“I will send women to you. What is your name?”

“They will not come,” said the plaintive voice. “Tonight the men go out to war, and the women wait for the great dance.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight, master–so the ghosts of brass decree.” Sanders made a clicking noise with his mouth.

“That we shall see,” he said, and went on.

The party reached the outskirts of the city. Before them, outlined against a bronze sky, was the dark bulk of a little hill, and this they skirted.

The bronze became red, and rose, and dull bronze again, as the fires that gave it colour leapt or fell. Turning the shoulder of the hill, Sanders had a full view of the scene.

Between the edge of the forest and slope of the hill was a broad strip of level land. On the left was the river, on the right was swamp and forest again.

In the very centre of the plain a huge fire burnt. Before it, supported by its poles, on two high trestles, a square box.

But the people!

A huge circle, squatting on its haunches, motionless, silent; men, women, children, tiny babies, at their mothers’ hips they stretched; a solid wheel of humanity, with the box and the fire as a hub.

There was a lane through which a man might reach the box–a lane along which passed a procession of naked men, going and returning. There were they who replenished the fire, and Sanders saw them dragging fuel for that purpose. Keeping to the edge of the crowd, he worked his way to the opening. Then he looked round at his men.

“It is written,” he said, in the curious Arabic of the Kano people, “that we shall carry away this false god. As to which of us shall live or die through this adventure, that is with Allah, who knows all things.” Then he stepped boldly along the lane. He had changed his white ducks for a dark blue uniform suit, and he was not observed by the majority until he came with his Houssas to the box. The heat from the fire was terrific, overpowering. Close at hand he saw that the fierceness of the blaze had warped the rough-hewn boards of the box, and through the opening he saw in the light a slab of stone.

“Take up the box quickly,” he commanded, and the Houssas lifted the poles to their shoulders. Until then the great assembly had sat in silent wonder, but as the soldiers lifted their burden, a yell of rage burst from five thousand throats, and men leapt to their feet.

Sanders stood before the fire, one hand raised, and silence fell, curiosity dominating resentment.

“People of the Isisi,” said Sanders, “let no man move until the god-stone has passed, for death comes quickly to those who cross the path of gods.” He had an automatic pistol in each hand, and the particular deity he was thinking of at the moment was not the one in the box.

The people hesitated, surging and swaying, as a mob will sway in its uncertainty. With quick steps the bearers carried their burden through the lane, they had almost passed unmolested when an old woman shuffled forward and clutched at Sanders’ arm.

“Lord, lord!” she quavered, “what will you do with our god?”

“Take him to the proper place,” said Sanders, “being by Government appointed his keeper.”

“Give me a sign,” she croaked, and the people in her vicinity repeated, “A sign, master!”

“This is a sign,” said Sanders, remembering the woman in labour. “By the god’s favour there shall be born to Ifabi, wife of Adako, a male child.” He heard the babble of talk; he heard his message repeated over the heads of the crowd; he saw a party of women go scurrying back to the village; then he gave the order to march. There were murmurings, and once he heard a deep-voiced man begin the war-chant, but nobody joined him. Somebody–probably the same man–clashed his spear against his wicker shield, but his warlike example was not followed. Sanders gained the village street. Around him was such a press of people that he followed the swaying box with difficulty. The river was in sight; the moon, rising a dull, golden ball over the trees, laced the water with silver, and then there came a scream of rage.

“He lies! He lies! Ifabi, the wife of Adako, has a female child.”

Sanders turned swiftly like a dog at bay; his lips upcurled in a snarl, his white, regular teeth showing. “Now,” said Sanders, speaking very quickly, “let any man raise his spear, and he dies.” Again they stood irresolute, and Sanders, over his shoulder, gave an order.

For a moment only the people hesitated; then, as the soldiers gripped the poles of the god-box, with one fierce yell they sprang forward.

A voice screamed something; and, as if by magic, the tumult ceased, and the crowd darted backward and outward, falling over one another in their frantic desire to escape.

Sanders, his pistol still loaded, stood in open-mouthed astonishment at the stampede.

Save for his men he was alone; and then he saw.

Along the centre of the street two men were walking. They were clad alike in short crimson kilts that left their knees bare; great brass helmets topped their heads, and brass cuirasses covered their breasts.

Sanders watched them as they came nearer, then: “If this is not fever, it is madness,” he muttered, for what he saw were two Roman centurions, their heavy swords girt about their waists.

He stood still, and they passed him, so close that he saw on the boss of one shield the rough-moulded letters: “AUGUSTUS CAE”

“Fever” said Sanders emphatically, and followed the box to the ship.

When the steamer reached Lukati, Sanders was still in a condition of doubt, for his temperature was normal, and neither fever nor sun could be held accountable for the vision. Added to which, his men had seen the same thing.

He found the reinforcements his pigeon had brought, but they were unnecessary now.

“It beats me,” he confessed to Carter, telling the story; “but we’ll get out the stone; it might furnish an explanation. Centurions–bah!” The stone, exposed in the light of day, was of greyish granite, such as Sanders did not remember having seen before.

“Here are the ‘devil marks,’” he said, as he turned it over. “Possibly–whew!” No wonder he whistled, for closely set were a number of printed characters; and Carter, blowing the dust, saw–’MARIUS ET AUGUSTUS CENT…NERO IMPERAT…IN DEUS…DULCE.’ That night, with great labour, Sanders, furbishing his rusty Latin, and filling in gaps, made a translation: “Marius and Augustus, Centurions of Nero, Caesar and Emperor, Sleep sweetly with the gods.”

“We are they who came beyond the wild lands which Hanno, the Carthaginian, found…

“Marcus Septimus went up into Egypt, and with him Decimus Superbus, but by the will of Caesar, and the favour of the gods, we sailed to the black seas beyond…

“Here we lived, our ships suffering wreck, being worshipped by the barbarians, teaching them warlike practices.

“…You who come after…bear greetings to Rome to Cato Hippocritus, who dwells by the gate…” Sanders shook his head when he had finished reading, and said it was “rum.”

Sanders of the River (1911)

CHAPTER III - Bosambo of Monrovia

For many years have the Ochori people formed a sort of grim comic relief to the tragedy of African colonization. Now it may well be that we shall laugh at the Ochori no more. Nor, in the small hours of the night, when conversation flags in the little circle about the fires in fishing camps, shall the sleepy-eyed be roused to merriment by stories of Ochori meekness. All this has come about by favour of the Liberian Government, though at present the Liberian Government is not aware of the fact.

With all due respect to the Republic of Liberia, I say that the Monrovians are naturally liars and thieves.

Once upon a time, that dignity might be added to the State, a warship was acquired–if I remember aright it was presented by a disinterested shipowner. The Government appointed three admirals, fourteen captains, and as many officers as the ship would hold, and they all wore gorgeous but ill-fitting uniforms. The Government would have appointed a crew also, but for the fact that the ship was not big enough to hold any larger number of people than its officers totalled.

This tiny man-of-war of the black republic went to sea once, the admirals and captains taking it in turn to stoke and steer–a very pleasing and novel sensation, this latter.

Coming back into the harbour, one of the admirals said–“It is my turn to steer now,” and took the wheel.

The ship struck a rock at the entrance of the harbour and went down.