The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  §

  The news startled us all. "A white man?" we asked. "Is he young or old? How is he dressed? Where has he come from?" we asked.

  "From a very far country," we were-told, "a long time ago."

  On November 10th, 1871, the broad African waters of the Tanganyika were sighted, and with guns firing and the Stars and Stripes flying, we descended the hill and entered Ujiji. The news of a caravan had flown through the town, and principal . Arab merchants were already discussing the matter with the white man I saw, on what appeared to be the verandah of his habitation.

  I pushed back the crowds and, passing from the rear, walked down a living avenue of people until I came in front of the semicircle of Arabs, before which stood the white man with grey beard. As I advanced slowly towards him, I noticed he was pale; wore a bluish cap with a faded gold band around it; had on a red-sleeved waistcoat and a pair of grey tweed trousers.

  Two hundred and thirty six days out of Bagamoyo, I felt my quest was at an end. I would have run to him, only I was a coward in the presence of such a mob—would have embraced him, only being an Englishman, I did not know how he would receive me; so I did what cowardice and false pride suggested was the best thing—walked deliberately to him, took off my hat and said...

  Mac stopped reading and lay back in the chair. Tears accompanied silent laughter as he shook his head in disbelief. By God, he thought, if another American, after two hundred and thirty-six days, could control his emotions to that extent, he could damn well show these pompous, backwater, half-civilized natives of another wilderness continent that he was certainly a match for them.

  Mac, now in a better frame of mind, stood up and stretched his limbs, lit another long black South American cheroot, then went to the open doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The rain had stopped; he saw stars appearing as black clouds moved slowly east, taking with them the distant thunder over a far horizon. He smiled to himself and quoted the famous greeting in imitation of the New York Herald journalist Henry Morton Stanley:

  "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

  Children's shouts and raw city sounds engulfed Mac's calm for only a moment as he isolated the chimes of a nearby clock tower, striking eleven A.M. In strong sunlight Mac climbed the steps to the open portico, strode into shadow and entered Maua and Company.

  Outside, Austin blinked against the day's brightness and sat down once more beside George, who wondered idly where the two old men were; the square looked naked without them. Austin spoke quietly even though they were alone. "The steamshipEbro leaves for Liverpool tomorrow."

  "Then," said George, "Mac better be on it. When he comes out, you watch him to be sure he's not followed. I'll go to the port and get a ticket. I've got the passport Mac made me in the name of Wilson. We still have the exit-visa procedure and what the hell else to go through before we can get out of this damn country." George paused. "But leave all that to me." He breathed deeply. "Now," he said, "we wait."

  The chimes for eleven o'clock finished. Two men on a bench in the palm-fringed sandy square of a tropical city. Hot, heavy and peaceful without, the atmosphere within the Maua and Company building was cool, quiet and dangerous.

  The Manager of Maua and Company, Senhor Braga, stood up the moment Mac entered his large office. Braga nodded, and the door was closed behind the visitor. Mac was aghast: the office was crowded. A chair was presented. Mac sat down. Four other men stood up. Mac stood up. All bowed. All sat down. A moment passed, and only Braga smiled—slowly.

  "Senhor Morrison," he said, "these are associates of mine who unfortunately do not speak English but appreciate my taste, as you do, in one thing—coffee."

  Mac managed a hoarse whisper. "Good morning," he said.

  "Now," stated Braga, "you have news for me." It was said with the certainty that Mr. Morrison, or whoever he was, did not in fact have news. Braga was wrong.

  "See for yourself," said Mac. He took out the letters, which were almost snatched from his hands by the Assistant Manager, who appeared from behind. The grim little man had been waiting by the door. Do they think I am going to run? thought Mac.

  "A singular omission," he said, "only, it seems, on those first two letters which you have, of course, seen."

  The Manager looked to the men at either side and murmured in Portuguese. The bank's originals and Mac's newly presented letters of credit and introduction passed around from hand to hand in a silence broken only by the shuffling of papers. Mac nonchalantly chewed imaginary gum and wished himself dead.

  Two minutes passed. Eventually the Manager took back the letters, placed them on the desk, removed his glasses and lay back in his chair. He smiled slowly.

  "We have a difficulty, it seems," he said.

  Coffee arrived.

  §

  Austin saw the fast-moving carriage before his brother did, but George was first to realize that its destination was Maua and Company. The carriage stopped. One man stepped down; two remained seated.

  "A Hebrew," said George.

  "Do you think it concerns Mac?" asked Austin.

  "What concerns Mac," George answered, "concerns us, Austin; don't forget it." Austin swallowed.

  "You better be ready," George finished, looking across at the small, sprightly, middle-aged man with a hooked nose, as he mounted the steps of Maua and Company.

  "Ready for what?" asked Austin, confused.

  To George, the day seemed suddenly dark and quite definitely sinister.

  "Ready for damn near anything," George replied. The Hebrew disappeared through the large doorway. The carriage slowly moved across to the shade of palm trees. The two men stepped down, tethered their mules and crossed into the square; they found a shaded bench and sat down. To George it appeared that they were prepared for a considerable wait.

  §

  A servant poured steaming coffee from a large, solid silver pot, into a delicate porcelain cup. The Manager indicated his client.

  "Cream for Senhor Morrison," he said.

  Mac held his cup steady and accepted cream, which was also taken by two of the associates and the grim little assistant.

  Braga waited until the servant had gone and the door firmly closed, then spoke.

  "We, Maua and Company, wish to deal no further in foreign exchange at this time."

  "Oh," said Mac. "Why?"

  "We have enough," answered Braga abruptly. He looked at his associates, then deliberately sipped his coffee—his gaze fixed, as were all the others, on Mac. It was a game. The reward was freedom, but if Mac made one false move... Incarceration was, Mac knew, a poor euphemism for what faced lawbreakers in the tropics; so he moved not a muscle and said not a word.

  "Tomorrow," Braga began eventually, "a ship leaves for Liverpool. All bills of exchange accepted, and sums paid out on letters of credit issued from England—these, including your first transaction with us, will return for our reimbursement. Perhaps, if you could wait—something more than a month, but less than six weeks?''

  "I am afraid," said Mac, "I am unable to do that." He did not think that his statement would surprise anyone. It didn't. What happened then filled Mac with sheer terror for a split second, as Braga suddenly sprang to his feet and, behind Mac, the door burst open.

  Mac stood up slowly, then turned to greet this new arrival.

  "Mr. Morrison," said Braga, "Senhor Meyers, our broker on the Exchange."

  Mac extended a hand and tried a smile. Neither worked. Meyers merely bowed quickly, crossed the room and sat down on a chair hurriedly vacated by one of the associates. Meyers donned glasses and looked for a moment at this Senhor Morrison. Mac sat down.

  "To business," said Meyers. "Where are the letters?"

  The Assistant Manager was already moving.

  §

  In the hot city square, two men sat on one bench, two on another. Both in the shade. Forty yards apart, it seemed as if they were oblivious of each other. A clock chimed the quarter. Austin lost his composure.

  "I'm goin' i
n."

  "Don't be a damn fool," George whispered forcefully. But it was too late: Austin was already moving.

  §

  Comparing the two signatures, Mac's with the original, was, for Meyers, not a lengthy business. He looked up—first to Mac, then across at the Manager.

  "Do they appear to be in order, Senhor Meyers?" asked Braga.

  "They have," replied Meyers, "that appearance." Everyone in the room seemed to relax. Meyers and Mac for a second looked at each other in mutual appraisal. "Then, Mr. Morrison," said Braga, "although I feel we cannot offer you further credit, if you wish it Senhor Meyers will sell your bills on the Exchange. This, I think, is a small service we can supply, as your letters of introduction appear ..." Here Braga shrugged and again looked at Meyers, whose eyes had narrowed; but Braga finished first:

  "... that is, of course, provided Senhor Meyers is satisfied. All is in order?" He addressed himself to Meyers.

  "All is as it should be," said Meyers. But he paused. Then:

  "May I see the other letters again, with the originals?"

  The Manager handed him the whole sheaf. Instinct or experience, Mac never knew, but his throat promptly went bone-dry.

  §

  In the public banking section of Maua and Company, customers, depositing or drawing, walked from counter to cash teller, queued in ragged lines or came and went with smiles or long faces, depending on their balances.

  Austin stepped from the long corridor into this busy but hushed scene and sat on an upholstered sofa with a view out into the corridor and down to the Manager's office. He wiped his brow with a colored handkerchief and murmured nervously to himself, "Come on, Mac!"

  §

  Meyers was seated directly beneath the lazy fan in the Manager's office. Distant cries from the city penetrated the closed shutters but did not disturb his concentration. All eyes were fixed on the papers in Meyers' hands as they were shuffled, read and shuffled again.

  Mac was immobile, his toes curled, throat tight, face frozen. Slowly Meyers stiffened; put down the papers on his lap, still rereading what he had found; then, taking off his glasses, he focused on Mac and, it seemed to his prey, poised like a snake about to strike.

  "There is here, a word, Mr. Morrison," Meyers began, ''that I cannot understand."

  Mac's eyebrows toyed with the unexpected for a moment, then transferred a message to his mouth. It wasn't received.

  " 'All sums,' and I quote," continued Meyers, looking quickly at the others, " 'all sums drawn against this credit please endorce on the back and notify the London and Westminster Bank at once.' " He paused.

  "Why, sir," said Mac confidently, "that is the normal practice, is it not?"

  "Why, sir," said Meyers, uneven teeth showing, "indeed it is, and being so it makes me wonder at the education of London clerks, which hitherto I have never had cause to question."

  Mac could only say, "I don't follow you."

  "Then you shall," said Meyers with relish, "you shall." He turned to the Manager and indicated two points on both letters. The assistant made the transfer smoothly, taking a quick look himself.

  Braga looked at the letters and made a comparison. He murmured something in Portuguese to the associates on either side of him, then looked at Mac, as now did all in the room.

  "It is essential in international business that common parlance be uniform, would you agree?" Meyers said to Mac.

  "I would," said Mac.

  "Then can you explain," asked Meyers grimly, "why in your letters—and in my experience, in your letters only—the word 'endorse' is misspelled with, instead of an S—a C?"

  Porcelain china is delicate. It breaks easily. If a cup is correctly placed in a saucer and is firmly held, there is no danger, but age or nerves are often culprits—causes of a chip or hairline crack. After that, the set is less than perfect, and the value is obviously diminished.

  For this reason the Manager of Maua and Company, Senhor Braga, would always have a reminder of Mr. Morrison. But on that Tuesday at the beginning of July 1872, he heard the only sound that broke a sudden complete silence, as did all the others in the large cool office: the rattle of bone china in a hand somewhat less than steady.

  To Mac, it was uncontrollable—and he tried. His other hand did the only thing possible: he took the cup from the saucer in the hope that it would find his mouth.

  §

  During a lull in the morning's business, a teller at a counter in the banking section of Maua and Company saw a young man of foreign dress seated in the corner on a sofa, looking in a quite concentrated way out into the corridor that led in two directions—to the main entrance, or along to the Manager's office. The teller's curiosity was only fleeting. It was not an unusual sight. To Austin it was detection and discovery—for a moment. He calmed his nervous fear, smiled weakly at the teller, who looked back at the figures before him, and thought only of luncheon. Austin crossed his legs. God in heaven, he thought, I need a drink.

  §

  In the square—the praqa—outside Maua and Company, George breathed deeply and stood up to stretch. The clock in the tower struck the half, and perhaps by coincidence, the two other men forty yards distant stood up also. George now felt for sure something was wrong. The gnarling fear that had knotted his stomach was now suddenly confirmation to instinct. His immediate, suppressed reaction could be summed up in a-single word...

  . Panic

  THE room at Maua and Company, was still. Meyers, staring at "this Mr. Morrison," knew for certain that he had a victim.

  Mac strove valiantly to control the welling fear of a situation that, disastrous as it was, could become catastrophic at a gesture. He took the entire minute to look from each face to the other, as if a trial lawyer paused before concluding his case, surveying a hostile jury.

  Mac was on pure reflexes. Quelling obscenities directed at the group in front of him—Meyers in particular—and his own stupidity, he delved deep into experience and instinct. Even the city outside, it seemed to him, was hushed and expectant. He slowly put down the cup and saucer on a small table beside his chair and stood up. He was Jesus before Pilate. Joan at her inquisition. Hancock declaring Independence. Lincoln addressing the North. His feet were firm, his eyes hard, his voice strong—and his back ran with perspiration.

  "Gentlemen ..." he began, "... a neglected procedure and a clerical error have been imputed to my charge as if it were I to blame. This ..." He paused, looking from Braga,

  who turned away his eyes, to Meyers, who did not. "... behavior to arouse suspicion of my honor persuades me to deal elsewhere."

  Mac looked directly at the grim little assistant, who was not unimpressed and, extending a hand, snapped his fingers loudly. Mac's right index pointed at the papers on the desk. The assistant took them up as if compelled and, open-mouthed, handed them across to Mac. Slowly, without looking at the letters and bills, Mac folded them, then put them in his pocket. He held the group successfully a moment longer as he calculated the distance to the door behind him. Quiet and decisive, another voice spoke.

  "Mr. Morrison," Meyers began, not at all cowed, as were the others, by Mac's demeanor, "I would prefer it if you would remain, to explain—"

  Ignoring Meyers, Mac turned, walked to the door, then spun round to interrupt.

  "Your veiled accusations put you, sir"—Mac's voice was low, harsh and venomous—"within an ace of a bullet at tomorrow's dawn."

  He paused with a meaning that communicated itself in any language.

  "Should you utter a single word more before I leave this"—Mac looked about him, affecting mild disgust —"place," he stared into Meyers' eyes "you shall have it!"

  Mac turned, opened the door smoothly and stepped out into the corridor. The room remained mesmerized as the large oak door slammed shut.

  Mac strode purposefully toward the main entrance, where he could see sunlight streaming across the hall. Halfway down the corridor, a face and figure appeared at an open doorway. Mac had eight pa
ces, a turn, three more and at least he'd make the steps; after that...

  Austin was relieved, then astonished as Mac, without a glance, strode by.

  "Mac!"

  "The pack is behind me, boy," Mac replied. "Run while you can."

  George watched Mac take the steps two at a time, reach the mosaic pavement, then turn quickly toward the city center and the nearest crowd. George also saw, as Mac did not, the group of men appear at the portico—hesitant, it seemed; half in, half out of the sun. The gesture one of them made was directly toward him—or so, for a moment, George thought. The Hebrew was beckoning.

  The two men in the square responded to Meyers and from their bench covered forty yards, to be at the vehicle opposite the company entrance in admirable time. The carriage spun round; with the crack of a whip, the two men urged the mules in the direction Mac had taken.

  The group remained at the top of the steps, now talking excitedly; only Meyers looked all around—as if instinct told him Mac would not venture alone to such a meeting.

  George, masked by the palm trees, crossed to where Austin now stood breathless.

  "It's all up, George!"

  Seeing, through the drooping palms, that some of the group were halfway down the steps, George pushed Austin from him.

  "Okay," he said, "let's get out of here. You follow Mac. I'll organize the tickets and convert our cash to gold. We've got less than twenty-four hours."

  They left the square separately to mingle quickly with crowds in the labyrinth of streets.

  Passage "Home"

  FROM a well-bred combination of Irish and Scots, the second generation of American MacDonalds had produced a son capable of a Harvard education that had failed to teach him the spelling of a simple word. Lolling in the armchair of his hotel rooms, slapping at the small bichos—the insects—that were flying around, Mac cursed himself loudly once again. He stood up, remembered his lit cheroot, walked once more to the open shutters and stepped onto the balcony with half a bottle of imported Irish whiskey in his stomach and a glass in hand. He was fast becoming drunk.