by Talbot Mundy
“We will,” we answered, one after the other.
“Good night, then, boys; I’ll be going.”
But we walked with him down to his hotel — I, and I think the others, full to the teeth with the pleasure of knowing him, as well as of envy of his scars, his five or six South African campaigns, his adventures, and (by no means least) his unblemished record as a gentleman. Merely a little bit of a man with a limp, but better than a thousand men who lacked his gentleness.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NJO HAPA SONG
Delights — ah, Ten are the dear delights (and the Book
forbids them, one by one) —
The broad old roads of a thousand loves — back turned to the
Law — the lawless fun —
Old Arts for new — old hours reborn — and who shall mourn
when the sands have run?
I was old when they told the Syren Tales
(All ears were open then!)
And the harps were afire with plucked desire
For the white ash oars again —
For oars and sail, and the open sea,
High prow against pure blue,
The good sea spray on eye and lip,
The thrumming hemp, the rise and dip,
The plunge and the roll of a driven ship
As the old course boils anew!
Sweetly I call, the captains come. The home ties draw at
hearts in vain.
Potent the spell of Africa! Who East and South the course
has ta’en
By Guardafui to Zanzibar may go, but he, shall come again.
Courtney proved better than his word. Our Big Game Licenses arrived after breakfast, and permits for five hundred rounds of rifle ammunition each. In an envelope in addition was Fred’s check with the collector’s compliments and the request that we kindly call and pay for the licenses. In other words we now had absolution.
We called, and were received as fellow men, such was the genius of Courtney’s friendship. A railway man looked in. The collector’s dim office became awake with jokes and laughter.
“Going up today?” he asked. “I’ll see you get berths on the train.”
We little realized at the moment the extent of that consideration; but understanding dawned fifteen minutes before high noon when we strolled to the station behind a string of porters carrying our luggage. Courtney was there to see us off, and he looked worried.
“I’m wondering whether you’ll ever get your luggage through,” he said with a sort of feminine solicitude. It was strange to hear the hero of one’s school-days, mighty hunter and fearless leader of forlorn campaigns, actually troubled about whether we could catch our train. But so the man was, gentle always and considerate of everybody but himself.
There was law in this new land, at all events along the railway line. Not even handbags or rifles could pass by the barrier until weighed and paid for. Crammed in the vestibule in front of us were fifty people fretfully marshalling in line their strings of porters lest any later comer get by ahead of them; foremost, with his breast against the ticket window, was Georges Coutlass. Things seemed not to be proceeding as he wished.
There was one babu behind the window — a mild, unhappy-looking Punjabi, or Dekkani Mussulman. There was another at the scales, who knew almost no English: his duty was to weigh — do sums — write the result on a slip, and then justify his arithmetic to office babu and passenger, before any sort of progress could be made. The fact that all passengers shouted at him to hurry or be reported to big superiors complicated the process enormously; and the equally discordant fact that no passenger — and especially not Georges Coutlass — desired or intended to pay one anna more than he could avoid by hook, crook, or argument, made the game amusing to the casual looker-on, but hastened nothing (except tempers). The temperature within the vestibule was 112’ by the official thermometer.
“You pair of black murderers!” yelled Coutlass as we took our place in line. “You bloody robbers! You pickpockets! You train-thieves! Go out and dig your graves! I will make an end of you!”
“You should not use abusive language” the babu retorted mildly, stopping to speak, and then again to wipe his spectacles, and his forehead, and his hands, and to glance at the clock, and to mutter what may or may not have been a prayer.
Coutlass exploded.
“Shouldn’t, eh? Who the hell are you to tell me what I shouldn’t do?
Sell me a ticket, you black plunderer, d’you hear! Look! Listen!”
He snatched a piece of paper from the babu’s hand and turned to face the impatient crowd.
“This hell-cat—” (the unhappy babu looked less like a hell-cat than any vision of the animal I ever imagined) “wants to make out that seventy-one times seven annas and three pice is forty-nine rupees, eleven annae! Oh, you charlatan! You mountebank! You black-blooded robber! You miscreant! Cut your throat, I order you!”
The babu expostulated, stammered, quailed. Coutlass drew in his breath for the gods of Greece alone knew what heights of fury next. But interruption entered.
“There, that’s enough of you! Get to the back of the line!”
The man who had promised us berths came abruptly through the barrier, and unlike the babu did not appear afraid of any one. The Greek let out his gathered breath with a bark of fury, like a seal coming up to breathe. Taking that for a symptom of opposition the newcomer, very cool in snow-white uniform and helmet, seized Coutlass by the neck and hustled him, arguing like a boiler under pressure, through the crowd. The Greek was three inches taller, and six or eight inches bigger round the chest, but too astonished to fight back, and perhaps, too, aware of the neighborhood of old da Gama’s fort, where more than one Greek was pining for the grape and olive fields of Hellas. With a final shove the railway official thrust him well out into the road.
“If you miss the train, serve you right!” he said. “Babus are willing servants, to be treated gently!”
Then he saw us.
“You’re late! Where’s your luggage? These your porters? All right — put you on your honor. Go on through. Save time. Have your stuff weighed, and settle the bill at Nairobi. All of it, mind! Babu, let these people through!”
Followed by Courtney, who seemed to have right of way wherever it suited him to wander, we filed through the gate, crossed the blazing hot platform, and boarded a compartment labeled “Reserved.” The railway man nodded and left us, to hurry and help sell tickets.
It was an Indian type railway carriage be left us in, a contraption not ill-suited to Africa — nor yet so comfortable as to diminish the sensation of travel toward new frontiers.
Each car was divided into two compartments, entirely separate and entered from opposite ends; facing ours was the rear end of a second-class car, into which we could look if the doors were open and we lay feet-foremost on the berths. The berths were arranged lengthwise, two each side, and one above the other.
It was what they called a mixed train, mixed that is of freight and passengers — third-class in front, second next, then first, and a dozen little iron freight cars of two kinds in front. In those days there were neither tunnels nor bridges on that railway, and there was a single seat on the roof at each end of first- and second-class compartments reached by a ladder, for any passenger enamored of the view. Even the third-class compartments (and they were otherwise as deliberately bare and comfortless as wood and iron could make them) had lattice-work shades over the upper half of the windows.
For the babu’s encouragement, and to increase the panic of the ticketless, the engineer was blowing the whistle at short intervals. Passengers, released in quicker order now that a white official was lending the two babus a hand, began coming through the barrier in sudden spurts, baggage in either hand and followed hot-foot by natives with their heavier stuff. They took headers into the train, and the porters generally came back grinning.
“I see through the whistling stunt,” Will announced. “My, but
that fellow on the engine has faith; or else the system’s down real fine in these parts! He won’t be back for a week. Those woolly-headed porters are going to save up his commission and hand it to him when he brings the down-train in! The game’s good: he whistles — passenger runs — can’t make change — pays two, three, four, ten times what the job’s worth — and the porters divvy up with the engineer. But good lord, the porters must be honest!”
Presently a pale white man in khaki with a red beard entered our compartment, and Courtney had to make room for him on the seat. He apologized with less conviction of real regret than I ever remember noticing, although the pouches under his eyes gave him a rather world-weary look.
“Not another first-class berth on the train — every last one engaged. Might be worse. Might have had to ride with Indians. Curse of this country, Indians are. I’d rid the land of ’em double-quick if government ‘ud pay me a rupee a head — an’ I’d provide cartridges! But government likes ’em! Ugh! Ever travel in one compartment with a dozen of ’em? Sleep in a tent with a score of ’em? Share blankets with a couple of ’em on a cold night? No? You be glad I’m not an Indian. One’s enough!”
We made room for his belongings, and leaned from the window all on one seat together. The time to start arrived and passed; hot passengers continued spurting for the train at intervals — all sorts of passengers — English, Mauritius — French, Arab, Goanese, German, Swahili, Indian, Biluchi, one Japanese, two Chinamen, half-breeds, quarter-breeds of all the hues from ivory to dull red, guinea-yellow, and bleached out black; but the second-class compartment facing our door remained empty. There was a name on the card in the little metal reservation frame, and every passenger who could read English glanced at it, but nobody came to claim it even when the engine’s extra shrill screaming and at last the ringing of a bell warned Courtney that time was really up, and he got out on the platform.
“Good-by,” he said through the window. “I’ve done what I could to bring you luck. Don’t be tempted to engage the first servants who apply to you at Nairobi. If you wait there a week I’ll send my Kazimoto to you; he’s a very good gun-bearer. He’ll be out of a job when I’m gone. I shall give him his fare to Nairobi. Engage him if you want a dependable boy, but remember the rule about dogs: a good one has one master! I don’t mean Kazimoto is a dog — far from it. I mean, treat him as reasonably as you would a dog, and he’ll serve you well. He’s a first-class Nyamwezi, from German East. Oh, and one more scrap of advice—”:
He came close to the window, but at that moment the engine gave a final scream and really started. Passengers yelled farewells. The engine’s apoplectic coughs divided the din into spasms, and there came a great bellowing from the ticket office. He could not speak softly and be heard at all. Louder he had to speak, and then louder, ending almost with a shout.
“The best way to Elgon is by way of Kisumu and Mumias, whatever anybody else may tell you. And if you find the stuff, or any of it,” (he was running beside the train now)— “be in no hurry to advertise the fact! Go and make terms first with government — then — after you’ve made terms — tell ’em you’ve found it! Find the stuff — make terms — then produce what you’ve found! Get my meaning? Good-by, all. Good luck!”
We left him behind then, wiping the sweat from his wrinkled, freckled forehead, gazing after us as if we had all been lifelong friends of his. He made no distinction between us and Fred, but was equally anxious to serve us all.
“If that man isn’t white, who is?” demanded Will, and then there was new interest.
We had left the ticket office far behind, but the train was moving slowly and there was still a good length of platform before our car would be clear of the station altogether. We heard a roar like a bull’s from behind, and a dozen men — white, black and yellow — came careering down the platform carrying guns, baggage, bedding, and all the paraphernalia that travelers in Africa affect.
First in the van was Georges Coutlass, showing a fine turn of speed but tripping on a bed-sheet at every other step, with his uncased rifle in one hand, his hat in the other, an empty bandolier over one shoulder and a bag slung by a strap swinging out behind him. He made a leap for the second-class compartment in front of us, and landed on all fours on the platform. We opened the door of our compartment to watch him better.
Once on the platform he threw his rifle into the compartment and braced himself to catch the things his stampeding followers hurled after him — caught them deftly and tossed them in, yelling instructions in Greek, Kiswahili, Arabic, English, and two or three other languages. It may be that the engineer looked back and saw what was happening (or perhaps the guard signaled with the cord that passed through eyeholes the whole length of the train) for though we did not slow down we gained no speed until all his belongings had been hurled, and caught, and flung inside. Then came his traveling companions — caught by one hand and dragged on their knees up the steps. They were heavy men, but he snatched all three in like a boy pulling chestnuts from the fire.
The first was a Greek — evil-looking, and without the spirit that in the case of Coutlass made a stranger prone to over-look shortcomings — dressed in khaki, with rifle and empty bandolier. Next, chin, elbow, hand and knee up the steps came a fat, tough-looking Goanese, dressed anyhow at all in pink-colored dirty shirt, dark pants, and a helmet, also with rifle and empty bandolier. I judged he weighed about two hundred and eighty pounds, but Coutlass yanked him in like a fish coming overside. Last came a man who might be Arab, or part-Arab, part-Swahili, whom I did not recognize at first, fat, black, dressed in the white cotton garments and red fez of the more or less well-to-do native, and voluble with rare profanity.
“Johnson!” shouted Fred with almost the joy of greeting an old acquaintance.
It was Hassan, sure enough, short-winded and afraid, but more afraid of being left behind than of the manhandling. Coutlass took hold of his outstretched arm, hoisted him, cracked his shins for him against the top step, and hurled him rump-over-shoulders into the compartment, where the other Greek and the Goanese grabbed him by the arms and legs and hove him to an upper berth, on which he lay gasping like a fish out of water and moaning miserably. Their compartment was a mess of luggage, blankets, odds-and-ends, and angry men. Coutlass found a whisky bottle out of the confusion, and swallowed the stuff neat while the other Greek and the Goanese waited their turn greedily. There was nothing much in that compartment to make a man like Hassan feel at home.
“Those Greeks,” said our red-bearded traveling companion as we shut the door again, “are only one degree better than Indians — a shade less depraved perhaps — a sight more dangerous. I sure do hate a Punjabi, but I don’t love Greeks! The natives call ’em bwana masikini to their faces — that means Mister Mean White y’know. They’re a lawless lot, the Greeks you’ll run across in these parts. My advice is, shoot first! Walk behind ’em! If they ain’t armed, hoof ’em till they cut an’ run! Greeks are no good!”
We introduced ourselves. He told us his name was Brown.
“There’s three Browns in this country: Hell-fire Brown of Elementaita, Joseph Henry Brown of Gilgil, and Brown of Lumbwa. Brown of Lumbwa’s me. Don’t believe a word either of the other two Browns tell you! Yes, we’re all settlers. Country good to settle in? Depends what you call good. If you like lots of room, an’ hunting, natives to wait an’ your own house on your own square mile — comfortable climate — no conventions — nor no ten commandments, why, it’s pretty hard to beat. But if you want to wear a white shirt, and be moral, and get rich, it’s rotten! You’ve a chance to make money if you’re not over law-abiding, for there’s elephants. But if you’re moral, and obey the laws, you haven’t but one chance, an’ she’s a slim one.”
“Well,” said Fred, genially, “tell us about the only one. We’re men to whom the ten commandments are—”
“You look it!” Brown interrupted. “Well, what’s the odds? You’ll never find it, and anyhow, everybody knows it’s Tip
poo Tib’s ivory. I mean to have a crack at spotting it myself, soon as I get my farm fenced an’ one or two other matters attended to. Gov’ment offers ten per cent. to whoever leads ’em to it, but they can’t believe any one’s as soft as that surely! They’ll be lucky if they get ten per cent. of it themselves! Man alive, but they say there’s a whale of a hoard of it! Hundreds o’ tons of ivory, all waiting to be found, and fossicked out, an’ took! Say — if I was some o’ those Greeks for instance, tell you what I’d do: I’d off to Zanzibar, an’ kidnap Tippoo Tib. The old card’s still living. I’d apply a red-hot poker to his silver-side an’ the under-parts o’ his tripe-casings. He’d tell me where the stuff is quicker’n winking! Supposin’ I was a Greek without morals or no compunctions or nothin’, that’s what I’d do! I don’t hold with allowin’ any man to play dog in the manger with all that plunder!”
“Have you a notion where the stuff might be?” Fred wondered guilelessly.
“Ah! That ‘ud be tellin’!”
We had crossed the water that divides Mombasa from the mainland. Behind us lay the prettiest and safest harbor on all that thousand-league-long coast; before us was the narrow territory that still paid revenue and owed nominal allegiance to the Sultan of Zanzibar, although really like the rest of those parts under British rule. We were bowling along beside plantations of cocoanut, peanut, plantain and pineapple, with here and there a thicket of strange trees to show what the aboriginal jungle had once looked like. When we stopped at wayside stations the heat increased insufferably, until we entered the great red desert that divides the coast-land from the hills, and after that all seemed death and dust, and haziness, and hell.
