by Talbot Mundy
We wished we had as good price to offer at the villages on our way, for sleep under cover we must, if we hoped to escape the ravages of fever; and the primitive savage, at least in those parts, had the principle down fine of nothing whatever for nothing. Yet as it turned out, the very man whose company we looked on as a nuisance proved to be a key to all gates. We marched along the track the Baganda had taken. The chiefs of all villages knew him again; and the men who dared take such a prophet of evil prisoner were looked upon as high government officials at least.
We accepted that description of ourselves, letting it go by silent assent, and explained our lack of tents and almost every other thing the white man generally travels with as due to haste. Heaven only knew what lies Kazimoto told those credulous folk, to the perfectly worthy end of making our lot bearable, but we were fed after a fashion, and lodged after a worse one all along our road. And who should send in reports about us — and to whom? Obviously white men with a prisoner, marching in such a hurry toward the north, were government officials. Who should report officials to their government? As for the tale about our having left our loads behind — are not all white people crazy? Who shall explain their craziness?
From being a nuisance the Baganda became a joke. When it dawned on his fat intellect that we were hurrying toward Schillingschen with only one rifle among us and no baggage at all, he jumped at once to the conclusion we must be Schillingschen’s friends; and his fear that we intended to hand him over to that ruthless brute for summary punishment was more melting to his backbone than the dread of our imaginary whip, that had caused him to give Schillingschen away.
He tried to bite through the thongs that held him, but Will twisted for him handcuffs out of thick iron wire that we begged from a chief, who had intended to make ornaments with it for his own legs. We did not dare let the man escape, nor care to prevent our men from using force when he threw himself on the ground and wept like a spoiled child.
“I will tell you” he said at last, deciding he might as well be hanged for mutton as for lamb, “what Bwana Schillingschen is searching for! I will tell you who knows where to find it! I will tell you where to find the man who knows! Only let me run away then to my own home in Uganda, and I will never again leave it! I am afraid! I am afraid!”
But that was only one more reason for keeping him with us, and no ground at all for delay. He would not tell unless we loosed his hands first, so we pressed on, camping late and starting early, until about noon of the fourth day we caught sight of Schillingschen’s tents in the distance, and gathered our party at once into a little rocky hollow to discuss the situation.
Behind us the land sloped gradually for thirty or forty miles toward a sharp escarpment that overlooked the level land beside the lake. At times between the hills and trees we could glimpse Nyanza itself, looking like the vast rim of forever, mysterious and calm. In front of us the rolling hills, broken out here and there into rocky knolls, piled up on one another toward the hump of Elgon, on which the blue sky rested. In every direction were villages of folk who knew so little of white men that they paid no taxes yet and did no work — marrying and giving in marriage — fighting and running away — eating and drinking and watching their women cultivate the corn and beans and sweet potatoes — without as much as foreboding of the taxes, work for wages, missionaries, law and commerce soon to come.
Schillingschen was more than taking his time, he was dawdling, keeping his donkeys fat, and letting his men wander at pleasure to right and left gathering reports for him of unusual folk or things. We came very close to being seen by one of them, who emerged from a village near us with a pair of chickens he had foraged, followed by the owner of the luckless birds in a great hurry and fury to get paid for them.
Schillingschen’s tent could fairly easily be stalked from the far side in broad daylight, and I was for making the attempt. There was the risk that one of our porters might grow restless and break bounds if we waited, or that the Baganda might take to yelling. We gagged him as soon as I talked of the danger of that.
Coutlass and Brown, however, were the only two who would agree with me. Like me, they were weary to death of mtama porridge, with or without milk, and the sight of Schillingschen’s distant campfire with a great pot resting on stones in the midst of it whetted appetite for white man’s food. They and I were for supping as soon as possible from the German’s provender, and sleeping under his canvas roof.
But Fred and Will insisted on caution, claiming reasonably that surprise would be infinitely easier after dark. It was unlikely that Schillingschen would post any sentries, and not much matter if he did. His knowledge of natives and natural air of authority made him quite safe among any but the wildest, and these were a comparatively peaceful folk. In all probability he would sit and read by candle light, with his boys all snoring a hundred yards away. There was no making Fred and Will see the virtue of my contention that a sudden attack while his boys were scattered all about among the villages would be just as likely to succeed; so we settled down to wait where we were with what patience we could summon.
It was a miserable, hungry business, under a blazing hot sky, packed tightly together among men who objected to our smell as strongly as we to theirs. It is the fixed opinion of all black people that the white man smells like “bad water”; and no word seems discoverable that will quite return the compliment. That afternoon was reminiscent of the long days on the dhow, when nobody could move without disturbing everybody else, and we all breathed the same hot mixed stench over and over.
We posted two sentries to lie with their eyes on the level of the rim and guard against surprise. But there was so little to watch, except kites wheeling overhead everlastingly, that they went to sleep; and we were so bored, and so sure of our hiding-place and Schillingschen’s unsuspicion that we did not notice them. I myself fell asleep toward five o’clock, and when I awoke the sun was so low in the west that our hollow lay in deep gloom.
Fred was lying on his elbow, sucking an unfilled, unlighted pipe. Will lay on his side, too, with back toward both of us, ruminating. Coutlass and Brown were both asleep, but Coutlass awoke as I rolled over and struck him with my heel. Nearly all the porters were snoring.
It was a sharp exclamation from the Greek that caused me to sit up and face due westward. The others lay as they were. It was the gloom in our hollow — the velvety shadows in which we lay with granite boulders scattered between us, and no alertness on our part that saved that day, although Coutlass acted instantly and creditably, once awake.
Schillingschen stood there looking down on us, with his feet planted squarely on the rim of the hollow, and Mauser rifle under one arm. His great splay beard flowed sidewise in the evening wind. One hand he held over his eyes, trying to make out details in the dark, as stupid as we were. He stood with his back to the setting sun, exposing himself without any thought of the risk he ran, his huge, filled-out head refusing stubbornly to take in the truth of what had happened. Once convinced, the Prussian mind is not readily unconvinced. He had assured himself long ago that our party was at the bottom of Victoria Nyanza.
The second he did make out details he was swift to act, but that was already too late, although he did not know it at the moment. He threw up his rifle and laughed — a great deep guffaw from the stomach, that awoke every one.
“So, so!” he gloated. “So Mr. Oakes and his fellow escaped convicts are alive after all! Ha-ha-ho-ho! So you followed me all this way, only to forget that kites are curious! A fine comfortless journey you must have had, too! There were twenty kites wheeling over you. I counted, and wondered. Curiosity drove me to come and see. The first man who moves a finger, Mr. Oakes, will die that instant! Let your rifle lie where it is!”
It would be no use pretending the man had not courage, at all events of the sort that glories in the upper hand of a fight. He chuckled, and reveled in our predicament, taking in, now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness of our hollow, the utter lack of co
mforts or provisions, and enjoying our disappointment. He certainly knew himself master of the situation.
“I suspect you have a man of mine down there with you!” he announced presently. “Is not that my Baganda? Is he gagged? Is he bound? Loose him, Mr. Oakes, at once! I say at once! Otherwise you die now!”
He pointed his rifle directly at Fred, and the next second fired it, but not intentionally. Coutlass sprang from behind him, having crawled out through a shadow, and hit him so hard with a stone on the back of the skull that he loosed off the rifle and pitched head-foremost down among us. The Greek promptly jumped on top of him with a yell like a maniac’s, failing to land with both heels on his backbone by nothing but luck. As it was, he lost balance and sat down so hard on Schillingschen’s head that there was no need of the energy with which we all followed suit, piling all over him to pin him down like hounds that have rolled their quarry over.
The German was stunned — knocked into utter oblivion — breathing like a sleeping drunkard, and bleeding freely from the nose. Coutlass jumped off him and began to execute a war dance up and down, yelling like a madman until Fred threatened him with the rifle and Will gagged him from behind.
“Do you want his armed men down on us, you ass?”
“Gassharamminy!” he laughed. “I forgot about them! Let us go and eat their supper!” He spoke as a man who had full right now to be considered a member in good standing. We all noticed it, and exchanged glances; but that was no time for argument about men’s rights.
Brown was already over the rim of the hollow and making in the direction of the tents. We called him back and compelled him to stay on guard over the prisoners, to his awful disgust, for he suspected there was whisky among Schillingschen’s “chop-boxes.” But so did we! We left all our boys with him except Kazimoto, threatening them with hitherto unheard of penalties if they dared as much as show a lock of hair above the rim of the hollow while we were gone.
Then the rest of us, with Fred leading and Kazimoto last of all, crept out and sought the lowest level along which to reach the camp. Will had taken Schillingschen’s rifle and went next after Fred. Coutlass followed so close on my heels that more than once he trod on them, and once so nearly tripped me that Fred called a halt behind some bushes and cursed me for clumsiness.
But it turned out to be easy hunting. The ten boys had tied the donkeys up to a rope in line and sat crooning while their supper cooked at a long bright fire. We came up to Schillingschen’s tent from behind, crept around the side of it, and in a moment had three more good weapons, I taking the big-bore elephant gun that had dealt with us so savagely on the lake, Coutlass seizing another Mauser, and Kazimoto adopting the shot-gun.
The rest was child’s play. We marched out of the tent all abreast and called on the ten boys to surrender, making them put up their hands until Coutlass had found their five rifles and ammunition. They were too astonished even to ask questions. Accustomed to Schillingschen’s despotic orders, they obeyed ours silently, showing no symptoms of trying to bolt, having nowhere to bolt to; but we took precautions.
Kazimoto ran back to bring our party, and we took a coil of iron wire from Schillingschen’s trade goods and fastened every prisoner’s hands firmly behind his back, including the unconscious German’s. That done, we ate the meat, beans and vegetable supper that the ten had cooked.
Brown and Coutlass found Schillingschen’s whisky after that, and under its influence again swore ceaseless friendship beneath the non-committal stars. While they feasted we took Coutlass’ rifle away as a plain precaution.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PARCERE SUBJECTIS?
‘When the devil’s at bay
Ye may kneel down and pray
For a year and a day
To be spared the distress of dispatching him,
But the longer ye kneel
The more squeamish ye’ll feel
‘Cause the louder he’ll squeal,
And at brotherly talk there’s no matching him.
Discussion’s his aim,
And as sure as you’re game
To give heed to the same,
You regarding extremes with compunction,
You may bet he’ll requite
Your compassion with spite,
Knifing you in the night
With much probonopublico unction.
For a while we looked like having trouble with Coutlass. We gave Brown a rifle, and distributed the other Mausers among Kazimoto and our best boys, but we did not dare trust the Greek with a weapon he might use against us, and he resented that bitterly. He had an answer to Fred’s subterfuge that as a white man he would need a license before daring to carry firearms. “I dare do anything! I care nothing for law!” he argued, and Fred nodded.
That night we reveled in luxury, for after the life we had led recently it took time to reaccustom any of us to the common comforts. Schillingschen traveled with every provision for his carcass and his belly; and we plundered him.
We put the prisoners and our own porters in a hut in the nearest native village (less than half a mile away) under the watchful eye of Kazimoto and the shot-gun, dividing Schillingschen’s two large tents between ourselves. The others offered me the camp-bed as a recent invalid, but I refused, and Will won it by matching coins. We divided the blankets in the same way, and all the spare underwear. Brown and Coutlass had to be satisfied with cotton blankets from a bale of trade goods; but when they had rifled enough to build up good thick mattresses as well as coverings, there were still two apiece for our boys and all the porters.
The chop-boxes were a revelation. The man had with him food enough for at least a year’s traveling, including all the canned delicacies that hungry men dream about in the wilderness. Before we slept we ate so enormously of so very many things that it was a wonder that we were able to sleep at all.
We all hoped Schillingschen would die, for it was a hard problem what to do with him. He had no papers in his possession, beyond a diary written in German schrift that even Will could not make head or tail of, for all his knowledge of the language; and a very vague map bearing the imprint of the British government, filled in by himself with the names of the villages he had passed on his way. There was no proof that we could find that would have condemned him of nefarious practises in a British court of law.
“And believe me,” argued Will, sprawling on the plundered bed, blowing the smoke of a Melachrino through his nose, “your local British judges would take the word of Professor Schillingschen against all of ours, backed up by simply overwhelming native evidence! They’re so in awe of Schillingschen’s professorial degree, and of his passports, and his letters of introduction from this and that mogul that they wouldn’t believe him guilty of arson if they caught him in the act!”
“Something’s got to be done with him pretty soon, though,” answered Fred from the floor, lying at ease on a pillow and a folded Jaeger blanket, smoking a fat cigar.
Coutlass and Brown were singing songs outside the tent and I sat in a genuine armchair with my feet on a box full of canned plum pudding. (Nobody knows, who has not hungered on the high or low veld — who has not eaten meat without vegetables for days on end, and then porridge without salt or sugar — how good that common, export, canned plum Pudding is! To sit with my feet on the case that contained it was the arrogance of affluence!)
“We have his stores and his papers,” said I. “We have his Baganda; and as time goes on, and his other spies begin to come in, we shall have them, too, if we’re half careful. Why don’t we let him go, to tell his own tale wherever he likes?”
“Maybe he’ll die yet!” said the optimist on the camp-bed, blowing more cigarette smoke.
“Suppose he doesn’t. We’ve done our best to keep him alive. He’s quit bleeding. Suppose we let him go, and he lays a charge against us. Suppose they send after us and bring us in. We’ve his diary and his men — evidence enough,” said I.
“You bally ass!” Fred murmured.
“I don’t believe he’d dare approach a British official with his story,” said I.
“Incredible imbecile!” Fred answered. “He has the gall of a brass monkey.”
“And magnetism — loads of it,” Will added. “He’d make the Pope play three-card monte.”
“To say nothing,” continued Fred, “of the necessity of not letting the government know we’re here! Rather than turn him loose, I’d march him into Kisumu and hand him over. But, as Will says wisely, our proconsuls would believe him, and put us under bonds for outraging a distinguished foreigner.”
“Well, then,” said I, “what the devil shall we do with him? Offer something constructive, you two solons!”
“Have the four men we borrowed from the island bolted home yet?” wondered Will.
“They hadn’t this evening,” I answered. “I don’t believe they’ll venture home until we stop feeding them. They were hungry on their island. Our shortest commons then seemed affluence. Now they’re in heaven!”
“Their canoes must be where they left them in the papyrus.”
“Sure. Who’d steal a canoe?”
“Whoever could find them,” Fred answered. “But they’re skilfully hidden. Why don’t we put Schillingschen and his ten pet blacks into those canoes, with a little food and no rifles — and show them the way to German East?”
“Because,” said I, “they wouldn’t go. They’d turn around and paddle for Kisumu, to file complaint against us.”
“Don’t you suppose,” suggested Will, “that Schillingschen’s own men ‘ud insist on going home? Out on the water, ten to one, without guns or too much food, they wouldn’t have the same fear of him they had formerly.”
