Sanders came ashore with fifty Houssas and four machine-guns; there was no resistance, and Kofaba, the king’s nephew, reigned in his place.
At the Palaver of All People, Sanders disposed, as he hoped, for ever of the brass bedstead.
“This brass bedstead lives for all time in my ghost house, with ju-jus and other wonderful things, for cala cala I took it from N’gombi by magic and put it away that there should be no more wars. And Tibbetti, who is the Keeper of the House, sees this every morning and every night and touches it lovingly. Because it is the property of the Akasava and like no other in the world, I keep it, and no other nation, neither the N’gombi nor the Isisi, nor the little bushmen nor the Ochori, shall see this great treasure.”
The vigilant Bosambo, who had gathered his fighting regiments in readiness to intervene, dismissed them in disgust when he learnt of the comparatively peaceful termination of the dispute. Bosambo had visions of new treaties and the removal of old restrictions, and it was a disappointment to him to learn that the dispute had ended so bloodlessly.
The cause of the quarrel was plain to him, and for some time made no impression, for ghosts and ju-jus and occult mysteries of all kinds had no place in his practical system. He began fresh negotiations with the new king of the Akasava, and sent two of his councillors on an embassy of congratulation, accompanied by a large bag of salt as a peace offering.
But Kofaba was no more amenable than had been his uncle.
“Go back to Bosambo, the little chief,” he said, with the arrogance of his new dignity upon him, “and tell him that I, Kofaba, am Sandi’s man and will keep Saudi’s law. As to the salt, it is bad salt, for it has fallen into the water and is hard.”
This was perfectly true. Bosambo, who was of an economical mind, kept that salt bag as a permanent offering. It was the custom of chiefs and kings to greet one another with presents, though the ceremony was more or less perfunctory, and the present was invariably returned with polite expressions of gratitude.
It is true that Bosambo had returned nothing; that he kept the bag of damaged salt in case some dignitary of the land, who hadn’t sufficient decency to return his proffered gift, should accept the salt.
Bosambo received the message wrathfully. “It seems that this Kofaba is a common man,” he said. “Now sit with me in palaver, and we will think great thoughts.”
The palaver lasted for the greater part of four days, and every plan for the invasion of his kingdom was rejected. Bosambo might have sent forth his own poachers to satisfy his gastronomical needs, but he was a queer mixture of lawlessness and obedience to law, and would no more have thought of breaking his word to Sandi than he would of murdering his wife.
Then, on the fourth day, a great thought came to his mind. In the evening he sent a canoe with six paddlers to the mouth of the river, for he remembered that it was the time of the year when Halli, the trader, came to the river.
On a certain day, following the despatch of his mission, a crazy old tub, that had the appearance of a barge which had seen better days, came slowly along the coast, keeping close to the beach, for its skipper was taking no chances.
Barge or lighter it had been. The stern wheel, that creaked as it turned, was obviously homemade and home-fitted. The engine-house was no more than a canopy of rusty galvanised iron, through which poked the black snout of something that had once been a donkey engine, and was now the chief motive power of the Comet – such was the name of this strange craft.
Amidships were three thatched huts, the sleeping apartments of the officers in command. Before these stretched an awning which covered a raised platform, on which a man in a battered and dingy white helmet manipulated the steering wheel.
By a miracle the Comet rounded the point and came slowly up the river. Opposite the residency quay the captain struck a big brass gong twice, and four perspiring natives cast an anchor overboard. The gong sounded three times, and the engines stopped.
Passing back to examine the steam gauge, the captain washed his hands, lighted a long, thin cigar, and, stepping into the canoe that had been dropped for him, he was paddled ashore.
He was tall and lean, and his face was the colour of Egyptian pottery. His age was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.
Bones stood on the quay watching the arrival of the craft. The manoeuvring of the Comet was to him a subject of fascinating interest.
“Good Halley; the jolly old ship’s still floating?”
“Yes, she’s still floating,” agreed the other gravely.
He was slow of speech, being unused to English, which he spoke very seldom, though it was his native tongue.
“Is Mr Sanders at headquarters? I want permission to trade up as far as Lobosolo on the Isisi, and I’m taking up some stuff to Bosambo.”
“What’s your deadly cargo?” asked Bones.
“Whisky and machine-guns, as usual,” said the other more gravely. “We are thinking of introducing cocaine and mechanical pianos next voyage.”
Halley and Halley’s Comet were known from Ducca to Mossamedes. He was a one-man trader who from time to time dared the dangers of the deep for his immediate and personal profit. In this crazy ship of his he penetrated rivers, explored strange streams, exchanging his beads and looking-glasses for rubber and ivory and the less valuable products that native industry produces. He was invariably fair in his dealings, and had a reputation for honesty that carried over a million square miles of country.
Sanders welcomed him with a geniality which he offered to few other traders. He knew that there were no cheap German rifles concealed at the bottom of the Comet’s cargo, nor illicit bottles of synthetic gin artfully hidden beneath bolts of Manchester goods. Halley was white in every sense, and whitest in his dealing with the women of the backlands.
“The country is quiet and the people are fairly happy,” he said. “Avoid the Tugesini River – there is another outbreak of smallpox there…the N’gombi have been trapping leopards, and you should get some good skins.”
They gossiped of the people, of their idiosyncrasies and peculiar tastes. Of how the Akasava never bought mirrors, and the queer passion of the Lesser Isisi folk for aluminium saucepans.
That afternoon, the Comet went on its slow way, its donkey engine puffing noisily.
“Queer bird,” said Hamilton, watching the departing boat. “I wonder what the dickens he is doing with Ochori paddlers – did you notice them, sir?”
Sanders nodded. “Bosambo sent them up the coast a month ago – he’s a great shopper. I wonder what stuff Halley is taking to our friend. I meant to ask him.”
Bosambo was the one chief of the territory who held any communication with the outside world. He waited patiently for the arrival of the Comet, and when the ship came wallowing round the green bluff that hid the lower reaches of the river, Bosambo went down in state to meet his visitor, and for three days there were great bargainings and hagglings, Bosambo squatting on the untidy deck, Halley in his skin-seated chair.
“Effendi,” said Bosambo (it was his title of honour for all strangers), “for all I buy I will pay in white man’s money.”
Halley was gratified, but sceptical, and when Bosambo produced bags of shining coin, he was agreeably surprised. If he tried samples of the first bag in his strong white teeth, he did not test the second bag at all.
Halley brought his eccentric boat to the mouth of the river, in the dark hours of the morning, and Bones, going down to the beach for his dip, saw the Comet crawling along the coast, no unusual circumstance, for the trader never stopped at the residency on his homeward voyage unless a sea was running. As it happened, Mr Halley had nothing to stop for, since there had been no unusual happening to report.
* * *
“Have you ever thought, dear old sir, what a dinky little ice plant you could rig up in that old dug-out?” asked Bones, standing, his arms akimbo, before the grey door of the magazine. “A refrigeratin’ plant, dear old Ham – we might even get some skatin
’!”
“I’ve often thought I’d like to see it a little cleaner than it is,” said Hamilton. “Have it turned out and lime-washed, Bones – and for heaven’s sake let the men do the whitewashing.”
“My dear old officer,” said Bones reproachfully, “as if I should turn myself into a jolly old paperhanger an’ decorator!”
Nevertheless he came to lunch next day with boots that were splashed white and a long streak of whitewash on his nose.
“By the way, have you a great deal of ammunition in stock, Hamilton?” asked Sanders, who had been very quiet through lunch.
“The regulation amount, sir,” said Hamilton in surprise. “A thousand rounds per man – why, are you expecting trouble?”
“No,” said Sanders shortly, and Hamilton knew from his brusque tones that the Commissioner’s uncanny instinct was at work.
“Maybe dear old excellency is worryin’ about my gettin’ a splash of whitewash in my eye,” suggested Bones.
“Maybe he isn’t,” replied Hamilton.
“It’s a funny thing about me, dear old Ham – ” began Bones, but his superior was not in the mood to discuss the many funny aspects of Bones which had struck him from time to time. For Sanders’ anxiety had communicated itself to him. And yet there was no apparent reason for uneasiness; by the reports that came to headquarters, peace and prosperity were the orders of the day from one end of the river to the other.
But Hamilton knew, as Sanders knew, that this condition of affairs was the invariable preliminary to all outbreaks and disturbances. The bolts, the real bolts, fell from a cloudless sky. Secretly Sanders preferred a condition when little quarrels between the tribes completely occupied their minds. Native people cannot think of two things at once. They are children who live in and for the day. Yesterday is cala cala, tomorrow is the dim and misty future.
And then, one sleepy afternoon…
By all the laws of average and chance, Bones should have been killed. As it was, he sneezed, and when Bones sneezed, his body fell into strange and fearful contortions. Sometimes he sneezed forward and finished up with his head between his knees (you must suppose him sitting in the shade of his verandah); sometimes he sneezed backward and his head jerked over the rail of his deck-chair, and, to the alarmed spectator, seemed in danger of dropping off. Usually he sneezed forward, but this time he raised his contorted visage to the heavens and sneezed at the blue skies. And the arrow, missing his throat, struck a pole of the verandah and stuck quiveringly.
Lieutenant Tibbetts looked at the deadly shaft, dazed for a second. Then he rose quickly and went into his hut. He was out again in a second, a sporting Lee Metford in his hand. A glance at the arrow showed the direction. It had come from a clump of cotton bush at the far side of the parade ground, and, sinking to one knee, Bones aimed at the ground-line and fired.
The “pang!” of the shot brought the Houssa guard tumbling out of their hut, but before the sergeant could reach him, the long legs of Bones were flying across the parade in the direction of the bushes. He heard a shout, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Hamilton leap the verandah and pelt along after him, but he did not slacken his pace, and was tearing through the bush before Hamilton had jumped the first fence of the plantation, and, guided by certain sounds of anguish, came up with his subordinate. Bones was standing, legs wide apart, arms akimbo, glaring down at a writhing, terror-stricken man on the ground.
He did not display any apparent wound, and Hamilton frowned questioningly at the other.
“Little toe,” said Bones briefly, and yet in his very terseness conveying a hint of annoyance. “And I aimed for the big toe!” he added later. “I must have that naughty old rifle corrected. It isn’t like me to make a perfectly ghastly error like that, old Ham – you know Bones!”
Hamilton ignored the opening. “What happened?” he asked, and at that moment Sanders came through the trees, a sporting rifle under his arm.
He listened as Bones described his exact position before the hut, his occupation, his tendency to sneeze forward, his emotions at the sight of the arrow. His first thoughts, his alacrity, his amazing presence of mind and marksmanship. When he had finished, Sanders looked at the stricken man.
“Speak: Why did you do this evil thing?”
“Lord, that is my mystery.” [3]
Sanders jerked his head on one side and looked at the assassin through narrowed lids.
“If I hang you, what of your mystery then?” he asked, and the man made no reply.
They put the would-be murderer in irons and confined him to the guard-room.
“I don’t understand it,” said the troubled Sanders. “This fellow is Akasava and, though the Akasava are by nature and inclination assassins, they have never come to headquarters to carry out their dirty work. Have steam in the Zaire, Hamilton, and warn your men to be ready.”
“It may be some friend of his late majesty,” suggested Hamilton, but Sanders shook his head.
“One king is as good as another to the Akasava,” he said.
“But why Bones?” said Hamilton, and Bones smiled sadly.
“It’s perhaps dawnin’ on your fusty old brain, dear old Ham, that the indigenous native is slowly wakin’ up to the sense of proportion, dear old sir and superior. You can’t kid the jolly old native, Ham. He knows who’s important an’ who isn’t important. He strikes at the keystone of administration, dear old bird – not that I’d disparage the importance of our blessed old excellency–”
“I’d hate to deceive you, Bones,” said Sanders, with his rare smile, “but I hardly think that it is your importance that made you the object of attack – you happened to be in sight – so you got it.”
For once Sanders was wrong.
Bones went to his hut that night, after inspecting the loose cordon of sentries he had posted, and getting into his pyjamas went to bed without the least suspicion that his claim was in any way justified. Bones was ordinarily a heavy sleeper and addicted to snoring – a practice which he strenuously denied.
His bed was in the centre of a large and airy hut, and there were two big windows, which were open day and night except for the frame of thin netting placed to keep out midnight insects.
It was a burning sensation on his wrist that woke him with a snort. He rubbed the sore place and diagnosed the cause as mosquitoes. The hut was full of them, and he could hear the low buzzing of insects. He was out of bed instantly, slipping his feet into his long, pliable mosquito boots.
A glance at the nearest window revealed the fact that the netting was gone, and even as he looked he saw, against the dim light, a stealthy hand creep up and then a head.
“Twing!”
The arrow zipped past him, and he heard the thud of it as it struck the bed.
Bones crossed the hut noiselessly and slipped his automatic from its holster.
Twice he fired, and, flinging open the door, ran out. A killing spear grazed his shoulder, and he fired again. He saw a man fall and another disappear into the darkness. Presently came a shot from the other side of the square – a sentry had seen the flying figure and had fired.
“Another Akasava,” said Sanders, the first to reach the spot.
He turned over the limp figure that lay huddled against a verandah post. The second man sprawled on the square with a pistol bullet through his thigh, and he also was of the same people – the third man had escaped.
At dawn the Zaire pushed out into the river. Day and night she steamed, stopping only to gather wood to feed her boilers. In the darkness, the villagers on the river saw her pass, a banner of sparks floating from her two funnels, and the lokalis sent word through the night that there was war – for the Zaire never steamed at night between the treacherous shoals unless the spears were out.
The wooden drum carried news to others more interested, and ten miles short of the Akasava city, where the river narrows to pass through a sheer gorge, a cloud of arrows fell upon the deck, wounding a soldier and missing the steersman
by a miracle.
The Zaire panted forward, for here the river runs at seven knots, and whilst the marksmen peppered the edge of the bluff, Sanders examined the arrow heads.
“Tetanus,[4] I think,” he said, and knew just how serious was the situation, for the Akasava did not usually poison their arrows.
The Akasava city was deserted, except for women and old men.
“Lord,” said a trembling ancient, “Kofaba has gone to the Ochori to get his beautiful bed that Tibbetti has given to Bosambo.”
“You are the father of ten fools,” snarled Sanders, “for the bed of the Akasava is in my great Ghost House.”
“Master, a man saw the Ghost House and it was empty, and a spy of Kofaba has seen the bed, very shining and beautiful, before the hut of Bosambo.”
The Zaire took on a new stock of wood and went northward. Near to the edge of the Ochori country, Sanders saw a canoe paddling downstream, and pulled the steamer across the river.
In the canoe was a dead man.
“This Kofaba, the king,” said the headman of the paddlers, “he was killed this morning in a great fight, for Bosambo has the help of many devils. We go to bury Kofaba in the middle island, according to our custom.”
Later Sanders met the main body of the routed army and stopped their canoes, only to collect their spears and arrest the petty chiefs who were in charge.
And each told him the story of Bosambo and his bed of brass.
“I cannot understand it,” he said puzzled, “the Akasava would not make war on a rumour which Bosambo set in circulation that he had their infernal bed.”
The shadows were lengthening when he came at last to the Ochori city, and so unexpected was the arrival, that Bosambo was unaware of his coming until Sanders strode up the main street.
He came within sight of the king’s hut and stopped dead.
Bones of the River Page 9
