Part 14 (1/2)

”Who did this the Wazoos?”

There was a malignity in her cooing voice that made Bones s.h.i.+ver. Hamilton had told her! The cad!

”Now listen, dear old painter and decorator ” began Bones.

”Mr Tibbetts you pulled my leg.”

”Be decorous!” urged Bones.

”You pulled my leg. I shan't forget it. I'm coming in to sketch you!”

”I've got nothing on,” roared Bones, untruthfully, ”except a pair of slippers and a kilt!”

Hamilton returned with a mackintosh and a sun helmet, pleading that that was all he could raise. The mackintosh was one which was slightly too short for Sanders. On the lank figure of Bones it had the appearance of a covert coat.

It was three months later before the ill.u.s.trated newspaper came into the residency; and, opening it idly, Hamilton saw a picture and yelled. It was a black-and-white sketch, which bore in the corner the scrawled signature ”MW”. It showed Bones in all the glory of singlet and gra.s.s kilt, with a sun helmet on his head and an eyegla.s.s in his eye; and beneath was the superscription: ”British officer wearing the native costume of the Wazoos.”

THE ALL-AFRICANS.

The mind of Mr Commissioner Sanders was as two books, the one open for inspection, and, by its very accessibility, defying the suspicion that any other could exist; the second a small tome, bound in steel and fastened with many locks.

Once upon a time Hamilton, skimming his newspapers newly arrived from home, read something and laughed.

”I wish, dear old officer, you wouldn't,” said Bones irritably, glaring up from the torture of simple addition. ”Just as I was totting up the jolly old pay sheet. I'll have to do it all over again.”

”And you'll do it wrong,” said Hamilton. ”Can't you take that infernal sheet somewhere else, or learn to count to yourself?”

Bones shrugged. ”There's only one way, dear old Ham, and that's the right way,” he said, and began his labours anew. ”Eight and four's fourteen,” he muttered fiercely, ”and nine's twenty-two and three's twenty-five and nine's thirty-two an' seven's thirty, one, two, three, four...”

”What were you laughing at?” asked Sanders, smoking a meditative cheroot, his eyes on the parade ground.

”Something in one of the papers about an All-Africa Empire, with an army of its own, organised by American negroes and having their Inspector-General where do they get such rot from?”

”And nine's a hundred and five, and six is a hundred and ten and three's ninety-nine...” struggled Bones.

”It's true.”

Hamilton sat up. ”What...? But not here...in the territory?”

Sanders nodded. ”I've known about it for three years,” he said with surprising calm, ”and of course it is inevitable. Clever and rich American negroes were certain to exploit Africa sooner or later.”

Bones had dropped his accountancy, and was listening open-mouthed.

”You don't mean to tell me me, sir an' excellency, that the jolly old indigenous native is organisin' a a...?”

”I mean even to tell you,” said Sanders with a smile. ”There's a French boat calling next week with a man named Garfield on board and a lady etymologist from England. She wants to go up country to hunt b.u.t.terflies, and I'm rather worried about the lady.”

It seemed that Sanders was changing the subject, but that impression was to be corrected.

”Bones and I will leave tonight,” he said, surprisingly, ”and you will send me on the letter she brings open and decode it, and fly me a pigeon with the gist of it. By the way, she is rather pretty, which makes me just a little scared. Yes, the African Empire movement is a reality I wish it wasn't. Look at Mr Garfield's hands, by the way, particularly his fingernails. He has the permission of Downing Street to explore the country hoof him along and tell him I'm tax-collecting.”

He got up and walked out of the room, and the two men stared at one another.

”It may be sun or it may be fever, dear old Ham,” said Bones solemnly. ”And yet he must be right in his head he's taking me along with him.”

”It is incredible,” said Hamilton, too perturbed to be offensive. ”And yet, when Sanders talks and looks like that... You lucky young devil!”

The Zaire Zaire left at sunset, which was unusual, for the river is full of shoals and navigation a danger. By night (the third night) Sanders brought his steamer to a creek near the village of Kafu... left at sunset, which was unusual, for the river is full of shoals and navigation a danger. By night (the third night) Sanders brought his steamer to a creek near the village of Kafu...

And then a whisper ran through the village, a whisper that had a gasp at the end, and at that whisper even old men slapped their lean thighs as at the prospect of tribulation, and said in dismay, ”Ok'ok'ok'ok a!” which is misery's own superlative on the big river.

For a malign miracle had happened, and there had materialised, under their very eyes, in shape to be seen and in substance which daring men might feel, the most horrific of the river legends.

Sandi-by-night had come, and Sandi-by-night was a distinct and deadly personality. He had arrived from nowhere between sunset and moonrise, and now sat before the hut of Molaka the fisherman. Bold men, peering fearfully from their little houses, saw him, a stooping figure in a grey-green suit, which in the flooding moonlight seemed to possess a radiance of its own. His face was in darkness, for the brim of his big helmet threw a black shadow, and, moreover, his back was toward the serene orb that touched the fronds of the palms with a silver edging.

Whence he came none knew or troubled to think. For Sandi was well known to possess magical qualities, so that he could fly through the air or skim on his feet across the water at an incredible speed.

And he had come, not to the chief's hut, but to the humble dwelling of this eloquent fisherman, who told such beautiful stories.

Sandi was talking in liquid Bomongo. ”Also it seems you have spoken to the people of the Forest, Molaka.”

”Lord, they like my pretty stories,” pleaded the man; ”and because I am a poor spearer of fish and desire to please all people, I tell them tales, though I am often weary.”

Sanders chuckled softly. ”What race are you, Molaka, for I see that you have no cuts on your face such as the people of the Middle River make upon their children?”

”I am from the Lapori River near Bongunda,” replied Molaka.

Again he laughed, this slim figure that crouched on the stool which Molaka had brought for him.

”O Bantu Bantu, you lie!” he said, and then he spoke in English. ”Your name is Meredith; you are a native of Kingston, Jamaica, and you are a general in the All-Africa Army.”

There was a silence.

”You are one of five hundred specialists especially trained by the Black Africa Syndicate to organise native rebellion,” Sanders went on in an almost monotonous tone. ”My men have been watching you for two years! You were trained at Louisville College for coloured men for this job, and you receive two hundred dollars a month for your services.”

”Sic itur ad astra,” Molaka quoted with a certain smugness.

”It is indeed the way to immortality,” said Sanders grimly. ”Now, tell me, my man, when did you last see a Supreme Councillor of your pestiferous order?”

Molaka yawned ostentatiously. ”I'm afraid I cannot afford you any information, Mistah er I haven't the honour of knowing your name. I suppose you are Sanders, that these dam' n.i.g.g.e.rs talk about?” (He himself was as black as the ace of spades, though his English was excellent.) ”So far I have had the luck to miss you.”

Sanders said nothing, then: ”When did you see one of your bosses last?”

”I can give you no information,” said Molaka, or Meredith, rising. ”I presume you will deport me? I shall not be sorry. I have spent two miserable years in this wilderness, and I shall be glad to go home to my dear home town.”