Hamilton’s parting injunction to Bones had been: “Be immensely civil to Bosambo, because he is rather sore with you and he is a very useful man.”
Regarding him, as he did, as the final authority upon the N’bosini, Bones made elaborate preparations to carry out his chief’s commands. He came round the river bend to the Ochori city, with flags fluttering at his white mast, with his soldiers drawn up on deck, with his buglers tootling, and his siren sounding, and Bosambo, ever ready to jump to the conclusion that he was being honoured for his own sake, found that this time, at least, he had made no mistake and rose to the occasion.
In an emerald-green robe with twelve sock suspenders strapped about his legs and dangling tags aglitter – he had bought these on his visit to the Coast – with an umbrella of state and six men carrying a canopy over his august person, he came down to the beach to greet the representatives of the Government.
“Lord,” said Bosambo humbly, “it gives me great pride that your lordship should bring his beautiful presence to my country. All this month I have sat in my hut, wondering why you came not to the Ochori, and I have not eaten food for many days because of my sorrow and my fear that you would not come to us.”
Bones walked under the canopy to the chief’s hut. A superior palaver occupied the afternoon on the question of taxation. Here Bones was on safe ground. Having no power to remit taxes, but having most explicit instructions from his chief, which admitted of no compromise, it was an easy matter for Bones to shake his head and say in English: “Nothin’ doing”; a phrase which, afterwards, passed into the vocabulary of the Ochori as the equivalent of denial of privilege.
It was on the second day that Bones broached the question of the N’bosini. Bosambo had it on the tip of his tongue to deny all knowledge of this tribe, was even preparing to call down destruction upon the heads of the barbarians who gave credence to the story. Then he asked curiously: “Lord, why do you speak of the land or desire knowledge upon it?”
“Because,” said Bones, firmly, “it is in mind, Bosambo, that somewhere in this country, dwell such a people, and since all men agree that you are wise, I have come to you to seek it.”
“O ko,” said Bosambo, under his breath.
He fixed his eyes upon Bones, licked his lips a little, twiddled his fingers a great deal, and began:
“Lord, it is written in a certain Suru that wisdom comest from the East, and that knowledge from the West, that courage comes from the North, and sin from the South.”
“Steady the Buffs, Bosambo!” murmured Bones, reprovingly, “I come from the South.”
He spoke in English, and Bosambo, resisting the temptation to retort in an alien tongue, and realising perhaps that he would need all the strength of his more extensive vocabulary to convince his hearer, continued in Bomongo: “Now I tell you,” he went on solemnly, “if Sandi had come, Sandi, who loves me better than his brother, and who knew my father and lived with him for many years, and if Sandi spoke to me, saying ‘Tell me, O Bosambo, where is N’bosini?’ I answer ‘Lord, there are things which are written and which I know cannot be told, not even to you whom I love so dearly.’” He paused.
Bones was impressed. He stared, wide-eyed, at the chief, tilted his helmet back a little from his damp brow, folded his hands on his knees and opened his mouth a little.
“But it is you, O my lord,” said Bosambo, extravagantly, “who asks this question. You, who have suddenly come amongst us and who are brighter to us than the moon and dearer to us than the land which grows corn; therefore must I speak to you that which is in my heart. If I lie, strike me down at your feet, for I am ready to die.”
He paused again, throwing out his arms invitingly, but Bones said nothing.
“Now this I tell you,” Bosambo shook his finger impressively, “that the N’bosini lives.”
“Where?” asked Bones, quickly.
Already he saw himself lecturing before a crowded audience at the Royal Geographical Society, his name in the papers, perhaps a Tibbett River or a Francis Augustus Mountain added to the sum of geographical knowledge.
“It is in a certain place,” said Bosambo, solemnly, “which only I know, and I have sworn a solemn oath by many sacred things which I dare not break, by letting of blood and by rubbing in of salt, that I will not divulge the secret.”
“O, tell me, Bosambo,” demanded Bones, leaning forward and speaking rapidly, “what manner of people are they who live in the city of N’bosini?”
“They are men and women,” said Bosambo after a pause.
“White or black?” asked Bones, eagerly.
Bosambo thought a little.
“White,” he said soberly, and was immensely pleased at the impression he created.
“I thought so,” said Bones, excitedly, and jumped up, his eyes wider than ever, his hands trembling as he pulled his note-book from his breast pocket.
“I will make a book[3] of this, Bosambo,” he said, almost incoherently. “You shall speak slowly, telling me all things, for I must write in English.”
He produced his pencil, squatted again, open book upon his knee, and looked up at Bosambo to commence.
“Lord, I cannot do this,” said Bosambo, his face heavy with gloom, “for have I not told your lordship that I have sworn such oath? Moreover,” he said carelessly, “we who know the secret, have each hidden a large bag of silver in the ground, all in one place, and we have sworn that he who tells the secret shall lose his share. Now, by the Prophet, ‘Eye-of-the-Moon’ (this was one of the names which Bones had earned, for which his monocle was responsible), I cannot do this thing.”
“How large was this bag, Bosambo?” asked Bones, nibbling at the end of his pencil.
“Lord, it was so large,” said Bosambo.
He moved his hands outward slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon Lieutenant Tibbetts till he read in them a hint of pain and dismay. Then he stopped.
“So large,” he said, choosing the dimensions his hands had indicated before Bones showed signs of alarm. “Lord, in the bag was silver worth a hundred English pounds.”
Bones, continuing his meal of cedar-wood, thought the matter out.
It was worth it.
“Is it a large city?” he asked suddenly.
“Larger than the whole of the Ochori,” answered Bosambo impressively.
“And tell me this, Bosambo, what manner of houses are these which stand in the city of the N’bosini?”
“Larger than kings’ huts,” said Bosambo.
“Of stone?”
“Lord, of rock, so that they are like mountains,” replied Bosambo.
Bones shut his book and got up.
“This day I go back to M’ilitani, carrying word of the N’bosini,” said he, and Bosambo’s jaw dropped, though Bones did not notice the fact.
“Presently I will return, bringing with me silver of the value of a hundred English pounds, and you shall lead us to this strange city.”
“Lord, it is a far way,” faltered Bosambo, “across many swamps and over high mountains; also there is much sickness and death, wild beasts in the forests and snakes in the trees and terrible storms of rain.”
“Nevertheless, I will go,” said Bones, in high spirits, “I, and you also.”
“Master,” said the agitated Bosambo, “say no word of this to M’ilitani; if you do, be sure that my enemies will discover it and I shall be killed.”
Bones hesitated and Bosambo pushed his advantage.
“Rather, lord,” said he, “give me all the silver you have, and let me go alone, carrying a message to the mighty chief of the N’bosini. Presently I will return, bringing with me strange news, such as no white lord, not even Sandi, has received or heard, and cunning weapons which only N’bosini use and strange magics. Also will I bring you stories of their river, but I will go alone, though I die, for what am I that I should deny myself from the service of your lordship?”
It happened that Bones had some twenty pounds on the Zaire, and Bosamb
o condescended to come aboard to accept, with outstretched hands, this earnest of his master’s faith.
“Lord,” said he, solemnly, as he took a farewell of his benefactor, “though I lose a great bag of silver because I have betrayed certain men, yet I know that, upon a day to come, you will pay me all that I desire. Go in peace.”
It was a hilarious, joyous, industrious Bones who went down the river to headquarters, occupying his time in writing diligently upon large sheets of foolscap in his no less large unformed handwriting, setting forth all that Bosambo had told him, and all the conclusions he might infer from the confidence of the Ochori king.
He was bursting with his news. At first, he had to satisfy his chief that he had carried out his orders.
Fortunately, Hamilton needed little convincing; his own spies had told him of the quietening down of certain truculent sections of his unruly community and he was prepared to give his subordinate all the credit that was due to him.
It was after dinner and the inevitable rice pudding had been removed and the pipes were puffing bluely in the big room of the Residency, when Bones unburdened himself.
“Sir,” he began, “you think I am an ass.”
“I was not thinking so at this particular moment,” said Hamilton; “but, as a general concensus of my opinion concerning you, I have no fault to find with it.”
“You think poor old Bones is a goop,” said Lieutenant Tibbetts with a pitying smile, “and yet the name of poor old Bones is going down to posterity, sir.”
“That is posterity’s look-out,” said Hamilton, offensively; but Bones ignored the rudeness.
“You also imagine that there is no such land as the N’bosini, I think?”
Bones put the question with a certain insolent assurance which was very irritating.
“I not only think, but I know,” replied Hamilton.
Bones laughed, a sardonic, knowing laugh. “We shall see,” he said, mysteriously; “I hope, in the course of a few weeks, to place a document in your possession that will not only surprise, but which, I believe, knowing that beneath a somewhat uncouth manner lies a kindly heart, will also please you.”
“Are you chucking up the army?” asked Hamilton with interest.
“I have no more to say, sir,” said Bones.
He got up, took his helmet from a peg on the wall, saluted and walked stiffly from the Residency and was swallowed up in the darkness of the parade ground.
A quarter of an hour later, there came a tap upon his door and Mahomet Ali, his sergeant, entered.
“Ah, Mah’met,” said Hamilton, looking up with a smile, “all things were quiet on the river my lord Tibbetts tells me.”
“Lord, everything was proper,” said the sergeant, “and all people came to palaver humbly.”
“What seek you now?” asked Hamilton.
“Lord,” said Mahomet, “Bosambo of the Ochori is, as you know, of my faith, and by certain oaths we are as blood brothers. This happened after a battle in the year of Drought when Bosambo saved my life.”
“All this I know,” said Hamilton.
“Now, lord,” said Mahomet Ali, “I bring you this.”
He took from the inside of his uniform jacket a little canvas bag, opened it slowly and emptied its golden contents upon the table. There was a small shining heap of sovereigns and a twisted note; this latter he placed in Hamilton’s hand and the Houssa captain unfolded it. It was a letter in Arabic in Bosambo’s characteristic and angular handwriting.
From Bosambo, the servant of the Prophet, of the upper river in the city of the Ochori, to M’ilitani, his master. Peace on your house.
In the name of God I send you this news. My lord with the moon-eye, making inquiries about the N’bosini, came to the Ochori and I told him much that he wrote down in a book. Now, I tell you, M’ilitani, that I am not to blame, because my lord with the moon-eye wrote down these things. Also he gave me twenty English pounds because I told him certain stories and this I send to you, that you shall put it in with my other treasures, making a mark in your book that this twenty pounds is the money of Bosambo of the Ochori, and that you will send me a book, saying that this money has come to you and is safely in your hands. Peace and felicity upon your house.
Written in my city of Ochori and given to my brother, Mahomet Ali, who shall carry it to M’ilitani at the mouth of the river.
“Poor old Bones!” said Hamilton, as he slowly counted the money. “Poor old Bones!” he repeated.
He took an account book from his desk and opened it at a page marked “Bosambo.” His entry was significant.
To a long list of credits which ran:
Received £ 30 (Sale of Rubber.)
Received £ 25 (Sale of Gum.)
Received £ 130 (Sale of Ivory.)
he added:
Received £ 20 (Author’s Fees.)
THE FETISH STICK
N’gori the Chief had a son who limped and lived. This was a marvellous thing in a land where cripples are severely discouraged and malformity is a sure passport for heaven.
The truth is that M’fosa was born in a fishing village at a period of time when all the energies of the Akasava were devoted to checking and defeating the predatory raidings of the N’gombi, under that warlike chief G’osimalino, who also kept other nations on the defensive, and held the river basin, from the White River, by the old king’s territory, to as far south as the islands of the Lesser Isisi.
When M’fosa was three months old, Sanders had come with a force of soldiers, had hanged G’osimalino to a high tree, had burnt his villages and destroyed his crops and driven the remnants of his one-time invincible army to the little known recesses of the Itusi Forest.
Those were the days of the Cakitas or government chiefs, and it was under the beneficent sway of one of these that M’fosa grew to manhood, though many attempts were made to lure him to unfrequented waterways and blind crocodile creeks where a lame man might be lost, and no one be any the wiser.
Chief of the eugenists was Kobolo, the boy’s uncle, and N’gori’s own brother. This dissatisfied man, with several of M’fosa’s cousins, once partially succeeded in kidnapping the lame boy, and they were on their way to certain middle islands in the broads of the river to accomplish their scheme – which was to put out the eyes of M’fosa and leave him to die – when Sanders had happened along.
He it was who set all the men of M’fosa’s village to cut down a high pine tree – at an infernal distance from the village, and had men working for a week, trimming and planing that pine; and another week they spent carrying the long stem through the forest (Sanders had devilishly chosen his tree in the most inaccessible part of the woods), and yet another week digging large holes and erecting it.
For he was a difficult man to please. Broad backs ran sweat to pull and push and hoist that great flagstaff (as it appeared with its strong pulley and smooth sides) to its place. And no sooner was it up than my lord Sandi had changed his mind and must have it in another place. Sanders would come back at intervals to see how the work was progressing. At last it was fixed, that monstrous pole, and the men of the village sighed thankfully.
“Lord, tell me,” N’gori had asked, “why you put this great stick in the ground?”
“This,” said Sanders, “is for him who injures M’fosa your son; upon this will I hang him. And if there be more men than one who take to the work of slaughter, behold! I will have yet another tree cut and hauled, and put in a place and upon that will I hang the other man. All men shall know this sign, the high stick, as my fetish; and it shall watch the evil hearts and carry me all thoughts, good and evil. And then I tell you, that such is its magic, that if needs be, it shall draw me from the end of the world to punish wrong.”
This is the story of the fetish stick of the Akasava and of how it came to be in its place.
None did hurt to M’fosa, and he grew to be a man, and as he grew and his father became first counsellor, then petty chief, and, at last, paramount chief o
f the nation, M’fosa developed in hauteur and bitterness, for this high pole rainwashed, and sunburnt, was a reminder, not of the strong hand that had been stretched out to save him, but of his own infirmity.
And he came to hate it, and by some curious perversion to hate the man who had set it up.
Most curious of all to certain minds, he was the first of those who condemned, and secretly slew, the unfortunates, who either came into the world hampered by disfigurement, or who, by accident, were unfitted for the great battle.
He it was who drowned Kibusu the woodman, who lost three fingers by the slipping of the axe; he was the leader of the young men who fell upon the boy Sandilo-M’goma, who was crippled by fire; and though the fetish stood a menace to all, reading thoughts and clothed with authority, yet M’fosa defied spirits and went about his work reckless of consequence.
When Sanders had gone home, and it seemed that law had ceased to be, N’gori (as I have shown) became of a sudden a bold and fearless man, furbished up his ancient grievances and might have brought trouble to the land, but for a watchful Bosambo.
This is certain, however, that N’gori himself was a good enough man at heart, and if there was evil in his actions be sure that behind him prompting, whispering, subtly threatening him, was his malignant son, a sinister figure with one eye half-closed, and a figure that went limping through the city with a twisted smile.
An envoy came to the Ochori country bearing green branches of the Isisi palm, which signifies peace, and at the head of the mission – for mission it was – came M’fosa.
“Lord Bosambo,” said the man who limped, “N’gori, the chief, my father, has sent me, for he desires your friendship and help; also your loving countenance at his great feast.”
“Oh, oh!” said Bosambo, dryly, “what king’s feast is this?”
“Lord,” rejoined the other, “it is no king’s feast, but a great dance of rejoicing, for our crops are very plentiful, and our goats have multiplied more than a man can count; therefore my father said: Go you to Bosambo of the Ochori, he who was once my enemy and now indeed my friend. And say to him ‘Come into my city, that I may honour you.’”
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