They included a petty chief
of the Ochori–Bosambo marked him down for an ignominious end–a
fisherman of the Isisi, a witch doctor of the N’Gombi, a hunter of the
Calali, and, chiefest of all, a tall, broad-shouldered negro in the garb
of white men.
This was Ofalikari, sometime preacher of the Word, and supreme head of
the terrible order which was devastating the territories.
As they stood the voice of a man broke the silence with a song. He led it
in a nasal falsetto, and the others acted as chorus.
“The White Goat is very strong and his horns are of gold.”
“Oai!” chorused the others.
“His blood is red and he teaches mysteries.”
“Oai!”
“When his life goes out his spirit becomes a god.”
“Oai!”
“Woe to those who stand between the White Goat and his freedom.”
“Oai!”
“For his sharp feet will cut them to the bone and his horns will bleed
them.”
“Oai!”
They sang, one drum tapping rhythmically, the bangled feet of the chorus
jingling as they pranced with deliberation at each “Oai!”
When they had finished, Ofalikari spoke.
“Bosambo, we know you to be a wise man, and acquainted with white people
and their gods, even as I am, for I was a teacher of the blessed Word.
Now the White Goat loves you, Bosambo, and will do you no injury.
Therefore have we come to summon you to a big palaver to-morrow, and to
that palaver we will summon Sandi to answer for his wickedness. Him we
will burn slowly, for he is an evil man.”
“Lord Goat,” said Bosambo, “this is a big matter, and I will ask you to
stay with me this night, that I may be guided and strengthened by your
lordships’ wisdom. I have built you four new huts,” he went on, “knowing
that your honours were coming; here you shall be lodged, and by my heart
and my life no living man shall injure you.”
“No dead man can, Bosambo,” said Otalikari, and there was a rocking shout
of laughter. Bosambo laughed too; he laughed louder and longer than all
the rest, he laughed so that Ofalikari was pleased with him.
“Go in peace,” said Bosambo, and the delegates went to their huts.
In the early hours of the morning Bosambo sent for Tomba, an enemy and a
secret agent of the society.
“Go to the great lords,” he said, “tell them I come to them to-night by
the place where the Isisi River and the big river meet. And say to them
that they must go quickly, for I do not wish to see them again, lest our
adventure does not carry well, and Sandi punish me.”
At daybreak with his cloak of monkey tails about him–for the dawn was
chilly–he watched the delegation leave the village and each go its
separate way.
He noted that Tomba accompanied them out of sight. He wasted half an
hour, then went to his hut and emerged naked save for his loin cloth, his
great shield on his left arm, and in the hand behind the shield a bundle
of throwing spears.
To him moved fifty fighting men, the trusted and the faithful, and each
carried his wicker war shield obliquely before him.
And the Ochori people, coward at heart, watched the little company in
awe. They stood waiting, these fierce, silent warriors, till at a word
they marched till they came to the four huts where Bosambo’s guests had
lain. Here they waited again. Tomba came in time and stared uneasily at
the armed rank.
“Tomba,” said Bosambo gently, “did you say farewell to the Goat lords?”
“This I did, chief,” said Tomba.
“Embracing them as is the Goat custom?” asked Bosambo more softly still.
“Lord, I did this.”
Bosambo nodded.
“Go to that hut, O Tomba, great Goat and embracer of Goats.”
Tomba hesitated, then walked slowly to the nearest hut. He reached the
door, and half turned.
“Slay!” whispered Bosambo, and threw the first spear.
With a yell of terror the man turned to flee, but four spears struck him
within a space of which the palm of a hand might cover and he rolled into
the hut, dead.
Bosambo selected another spear, one peculiarly prepared, for beneath the
spear head a great wad of dried grass had been bound and this had been
soaked in copal gum.
A man brought him fire in a little iron cup and he set it to the spear,
and with a jerk of his palm sent the blazing javelin to the hut’s
thatched roof.
In an instant it burst into flame–in ten minutes the four new houses
were burning fiercely.
And on the flaming fire, the villagers, summoned to service, added fresh
fuel and more and more, till the sweat rolled down their unprotected
bodies. In the afternoon Bosambo allowed the fire to die down. He sent
two armed men to each of the four roads that led into the village, and
his orders were explicit.
“You shall kill any man or woman who leaves this place,” he said; “also
you shall kill any man or woman who, coming in, will not turn aside. And
if you do not kill them, I myself will kill you. For I will not have the
sickness-mongo in my city, lest our lord Sandi is angry.”
Sanders, waiting far he knew not what, heard the news, and went steaming
to headquarters, sending pigeons in front asking for doctors. A week
later he came back with sufficient medical stores to put the decks of the
Zaire awash, but he came too late. The bush plague had run its course. It
had swept through cities and lands and villages like a tempest, and
strange it was that those cities which sent delegates to Bosambo suffered
most, and in the N’Gombi city to which Ofalikari stumbled to die, one
eighth of the population were wiped out.
“And how has it fared with you, Bosambo?” asked Sanders when the medical
expedition came to Ochori.
“Lord,” said Bosambo, “it has passed me by.”
There was a doctor in the party of an inquiring mind. “Ask him how he
accounts for his immunity,” he said to Sanders, for he had no knowledge
of the vernacular, and Sanders repeated the question.
“Lord,” said Bosambo with simple earnestness, “I prayed very earnestly,
being, as your lordship knows, a bueno Catolico.”
And the doctor, who was also a “good Catholic,” was so pleased that he
gave Bosambo a sovereign and a little writing pad–at least he did not
give Bosambo the latter, but it is an indisputable fact that it was in
the chief’s hut when the party had gone.
The People of the River
16. THE CRIME OF SANDERS
IT is a fine thing to be confidential clerk to a millionaire, to have
placed to your credit every month of your life the sum of forty-one
pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence.
This was the experience of a man named Jordon, a young man of
considerable character, as you shall learn. He had a pretty wife and a
beautiful baby, and they were a contented and happy little family.
Unfortunately the millionaire died, and though he left “£100 to my
secretary, Derik Arthur Jordon,” the sum inadequately compensated young
Jordon for the forty-one pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence which
came to his banker with monotonous regularity every month.
A millionaire’s confidential clerk is a drug on the market which knows
few millionaires, and those admirably suited in the matter of
secretaries. The young man spent six months and most of his money before
he came to understand that his opportunities were limited.
Had he been just an ordinary clerk, with the requisite knowledge of
shorthand and typewriting, he would have found no difficulty in securing
employment. Had he had an acquaintance with a thousand and one businesses
he might have been “placed,” but he had specialised in millionaires–an
erratic millionaire whose memory and purse and Times he was–and the
world of business had no opening for his undisputed qualities. He had
exactly £150 left of his savings and his legacy, when the fact was
brought home to him.
Then it happened, that returning to his suburban home one evening, he met
a man who had just met another man, who on a capital of a few pounds had
amassed a fortune by trading on the West Coast of Africa.
Jordon sought an introduction to the friend and they met in the splendour
of a West End hotel, where the trader drank whiskey and talked of his
“little place at Minehead.”
“It’s dead easy,” he said, “especially if you get into a country which
isn’t overrun by traders, like Sanders’ territory. But of course that’s
impossible. Sanders is a swine to traders–won’t have them in his
territory. He’s a sort of little god…”
He drew a picture of the wonderful possibilities of such a field, and the
young man went home full of the prospect.
He and his pretty wife sat up till the early hours of the morning
discussing the plan. They got a map of Africa showing the territory over
which Mr. Commissioner Sanders had dominion. It seemed absurdly small,
but it was a little map.
“I wonder what he is like?” asked the girl thoughtfully.
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