The white man is superior to the black and must show it in his manners and deportment.
This is an unwritten law, observed in the early days of any of our African settlements.
For the man who breaks this law the punishment is swift and severe: he is shunned by his caste and colour.
It is said, but it is nevertheless generally true, that as the settlement prospers, so does this excellent law fall into abeyance. Men without manners arrive and are soon in the majority.
But in the beginnng, the white man watches himself very carefully. He knows all eyes are upon him. He must not permit himself to unbend. In the observance of the law, a man is very self-conscious and is apt to seem stiff and unsympathetic.
In the very, very early days of Kazungula the natives of the place watched some white men relax, and the spectacle afforded them as much pleasurable interest as the knowledge that they had been seen caused pain to the white men.
For many a day the natives of Kazungula commanded a ready audience anywhere in the country, for had not they, and they alone, seen white men at play?
It came about in this way.
A solitary white man stood on the north bank of the Zambesi river, looking across to the other side.
It was Knight, the Native Commissioner, who had for the last fortnight expected daily the arrival of some waggons which carried his year's provisions and other stores. He had little of anything left. No sugar, very little tea, and a single bottle of gin represented his cellar.
He longed each night for the usual "sundowner," but had determined not to open his one remaining bottle, in case of accident. Just what he meant by accident he could not have said. In answer to a direct question he might have replied: "Oh, anything might happen, one never knows."
To-night, for some reason unknown to himself, he was more impatient of the sluggard waggons than usual. Would the darned things never come?
The sun was setting and small flights of duck were going down stream to the marshy feeding grounds. A goose passed in the same direction.
The reed birds, in large noisy flocks, were choosing their roosting place for the night. It seemed that they could not make up their minds. No sooner had they settled in one patch of reeds than they started up with much twittering in search of a better place. They had done this at least a dozen times, and their indecision irritated the man.
A plump kingfisher, sitting on a log almost at his feet, dived from time to time into the shallow water and returned to his perch again. Knight noticed that the busy bird usually returned with a tiny silver fish in his bill, and mentally commended him for his good fishing.
Well, the waggons hadn't come, and wouldn't come to-night. The sun had set and it was growing dark. A chill wind sprang up and the reed birds had become silent. The watcher turned slowly and walked in the direction of his camp.
He had not gone far when he stopped, for he had caught sight of a queer-looking man hobbling towards him along the path which ran by the river side. In the dying light he saw that the stranger was a white man accompanied by a single native, that he wore a long blonde beard, that he was unusually tall, that his trousers were cut off above the knee, that he had no boots, that he was very lame and had his feet bandaged in rags. In short, he saw a fellow white man in distress.
He forgot his own little troubles and hastened towards the newcomer.
He gave the usual greeting of "Hulloa."
"Hulloa," was the reply.
"Going a bit short, I see."
"Yes, about done in."
"Let me give you a hand to my camp."
"Thanks; I heard I should find you here."
"Come far to-day?"
"Yes, from the Falls."
"A good forty-five miles, by Jove!"
"Yes, quite that, I should think."
The two men relapsed into silence; the taller one because he was very exhausted and felt it acutely now that he had reached his journey's end; the shorter, because he realised his companion's condition and did not wish to bother him with questions which could very well wait.
On reaching the camp Knight shouted to his body servant: "Hot bath and be quick!" Turning to hiscompanion, he said: "You'd like a hot bath, wouldn't you?"
"There is only one thing on earth I should like better, but no doubt you can give me both."
"Oh, I know; you want a drink, of course. I'll get you one in a second. Sit down."
"Curse those waggons," muttered Knight, as he hurried off to get his last bottle of gin. His second impulse was to thank goodness that the bottle was a "baby," that is, one of the largest size.
Returning with his precious "baby," he saw his guest's face clearly for the first time. The natives had lit the camp fire, and the light of it fell upon the strong features of the stranger.
"Good Lord! It's Lindsay!"
"Yes, why not? Didn't you recognise me at once?"
"No. Will you have water or a sparklet with your gin?" asked Knight, pouring out about half a glass of the spirit—a quantity known to travellers as a "three-finger tot."
"I'll chase it," said Lindsay, who, having gulped down the gin, held out his glass for some water.
"Bath ready, Morena," a black boy called from an adjoining hut.
"Have another?" said his host.
"No, thanks. I can face your hot bath now."
The tired man entered the hut, followed by the native who had reached the camp with him.
Knight called his cook and took stock. What was there for dinner? Soup. Oh, yes, there was always soup, made by boiling down bones and meat, throwing in a few dried vegetables and thickening with peaflour.
Fish? Good man; so he had caught some that veryevening? Then there was that cold bush-pig's head. Yes, they would like that. What else was there? Remembering the leathery thing his cook called an omelette, he discouraged a suggestion of eggs.
To be sure, there were chickens. They had just gone to roost, and were now quiet after a noisy bed-going. Yes, two very young ones spatchcocked, and with plenty of black pepper and a little salt. And there was one tinned plum pudding in the store; they would have that.
This plum pudding had been suggested daily by the cook, and always rejected because it might be wanted. It was wanted now. Yes, they would have the plum pudding.
And then there was the gin. Well, they wouldn't do so badly after all. Soup, fish, chickens, the cold pig's head and a hot plum pudding; what more could two men want?
By this time Lindsay had splashed to his heart's content, and the generous qualities of the gin were having their effect. He felt a new man.
"Are you out of your bath?"
"Yes; can you give me some clean kit?"
"Certainly, but will it fit you?"
"Oh, near enough. It will be clean, which is the main thing."
Much chaff ensued as Lindsay, who stood six feet three in his socks, got into some of his host's clothes, for Knight was the shorter of the two by some six inches, but fortunately broad in the shoulders.
"Can't do you in boots."
"Oh, that's all right. Give me some limbo[B]to tie up my feet."
During the bandaging the camp dogs began to bark loudly, and both men paused to listen.
"By the way," said Lindsay, "that must be Hobday. I walked on ahead of him; he is so deuced slow. Do you know Hobday? He's 'pills' to our expedition. Not a bad fellow, as doctors go."
"No, I don't know him and you haven't told me what the expedition is or anything about anything yet."
"Well, we've walked across country from Zanzibar, or rather Mombasa, looking for minerals."
"Found anything?"
"No."
"Well, I'd better go and look out for—what did you say his name was?"
"Hobday, quite a little fellow."
Knight went out of the hut and, as he passed the kitchen, ordered another bath and told the cook that as a second white man was arriving he must kill another chicken.
Almost immediately Hobday arrived. He was a short, precise little man, inclined to tubbiness.
"How do you do? My name is Mr. Hobday. I am the medical man attached to an important expedition headed by Mr. J.G. Lindsay, who may not be unknown to you."
To this long-winded greeting Knight replied: "Well, come along and have a drink and a hot bath and a change, and by that time dinner will be ready. Lindsay's here."
"I do not often indulge in alcoholic beverages and never in the daytime, but after a very tiring day——"
"Say when. Will you have a sparklet with it or do you prefer water?"
"Er, thanks, a sparklet if you please. I am ofopinion that the sparklet is a very useful invention. What would not that great traveller and hunter, Gordon Cumming, have given for what amounts to a portable soda-water factory? Ah, thank you, that is ample. And, as I always tell my patients, if they must drink alcohol, they will find in gin its least harmful form."
"What a queer little devil," thought Knight.
"I am greatly obliged to you for this stimulant, and now I shall be further and deeply indebted to you if I may have a bath. I always say that a hot bath, when one is tired, revives one more quickly and effectually than anything else."
Knight found it difficult to reply suitably to this, and was relieved when the bath was announced and the doctor disappeared into the hut.
Lindsay looked extremely funny in Knight's clothes. The old shooting jacket was a little short in the skirt and sleeves. The trousers reached half way down the tall man's shins, but he felt clean and comfortable and appearances didn't matter.
"Have another?"
"Thanks."
The two men sat and talked whilst the third bathed.
The rest of the expedition had remained at the Victoria Falls. There were a dozen white men altogether, and about a hundred and fifty natives. Lindsay heard that Knight was at Kazungula and came on to see him. The pair had been through the Matabele rebellion together, and had had other experiences in common. Hobday had insisted on coming too. His devotion to "The Head of the Expedition" rather embarrassed Lindsay. He was not a bad fellow on the whole, and a very capable doctor. The rest of the men with the exception ofGray—Knight knew Gray—were professional prospectors, good enough men at their particular job but a troublesome lot on an expedition.
No, they hadn't found anything really worth while, Lindsay thought, but some indications of oil might turn out a big thing.
Yes, they were going straight home from the Falls by way of Bulawayo, Salisbury and Beira, and if any of them came back to have another look, it would be this way and not in from Mombasa.
The question "Have another?" had been asked and satisfactorily answered before Hobday reappeared. He looked quite as funny in his host's clothes as Lindsay did. The only difference was that the coat and trousers supplied to him were as much too big for him as they were too small for Lindsay.
Hobday began to apologise for his appearance, but the announcement that dinner was ready cut short the unnecessary speech.
All three were hungry, the two visitors especially so.
If, during dinner, Hobday noticed that a native replenished his glass whenever it was empty, he made no protest.
The conversation almost at once turned to England, to London, and what each man had seen and done when last there. Towards the end of the meal dancing was the topic. These new dances, the jazz, the hesitation, the two-step, the fox-trot, and the rest; all agreed that they were impossible, that there was little difference, if any, between them and the average Kaffir dance. Hobday became quite eloquent on the subject, and, as they moved to chairs set ready for them round a camp fire, gravely stepped a measure which he was pleased to call the stately waltz, andthen proceeded to contrast it with what he termed the ridiculous prancings of the present day.
Although the uncomplimentary terms which he applied to modern dancing could with equal justice have been applied to the waltz as danced by him, his companions agreed and fell to talking again of dances they had been to when last at home.
Suddenly Lindsay said: "Why shouldn't we have a dance? One could hum the tune while the other two dance. We can take it turn and turn about to him. You and Hobday dance first and I'll hum. Why not?"
And thus began the dance which is talked of to this day by the natives who saw it.
Lindsay hummed the "Eton Boating Song" whilst Knight and Hobday waltzed round and round the fire. Although he bobbed about in an unnecessarily energetic manner, it was clear to Knight that Hobday had been inside a ballroom.
Then Knight sat down and hummed the "Blue Danube," but very badly, and with many notes strange to the tune, for Lindsay was six foot three and Hobday only five foot four!
Then Knight and Lindsay danced to the "Merry Widow," hummed by Hobday. They really got on very well together in spite of Lindsay's bandaged feet, for both, in civilisation, were adjudged good dancing men.
After that they each had some light refreshment in the shape of another tot of gin, and it was then that Hobday showed himself to be a man of imagination.
"Let's all dance now," he said. "Let's dance the Lancers."
"How?" said Lindsay, "we are only three and there should be at least eight for the Lancers."
"That don't matter," replied Hobday, "you two fellows take sides, I'll do top and bottom; our partners—well, they're in England, don't you see?"
And so it came about that in the heart of Africa, under the star-lit sky, three sane and more or less sober Englishmen danced right through the Lancers from beginning to end, one taking top and bottom, the other two the sides, whilst their partners were present only in the mind of each.
After the dance they stood silently round the dying fire, gazing into the embers.
Who can say what fair forms and faces they saw there?
It was Knight who kicked the logs of the fire together and so brought about a sudden blaze.
"What's that?" asked Lindsay, peering into the darkness.
All looked and saw the whites of innumerable black men's eyes reflecting the camp firelight. Then there was a patter of many feet as the silent witnesses to the dance hurried away.
If, in the course of conversation, a Rhodesian referred to "the Old Man," his fellow Rhodesians knew that Cecil John Rhodes was meant.
No one who knew him personally spoke of that great man as Rhodes; in Rhodesia such familiarity was impertinence.
If anyone in the Bulawayo Club said: "Rhodes told me ..." we turned our backs, as we knew the fellow was about to lie.
No, it must be "Mr. Rhodes" or "the Old Man."
I, personally, never got beyond "Mr. Rhodes" in his lifetime, and I don't see why I should now that he is dead.
As I was about to remark, the best piece of imaginative work that Mr. Rhodes ever did was to plan the Cape to Cairo Railway. It has not been carried out yet, but that doesn't matter; one day we shall see it, unless flying kills the train.
The corner-stone to this imaginative piece of work is, without a doubt, the bridge over the Victoria Falls.
I watched that bridge being built, not girder by girder, of course, but generally speaking. Old Mkuni watched it girder by girder.
Mkuni was a fine old savage, who had, in his far off younger days, carved out a little kingdom for himself. He possessed the left bank of a little river called the Maramba, some square miles of rock, a few acres of good land, and—the Victoria Falls.
A man who could establish his claim to the Falls has a right to be regarded as of some importance.
Within the memory of man a large herd of elephants went over the Falls and whirled in the Boiling Pot below—a noble offering to the spirits who dwell there. Anyone who denies that the Falls are the abode of spirits is a fool, be he white man or black.
Old Mkuni looked after the Falls and ministered in divers ways to the wants of the spirits who inhabited the place. He it was who, in fair and fierce battle, took this precious spot from old Sekute, the wall-eyed ruffian who used to live on the north bank of the Zambesi.
To hide his defeat from the eyes of passing natives, old Sekute set up a noble avenue of poles from the river to his village. On every pole he placed a human skull; these, he vowed, were the headpieces of Mkuni's men. Mkuni could afford to laugh, for did not he and all the world know that some of the grim trophies were the heads of Sekute's own followers, slain by Mkuni's men and added to at the expense of half a hundred of Sekute's own slaves? All this was before Livingstone discovered the Falls.
So you see, when all is said and done, Mkuni was a man worthy of respect. He always had mine, and we were fast friends.
It fell to my lot to tell him of the bridge which would stand astride the tumbling waters. He was interested, and gave his consent without reserve.
When he asked me how it was going to be done, Ihad to confess I did not know; engineering feats are not in my line.
"Are you going to build it, Morena?"
"No."
"Who then will build this bridge?"
"The people of the Great Man."
"The King of all the white men?"
"No, not he himself, but one of his greatest men."
"If the King would build it, I should believe, or," he added most politely, "if you would build it, I should agree that it can be done, but what do others know of bridges?"
This was a little difficult to answer, so I told him to watch.
Mkuni took my words literally; he did watch. He could be seen daily perched upon a rock overlooking the work, surrounded by a large number of his own people.
From time to time strangers from inland added to the watchers. To all Mkuni held forth:
"Am not I an old man now? Have I not killed many in battle? Did I not take the thundering smoke from a certain person? Who then knows so much of the building of bridges as I?"
With this inconsequent line of argument the crowd of watchers would murmur full agreement.
"When a man builds a small hut, is a pole from the ground to the roof necessary?"
"No," from his audience.
"That is true, but if a man builds a hut as high as Heaven, is not a pole necessary?"
All agreed that it was so.
"But see now these white men, who build a bridge across the thundering smoke. It is not the King ofthe white men who builds, nor he who collects from us the Hut Tax, but strangers. They build this bridge from the north bank and from the south, but where is the pole to hold up the roof of the bridge?"
From day to day Mkuni's supporters increased in number.
"Come and see the white man's bridge fall into the tumbling waters," was his daily invitation, and many came.
"I am sorry for these white men, for they work to no profit."
And Mkuni's adherents increased.
But, in spite of all, the work progressed. The thin steel arms flung out from either bank crept nearer daily towards the clasping of hands, and yet the bridge did not fall.
Poor old Mkuni, firm in his belief, found it hard to stomach the thinning in the number of his fellow watchers. He became highly indignant. In vain he talked—piled unanswerable argument upon argument unanswerable. Someone put it about that there was nothing the white man could not do. Many agreed with this, and went home.
At last the engineer who built the Victoria Falls Bridge saw his work complete.
Mkuni, too, saw that the work was finished—all but the pole in the middle to keep it from tumbling down.
Under all his anxiety the poor old man had shrunk visibly; so, too, had the number of those who believed in him, and had come at his invitation to watch with him the disaster which he assured them must overtake that bridge.
Poor old Mkuni!
It must be admitted that there is something of thegentleman about the raw, untutored savage, for when the first train had crossed safely over the Victoria Falls Bridge, Mkuni stood alone on his rock. No one remained as witness to his discomfiture.
He climbed slowly down to his village. Everyone in it was busy with his or her ordinary daily occupation; all strangers had quietly gone their several ways.
R. E. Baker was engaged as conductor of our waggons on one of our journeys from Bulawayo to the Zambesi, and a more capable cattle-man than he did not, I am sure, exist between the Cape and Cairo.
If an ox wouldn't pull, he made it. If an ox went sick, he cured it with amazing rapidity.
Baker, though English by descent, was a Cape Dutchman through and through. A bad-natured ox he named "Englishman," and flogged the wretched beast into a better frame of mind.
On the other hand, he would walk miles to find good grazing for his cattle, and to see Baker caress an ox was a thing to remember. Not being a cattle-man myself, I thought our conductor was gouging out the eye of an ox. It certainly looked uncommonly like it. He was forcing his fist with a rotary movement into the beast's eye.
In answer to my questioning, he explained that he was caressing the ox, that cattle appreciated the attention; you had to be vigorous or you tickled the poor thing, and oxen didn't like being tickled.
He was obviously right, for each ox, as Bakerapproached, seemed to know what to expect and tamely submitted.
A few days out from Bulawayo Baker came back from the water carrying fish. He had caught them, he said, in the large water-hole. It never occurred to me that there would be any fish in the almost dried-up rivers which we crossed from time to time. Baker assured me that where there was water there were fish, but you must know how to catch them.
A day or two later we outspanned close to some water-holes. Baker said he was going to catch some fish, and asked me whether I would like to come too. I said I should, and began unpacking a rod and some tackle which I had bought in London with the intention of fishing for tiger-fish in the Zambesi.
Baker watched me unpack and make my selection. He seemed much amused. Presently he drew from his pocket his own tackle, which appeared to me to be a confused mass of tangled string and hooks.
We set out. Baker stopped at a small deep hole containing clear water. It was my turn to smile. The pool he was going to fish in was a little larger than a water-butt.
I went on, and found a fairly long pool. The water was rather muddy, and I found little depth anywhere. However, I hoped for the best, and fished just clear of the bottom. I used as bait a small piece of meat from a wild pigeon's breast, recommended by Baker.
I have a certain amount of patience, but not, I fancy, quite sufficient to entitle me to describe myself as a fisherman. After about two hours of this fiddling, I gave it up and went in search of Baker.
To my amazement, he had quite a score of fish on the grass by his side.
"Did you catch all those?" I asked.
"Yes."
"In that hole?"
"Why, yes."
"How on earth do you do it?"
By way of reply he asked me how many I had caught. I said, "None."
"Ah," said Baker, "you shouldn't fish, you should angle. Watch me."
I sat down and watched.
Baker had a short, thick stick in his hand. From the end of the stick hung a thick piece of whipcord. On the end of the cord he had a stone with a hole in it, what we, as children, used to call a lucky stone. Just above the stone he had tied a skinned pigeon—the whole bird. Hooks radiated in every direction from the bird; hooks set at every conceivable angle—dozens of hooks. From time to time Baker threw a few breadcrumbs at his bait. I could plainly see the small fish cluster round. Now and then he struck sharply. Nearly every time he fouled a small fish, mostly under the jaw or in the belly. Each time he hooked a fish he repeated: "My lad, you shouldn't fish; you should angle."
When we reached the Gwai River, Baker produced a long hand-line with an immense hook on the end of it. The bait he used was a lump of washing soap. I didn't go with him because I wasn't ready and he was impatient to begin.
"We shall catch big barbles here," said Baker.
I followed him, and saw him throw his lump of soap well out into the river. I stood on the bank above and watched.
Baker lit his pipe, looked up and down the river, and at his line. Then he shifted the line to his left hand, which he lifted to his left ear. With his righthe made a winding movement close to his head, and said: "'Ullo! Exchange; put me on to Mr. Barble, please, miss."
To my intense amusement, and to Baker's obvious surprise, there was a sharp tug at the line. He remained for a while with his hand suspended near his right ear as though still on the handle of the old-fashioned telephone instrument. Then he gave a violent strike. But the barble—if indeed it was a barble—had had time to spit out the piece of soap and so escape.
Baker, still unaware of my presence, said: "Damn the fellow!" He shifted the line to his right hand, and went through the pantomime of getting on to the Exchange again, this time ringing with his left hand.
"'Ullo! Is that you, Exchange? Put me on to Mr. Barble again, please, miss."
No response from the fish.
"'Ullo! Exchange! What? No answer from Mr. Barble? Gone to lunch, eh?"
I moved off quietly up the river, and in course of time succeeded in catching a mud-fish weighing forty-eight pounds. I came back a couple of hours later, and found Baker had landed two immense fish of the same kind; one weighed fifty-three pounds and the other fifty-nine. He had also caught a poisonous looking eel. How he had landed these monsters he would not tell me; he contented himself with repeating: "My lad, you mustn't fish; you must angle."
When we reached the Zambesi, Baker almost neglected his cattle. He had never seen this grand river before. He at once got out a line and went "angling."
Coming down the river bank, I saw Baker standing on a rock a few yards from the bank.
Sitting on the bank was an old man, watching him.
"Any luck?" said I.
"No."
"Been here long?"
"Not very long, but that old man talks too much to please me."
I looked down at the old man. He looked up at me. He greeted me in the local language. In his language I replied. Whereupon he calmly said: "I have been telling that white man that from the rock on which he stands a crocodile took a woman yesterday."
I hurriedly translated. Baker did no more angling that day! He thought the old man had been saying "How do you do?" to him.
In the end we converted Baker to our way of fishing, so that he became an expert spinner and killed many a noble tiger-fish. But he had a mishap the first day he used a rod which almost decided him not to use one again. He was fishing from the bank for bream, which run large in that part of the river. He used a float for the first time. Presently his float disappeared. Baker struck upwards, using both hands. He pulled his fish out of the water, but with such force that it flew over his head and fell with a splash into a pond behind—free.
I think we just saved him from an immediate return to "angling" by pretending not to have seen his discomfiture.
The news spread quickly that the "Great Man," his wife and some friends were coming north of the Zambesi to shoot. Williams, the Native Commissioner, heard it from the boy who looked after his fowls a full week before he received official warning from Headquarters.
How the chicken-boy heard of it remains a mystery. He who can tell you how news travels so rapidly in Africa can no doubt explain; but in answer to questioning, the boy replied: "People say so."
Thanks to this advance notice, Williams had time to make his plans at leisure. He had experience of native rumours of this kind, and, invariably acting upon them, gained a reputation for good organising.
No doubt the Sovereign's representative would want to shoot lion, buffalo, eland, sable, and, in addition, at least a specimen of each of the lesser inhabitants of the plain and forest. Well, he would do this and that and the other, and it would not be Williams's fault if a thoroughly representative bag were not made.
Like all sportsmen in official positions, living farfrom Headquarters and having a large district to control, Williams knew exactly where the game was most plentiful. He kept the information to himself as a general rule, for he well knew that if he did not do so his special reserves would soon cease to exist.
But for the direct representative of the King nothing was too good.
Williams made his plans, built a camp and awaited the arrival of his visitors.
Two days before the "Great Man" was due to arrive, old Garamapingwe, the musician, passed that way. He stopped to pay his respects to Williams.
"Good day, my father."
"Good day to you, Garamapingwe."
"What are the news, my Chief?"
"I look to you for news."
"Oh, there is nothing but the coming of the 'Great Man.'"
"Yes, he is coming."
"I should like to see the 'Great Man.'"
"You shall, Garamapingwe."
"Much thanks to you, my Chief."
An idea occurred to Williams. No doubt the sport which he had planned to provide would be excellent, but what about the evenings spent round the camp fire after dinner?
It might happen that his guests did not want to play bridge. He himself detested the game—most unnatural of him, but there it was. He disliked "shop" out of hours, and one could have too much talk of personal experiences. He must provide for a possible gap.
How many men in a thousand had heard native African music? Not the stuff you can hear any day from the boys' compound at the back of the house,but music, worthy of the name of music, made by men like Garamapingwe? Very few.
So Williams added to his plan.
It was Friday. The Great Man had been shooting for three days. The first two were decidedly promising. Nothing very wonderful had been shot, but very fair heads of eland, buffalo, roan and waterbuck had been secured by various members of the party.
The Great Man had done fairly well, but he was perhaps more at home with a shot gun.
But Friday had been a bad day. At the Great Man's request Williams had gone with him to look for Sable antelope. So far no one had shot a Sable. Well, they came across Sable, and in this manner.
At daylight all had gone their several ways.
The Great Man and Williams had gone east. Good luck, Sable spoor and quite fresh. Williams was a fair tracker: he had picked up something of the art from the bushmen down south. They followed it, Williams leading, carefully. The report of a rifle in the distance! The Great Man stopped. Williams felt savage. Who was this poaching? Who had left his beat and jumped their claim? He motioned the Great Man to sit down.
They waited.
They waited for ten minutes and then the snapping of a twig, somewhere to the left, attracted Williams's attention.
By Jingo, there they were, the Sable.
Led by a cow, a noble herd of Sable antelope came slowly through the forest.
The Great Man looked at Williams, who grinned and commanded quiet by lifting his hand.
On they came, cows, cows and more cows. Wherewas the bull? Surely a big bull accompanied such a herd of cows?
More cows and young bulls, but as yet no big, black, outstanding bull.
Williams was puzzled.
The Great Man became restive under inaction: to him there was no apparent difference between a cow and a bull. He had never seen Sable antelope before.
The huge herd filed past within forty yards.
Still no bull.
The Great Man looked at Williams and his expression was none too pleasant.
Williams felt desperate. He began to think it best after all to let the Great Man kill a good cow and have done with it when, looking to the left, he saw the bull. It was the bull! Black as ink, with a snow-white belly. Horns seemed above the average.
A great spasm of joy gripped Williams's heart. Here was a bull worthy of the Great Man, the direct representative of the Sovereign.
In response to a sign from Williams, the Great Man looked, saw, raised his rifle and—Williams checked him. Good Heavens, what was the matter with that bull? Seemed to be going short, off fore. It couldn't be.
Then he motioned to the Great Man to take his shot. The next moment the noble bull crashed to the ground and the cows filed on at a gallop and so out of sight.
"A good shot and a good bull, Sir," said Williams, but he was conscious of a sickening sense of dread.
They hurried up. The bull lay stone dead with a bullet exactly placed behind the shoulder.
"Shall I mark out the head skin for you, Sir? You'll want to keep this head?"
"Yes, please."
Williams worked like a man possessed. He cut the sleek, black skin from the withers to the brisket as the bull lay. Without moving the carcass he made a slit up the mane to the base of the skull. Here he stopped and listened. He heard something. Footsteps approaching. With a gasp of despair he dropped his hunting knife and faced the way the bull had come.
Curse the fellow! There he was; the Great Man's A.D.C., babbling like the fool he was. He was talking in English to the native who accompanied him. "Are you sure you are on the right track?" The native said nothing because he didn't understand one word of any language but his own. The A.D.C. headed straight for the Great Man's bull. Presently he looked up and walked forward smiling.
"Hullo, Soames, what are you doing here in my patch of country?"
"I hit a Sable bull about two miles back and followed him."
"You hit a bull?"
"Yes, Sir."
"So I have killed your bull for you, have I?"
"Oh no, Sir. It's your bull, of course."
"My dear boy, I know the laws of shooting. Mr. Williams, was this bull hit before I killed him?"
"I'll look, Sir," said Williams, feeling like a detected thief.
Fancy having to say "yes" to the question! There was the bullet hole in the off fore fetlock. What a shot!
The party dined under a sense of restraint that night. The Great Man congratulated his A.D.C. on having secured a fine bull, but that didn't improve matters.
After dinner it was a silent party round the camp fire.
Williams spoke.
"Would you like to hear some African music, Sir?"
"Very much indeed. Do you play?"
"No, Sir, but I have a man here."
"By all means let us hear him."
Garamapingwe was sent for.
The old musician came, followed by two other natives. He himself carried two curious looking musical instruments, one of the men carried another; the third man, led by a little native boy, was blind and empty handed.
The three natives greeted the Great Man suitably who as suitably replied.
They then sat down on the other side of the fire and Garamapingwe struck a few bold chords. No common musician he.
Williams said something in the vernacular to Garamapingwe, who replied.
"What did he say?" asked the Great Man.
"I asked him what he was going to sing," replied Williams, "and he said: 'The Song of the Great Occasion.'"
"Will you please ask him what this great occasion is of which he is going to sing?"
The question was put and the reply translated. "The great occasion is the visit paid to our poor country by the Great Man who represents the King of the white men."
"How very interesting! Please tell him to proceed."
Garamapingwe sang and played vigorously. He played an instrument with either hand. His companion played one with both his hands. The blindman droned in chorus to Garamapingwe's recitative. It was a very fine performance. The Great Man had an ear for music. Williams was delighted, for the Great Man seemed both pleased and interested.
The second verse was ended and the third began, when suddenly the blind man leaped into the air, interrupting the harmony with a piercing shriek.
All but Williams and the natives thought this part of the performance. They were not left long in doubt. Clutching wildly at his clothing, the blind man moaned and moaned and moaned. He stripped himself and turned to the fire to be inspected by his fellows. The Great Man's wife fled to her tent. Williams had the musicians hustled away.
A large scorpion had crept up and stung the blind man as he sat.
Thus the song of the Great Occasion ended abruptly.
Randall was skinning a monkey. He had shot two monkeys during the morning and had already skinned one of them. He collected monkeys and had done so steadily for years.
Randall was District Commissioner and Magistrate of a large tract of British Africa. One of the many men who live and die unheard of by the British public; men who quietly but efficiently "administer" England's African possessions.
Some day, perhaps, England may realise what a debt it owes to these unknown men.
I was Randall's assistant. I had served for four years; that is to say, one year beyond the probationary period. I had made good to the extent of getting on the Establishment, and held the rank of Assistant Native Commissioner.
Randall had been in the Service for twenty-three years. In his dealings with the natives he was firm and just. He had a deep sympathy for the people entrusted to his care, but he successfully concealed it from them. He used to say to me "Play the game with your people but don't slobber over them, they don't understand that sort of thing."
It has often been said that all men who have spentmore than ten years in the heart of Africa are mad. I have known few saner men than Randall, but I cannot deny that he had one peculiarity: he collected monkeys.
I could never understand why he shot the wretched things, or why he skinned them in such a peculiar way. Let me explain.
Randall only shot one kind of monkey, and only the mature male of that kind. Having bagged his monkey, he would consult a shabby little black pocket-book, make an entry in it, and then set to work to skin the beast.
From watching him I gathered this much: he kept only the head and shoulders and one arm of each monkey. Sometimes it was the right arm, sometimes the left, never both. Some kind of calculation in the pocket-book appeared to be necessary before he could determine which arm he wanted.
I also observed that he carefully cleaned all particles of flesh from the skull and arm bones and, having put some preservative on the skin, wrapped it round the skull and bones, making a neat little parcel of the whole. After labelling the specimen, he packed it away in a box which was carried, wherever he travelled, by his body servant, Monga.
On reaching the Station, after a journey in the District, Monga and his master would repack the contents of the box in a large tin-lined case. Randall had three such cases. Two of them were quite full, the third nearly so.
I never questioned Randall about his hobby. Once I shot a monkey and gave it to Monga, thinking his master would skin it; but he did not; he simply told his man to throw it away. As he said nothing to me about it, I let the matter drop and made no more advances.
As I said before, on this particular morning Randall had shot two monkeys. He decided to keep the left arm in each case. Monga was squatting on the ground in front of him, holding the body of the dead monkey whilst his master skinned it. The pair were silent; from long practice Monga knew exactly what was required of him and needed no instructions. Presently Randall said "This is the last one, Monga: no more monkeys after this one."
Monga accepted the statement without comment, but it set me speculating afresh upon the object of Randall's quaint hobby. However, as my Chief offered no explanation, I did not ask for one.
When the skinning was all but done, Monga permitted himself to remark, "Monkeys were men like me once, Morena."
Randall paused and looked gravely at Monga for a moment; then, bending to his task once more, he said, "Monga, I believe you, tell me more."
Now, if Monga resembled anything, it was a monkey. His eyes were set close together, his nose was very small, his lower jaw protruded slightly, and his forehead was very low and much puckered. I saw the humour of the conversation and wanted to laugh, but to have done so would, I felt, have lowered me in the estimation of my Chief. Randall had once said to me: "Blackmore, in spite of your ridiculous name, you should get on in the Native Department. Had your name been Whitelaw, or even Smith, you would not have been handicapped. You have a stupid name to live down, for this is a black man's country. However, always remember this: never laugh with a native, and only laugh at him if he is deserving of punishment and you wish to punish him. Only a foolbeats a native; ridicule is a cleaner form of punishment, and not as brutalising."
I suppressed my desire to laugh, and Monga resumed.
"Yes, Morena, monkeys were men once just the same as we are. They lived in their own villages in nice huts; they had their own chiefs, and spoke like people do.
"But they became lazy—lazy to hoe their fields and to weed them; lazy to build their huts and to plaster them. So they said to each other: 'It is a bad thing to work; let us go to the forest and live there, and we will find fruits in the forest to eat.' So they went to the forest and lived there.
"One day one said: 'Are we not tired of making clothes? Let us grow hair on our bodies that we may be warm always.' And all agreed and grew hair on their bodies.
"When the autumn came, and the grain in the lands was ripe, the lazy ones came to steal from the men's gardens. The men tried to watch their gardens, but the thieves were too clever.
"The monkeys had their servants, and when they wanted food they sent their servants on to see if there were any men in the lands. If there were no men there they would steal corn and pumpkins and melons and calabashes, and carry them away to the forest.
"And if they found a sleeping man watching the fields they passed by him gently; and when they had finished stealing they would cut some twigs and beat him severely. And when the man woke up and began to run away, they would laugh at him and mock him.
"When the monkeys returned to the forest with the foods which they had stolen, they lit fires and cooked them. Then the people, seeing the smoke,came with sticks and assegais, and beat some monkeys and killed others.
"Then the monkeys said: 'It is not good to have fire, for the men see it and come and kill us.' So now the monkeys steal when the men are not looking, and eat the food uncooked in the trees at night."
Randall made only one comment. He asked Monga where the monkeys got their tails from. But Monga admitted that he did not know.
Randall had now finished his skinning, and had made the usual neat little parcels; Monga brought the box and carefully packed them in with the rest.
The travelling box was quite full!
A few days later Randall developed black-water fever and died. We carried his body back to the Station and buried him at the foot of a large baobab tree. The natives for many miles round attended.
When all was over, and Randall's successor was on his way to take charge of the district, Monga came to me and reminded me that there were some monkey skins in the travelling box to be packed away in the large tin-lined case. As he knew more of his master's strange hobby than I did, he did the packing whilst I looked on.
When the last skin had been transferred I realised that the case was quite full, and would not have held another one. This, I remember, struck me as being uncanny. Between us we soldered up the tin lining and nailed on the lid of the case.
Then Monga looked at me for instructions. This set me thinking. Why on earth did Randall collect monkeys? I examined the lids of the cases and found his name and home address neatly painted on each. Clearly, therefore, he had intended to take them home.But this did not explain why he had collected them. I thought of the shabby little black note-book, so went into the house and looked through it. All I could gather was that Randall had collected three hundred and eighty right-armed and one hundred and twenty left-armed skins. Five hundred wretched monkeys—and what for? And why not two hundred and fifty right arms and two hundred and fifty left; or why not all right or all left?
I went back to where Monga stood by the cases, and asked him why his master had collected the monkeys. He seemed surprised at my question; it apparently never occurred to him to inquire into the why and the wherefore of any of his master's acts. He seems to have accepted all his master did or said as a matter of course.
The whole thing was monstrous. I could not send the wretched things to his people at home. They would think him mad, as perhaps he was as regards his hobby, but no saner man ever lived so far as anything else was concerned.
Then I had an inspiration. I ordered a large hole to be dug at the foot of another tree, which stood about a hundred yards from that under which Randall's grave lay. Into this hole I had the three cases carried, and the earth shovelled back. Monga didn't disapprove, or, if he did, he made no protest. I think he took the whole thing as a matter of course, as was his way.
I never found out, nor can I imagine, why Randall collected the heads and shoulders of five hundred monkeys—three hundred and eighty with right arms and one hundred and twenty with left arms attached.
Someone reading this story may guess or may know. For myself, I frankly admit defeat.
Bositi had returned to his village after six years' absence. Most of the time he had spent on the railway construction, where the work was heavy and the pay light. In physique he was improved almost beyond recognition.
The large blue-and-yellow tin box which he carried on his head contained the miscellaneous goods upon which he had spent some of his wages. Much of his money had gone in drink, more in gambling.
After Bositi had been away two years the headman and elders presumed his death. So, too, did his wife; she married again, and had presented her new husband with two children.
Bositi was unreasonable about it. On being told that he was supposed to be dead, he insulted the headman and beat the woman who was once his wife. When her husband protested, he beat him too.
After he had thus relieved his feelings he opened his box, and took from it many strings of pink and white beads; these he gave to the mothers of the pretty marriageable girls of the village. In return he received much strong beer. The beer made him drunk—too drunk to beat or insult anyone else, but not toodrunk to grasp securely in a moist hand the key of his precious box.
Next morning he made his peace with the headman by giving him a hat, but he rudely rebuffed his late wife, whose cupidity was excited by the size of that blue-and-yellow tin box.
He also made friends with the men of the village—not excluding him who had married his wife—by distributing pieces of strong twist tobacco.
After a few days' rest he made certain selections from the treasure in his box and set out for the Chief's village. When there he showed off. He wore his best clothes, and spoke bad English fluently and loudly in the traders' stores. While his money lasted the traders suffered him; when it was spent he was told not to come again.
The Chief soon heard of him and sent for him.
Bositi had never been presented at Court before. He was immensely impressed. He squatted in the sand, one of a long row of strangers to the capital, with his gifts neatly folded before him. Immediately in front of him was a long thatched building. Three sides of it were closed in with reed mats, the fourth was open to the public. This, a lounger told him, was the National Council House, or Khotla.
The Chief had not yet arrived, but his orchestra was playing idly. It consisted of three gigantic harmonicas and a number of drums. The instrumentalists showed their utter contempt of all common people by talking loudly as they strummed and thumped.
The Court Fool was aping birds. He had a bunch of feathers in his hair and a few stuck in his waist-belt behind; this was the extent of his make-up. For the moment he was imitating a crested crane. The bird is beautiful, the Fool was hideous; yet such washis art of mimicry that all recognised the bird he had chosen to represent.
The Town Crier paused for a moment to bawl something unintelligibly, and then passed on his way.
Some oxen straying by stopped to sniff at some rubbish. The armed guards drove them off with a few cuts of their raw hide whips.
Bositi had brought as a present to the Chief a large blanket with a realistic lion printed on it, a highly-coloured pocket handkerchief, and a new brass tinder box. He mentally contrasted his gifts with those brought by other men—mostly to the disadvantage of the others.
One old man was about to offer two goodly tusks of ivory. By the fuss the hangers-on made of this old man it was very evident that a possessor of ivory commanded very much respect.
Bositi had smuggled an old Tower musket across the border and knew where to get powder. He promised himself an elephant with larger tusks than those displayed by his rival.
Presently there was a stir. The Chief was coming! The orchestra struck up energetically; the Fool twirled rapidly round on one foot; the hangers-on crouched and shaded their faces as from the rising sun; the long row of visitors bent forward until their foreheads touched the sand; the guards fell upon one knee and all clapped their hands.
Bositi literally buried his face in the sand; a little got into his right eye and annoyed him for days to come.
The Chief moved towards the Council House, preceded by a number of body servants, one of whom pointed with a long stick to imaginary stumps andstones over which his lord and master, if not warned, might trip.
Another carried the Chief's chair. This chair was strongly made on the European pattern. The seat of it was covered with the hide of a Sable antelope, from which constant use had worn much of the hair. A rude face was carved on the bar which supports the sitter's back. To this face men do reverence when the Chief is not in his chair.
A third man beat with two small drum-sticks upon a large harmonica, which was suspended by a bark rope from his neck.
Another carried a green umbrella, not open, because the Chief himself had a smaller one in his own hand.
The sight of the Chief filled Bositi with awe. He paid no attention to the crowd of councillors following in the footsteps of the august personage. He felt that his own finery, which had been much admired by the common herd, was really very mean.
For the Chief had on a grey top hat with a wide black band to it. He wore a long magenta dressing gown, which fell open as he strode forward, disclosing a pair of pepper and salt trousers. On his feet he had a magnificent—in Bositi's eyes—pair of new bright yellow boots. In his free hand he carried an eland's tail fitted as a fly-whisk, with an ivory and ebony handle.
In spite of his absurd clothes the Chief had a certain air of dignity. He was heavily built and stooped slightly at the shoulders with age; his small beard was tinged with grey.
He stepped along firmly, however, and Bositi noticed with jealousy that his eyes lit up as they restedfor a moment on the two great tusks of ivory brought by the old man.
The Chief entered the Council House and sat down. Immediately all present raised their hands and shouted a salutation with such good will that the orchestra was not heard for a space. The Court Fool hopped round with renewed energy. The official Praiser shouted: