April.My Friend,I send to you my servant Siadiadiadi with four others. As I cannot come to you myself I send my five people. I have heard much of your fine house and wish to see it. As I am old I send my people that they may see it and bring me word of it. I ask you to let them see it for three days, and on the fourth they shall return to me.I am well and all my people are well, but the cattle have a disease. I hope you are well.I must close my letter now with greetings.Your faithful friend,Movana.Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni.
April.
My Friend,
I send to you my servant Siadiadiadi with four others. As I cannot come to you myself I send my five people. I have heard much of your fine house and wish to see it. As I am old I send my people that they may see it and bring me word of it. I ask you to let them see it for three days, and on the fourth they shall return to me.
I am well and all my people are well, but the cattle have a disease. I hope you are well.
I must close my letter now with greetings.
Your faithful friend,
Movana.
Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni.
I believe Gregory was pleased: at any rate he permitted the messengers to see his house. For the full three days they stayed. He often found them agape in the hall or in the dining room, taking mental notes. It was clear that the five natives were much impressed. Whenever Gregory entered the house, they salutedhim and crept silently out. There was no reason to guard against theft; uncivilised natives do not steal.
On the fourth day Siadiadiadi and his companions thanked Gregory in the name of their mistress and went away.
O wad some power the giftie gie usTo see oorsel's as ithers see us!It wad frae monie a blunder free usAnd foolish notion.
O wad some power the giftie gie usTo see oorsel's as ithers see us!It wad frae monie a blunder free usAnd foolish notion.
Some six months later Gregory, travelling to the extreme limit of his district, found himself within easy distance of the village occupied by the Chieftainess who had been so curious about his house. He felt inclined to go out of his way to see her. When he was resting at midday a native brought him a letter which helped him to make up his mind to do so.
My Friend,I hear that you have arrived near to my village. Please come and see my house. I think you will like it. Hoping you are well, with greetings.Your faithful friend,Movana.Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni. I, too, send greetings.
My Friend,
I hear that you have arrived near to my village. Please come and see my house. I think you will like it. Hoping you are well, with greetings.
Your faithful friend,
Movana.
Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni. I, too, send greetings.
So Gregory went to see the house.
Outside the village he was met by the usual gathering of elderly headmen, polite and dignified, who led him to the door of their Chief's house.
The house was barnlike, with a high, well-thatched roof.
At the entrance stood the owner. She was very stout and wore a print dress. A red shawl was thrown over her shoulders, and she had a very small straw hat perched on her large, woolly head. Gregory noticed that the hat was very much on one side. Her feet were bare.
After unusually hearty greetings she led the white man into her house.
When Gregory stepped over the threshold he stopped and stood looking from wall to wall aghast. The old black woman interpreted his open mouth to indicate admiration, wonder. This is what he saw.
On a deal table a complete toilet set. Complete to the extent that it included two of those very intimate pieces of domestic furniture seldom seen outside the shops where toilet ware is sold, and surely never before exhibited with pride by the owner. Hanging awkwardly from a nail in the wall, a slop pail of enamelled iron. This was supported on the one side by a dustpan and brush, on the other by a pair of elastic-sided boots. On each side of this remarkable trophy were pinned two very ordinary coloured pocket handkerchiefs.
On a small corner shelf was a large brown earthenware teapot with the words "Advance Australia" done in raised letters. Four enamelled ware egg cups were its companions.
One wall was devoted exclusively to kitchen utensils; new tin kettles predominated, but almost everything was represented.
Opposite this bright array the wall was literally covered with bedding. The centre piece was a mattress; sheets on one side, blankets on the other, pillows above, bolsters below.
But what shocked Gregory more than anything else was a regular trousseau of feminine underclothing, ranged round the door through which he had entered. He blushed hotly and with difficulty suppressed an impulse to bolt without ceremony.
"What do you think of my house, my friend?"
"I think it—er—beautiful, the most wonderful in all the world."
"Yes, I thought you would like it. Do you not like the things my people use? For myself, I like the things the white people use. You put the black man's things in your house. I put the white man's things in my house. We are two friends who have the same thoughts. You buy from the people. I buy from the traders. The traders have promised to bring me many more things. My house is not finished yet. After the rains it will be finished, then you must come and see it again."
When Gregory reached his bungalow after his journey he stripped his walls and packed all his curios in boxes. These he despatched to his father in England, who was very pleased with them.
He replaced his curios by the Hundred Best Pictures, framed suitably in fumed oak.
The Native Commissioner was hurrying home. It was nearly midday and getting hot. Moreover, he had been on a long journey and was anxious to get back to his bungalow which, for him, meant a measure of civilisation. His garden, his books, prints on the wall, white ducks, fair cooking and no more tinned food for a while, a cool verandah and occasional converse with his fellow officials. At daylight he had left his caravan to follow whilst he pushed on ahead.
His sturdy horse also had thoughts of home for, in spite of the heat, he cantered briskly along the dusty road without any encouragement from his master. Half a mile from the house a short cut skirted a patch of young gum trees and led through the servants' compound to the back door of the bungalow.
The horse, without hesitation and not waiting for direction, took the short cut. As a general rule the Commissioner chose the longer way. He preferred entering his own house by the front door; he had designed and built his home himself and had given much thought to its face and approach, for, who could tell, might he not some day lead an English bride up the winding drive?
The Commissioner let the beast have his way: he was amused and, leaning forward, patted his horse's neck.
As he clattered through the compound he caught sight of some of his servants conversing with a stranger. There was nothing remarkable in that, but two things he noticed. One, that his people did not see or hear him until he was almost abreast of them, and secondly, that the stranger, a native from the river district, let him pass without the usual salute.
He rode on and dismounted at the back of the house. A groom took his horse. A small boy opened the door for him and led him through to the front hall. The Commissioner dropped into a chair and, after a short rest, busied himself with getting comfortable.
A shave, followed by a hot bath, a change into "slacks," a light luncheon, and a pipe. Then he attacked his accumulated mail. He had scarcely sorted his home from his official letters—the latter could well wait—when his head house boy came in rather breathless.
"Morena," he said, "what is to-day?"
"What do you mean, the day of the month or of the week, and why do you ask?"
"Oh no," said the boy, "but what is the number of the day?"
"Tuesday the sixth. Why?"
"It is only that I wanted to know, for has not the Morena been absent for a great many days?"
"Well, it's the sixth, Tuesday the sixth of September."
"Thank you, Morena."
The boy withdrew.
The Native Commissioner turned to his letters again. His mother had written pages telling him of his sister'sengagement to his oldest friend; his sister wrote more pages about her happiness; his father referred to his younger brother at Oxford, to the engagement just announced, and described the latest strike at some length.
Presently he got up and went out to the verandah to stretch his legs. He admired his garden and mentally praised his own cunning in setting it out. The rains had not yet broken but some of the trees were already in new leaf. What a blaze of colour there would be in a few weeks!
"Morena, what day is it to-day?"
Turning, he met the gaze of a garden labourer who, spade in hand, was standing slightly in advance of some half a dozen of his fellows.
"The sixth. But why do you ask?"
"It is because black people do not know how to count, and one day with us is as another."
All returned to their work. A few minutes later the dog boy came with a litter born during his master's absence. They were a likely looking lot and the native took personally the remarks passed upon his charge: he appeared to assume responsibility for their colour, shape and sex.
"Morena, what day is it to-day?"
"Why?"
"See, Morena, I mark each day on a stick; the dogs were born ten days ago."
"Well, it's the sixth."
"Thank you, Morena."
At sundown the cattle came in. The herdsman came up to the house to report that the two calves born whilst his master was away on his journey were heifers, and received a few shillings as a reward for his good management. When bull calves came the cattle herdmade many excuses and neither expected nor received any reward.
"You have done well."
"Thank you, Morena," said the boy, tying the silver in a corner of his loin cloth. "What is the number of the day to-day?"
Now this was the fourth time the question had been asked. What did it mean? Could it mean anything of importance and, if so, what?
But the Commissioner decided in his own mind that his people had some trivial dispute and were appealing to him to settle a knotty point. Still, he felt a little curious as to what that point might be, but knowing natives well, concluded that he would hear about it all in good time.
He asked no question this time but replied simply: "The sixth."
The news of his return spread quickly and several officials dropped in for a "sundowner." Headquarters news, dull and trivial as it usually is, was quickly disposed of. The Browns had gone home on leave, Jones had just come back, and Robinson had passed the law exam very well. A lion had been heard outside the township, and a mad cur had run amok through the compounds and, as a result, several good dogs had been shot and half a dozen natives sent south for treatment.
What sport had the Commissioner had?
On the whole, bad; he had missed a black-maned lion in a patch of bush near the river, and as the beast slipped through to the main forest he didn't bother to follow. He had, however, bagged a small leopard and two full-grown cheetahs. There were plenty of birds and buck about and, oh, yes, he had killed a bad old buffalo bull who nearly turned the tables on him.After listening to the details of the adventure, the visitors rose to leave.
No, he would not join them at the Club later, he felt tired and was looking forward to a comfortable bed for a change.
The Commissioner dined alone and turned in early.
In the morning he woke with a start. It was late, nearly eight o'clock; what the deuce were his people about?
He jumped out of bed and went to the bath-room. The bath was not set ready. He called to his boy. There was no answer. He slipped on a dressing gown and went to the kitchen. It was empty, the fire was not even lighted. He went back to the house for a pair of slippers and a hat and walked across to the native compound. By this time he was very angry.
To his amazement, the compound was quite empty. On his way back he looked in at the stable. His horses whinnied: they had not been fed, nor had the stable been cleaned. He fed the horses himself and then walked over to the cattle kraal. His half-dozen cows had not been milked.
At that moment the Magistrate came up.
"What's the matter with the natives?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Not a black soul in the township will do a hand's turn."
"Mine aren't here."
"Is there going to be a rising?"
"Certainly not. You people who live in camp are always expecting risings."
"Well, you know best, of course, but the boys refuse to work. They say Lizizi has told them not to."
"Who's Lizizi?"
"How should I know? I came to ask you that."
"Never heard of him."
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know yet. Send some of your people down to me, mine have made themselves scarce."
"Right, but what are you going to do to them?"
"Nothing, of course, except question them."
"I'll send my two house boys down."
"Send your cook as well."
"Why my cook?"
"Because I haven't had my breakfast yet."
"Well, neither have I for that matter."
"Then you had better come with them, we'll have breakfast all right."
The Magistrate went away and the Commissioner returned to his house to dress.
He hated having no bath; he disliked, too, going without breakfast. Discomfort on a journey he thought nothing of, but discomfort in his own home was ridiculous.
When the Commissioner emerged from his room, dressed but unshaven, and in a very bad temper, he found his head native in the hall and the rest of the servants standing on the verandah.
"We wish to speak with you," said the boy.
"I, too, have something to say."
"We cannot work to-day. To-morrow we will work."
"You will work to-day and now."
"No, Morena, we cannot work to-day, to-morrow we will work well."
"Why can't you work to-day?"
"Because Lizizi says we may not work to-day."
"Who's Lizizi?"
"A great doctor."
"Where is he?" said the Commissioner, looking round.
"No, he is not here, Morena, he lives on the Zambesi. He sent his man with a message yesterday."
"Was that the messenger I saw in the compound?"
"Yes, Morena."
"Where is he?"
"He has gone."
"Where?"
"He did not say where he was going. He told us he must carry the master's messages."
"What are the messages?"
"No man may work for his master to-day."
"What are the others?"
"That is all he said to us."
"Have you eaten this morning?"
"Yes, Morena."
"Then bring breakfast for the Magistrate and me, and quickly."
"But, Morena—"
"Well?"
"I may not work to-day."
"Breakfast is food, not work. Bring it."
"Yes, Morena."
The boy went out. The Commissioner turned to the rest of his servants.
"You won't work to-day?"
The cattle herd answered: "We may not, it is forbidden."
"Who forbids you?"
"Lizizi."
"Who is Lizizi?"
"The great doctor."
"Great?"
"Yes, Morena. Does he not jump into the river and come out alive on the third day?"
"I should say not, but where does he live?"
"At Minanga, on the Zambesi."
"Go to your work. I will visit this Lizizi. There is some mistake. The messenger is a foolish fellow, he had forgotten his master's words. I will see to it. Tell all the people that I go on a visit to Lizizi. He who does not work now and at once and well will meet with misfortune."
The servants dispersed to their various occupations. Slowly at first, and with evident reluctance; but, hearing that the head boy was busy getting his master's breakfast, they, too, set about their various duties.
When the Magistrate arrived he found everything normal. He had breakfast with the Commissioner. When the meal was over he found his own servants had gone back to his compound. The word had spread abroad that the Commissioner would visit Lizizi and put matters right.
"How did you do it?"
"Just talked to them a little."
"No violence, I hope?"
"Unnecessary."
"What was it all about?"
"I know no more than you, but intend to find out."
In a few hours the Commissioner was on his way to Minanga, on the Zambesi, the home of Lizizi, the great doctor.
All next day, and for several days following, natives might be seen passing south in the direction of Minanga. The curious thing about these flocks of travellers was that they were chieflycomposed of children—little children, from infants in arms to boys and girls of nine or ten, none older. When questioned, the parents would reply simply: "We are called. We are called to Minanga by Lizizi—by Lizizi, the great doctor."
The native servants who worked in the houses of the officials could, or would, give no fuller explanation. "Yes, they are called by Lizizi," was the only answer to all questioning.
In the Club, speculation as to what the Commissioner would do monopolised the conversation. Nearly all the officials wagered on a native rising. The Commandant of Police went about to prepare systematically for an event of this kind.
The Commissioner travelled light and quickly. He, too, passed hordes of natives, mostly children. He, too, learnt that Lizizi called—that Lizizi had apparently mustered all the children of the district. He was now doubly certain that this was no native rebellion, or the children would have been conspicuously absent. He grudged Lizizi this implicit obedience. Two could not run the same country.
At length he approached Minanga. The neighbouring villages were thronged with children. In Minanga itself there were many hundreds. The Commissioner rode to the centre of the village and demanded to be shown Lizizi's hut. He was led up the hill to a single small hut built half-way up the slope. In front of it grew a huge tamarind tree.
"There is Lizizi," said his guide, pointing to an old man sitting on a stool in front of the hut.
The Commissioner watched. A strange performancewas going on. A long queue of children was moving slowly past the seated figure, and as each child was marshalled forward—screaming with fright, for the most part—the old man put his hands on its head.
The Commissioner rode up to the hut. The old man touched the head of the child in front of him with his crossed thumbs; that was all, and the child passed hurriedly on to join a throng, already large, of others who had passed through the ordeal, or whatever it was.
On seeing the Commissioner the old man rose and seated himself on the ground, clapping his hands by way of greeting.
This curious native wore a large pair of spectacles, which gave him a benevolent air. His feet were bare—so, too, was his head—but he was otherwise clothed to the extent of a patched and very dirty shirt and an aged pair of trousers.
"Are you Lizizi?" asked the Commissioner.
"Morena, I am his slave."
"Where is Lizizi?"
"He walked on the water. Then he went to the bottom of the river and stayed there. After three days he came out alive and well. Some people said so who saw him."
"Where is he now?"
"Who can tell?"
"Did you send that message to the servants of the white men, saying that they were not to work?"
"I sent my master's message."
"What are you doing to these children?"
"My master said they must come."
"What for?"
"I put my hands on them, as my master said.Lizizi said: 'Let the children come, the little children, and do not stop them.' And Lizizi said: 'You must work for six days, and on the seventh day you must not do anything.'"
So that was the explanation. It came to the Commissioner in a flash.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Sinyoro."
"You have worked for a white man?"
"Yes, I was with the Mission."
"I thought as much."
"Lizizi" was the nearest this native could get to Jesus. The poor old man was, it transpired, a little mad. He had lived with the missionaries for many years, and had recently asked permission to visit friends on the Zambesi. The head missionary had let him go. As he afterwards explained, he knew the man was a little mad, but quite harmless. They had christened him James—James Sinyoro.
However, James, it seemed, had been trying his prentice hand at missionary work, and had given orders based on the little he remembered of the Mission Bible teaching.
James Sinyoro returned to the Mission Station, and the district to its normal tranquillity.
The Paramount Chief had many wives. A newly arrived missionary, determined to convert the great man, opened his attack by asking why he had so many wives. The answer was disconcerting: "For political reasons." This matter of the Chief's was a rock upon which all missionary endeavours foundered. The Chief must discard all his wives, save one. The Chief was determined to keep them all.
To another reformer he said: "Leave me alone. Do what you will with the children and young people. Leave me to myself. You have shown me that my beliefs are foolish. You have not proved to me that yours are any wiser."
A third good man, about to transfer his activities to other fields, offered to present the Chief with his bright brass bedstead provided he became a Christian.
"Let me see it," said the old heathen. The bed was produced. "I have a better one. I paid a trader ten head of cattle for it." So no bargain was struck.
I think there must have been some grounds for saying that he clung to his many wives "for political reasons," because they, or at any rate some of them, were more trouble to the Chief than they were perhaps worth.
There was Mavevana, for instance, who was large and fat and therefore very beautiful from a native point of view, but whose tongue was a constant source of strife without and within the harem.
I should explain that each wife had her own group of huts. These groups—there were seventeen of them—were surrounded by a high reed fence, strengthened by sharply-pointed poles. The harem was a village within a village. Outside the fence the common people lived.
Each woman had her slaves. A strong guard of fully-armed men patrolled the harem at night. Old Sikoro, the keeper of the harem, was about day and night.
Then there was Mironda. Poor Mironda, who later paid, as women do, be they white, black or yellow.
Mironda was rather nearer to yellow than to black. I think she had some European blood in her. One does not often see a native woman with hazel eyes nor with freckles; and besides, she was very tall and slim.
As a special mark of his good will the Chief once took me through his harem. That is how I first came to see Mironda.
The woman aroused my interest. When we entered her compound she glared at her lord and master as a caged beast does upon free men. She did not for a moment take her eyes off him. She never so much as glanced in my direction. Her eyes caught the light once and reflected it as do those of a cat, a tiger. Yes, that was it, she put me in mind of a caged tiger.
She clasped her hands continuously during our short stay. The click, click, click of her ivory bangles drew my attention to her hands. Her hands and her wrists were very small, her finger nails long and sharp. I noticed her hands particularly because she had solidivory bangles on each arm from wrist to elbow. These bangles were very small and, as they were solid, could only pass over very small hands.
I saw this curious woman twice only: the second time was some years later.
As I have said before, old Sikoro was the keeper of the harem. I hated him instinctively the moment I first set eyes on him: I hated him more when I heard the whole story.
Sikoro had only one eye. In his youth he had had smallpox, which pitted his face remorselessly and destroyed one eye. He wore a soldier's red tunic, the colour dimmed with age and dirt. Perched on his head was a tall cone-shaped fur cap which he plucked off whenever he met a superior. He was always plucking it off, not because he was really inferior in the black man's social scale to all he so saluted; on the contrary, in view of his office, he was an important person; he was over polite because he chose to appear humble.
The man knew his power well: his occupation gave him the ear of the Chief. All realized this and were ready to show him the respect which was justly his due: Sikoro was before them in showing respect, which was unnecessary. Men did not understand this humbleness of his and feared him. Sikoro loved their fear.
The woman, Mironda, alone had no fear of him. She despised the man and did not try to hide it. She often refused to see him. It was only utter boredom that induced her to admit him to her compound at all. The truth is he was a great gossip and was the link between the harem and the outer world. Sikoro knew everything, was an authority on everything, and the first to hear all news.
Now this is what befell Mironda. I don't blame her;no one could. I consider her a victim of circumstances. The old, old story. A young and impulsive woman, an elderly, much married lord, a well-favoured young man. The long and the short of it is that Mironda was in the end divorced; but the manner of that divorce enrages me whenever I think of it.
One morning she was sitting on a mat in the shade thrown by the overhanging thatch of her hut. She was singing in a low voice and threading beads picked with the point of her needle from a wooden bowl held by a small girl slave.
The father of MbututuWas killed on the sand bankWei ye-i, wei i-ye,Wei ye-i, wei i-ye,The father of MbututuWas killed on the sand bankWei ye-i, etc.
The father of MbututuWas killed on the sand bankWei ye-i, wei i-ye,Wei ye-i, wei i-ye,The father of MbututuWas killed on the sand bankWei ye-i, etc.
The monotonous chant in a minor key was interrupted by someone scratching on the reed fence.
"Go," said Mironda to the child, "see who it is."
The child put down the bowl of beads and ran to the fold in the fence which formed the gate. She looked out. A glance was sufficient. She ran back past her mistress and into a far hut, muttering as she went "Ma—we! Ma—we! It is Sikoro!"
Mironda moved uneasily on her mat, then fell to fumbling nervously with the brightly-dyed bark patterns which ornamented it.
Sikoro slouched into the compound, removing his fur cap as he came. Just inside he knelt down and sat on his heels, placing his cap on the ground beside him. He arranged his voluminous skirts carefully round him and then clapped his hands very respectfully.
Mironda did not look at him. After a short interval Sikoro broke the silence.
"Good day to you, Morena."
"Yes, good day."
"And has the Chief's wife slept well?"
"She has."
"And the slaves of her house, have they slept well?"
"They have."
"And is the Chief's wife pleased with the new shawl chosen by Sikoro as a gift from the Chief to his wife?"
"It is all right."
Sikoro relapsed into silence and Mironda did not speak. Presently the man got up and, in a crouching attitude, shuffled nearer and sat down as close as possible to the edge of the woman's mat without actually touching it. To touch the mat of the Chief's wife would have been an offence, to come so near to it was studied insolence.
Mironda looked up angrily, met the bloodshot eye of Sikoro and opened her mouth as if to speak. Instead of doing so, however, she looked away and examined the work upon which she had been engaged when the man arrived.
Sikoro grinned and, detaching from his belt a small gourd, emptied some snuff into the palm of his hand.
This was a deliberate insult to the Chief's wife and conclusive evidence to her, if indeed she needed it, that she might now expect the worst.
Sikoro blew his nose unpleasantly and loudly sniffed up the snuff from the palm of his hand. Then, clearing his throat, he said: "Someone has stolen one of the Chief's heifers."
"Eh."
"A yellow one which the Chief might well have sold to a Jew."
"So."
"It is no great loss to the Chief, as the heifer is barren."
Mironda's eyes blazed with fury; she had no child.
"The thief has been caught."
"What will be done with him?"
Ah! he had aroused her interest at last. Sikoro smiled pleasantly as he said: "He will, of course, be strangled."
"Will not the Missionaries prevent it?"
"The Missionaries? They do not know and may not know for many days, and anyhow, what could they do?"
"The white man's Government will prevent the killing of people."
"No doubt the white man's Government will do many foolish things, but the Magistrate has not yet come."
"He is coming soon."
"But they strangle Miyobo to-day, now."
No name had been mentioned before: indeed it was not necessary even now; Mironda had known Sikoro's errand from the manner of entry into her compound.
The abominable man leant forward and repeated: "Now, now, now," then put his hand to his ear. The woman listened, too, and heard distinctly the shriek and gurgle of a dying man: then silence save for the pattering of slaves' feet and their shrill inquiries and conjectures. Miyobo had been strangled just outside the compound in which the woman sat.
Mironda looked at Sikoro with wide eyes of fear. He, of course, enjoyed the situation. Did he not hate this woman for her overbearing pride? Had not sheand Miyobo fooled him more than once, and had it not been the merest chance which had delivered them into his hand?
His one eye contracted with merriment, a cruel smile lifted his lip and disclosed a row of sharply-filed teeth—the tribal mark of a subject race; he was a freed slave.
Pointing to the bangles on the woman's arm, Sikoro asked: "What are you doing with the Chief's ivory?"
One by one Mironda took her bangles off and placed them on the mat before her.
"Is not that the Chief's new shawl?"
The wretched woman took the garment from her shoulders and laid it on the mat beside the bangles.
"And why," said Sikoro, "do you sit on the Chief's mat?"
Mironda slowly rose to her feet.
"And is not this the Chief's hut?"
This was the last word, the full sentence of divorce; she, now a common woman, had no right to stand where she stood. She looked hastily round the compound and then walked silently to the gate and so out.
The man gathered up the ivory bangles and tied them in the shawl. He rolled up the mat upon which Mironda had been sitting and tucked it under his arm. Then, spitting contemptuously on the ground, he followed.
Some years later I saw Mironda, clothed in the rags of a slave woman, begging food at the Mission station.
When the wife of the Chief is divorced, her fall is gradual. For a space she becomes the wife of a head man, who presently passes her on to someone lowerin the social scale, and so from hand to hand she passes until she becomes the consort of a slave.
In Mironda's case she first became the wife of Sikoro; surely a no more cruel punishment could have been devised for her.
Mobita had views on protective colouring. Who is Mobita? Oh, an elephant hunter, a black man; a very good fellow—as black men go. Mobita used to say that elephants, and big and small game generally, could not see black and white. Black they could and white they could, but not a judicious combination of the two. His usual hunting kit was a black hat with a white feather in it, a black waistcoat over a white shirt, a black and white striped loin cloth. His thin arms and legs were dull ebony. There you have Mobita.
Mobita's theory worked very well for a time, but as he had missed an essential he paid the penalty in the end. A zebra is black and white—more or less—and in the bush is practically invisible so long as it stands still. That, then, is the essential adjunct to protective colouring—you must keep still.
This is what happened to Mobita.
Just before the war I was hunting on the edge of the Great Swamp. Early one afternoon, when the day was at its hottest, I heard a shot fired. Later, I met a freshly-wounded tusker and dropped him. I went up to have a look at him, and found dry blood onhis ground tusk and a hole behind his near shoulder; someone had just missed his heart. My shot took him in the ear.
I left some of my men to cut out his tusks, and, out of curiosity, went back along his spoor. I had not far to go. Sitting round a pile of green branches I found a dozen of Mobita's people, looking very glum.
They told me their yarn, which I did not believe until I had had a look round for myself. The spoor told me their story was true enough.
It appears that Mobita had followed the bull since early morning. He got in a moderate shot; the bull saw him and gave chase. The ground was unbroken, with no large ant-hills or big trees to dodge behind. Here and there they went, this way and that, but the tusker kept his eye on Mobita—on his protective colouring, I should think. Then somehow Mobita tripped and fell, and the game was up. The elephant stamped on him, knelt on him, put his tusk through him. Then—and here is the strange part of it all—went from tree to tree picking green branches and piling them up on what was left of Mobita.
Then he moved off and shortly met me.
Did I bury Mobita? Why, no. People came around presently—as natives will when meat is about—and I made them pile stones on him; quite a hill they made. I paid them for their trouble with elephant meat, and handed the tusks to Mobita's men, as the custom is.
Protective colouring is all right, no doubt—if you keep still.
When the railway construction reached to within reasonable distance of my camp, I realised how tired I was of living in a mud hut, and acquired sufficient material from the contractor for a small house. I also asked him to spare one of his carpenters to erect it for me.
The man sent to me was a German named Fritz Kunst. He was not only a carpenter, but a mason, bricklayer, plumber, and painter as well. He was an excellent workman, a member of no union, and intent only on finishing his job quickly and well. I hasten to explain that this was many years before the war.
In build he was very short, almost deformed. His head was abnormally large; so, too, were his hands and feet, especially his feet. He looked upon his feet as his salvation. He was flat-footed, and on that account had never served in the German army. He referred to his feet as, "My goot luck, isn't it?"
I had but one fault to find with him. He was rough with his native servant. The boy sometimes complained to me, and when I remonstrated with Kunst or threatened him with the law he would burst into a flood of tears and offer to pay cash for his lapse. Oneday the boy complained to me that Kunst had beaten him severely and without cause. He could, however, show no mark, but I sent for his master and demanded an explanation. Kunst was evidently very angry with the boy, for he shook his fist in his face and bellowed in his coarse, guttural voice: "Zo, you make er tam vool of me, eh? I will your head break. You spoil my money. Gott tam you!"
In broken English, but with considerable fluency and force, Kunst told me the source of his indignation. It appeared that from time to time he commissioned his boy to make small purchases for him—eggs, fowls, milk, fish, and the like. On the previous evening the boy produced a very large egg for which he said he had paid sixpence. As eggs were then never more than sixpence a dozen in that country, Kunst charged him with cheating. The boy explained that the egg was a very large one. It was large—huge, in fact—for a hen's egg, so Kunst did not press the charge, but went to bed, telling the boy to boil it for breakfast next morning.
On the breakfast-table the egg looked larger than ever. It couldn't sit in the tin egg-cup, so lay on the table beside it.
Now Kunst was a greedy man and attacked the egg in the best of good spirits. He tried to crack it in the usual way with a spoon, but without success. He banged it on the table. The shell did crack then, but, to Kunst's indignation, the egg proved to be hard set. Whether he thought parts of it might be good I cannot say, but the German broke open the egg and examined it more closely. He then became very angry indeed, for what he found satisfied him that the egg was not a hen's egg at all. The creature upon which he gazed was three-parts beak and most ofthe rest was made up of feet. Kunst had never seen anything like it. In a rage of disappointment he beat the boy. He had so looked forward to eating that very large egg which the boy assured him was a hen's egg. Had not his trusted servant declared that the egg had cost sixpence?
I soothed Kunst's ruffled feelings, and persuaded him to go to his work and forgive the boy.
When I had settled the little differences between the German and the native, I cross-questioned the latter. It transpired that the giant egg was that of a marabout stork which had nested in a tree a few miles away. As one egg still remained in the nest, I told the boy to let a week or two go by, and if by then the egg had hatched out to bring the chick to me.
In due course Darwin arrived. I did not call him Darwin for several weeks; the name occurred to me later. Darwin was the queerest of objects. He was a large ball of fluff based on two very long legs, and surmounted by a huge beak protruding from a bald head. He was wise from birth; it was when I had fully realised how very wise he was that I christened him Darwin.
When he first came to me he made no proper use of his legs. He could not stand erect, but sat awkwardly with his bird equivalent to knees protruding behind and his large feet, with toes spread out, in front. He resembled a downy globe on rails. He crawled about my bungalow almost from the first day I had him. This he managed by sliding first his right hand rail along the floor and then his left, clapping his huge beak after each movement. I suppose I subconsciously accepted this beak clapping as the crooning of a baby bird, for I soon found myself indulging in baby talk with him.
His appetite was amazing; moreover, he was omnivorous.
When it was neither his meal time nor mine, he would sit on the floor in front of me blinking up at me with wisdom in his eyes. He winked. There is no doubt about it. It was as if he had just remarked: "What you and I don't know isn't worth knowing." I soon dropped the baby talk with Darwin, and discussed with him Affairs of State.
He grew rapidly. One day I detected a feather. By degrees feathers replaced the down, but the most important sign of Darwin's growing up was when he took his first step. One morning without warning he heaved himself up, and, by using his beak as a third leg, actually stood on his feet. For the space of a full minute he remained in this position, then, suddenly lifting his head, he was erect. For one moment only; then, overbalancing backwards, he fell with a crash full length on the floor. He appeared stunned at first. I picked him up and placed him on his rails again, and there he sat, thinking the matter over. Presently he repeated the manœuvre, but with no better success, falling this time on his "front" as a child would say. Again I gathered him up, and apparently, after mature consideration, he decided that his time for walking had not yet come, for he made no more attempts that day.
About a week later, as if the idea had struck him for the first time, he got up quite suddenly, and coolly walked out of the back door into the yard; he stood there sunning himself, and chattering to and at everybody and everything in sight.
Darwin never looked back. He quickly developed a curiosity as insatiable as his appetite. He became playful, too. He made friends with the dogs, and romped with them. He noticed that the doctor paida daily visit to the compound, and hid behind the fence in wait for him. As the doctor sped past on his bicycle, Darwin would shoot out his heavy beak at him. So sure a marksman did the bird become—he always narrowly missed the saddle, but hit the doctor—that the good man complained, and approached the compound by the long way round.
The day arrived when certain puppies had to lose their tails. Darwin took a proper interest in the operation, and gobbled up each tail as it fell. He appeared to like dogs' tails, and went in search of more. He found a nice long one which he tried to swallow, but it happened to be still attached to an elderly greyhound. Poor Darwin met with his first serious rebuff in life; he came to me for sympathy with a large puncture in his beak. The mark of the dog's displeasure was permanent.
When natives came, as they did in hundreds, to sell the produce of their gardens, woods, and streams, Darwin inspected their wares. With a twist of his beak he would filch a pinch of meal from a bowl to see, so the natives declared, whether it was of uniform whiteness throughout. Eggs had to be protected with outstretched arms, so, too, had baskets of little fishes, for he was very partial to them both, and only a very full sample would satisfy him. The natives declared him possessed. Judging by the way he first abused and then assaulted any one of them bold enough to resist his inspection, I think they were right.
I have already mentioned his curiosity. He permitted this defect in his character to carry him too far when he became a common thief. A traveller stayed with me for a few days. In spite of warning, he left the door of his hut open when he came across to the mess hut for breakfast. Darwin entered to inspect.It is surmised that he swallowed my guest's shaving brush and tooth brush, for they have never been found. It is only surmise, but there was circumstantial evidence to support the charge in the form of the stick of shaving soap which was found on the floor with marks on it which might have been made by the beak of a large bird.
Again, the contents of two boxes of cigars were found scattered far and wide; each cigar had been nipped in half. Darwin was questioned; he looked wise but said nothing. A native witness swore he had seen the accused walking in the yard with the white man's pipe in his mouth. This was a wicked slander, for the white man had that pipe in his pocket, and it was his only one.
The case was not proven, but Darwin left the court without a shred of character.
I have referred to his appetite. One day the cook missed a piece of lamb's neck, weighing probably half a dozen pounds. He couldn't blame the cat, because there wasn't one, so he pointed the finger of accusation at Darwin. The evil bird was sent for. I felt he was guilty, and, although he winked at me for sympathy, I had to say so. Besides, he had not been sufficiently careful to hide the loot; even a professional detective could have recognised the meat by the very large, irregular bulge in the bird's pouch. In places the mutton bones threatened to pierce the thin disguise.
Darwin certainly had his uses. No nasty-smelling scrap could lie undetected for long. His scent was keen and his eye sharp. I never found a snake in the house after Darwin grew up, nor were there many rats about the place.
Once a huge swarm of locusts fell upon us, and allhands turned out to destroy them. Darwin joined in the fray, and soon we retired and left him to finish the job, as he disposed of thousands to our joint hundreds. His method was simplicity itself. He dashed here, there, and everywhere with his huge beak wide open. Only now and then, and for a moment, did he close it to gulp down what had fallen in.
The doctor, who lived a mile away, did not like Darwin; partly because of his stupid trick of pecking at him as he cycled by, but chiefly because he seemed to know what was going on in the hospital. If an operation was being performed, Darwin could be heard tramping about impatiently on the corrugated iron roof of the building. As the marabout stork mainly lives on carrion scraps, there was, the doctor considered, questionable taste in Darwin's visits.
Alas! Darwin met with a violent death in his early prime.
Like all others of his kind, he grew those beautiful downy feathers so highly prized by women who dress well. There was a demand throughout the country for the feathers, and many of these delightful and useful birds died at the hands of the natives in consequence.
An operation was going on at the hospital, and Darwin was hurrying thither on foot, as I had recently cut the feathers of one of his wings. In the road he met a strange native, who despatched him with his assegai, stripped him of his feathers, and walked on.
The spoiler soon came up with two of my servants who, on hearing of the man's good luck, as he put it, took him back to the scene of the outrage.
Yes, it was "Da-wi-ni"; was not that the hole in his beak which the angry greyhound made?
My servants decided that Darwin had been most foully murdered, and acted according to their lights.
It was well that the doctor knew his job. After six anxious weeks the native was so far recovered from the beating as to be pronounced out of danger.
In the year 1898 Sergeant Johnson, the one with the bright red beard, was sent up country to establish and to remain in charge of the new out-station of Likonga. Likonga, a little-known spot in Central Africa, was, and still is, miles away from civilisation. Sergeant Johnson's command was cut to small dimensions by malaria at headquarters. He had but a corporal and two men. Likonga in those days consisted of nothing but a name on the map, and nothing at all in the way of buildings or anything else to show you when you had got there. The Commandant of Police had dotted vaguely the imperfect sketch map with his pencil, and had instructed Sergeant Johnson to go there. The Sergeant had glanced at the map as it lay on the office table, and had said, "Yes, sir."
"You will take with you Corporal Merton and Privates Hay and Hare. I cannot spare more."
Again the Sergeant said, "Yes, sir."
"You will take rations for ninety days, the small buck waggon, and the black span of oxen."
For the third time Sergeant Johnson said, "Yes, sir."
Now, this man with the bright red beard had beena soldier elsewhere before he became a policeman in the middle of Africa. His old training had not encouraged questions, so he never asked any now. When, therefore, the Commandant of Police glanced up from the map, the Sergeant saluted, turned about, and left the office.
He wasted no time. He took Corporal Merton, Privates Hay and Hare, the small waggon, ninety days' rations, a span of fourteen black oxen, the Zulu Jacob to drive, and the Kaffir boy "Nine-thirty" to lead.
Just before sundown he pulled out of camp. It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to say that the leader of a waggon is the native who walks in front of the oxen, but it is necessary to explain that a leader of oxen in Africa answers to any name flung at him. This particular one was called "Nine-thirty" because, without any apparent effort, he stood and walked with his feet splayed at what should have been an impossible angle to his legs. If his right big toe pointed east, his left one pointed west, whilst he himself faced north or south, as the case might be.
For seven days the party travelled in a northeasterly direction, Sergeant Johnson spending most of the time on his back on the waggon, Corporal Merton tramping immediately behind, whilst Privates Hay and Hare followed at any distance ranging between a hundred yards and half a mile.
The party was not a cheery one; it might have travelled for yet another day, or even more, had not the Sergeant dropped his looking glass off the tail end of the waggon. He was devoted to his big red beard. While lying on the waggon he spent his time fondling and trimming this beard, smearing vaseline on it and admiring it in his little lead-framed looking glass.
When, therefore, he dropped his glass, he said: "Damn," and then, more loudly, "This is Likonga; outspan, Jacob!"
The driver shouted "Ah, now!" to the oxen, and the outfit came to a halt.
As a camping place, the spot so casually chosen was not a bad one. There was wood and there was water, good grazing for the cattle, and obviously some game about. Moreover, there were some granite boulders on the left, set round in the form of a rude circle. Under the Sergeant's direction all were soon roughly housed. The cattle had been made secure at night by a skilful reinforcement of the circle of boulders, here a thorn bush and there a few poles. Patrol tents, protected by a straggling fence, satisfied the Sergeant and his men. Jacob spent the day in the lee of his waggon and the night under it. "Nine-thirty" slept on the other side of the cattle kraal, under the propped-up roof of an abandoned native hut; during the day he herded the cattle. The making of this very primitive out-station occupied less than a couple of days, and then the question, "What the devil shall we do now?" fell upon the party like a blight.
But, as is so often the case, the devil decided.
All had turned in for the night. The Sergeant had taken a last look at his beard. Corporal Merton had read something of Kipling's. Private Hay, after a long-winded argument with Private Hare, in which neither seemed to gain advantage, had told his adversary to go to hell. Private Hare had found satisfaction in saying, "Ditto, brother." Jacob had retired under his waggon, and, like most natives, fell asleep immediately, with his head well covered by his blanket.
The leader with the silly name, alone of all the party,remained awake in his solitude on the other side of the cattle kraal. His evening meal of maize porridge was bubbling in his small cooking pot, perched on a handful of embers. He was playing a minute native "piano," a trumpery, tinkling thing, made of half a gourd, a strip of hard wood, with a few tongues of metal affixed to it.
The tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink; tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, sounded very plaintive and lonely in Africa's wide expanse. The boy was singing, too—if his wail could be called singing.