woman could understand that a man’s profession must of necessity come
before all things. Lucille was the first woman whom he had met who really
seemed to understand this point of view, as she, too, was devoted to her
art. This had grown to be the biggest bond and attraction between them.
Most men wished to make of love a nuisance, as Lucille once put it. So the
good-looking professor had won the beauty. They were married on the mutual
understanding that each should pursue their respective professions.
Shortly afterwards Birnier was offered a special mission to go to Africa
for the purpose of studying the customs and superstitions of the natives.
Lucille had consented, forbidden, relented, and laughed.
So Lucille sang from musical height to height and her husband sped from
depth to depth in the seas of human fatuity. Whenever he took a furlough
he went, of course, straight to her, wheresoever she was, in Berlin, New
York, or Paris. To Birnier the situation was ideal. He had never dreamed
of any other woman. Indeed the tracts of his mind were so filled with
statistics of anthropology and Lucille that there was little or no room
for any one else. The delight and satisfaction in Birnier’s mind were so
sincere that he never had dreamed of questioning whether Lucille’s point
of view had remained the same. But now?
That “à toi” stung and baited him into the unprecedented realisation that
after all women had been known to change their opinions. Perhaps pride had
prevented her from ever openly demanding other ways. Lucille was young and
beautiful, courted and flattered on every hand. Perhaps he had been wrong
to leave her for years at a stretch. Of her loyalty he had had no doubt,
but for the first time in his marital life the professor’s profound
knowledge of human nature was shot like a spot-light on to his own
affairs. Yet his erudition did not in the least relieve him from the laws
of emotional reaction.
Perhaps in an emotional moment.… That knowledge of the frailties of genus
homo was too deep for comfort in such actuation.
“À toi, Lucille! À toi, Lucille!” rang and echoed as he paced that room,
striving for control.… And—and—why else should zu Pfeiffer have gone
crazy?—why had he exclaimed: “Das ist der Schweinhünd”? The husband, of
course, whom he wanted out of the way, and he had immediately seized the
opportunity to secure that end, seemingly indifferent to
consequences—symptomatic of the state of “being in love.”
Around and about, about and around a field of weeds which had sprung from
that seed “à toi,” had paced the professor all night. When the green was
creeping through the high barred window, Sergeant Schneider had brought to
him some coffee and biscuits. Birnier had drunk the coffee thirstily, and
as the sergeant had no English nor French, had tried in broken German to
extract some information. But the sergeant had merely grunted and retired.
At seven he had returned again and escorted Birnier to the Court House. He
returned from the mock trial a little more in touch with reality, and more
impressed with the malignity of zu Pfeiffer. Yet the gratuitous insults,
the laboured farce of the registering of an alleged Swiss trader, Birnier
saw through, and was relieved, for it argued that zu Pfeiffer’s intention
was to make Lucille a widow. No other reason could account for the
homicidal intentions displayed.
At the glow of dawn next day he was aroused by the big corporal who
ordered him out. The tone of the man’s voice naturally stimulated a
violent reaction. But Birnier realised that his sole chance lay in
controlling himself to accept stoically whatever treatment was offered;
for he saw instantly that any protest or indignation would be interpreted
as insubordination and possibly be made an excuse to shoot him down.
Outside in the grey light he saw under the guard of six native soldiers,
the five others of his party. Mungongo, his personal “boy,” cried out at
the sight of him, asking what was the meaning of these strange happenings.
Before Birnier could reply, the big corporal struck the man savagely with
a kiboko, bidding him to be silent. In spite of his resolution, the
reaction made Birnier turn angrily upon the soldier, who deliberately
repeated the order, and struck the white man across the face. As Birnier
raised his fist the man lowered his bayonet and grinned, adding,
apparently for the benefit of his men, that now the white would learn what
it was to be a slave.
Furiously Birnier looked around for Sergeant Schneider: but no white man
was in sight.… He turned to Mungongo and said quickly: “Take no heed. Do
as they bid thee for the moment.”
“Be silent!” shouted the corporal, but as he raised his kiboko, Birnier
looked him quietly straight in the eyes. The black hand was lowered; the
man turned away, ordering the party in general to march.
Dishevelled and without any camp equipment, Birnier began to march as the
blood of the sky paled to orange. At the bottom of the great parade ground
he turned in time to see the relieving guard falling in behind the Court
House. For one moment he hesitated whether to put all to the test by
refusing to go; but a significant gesture with the ever ready rifle of the
corporal signified that he would not be given a chance. Humiliated, he
obeyed. But just beyond the last hut, waiting by the path, was a group of
women loaded with the soldiers’ gear; and beside them were some carriers
bearing his green tent and apparently all his equipment. The sight cheered
him a little. He attempted to find immediate consolation in the idea that
the savagery of the corporal might possibly abate when they were away from
the neighbourhood of the inciting agent, whom he was sure was zu Pfeiffer.
Leading the caravan was a soldier; next to him came Birnier and behind him
was another soldier, after whom walked Mungongo and the four other
prisoners, with a soldier between each; and then the corporal, strutting
portentously important within easy shooting distance of the white man. The
carriers and women brought up the rear.
The path led for some miles through the dreary swamp following the course
of the small bayou, crossing and recrossing small streams swollen with the
rains, through which the white man was forced to wade to his hips. For the
first mile Birnier was so angry and humiliated that he dared not catch the
troubled eyes of Mungongo. But by force of will he attained a reasonable
plane of philosophic resignation, temporary at least, and smiled at the
boy, who grinned back like a tickled child. At any rate, soliloquised
Birnier, he had at least one man upon whom he could rely.
At the head of the bayou they reached higher ground and the path zigzagged
through dense jungle thick with fan palms. The longer Birnier pondered
upon the situation the nearer he came towards the conclusion that he had
better make his escape as soon as possible, or he would never have the
chance. Rather by the uneasy glances of Mungongo, who dared not speak, did
he guess that they had left the regular trail to the coast. What their
destination was he could not imagine. Probably, he thought grimly, to make
an end of the whole party and return to the camp. Yet why trouble to
travel so far? And another good reason to hasten an escape was that,
although for the moment he was in good health, a few days of exposure
would subject him to fever and consequent weakness.
Now and again the theme “à toi” would return like the refrain of a song to
which he found himself keeping step; but the words sometimes became
meaningless; for in the merciful way that nature has, the impulse of
self-preservation so occupied his mind that he had scarcely leisure to
worry over marital troubles.
At the end of about two hours, when the heat of the sun was beginning to
be felt severely, the corporal called a halt in the shade of a great
baobab. Birnier sat down with his back against the bole. Alongside him
squatted the corporal deliberately and called to the women for a gourd of
juwala. There is a certain acid odour which native beer has that is
particularly irritating to a dry palate. The corporal drank deep, sighed
with satisfaction and set the gourd beside him almost touching the feet of
the white. Involuntarily Birnier swallowed. The corporal saw and grinned.
Birnier understood and turned his back to the man. Immediately the
corporal arose and lowering his bayonet until it pricked the sleeve of
Birnier’s coat, ordered him to get up. In the knowledge that he would be
instantly shot by the others if he attempted to resist, he had perforce to
obey.
Outside the shade of the great tree, in the full glare of the sun, was the
white man compelled to sit while the black corporal, with the rifle ready
across his knee, drank deep and handed the gourd to his fellows. Again
Birnier turned his back to him. But he began to realise faintly what
treatment he would receive before the end came and an intimate knowledge
of native ingenuity made him feel physically sick.
Half an hour later they were on the march again. The path became rugged
and difficult, passing through thorny ground, following burbling
watercourses of rough stones. To make the going more trying Birnier wore
light moccasins intended for camp use instead of his high field boots.
Once when a long thorn penetrated the flank of his shoe he stopped to
extract it. The corporal shouted at him; the soldier behind called him
unmentionable names in the dialect and pushed him with his foot. The
insult and the heat of the sun maddened him. He leaped to his feet. The
corporal raised his gun promptly and jeered. For a moment Birnier stood
trembling with passion; then he closed his eyes as if to shut out sight
and sound and limped forward, fighting with himself.
With natives had Birnier always been able to negotiate, to live, and to
quarrel when necessary, on terms of amity; but this black “swine,” as he
termed him in his wrath, prinked out in a masquerade of a white man’s
clothes.… He jammed his heel down savagely upon the thorn to divert the
southern passion. After all it was not the man’s fault but zu Pfeiffer’s.
Put a white man in a uniform and he becomes a beast; put a nigger in a
uniform and he becomes a devil, Birnier forced himself to reflect.
The sun grew incandescent. The heat and the flies quickened his thirst. He
plodded on, stumbling over the stones, sagging heavily in sandy patches.
They had left the comparative shelter of the jungle and were crossing a
flat plain approaching, he judged, to a river bed. The carriers, he noted,
had lagged behind. Soon they must halt. Even the fiend of a corporal would
not fatigue himself too much for the sake of tormenting a white man.
Then a new idea was added to the plagues. He had tasted nothing save the
coffee, canned beef, and native bread which had been given him for dinner
on the previous evening. The corporal had manifested his conception of
humour by refusing him beer and water on the march; was he going to
torment him by starvation as well as by thirst? And if torture were
reserved for him by that grinning black brute, then he knew what would be
the end that awaited him.
Within an hour they came to a river about forty yards broad, a swollen
rushing torrent. There was no village as he had expected. The corporal
halted. Birnier slid down the bank and thrust his muzzle into the flood.
There was torture in the restraint not to drink too much. He clambered up
the slope to find the corporal grinning at him. He turned his back and lay
down. There was no shade; only short scrub and grass. Small sand flies
buzzed and stung. He heard the gurgle of the corporal’s military
water-bottle. But this time the sting was extracted; his belly was moist.
Birnier stretched out, shielding from the glare the little that he could
with his hands. Faint echoes of “à toi” strolled across his field of
consciousness. He observed the apparently stoical indifference of Mungongo
squatted a few feet from him, a soldier sprawling between them; but he
cursed because investigations had taught him that that “stoical” should
usually be read as “bovinity,” as he had termed it; and he smiled dismally
at the ancient story that so well illustrated the point, of the peasant
who expressed his occupation through the long winter hours as “sometimes
we sits and thinks but mostly we just sits.”
Mungongo “just sits,” he repeated, and envied him. Yet in that heat and
hunger, waiting for his savage captor to wreak some new fancy upon him, so
saturated with philosophic interest in life was Birnier, that he wandered
off into a meditation upon the mechanical fatuity of human conduct;
illustrating his reflections by his own actions when stirred by emotion.
“The loaded gun may be as wise as Solomon was reputed to be,” he remarked
beneath his hands, “but all the same when some one pulls the trigger the
damn thing goes off,” and sat up to confront the muzzle of the corporal’s
rifle, who was ordering him to get up. Birnier rose. But to the savage’s
amazement, he smiled.
The corporal backed away.
“Ah, my friend,” remarked Birnier blandly in English. “You’ve lost, for I
have found that which was lost!”
The corporal scowled and bade him to follow. Birnier obeyed but he felt
that he was obliging the man. The carriers had arrived and the green tent
was pitched, invitingly cool against the grey flood of the river. He
followed the corporal gladly, but at ten feet from his tent, beside a
thorn bush four feet tall which spread in a fan shape, he was bidden to
sit. For the moment, newly arrived from his philosophic dreams, he did not
comprehend.
“But that is my tent!” he said in Kiswahili.
“Sit down!” commanded the corporal, grinning. “The white seller of slaves
sits in the place of the slave, but his owner dwells in the place of the
blessed.”
“O God!” remarked Birnier as he bumped his head against black reality.
CHAPTER 8
Bakuma sat in the shade of the reed fence preparing the evening meal of
boiled bananas. From her slender neck swung the precious amulet at which,
as if to reassure herself of its safety, she clutched occasionally. Her
half-sister, who had not yet passed through the initiation at maturity,
sprawled upon her belly in the dwindling rays of the sun, scratching her
woolly head. Beyond her were two slaves tending a fire beneath two large
calabashes, preparatory to the brewing of banana beer, which had of course
to be done by the chief widow, Bakuma’s half-sister’s mother.
The mind of Bakuma was occupied by percepts of the charms of Zalu Zako;
particularly as memorised on that afternoon by the river when the effect
of the love charm had begun to work. These memories, as sweet as they
would have been to any maid, were shot with gay colours by the words of
the wizard; for he had assured her that with the toe-nail and hair to work
magic upon, Zalu Zako would be bewitched by her charms for all time. And
she had obtained them! She could have gotten the goat, not a skinny goat
as described under the inhibiting influence of a wild hope that the wizard
would relent. Her cousin, smarting under the reproaches of her husband,
had such a goat, fat as goats in Wongolo go, and she was eager to exchange
it or anything for an infallible charm against sterility. Bakuma feared to
part with the charm, yet the matter was pressing; immediately she was the
wife of Zalu Zako she would be in a position to purchase all the charms in
the village.
But difficult to obtain as they were, for as everybody knows no man leaves
portions of himself around that may fall into the hands of an enemy to
work magic upon, least of all a rich man, “half divine,” she had obtained
some nail parings and one hair. With that charm against sterility, the
only thing of value Bakuma possessed, had she bribed a concubine of Zalu
Zako’s household to steal the ingredients required from the hut thatch
where they had been hidden after the official shaving and paring following
the ceremony of his father, pending their removal to the sacred precincts
of the temple.
Above her passion for Zalu Zako was her natural feminine appreciation of a
good match. The Son of the Snake was far better from a woman’s point of
view than union with a successful wizard. In the event of the death of the
King-God, Kawa Kendi, the wives of his son and successor, although denied
to him, were accorded special privileges; and upon his demise these royal
wives retained their home upon the hill which had become his tomb.
Moreover, as Bakuma knew well, now that Zalu Zako was heir-apparent, he
must choose the principal wife who would for her life remain paramount in
the household, avoiding the dread of every ageing woman that her husband
would take unto him another wife younger and more supple.
The one mosquito in paradise was the fear that as soon as her uncle, her
father’s brother to whom she belonged by inheritance, learned the august
personage who desired her, he would raise the price to a prohibitive
figure; for he was mean as well as stupid and lazy, wherefore he had few
goods, and although Zalu Zako was a rich man she knew that any man save a
fool loves to drive a good bargain if only to prove his astuteness.
Therefore was another imperative necessity to procure every means of magic
and charm to fan the flame of her lover’s desires.
Yet always flashed a bright-hued lizard in the sun of her joy when she
imagined herself installed as the chief wife in the household of Zalu
Zako, an unassailable position as long as she had one male child; the
practical mistress of his first two wives as well as the retinue of
slaves.
Bazila, the younger wife, Bakuma knew well; the favourite and haughty,
covered with the most expensive amulets against every ill and black magic,
she was overfond of sneering at young girls of the hut thatch whose charms
had not yet netted a victim.
“Ehh!” gasped Bakuma and flashed her teeth as she rolled the warm leaves
around the sticky mess, “then will the scent of my body be more bitter
than the flower of the fish-faced cactus!”
And so through the night did Bakuma nibble at anticipatory joys as she lay
upon her reed mat on the slightly raised dais of the floor which was her
bed, watching the smoke of the fire in the middle of the hut lose itself
in the shadows of the roof, and listening in the hope of hearing some
voice of the spirits whom Marufa was to invoke on her behalf. Save for the
occasional bleating of a goat and once the harsh scream of the Baroto
bird, which made her heart contract, for it is a bad omen, the night was
still. However, at the hour of the monkey Bakuma arose to replenish the
fire. As the western star was melting in the warm green she left the
compound. On the outskirts of the village the tall figure of MYalu
appeared from the shadows of the plantation.
“Greeting, daughter of Bakala,” said he, his eyes greedily devouring her.
“Greeting, O Chief!” returned Bakuma, as she politely stepped to one side
to avoid standing on the vague shadow of the chief.
“The fawn seeks the pastures early,” remarked MYalu.
“Before the breath of the sun the grass is sweeter,” retorted Bakuma,
edging away.
“Aye,” remarked MYalu, with a hungry glint in his eyes, “thou art eager to
slake thy thirst? But in the valley will no buck walk this day!”
“Ehh!” gasped Bakuma, recollecting instantly the omen of the Baroto bird
heard that night. “What meanest thou?”
“Maybe the soul of him hath wandered and been caught in a trap or maybe——”
He paused to watch her closely—“maybe an enemy hath made magic upon the
parts of him.”
“Ehh!” Bakuma started nervously.
MYalu smiled and touched her upon the shoulder.
“Thy flesh is cooler than the dew.”
“Nay, nay, O Chief, thou hast not tied my girdle,” she protested, as she
backed away from him, her eyes wide like a terrified deer’s.
“Nay, but will I untie it soon,” he retorted.
But as he stepped towards her she turned and fled. As MYalu watched her
running as swiftly as a pookoo into the plantation he grinned and called
out: “Even now is the cooling draught steaming in the breath of the
Unmentionable One! But the goblet shall hold a sweeter draught for me!”
“Aie! Aie-e!” wailed Bakuma, her heart beating furiously, “what devil hath
bewitched me! O, that father of many goats hath betrayed me! Aie! Aie-e!
O, the cry of the Baroto bird! Aie! Aie-e!”
And when Bakuma, distraught with terror by the menace that she had only
procured the nail paring and hair to give her lover into the hands of the
false magician who, of course, had been bought by MYalu, arrived at the
“pastures” by the river, as MYalu had foretold, no buck walked there.
The sun spilled blue shadows on the village from the sacred hill where
another scene was being enacted, and it was not as imagined by the amorous
MYalu.
In the council house, which was within the outer fence and before the
sacred enclosure, was in progress a meeting of the doctors. In the door of
the enclosure squatted Kawa Kendi, with Kingata Mata in attendance tending
the royal fires. Before him, in front of their fellows, were seated
Bakahenzie and Marufa in full dress of green feathers and the scarlet
plume. The left side of the idol, which was so set that the shadow never
fell upon the entrance to the compound, was gilded by the sun; the mouth
grinned in one corner, one eye was closed in shadow, seemingly like a
prodigious wink.
To the thrumming of the sacred band Bakahenzie was rocking himself to and
fro mumbling incantations. Kawa Kendi squatted immobile, but the others
swayed and grunted softly in rhythm. Then on a sudden did Bakahenzie lift
up his head and cry in a great voice. The drums ceased and the body of
witch-doctors remained motionless, expectant. Bakahenzie dropped his head
and began to chant:
“Behold! I have heard the voice of the trees
Crying softly by night!
Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!
As a woman with child!
Behold! is she not to break forth?
For she crieth for aid.
Unless she be heard the infant will slip!
The fruit will not be!
The plants will not break!
The milk will be sour!
The beer will be green!
Women will not bear!
Our spears will be blunt!
Our magic will wane!
And He will be wroth!”
“Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! …”
grunted the chorus of the doctors. Then chanted Marufa:
“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!
Preying swiftly by night!
Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throat
Of a mighty bull eland!
Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!
Which panted for blood!
The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree!
Take heed to the thirst
Of Him who first was!
Who lusts for a maid!
Full breasted, soft thighed!
Supple, bow arched!
Clean blooded and strong!
Whose name is forbid!
Whose name is a sin!”
“Who hath stolen the name?” screamed Bakahenzie, leaping to his feet. “Who
is she that hath stolen the name?”
“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”
As the drums throbbed swifter Bakahenzie began to shuffle in a stooping
posture as if he were snuffing a trail. To the continuous grunting he
continued this dance for fully a quarter of an hour. Then stopping
abruptly in front of the king he screamed:
“Let her be bidden
To come to the feast!
Let her be oiled!
Let her be shaved!
Let her come dancing!
Let her be joyful!
Let her be decked!
Let her be glad!
Lips of the groom
Thirst for her mouth!
Let her be drunken
To bear his sweet weight!
That the crops will be full!
That the cattle grow fat
Wives will throw men!
Spears will slice foes!”
He sank suddenly upon his haunches. The drums ceased. A slave appeared
bearing a pure white kid. Kingata Mata took the animal and held it before
Kawa Kendi, who muttered a long incantation over it and cut the throat
with a spear head. Then to Marufa was the bleeding carcass carried and
while still alive he slit open the belly, smeared the liquid over his
chest and right arm, and tore out the guts. The corpse was removed.
Marufa, working only with the enchanted arm, turned the entrails over and
about, peering closely.
There was silence. The shadows grew in depth. From the village came an
occasional bleat and the voice of a distant girl chanting.
After a prolonged and studious search, Marufa caught up and wrapt round
his neck an intestine. As he rose, the group of witch-doctors broke out
into a mighty groaning. Marufa speeded across the small clearing and
kneeled before Kawa Kendi. Through the bloody necklet he whispered two
syllables: “kuma.”
The groaning ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. Kawa Kendi cried out
in a loud voice:
“The bride is found!”
Instantly the drums began a furious beat. A mighty shout rose from all
assembled and they fell to the chest and belly grunting: “Eh! Ahh! … Eh!
Ahh! …” as Bakahenzie and Marufa began to dance the dance of thanksgiving.
Ba_kuma_ had been doomed to be the victim for the Feast of the Harvest
Festival, to be sacrificed in the orgy as the Bride of the Spirit of the
Banana, because Marufa had discovered by divination that two syllables of
her name were those of the secret name which only the King-God knew, of
the Unmentionable One, the Usa_kuma_.
CHAPTER 9
Before the green tent strutted a sentry as pompously as if he were on duty
before the Kommandant’s bungalow. Inside, sprawling in a camp chair, was
the corporal, in blue striped pyjamas, smoking a cigarette. Upon the floor
crouched one of his women with a safety razor stuck in her woolly thatch,
opening a can of beef. On the camp table were a bottle of brandy which had
had its neck knocked off, a shaving mirror and an open tin of cigarettes.
Squatting on the bed was another woman in field boots, cleaning up a can
of salmon with one finger. The rest of the tent was a litter of broken
cases, bottles, cans and papers.
Ten yards away under the thorn shrub, lay Birnier, and near to him were
Mungongo and the others. Mungongo’s regard shuttled between this scene in
the tent and the white man with a mingled expression of terror and
amazement: terror at the temerity of the corporal in treating a white in
such a manner and incredulous bewilderment that the white did not
immediately strike them all dead. But the others, more sophisticated to
the white man’s ways, were solely occupied in envying the corporal’s
debauch.
The mauve shadows turned to blue as they lengthened. The clouds of small
flies thinned and their ranks began to be refilled by the mosquitoes.
Birnier lay with his back to the tent with a fly switch of grass, but he
watched the doings of the corporal covertly. The corporal and his women
had been drinking a good deal of the brandy and now he was supplying
generous quantities to his men. Once he had come out to jeer. Birnier had
taken no notice, nor even of the kick implanted by one of his own field
boots on the foot of the woman. Already there was a bloodshot glint in the
corporal’s yellow eyes and a pronounced uncertainty in his movements.
Whether the man had had any particular instructions regarding the manner
of his death Birnier did not know until he became loquacious and took to
shouting insults at his white prisoner. The great white chief had given
the white man to him as a slave, he yelled, and now he was going to take
him home with him. This idea seemed to tickle him vastly and also his
women, who giggled and applauded as the corporal began to describe what
obscene acts they would make their white dog perform every day, what they
would give him to eat, how he should be made to dance.
They grew noisier and the women began to sing lewd songs. The soldiers too
revealed signs of their frequent potations. Soon the whole crowd would go
mad, Birnier knew, and sooner or later collapse, which would give him a
chance to escape, unless they chained him, or, what was far more probable,
they decided to bait him to death during an orgy. What they would probably
do to him was unthinkable. Somehow he must find a way out by
self-destruction. Even should he escape, he would be unarmed and without
food, and there was every possibility that they would trail and overtake
him in the morning. He was lame and footsore; also he was weak from want
of food. Once, when despoiling his chop boxes, the corporal had
contemptuously thrown him a half eaten tin of sardines and a cigarette. He
let the cigarette lie. Nourishment he must have; and so after an inward
struggle he had eaten it, having to claw out the fish like a monkey, while
the big black and his women sprawled and laughed.
The soldiers, except the one on sentry who still paced a trifle
erratically, were grouped on their haunches around the fire in front of
the tent on the threshold of which the corporal presided with as much
pomposity as if he were the great Mogul, all drinking and smoking and
eating. Now and again the women would screech insults over their heads at
the white; and once the corporal threw an empty bottle at him, evoking a
gale of applause. The women began the belly dance, crooning while the men
accompanied with the rhythmic grunt, which ever leads to hysterical
exaltation.
The sun was dipping. They might come for him at any moment. He watched the
sentry and contemplated making a rush, taking a venture on the man’s bad
aim and unsteady hand. They would not follow him far in the dark for dread
of the spirits that walk by night. The only alternative to suicide was the
river, in flood and full of crocodiles, a slender chance. He determined to
try it. He considered making the attempt then. But the darker the better;
they would more easily miss. At any risk he must never let them get their
hands upon him. He drew himself together, flexing his limbs for a leap and
a rush, anxiously observing the chanting crowd around the fire in the
sunset glow.
The leashes of discipline were fraying. The sentry still plodded up and
down, but with a rolling eye for his companions. The working of his mind
was revealed when he walked round tying knots in the long grass which, as
every Munyamwezi knows, is a sure method to prevent a prisoner’s escape;
then he halted in front of Birnier, grinned, and pointed to the fire;
evidently he knew or had heard that an orgy was coming. The man stood and
watched him. Fearful that the fellow was about to drag him over or suggest
that the victim be seized, if only in order to release him from his
irksome duty, Birnier snatched up the cigarette lying in the grass and
asked for a light to distract the man’s attention. The sentry shook his
head and pointed to the fire. Hastily Birnier searched his pockets for a
match; recollected that he had used the last, and took out a small tin box
of wax vestas wrapped in oiled silk which he kept as a reserve in a
special pouch of his belt. In the very act of striking the match Birnier
ejaculated: “God!”
“Nini?” demanded the sentry.
“I burned myself,” returned Birnier.
“Nothing to what you will soon!” retorted the nigger, grinning, made an
obscene suggestion and swaggered across to the fire.
Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and
the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the
more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the
Munyamwezi would not understand.
“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I
throw up in the air this cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the
river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until
thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the
frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost
understand?”
“Truly, my master!”
“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as
it shall these children of dung!”
“Truly, master!”
Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet
twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of
a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the
yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal
Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of
his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair.
They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry,
excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round
the outskirts of the throng.
Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn
bush he heard the rustle of movement and the “boy’s” gasped exclamation to
the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink
Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right,
which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his
instructions.
The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently
above the chorus of the frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the
chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably
drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could
see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the
scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until
after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the
excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier
reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The
spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when
they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as
the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he
would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun
to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet
hummed over his head.
He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been
spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A
hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.
Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well,
for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out
vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights
glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the
river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could
he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for
some yards. He slid down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although
the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa.
He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried
his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.
For some time he could only hear the shouts and yells. He kept the water
up to his chin and continuously splashed his face in the endeavour to
slacken the efforts of the mosquitoes. The cries approached. He saw men
outlined against the stars and then some gleams of lanterns. Something
stirred ponderously near to him. It might be a crocodile, but he dared not
move. The figures seemed to stay on the top of the bank for hours. He
remained rigid, expecting a swirl of water and teeth.
Suddenly a spurt of flame shot out above him and was followed by a
fusillade of shots in the direction of up river. Had they spotted Mungongo
or were they merely letting drive at a bush or the spirits in general? The
latter was most probable. The water swirled near to him. All his will
power was required not to leap frantically for the bank. Yet a crocodile
would be far more merciful than those black devils. Again a swirl and
something passed close to him at high speed. Probably an otter scared by
the firing; at any rate it was not a crocodile. The lights and figures on
the bank disappeared.
Shots rang out again, and were followed by a wild outburst of yelling.
Birnier began to wade for the bank, continually splashing water at the
mosquitoes which were so thick that they reminded him of the bayou
Lafourche in far-off Louisiana. Crouching, he waited on the edge of the
bank to listen. The corporal might have had enough sense to post men in
the grass. Yet he might be too fuddled to think of that, and no native
would willingly stay there in the dark, unless under white discipline.
Voices still muttered, but they sounded as if from the camp. Had they
given him up for the night, relying on the chance that if he had not been
taken by a crocodile they could trail him in the morning? Probably.
Birnier squatted in the water, ready to plunge back, until he was sure
they were in camp. Then as cautiously he crawled up the bank. Through the
scrub with his uninjured eye he could make out the figures around the
yellow of the fire which had gone down considerably. Now what would they
do? He could hear the mumble of the corporal’s voice. Would they be
sufficiently sobered to be ready for the chase in the morning? Birnier did
not think so with that case of brandy there; the corporal would not, at
all events. There was a scream of pain and the chatter of women’s voices.
Was the corporal punishing the sentry for having let the prisoners escape,
or were they beginning to fight among themselves? The latter was
improbable, as non-commissioned officers are usually chosen from petty
chiefs and the men under them, as far as possible, from their own village.
Had they captured Mungongo or one of the others? Birnier listened again.
Another scream was stoppered to a groan.
“Devils!” muttered Birnier. Lying flat to watch the grass and shrub tops
against the stars, he gave the frog croaks arranged, at intervals of ten
seconds. About five minutes later he saw some grass tops quiver
unnaturally. He croaked again. Came a whisper:
“Is it thee, Infunyana?” (a name given in reference to Birnier’s gold
fillings).
“Aye.” A dark form glided towards him. “Where are the other men?”
“I know not. I told them as thou hadst told me to do. When thou didst give
the sign, I fled and plunged into the river.”
“Thou wast not frightened of the crocodiles?”
“Nay; for I have a mighty charm against all river beasts, enchanted by
Bakahenzie, the greatest of magicians.”
“Ehh!” commented Birnier, contorting his swollen lips in the dark, “would
that I had such an one! Thinkest thou that the men did as they were
bidden?”
“Who knows what is in the heart of a goat?” returned Mungongo
contemptuously, for they were of another tribe.
“Ah, listen!”
The mutter of the hand-drum grew swifter as a high tenor chanted to the
accompaniment of the abdominal grunting and the laryngeal shrilling:
“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!
From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!
Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!
Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!
For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!
Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!
Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
What hath he given us to tickle our spears?
A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!
Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!
A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!
Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!
He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!
His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of ——!
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!
A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!
Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!
A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
“Those children of folly have not obeyed,” whispered Birnier. “The time is
come.… Wait here for me, O Mungongo. I go to take my spirit form. When I
return be not afraid!”
“Truly,” answered Mungongo, as Birnier crawled away and down the bank. By
the water’s edge he swiftly stripped himself to his moccasins and taking
out the wax vestas, damped each precious one and carefully rubbed lines
over his face and body, endeavouring to get the most distinctive
phosphorescent effect around the eyes. Leaving his clothes he crawled back
to Mungongo.
“Ehh!” exclaimed Mungongo in a muffled scream when he saw the glowing
apparition. Birnier heard the rustle of grass. As the boy stood up to run
he leaped and pulled him down savagely.
“Be quiet, thou fool!” he whispered. “It is I. Be silent!”
“Eh! Eh!” gasped Mungongo, who was trembling violently.
“If thou dost not be quiet will I tie up thy heart,” threatened Birnier.
Mungongo continued to quiver, but he remained passive.
“Eh! Eh!” he gasped, “truly thou art a more mighty magician than
Bakahenzie.”
“Be quiet!”
The drums and the song were still going and the chant had become more
obscene.
“Follow me!” whispered Birnier, when Mungongo was more reassured.
They made a detour. As they drew near they could hear muffled screams and
groans beneath the howl of the chorus and song. The mighty son of Banyala
and his merry men were so engrossed in the orgy that Birnier could have
walked right up to the fire before anyone would have seen him. But he
would not take any unnecessary risk. Leaving Mungongo outside he crawled
under the back flap of the tent. Crouched there he paused. The tent was
empty; for all were engaged in the dance. His two shot-guns and two light
rifles were stacked in the corner and the big express which the corporal
had appropriated, leaned against the tent door behind the chair. He
glanced hurriedly around for ammunition, but he could not see any open,
and he had left his belt of cartridges with his clothes. Outside the men
and women were circling in contrary directions, each with a spear, a knife
or a firebrand in hand, around the fire beside which, trussed like bundles
of faggots, were the four servants, their feet singeing on the outside hot
ashes.
For a second Birnier hesitated. He could not know whether any of the guns
was loaded. The fire was of glowing embers which did not throw much light
into the tent. Swiftly Birnier rose and glided into his own chair in the
deep shadow of the tent flap. Then summoning all his nerve he uttered a
yell and began to shout the first song which he could recollect:
“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”
The native minstrel stopped in the middle of his chant; the whole
shuffling, grunting crowd was petrified in as many different poses.
Birnier leaped to his feet waving his arms wildly, yelling:
“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!
As we …”
But before he had gotten to “Georgia,” only the prostrate forms around the
fire had not fled.
CHAPTER 10
On the morning of Birnier’s departure there was much movement in Ingonya
station. Every sign of preparation for the expedition had been carefully
concealed while a stranger was in the vicinity. Trumpets blared
importantly. On the great parade ground companies were formed, long lines
of rigid, ebon figures, down which strolled zu Pfeiffer inspecting
personally kits and rifles. Afterwards they were drawn up before the
flag-pole. In an address zu Pfeiffer informed them that they served under
a greater Bwana than he, the greatest Bwana in the countries of the white
or the black, who was the son of Ngai (an uncertain term meaning “son of
God” or the “son of nobody”); that the flag they bore, the brother of the
big one upon the pole, was so powerful in magic that none could withstand
it, the Totem of the Bwana Mkubwa Kuba. No wives were allowed for black or
white, and he himself set them the example; for they were embarking on a
war expedition to take a country which they knew was full of ivory, cattle
and women.
The row upon row of eyes in black faces bulged, as from the mass came the
long grunt of assent and allegiance. The three white sergeants barked at
their various companies, which wheeled into column formation and marched
past zu Pfeiffer beneath the flag in review order, their alignment and
precision a credit to their drill masters. Down below the fort on the
mouth of the bayou Sergeant Ludwig superintended the overhauling of the
steam-launch, and a native sergeant and a file of men overseered lines of
carriers bearing white men’s provisions, the bulk of which was zu
Pfeiffer’s personal supplies. Around the launch was a flotilla of native
canoes in charge of a small crowd of nude Kavirondo paddlers, jabbering at
the prospect of a war expedition.
Most of the day zu Pfeiffer spent in the orderly room going over documents
and giving detailed instructions to the grizzled Sergeant Schneider, who
was to take over the station with fifty of the least competent men,
pending the arrival of an officer, which again would depend upon the
success of the expedition. In zu Pfeiffer’s manner was evident the
controlled excitement of a boy on the eve of a house match, and indeed for
him it was the game for which he was bred and lived, “das Kriegspiel.”
Perpetually his long fingers caressed the sentry moustaches; an unusual
glitter was in his blue eyes.
The personality of Birnier had been apparently wiped from his mind as a
spoor in the sand by rain; indeed in addition to the competing excitement
of the expedition, the previous night’s alcoholic and sentimental debauch
had served to exhaust the emotions stimulated by jealousy. To him had
appeared an obstruction in his emotional life in the shape of the husband
of the woman whom he adored; therefore, according to his nature and
training, he had endeavoured to remove that obstacle as swiftly and as
efficiently as possible. Superlative confidence in himself, reflected in
his pride of family and nationality, the apotheosis of which was the
Kaiser, enabled him to devote all his energies to the business in hand,
never doubting that his interpretation of native psychology would ensure
the extinction of his adversary.
Beyond the mere joy of the game of war was present the fundamental impulse
to win the approval of the All Highest by gaining another place in the sun
as well as the half-suppressed conviction that such a distinction would
naturally further his suit in love. In the orbit of these two poles
revolved the life actions of zu Pfeiffer.
That evening zu Pfeiffer dined as leisurely and as sumptuously as usual;
drank his port and smoked his cigar while his servants packed the last of
his kitchen battery. Then at the first green of the moon he gave the order
to march.
The three companies of askaris fell in, marched down to the bayou and
embarked without fuss or confusion, each group under a non-commissioned
officer to the appointed canoe.
The launch laboured busily out of the bayou past misty reed-girt islands
into the indolent waters of the great lake, dragging after her the fleet
of forty odd canoes. A cigar under the awning of the tiny poop suggested a
great firefly in the blue shadows, where lounged zu Pfeiffer with his
favourite brandy and seltzer at his elbow.
Resembling an enormous water-fowl leading a strange black brood, the
launch towed the flotilla through the night. A war chant pulsed like a
fevered heart as the moon upon her back lazily chased the stars into the
dawn upon her way to her home in the Mountains of the Moon, to be in turn
extinguished by a furious sun. And all that day, while incandescent heat
tried to boil illimitable waters, the strange fowl waddled on with her
noxious brood. Huddled in the cramped canoes the soldiers slept and
snuffed and sang, to which zu Pfeiffer contentedly listened beneath the
awning. Three times grey walls of falling water enveloped them, sending
frantic black hands to bailing. Once more the moon made the skies to
laugh. When the sun had played his part of a flaming Nemesis, a fringe
grew upon the horizon like the stubble upon a white man’s chin.
Zu Pfeiffer had calculated to arrive at the village of Timballa just
within the river at sundown. The headman came down to the strand to meet
them. Immediately he was seized, and the soldiers, as joyous and as
mischievous as children released from school, surrounded the village.
Sitting in full uniform upon the poop of the launch, together with the two
sergeants, zu Pfeiffer held a shauri and demanded sufficient paddlers to
man his forty canoes. The headman, to whom all white men were alike,
thought they were British and hastened to proffer his services, promising
that the Bwana should have the men within two days. Zu Pfeiffer curtly
ordered him to procure them before the sun was overhead on the next day;
and to insure that he was obeyed, detained him as hostage and forbade any
man to pass his line of pickets around the village. The old man protested
that they had not sufficient men in the village, but zu Pfeiffer’s spies
had afforded him practically correct information. He gave the headman the
right to send a number of messengers, each accompanied by a soldier, to
the neighbouring villages and promised him fifty lashes and to rase his
village, if the paddlers were not forthcoming.
Solely because he wished to give his men time to recover from their
stiffness did he not insist upon starting that night upon the river trip.
As a good commander he considered his men from every point of view of
efficiency. They loved him. He was a warrior chief as they understood such
to be; carefully he fostered their warrior pride; never were they ordered
to work at menial offices, to fetch or to carry; only to drill and to
fight; his punishments were ferocious, but he gave them liberty in pillage
and rape. Eh! but the Eater-of-Men was a mighty chief! and of his name
they boasted to every man.
With foresight he had demanded twice as many men as he needed, knowing
that the panic-stricken chief would round up the halt, the blind, and the
sick. By an hour after the stipulated time they were assembled in the
village, a motley crew. Those of the most powerful physique he selected to
man the soldiers’ canoes, and the next in competency he allotted to the
baggage canoes.
They started immediately. They made about two and a half miles an hour,
for although the river was swollen it was sluggish and slow streamed,
tortuous. Each canoe load of soldiers was made responsible for the
paddlers and the speed was set by zu Pfeiffer in a large canoe with
Sakamata as guide. Never had those paddlers driven canoes so speedily and
persistently. At sundown they halted in a convenient bend where there was
no village near; pickets were set on the bank and no other man allowed to
land, no lights and no talking. They were ordered to rest.
At the first glint of the moon they started again. The canoes were hauled
by the aid of the soldiers over the slight rapids which divided the river
into pools in the dry season. Throughout the night the misty forest and
swamp slipped by to the perpetual rhythm of the paddles. About the hour of
the monkey a hippopotamus charged the flotilla and upset two boats. Zu
Pfeiffer forbade any shooting, nor would he permit the expedition a
moment’s delay to pick up the occupants. Just as they heard the distant
crowing of cocks from the village for which they were bound, four paddlers
collapsed. The soldiers, acting on their own initiative, threw them
overboard to swim if they could, and took the paddles themselves.
Afterwards they were thrashed for disobedience to orders in having given a
possible chance for one of the men to escape to warn the Wongolo. At an
hour after sunrise they arrived at the village. The majority of the
paddlers were so exhausted that they dropped in the canoes and had to be
thrown ashore, where they lay inert, their backs, bloody with the urgent
bayonet pricks, caking in the sun.
Beyond this point the river was not navigable, but the village was upon
the Wongolo border and within two days or fifteen hours’ continuous march
of MFunya MPopo’s (as zu Pfeiffer knew it). Zu Pfeiffer adopted the same
tactics to procure porters. But to the chief, in case he should require
his services again, he gave an extravagant present and left bales of cloth
for the carriers upon their return. Zu Pfeiffer and Sergeant Ludwig
travelled in machilas (hammocks) each with a crew of six; the soldiers
carried nothing save their rifles, double cartridge belts, a day’s
rations; the pick of the carriers bore ammunition and the two Nordenfeldts
and two pom-poms slung upon poles, and the chop boxes; the men’s blankets
and the heavy stuff were to follow more slowly under Sergeant Schultz and
fifty men. The country between this village and MFunya MPopo’s was mostly
forest and very sparsely inhabited, which afforded some shade and
concealment, and lessened the risk of a warning being given.
The expedition started at noon. The carriers were kept on the native
shuffling lope by the aid of attentions from the askaris. Two unfortunate
small villages which lay on the line of march were surrounded and the
inhabitants massacred. Twenty porters collapsed; they were bayoneted to
prevent any chance of a successful ruse in escaping to give the alarm, and
their loads given to relay men brought for that purpose. The column halted
at sundown. The men ate their rations, but the carriers were too exhausted
to eat; they drank water and lay prostrate. According to Sakamata they
were within two hands’ breadth of the moon of Kawa Kendi’s.
In full uniform of white, girded with sword and revolver, zu Pfeiffer ate,
drank, and smoked cigars until the forest roof was patterned against the
cold pallor of the moon. Then, after giving final instructions to Sergeant
Ludwig and the various native non-commissioned officers, he ordered the
jabbering men to march, with the carriers staggering on at the point of
the bayonet.
CHAPTER 11
The doom pronounced by the Council of Witch-Doctors was to Bakuma and all
concerned as a Bull of Excommunication in mediæval Europe. MYalu was the
one who exhibited the most emotion. Had he not paid seven tusks of good
ivory to have the object of his passion placed under the most terrible
tabu? Against Marufa, who had seemingly betrayed him, was his anger
directed. But the rage of MYalu was tempered with fear. A man had not
merely to kill an enemy: he had also to appease his justly wrathful ghost;
and who knew what the disembodied spirit of the most powerful magician in
the land, save Bakahenzie, could do! Moreover, no other wizard would give
him absolution in the form of the magic of purification. A chief though he
be; he dared not slay a magician. He sought Marufa and found him as usual
squatting on his threshold contemplating infinity in a mud wall. He
saluted Marufa politely, choking back words of bitter recrimination, for
if he even offended him, the wizard might cast a spell upon him instantly.
Marufa returned the greeting as courteously as ever. When at length MYalu
reproachfully reminded him of the seven tusks which he had paid apparently
to secure his love’s terrible fate, Marufa replied uninterestedly:
“I have done that for which thou hast paid.”
“What man buyeth a bride for another?” retorted MYalu.
“When I did make magic upon ‘the things’ did I place in the power of the
spirits the owner. Behold, hath not the owner of ‘the things’ been
accursed?”
“Ehh!” gasped MYalu. “But how may that be? Didst thou not thyself take the
paring and the hair?”
“I bade the One who is tabu to bring them that he might be bewitched to
her girdle. She thought to deceive me by bringing that which was of
herself.”
“E—eh!” muttered MYalu, impressed at the awful effect of deceiving a
wizard. Marufa continued to stare. MYalu meditated ruefully.
“But the tusks,” murmured MYalu at length dismally.
“It is not I who have two tongues,” responded Marufa indifferently.
And with that MYalu had to rest content. Marufa indeed had no interest at
all in the passions of Zalu Zako, MYalu and Bakuma. Merely the time had
come for the witch-doctors to choose the victim for the Harvest Festival:
Bakuma was young and good looking, a dainty morsel that should please the
taste of the officiating doctors, and her owner and uncle was a man of no
importance: so accordingly he had made known the sin of her name through
the divination.
In the solitude of his own hut upon the hill Zalu Zako sat and pondered
sulkily. His young and fierce temper was stimulated and the seed of
rebellion against the domination of the priesthood was quickened by the
fate of his new love; although the masonic secrets of the craft were
denied to him, he, as son of the royal house, was suspicious of the powers
of the Unmentionable One and the priesthood, as many an one had been
before him; yet in spite of that the verdict was absolute, for he was too
crushed by terror of the consequences to permit of any hope of annulling
it.
The fiat not only doomed Bakuma to a terrible death at the third blooming
of the moon, but from that very instant the tabu came into force; for
being thus accursed by the possession of two sounds of the sacred name,
she was deemed unholy. Her half-sisters and their mother, with whom Bakuma
shared the hut, fled to another and were exorcised by the wizard, which,
as everybody knows, is an expensive ceremony; gourds and pots, spoons and
utensils of all sorts, were left to the sole use of the unclean one and
would be burned upon her demise. A magic line was drawn around the hut out
of which the soul of the girl as she slept could not escape to bewitch
anybody. Neither her name nor anything that had been hers would be ever
mentioned again; any word of a household article or any thing or beast
which had one syllable of the name “Bakuma” was changed, lest the user be
accursed and bewitched.
For the whole day, in this isolation, sat the girl Bakuma, Marufa’s
useless love charm clutched in her hand, as bewildered as if the earth had
suddenly turned inside out under this fact so stupendous and stupefying.
She did not weep. She squatted in the door, her eyes staring with the
glazed inquiring expression of a dying gazelle, a bronze question to Fate.
At the feeding time her mother threw her bananas into the circle. Bakuma
looked at them as they flopped near to her as if she did not realize what
they were. She made no stir to cook or prepare them. The cool twilight
came and passed like a blue breath. Above the insectile chorus of the
night beneath the crystal stars came the faint thrumming of a drum from
MKoffo’s hill. The sound of music and dancing reminded Bakuma of her
ambitious dreams. She could neither weep nor wail; she merely emitted a
faint gasping sound. But her mind began to work jerkily, yet more
fluently. Visions of the form of Zalu Zako were weaved and spun in the
darkness: the lithe walk of him, the haughty carriage of the head. Slowly
greened the sky until the banana fronds were etched in sepia against the
swollen moon. The dismal croak of the Baroto bird shattered the black
cocoon of Bakuma’s mind.
“Aie-eee! the foul bird of my despair!” she wailed, and at last wept. Then
she rose and flitted like some green ghost into the plantation and across
to the place of water where her lover had first spoken her sweet, recking
naught in her mist of despair of spirits of the night nor of the breaking
of the magic circle. The moon spattered the squatted form with blue
spangles and turned the falling tears to quivering opals. Bakuma broke
into wild lament.
“The black Goat hath cried three times in my hut!
My soul hath wandered and been caught in a trap!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A wizard hath stolen a hair from my head!
The beak of Baroto pecketh my gall!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A rival hath lain in wait for my love!
She hath slain my bird in the nest of his breast!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A porcupine dwells in the place of my heart!
The bird of my soul is fluttering faint!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
An ember of fire hath entered my mouth!
The milk of my breasts is curdled to-night!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
The strings of my bosom are tied with fine knots!
My belly is void! My nipples are dead!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A monkey hath bitten the back of my tongue!
Hath stolen my breath to make magic by night!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
The blood in my veins hath turned to sour porridge!
My throat is choked up by the sudd of the Lake!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A grey forest rat hath swallowed my heart!
My thighs have been scratched by a poisonous thorn!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!”
As the last quiver of the wail blended with the anthem of the forest came
from a figure squatted above the ford of the river, his spear a blue flame
in the moonlight, an answer:
“My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her flesh will be tasted by a hungrier mouth!
Her flesh which is sweeter than honey and wine!
Her flesh which is softer than a newly born kid!
Ough! My spear is bent!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her breasts will be pillowed by a much broader chest!
Her breasts which do swell like a tender young gourd!
Her breasts which are as firm as the meat of the plum!
Ough! My spear is bent!”
And answered Bakuma’s wail:
“Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her chines will be gripped by a far fiercer hand!
Her chines which are smoother than elephants’ tusks!
Her chines which are as plump as the breast of a fowl!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her eyes will be touched by longer fingers than mine!
Her eyes which are like unto moons veiled by rain!
Her eyes which are like the starlit river at dawn!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her scent will be drunk by nostrils broader than mine!
Her scent which is pungent and sweet like the smoke!
Her scent which slakes thirst more than driest of beer!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her breath will be sipped by a thirstier throat!
Her breath which is hotter than the flame of a fire!
Her breath which makes more drunken than enemies’ blood!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her voice will be heard by ears mightier than mine!
Her voice which is like unto burbling beer!
Her voice which is gentler than the rustle of fronds!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
A slight breeze stirred gently the trees. The crickets shrilled their
perpetual chorus. A crocodile flopped in the river. Dogs yapped from a
village down the river. Again Bakuma lifted up her voice:
“Mightier than elephants was the tread of my man!
Keener than a leopard was the flash of his eye!
Stronger than an oak tree was the strength of his arm!
Swifter than lightning was the stroke of his spear!
Enemies died!
Taller than the wine palm was the height of my man!
Broader than the temple was the span of his chest!
More graceful than antelope was the carriage of him!
More slender than saplings was the build of his legs!
Women lamented!
Sweeter than warm honey was the scent of my man!
Whiter than a spear flash was the gleam of his teeth!
Fiercer than scorpions was the grip of his hand!
Smooth and like stone was——”
A gale of yells and shots destroyed the song of Bakuma like a foot
crushing a flower.
Zalu Zako leaped to his feet and stood for a moment listening intently.
Across the river some strange beast spat spears of red flames. A little
farther down another beast coughed violently like a hippopotamus. The sky
seemed falling. Such volumes of sound he had never heard before.
As he raced with the speed of a koodoo through the plantation he saw the
glow of fire ahead and heard the moan of some terrible monster near him.
He leaped five feet in the air as the world appeared to crack in half
beside him. He felt a sting like a brand of fire in his shoulder, but he
ran on towards the village from whence fled dim figures on all sides amid
shouts and screams and wailing.
Several huts were already blazing. The leviathan coughed and moaned again
and once more the earth seemed to crash to pieces near him. Appalled and
bewildered, choking with rage, he reached the outer enclosure where his
fellow warriors were shouting and yelling that the white gods were
attacking. Bakahenzie, gun in hand, was bidding them charge they knew not
what. Then out of the clutter of the village broke line upon line of
yelling figures clothed in uniform. Screaming the battle-cry, the warriors
charged, led by Zalu Zako, Bakahenzie, and Kawa Kendi, who in the
excitement had dashed from the enclosure. Howls and yells were drowned in
the spiteful crackle and cough. Warriors were mown like weeds under a
sickle. Scarce a hundred scrambled inside the enclosure at the rallying
call from Bakahenzie.
Again came a short rush of those uniformed figures; again scarlet spears
pierced the green moonlight like a hailstorm; small red flames rippled in
a line resembling a forest fire as the soldiers charged through and over
the palisade. Hand to hand was the fighting, spear and sword against
bayonet and rifle around the idol, the askaris outyelling the warriors.
The temple was on fire. In the light of the flames they saw a tall figure
in white with a glow of fire in his mouth and magic eyes upon his hands,
eyes which flashed rays of scarlet and blue as he cut and hacked at the
base of the idol.…
“Tarum hath come!” screamed some one, and as the cry was taken up, the
Unmentionable One tottered and crashed to the ground.
They fled, Zalu Zako, Bakahenzie and those that were left.
CHAPTER 12
The village of Yagonyana, the son of Zahilazaan, was situated some five
days’ march to the north-west of Kawa Kendi’s, in open cattle country near
the fringe of the forest. Here were gathered nearly every witch-doctor and
warrior of the tribe. Most of the women, children, and slaves had been
sent still farther to the west, driving the cattle before them.
Bakahenzie, Zalu Zako, Marufa, and all those warriors who had escaped from
the massacre by zu Pfeiffer were distinguished from their brethren by
circles of yellow earth around each left eye, and each right breast and
arm was smeared with red, which is part of the ceremony of magic
purification for those who have slain, lest, as is well known, the ghost
of the dead wreak their wrath upon their slayers.
The affairs of the tribe were in a parlous state. The netting of the tabu
had been tangled by the death of the King-God, Kawa Kendi, and the
unprecedented act of the overthrow of the idol. Kawa Kendi’s body, which
had not been recovered so that the doctors could release his unhappy soul,
might be used to make more magic against the tribe.
For three weeks there had been much discussion among the doctors, the
chiefs, and the people. Opinions were at variance; no two men could agree.
Lesser wizards, who before had been content with the perquisites of the
smaller offices, were now made drunken by the insecurity of Bakahenzie’s
position. Each of the doctors, seeing a chance to prove his superior merit
and win Bakahenzie’s post as chief doctor, had busily made magic to
destroy the usurper, and each and every one provided a different reason
for the failure thereof. Every day came news of the doings of the white
god with eyes upon his hands, of shootings and floggings, of the burning
of the village including the idol, the temple, and the sacred tombs of
MFunya MPopo, of MKoffo, of MZrakombinyana, and other kings before them.
The council of the craft could not even decide whether Zalu Zako was to be
King-God or not. Bakahenzie, whose interest lay in supporting the dynasty
of the present royal family, maintained that he should be anointed
forthwith. But with the downfall of the idol and his own impotence to make
successful magic, Bakahenzie’s prestige had been badly shaken; no longer
dared he issue dicta autocratically. As ever, political ambition tore
patriotism to shreds.
Marufa, former close ally of Bakahenzie, but lacking his active principle,
continued to mutter incantations most impressively by himself, waiting
cautiously to see which side of the river the arrow fell. Bakahenzie
became seriously alarmed at the growth of Yabolo’s faction and the
indifference of Marufa. He knew well that submission would entail the loss
of his post as well as his worldly goods; and he was aware that all men
knew that his most potent and strenuous magic had failed as utterly as
that of the youngest novice in the craft. His only chance to retrieve a
portion of his lost reputation was to invent a more plausible excuse for
failure than any other doctor had done. He did.
Although he did not know that Bakuma had broken the magic circle of her
own volition, he had the shrewd imagination to suggest that she had either
fled with the other women during the attack or that, even if she had
stayed, the askaris would have taken her from the hut. Therefore did he
demand an assembly of the craft and chiefs. One of the reasons, if not the
reason, of Bakahenzie’s success, as of other witch-doctors before, such as
Savonarola, had been a faculty, inspired by, or derived from, hysterical
epilepsy, of working himself up at will into a state of convulsion without
actual loss of consciousness and the spectacular exhibition of foam, which
no other sorcerer had been able to simulate so successfully. Therefore
Bakahenzie invoked the great Tarum (apotheosis of ancestors’ spirits) who,
through the convulsed body, did proclaim that the disaster had been caused
by the breaking of the magic circle by one whose name was accursed; and
that only could the magic of Bakahenzie be made potent, and the consequent
overthrow of the Eyes-in-the-hands be assured, by the sacrifice of the
victim to her destiny as the Bride of the Banana.
Marufa, appreciating the shrewdness of this move, immediately abandoned
his incantations to reassume his allegiance to the cause of Bakahenzie.
The prophecy was hailed by nearly every one as a most timely excuse for
the failure of magic in general. The miraculous recall of the
Unmentionable One now seemed so easy of accomplishment through the person
of Bakuma that many of those who had sided with Yabolo deserted him,
foreseeing the renewed ascendancy of Bakahenzie and fearing his wrath.
Yabolo, however, made an attempt to recover the lost adherents by
protesting that the Moon of the Harvest Festival had not yet come, and
that therefore victory could not be obtained until two more moons had
waned. But MYalu saw that by submitting to the new god he might be able to
have removed the tabu upon Bakuma—all things were possible to one who had
overthrown the Unmentionable One—and thus obtain her by the price of
submission; also he might possibly recover his wealth of ivory abandoned
after the massacre. Therefore did he with his people go over to the Yabolo
faction.
Uproar and confusion ensued. Bakahenzie recovered from his trance with
unprecedented rapidity and even did not require to be told what the spirit
of Tarum had said through his lips. The tribe was split into fiercer
factions than ever. They argued and screamed and cursed. Bakahenzie had
lost the hold over them; for as the god, of which he was the sponsor, was
dead, his credit had gone too. He dared no longer to remove a troublesome
brother or chief by magic. His only hope was to restore the god: so to
that end he declared that Zalu Zako must be anointed King-God. Uproar
arose once more. But Bakahenzie’s purpose had been served; he had diverted
their attention from the subject of submission.
From time to time came terrified runners with horrific stories of the
burning of villages, of massacre and rapine. Bakahenzie, determined not to
yield, secretly dispatched a slave to Eyes-in-the-hands with an arrow
which is a sign of war; Yabolo, whose mind ran in the same tracts, sent a
banana which is a sign of peace. In the meantime factions grew and
multiplied. One chief counselled his followers to take their cattle and
women and seek to conquer another tribe to the south-west; another wished
to go west. But each and every follower began to bargain with his chief
for disproportionate rewards for service. Two chiefs and five hundred men
started to the south-west, but they returned because they had met in their
path the skeleton of a slain elephant, which is, as everybody knows, a
sure sign of disaster.
Bakahenzie sent runners far and wide to discover Bakuma. As she could not
be found he concluded that she had been killed or taken as a slave and
urged the warriors to fight. Zalu Zako immediately desired the anointing
to be delayed in order that he should not be debarred from fighting.
Bakahenzie, none too sure of his authority, was compelled to acquiesce.
Marufa, observing that the arrow was still in the air, took to his
non-committal incantations again. Bakahenzie strove to keep the warriors
and chiefs occupied by dissension until the result of his challenge to
battle should mature. Yabolo, equally perturbed for his influence, did
exactly the same with the banana in view.
Yabolo and MYalu contemplated going in to make submission, but the former
wished to negotiate through Sakamata for the best terms, although he tried
to persuade MYalu to go; but MYalu was suspicious and would not do so
without Yabolo. But at the hour of the monkey one morning came a terrified
goatherd crying news that cut the tangled threads of their intrigues as a
sword cuts a goat’s throat. The white god, Eyes-in-the-hands, was within
an arrow’s flight of the village of Yagonyana.
Consternation ensued. The village and the temporary camp of grass huts
buzzed and hummed. Zalu Zako dashed out, sword and spear in hand, and in
the glow of the awakened fires harangued the warriors, urged that they
should make a swift detour through the forest and attack the white man as
he entered the village. Bakahenzie supported this plan of campaign. MYalu,
stung by the recollection of the loss of many tusks to the invader,
incontinently abandoned Yabolo and pressed for a frontal attack. Yabolo
contended that they send an envoy to make terms, but not very insistently.
In spite of the assurance of Sakamata, he was suspicious of the new god’s
gentle ways. Marufa, the wise, collected those of his household who had
remained with him, and quietly made his way to the forest.
But Zalu Zako’s martial spirit was overcome by the clamour of those who
would flee before worse befell, crying that the white god,
Eyes-in-the-hands, would eat them all up with the terrible monsters who
coughed flames and death; others screeched that the uniformed devils were
spirits of the night and therefore invincible; for always they came in the
dark. So they hesitated, shouted and argued. Then came a scout screaming
that the enemy was upon them, corroborated by a vicious cough.
A pom-pom shell landed in the midst of the crowded village. Zalu Zako,
Bakahenzie and their small following were nearly swept away in the rush of
five thousand odd warriors in flight. From the forest they watched with
awestruck eyes the burning of the village.
CHAPTER 13
On the morning on which zu Pfeiffer burned the village of Yagonyana,
Birnier was encamped upon the southern boundary of Wongolo. By his “coup
de superstition” had he recovered all his equipment except several bottles
of brandy, some canned goods and two and a half pairs of pyjamas; also the
field boots. The noble Inyira, son of Banyala, and his merry men never
attempted to recapture their prisoners; no one save the Eater-of-Men in
person could have persuaded them to return to that camp even had they had
their rifles.
After Birnier had dressed his own foot and the charred feet of his men,
had had a good drink and a better meal, he had sought to address the
balance of his mind through a medium designed for the cure of melancholy,
but efficacious for many other ills, _The Anatomy of Melancholy_. He
opened the one big volume which had been his companion throughout his
travels at a page marked at haphazard by an ivory paper knife with the
American flag upon the flat hilt, an early gift from Lucille, and began to
read the remarks of Robert Burton of quaintly glorious memory upon the
source of his late adventure.
“Those which are jealous, most part, if they be not otherwise relieved,
proceed from suspicion to hatred, from hatred to frenzy, madness, injury,
murder and despair … Amestris, Xerxes’s wife, because she found her
husband’s cloak in Masista’s house, cut off Masista’s wife’s paps and gave
them to the dogs, flayed her besides and cut off her ears, lips, tongue,
and slit the nose of Artaynta, her daughter.”
“Cheerful lady! She ought to have been zu Pfeiffer’s wife,” commented
Birnier and went to sleep.
Birnier arose feeling rational enough to reconsider his position. The
recollection of the signature on the photograph now failed to stimulate
the emotional reaction as once it had done. The experience through which
he had passed had had a beneficial effect in breaking or disconnecting the
train of suggestive images. At first in the recess of his mind had lurked
the desire to abandon everything, to rush straight to Lucille to demand an
explanation. Now the rising sun of reason cast quite different shadows
upon the incident. The high light was the fact that should he do so he
would be sacrificing his mission for what might prove to be ridiculous. As
his mind contemplated the subject the echo of “à toi, Lucille” tended to
carry a high note, but this he vented by writing a long letter to Lucille
recounting the facts and frankly admitting that he had been sufficiently
insane with jealousy to “go up in the air.” Once or twice he ceased to
write and gazed anxiously into the glare as his imagination suggested the
long period of waiting for an answer, wondering whether the echo of that
cursed “à toi” might not become unbearably shrill. He became a little more
sentimental towards the end of the letter, remarking that perhaps he had
been wrong in deserting her for so long and emphasising the rather
ridiculous point that he was aware that he was not a young man. However,
he let it remain, and at the first opportunity sent off the letter by
runner to the nearest station in Uganda, together with an order for
certain goods to be sent to a village on the Wongolo border.
Although still inclined to be emotional over the photograph, Birnier did
not waste any energy over vindictive thoughts upon zu Pfeiffer, whom he
philosophically regarded as irresponsible for his actions, inasmuch as he
had been made that way just as any savage. He had gotten out of the toils
set for him, so why should he spend time and trouble in seeking revenge
which would merely consist in reporting the incident through a British
station to Washington, who would open up interminable polite
correspondence with the German Embassy, who would again write prodigious
letters to the Colonial Minister in Berlin, who would… Ludicrous! No; he
would not permit zu Pfeiffer to interfere with his plans. He would
continue straight to Wongolo instead of investigating the Kivu country,
where zu Pfeiffer might perhaps have another opportunity to cause more
trouble. Accordingly he negotiated with the nearest village for carriers
and set out, striking due west, thus approaching the Wongolo territory
towards the southern boundary.
The people to the south of the Wongolo country was an inferior race, whom
the Wongolo periodically raided to replenish their slaves. These Wamongo
were split up into several petty chiefdoms, usually at war with one
another. They had no defined theology. For they had not progressed beyond
the stage of magic as far as any concept of religion, that is of praying
for intercession to any power greater than themselves; whereas the mental
state of the Wongolo was half-way between magic and religion, mixing and
confusing the two as exemplified in the Rain-making ceremony of employing
magic and alternately invoking the god and threatening him with dire
penalties if he did not behave. There seemed to be no royal family or clan
of the Wamongo; chiefs changed constantly as one more powerful for the
moment arose; the wizards did not appear to have any political power,
acting as general physicians and confining their efforts apparently to
simple magic for the growing of corn, the curing of the evil eye and
wounds. They were terrified of the Wongolo, much to Mungongo’s pride, who
never let slip an opportunity of swaggering and bruiting abroad the fame
of his master as the greatest of magicians the world had ever seen. Never
was he tired of relating to a grunting audience the terrible sight and
effect of his master’s transposition into a spirit. The yarn lost nothing
in the telling.
Progress was slow. Every afternoon, as regular as the sun set, clouds of
sepia sailed up from the west to clothe the world in a grey deluge of
falling water. Fortunately they were travelling up a watershed so that
there were no large rivers to cross. As they approached the Wongolo border
rumours began of a white god with eyes upon his hands and live fire in his
mouth who, so said the delighted Wamongo, had entirely eaten up the hated
Wongolo. They seemed prepared to accept Birnier, when suggesting that he
should make magic for them to conquer the Wongolo, as another terrible
white god, and were accordingly polite. But Mungongo, vastly indignant,
denied the story; according to him, no power on earth could have subdued
his race, except perhaps the mighty Moonspirit (the name he had bestowed
upon Birnier).
But when Birnier arrived at the first village of the Wongolo the absence
of warriors corroborated the wild tales they had heard. The inhabitants of
old men, boys and women surrounded the camp to gaze in awestruck curiosity
at the white whom they believed to be the brother of the
Eyes-in-the-hands. This calumny Mungongo strenuously gainsaid, and anew
recounted the marvellous feats of magic of Moonspirit who could, he
assured his compatriots, eat up Eyes-in-the-hands as easily as a crocodile
would swallow a goat. Yet in spite of their terror they insisted that
Birnier must go through the ceremony of purification incumbent upon all
strangers in order to exorcise the evil influence of their eyes and souls;
also the customary present must be sent to the king and his august
permission to enter awaited, although no man knew where he was since the
capital had been burned. Mungongo waxed furious. He informed them that
Moonspirit was a friend of the Son-of-the-Snake, and moreover had before
been in the country; that if they vexed Moonspirit he would enchant the
whole village so that no man could move hand or foot. No matter, said
they, that was the rule and must be done. They were impressed but
obstinate.
From the description of this destroying god, who was the colour of a
stripped banana and tall as a palm tree, had fire in his mouth and eyes
upon his hands—it was some time before he could recognise the “eyes”—and
whose companions were devils strangely clothed, dragging horrific monsters
who spat earthquakes, Birnier had no difficulty in recognising zu
Pfeiffer, and recollected the significant pumping at dinner regarding the
Wongolo country. However he had renounced any idea of revenge, but the
discovery of friend zu Pfeiffer as the terrifying god amused him:
quickened a desire to overset the gentleman’s plans. He smiled with a
slight hardening of the line about his mouth as he began to consider what
might be done.
As far as he could estimate by recalling the size of the native barracks
at Fort Ingonya, he reckoned that zu Pfeiffer could not possibly have more
than three hundred men, unless he had been reinforced from the east.
Roughly he calculated that the Wongolo ought to be able to put about ten
thousand warriors in the field. That number under any sort of leadership,
even though they were only armed with spears and swords, should wipe out
the three hundred, in spite of the discipline and two or three
machine-guns, by sheer weight of numbers. But, from what he had already
heard, zu Pfeiffer had evidently caught them unprepared, wiped out a mass
and secured a supernatural effect by destroying the idol. He remembered
his talk on das Volkliches and his comment that zu Pfeiffer was unusually
well informed upon the psychology of the native mind.
During two days disputing in the native manner news came in of fresh
massacres, adding to the general terror. He sent for the headman and with
him held a long shauri. The result was that the old fellow conceived the
wonderful idea, already suggested by his lesser brethren, of enlisting the
services of this white man, reputed to be a most marvellous magician, in
their protection.
Then having had his wits sharpened by his own originality and a sheath
knife, the headman promptly discovered that the ceremony of exorcism could
not be performed because the local wizard had departed with every ounce of
magic for the front. Still there were obstinate and fearful persons who
wished that Birnier should send a message to the king and wait until he
had the permission. Another two days were lost until this objection was
overcome by certain presents of “bafta,” destined for the king, being
handed over to the village.
On the week’s march across Wongolo, Mungongo triumphantly held spellbound
audiences at every village through which they passed. As they neared the
site of the City of the Snake, where they heard zu Pfeiffer was encamped,
they encountered deserted villages. When they came upon the smouldering
embers of one Birnier consented to turn aside from the regular trail in
order to pass to the west of Kawa Kendi’s where, so the natives said, were
Zalu Zako and Bakahenzie.
Beyond a belt of forest was open rolling country. They came to a village
of five huts where dwelt some herdsmen, although most of the cattle had
been driven westwards. Mungongo, seeking at Birnier’s suggestion for some
one who had actually been present at the village when zu Pfeiffer
attacked, discovered a young g
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