Stop the pig and see where he will pass;Stop him! Stop him! Stop him!
Stop the pig and see where he will pass;Stop him! Stop him! Stop him!
That Nanzela should see in his message a huge joke slightly annoyed Wrenshaw, but he reflected that people with a sense of humour were more easily dealt with than those in a sullen mood. Yes, it was, perhaps, a ridiculous thing for him to have come alone on such an errand.
He went back to his table and attacked the guinea-fowl once more, this time with vigour.
After dinner he lit his pipe and ordered a large billy-can of coffee made very strong. He had a long night in front of him.
He made no attempt to sleep; he wouldn't risk it. The Barushu had, in days gone by, a nasty habit of making a night attack. He didn't expect them to attack him, especially after their laughter; but he intended to take no risks.
He had the fire piled up and saw that a plentiful supply of wood had been collected and placed handy. He told his natives to turn in, and walked across to where the horses were tethered. The animals seemed comfortable: one was lying down and the other standing with drooping head, dozing. He satisfied himself that their blankets were secure and that they had emptied their nosebags.
Next he loaded his rifle and tied it lightly to the tent pole; he also loaded a double-barrelled horse-pistol, a twenty-bore, shooting large, leaden slugs; very handy for close quarters.
Then he sat down and listened. The camp fires over the way were for the most part dying down. Wrenshaw had no illusions: he knew that he was being watched; by how many, he could not tell. It might be the intention of the Barushu to make a sudden end of him during the night. If he had brought a dog with him it would have given him timely warning; but, then, no dog can travel comfortably for twenty miles in the heat of the day without water.
And supposing they did wipe him out, what then? His mind flew back to England. Would she care? He supposed she would; hoped she would. Well, no, not exactly hoped; that was hardly the word. But did she care? Did she care enough to make her home with him in this rough country?
She certainly seemed sorry when he left England a few months before. Her letters, too, were a source of encouragement to him, for she dwelt upon the good times they had had together when he was on leave.
He took her last letter from his pocket. "Dear Mr. Wrenshaw." How bald it looked to be sure. If only she had written "Dear Dick," or "My dear Dick," or.... However, she hadn't; but she did sign herself "Your friend." Into this simple signature Wrenshaw read a whole world of meaning, which, of course, might not have been intended; again, it might.
By Jove! Why not write to her? It might be his last chance. Those fools on the high ground over the way might blot him out. He had his writing gear with him. He would write.
He must, however, be careful what he wrote. No pathetic sort of last letter. No heroics of the penny novelette type. If he did go under, well, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that just before the event he had thought of her.
Wrenshaw got some paper and an indelible pencil and began:
My Friend...
My Friend...
At this he stuck for a long time; what on earth could he write about? There were ten thousand things he wanted to say. Most of them he had no right to say because they were not engaged; there was not even an understanding between them. The remainder would give the show away; she would see that he was in danger, or, at any rate, in a tight place. He must write in some sort of general terms.
This is what he wrote:
My Friend,I am on one of my journeys through the country; at this moment am sitting by the light of my camp fire, writing.I do not feel very sleepy to-night, some strong coffee which I drank after dinner is keeping me awake.The natives in the distance are beating their drums, which adds to the mystery of the night. Their booming may mean a message sent by the African equivalent to the telegraph or it may be that a cheery dance is in progress miles away. Do you remember our last dance?We are quite a small party here, only a couple of horses, a mule, and three natives. I like to travel light in this way sometimes, it gives one a sense of greater freedom, of independence.To-morrow I continue my journey; until morning comes I shall not know exactly in which direction I am to travel. All depends upon an interesting meeting to which I have called the members of a curious tribe. They may have arranged my journey for me.
My Friend,
I am on one of my journeys through the country; at this moment am sitting by the light of my camp fire, writing.
I do not feel very sleepy to-night, some strong coffee which I drank after dinner is keeping me awake.
The natives in the distance are beating their drums, which adds to the mystery of the night. Their booming may mean a message sent by the African equivalent to the telegraph or it may be that a cheery dance is in progress miles away. Do you remember our last dance?
We are quite a small party here, only a couple of horses, a mule, and three natives. I like to travel light in this way sometimes, it gives one a sense of greater freedom, of independence.
To-morrow I continue my journey; until morning comes I shall not know exactly in which direction I am to travel. All depends upon an interesting meeting to which I have called the members of a curious tribe. They may have arranged my journey for me.
Wrenshaw read through what he had written and mentally condemned it for a stupid letter, a pooreffort. What more was there to say? Plenty he wanted to say, but what more could he say? He couldn't add that he felt sleepy now and must go to bed, it would look so silly with that opening reference to the strong coffee. How should he end it?
He settled the matter by saying that he would tell her all about his plans in the morning, and signed himself: "Your sincerest friend, D.W." He then addressed the envelope.
Rising, he split a thin stick a few inches down its length, inserted the envelope, and made it fast with a twist of bark. Then he pressed the stick into the ground. The letter in its holder resembled a miniature notice board. If the natives did dispose of him, they wouldn't destroy the letter. The written message is sacred in Africa: some native would deliver it to some white man. In due course it would reach her, shortly after the news of his death, perhaps. If she cared, she would understand. If she didn't, she would vote it a dull letter.
Rather ashamed of his weakness, Wrenshaw poured himself out another large mug of strong black coffee and returned to his lonely vigil.
His three companions were sound asleep, snoring loudly. Of the three, the interpreter had most cause for concern, because he should have had some inkling of the position, but even he slept. The half-caste was a brainless fellow, albeit a good cook. The gunbearer didn't bother his head about matters which didn't appear to disturb his master.
In the far distance a lion was roaring. A large green beetle hurried past Wrenshaw's feet in the direction of the fire. He picked it up and threw it far into the darkness; the insect somehow reminded him of himself.
Just before dawn the gunbearer woke up feeling cold. He crept out of his blanket and to the fire, which had died down and was nearly out. On reaching the fire he saw his master sleeping in his chair without other covering than the clothes he had ridden in throughout the afternoon. The man quietly got his own blanket and gently spread it over his master's knees.
Wrenshaw was wide awake in an instant. His hand shot out to his pistol, but, recognising his gunbearer, the movement was arrested. He accepted the attention; to have refused the grimy blanket would have been ungracious and have hurt the man; besides, he was chilled to the bone. He told the gunbearer to rake the fire together and throw on some more wood. There was still some coffee in the pot, and this he heated and drank.
Feeling warmer, he got up and paced about to restore his circulation and get rid off his stiffness.
So after all he had slept; well, he was glad he had, for now he felt rested and refreshed.
He woke the interpreter and told him to feed the horses. The cook got up and took charge of the fire.
Looking towards the other side of the plain he saw signs that the Barushu were also astir. The points of light twinkled at him across the intervening space.
The sky in the east was becoming tinged with red. The silence was broken only by the sound of his animals munching their corn. This, slight as it was, woke a flock of guinea fowl roosting in some trees not far away; they began to exchange shrill greetings.
As it became lighter he could see a thin ribbon of white mist suspended over the swamp. This did not interfere with his view of the high ground on whichthe Barushu had camped during the night, but he could distinguish nothing but the dark shadow of the palm trees and undergrowth. The light of the first was becoming rapidly paler as the day dawned.
The gunbearer, who had the usual eyesight of uncivilised man, was the first to notice movement on the other side.
"The Barushu are coming, Morena."
"Good, many of them?"
"Yes, many."
Wrenshaw took his glasses and scanned the further edge of the swamp. Yes, there they came, in single file. He smiled as he noted the twistings of the secret path which they followed. On they came, a thin black stream fed constantly from the palm tree forest. Soon the head of the column disappeared in the stratum of mist which obscured the greater part of the swamp, but the stream of natives from the palm trees did not cease.
Wrenshaw untied his rifle from the tent pole and put it and the horse pistol on his camp table. Then he pushed the table into the patrol tent and, placing his chair in the entrance, sat down. In this position he had only to stretch out his hand to reach his weapons if the necessity arose; in the meantime they were out of sight.
Although he had been expecting for some time to see the first Barushu emerge from the mist, he was a little startled when he realised that the van of the oncoming column was within three hundred yards of him. The natives had left the secret path, but still moved in single file.
By this time it was quite light.
Wrenshaw took up his glasses again and examined his visitors. They were an ugly looking lot and quitenaked. He presently became aware that there was something strange about them; what was it? Oh, of course, contrary to their custom, they carried no assegais. Well, that, at any rate, was a good sign.
Then again, they were walking extraordinarily slowly. Marking time, obviously, until their fellows had crossed the swamp. On second thoughts Wrenshaw rejected that explanation. He kept his glasses fixed on the foremost man. The fellow appeared to be lame, lame in the right leg. He shifted his glasses. By Jingo, the whole lot were lame, all lame or stiff in the right leg.
It was the gunbearer who solved the mystery.
"Morena."
"Well?"
"Why do the Barushu carry their assegais in their toes to-day?"
"Why, indeed?"
So the devils meant trouble after all. Stalking him, were they? He would make some of 'em smart for this.
The white man took some cartridges from his pocket and placed them handy on the table. He glanced at his letter, which stood erect in its holder like a miniature notice-board.
He looked at the dull-brained cook and felt sorry for him. His interpreter, who was standing, appeared to be feeling faint. The gunbearer was quite unperturbed.
Close to a large dead tree, which stood alone in the plain about a hundred yards from where Wrenshaw was sitting, the leader halted and the Barushu began to bunch into knots, talking quietly. Wrenshaw didn't like the look of things. Something must bedone, and done quickly. He must make the first move, and lose no time about it.
"Go," he said to the interpreter, "and tell the Barushu that they may pile their assegais against that tree, and after that they may come forward and talk to me."
"Morena, I am afraid."
"So it seems, but what's the matter with your hands, with your coat?"
The interpreter was terrified, and, which was worse, showed it. He fiddled with the buttons of his coat, doing them up, undoing them, and again doing them up. His pale, yellow face had become greenish, his eyes were rolling, and he seemed unable to stand still.
This would never do. Even if the Barushu meant no mischief, such an exhibition of fear wasn't good for them.
"Pick up that log," said Wrenshaw, pointing to a huge piece of wood collected overnight for the fire, "and hold it in your arms."
The frightened man obeyed, he held the log as a woman does a baby.
Wrenshaw turned to the gunbearer, "You go and tell them to stack their assegais and come forward to talk. Don't go too near them, shout from halfway. I have my rifle ready."
If the Barushu made to kill his man he would open fire at once and get in a few shots before the end came.
The gunbearer stepped forward. The Barushu watched his approach. A single man and unarmed. They could see that the white man was alone save for a Government servant in clothes; he, at any rate, was of no account. Then there was the half-caste at the fire; well, after all, what could two men do against so many? What was the trap? No, let this fellow comeforward, they would wait and see what he was going to do.
Halfway the gunbearer stopped and delivered his message in a loud voice that all could hear. Then he repeated it. No one heard his voice the third time, although he shouted lustily, for the Barushu broke into peals of laughter. "Oh, this white man, how cunning he is; so he has found us out and has spoilt our very good joke. Well, well, better do as we are told, put our assegais against the tree and hear what he is going to say to us. But it would have been very funny."
Each man lifted his right foot, and removing his assegai from between his toes placed it against the dead tree.
At length all the Barushu were seated, marshalled to their places by the imperturbable gunbearer. At a signal from Nanzela, who sat slightly in advance of his followers, a good two thousand men clapped their hands in greeting to the chief official of the District.
So far, so good. Normal relations had been established. The usual formal inquiries concerning the well-being of each were put and answered.
"Come nearer, Nanzela, and sit here," said Wrenshaw. "I wish to speak to you."
Nanzela walked to the spot pointed out to him and sat down.
"The time has come when all men pay the tax to the Government. Have you had warning of it?"
"I have."
"All the people are paying the tax willingly and well."
Nanzela made no reply, but gazed at the speaker with an expression of indifference.
Wrenshaw put his hand carelessly on the butt of his rifle and resumed.
"There are but two paths for a man to travel, the one is towards peace, and the other to trouble, war."
Nanzela blinked. He had not been able to see the white man's rifle from where he sat until called to come closer, nor had he noticed it before Wrenshaw's careless gesture drew his attention to it. His arms and those of his people were piled against the tree, and so, for the moment, out of reach. The white man's hand was on his rifle. All white men were good shots, and Wrenshaw had a reputation for being better than most. If he chose the wrong path now he would be the first to suffer. It would not be wise to run risks.
"It is only a foolish man who seeks trouble."
"Exactly," said Wrenshaw, "that is why all men are paying willingly and in full. I see you have your purse on your arm and have come to pay your tax." And again his hand caressed the butt of his rifle.
Nanzela unbuckled an armlet which held his money.
Turning to the interpreter Wrenshaw told him to put down the log, which he was still nursing, and get a book of tax receipt forms from the pack-saddle.
Nanzela shook half-a-sovereign from his purse.
The official made out a receipt for ten shillings, which he gave in exchange for the money. Then, raising his voice, he said: "Every man who has paid the tax must carry his tax-paper in a stick so that all may see that he has paid willingly and in full."
The gunbearer cut a reed, slit it a few inches down its length, and offered it to Nanzela. The Chief slipped his tax-paper into the slit and bound the top with a shred of bark.
How simple it all was! Now man after man came forward, paid his tax, and received in exchange a small square of coloured paper, which he slipped into a split reed, making it fast with a shred of bark.Their Chief had paid, they naturally followed his example.
Wrenshaw had only one book of receipts with him; he had thrown it into the pack-saddle at the last moment. The book held one hundred forms, and these he had now used.
Some of the men had no money with them, which was not to be wondered at, since they had come out looking for trouble and certainly with no intention of paying tax. He seized upon this as an excuse for collecting no more tax that day, and informed Nanzela that he would accompany him and his people back to the village and encamp there, so that each man might bring his money from his hut. He made no reference to the night spent on the high land near the river.
The animals were saddled up and the interpreter sent back on his pony with a note calling upon the Native Commissioners to follow to Nanzela's village with all possible speed, bringing their census books, tax receipt forms, and the rest of their travelling office.
A strange procession now formed. First walked the Chief with his assegai—recovered from the tree—in one hand and the tax-paper in the other. Then a body-guard of fully-armed men, some with and some without tax-papers. In the midst of these rode Wrenshaw, with his rifle gripped between his saddle and his thigh. Then followed the gunbearer leading the mule; the cook slouched along behind.
The rear was brought up by the remainder of Nanzela's men, a few of whom had tax-papers, which they carried well in the air, much to the envy of those who had not yet paid. The little papers in the sticks appealed to the child-like fancy of these savages; taxpaying had become a game, a receipt in a stick, a toy.
To say that Wrenshaw was much relieved is not to overstate the case. As he looked round him upon this mob of armed men eager to pay their tax and receive in exchange a piece of coloured paper, he realised better than anyone else could how tight a corner he had been in.
His thoughts were disturbed by a commotion as the ranks parted and a man ran up to him with a letter in a stick; as the native held it up it resembled a miniature notice-board.
Good heavens! It was his letter home; in the excitement of starting he had forgotten it. The man who brought it was one of Nanzela's people who had gone back to pick up anything which the white man or his servants might have left behind. He hoped, no doubt, to find a stray cartridge or two in the grass, or perhaps a spoon or a table knife.
Wrenshaw did not remove the letter from the stick, but carried it as the natives did their tax-papers. The simple people became impatient to pay their tax; was not the white man also playing this new game?
The letter home was never sent. In place of it Wrenshaw despatched a brief account of his adventure, told in a very matter-of-fact way.
Over the mantelpiece of his den hangs a frame; in place of a picture it contains a letter in a stick which, at a short distance, looks like a miniature notice-board.
Those who go in search of trouble usually find it. They deserve no sympathy and seldom get any.
The well-meaning man frequently meets with trouble too, although it is the one thing he doesn't want. When he is in difficulties, people pity him; they give him that pity which is akin to contempt, not to love.
But Harry Warner was lucky. He most certainly went in search of trouble; he also meant well. His reward was unusual and quite out of proportion to the little good he did. He achieved immortal, if only local, fame.
It was the natives who dubbed him "doctor." He wasn't one, he had no medical qualifications and little knowledge of medicine.
But what do black people know or care about qualifications? Wasn't Warner always accessible? Did he not give medicine to all who asked for it, no matter what the disease might be? Did not some of those to whom he gave medicine recover? Had he ever asked anyone for payment?
What a doctor!
So the natives declared, and do still declare, that there never has been, never will be, never could be so great a doctor in their country as he.
Now if Warner possessed no medical knowledge, he had the "goods." The goods consisted of a miscellaneous collection of superfluous drugs, plasters and pills, all a little stale, packed in an old whisky case and presented to him by a hospital orderly of his acquaintance.
Warner watched the packing and asked questions.
"Iodine, what's that for?"
"Oh, sore throat, water on the knee, to stop vomiting, for fixing a gumboil, chilblains, and a host of other things. It's made from seaweed."
"Do you drink it?"
"Not in every case, not with housemaid's knee or sore throat, anyway. You paint it in the throat or on the knee. Here, we'd better put you in a camel's hairbrush."
"Good. And what's nitrate of potash for?"
"Well, if you have an inflamed eye, put a spot or two in this eye-cup, fill it up with water and blink into it—like this."
"Thanks. And what do you use chlorodyne for?"
"Bad pains in the stomach."
"I see. And quinine is good for fever, of course."
"Yes, that's right. Cover a sixpence with the powder, mix it with a little whisky, add a little water, and toss it off."
"And corrosive sublimate?"
"Oh, that's good stuff for washing wounds with, jolly good. Don't make it too strong or you'll burn the bottom out of the pot you mix it in, not to mention the wounded part. About one in ten thousand makes a useful solution if the water you use isn't too dirty."
"I understand. And what is in this funny little box marked 'Sovereign Remedy'?"
"Dash it all! That box belongs to my set of conjuring tricks. Can't think how it's got mixed up with this lot. But you may as well take it along; you might want to surprise the natives and you'll certainly do it with that."
"How do you use it?"
"It's all on the box, full directions."
"And what's in all these pill boxes? Pills?"
"Yes, pills."
"But what are they all for?"
"Bless the man! I haven't time to wade through the lot. Besides, you must know in a general way what pills are for. All the boxes have the dose on them. Now let's get a move on. Give a hand with the packing. I'm on duty in half an hour."
And now we know just as much about doctoring as Warner did on the threshhold of his short medical career. Even a real doctor has much to learn before he reaches Harley Street; he picks up many wrinkles on the way and much improves with practice.
Warner had travelled many miles from civilisation before his first patient came to him. The precious box of medicines had all along been kept handy on the waggon. From time to time he got it down, unpacked it, examined the labels, shook the bottles, and carefully repacked them. But, like a real doctor, he did not advertise. It isn't done.
Somehow it did get about at last that he had a box of medicines. How, it doesn't really matter. The fact remains that a native came to the waggon one morning with a strip of bark tied tightly round his forehead, another round his chest, and a third round his belly.
Warner, recognising a case, asked the native what the matter was.
The boy replied: "I have much pain here and here and here," touching the bands of bark in downward succession.
Warner, pleased at getting a patient at last, took the box of medicines from the waggon, opened it, took out the bottles one by one, and examined the labels with the eye of a master.
"Iodine? No, that's for housemaid's knee, gumboils and that sort of thing. Corrosive sublimate? Wounds. Nitrate of potash? No, eyes. Why not a pill? Yes, a pill."
But there were boxes and boxes of them. He picked up one after the other, but met with a check. Each box had on its label the name of its pill contents, followed by the words: "From one to three as ordered by the physician." In some cases: "From two to six." There was nothing about the complaint for which the pill might be used.
Just a little difficult. Doctoring was not such an easy job after all.
"What's this?"
The gaudy label on a small box read:
Sovereign Remedy. Trick No. 10.Never known to fail. Surprising in its effects.Directions:—Borrow a sovereign. Request the lender to take a seat. Ask him how he feels. Tell him he is looking off-colour. Suggest headache. Say you will brighten him up, that you will make his head glow pleasantly, etc. Palm the sovereign in yourleft hand. Empty contents of box into your right. Rub the powder well into gent's head, which will become golden (metallic). Then proceed as in Trick No. 6.
Sovereign Remedy. Trick No. 10.
Never known to fail. Surprising in its effects.
Directions:—Borrow a sovereign. Request the lender to take a seat. Ask him how he feels. Tell him he is looking off-colour. Suggest headache. Say you will brighten him up, that you will make his head glow pleasantly, etc. Palm the sovereign in yourleft hand. Empty contents of box into your right. Rub the powder well into gent's head, which will become golden (metallic). Then proceed as in Trick No. 6.
The directions seemed clear enough.
"Sit down," said Warner.
The native obeyed, squatting on the ground and spreading his loin cloth over his knees like an apron.
"I am going to take away your pains."
"Thank you, sir."
It suddenly occurred to Warner that, though the native might have a shilling, he certainly would not possess a sovereign, so he took one from his own pocket, wishing he had thought of this before.
"You see this?" said Warner, holding up the coin.
"Yes sir, much money."
Now Warner didn't know how to palm a coin. He had seen it done, of course, but had never yet tried to palm or to do anything else in the nature of a conjuring trick. To guard against possible accident, he turned his back upon the boy and very cautiously opened the box.
It was full of some bright yellow metallic powder. He read the directions again and wondered what Trick No. 6 might be. He wished he had risked a pill.
However, he had not the courage to go back now. The native might suspect his ignorance if he selected another box. It was hardly playing the game perhaps to trick a poor confiding black, but Warner consoled himself with the thought that it is said of even real doctors that when in doubt they sometimes give their patients bread pills.
So, emptying the contents of the box into his right hand, he turned again and began to rub the golden powder into the native's woolly head. The sovereign he held in his left hand.
The more he rubbed, the brighter grew his patient's head. It scintillated.
The trick pleased Warner, who soon forgot his misgivings; he forgot the sovereign too, and rubbed the powder in with both hands.
The coin fell into the patient's lap. Warner was busy and didn't notice the accident at once, but the native did. He picked up the money and quietly slipped it into the rawhide pouch attached to his belt.
At length Warner stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. The boy's head shone like a brass knob. He glanced at his own hands. They looked as if they had been gilded. Both hands! Where the devil had that sovereign gone to?
He looked on the ground. He felt in all his pockets. He looked at the boy, who said nothing. He therefore dismissed the patient without mentioning his loss.
Whilst washing the greasy gold stuff off his hands, Warner was conscious of a hum of excitement rising from the spot where his natives had made their midday shelter. Trick No. 10 was evidently a success. The hospital orderly was right; he had surprised the natives.
That night all his boys, and a score of strange natives besides, came to Warner complaining of pains. Each one had a strip of bark tied tightly round his forehead, a second round his chest, and a third round his stomach. They lingered as if dissatisfied when he gave pills to each—one or more as ordered by the physician—taken at random from his many little pill boxes.
Warner was sitting under a tree on the south bank of the Zambesi, watching the local natives floating hiswaggon across the stream. He was wondering how long, at the present rate of progression, it would take to get the whole of his stuff across. Two days, three, perhaps more.
"Sir, my felicitations upon the indefectibility of the climatology."
The startled Warner looked round and saw a black man very stout and short, in European clothes and perspiring freely. He carried his large elastic-sided boots in his hand and a black alpaca coat over his arm.
As Warner turned towards him, this strange creature politely lifted his ridiculously small sun helmet. It could not be said that he bowed to the white man, but the braces which he wore over his waistcoat sagged slightly in front and became taut behind, whilst the crease which represented the highest contour of his stomach deepened a little. Warner gaped stupidly at the man. He made mental note of the large gold spectacles astride the fat, flat nose; the collar, once white and starched, now grubby and collapsed; the heavy brass watchchain stretched tightly across the ample space between pocket and pocket; the badly creased loud check trousers, and the dirty white socks; the large green umbrella which, held to shield the back, framed face and form.
Warner forgot the man's ridiculous speech in his more ridiculous appearance.
"As I ventured to remark, sir, although the orb of day smiles down with radiance from the firmament, the temperamental calidity is not unendurable."
"Yes," said Warner vaguely, "but who are you?"
"Sir, if you will pardon the expression I may say I am a kind of a wandering refugee hailing from Jamaicawith a mission to carry the apprehensions of civilisation to the unspeakably incomprehending aboriginal inhabitants of this beatific equatorial region who are doubtless immersed in the chaotic complexity of irreligious heathenism and incondite boorishness."
Warner eyed the speaker with astonishment, feeling tired, somehow, and out of breath.
The black man saw, with obvious pleasure, the effect which his speeches had produced.
He had spoken fluently, continuously, without pause or effort. Without expression or inflexion the long unbroken flow of chosen words had rumbled off his tongue.
He cleared his throat as if about to speak again, but Warner hastily interposed.
"What is your name?"
"Joseph Johnson, sir."
"You are obviously a man of some education."
"Sir, if I may presume to express an opinion upon Your Honour's personality I would hazard the conclusion that Your Excellency is a gentleman of kindly but penetrating discernment for I received my education at the hands of the Reverend Westinghouse Wilberforce of Kingston Jamaica alas now dead of whom as the classical writer has itde mort nil ni bumI repeat sirde mort nil ni bum."
Warner abruptly turned his back, snatched out his handkerchief, and held it tightly to his nose.
Joseph Johnson, mistaking for emotion the queer little sounds which Warner did not entirely succeed in smothering with his handkerchief, sniffed and blinked his small eyes sympathetically, murmuring "de-mort-nil-ni-bum."
When Warner had regained his self-control he asked the black man what he wanted.
"Sir, I am credibly informed that you are a distinguished member of a profession which has my humble but unqualified admiration and regard for what can be nobler than the unselfish alleviation in others of the ills to which this weak flesh of ours is heir need I say the medical profession?"
"What then?"
"I suffer your honour from a slight but painful derangement of the vocal chords which hinders my fluency of enunciation and so disturbs my mental process as to detract from the strength of my disputations and dissertations."
"You mean you have a sore throat?"
"Sir, you grasp my meaning."
"You want some medicine for it?"
"Sir, if I might so far encroach upon your generosity...."
Warner rose hastily and walked to his goods piled up on the bank awaiting transportation, leaving Johnson to rumble on and on.
Here, then, was another patient. He must be careful. The man might know something and question his treatment. That would be most awkward.
"Corrosive sublimate? Wounds, the orderly had said, and had warned him about burning out the bottom of the pot used when mixing the stuff. Better look through the rest before deciding.
"Pills? Might do the objectionable fellow some general good.
"Iodine? Yes, that's the stuff for him. Iodine for housemaid's knee or sore throat. Well, the man said he had a sore throat and he should know, so iodine let it be. Where's the brush?"
Warner opened the bottle. The cork was a little soft and inclined to crumble. He dipped the tip of thelarge camel's hair brush into the dark brown liquid and called Joseph Johnson to him.
"I am going to paint your throat. It also wants a thorough rest, so you must not talk more than is absolutely necessary."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now open."
The black man's mouth was immense. Warner had never seen such a cavern, nor, for that matter, had he ever seen such a perfect, strong, clean set of teeth. He gave little dabs here and there, this side and that, and then withdrew the brush.
"That's enough for this morning. Come again at sunset, and remember, don't talk."
This admonition he repeated in self-defence. He rather dreaded the man's brook of words.
His patient bent forward slightly, put on his sun helmet and walked away, his eyes watering a little.
The man was most obedient. Punctually at sunset he again appeared. He smiled pleasantly at Warner, but did not announce himself with any long-winded speech.
Warner looked at the throat and remarked that he thought it was better, that one or two applications would set it right. He then painted as before.
This time Johnson coughed and large tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.
Then it occurred to Warner that he himself, when a child, had had his throat painted, more than once. He recollected that the operation was not a pleasant one. He had coughed a great deal, and his eyes had watered very much. Clearly he was underdoing it. No matter, he would put that right to-morrow.
Warner was pleasantly surprised when, in the morning, the local natives came to tell him that they wereabout to cross the river with the last of his goods, after which they would take him if he was ready to go. He had expected the job to take at least another day.
He kept back the bottle of iodine and the camel's hair brush, and sat down on a camp stool to wait for Johnson.
In about a quarter of an hour the patient arrived.
"How are you this morning?" asked Warner pleasantly.
"Much better, I thank you, sir."
"Let's have a look. Capital, capital. Now don't move, I'll just touch it up."
Warner, remembering his overnight decision, plunged the brush deeply into the bottle and withdrew it fully charged and dripping.
He began to dab the throat here and there as before. A gurgling sound came from Joseph Johnson's mouth. Warner recognised the warning. He knew his time was distinctly limited. He felt that, if he did not hurry, much of the enormous cavern would remain unpainted. With a rapid movement, like one stirring porridge to save it from burning, he finished the job and stepped back.
Joseph Johnson seemed to explode. Tears forced their way through his tightly closed eyelids. A roar boomed from the painted throat. The patient's condition quite alarmed the doctor. Surely the fool wasn't going to die?
Looking round for inspiration, Warner saw that the native canoe had returned to ferry him across the river. He didn't actually run away, but quickly corking his bottle of iodine he walked briskly to the river bank, entered the canoe and told the crew to paddle to the other side.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped ashore.He looked back, but could see no sign of Joseph Johnson.
Some weeks later his troubled conscience was set at rest by the following letter:
"Bulawayo,"21/4/19."Honoured Sir,"The enablement was not vouchsafed to me to indicate to Your Excellency the prodigious potentiality of the prophylactic applied with such consummate and conscientious technicality to my unostentatious tenement of clay. For full three weeks the taciturnity prescribed was obediently observed without difficulty or mutinousness of feeling. After which, rising from the slough of my despond, I found my multiloquence had returned fourfold, my linguacious allocution and discursive conversationalism prominently augmented. I then felt that my mission was not to the unenlightened ignoramusses of this neighbourhood but to the encyclopedical omnicients of the south. I have therefore returned to Bulawayo. Now here...."
"Bulawayo,"21/4/19.
"Honoured Sir,
"The enablement was not vouchsafed to me to indicate to Your Excellency the prodigious potentiality of the prophylactic applied with such consummate and conscientious technicality to my unostentatious tenement of clay. For full three weeks the taciturnity prescribed was obediently observed without difficulty or mutinousness of feeling. After which, rising from the slough of my despond, I found my multiloquence had returned fourfold, my linguacious allocution and discursive conversationalism prominently augmented. I then felt that my mission was not to the unenlightened ignoramusses of this neighbourhood but to the encyclopedical omnicients of the south. I have therefore returned to Bulawayo. Now here...."
As there were four closely written pages of this kind of thing, Warner turned to the last of them, which ended:
"Sir, I have the honour to be"Your Honourable Excellency's most grateful, most humble, most obedient and unforgetful servant,"Joseph Johnson."
"Sir, I have the honour to be
"Your Honourable Excellency's most grateful, most humble, most obedient and unforgetful servant,
"Joseph Johnson."
Late one afternoon some natives carried an old man, wrapped in a blanket, into Warner's camp and laid him down on the ground before the tent. Warner came out.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A dead man, killed by a leopard."
"Why do you bring the dead man to me?"
"He said he wanted to come and told us he would curse us if we did not bring him. We did not wish to trouble the Doctor with a dead man, but a 'dead man's curse' is a fearful thing."
Warned stooped and looked under the blanket. The man wasn't dead, he opened his eyes.
Although far from dead, the native had been very badly mauled and had lost a great quantity of blood. Tyro though he was, Warner could see that his condition was serious. Stepping back into the tent, he poured out half a tumbler of neat whisky and, lifting the man's head, made him drain the glass. The effect upon the patient was immediate; he sat up and began to talk rapidly, describing the accident.
"We were hunting, these dogs, those others, and I. We came upon a leopard in the grass. One, who is not here, thrust an assegai through her. She bit him in the arm and he ran away. Another, and neither is he here, struck the leopard with his axe. She jumped on him and bit him in the neck. He ran away crying out that she had killed him.
"A third, who did not return with us, broke her back with a club, but she tore his thigh with her teeth. Then I went to her and pierced her belly with my assegai. But she bit me in the arm and shoulder and clawed me down the back. She also broke my assegai with her teeth so that it was useless.
"Then, having nothing with which to kill her, I held her by the ears with my two hands, calling to these slaves to come and finish her, for I could see by her face that she was dying. But they were afraid and ran away like women. And the leopard shook her head and my hands slipped because of the blood which had run down my arm from my shoulder. And whenmy hands came together, she took them in her mouth and crushed them both. Then she died."
The man's hands were swollen and shapeless. He had a large gash and a deep puncture in his shoulder, and his back was very badly scored.
After staring for a while at their companion, the natives who brought him slipped quietly away, hastened in their departure, no doubt, by his reference to the sorry part which they had played in the affair.
Warner was greatly pleased. He looked upon the coming of this wounded man as a stroke of good fortune. Here at last was a straightforward case, all clear and above board. And he knew exactly what to do. Corrosive sublimate, one in ten thousand, wash the blood off, keep the wounds clean, make the man comfortable.
He shouted for his kitchen boys and ordered warm water in large quantities. He had not seen them go, so called the wounded man's companions to build a shelter of grass and branches for him. When he realised that they had gone, he set to work on the shelter himself.
For weeks Warner laboured on those wounds. The man improved slowly. As he grew better he spoke of payment. Warner told him not to bother about it, but he persisted.
"Have you not given me back my life?"
"What of it?"
"Are not those others dead?"
Now, this was true. The other wounded men who went to their homes all died of blood-poisoning, and Warner's reputation grew in consequence.
But no matter what arguments and persuasions were used, Warner would not hear of payment in any shape or form.
The man was obstinate.
"If I receive a gift from a man, must I not give one in return? Am I to be shamed? Is it not the custom that a gift shall be received with a gift? And gifts must be equal. What, then, shall I give to the Great Doctor? What have I, a very poor man, of value equal to the life which the Doctor has given back to me? I have no cattle and no sheep. I have a few goats, very few, and I have some wild cats' skins. But what are these to a life?"
Twice daily did Warner wash and dress the man's wounds. Each time the man spoke of a gift for a gift. He seemed to feel his honour was at stake.
At length the day came when Warner thought he could safely send his patient away. The man's final protestations of gratitude and his entreaties to be permitted to make some payment caused Warner much embarrassment. He firmly declined to accept the merest trifle in return for all his time and trouble. He would not be robbed of the feeling that at length he had done some genuine good for good's sake.
Of course he could explain nothing of this to the old native.
The man was much troubled. He went away at length saying he would bring next day the gift which he knew now the Doctor wanted. Warner repeated that he wanted nothing and would take nothing.
Next morning, when Warner got up and came out of his tent, he found the old man waiting for him. He was not alone. By his side sat a little girl, the old man's daughter.
Warner remembered having seen her several times before during her father's long illness. From time to time she had come with her mother to inquire howthe old man progressed and to bring him some horrid-looking native delicacy.
"Here she is," said the late patient. "Here is my child. She is my only one. You ask for her and I give her to you. A life for a life, which is just."
Warner protested indignantly that he had not asked for the girl, that he did not want her or anything else.
"See, she is strong," persisted the old man. "She is strong to carry water, to grind grain. She is worth three cows, five goats and ten hoes."
Warner became quite angry.
The old man was incredulous and distressed. He had somehow concluded that Warner had really set his heart upon possessing his daughter, his plain, fat little daughter and nothing else, but that, native-like, he had not said so.
In the end Warner accepted, in self-defence, a mangy, evil-smelling cat's skin.
A day or two after Warner had become the unwilling possessor of the mangy skin, which, by the way, he promptly buried as soon as its donor's back was turned, he set out on a three days' journey from his camp to visit a white trader with whom from time to time he transacted business of some kind. He went on foot, accompanied only by a few natives, one of whom carried the box of medicines.
While he was resting during the midday heat, the Headman of the neighbouring village approached him with many signs of deference.
"Good day to you, Great Doctor."
"Good day to you," Warner replied.
"Are you indeed the Great Doctor?"
Warner was bold enough to say he was.
"Will the Great Doctor help me with medicines? My wife, who is very old, suffers from a great sickness. Her arms are now no thicker than a stick. Pain is with her always. She never sleeps. All day long and all the night she lies and moans. She no longer cries out. Will not the Great Doctor kill this sickness? I have told her of you."
Warner rose abruptly. He felt a lump rising in his throat. He wished he were a doctor instead of merely the owner of a box of drugs and all but ignorant of the uses to which they should be put.
"Where is your wife?" he asked gruffly.
"The Great Doctor will come!" exclaimed the delighted old native, leading the way towards his village.
Warner could distinguish little or nothing when he found himself inside the Headman's hut. Coming in directly from the outside glare made it difficult to see. The native pointed to a form propped up against the pole which supported the roof of the hut.
Warner looked; suddenly he saw all there was to see, and gasped as a faint moan of pain reached his ears. A thin old woman lay there with closed eyes, so thin that Warner marvelled that she could be alive. Her arms and legs, too, for that matter were indeed, as the Headman had said, as thin as sticks. Her distended ribs showed plainly even in the dim light. She had neither hair nor flesh on her skull, merely wrinkled, dull brown skin adhering closely to the bone. Her neck was no thicker than one's wrist. Her stomach was enormous.
Warner looked down upon this poor, emaciated creature with horror.
She moaned again.
Her husband said: "See, woman, here is the Great Doctor of whom all men speak. He has turned aside from his journeying to make you well with medicines. Does he not make all men well? Do not the people say so? Soon you will be well and will laugh again. Soon you will sit in the sun or go to the fields. Do you hear, woman? The Great Doctor has come."
Warner cursed under his breath. He never expected this sort of thing when he lightheartedly accepted from the hospital orderly the box of medicines with a conjuring trick thrown in. The thought of that conjuring trick was nauseating in the presence of this pain.
Save for the rapid heaving of her bony chest to laboured breathing, the woman had made no move since he entered the hut. Now, however, Warner saw the drooping eyelids flicker. A fear seized him that the poor creature would look up. He couldn't stand that. He couldn't meet her eyes. He hurried away, saying he would bring some medicine.
He reached his resting place and opened his box. Right on the top lay the bottle of chlorodyne. He repeated to himself: "Chlorodyne, good for pains in the stomach! Chlorodyne, good for pains in the stomach!"
Warner returned to the hut but wouldn't go in. He pushed the bottle into the old man's hand saying, parrot-like: "Good for pains in the stomach, give her some water with it."
Then he went back to his halt again, called to his boys to pack up and follow him, anxious only to put distance between himself and all that pain and suffering.
Ten days later Warner passed by that village againon his return journey. He could have followed another route, but a strong desire to ask about the woman drew him to the village. He must know about the woman. He had casually asked the trader with whom he had transacted his business how much chlorodyne one usually takes at a dose. The reply: "Oh, about fifteen drops or from ten to twenty, according to your size," nearly made his heart stand still. And he, the Great Doctor, had given the old native a full bottle of the stuff! True, he had not told him how much to take, but Warner found scant consolation in this thought.
As he and his carriers neared the village, he heard a great commotion, men shouting to each other and women making that shrill quavering noise familiar to all travellers in Africa. He thought he could distinguish the word "doctor." He was certain of it now. "The Great Doctor is coming. He who saves the people! The white man with the medicines! The Doctor! The Doctor!"
The natives broke through from the bush on every hand. They surrounded the little party. The carriers were quickly relieved of their loads. There was no mistaking the nature of the demonstration; it was one of goodwill, not of hate.
The old Headman hobbled up, praising Warner lustily.
What could it all mean?
At length Warner asked the question point blank: "How is your wife?"
"Oh, she is dead," replied the old man. "She died with a smile upon her face. I gave her half a cup full of your medicine filled up with water. She was silent for a long while. Then she said: 'I have now no pain.' And then: 'Give me more.' She smiled whenI gave her another cup of your good medicine. And then she slept. And I knew she had no pain because she smiled. And as she slept she died. And when we buried her the smile was on her face. You are a Great Doctor and your medicine is very good. Good Fortune has come to the people that you are here. Can a man smile who is in pain? Does not a smile mean pleasure? Ah, but that is a good medicine."
"Give me back that bottle," said Warner, and his voice sounded strangely weak.
"Yes, Great Doctor, it is indeed a precious medicine."
The memory of that old woman haunted Warner. He argued continuously with himself. Yes, he had certainly killed her. There was no doubt about it. On the other hand, she would have died in any case. If he had not come upon the scene, she might have lingered on for a few more weary weeks, never free from pain. Still, if he had overdosed her intentionally to end her pain, it would surely have been murder. At best it was a criminal blunder. But then he meant well. So, too, do other fools. Common sense told him he had no cause to worry, nothing to regret, it was merely a fortunate accident. Conscience viewed the matter seriously and with harshness.
Warner was still engaged in this mental struggle when a stranger, a white man, walked briskly up to his tent.
"Is anyone at home?"
"Yes, come in."
"Have you any nitrate of potash, doctor?"
Warner had become so used to the term "doctor" that he did not at once notice the significance of the word when spoken by a white man. So he merely answered: "Yes, I think so. What do you want it for?"
"I, too, am a doctor."
"A doctor?"
"Yes, a medical missionary, your new neighbour on the other side of the hill."
"Sit down a minute, I'll get the stuff."
Warner went to his box and, opening it, surveyed his wretched stock of stale drugs. So here was a real doctor! Thank Providence for that! He passed in review his many cases, only a few of which are set down here. He knew he had done his best, but he blamed himself for ever having aped the doctor.
"Is there anything you want besides nitrate of potash?"
"No, thanks. I've got everything else I'm likely to require."
Warner brought the bottle. "Here you are."
"Thanks. I only want a little."
"Take the lot."
"But you'll want it sooner or later."
"No."
"Of course you will."
"No."
"Then you have some more?"
"No."
"Then of course you'll want it."
"No, I'm not a doctor and I don't know how to use it. I don't really know the use of any drug. I've probably killed off dozens of people in my efforts to assist. I'm so glad you've come to live here."
When Warner sent applicants for medical relief tohis new friend on the other side of the hill, they went, of course, but not too willingly. The newcomer did much good, but it was Warner who got the credit for it all. The natives invariably consulted Warner before going to the Missionary, and returned again to thank him after they had been treated. They persisted in the belief that the Missionary doctor was their Doctor's man.
Warner is still spoken of as "The Doctor"; all others who came later are referred to as "Medical Men."