All these people divided to right and left in the clearing of the guest camp, and took their stations. More and more appeared. The space filled, filled solidly, until at last there was no break in the mass of humanity except for a circle forty feet in diameter about the fire.
Suddenly a group of fifteen or twenty men detached themselves from the main body and leaped into this cleared space. The great chant still rolled on; but now a varied theme was introduced by a chorus of the nearby women. The dancers were oiled to a high state of polish, naked except for a single plume apiece and a sort of tasselled tail hung to a string belt. They clustered in a close group near the fire, facing a common centre. In deep chest tones they pronounced the wordgoom, at the same time half crouching; then in sharp staccato head tones the wordzup, at the same time rising swiftly up and toward their common centre. It was like the ebb and surge of a wave, the alternate smooth crouch and spring over and over again--goom, zup! goom, zup! goom, zup!--and behind it the twinkle of torches, the gleam of eyes, the roll of the deep-voiced chanting.
Endlessly they repeated this performance. The Leopard Woman, watching, at last had to close her eyes in order to escape the hypnotic quality of it. In spite of herself her senses swam in the rhythmic monotony. All outside the focus of the dancers turned gray--goom, zup! goom, zup!--was it never to end? And then it seemed to her that it never would end, that thus it would go on forever, and that so it was just and right. The men were tireless. The sweat glistened on their bodies, but their eyes gleamed fanatically. She floated off on a tide of irrelevant thoughts.
Hours later, as it seemed to her, she came to herself suddenly. Kingozi still sat stolidly in his chair. The dancers were retiring step by step, still with unabated vigour, continuing their performance. They melted into the crowd.
Now a pellmell of bizarre figures broke out. They were bedecked fantastically: some of them were painted with white clay; one was clad in the skins of beasts. There was no rhythm or order to their entrance; but immediately they began to dash here and there shouting.
"It is the Lion Dance,memsahib," Cazi Moto told her in a low voice. "That one is the lion; and they hunt him with spears in the long grass."
The chase went forward with some verisimilitude, and yet with a symbolic syncopation that indicated the Lion Dance was a very ancient and conventional ceremony. These dancers gave way to a chorus of singers. For interminable hours, so it seemed, they chanted a high, shrill recitative, carried in fugue by deeper voices. The burden of the song was evidently an impromptu. Occasionally some peculiarly apt or pleasing phrase was caught up for endless repetition. And in the background, against the farther background of the undistinguished masses, those who had formerly carried on their performances in the full glare of front-row publicity and the campfire, now continued their efforts almost unabated. The impressive utterers of thegoom-zupshibboleth, the slayers of the symbolical lion, carried on still. Indeed as the night wore on, and one group of dancers succeeded another, the homogeneous crowd began to break into varied activity. Each took his turn as principal, then fell back to form part of the variegated background. Each dance was different. Warriors fully armed clashed shield and spear; witch doctors crouched and sprang; women stamped in rhythm; the elephant was hunted, the crops sown and gathered, all the activities of community and individual life were danced, the frankness of some saved from obscenity only by the unconscious earnestness of their exposition and the evidence of their symbolism that they were not the expression of the moment but very ancient customs.
The Leopard Woman watched it all with shining eyes. The emotion of the picturesque, the call of savage wildness, the contagion of a mounting community excitement caused the blood to race through her veins. The drums throbbed against her heart as the pulse throbbed against her temples. She resisted an actual impulse to rise from her chair, to throw herself with abandon into an orgy of rhythm and motion. Perfectly she understood those who, having reached the breaking point, dashed madly through the fire scattering embers and coals, or who darted forward to kiss ecstatically the white man's feet, or who reached a wild paroxysm of nerves to collapse the next instant into exhaustion. She was brought to herself by Kingozi's calm voice.
"Sweet riot, isn't it?" he remarked. "They're working themselves up to a high pitch. It's always that way. You would think they'd drop from sheer weariness."
"How long will they keep it up?" she asked, drawing a deep breath, and trying to speak naturally.
"So it got you, too, a little, did it?" he said curiously.
"What do you mean?"
"The excitement. It's contagious unless you are accustomed to it. I've seen safe and sane youngsters go quite off their heads at these shows, and dash down and caper around like the maddestshenziof them all. Felt it myself at first. It draws you; like wanting to jump off when you look down from a high place." He was talking evenly and carelessly. "Enough of this sort of thing will make a crowd see anything. Devil-worshippers for instance, they see red devils, after they work up to it, not a doubt of it."
"Thank you," she answered his evident purpose of bringing her to herself.
"All right now, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well, to answer your question; I've known dances to last two days."
"Heaven!" she cried, dismayed.
"But this is to prepare a suitable entrance for his majesty. We'll hear from him along toward daylight." He held out his wrist watch toward her. "What time now?"
Somehow the simple action seemed to her pathetic. Her eyes filled, and she stooped as though to kiss the outstretched hand. Never again would the worn old wrist watch serve its owner, except thus, vicariously!
"It is ten minutes past the twelve," she answered in a stifled voice.
"We must settle down to it. If you want tea or something to eat, tell Cazi Moto."
He resumed his stolid demeanour.
The dancing continued. Every once in a while women threw armfuls of fuel on the blaze. The tree hyraxes, out-screeched and outnumbered, fell into silence or withdrew. Above the stars shone serenely; and all about stood the trees of the ancient forest. Outside the hot, leaping red light they drew back aloof and still. They had seen many dances, many ebbs and flows of men's passions; for they were very old.
The Leopard Woman's vision blurred after a time. She was getting drowsy. Her thoughts strayed. But always they circled back to the same point. She found herself wondering whether Winkleman would appear to-night.
A few hours earlier than Kingozi had predicted, in fact not far after two o'clock, the wild dancing died to absolute immobility and absolute silence, and M'tela arrived.
He appeared walking casually as though out for a stroll, emerging from the end of the wide forest path. Central African natives are never obese--comic papers to the contrary notwithstanding. Nevertheless, M'tela was a large man, amply built, his muscles overlaid by smoother, softer flesh. He possessed dignity without aloofness, a rare combination, and one that invariably indicates a true feeling of superiority. As he moved forward he glanced lazily and good-humouredly to right and left at his people, in the manner of a genial grown-up among small children. He wore a piece of cotton cloth dyed black, so draped as to leave one arm and shoulder bare, a polished bone armlet, and a tarboush that must have been traded through many hands.
"Thesultani, bwana," murmured the ever-alert Cazi Moto.
M'tela wandered to where Kingozi sat. The white man did not move, but appeared to stare absently straight before him. At ten paces M'tela stopped and deliberately inspected his visitor for a full half-minute. Then he advanced and dropped to the stool an obsequious and zealous slave placed for him.
"Jambo, papa," he said casually.
His manner was perfect. The thousand or so human beings who crowded the clearing might not have existed. Himself and Kingozi, two equals, were settling themselves for an informal little chat in the midst of solitudes. His large intelligent eye passed over the Leopard Woman, but if her appearance aroused in him any curiosity or other interest no flicker of expression betrayed the fact.
As he heard the form of address a brief gleam of satisfaction crossed Kingozi's face. Whether it has been transferred from the English, or has been adopted more directly from the babbling of infants, "papa" is perfectly good Swahili. When M'tela addressed Kingozi as "papa" he not only acknowledged him as a guest, but he admitted the white man to the intimacy that exists between equals in rank.
M'tela was friendly.
Two days passed. By the end of that time it had been borne in on the Leopard Woman that Winkleman had not yet arrived. Kingozi and M'tela circled each other warily, like two strange dogs, though all the time with an appearance of easy and intimate cordiality. As yet Kingozi had neither confided to the savage the fact of his blindness nor visited the royal palace. The latter ceremony he had evaded under one plea or another; and the infliction he had managed to conceal by the simple expedient of remaining in his canvas chair. Later would be time enough to acknowledge so great a weakness; later when the subtle and specialized diplomacy he so assiduously applied would have had time to do its work.
For M'tela was initially friendly. This was a great satisfaction to Kingozi, though none knew better than he how any chance gust of influence or passion could veer the wind. Still it was something to start on; and something more or less unexpected and unhoped for. M'tela himself supplied the reason in the course of one of their interminable conversations.
"I am pleased to see the white man," he said. "Never has the white man come to my country before; but always I knew he would come. One time long ago my brother who is king of the people near the Great Water said these words to me: 'My brother, some day white men will come to you. They will be few, and they will come with a small safari, and their wealth will look small to you. But make no mistake. Where these few white men who look poor come from are many more--like the leaves of the grass--and their wealth is great and their wonders many; and for each white man that is speared ten more come, without end, like water flowing down a hill. I know this to be so, for I am an old man, and I have fought, and of all those who fought the white man in my youth only I remain.' So I remembered these words of my brother always."
"You are a wise man, oh, King," said Kingozi, "for those words are true."
Hourly Kingozi cursed his eyes. With this man so well-disposed a day--a single hour--of the white man's miracles would have cemented his friendship. But Kingozi was deprived at a stroke of the great advantages to be gained by cutting out paper dolls, making coins disappear and appear again, and all the rest of the bag of tricks. He had not even the alternative advantage of a store of rich gifts with which to buy the chief's favour. This crude alternative to subtle diplomacy he had scorned when making out a small safari for a long journey.
To be sure he was not doing badly. A box of matches and instructions in the use thereof went far as an evidence of munificence. Sparingly he doled out his few treasures--the gaudy blankets; coils of brass, copper, and iron wires; beads; snuff; knives, and the like. They were received with every mark of appreciation. In return firewood, water, and food of all sorts came in abundantly. But these, Kingozi well knew, were only temporizing evidences of good feeling. Time would come when M'tela would ceremoniously bring in his real present--assuredly magnificent as beseeming his power. Then, Kingozi knew, he should be able to reciprocate in degree. He could not do so; he could not use his accustomed methods; he could not even exhibit his trump card--the deadly wonder of the weapon that could kill at a distance.
Nevertheless he would have awaited the outcome with serene indifference could he have been certain of a dear field. The arrival of Winkleman would, he secretly admitted, upset him completely. Winkleman--another white man, possessed of powers he did not possess, of wonders he did not own, of knowledge equal to his--would have no difficulty in taking the lead from him. Certainly Winkleman had not yet arrived, and he was long overdue. On the other hand, neither had Simba nor Mali-ya-bwana reported; and they were equally overdue. These were ticklish times; and Kingozi had great difficulty in sitting calmly in his canvas chair listening to the endless inconsequences of a savage.
The Leopard Woman could not understand how he did it. Her inner nervous tension, due as much to a conflict as to suspense, drove her nearly frantic. She knew that Winkleman's appearance spelled defeat for Kingozi; she knew that she should hope for that appearance--and deep in her heart she knew that she dreaded it! But as time went on without tangible results, she began to long for it as a relief. At least it would be over then. And Kingozi--oh, brave heart! oh, pathetic figure--if anything could make it up to him----!
The morning of the third day came. Usual camp activities carried them on until nine o'clock. Kingozi was settled in his chair awaiting what the day would bring forth. The Leopard Woman coming across from her tent to the guest house stopped short at what she saw.
Across the way, a half or three-quarters of a mile distant, beyond the green papyrus swamp, on the slope from the edge of the forest, appeared a long file of men bearing burdens on their heads. Even at this distance she made out the colour of occasional garments of khaki cloth, or the green of canvas on the packs.
She arrived at Kingozi's side simultaneously with Cazi Moto.
"A safari comes,bwana," said the latter. "It is across the swamp."
Kingozi's figure stiffened.
"What kind of a safari?" he asked quietly.
The Leopard Woman answered him. There was no note of jubilation in her voice.
"It is a white man's safari," she told him. "I can see khaki--and they are marching as a white man's safari marches."
"Get my glasses," he told Cazi Moto. Then to her, his voice vibrating with emotion too long controlled: "Look and tell me, fairly. I must know. Whatever the outcome you must tell me truth. It will not matter. I can do nothing."
"I will tell you the truth," she promised, raising the glasses.
For some moments she looked intently.
"It is Winkleman's safari," she announced sadly. "I have been able to see. It is a very large safari with many loads," she added.
Kingozi's face turned gray. He dropped his face into his hands. Gently she laid her hand on his bowed head. Thus they waited, while the safari, evidently under local guidance, plunged into some hidden path through the papyrus, and so disappeared.
Let us now follow Simba, Mali-ya-bwana, and their six men and the two strangeshenziswho were to act as guides.
They started off across the veldt at about four o'clock of the afternoon and travelled rapidly until dark. The gait they took was not a run, but it got them over the ground at four and a half to five miles an hour. Shortly after sundown they stopped for an hour, ate, drank, and lay flat on their backs. Then they arose, lighted a candle end in the mica lantern, and resumed their journey. Thus they travelled day and night for three days. There seemed to be neither plan nor regularity to their journeying. Whenever they became tired enough to sleep, they lay down and slept for a little while; whenever they became hungry, they ate; and whenever they thirsted, they drank, paying no attention whatever to the time of day, the state of their larder, or the distance to more water. No ideas of conservation hampered them in the least. If the water gave out, they argued, they would be thirsty; but it was as well to be thirsty later from lack of water than to be thirsty now from some silly idea of abstention. No white man could have travelled successfully under that system. Nevertheless, the little band held together and arrived in the fringe of hills fit and comparatively fresh.
Here they encountered people belonging to M'tela's tribes; but their guides seemed to vouch for them, and they passed without trouble. Indeed they were here enabled to get more food, and to waste no time hunting. At noon of another day, surmounting a ridge, they looked down on a marching safari. The twoshenziguides pointed and grinned, much pleased with themselves. Their pleasure was short lived; for they were promptly seized, disarmed, and tied together. The grieved astonishment of their expressions almost immediately faded into fatalistic stolidity. So many things happen in Africa!
Mali-ya-bwana and one of the other men proceeded rapidly ahead on the general line of march. The rest paralleled the safari below. After an hour the scouts returned with news of a water-hole where, undoubtedly, the strange safari would camp. All then hurried on.
Concealed in a thicket Simba proceeded with great zest to make himself over into ashenzi. In every savage is a good deal of the small boy; so this disguising himself pleased him immensely. Taking the spear in one hand and the "sacred bone" reverently in the other, he set out to intercept the safari.
It came within the hour. Simba almost unremarked regarded it curiously. There were over a hundred men, all of tribes unknown to him with the exception of a dozen who evidently performed the higher offices. The common porters were indeedshenzis--wild men--picked up from jungle and veldt as they were needed; and not at all of the professional porter class to be had at Mombasa; Nairobi, Dar-es-salaam, or Zanzibar. Simba's eyes passed over them contemptuously, but rested with more interest on the smaller body ofaskaris, headmen, and gun bearers. These also were of tribes strange to him; but of East African types with which he was familiar. They were all dressed in a sort of uniform of khaki, wore caps with a curtain hanging behind, and arm bands gayly emblazoned with imperial eagles. All this was very impressive. Simba conceived a respect for this white man's importance. Evidently he was abwana m'kubwa. The supposed savage experienced a growing excitement over the task he had undertaken. All his training had taught him to respect the white man, as such; and now he was called upon to abduct forcibly one of the sacred breed--and such a specimen! Only Simba's undoubted force of character, and the veneration his long association with Kingozi had inculcated, sustained him.
For Winkleman was a big man in every way: tall, broad, thick, with a massive head, large features, and such a tremendous black beard! Well had he deserved his native name ofBwanaNyele--the master with the mane.
Simba awaited the moment of greatest confusion in the placing and pitching of the camp, and then advanced timidly, holding out the bone Kingozi had given him. His courage and faith were very low. They revived instantly as he saw the immediate effect. It was just as Kingozi had told him it would be; and as there was nothing on earth in a bit of dry bone that could accomplish such an effect except magic, Simba thenceforward went on with his adventure in completed confidence.
For at sight of the boneBwanaNyele's eyes lit up, he uttered an astonishing bellow of delight, and sprang forward with such agility for so large a man that he almost succeeded in snatching the talisman from Simba's hands. Acting precisely on his instructions the latter backed away, pointing over the hill.
"Where did you get that?" Winkleman demanded.
Simba continued to point.
"Give it me."
Simba started away, still pointing. Winkleman followed a few steps.
"There is more?" he asked. "Do you speak Swahili?"
"Many more,bwana," Simba replied in the atrocious Swahili Kingozi had ordered. "Over there only a little distance."
Everything turned out as Kingozi had promised. Bwana Nyele asked several more questions, received no replies, finally bellowed:
"But lead me there,m'buzi!I would see!"
Simba guided him up the hill. At the appointed spot they fell upon him and bore him to the earth in spite of his strength, and bound his hands behind his back. Then Simba wrapped the magic bone reverently in its cloth. Certainly it was wonderful magic.
Winkleman put up a good fight, but once he felt himself definitely overpowered he ceased his struggles. He was helped to his feet. A glance at his captors taught him that these were safari men and not savages of the country; and, with full knowledge of the general situation, he was not long in guessing out his present plight. But now was not the time for talk.
A half-hour's walk took the party to a second water-hole, the indications for which Simba had already noted on his little scouting tour. There they proceeded to make camp. The six porters began with their swordlikepangasto cut poles and wattles, to peel off long strips of inner bark from the thorn trees which would serve as withes. Then they began the construction of abanda, one of the quickly built little thatched sheds, open at both ends. At sight of this Winkleman swore deeply. He was fairly trapped, and knew it; but thebandaindicated that he was to be held prisoner in this one spot for at least some days. However, wise man in native ways, he said nothing and made no objection. But his keen wide eyes took in every detail.
When thebandawas finished and a big pile of the dried hay had been spread as a couch Simba approached respectfully but firmly, tookBwanaNyele's helmet from his head, his spine-pad from his back, and his shoes from his feet. In this strategy Winkleman with reluctance admired the white man's hands. Without head and spine covering of some sort he could not travel a mile under the tropic sun; without foot covering or a light he would be helpless at night. Of course these things could be improvised; but not easily. He stretched himself on the hay and awaited events.
The men built a fire and gathered around it. They were cooking, but at the same time the two whom Winkleman recognized as leaders conferred earnestly and at great length. Had he been at their elbows he would have heard the following:
"The magic of this bone is a very great magic," Simba was saying. "All happened exactly asBwanaKingozi told us. Now is the fifth day. There remain now nine days to wait until we must bring thism'zungutoBwanaKingozi at themanyattaof M'tela."
"It is indeed great magic," agreed Mali-ya-bwana. "How many days is themanyatta?"
"I do not know. Theseshenzisshould know; but they talk only monkey talk. Here, let us try." He drew one of the prisoners one side. "M'tela," he enunciated slowly.
The savage nodded, and pointed the direction with his protruded lower lip.
Simba indicated the sun, and swept his hand across the arc of the heavens. Then he looked inquiringly at the other and held up in rapid success first one, then two, then three fingers. The savage was puzzled. Simba went through the movements of a man walking, pronounced the name of M'tela, pointed out the direction, and then repeated his previous pantomime. A light broke on theshenzi. He held up four fingers.
Simba next called to Mali-ya-bwana to interrogate the other prisoner apart. As the latter also reported M'tela four days distant--when he understood--this was accepted as the truth.
"Then we remain in camp five days," they concluded, after working out the subtraction.
"But," intervened one of the porters, "we have no morepotio."
"I have thebwana'sgun," Simba pointed out, "and also the gun of thism'zungu. There is here plenty of game."
"To eat meat always is not well," grumbled the porter.
"To eatkiboko(whip) is always possible," replied Simba grimly.
"Nevertheless," said Mali-ya-bwana, who as co-leader was privileged to more open speech, "potioand meat are better than meat only."
Simba looked at him inquiringly.
"You have a thought?"
Mali-ya-bwana leaned forward.
"It is this: If the bone has such great magic that thus we can take prisoner a mightybwanalike this, surely it is powerful enough to fight also against safari men."
Simba pondered this.
"Every one knows that a white man is a great Lord," urged Mali-ya-bwana, "and that it is useless for the black man to fight against him. This is true always. Every man knows this."
"Black men have killed white men," Simba objected.
"Only when the numbers were many. Even then many more black men also have died, so that the painting for mourning went through many tribes. Never before have men like us taken a white man thus easily."
"That is true."
"Then since this magic bone can subdue for us a great lord of am'zungu, surely it will also subdue for us a safari of black men like ourselves, a safari that them'zunguhas held in his hand."
"That is true."
"And that safari must have muchpotio"
"That also is true."
"Let you--or me, it does not matter--take the magic bone, and with it take also this safari and itspotio."
"I will do it," assented Simba after a moment. "You will stay here to carry out thebwana'sorders."
In the course of the evening Winkleman, conceiving that the right moment had come, set himself seriously to establishing a dominance over these members of an inferior race. He was a skilled man at this, none more so; nevertheless he failed. For in the persons of Simba and Mali-ya-bwana he was dealing not with natives, but with another white man as shrewd and experienced as himself. Kingozi had from the abundance of his knowledge foreseen exactly what methods and arguments the Bavarian would use, and in his final instructions he had dramatized almost exactly the scene that was now taking place. Simba had his replies ready made for him. When an unexpected argument caught him unaware, he merely fingered surreptitiously his magic bone, and remained serenely silent. Winkleman might as well have talked at a stone wall. He soon recognized this, as also that the man had been coached minutely.
"Who is yourbwana?" he asked at length.
"He is a very greatbwana," Simba replied.
"His name?"
"He has many names among many people."
"What name do you call him?"
"I call himbwana m'kubwa(great master)," replied Simba blandly.
Winkleman gave up this tack and tried another.
"What is his business? What does he do here?"
"His business is to fight."
"Ah!" ejaculated Winkleman. "To fight!"
"Yes. His business is to fight the elephant."
Winkleman swore. He could get at nothing this way. He must give his mind to escape.
Early the next morning Simba started. He took with him, of course, his magic bone; but, like a canny general, he carried also the rifle. Mali-ya-bwana was left sufficiently armed by Winkleman's weapon and the sixteen cartridges captured on his person.
By the water-hole Simba found the safari encamped. At sight of his khaki-clad figure several men ran to meet him. Their countenances were of a cast unfamiliar to Simba. He looked at them calmly.
"Does some one speak Swahili?" he inquired.
"N'dio!" they assented in chorus.
Simba looked about him. This was indeed a great safari, and a richbwana. The tent, of green canvas, was what is known as a "four-man tent"; that is, it took four men to carry it. The pile of loads in the centre of the cleared space was high. There were three tin boxes and many chop boxes among them.
The group moved slowly across the open space, stared at by curious eyes, and came to a halt before a drill tent slightly larger than the little kennels assigned to the ordinary porters. Here over a fire bubbled asufuria, the African cooking pot, tended by a naked small boy. A clean mat woven in bright colours carpeted the ground; on this all seated themselves.
It would be tedious to relate each step of the ensuing negotiations. These simple Africans would have needed no instruction from civilization to carry on the most long-winded submarine controversy in the most approved and circuitous manner. At the end of one solid hour of grave and polite exchange it developed that the white man was not at present in camp. Somewhat later Simba permitted it to be understood that his own white man was not in the immediate neighbourhood. These gems of knowledge were separated by much leisurely chatter, and occasional and liberal dippings into thesufuria. And thus was the beginning and the end of the first day.
At noon of the second day, after a refreshing night's sleep, Simba moved up his forces.
"Your white man is known to me," said he.
Some one remarked appropriately.
"He is a prisoner in my camp."
"In the camp of your white man."
"In my camp. I myself have taken him prisoner," insisted Simba.
"You are telling lies," said the headman of the safari.
Simba took this calmly. In Africa to call a man a liar is no insult.
"It is the truth," said he. "With my own hands I took him; and he lies bound in my camp."
"These are lies," persisted the headman. "How can such things be? That you took a white man, a greatbwana?That is foolishness. That has never been and could never be. How could you accomplish such a feat?"
"I have a magic."
"Ho!" cried the headman derisively. "Everybody knows that a magic is not good against the white man. That has been tried many times!"
"This is a white man's magic."
The statement made a visible impression.
"Let us see it," they demanded.
But Simba refused. He was entirely at ease. In his ordinary habit he would have become excited over being doubted, he would have wrangled, have shouted--in short, would have been but one unit among many equals. But the possession of the magic bone gave him a confidence from outside himself. For the time being he slipped genuinely into the attitude of the white man; became a super-Simba, as it were. This dignity and sureness commenced to have its effect. Almost they began to believe that Simba's words might be true!
At three o'clock the battle closed in.
"My men needpotio" said Simba. "Let ten loads be put aside, and let ten of theseshenzisbe told to carry them where I shall say."
But the headman leaped to his feet.
"Who are you to give orders?" he cried. "These things belong to my white man."
"Your white man is my property," replied Simba superbly; and with no further parley he shot the headman dead.
Here indeed showed the super-Simba. The dispute might in the ordinary course of events have come to shooting; but only after hours of excited wrangling, and as a climax worked up to in a crescendo of emotion. This expeditious nipping in the bud was a thoroughly white-manly proceeding.
The headman whirled about under the impact of the high-power bullet at so close a range, and collapsed face down. Simba sat calmly in his place. He did not even trouble to place himself in a better defensive attitude against possible attack. His confidence in his magic bone was growing to sublimity as he noted how efficiently it carried him through every crisis. All over the camp the porters, startled, leaped to their feet. But at the headmen's fire no one moved. They would ordinarily have been afraid neither of Simba nor Simba's weapons. Firearms were familiar to them. The usual sequence to Simba's deed would have been an immediately defunct Simba. But his serene confidence in his magic caught their credulity.
The white man'sprestigeand privileges were invested in him.
"Yours is undoubtedly a great magic," said Winkleman's gun bearer politely. "Let us talk."
They talked at great length, without bothering to remove the dead headman. The result was finally a continued respect for Simba, his magic bone, and his ready rifle; but a lingering though polite incredulity as to the matter of Winkleman--BwanaNyele. It was possible that Simba had killed the latter, of course. But to have taken him alive--and to be holding him prisoner----
It was suggested that the various upper men of this safari accompany Simba to the place of incarceration. Declined for obvious reasons. Proposition modified to exclude all visitors but one. Still declined.
The debate summarized in the above short paragraph consumed six hours. What is time in the face of an African eternity? And in Africa, as every one knows, the feeling of eternity is an accompaniment of every-day life.
After some refreshments the sitting rose. Simba did not spend the night in camp. That did not seem to him wise. Instead he withdrew to a place he had already marked, deftly built himself a withe platform in the spread of an acacia, and slept soundly above the danger line.
Next morning the discussion was resumed. It was all on an amicable basis. A bystander would have seen merely a group of lazy native servants gossiping idly. And, indeed, for one word of relevance were a dozen of sheer chatter. That is the African way.
Since it was impossible to visitBwanaNyele, why could notBwanaNyele be brought to within sight? Simba considered this; but finally rejected it. The risk was too great, magic bone or no magic bone.
"It is probable you speak lies," said the gun bearer at last. "You say you wantpotioand that you holdBwanaNyele prisoner. But you do not bring us orders fromBwanaNyele forpotio. Nor do you give us proof. We must have proof before we believe or before we obey."
"I will bring youBwanaNyele's gun; or his coat; or anything that is his that you may see that I hold him prisoner."
"Those things prove nothing," the gun bearer pointed out. "They might have been taken from a dead man."
They negotiated further. One gifted with the power of seeing only essential things would have found here a strange parallel. For these two men, talking cautiously, clinging with tenacity to single points, yielding grudgingly, would have been the same to him as two shrewd business men coming together on the phrases of a contract, or two diplomats framing the terms of a treaty.
Thus well into the third day. By that time an agreement had been reached. It was very simple and direct and practical, when one thinks of it; covered the situation fully; involved few compromises; and gained each man his point.
Simba demandedpotioand obedience because he held the mightym'zunguprisoner. The gun bearer wanted indubitable proof not only that Simba held the white man, but that he held him alive.
It was agreed that Simba was to return to his own camp, was to procure the proof agreed upon, and was promptly to return. The said proof was to be one ofBwanaNyele's fingers, which all agreed would be easily recognizable both as to identity and freshness!
The divulgence of this simple little plan by a Simba quite in earnest dissipated Winkleman's last hope of doing anything by means of persuasion. He knew his African well enough to realize that this fantastic method of identification seemed quite a matter of course. In fact, Simba was at the moment sharpening his hunting knife in preparation. Winkleman swore heartily and fluently, then grinned. He was at heart a good soul, Winkleman, with a sense of amusement if not of humour, and a philosophy of life denied most of his inexperienced and theoretical countrymen. And also he realized that he had his work cut out to prevent the program being carried through. The African is slow to come to a definite conclusion, but once it is arrived at it is apt to look to him like a permanent structure. It was a wonderful tribute to Winkleman that it took him only four hours to persuade Simba that there might be another way; and two hours more to convince him that there might even be a better way. When Simba reluctantly and a little doubtfully sheathed his knife, the big Bavarian wiped his brow with genuine thankfulness.
The reader need not be wearied by a detailed report of the interminable conferences that led up to the substitute plan. It would be a picture of a big bearded man smoking slowly--for until affairs were decided he could get no more of his own tobacco--leaning on his elbow beneath the roof of thebanda. Before him squatted on their heels in the posture white men find so trying Mali-ya-bwana and Simba, entirely respectful, their shining black eyes fixed on the white man. The open ends of thebandagave out on a dry boulder-strewn wash and the parched side of a hill. All else was sky. Morning coolness was succeeded by the blaze of midday, when the very surface of the ground danced in the shimmer; then slowly the shadows crept out, the veils of mirage sank to earth, a coolness wandered in from some blessed region; darkness came suddenly; over the parched hill--now looming mysterious in black garments--the tropic stars blazed out. Then outside some one lighted a fire. The flames cast lights and shadows within thebandawhere still the white man leaned on his elbow, the black men squatted on their heels, and the murmur of talk went on and on.
But Winkleman got his way. At an appointed hour and at an appointed place Winkleman, Mali-ya-bwana, and two of the carriers met Simba conducting the gun bearer from the other camp. The interview was very short. Indeed it had all been carefully rehearsed. Winkleman said only what he had agreed to say; and thereby earned his finger.
"This man holds me prisoner," he told the gun bearer. "What he says is true. Do what he asks you to do. It is my command."
"Yes,bwana," agreed the gun bearer.
Then they parted. The immediate result was five loads ofpotiobrought by safari men to "somewhere in Africa," and thence transported by Simba's men to Simba's camp. As game was thereabout abundant and undisturbed everybody was happy.
Thus passed a week, which brought time forward to the moment when Simba, following his instructions, was to report to Kingozi at the village of M'tela. Therefore Simba set forth, taking with him, according to African custom, one of the porters as companion. He carried Kingozi's rifle, but left that belonging to Winkleman with Mali-ya-bwana.
Winkleman watched Simba go with considerable satisfaction. Mali-ya-bwana was a man much above average African intelligence, but he had not the experience, the initiative, theflaireof Simba. Nor had he Simba's magic bone. Simba took that with him. Winkleman knew nothing of the supposed virtues of that property; and in consequence entertained a respect for qualities of Simba that were not entirely inherent in that individual. He began to flatter Mali-ya-bwana; to fraternize just enough; to assume complete resignation to his plight--in short, to use just those tactics a clever man would use to lull the alertness of any bright child. Naturally he succeeded. At sundown of the second day he began to complain of the irksomeness of his bonds.
"This is foolishness, so to treat am'zungu," said he. "Nothing is gained. I cannot sleep; and the skin of my wrists is sore. He who watches has only to keep the fire bright. I cannot go like smoke."
To Mali-ya-bwana, in his flattered and unsuspicious mood, this seemed reasonable. He was no such fool as to turn Winkleman loose to his own devices; but he compromised by untying the Bavarian's wrists, and doubling the thongs by which the latter's ankles were hitched to the larger timbers of thebanda. Also he instructed the sentinel to keep the fire bright, to watchBwanaNyele, and to stop instantly any and all movements of the hands toward the feet.
The early watches passed quietly. A second sentinel replaced the first. Up to this time Winkleman had slept quietly. Now he began to shift position often, to twist and turn, finally to groan softly. The sentinel came to the end of thebandaand looked in. To himBwanaNyele raised a face so ghastly that even the half-savage porter was startled. The man's eyes seemed to have sunk into his head, deep seams to have creased his brow and jaws. Apparently Winkleman was on the point of dissolution.
"Magi! nataka magi!"[16] he gasped.
[16: Water! I want water!]
The sentinel took the canteen from the peg where it hung and bent over the dying man. Instantly his throat was clasped by a pair of heavy and powerful hands.
Two minutes later Winkleman rose to his feet free. The porter's knife in his hand, he looked down on that unfortunate securely bound and gagged. Treading softly Winkleman stepped through the sleeping camp into the clear. He drew a deep breath. Then unconsciously wiping from his face the mixture of grease and ashes that had constituted his "make-up," he strode grimly away toward his own safari.
The Leopard Woman watched the safari file down the distant hill and lose itself beneath the green plumes of the papyrus swamp. By all right she should have rejoiced. Against every probability she had succeeded. The stars had worked for her. Though the prearranged plan had not carried in any of its details, nevertheless the sought-for result had been gained. She had herself done little to detain Kingozi; yet he had been detained; and here was Winkleman, belated but in time, to carry out triumphantly the wishes of the Imperial Government. But her heart was like lead.
After the first droop Kingozi had straightened beneath the blow, and now sat bolt upright, staring straight before him, as a king might have sat alone on his throne. Whatever was coming, he would front it serenely.
The head of the safari appeared at the foot of the slope. It seemed a trifle uncertain as to where to go next, but catching sight of Kingozi's tents, it turned up the hill. Cazi Moto's keen eyes were searching out every detail; those of the Leopard Woman had suddenly become suffused with tears.
"It is a rich safari,bwana," Cazi Moto reported; "many loads." His voice sharpened with surprise, but he did not raise his tones. "Simba is there," said he.
"Simba! So they caught him," muttered Kingozi. "Well, that play failed. Do you see the white man?" he asked.
"No,bwana. The white man has not yet come. But Simba now sees us, and is coming."
"He is guarded?"
"No,bwana; he is alone."
"Jambo, bwana," said Simba's voice a moment later.
Something in his tone caught Kingozi's ear.
"Yes, Simba?" was all he replied.
"All has been done as you ordered,bwana. This is the fourteenth day, and I am here to tell you."
Kingozi caught his breath sharply.
"BwanaNyele was captured?"
"Mali-ya-bwana holds him prisoner at a certain water."
"There was no trouble?"
"None,bwana. All happened as you told. This magic is a very great magic," said Simba piously.
Kingozi paused.
"The safari," he suggested at last. "I am told of a safari; indeed, I can hear it. What of that? No orders were given as to a safari."
"That is true,bwana," explained Simba earnestly, "but this is a very great safari. It has tents andpotio, andchakula[17], and blankets and beads and wire and many other things to a quantity impossible to say. And it came to my mind thatshenzislike these things, as do all men, and that in thisshenzicountry mybwanamight make use of them; so I brought them with me for your use,bwana."
[17:Chakula--white man's food.]
"You had no trouble bringing this great safari?" asked Kingozi.
"I used again the magic bone," replied Simba.
"Simba, you jewel!" cried Kingozi in English, "you've saved the day! I should thinkshenzisdid like these things! And oh, haven't I needed them! You old tar-baby, you!"
And Simba replied as usual to this incomprehensible gibberish with his own full stock of English:
"Yes, suh!"
"You have done well, very well," Kingozi shifted to Swahili. "I am pleased with you. For this work you shall have muchbacksheeshi--a month's wages extra, and twenty goats for your farm, and any other thing that you want most. What is it?"
Simba appeared to hesitate and boggle.
"Speak up! I am Very pleased."
"This is a very great thing I would ask," said Simba in a low voice.
"It is a great thing you have done."
"Bwana," cried Simba earnestly. "It is this: I would have the magic bone for my own. For it is a very great magic," he added wistfully.
Kingozi choked back an impulse to shout aloud.
"It is yours," he said gravely.
"Oh,bwana! bwana!" choked Simba. "Assanti! assanti sana!"
His sob was echoed at Kingozi's elbow.
"Oh," cried the Leopard Woman, "I know I should be sorry that this has come this way! But I'm not; I am glad!"
With the riches thus unexpectedly placed at his disposal, and legitimately his by the fortunes of war, Kingozi was enabled to proceed to the final grand exchange of gifts that assured his friendship with M'tela and sealed the alliance. He was spurred to his best efforts in this by the news, brought in by an alarmed Mali-ya-bwana, that Winkleman had escaped. However, by dint of rich presents, supplementing the careful diplomatic negotiations that had gone before, he arrived at an understanding.
"And now, oh, King, I must tell you this," he said boldly. "Of white men there is not merely one but many kinds, just as among the African peoples. There are strong men and weak men, good men and bad men, and men of different tribes. Of the tribes are theInglisheeto which I belong, which is the most powerful of all--like your own people of the Kabilagani in this land--and also another tribe called theDuyche, only a little less powerful. These two tribes are now at war."
"A-a-a-a," observed M'tela interestedly.
"One of theDuycheis in your country, oh, King. I have met him and defeated him by my magic. Some of these people you see here were his people; and of his goods I have everything."
"But it may be," suggested M'tela with a slight cooling of cordiality, "that many moreDuychewill follow this one."
"They cannot prevail against my magic. Talk with Simba, with my men, and know what virtue is in my magic. But beyond that, oh, King, have you not heard of the wars of the Wakamba? of Lobengula? of the Matabele and the Basuto? has not news come to you from the north of the battles of the Sudan? Have you not heard of Lenani, the king of all Masai, and of his advice to his people? All these wars were won byInglishee; Lenani's words of wisdom spoke ofInglishee. Have you ever heard of the victories of theDuyche?No. There were no such victories!"[18]
[18: Kingozi here took shrewd advantage of the fact that German East Africa was peacefully occupied without necessity of the spectacular tribal wars of Matabeland, Zululand, Basutoland, and the Wakamba district of British East Africa. Lenani's advice to his people was given at the close of the Wakamba war. Said he: "There is no doubt that the Masai are a greater people than the Wakamba, and in case of war we could fight the white man harder than the Wakamba fought him. Undoubtedly, too, my people could kill a great many of the English. But this I have noticed: that when a Wakamba is dead, he remains dead; but when a white man is dead ten more come to take his place." In consequence of this advice the Masai--one of the most warlike of all the tribes--negotiated with the English, and today remain both at peace and unconquered.]
After an hour's elaboration of this theme Kingozi judged the moment propitious to return to the original subject. M'tela offered the opportunity.
"ThisDuychewhom you have conquered--you killed him?"
"He escaped."
"A-a-a-a."
"He is still alive and in your land. Let order be given to search him out."
"That shall be done," said M'tela after a moment's thought.
Mali-ya-bwana and Simba set out with a posse of M'tela's men. They had no great difficulty in getting track of the missing Bavarian. Winkleman had arrived to find the camping site deserted. He had, indomitably, set out on the track of his safari. To eat he was forced at last to beg of the wild herdsmen. M'tela's dread name elicited from these last definite information. The search party found Winkleman, very dirty, quite hungry, profoundly chagrined, but still good humoured, seated in a smoky hut eating soured smoky milk. He wore sandals improvised from goatskin, a hat and spine-pad made from banana leaves ingeniously woven.
The search party found Winkleman, very dirty, quite hungry, profoundly chagrined]
"Ach!" he cried, recognizing Kingozi's two men. "So it is you! What have you done with my safari?"
"I led it to mybwana," replied Simba.
"Where you may now lead me," said Winkleman resignedly. "By what means have you thought of these things, N'ympara?" "By the magic of this," replied Simba with becoming modesty, producing the precious bone.
"Achthesaurian!" cried Winkleman. "I remember. It had gone from my mind. It is a curious type; I do not quite recognize. Let me see it."
But Simba was replacing carefully the talisman in its wrappings. He had no mind to deliver the magic into other hands--perhaps to be used against himself!
They led Winkleman directly to Kingozi's camp. Winkleman followed, looking always curiously about him. His was the true scientific mind. He was quite capable of forgetting his plight--and did so--in the interest of new fauna and flora, or of ethnological eccentricities. Once or twice he insisted on a halt for examination of something that caught his notice, and insisted so peremptorily when the savages would have forced him on, that they yielded to his wish.
It was early in the morning. Kingozi, as ever, sat in his canvas chair atop the hill. He was alone, for the Leopard Woman, always on the alert and always staring through her glasses, had caught sight of the little group before it plunged into the papyrus; and had retired to her tent. Winkleman plowed up the hill blowing out his cheeks in a full-blooded hearty fashion.
"Oho!" he cried in his great voice when he had drawn near. "This is not so bad! It is Culbertson!"
"I am sorry about this," said Kingozi briefly--"a man of your eminence--very disagreeable."
Winkleman dropped heavily to the ground.
"That is nothing," he waved aside the half-apology, "though it would not be bad to have the bath and change these clothes. But fortunes of war--it is but the fortunes of war--I would have done worse to you. How long is it that you have arrived?"
"Long enough," replied Kingozi briefly. "Oh, Cazi Moto, bring tea! I have had your tent pitched, Doctor Winkleman; and you must bathe and change and rest. But before you go we must understand each other. This is war time, and you are my prisoner. You must give me your parole neither to try to escape nor to tamper with my men, with M'tela, or any of his people. If you feel you cannot do this I shall be compelled to hold you closely guarded."
Winkleman laughed one of his great gusty laughs.
"I give it willingly. What foolishness otherwise. What foolishness anyway, all this. War is nonsense. It destroys. It interferes. Consider, my dear Culbertson, here was I safely in the Congo forests, and for two, three months I have lived there, like a native quietly; and of all the world there is to amuse me only the fauna and the flora--which I know like my hand. But I discover a new species--apapilio. But all the time I live quiet, and I wait. And at last the people, the little forest people, little by little they get confidence; they come to the edge of the forest, they venture to camp, slow. Suppose I wave my hand like that--pouf! They have run away. But I wait; and they come forth. So I camp by myself in the forest--for I leave my safari away that it may not frighten this people. And by and by we talk. I am beginning to learn their language. Culbertson, I find these people speak the true click language, but also I find it true sex-denoting language most resembling in that respect the ancient Fula!"
"Where was this? Impossible!" cried Kingozi, interested and excited.
"Ah!" roared Winkleman with satisfaction. "I thought I would your interest catch! But it is true; and in the central Congo."
"But that would throw the prehistoric Libyan and Hamitic migrations farther to the west than----"
"Pre-cisely!" interrupted Winkleman.
"What sort of people were they? Did they show Hamitic characteristics particularly? or did they incline to the typical prognathous, short-legged, stealopygous type of the Bushmen?"
But Winkleman reverted abruptly to his narrative.
"That is a long discussion to make. It will wait. But just as I get these people where I can put them beneath my observation, so, there comes an ober-lieutenant with foolishness in the way of guns and uniform andaskarisand that nonsense; and my little people run into the forest and are no more to be seen."
"Hard luck!" commented Kingozi feelingly.
"Is it not so? This ober-lieutenant is a fool. He knows nothing.Dumkopf!All he knows is to give me a letter from theKaiserliche dumkopfat Dar-es-salaam. I read it. It tells me I must come here, to this place, with speed, and get the military aid of this M'tela and so forth with many details. It was another foolishness. I know this type of people well. There is nothing new to be learned. They are of the usual types. It is foolishness to come here. But it is an order, so I come, and I do my best. But now I am a prisoner, while I might be with the little people in the Congo. I talk much."
"I fancy we are going to have a good deal to talk about," interjected Kingozi.
"Ach!that is true! That is what I said--that I am glad this is Culbertson who catches me. Yes! We must talk!"
Cazi Moto glided to them.
"Bath is ready,bwana," said he.
Winkleman puffed out his chest and protruded his great beard.
"This war--foolishness!" he mumbled.
"Yes, we have much to talk about. Nevertheless," said Kingozi with slight embarrassment, "it is necessary that I do my duty according to my orders. And my orders were much like yours--to get the alliance of this M'tela. But I have told him that you are my enemy; and he sent his men with mine to find you; and now, as you can well comprehend, I must----"
But Winkleman's quick comprehension leaped ahead of Kingozi's speech.
"I must play the prisoner, is it not?" he cried with one of his big laughs. "But so! Of course! That is comprehend. How could it be otherwise? I know my native! I know what he expects. I shall be humble, the slave, your foot upon my neck. Of course! Do you suppose I do not know?"
"That is well," said Kingozi, much relieved, "I shall tell him that you are a man of much wisdom and great magic; and that I have saved your life to serve me."
"So!" cried Winkleman delightedly; and departed to his tent and the waiting bath. A few moments later he could be heard robustly splashing in the tent. A roar summoned Cazi Moto.
"Tell yourbwanaI wantn'dowa--medicine--understand? Need some boric acid," he yelled at Kingozi. "Eyes in bad shape."
Kingozi ordered Cazi Moto to take over the entire medicine chest; then sent a messenger for M'tela, who shortly appeared.
"This enemy of mine is taken, thanks to your men, oh, King. I have him here in the tent, well guarded."
"How shall we kill him, papa?" inquired M'tela.
"That has not yet been decided," replied Kingozi carelessly. "He must, of course, be taken to the great King of allInglishee."
M'tela looked disappointed.
"In the meantime," pursued Kingozi, "as he has much knowledge, and great magic, I shall talk much with him, and get that magic for the benefit of us both, oh, King. He cannot escape, for my magic is greater than his."
This M'tela well believed, for the reports industriously circulated by Simba anent his magic bone had reached the King, and had not lost in transit.
So when Winkleman came swashbuckling up the hill M'tela was prepared. The blue-black beard and hearty, deep-chested carriage of the Bavarian impressed him greatly.
"But this is a greatbwana, papa," he said to Kingozi. "Like you and me."
"This is the prisoner of which I spoke to you," said Kingozi in a loud voice.
Winkleman, a twinkle in his wide eyes, but with his countenance composed to gravity, stepped forward, salaamed, and placed his forehead beneath Kingozi's hand in token of submission. Thus proper relations were established. Winkleman seated himself humbly on the sod, and kept silence, while high converse went forward. At length M'tela departed. Winkleman immediately plunged into the conversational gap around which, mentally, he had been, impatiently hovering for an hour.
"But this articulation of thesaurus" he broke out. "What of it?"
"The magic bone," chuckled Kingozi.
"Pouf! Pouf! It resembled much thecinoliosaurus, but that could not be."
"Why not?" demanded Kingozi quickly.
"It has been found only in the lias formations of the Jurassic," stated Winkleman dogmatically, "and that type of Jurassic is not here. It is of England, yes; of Germany, yes; of the Americas, yes. Of central Africa, no!"
"Nevertheless----" interposed Kingozi.
"But thecryptoclidus--that greatly resembles thecinoliosaurus--perhaps. Or even a subspecies of theplesiosaurus----"
"Simba," called Kingozi.
"Suh!"
"Bring here the magic bone. Thebwanawishes to look at it. No; it is all right. I myself tell you; no harm can come."
Reluctantly Simba produced the bone, now fittingly wrapped in cleanmericanicloth, and still more reluctantly undid it and handed it to Winkleman. The latter seized it and began minutely to examine it, muttering short, disconnected sentences to himself in German.
"Now here is what I have said," he spoke aloud. "See. By this curve----"
He broke off, staring curiously into Kingozi's face. The latter sat apparently looking out across the hills, paying no attention to the fact that Winkleman had thrust the bone fairly under his nose. The pause that ensued became noticeable. Kingozi stirred uneasily, turning his eyes in the direction of the scientist.
"Glaucoma!" ejaculated Winkleman.
Kingozi smiled wearily.
"Yes. I wondered when you would find it out."
"You are all blind?"
"I can distinguish light." Kingozi straightened his back, and his voice became incisive. "But I can still see through eyes that are faithful to me! Make no mistakes there."
"My dear friend; have I not given my parole?" gently asked the Bavarian.
"Beg your pardon. Of course."
"It is serious. You should have a surgeon. But why have you not used the temporary remedy? Of course you know the effect of drugs?"
"I know that atropin is ruin, right enough," said Kingozi grimly.
"But the pilocarpin----"
"Of course. I only wish I had some."
"But you have!" came Winkleman's astonished voice. "There is of it a large vial!"
Kingozi gripped the arm of his chair for a full minute. Then he spoke to Cazi Moto in a vibrating voice.
"Bring me the chest of medicines. Now," he went on to Winkleman, when this command had been executed, "kindly read to me the labels on all these bottles; begin at the left. All, please."
He listened attentively while Winkleman obeyed. The pilocarpin was present; the atropin was gone.
"You have not deceived me?" he cried sharply. "No--why should you--wait----"
He thought for some moments. When he raised his face it was gray.
"One of the bottles was broken. I had reason to believe it the pilocarpin," he said quietly. "Can I trespass on your good nature to make the proper solution for my eyes?"
"It is but a temporary expedient," warned Winkleman. "It is surgery here demanded. I know the operation, but I cannot perform. One makes a transverse incision above the cornea----"
"I know, I know," interrupted Kingozi. "But the pilocarpin will give me my sight. Let us get at it."