Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Scrag him!” advised some expert on etiquette.

  “What the hell right has anybody got,” demanded Brown with querulous ferocity, “to interfere between me and a lady? Eh? Whose compartment was she in? Me in hers or her in mine? Eh? Me. I’m sleeping. Hasn’t a gent a right to sleep? Next thing I know she’s fingerin’ my whiskers. How should I know she’s not balmy on red beards an’ makin’ love to me? What right’s she got in my compartment anyhow? Who let her in? Who asked her? What if I did frighten her? What then?”

  “Who was she?” demanded the official. “Had anybody seen her before?”

  “The maid attending the lady in the next compartment,” said I.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Very well. Guard! See who is in there!”

  The guard wiped blood from his nose and obeyed orders. We clustered round the steps to hear.

  “‘Ow many’s in here?” he demanded.

  There was no answer. He tried the door and it opened ‘readily.

  “‘Scuse me, but is there two of you? I can’t see in the dark.”

  “Oh, is that our dinner?” said Lady Saffren Waldon’s Voice.

  “No ma’am, not the dinner yet.”

  “Why not, pray?”

  “There’s folks accusin’ your maid o’ enterin’ the next compartment an’ — an’—”

  “Nonsense! My maid is here! You kept us so long waiting for dinner we were both asleep! Ah! There’s light at last, thank heaven!”

  Two native porters running along the roofs were dropping lamps into the holes appointed for them, and the train that had been a block of darkness hewn out of the night was now a monster, many-eyed.

  “They’re both in there, so ‘elp me!” the guard reported, retreating backward through the door and leering at us.

  There remained nobody, except the still indignant Brown of Lumbwa to levy charges, and the crowd remembered its dinner (not that anything could be expected to grow cold in that temperature).

  “The train will start on time!” announced the babu station master, and everybody hurried to the dining-room. Brown came with us, bewildered.

  “How did it happen?” he demanded. “When did we get here? Why wasn’t I called for dinner? How did she get in? Where did she go to?”

  “Oh, come and eat curried cow, it’s lovely!” answered Will.

  Fred overtook us at the door, and whispered:

  “Our things have been gone through, but I can’t find that anything’s missing.”

  Within the dining-room was new ground for discontent. The British race and its offshoots wash, but disbelieve with almost unanimity in water as a drink. Every guest at either table had left at his place a partly emptied glass of beer, or brandy and soda, or whisky. Each looked for the glass on his return, and found it empty.

  “Those Greeks!” exclaimed the Goanese manager, with a fearful air, and shoulders shrugged to disclaim his own responsibility.

  Coutlass and the other Greek were sitting at a table with a gorged look, glancing neither to the right nor left, yet not eating. I looked at the railway official, who had not left his seat. It struck me he was laughing silently, but he did not look up. The crowd, after the manner of all crowds, stormed at the Goanese manager.

  “What can I do? What shall I do?” wailed the unhappy little man.

  “They are bigger than I! They were greedy! They took!”

  All those charges were evidently true, and stated mildly. Coutlass rose to his feet.

  “Gassharamminy!” he thundered, and his stomach stuck out over the table it was so full of various drinks. “Why should we not take? Who isn’t thirsty in this hell of a place? Who leaves good drink deserves to lose it!”

  “What shall I do?” wailed the Goanese manager.

  “Take the orders for drinks again,” said the railway man, glancing up from his figures. “Bring the account to me.”

  The waiters ran to fill orders, and a babel of abuse at the second table was hurled at Coutlass and his friends; but they did not leave the table because there was another course to come, and, as the manager had said, they were greedy. Then in came the guard, his face a blood-and-smudgy picture of discontent.

  “Say!” he yelled. “Ain’t I goin’ to get those two first-classes on trays?” He came and stood by us. “Did you ever ‘ear the likes of it? They swear neither of ’em was out of the compartment. They call me a liar for askin’ for my key back! They swear I never gave it to ’em, ‘an they never asked for it, an’ their door was never locked, nor nothin’!”

  He passed on to the railway man.

  “I’ll have to borry your key, sir. Mine’s lost. Can’t open doors until I get one from somewhere.”

  The railway man passed him his key with a bored expression and no remark.

  “Don’t forget that I want you presently,” he ordered. “Be quick and get your own dinner.”

  “I’m in love with this ivory hunt!” Fred whispered to us across the table. “If she’s sure our pockets are worth going through, I’m sure there’s something to look for!”

  “Are you sure the maid went through our things?” asked Will.

  “Quite. I left my shooting jacket hanging on a hook. Everything was emptied out of the pockets on to the berth.”

  “I think I’ll make you a confession presently,” said I, with a look at

  Will that just then he did not understand.

  “Never confess before dessert and coffee!” advised Fred. “It spoils the appetite.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SLAVE GANGS

  Our fathers praised the old accustomed things,

  The privilege of chiefs, the village wall

  Within whose circling dark Monumme* sings

  O’ nights of belly-full and ease and all

  They taught us we should prize and praise

  (Only of dearth and pestilence should be our fears;)

  And now behind us are the green, regretted days.

  The water in the desert is our tears.

  Then ye, who at the waters drink

  Of Freedom, oh with Pity think

  On us, who face the desert brink

  Your fathers entered willingly.

  Our fathers mocked the might of the Unseen,

  Teaching that only what we saw and felt

  Was good to fight about — what aye had been,

  Old-fashioned foods that their forefathers smelt,

  Old stars each night illuming the old sky,

  The warm rain softening ere women till the ground,

  The soft winds singing, only ask not why!

  And now our weeping is the desert sound.

  Oh ye, who gorge the daily good,

  Unquestioned heirs of all ye would,

  Spare not too timidly the blood

  Your fathers shed so willingly.

  Our fathers taught us that the village good was best.

  Later we learned the red, new tribal creed

  That our place was the sun — night owned the rest

  Unless their treasure profited our greed!

  But now we gather nothing where our fathers sowed,

  For harvest grim the vultures wait in rows

  As, urged by greedier than us with gun and goad,

  Yoked two by two the slave safari goes.

  Oh ye, who from true judgment shrink,

  Nor gentleness with courage link,

  Be thoughtful when the cup ye drink

  Your fathers spilled so willingly.

  —— —— — * Monumme (Kiswahili) — Lit. male-man in his prime. —— —— —

  The guard procured his trays at last, delivered them at a run, returned in a hurry and swallowed his own meal at a side-table. Then, with his mouth full, he reported for orders to the railway official, who was still checking figures. The room was beginning to grow empty. Coutlass and his Greek friend and the Goanese sat almost alone at the far end of the other table, finishing their pudding. I
had not noticed until then that the guard was a singularly little man. He stood very few inches taller than the seated official. I suppose that hitherto in some way his energy had seemed to increase his inches.

  “Are there handcuffs in the caboose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fetch them.”

  In spite of Brown of Lumbwa’s protests, who wept at the notion of having to eat alone, we were in the act of settling our bills and going. But mention of handcuffs suggesting entertainment, we lit cigars and, imagining we stayed for love of him, Brown cooed at us.

  “I’ve the darbies in my pocket, sir!”

  I thought the guard looked more undersized than ever. He would have made a fair-sized middle-weight jockey.

  “Tell that Greek — Coutlass his name is — to come here.”

  With his tongue stuck into his cheek and a wink at us the guard obeyed.

  “He says for you to go to ‘ell, sir!” he reported after a moment’s interview.

  “Very well. Arrest him!”

  “He’ll need help,” I interrupted. “My two friends and I—”

  “Oh, dear no,” said the official. “He is fully up to his work.”

  So we moved our chairs into position for a better view.

  The guard advanced fox-terrierwise to within about six paces of

  Coutlass.

  “Up with both your ‘ands, Thermopylea!” he snapped. “Your bloomin’ reckonin’s come!”

  Coutlass showed tobacco-stained teeth for answer, and his friends rutched their chairs clear of the table, ready for action. Yet they were taken unawares. With a terrier’s speed the guard pounced on Coutlass, seized him by the hair and collar, hurled him, chair and all, under a side-table, and was on the far side of the table kicking his prostrate victim in the ribs before either Greek or Goanese — likewise upset in the sudden onslaught — could gather themselves and interfere.

  The Goanese was first on his feet. He hurled a soda-water bottle. The guard ducked and the bottle smashed into splinters on the wall. Before the sound of smashing glass had died the Goanese was down again, laid out by blows on the nose and jugular. Then again the guard kicked Coutlass, driving him back under the table from which he was trying to emerge on all fours.

  The second Greek looked more dangerous. His face grew dark with rage as the lips receded from his yellow teeth. He reached toward his boot, but judged there were too many witnesses for knife work and rushed in suddenly, yelling something in Greek to Coutlass as he picked up a chair to brain the guard with. He swung the chair, but the guard met it with another one, dodged him, and tripped him as he passed. In another second it was his turn to be kicked in the ribs until he yelled for mercy. (An extra large dinner and all those assorted drinks in addition to what they had had in the train made neither man’s wind good.)

  No mercy was forthcoming. He was kicked, more and more violently, until the need of crawling through the door to safety dawned on his muddled wits and he made his exit from the room snake fashion. By that time Coutlass was on his feet, and he too elected to force the issue with a chair. The guard sprang at the chair as Coutlass raised it, bore it down, and drove his fist hard home into the Greek’s right eye three times running.

  “‘Ave you ‘ad enough?” he demanded, making ready for another assault.

  The Goanese had recovered and staggered to his feet to interfere, but

  Coutlass yielded.

  “All right,” he said, “why should I fight a little man? I surrender to save bloodshed!”

  “Put your ‘ands out, then!”

  Coutlass obeyed, and was handcuffed ignominiously.

  “Outside, you!”

  A savage kick landed in exactly the place where the Goanese least expected and most resented it. He flew through the door as if the train had started, and then another kick jolted Coutlass.

  “Forward, march! Left-right-left-right!”

  With hands manacled in front and the inexorable bantam guard behind, Coutlass came and stood before the railway official, who at last condescended not to seem engrossed in his accounts.

  “‘Ere he is, sir!”

  “I suppose you know, my man, that I have magisterial powers on this railway?” said the official.

  Coutlass glowered but said nothing.

  “This is not the first time you have made yourself a nuisance. You broke dishes the last time you were here.”

  “That is long ago,” Coutlass objected. “That was on the day the place was first opened to the public. There was a celebration. Every one was drunk.”

  “You broke plates and refused to pay the damage!’

  “Officials were drunk. I saw them!”

  “The damage amounted to seventeen rupees, eight annas.”

  “Gassharamminy! All the crockery from Mombasa to Nairobi isn’t worth that amount! I shall not pay!”

  “Now there’s another bill for those drinks you and your friends stole when passengers’ backs were turned. I saw you do it!”

  “Why didn’t you object at the time?” sneered Coutlass.

  “Here is the bill: twenty-seven rupees, twelve annas. Total, forty-five rupees, four annas. You may make the manager a present of the odd sum for his injured feelings, and call it an even fifty. Settle now, or wait here for the down-train and go to jail in Mombasa!”

  “Wait in this place?” asked Coutlass, aghast.

  “Where else? There’ll be a down passenger train in a week.”

  “I pay!” said the Greek, with a hideous grimace.

  “Take the irons off him, then.”

  The guard unlocked the handcuffs and Coutlass began to fumble for a money-bag.

  “Give me a receipt!” he demanded, thumbing out the money.

  “You are the receipt!” said the official. “An Englishman would have been sent to jail with a fine, and have paid the bill into the bargain. You’re treated leniently because you can’t be expected to understand decent behavior. You’re expected to learn, however. Next time you will catch it hot!”

  “All aboard!” called the guard cheerfully. “All aboard!”

  “Tears, idle tears!” said Brown of Lumbwa, taking my arm and Fred’s.

  “Thass too true — too true! They’d have jailed an Englishman — me, f’rinstance. One little spree, an’ they’d put me in the Fort! One li’l indishcresshion an’ they’d jug me for shix months! Him they let go wi’ a admonisshion! It’s ‘nother case o’ Barabbas, an’ a great shame, but you can’t change the English. They’re ingcorridgible! Brown o’ Lumbwa’s my name,” he added by way of afterthought.

  “Take advice and get under blankets afore you go to sleep, gents!” warned the guard. All windows were once more opened wide, and every one was panting.

  “A job on this ‘ere line’s a circus!” he grinned. “I’m lucky if there’s only one fight before Nairobi! ‘Ave your blankets ready, gents! Cover yourselves afore you sleep!”

  That sounded like a joke. The sweat poured from every one in streams. The hot hair cushions were intolerable. The dust gathered from the desert stirred and hung, and there was neither air to breathe nor coolness under all those overhanging mountains.

  “Get under your blankets, gents!” advised the guard, passing down the train; and then the train started.

  I had the upper berth opposite Brown’s, where it was hottest of all because of the iron roof. Drunk though he was, I noticed that the first thing Brown did after we had hoisted him aloft was to dig among the blankets like a dog and make the best shift he could of crawling under them. With one blanket twisted about his neck and shoulders and the other tangled about his knees he remarked to the roof that his name was Brown of Lumbwa, and proceeded to sob himself to sleep. He had made the journey a dozen times, so knew what he was doing. I drew on my own blankets, and stifling, blowing out red dust, remembered a promise.

  “Will!” I said. “Tell Fred what happened to us in Zanzibar while he and Monty viewed the moon!”

  “We agreed not to,�
�� he answered, but it seemed to me he might arouse his own enthusiasm if he did tell.

  “Who’s afraid of Fred?” said I.

  That settled it.

  “One of you shall tell before you sleep!” Fred announced, sitting up. “Who feareth not God nor regardeth me will blench before the prospect of a sleepless night! Speak, America!”

  He took out a cleaning rod from his gun-case, and proceeded to stir Will’s ribs and whack his feet. In a minute there was a rough-house — panting, and bursts of laughter — cracks of the cleaning rod on Will’s bare legs — the sound of hands slipping on sweaty arms — and

  “Murder!” yelled Brown of Lumbwa, waking up. “Murder! Oh, mur-durrr!”

  “Shut up, you fool!” I shouted at him. But he only yelled the louder.

  “I knew these tears were not for nothing!” he wailed. “It was premonition! Pass me the whisky! Pass it up here! Oh, look! They’re at each other’s throats! Murder! Oh, mur-durrr! Pass the whisky or I’ll come down and kill everybody in self-defense! Murrrrr-durrr!”

  They stopped fooling because his idiotic screams could be heard all down the train.

  “There,” said Brown, “you see, I’ve saved two worthless lives! Very foolish of me! Pass the whisky! See that I save a little for the morning!”

  At that he fell asleep again; and because Fred threatened to start new commotion and wake him unless Will or I confessed at once, Will took up the tale, I leaning over the edge of my berth to prompt him. Fred laughed all through the story, and finally crawled under his blanket again to lie chuckling at the underside of Brown of Lumbwa’s berth.

  “I don’t see what we’ve scored by telling him,” said Will to me.

  “We’ve merely given him a peg to hang jokes on!”

  But I knew that now Will had told the story he would not, for very shame, withdraw from the venture until we should have demonstrated that no Lady Saffren Waldon, nor Sultan of Zanzibar, nor Germans, nor Arabs could make us afraid. And it seemed to me that was sufficient accomplishment for one night.

  The train’s progress slowed and grew slower. The panting of the engine came back to us in savage blasts. We were climbing by curves and zigzags up the grim dark wall of mountains. And as we mounted inch by inch, foot by foot, the air freshened and grew cooler — not really cool yet by a very Jacob’s ladder of degrees, but delectable by comparison.