Chapter 7

[pg 86]Chapter 7Gerald Birnier had flattered himself that he was a philosopher with a sense of humour, fairly well developed by ten years’ wandering about Central Africa, but deep emotions submerge such cherished qualities.The presence of the photograph was explicable by several surmises: zu Pfeiffer might have met Lucille at Washington, Paris, or Berlin: she might have given him the photograph or he might have bought it, or even stolen it. But—the signature“à toi, Lucille”! There lay the sting which maddened Birnier and strangled reason, the fact at which his mind yawed futilely.So great had been the shock that the arrest had seemed but a secondary matter in accord with the insanity of zu Pfeiffer’s statement that he was engaged to Lucille. The affair had been so sudden that for some time he could progress no farther in an attempt to think than a gasp, pawing mentally at an intangible substance which eluded him like a child’s small hand trying to grasp a toy balloon. Sense of reality appeared to have been dissolved. He had followed the sergeant across the square meekly without realising what was happening, and when he had been placed in a whitewashed room at the back of the native guard house which served as a jail, he sat down upon a chair, too bewildered to comprehend where he was. That“à[pg 87]toi, Lucille”rang like the clanging in a belfry, drowning the sound of other thoughts.By the light of a hurricane lamp he regarded the soldiers bringing in an old camp bed with indifference. When they had gone he began to pace up and down the small room frantically trying to gain control. To the first prompting of a logical reason for the whole affair he did not dare to listen. The disrupting cause was the complete inability to explain the familiar signature. To his Anglo-Saxonised mind, bred in the strict code of the south, tutoyer was only permissible to dogs, inferiors, most intimate relations and lovers. He was far too unbalanced to see the humour as he solemnly announced that certainly zu Pfeiffer was not a dog, nor in the social code an inferior; he was not a relation; therefore.… His mind baulked and raced into incoherence.A point of view which added false premises, as well as his attitude to those two little words, was the consciousness that many would consider that he had not treated his wife as a husband should do. This possibility had never occurred to him before, so that it came with disproportionate emphasis.As a young man he had been too absorbed in his profession to be a lady’s man; and of love he had reckoned little until he had met the Lucille Charltrain with whom half the world was in love. And she doubtless, like many a spoiled beauty, was a little piqued that the professor did not join the throng of her courtiers. In Birnier’s mind there had ever been associated with love the fear that the woman would demand too much, that no woman could understand that a man’s profession must of necessity come before[pg 88]all things. Lucille was the first woman whom he had met who really seemed to understand this point of view, as she, too, was devoted to her art. This had grown to be the biggest bond and attraction between them. Most men wished to make of love a nuisance, as Lucille once put it. So the good-looking professor had won the beauty. They were married on the mutual understanding that each should pursue their respective professions. Shortly afterwards Birnier was offered a special mission to go to Africa for the purpose of studying the customs and superstitions of the natives. Lucille had consented, forbidden, relented, and laughed.So Lucille sang from musical height to height and her husband sped from depth to depth in the seas of human fatuity. Whenever he took a furlough he went, of course, straight to her, wheresoever she was, in Berlin, New York, or Paris. To Birnier the situation was ideal. He had never dreamed of any other woman. Indeed the tracts of his mind were so filled with statistics of anthropology and Lucille that there was little or no room for any one else. The delight and satisfaction in Birnier’s mind were so sincere that he never had dreamed of questioning whether Lucille’s point of view had remained the same. But now?That“à toi”stung and baited him into the unprecedented realisation that after all women had been known to change their opinions. Perhaps pride had prevented her from ever openly demanding other ways. Lucille was young and beautiful, courted and flattered on every hand. Perhaps he had been wrong to leave her for years at a stretch. Of her loyalty he had had[pg 89]no doubt, but for the first time in his marital life the professor’s profound knowledge of human nature was shot like a spot-light on to his own affairs. Yet his erudition did not in the least relieve him from the laws of emotional reaction.Perhaps in an emotional moment.… That knowledge of the frailties of genus homo was too deep for comfort in such actuation.“À toi, Lucille! À toi, Lucille!”rang and echoed as he paced that room, striving for control.… And—and—why else should zu Pfeiffer have gone crazy?—why had he exclaimed:“Das ist der Schweinhünd”? The husband, of course, whom he wanted out of the way, and he had immediately seized the opportunity to secure that end, seemingly indifferent to consequences—symptomatic of the state of“being in love.”Around and about, about and around a field of weeds which had sprung from that seed“à toi,”had paced the professor all night. When the green was creeping through the high barred window, Sergeant Schneider had brought to him some coffee and biscuits. Birnier had drunk the coffee thirstily, and as the sergeant had no English nor French, had tried in broken German to extract some information. But the sergeant had merely grunted and retired. At seven he had returned again and escorted Birnier to the Court House. He returned from the mock trial a little more in touch with reality, and more impressed with the malignity of zu Pfeiffer. Yet the gratuitous insults, the laboured farce of the registering of an alleged Swiss trader, Birnier saw through, and was relieved, for it argued that zu Pfeiffer’s intention was to make Lucille a widow. No[pg 90]other reason could account for the homicidal intentions displayed.At the glow of dawn next day he was aroused by the big corporal who ordered him out. The tone of the man’s voice naturally stimulated a violent reaction. But Birnier realised that his sole chance lay in controlling himself to accept stoically whatever treatment was offered; for he saw instantly that any protest or indignation would be interpreted as insubordination and possibly be made an excuse to shoot him down.Outside in the grey light he saw under the guard of six native soldiers, the five others of his party. Mungongo, his personal“boy,”cried out at the sight of him, asking what was the meaning of these strange happenings. Before Birnier could reply, the big corporal struck the man savagely with a kiboko, bidding him to be silent. In spite of his resolution, the reaction made Birnier turn angrily upon the soldier, who deliberately repeated the order, and struck the white man across the face. As Birnier raised his fist the man lowered his bayonet and grinned, adding, apparently for the benefit of his men, that now the white would learn what it was to be a slave.Furiously Birnier looked around for Sergeant Schneider: but no white man was in sight.… He turned to Mungongo and said quickly:“Take no heed. Do as they bid thee for the moment.”“Be silent!”shouted the corporal, but as he raised his kiboko, Birnier looked him quietly straight in the eyes. The black hand was lowered; the man turned away, ordering the party in general to march.Dishevelled and without any camp equipment, Birnier began to march as the blood of the sky paled[pg 91]to orange. At the bottom of the great parade ground he turned in time to see the relieving guard falling in behind the Court House. For one moment he hesitated whether to put all to the test by refusing to go; but a significant gesture with the ever ready rifle of the corporal signified that he would not be given a chance. Humiliated, he obeyed. But just beyond the last hut, waiting by the path, was a group of women loaded with the soldiers’ gear; and beside them were some carriers bearing his green tent and apparently all his equipment. The sight cheered him a little. He attempted to find immediate consolation in the idea that the savagery of the corporal might possibly abate when they were away from the neighbourhood of the inciting agent, whom he was sure was zu Pfeiffer.Leading the caravan was a soldier; next to him came Birnier and behind him was another soldier, after whom walked Mungongo and the four other prisoners, with a soldier between each; and then the corporal, strutting portentously important within easy shooting distance of the white man. The carriers and women brought up the rear.The path led for some miles through the dreary swamp following the course of the small bayou, crossing and recrossing small streams swollen with the rains, through which the white man was forced to wade to his hips. For the first mile Birnier was so angry and humiliated that he dared not catch the troubled eyes of Mungongo. But by force of will he attained a reasonable plane of philosophic resignation, temporary at least, and smiled at the boy, who grinned back like a tickled child. At any rate, soliloquised[pg 92]Birnier, he had at least one man upon whom he could rely.At the head of the bayou they reached higher ground and the path zigzagged through dense jungle thick with fan palms. The longer Birnier pondered upon the situation the nearer he came towards the conclusion that he had better make his escape as soon as possible, or he would never have the chance. Rather by the uneasy glances of Mungongo, who dared not speak, did he guess that they had left the regular trail to the coast. What their destination was he could not imagine. Probably, he thought grimly, to make an end of the whole party and return to the camp. Yet why trouble to travel so far? And another good reason to hasten an escape was that, although for the moment he was in good health, a few days of exposure would subject him to fever and consequent weakness.Now and again the theme“à toi”would return like the refrain of a song to which he found himself keeping step; but the words sometimes became meaningless; for in the merciful way that nature has, the impulse of self-preservation so occupied his mind that he had scarcely leisure to worry over marital troubles.At the end of about two hours, when the heat of the sun was beginning to be felt severely, the corporal called a halt in the shade of a great baobab. Birnier sat down with his back against the bole. Alongside him squatted the corporal deliberately and called to the women for a gourd of juwala. There is a certain acid odour which native beer has that is particularly irritating to a dry palate. The corporal drank deep, sighed with satisfaction and set the gourd beside him almost touching the feet of the white. Involuntarily[pg 93]Birnier swallowed. The corporal saw and grinned. Birnier understood and turned his back to the man. Immediately the corporal arose and lowering his bayonet until it pricked the sleeve of Birnier’s coat, ordered him to get up. In the knowledge that he would be instantly shot by the others if he attempted to resist, he had perforce to obey.Outside the shade of the great tree, in the full glare of the sun, was the white man compelled to sit while the black corporal, with the rifle ready across his knee, drank deep and handed the gourd to his fellows. Again Birnier turned his back to him. But he began to realise faintly what treatment he would receive before the end came and an intimate knowledge of native ingenuity made him feel physically sick.Half an hour later they were on the march again. The path became rugged and difficult, passing through thorny ground, following burbling watercourses of rough stones. To make the going more trying Birnier wore light moccasins intended for camp use instead of his high field boots. Once when a long thorn penetrated the flank of his shoe he stopped to extract it. The corporal shouted at him; the soldier behind called him unmentionable names in the dialect and pushed him with his foot. The insult and the heat of the sun maddened him. He leaped to his feet. The corporal raised his gun promptly and jeered. For a moment Birnier stood trembling with passion; then he closed his eyes as if to shut out sight and sound and limped forward, fighting with himself.With natives had Birnier always been able to negotiate, to live, and to quarrel when necessary, on terms of amity; but this black“swine,”as he termed[pg 94]him in his wrath, prinked out in a masquerade of a white man’s clothes.… He jammed his heel down savagely upon the thorn to divert the southern passion. After all it was not the man’s fault but zu Pfeiffer’s. Put a white man in a uniform and he becomes a beast; put a nigger in a uniform and he becomes a devil, Birnier forced himself to reflect.The sun grew incandescent. The heat and the flies quickened his thirst. He plodded on, stumbling over the stones, sagging heavily in sandy patches. They had left the comparative shelter of the jungle and were crossing a flat plain approaching, he judged, to a river bed. The carriers, he noted, had lagged behind. Soon they must halt. Even the fiend of a corporal would not fatigue himself too much for the sake of tormenting a white man.Then a new idea was added to the plagues. He had tasted nothing save the coffee, canned beef, and native bread which had been given him for dinner on the previous evening. The corporal had manifested his conception of humour by refusing him beer and water on the march; was he going to torment him by starvation as well as by thirst? And if torture were reserved for him by that grinning black brute, then he knew what would be the end that awaited him.Within an hour they came to a river about forty yards broad, a swollen rushing torrent. There was no village as he had expected. The corporal halted. Birnier slid down the bank and thrust his muzzle into the flood. There was torture in the restraint not to drink too much. He clambered up the slope to find the corporal grinning at him. He turned his back and lay down. There was no shade; only short[pg 95]scrub and grass. Small sand flies buzzed and stung. He heard the gurgle of the corporal’s military water-bottle. But this time the sting was extracted; his belly was moist.Birnier stretched out, shielding from the glare the little that he could with his hands. Faint echoes of“à toi”strolled across his field of consciousness. He observed the apparently stoical indifference of Mungongo squatted a few feet from him, a soldier sprawling between them; but he cursed because investigations had taught him that that“stoical”should usually be read as“bovinity,”as he had termed it; and he smiled dismally at the ancient story that so well illustrated the point, of the peasant who expressed his occupation through the long winter hours as“sometimes we sits and thinks but mostly we just sits.”Mungongo“just sits,”he repeated, and envied him. Yet in that heat and hunger, waiting for his savage captor to wreak some new fancy upon him, so saturated with philosophic interest in life was Birnier, that he wandered off into a meditation upon the mechanical fatuity of human conduct; illustrating his reflections by his own actions when stirred by emotion.“The loaded gun may be as wise as Solomon was reputed to be,”he remarked beneath his hands,“but all the same when some one pulls the trigger the damn thing goes off,”and sat up to confront the muzzle of the corporal’s rifle, who was ordering him to get up. Birnier rose. But to the savage’s amazement, he smiled.The corporal backed away.“Ah, my friend,”remarked Birnier blandly in[pg 96]English.“You’ve lost, for I have found that which was lost!”The corporal scowled and bade him to follow. Birnier obeyed but he felt that he was obliging the man. The carriers had arrived and the green tent was pitched, invitingly cool against the grey flood of the river. He followed the corporal gladly, but at ten feet from his tent, beside a thorn bush four feet tall which spread in a fan shape, he was bidden to sit. For the moment, newly arrived from his philosophic dreams, he did not comprehend.“But that is my tent!”he said in Kiswahili.“Sit down!”commanded the corporal, grinning.“The white seller of slaves sits in the place of the slave, but his owner dwells in the place of the blessed.”“O God!”remarked Birnier as he bumped his head against black reality.[pg 97]Chapter 8Bakuma sat in the shade of the reed fence preparing the evening meal of boiled bananas. From her slender neck swung the precious amulet at which, as if to reassure herself of its safety, she clutched occasionally. Her half-sister, who had not yet passed through the initiation at maturity, sprawled upon her belly in the dwindling rays of the sun, scratching her woolly head. Beyond her were two slaves tending a fire beneath two large calabashes, preparatory to the brewing of banana beer, which had of course to be done by the chief widow, Bakuma’s half-sister’s mother.The mind of Bakuma was occupied by percepts of the charms of Zalu Zako; particularly as memorised on that afternoon by the river when the effect of the love charm had begun to work. These memories, as sweet as they would have been to any maid, were shot with gay colours by the words of the wizard; for he had assured her that with the toe-nail and hair to work magic upon, Zalu Zako would be bewitched by her charms for all time. And she had obtained them! She could have gotten the goat, not a skinny goat as described under the inhibiting influence of a wild hope that the wizard would relent. Her cousin, smarting under the reproaches of her husband, had such a goat, fat as goats in Wongolo go, and she was eager to exchange it or anything for an infallible[pg 98]charm against sterility. Bakuma feared to part with the charm, yet the matter was pressing; immediately she was the wife of Zalu Zako she would be in a position to purchase all the charms in the village.But difficult to obtain as they were, for as everybody knows no man leaves portions of himself around that may fall into the hands of an enemy to work magic upon, least of all a rich man,“half divine,”she had obtained some nail parings and one hair. With that charm against sterility, the only thing of value Bakuma possessed, had she bribed a concubine of Zalu Zako’s household to steal the ingredients required from the hut thatch where they had been hidden after the official shaving and paring following the ceremony of his father, pending their removal to the sacred precincts of the temple.Above her passion for Zalu Zako was her natural feminine appreciation of a good match. The Son of the Snake was far better from a woman’s point of view than union with a successful wizard. In the event of the death of the King-God, Kawa Kendi, the wives of his son and successor, although denied to him, were accorded special privileges; and upon his demise these royal wives retained their home upon the hill which had become his tomb. Moreover, as Bakuma knew well, now that Zalu Zako was heir-apparent, he must choose the principal wife who would for her life remain paramount in the household, avoiding the dread of every ageing woman that her husband would take unto him another wife younger and more supple.The one mosquito in paradise was the fear that as soon as her uncle, her father’s brother to whom she belonged by inheritance, learned the august personage[pg 99]who desired her, he would raise the price to a prohibitive figure; for he was mean as well as stupid and lazy, wherefore he had few goods, and although Zalu Zako was a rich man she knew that any man save a fool loves to drive a good bargain if only to prove his astuteness. Therefore was another imperative necessity to procure every means of magic and charm to fan the flame of her lover’s desires.Yet always flashed a bright-hued lizard in the sun of her joy when she imagined herself installed as the chief wife in the household of Zalu Zako, an unassailable position as long as she had one male child; the practical mistress of his first two wives as well as the retinue of slaves.Bazila, the younger wife, Bakuma knew well; the favourite and haughty, covered with the most expensive amulets against every ill and black magic, she was overfond of sneering at young girls of the hut thatch whose charms had not yet netted a victim.“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma and flashed her teeth as she rolled the warm leaves around the sticky mess,“then will the scent of my body be more bitter than the flower of the fish-faced cactus!”And so through the night did Bakuma nibble at anticipatory joys as she lay upon her reed mat on the slightly raised dais of the floor which was her bed, watching the smoke of the fire in the middle of the hut lose itself in the shadows of the roof, and listening in the hope of hearing some voice of the spirits whom Marufa was to invoke on her behalf. Save for the occasional bleating of a goat and once the harsh scream of the Baroto bird, which made her heart contract, for it is a bad omen, the night was still.[pg 100]However, at the hour of the monkey Bakuma arose to replenish the fire. As the western star was melting in the warm green she left the compound. On the outskirts of the village the tall figure of MYalu appeared from the shadows of the plantation.“Greeting, daughter of Bakala,”said he, his eyes greedily devouring her.“Greeting, O Chief!”returned Bakuma, as she politely stepped to one side to avoid standing on the vague shadow of the chief.“The fawn seeks the pastures early,”remarked MYalu.“Before the breath of the sun the grass is sweeter,”retorted Bakuma, edging away.“Aye,”remarked MYalu, with a hungry glint in his eyes,“thou art eager to slake thy thirst? But in the valley will no buck walk this day!”“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma, recollecting instantly the omen of the Baroto bird heard that night.“What meanest thou?”“Maybe the soul of him hath wandered and been caught in a trap or maybe——”He paused to watch her closely—“maybe an enemy hath made magic upon the parts of him.”“Ehh!”Bakuma started nervously.MYalu smiled and touched her upon the shoulder.“Thy flesh is cooler than the dew.”“Nay, nay, O Chief, thou hast not tied my girdle,”she protested, as she backed away from him, her eyes wide like a terrified deer’s.“Nay, but will I untie it soon,”he retorted.But as he stepped towards her she turned and fled. As MYalu watched her running as swiftly as a pookoo[pg 101]into the plantation he grinned and called out:“Even now is the cooling draught steaming in the breath of the Unmentionable One! But the goblet shall hold a sweeter draught for me!”“Aie! Aie-e!”wailed Bakuma, her heart beating furiously,“what devil hath bewitched me! O, that father of many goats hath betrayed me! Aie! Aie-e! O, the cry of the Baroto bird! Aie! Aie-e!”And when Bakuma, distraught with terror by the menace that she had only procured the nail paring and hair to give her lover into the hands of the false magician who, of course, had been bought by MYalu, arrived at the“pastures”by the river, as MYalu had foretold, no buck walked there.The sun spilled blue shadows on the village from the sacred hill where another scene was being enacted, and it was not as imagined by the amorous MYalu.In the council house, which was within the outer fence and before the sacred enclosure, was in progress a meeting of the doctors. In the door of the enclosure squatted Kawa Kendi, with Kingata Mata in attendance tending the royal fires. Before him, in front of their fellows, were seated Bakahenzie and Marufa in full dress of green feathers and the scarlet plume. The left side of the idol, which was so set that the shadow never fell upon the entrance to the compound, was gilded by the sun; the mouth grinned in one corner, one eye was closed in shadow, seemingly like a prodigious wink.To the thrumming of the sacred band Bakahenzie was rocking himself to and fro mumbling incantations. Kawa Kendi squatted immobile, but the others swayed and grunted softly in rhythm. Then on a sudden did[pg 102]Bakahenzie lift up his head and cry in a great voice. The drums ceased and the body of witch-doctors remained motionless, expectant. Bakahenzie dropped his head and began to chant:“Behold! I have heard the voice of the treesCrying softly by night!Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!As a woman with child!Behold! is she not to break forth?For she crieth for aid.Unless she be heard the infant will slip!The fruit will not be!The plants will not break!The milk will be sour!The beer will be green!Women will not bear!Our spears will be blunt!Our magic will wane!And He will be wroth!”“Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! …”grunted the chorus of the doctors. Then chanted Marufa:“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!Preying swiftly by night!Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throatOf a mighty bull eland!Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!Which panted for blood!The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree![pg 103]Take heed to the thirstOf Him who first was!Who lusts for a maid!Full breasted, soft thighed!Supple, bow arched!Clean blooded and strong!Whose name is forbid!Whose name is a sin!”“Who hath stolen the name?”screamed Bakahenzie, leaping to his feet.“Who is she that hath stolen the name?”“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”As the drums throbbed swifter Bakahenzie began to shuffle in a stooping posture as if he were snuffing a trail. To the continuous grunting he continued this dance for fully a quarter of an hour. Then stopping abruptly in front of the king he screamed:“Let her be biddenTo come to the feast!Let her be oiled!Let her be shaved!Let her come dancing!Let her be joyful!Let her be decked!Let her be glad!Lips of the groomThirst for her mouth!Let her be drunkenTo bear his sweet weight![pg 104]That the crops will be full!That the cattle grow fatWives will throw men!Spears will slice foes!”He sank suddenly upon his haunches. The drums ceased. A slave appeared bearing a pure white kid. Kingata Mata took the animal and held it before Kawa Kendi, who muttered a long incantation over it and cut the throat with a spear head. Then to Marufa was the bleeding carcass carried and while still alive he slit open the belly, smeared the liquid over his chest and right arm, and tore out the guts. The corpse was removed. Marufa, working only with the enchanted arm, turned the entrails over and about, peering closely.There was silence. The shadows grew in depth. From the village came an occasional bleat and the voice of a distant girl chanting.After a prolonged and studious search, Marufa caught up and wrapt round his neck an intestine. As he rose, the group of witch-doctors broke out into a mighty groaning. Marufa speeded across the small clearing and kneeled before Kawa Kendi. Through the bloody necklet he whispered two syllables:“kuma.”The groaning ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. Kawa Kendi cried out in a loud voice:“The bride is found!”Instantly the drums began a furious beat. A mighty shout rose from all assembled and they fell to the chest and belly grunting:“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”as Bakahenzie and Marufa began to dance the dance of thanksgiving.[pg 105]Bakumahad been doomed to be the victim for the Feast of the Harvest Festival, to be sacrificed in the orgy as the Bride of the Spirit of the Banana, because Marufa had discovered by divination that two syllables of her name were those of the secret name which only the King-God knew, of the Unmentionable One, the Usakuma.[pg 106]Chapter 9Before the green tent strutted a sentry as pompously as if he were on duty before the Kommandant’s bungalow. Inside, sprawling in a camp chair, was the corporal, in blue striped pyjamas, smoking a cigarette. Upon the floor crouched one of his women with a safety razor stuck in her woolly thatch, opening a can of beef. On the camp table were a bottle of brandy which had had its neck knocked off, a shaving mirror and an open tin of cigarettes. Squatting on the bed was another woman in field boots, cleaning up a can of salmon with one finger. The rest of the tent was a litter of broken cases, bottles, cans and papers.Ten yards away under the thorn shrub, lay Birnier, and near to him were Mungongo and the others. Mungongo’s regard shuttled between this scene in the tent and the white man with a mingled expression of terror and amazement: terror at the temerity of the corporal in treating a white in such a manner and incredulous bewilderment that the white did not immediately strike them all dead. But the others, more sophisticated to the white man’s ways, were solely occupied in envying the corporal’s debauch.The mauve shadows turned to blue as they lengthened. The clouds of small flies thinned and their ranks began to be refilled by the mosquitoes. Birnier lay with his back to the tent with a fly switch of grass,[pg 107]but he watched the doings of the corporal covertly. The corporal and his women had been drinking a good deal of the brandy and now he was supplying generous quantities to his men. Once he had come out to jeer. Birnier had taken no notice, nor even of the kick implanted by one of his own field boots on the foot of the woman. Already there was a bloodshot glint in the corporal’s yellow eyes and a pronounced uncertainty in his movements. Whether the man had had any particular instructions regarding the manner of his death Birnier did not know until he became loquacious and took to shouting insults at his white prisoner. The great white chief had given the white man to him as a slave, he yelled, and now he was going to take him home with him. This idea seemed to tickle him vastly and also his women, who giggled and applauded as the corporal began to describe what obscene acts they would make their white dog perform every day, what they would give him to eat, how he should be made to dance.They grew noisier and the women began to sing lewd songs. The soldiers too revealed signs of their frequent potations. Soon the whole crowd would go mad, Birnier knew, and sooner or later collapse, which would give him a chance to escape, unless they chained him, or, what was far more probable, they decided to bait him to death during an orgy. What they would probably do to him was unthinkable. Somehow he must find a way out by self-destruction. Even should he escape, he would be unarmed and without food, and there was every possibility that they would trail and overtake him in the morning. He was lame and footsore; also he was weak from want[pg 108]of food. Once, when despoiling his chop boxes, the corporal had contemptuously thrown him a half eaten tin of sardines and a cigarette. He let the cigarette lie. Nourishment he must have; and so after an inward struggle he had eaten it, having to claw out the fish like a monkey, while the big black and his women sprawled and laughed.The soldiers, except the one on sentry who still paced a trifle erratically, were grouped on their haunches around the fire in front of the tent on the threshold of which the corporal presided with as much pomposity as if he were the great Mogul, all drinking and smoking and eating. Now and again the women would screech insults over their heads at the white; and once the corporal threw an empty bottle at him, evoking a gale of applause. The women began the belly dance, crooning while the men accompanied with the rhythmic grunt, which ever leads to hysterical exaltation.The sun was dipping. They might come for him at any moment. He watched the sentry and contemplated making a rush, taking a venture on the man’s bad aim and unsteady hand. They would not follow him far in the dark for dread of the spirits that walk by night. The only alternative to suicide was the river, in flood and full of crocodiles, a slender chance. He determined to try it. He considered making the attempt then. But the darker the better; they would more easily miss. At any risk he must never let them get their hands upon him. He drew himself together, flexing his limbs for a leap and a rush, anxiously observing the chanting crowd around the fire in the sunset glow.[pg 109]The leashes of discipline were fraying. The sentry still plodded up and down, but with a rolling eye for his companions. The working of his mind was revealed when he walked round tying knots in the long grass which, as every Munyamwezi knows, is a sure method to prevent a prisoner’s escape; then he halted in front of Birnier, grinned, and pointed to the fire; evidently he knew or had heard that an orgy was coming. The man stood and watched him. Fearful that the fellow was about to drag him over or suggest that the victim be seized, if only in order to release him from his irksome duty, Birnier snatched up the cigarette lying in the grass and asked for a light to distract the man’s attention. The sentry shook his head and pointed to the fire. Hastily Birnier searched his pockets for a match; recollected that he had used the last, and took out a small tin box of wax vestas wrapped in oiled silk which he kept as a reserve in a special pouch of his belt. In the very act of striking the match Birnier ejaculated:“God!”“Nini?”demanded the sentry.“I burned myself,”returned Birnier.“Nothing to what you will soon!”retorted the nigger, grinning, made an obscene suggestion and swaggered across to the fire.Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the Munyamwezi would not understand.“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I throw up in the air this[pg 110]cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost understand?”“Truly, my master!”“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as it shall these children of dung!”“Truly, master!”Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair. They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry, excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round the outskirts of the throng.Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn bush he heard the rustle of movement and the“boy’s”gasped exclamation to the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right, which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his instructions.The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently above the chorus of the[pg 111]frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet hummed over his head.He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well, for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for some yards. He slid[pg 112]down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa. He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.For some time he could only hear the shouts and yells. He kept the water up to his chin and continuously splashed his face in the endeavour to slacken the efforts of the mosquitoes. The cries approached. He saw men outlined against the stars and then some gleams of lanterns. Something stirred ponderously near to him. It might be a crocodile, but he dared not move. The figures seemed to stay on the top of the bank for hours. He remained rigid, expecting a swirl of water and teeth.Suddenly a spurt of flame shot out above him and was followed by a fusillade of shots in the direction of up river. Had they spotted Mungongo or were they merely letting drive at a bush or the spirits in general? The latter was most probable. The water swirled near to him. All his will power was required not to leap frantically for the bank. Yet a crocodile would be far more merciful than those black devils. Again a swirl and something passed close to him at high speed. Probably an otter scared by the firing; at any rate it was not a crocodile. The lights and figures on the bank disappeared.Shots rang out again, and were followed by a wild outburst of yelling. Birnier began to wade for the bank, continually splashing water at the mosquitoes which were so thick that they reminded him of the bayou Lafourche in far-off Louisiana. Crouching,[pg 113]he waited on the edge of the bank to listen. The corporal might have had enough sense to post men in the grass. Yet he might be too fuddled to think of that, and no native would willingly stay there in the dark, unless under white discipline. Voices still muttered, but they sounded as if from the camp. Had they given him up for the night, relying on the chance that if he had not been taken by a crocodile they could trail him in the morning? Probably.Birnier squatted in the water, ready to plunge back, until he was sure they were in camp. Then as cautiously he crawled up the bank. Through the scrub with his uninjured eye he could make out the figures around the yellow of the fire which had gone down considerably. Now what would they do? He could hear the mumble of the corporal’s voice. Would they be sufficiently sobered to be ready for the chase in the morning? Birnier did not think so with that case of brandy there; the corporal would not, at all events. There was a scream of pain and the chatter of women’s voices.Was the corporal punishing the sentry for having let the prisoners escape, or were they beginning to fight among themselves? The latter was improbable, as non-commissioned officers are usually chosen from petty chiefs and the men under them, as far as possible, from their own village. Had they captured Mungongo or one of the others? Birnier listened again. Another scream was stoppered to a groan.“Devils!”muttered Birnier. Lying flat to watch the grass and shrub tops against the stars, he gave the frog croaks arranged, at intervals of ten seconds. About five minutes later he saw some grass tops quiver[pg 114]unnaturally. He croaked again. Came a whisper:“Is it thee, Infunyana?”(a name given in reference to Birnier’s gold fillings).“Aye.”A dark form glided towards him.“Where are the other men?”“I know not. I told them as thou hadst told me to do. When thou didst give the sign, I fled and plunged into the river.”“Thou wast not frightened of the crocodiles?”“Nay; for I have a mighty charm against all river beasts, enchanted by Bakahenzie, the greatest of magicians.”“Ehh!”commented Birnier, contorting his swollen lips in the dark,“would that I had such an one! Thinkest thou that the men did as they were bidden?”“Who knows what is in the heart of a goat?”returned Mungongo contemptuously, for they were of another tribe.“Ah, listen!”The mutter of the hand-drum grew swifter as a high tenor chanted to the accompaniment of the abdominal grunting and the laryngeal shrilling:“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 115]But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!What hath he given us to tickle our spears?A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of——!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 116]“Those children of folly have not obeyed,”whispered Birnier.“The time is come.… Wait here for me, O Mungongo. I go to take my spirit form. When I return be not afraid!”“Truly,”answered Mungongo, as Birnier crawled away and down the bank. By the water’s edge he swiftly stripped himself to his moccasins and taking out the wax vestas, damped each precious one and carefully rubbed lines over his face and body, endeavouring to get the most distinctive phosphorescent effect around the eyes. Leaving his clothes he crawled back to Mungongo.“Ehh!”exclaimed Mungongo in a muffled scream when he saw the glowing apparition. Birnier heard the rustle of grass. As the boy stood up to run he leaped and pulled him down savagely.“Be quiet, thou fool!”he whispered.“It is I. Be silent!”“Eh! Eh!”gasped Mungongo, who was trembling violently.“If thou dost not be quiet will I tie up thy heart,”threatened Birnier.Mungongo continued to quiver, but he remained passive.“Eh! Eh!”he gasped,“truly thou art a more mighty magician than Bakahenzie.”“Be quiet!”The drums and the song were still going and the chant had become more obscene.“Follow me!”whispered Birnier, when Mungongo was more reassured.They made a detour. As they drew near they could hear muffled screams and groans beneath the howl of[pg 117]the chorus and song. The mighty son of Banyala and his merry men were so engrossed in the orgy that Birnier could have walked right up to the fire before anyone would have seen him. But he would not take any unnecessary risk. Leaving Mungongo outside he crawled under the back flap of the tent. Crouched there he paused. The tent was empty; for all were engaged in the dance. His two shot-guns and two light rifles were stacked in the corner and the big express which the corporal had appropriated, leaned against the tent door behind the chair. He glanced hurriedly around for ammunition, but he could not see any open, and he had left his belt of cartridges with his clothes. Outside the men and women were circling in contrary directions, each with a spear, a knife or a firebrand in hand, around the fire beside which, trussed like bundles of faggots, were the four servants, their feet singeing on the outside hot ashes.For a second Birnier hesitated. He could not know whether any of the guns was loaded. The fire was of glowing embers which did not throw much light into the tent. Swiftly Birnier rose and glided into his own chair in the deep shadow of the tent flap. Then summoning all his nerve he uttered a yell and began to shout the first song which he could recollect:“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”The native minstrel stopped in the middle of his chant; the whole shuffling, grunting crowd was petrified in as many different poses. Birnier leaped to his feet waving his arms wildly, yelling:[pg 118]“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!As we …”But before he had gotten to“Georgia,”only the prostrate forms around the fire had not fled.

[pg 86]Chapter 7Gerald Birnier had flattered himself that he was a philosopher with a sense of humour, fairly well developed by ten years’ wandering about Central Africa, but deep emotions submerge such cherished qualities.The presence of the photograph was explicable by several surmises: zu Pfeiffer might have met Lucille at Washington, Paris, or Berlin: she might have given him the photograph or he might have bought it, or even stolen it. But—the signature“à toi, Lucille”! There lay the sting which maddened Birnier and strangled reason, the fact at which his mind yawed futilely.So great had been the shock that the arrest had seemed but a secondary matter in accord with the insanity of zu Pfeiffer’s statement that he was engaged to Lucille. The affair had been so sudden that for some time he could progress no farther in an attempt to think than a gasp, pawing mentally at an intangible substance which eluded him like a child’s small hand trying to grasp a toy balloon. Sense of reality appeared to have been dissolved. He had followed the sergeant across the square meekly without realising what was happening, and when he had been placed in a whitewashed room at the back of the native guard house which served as a jail, he sat down upon a chair, too bewildered to comprehend where he was. That“à[pg 87]toi, Lucille”rang like the clanging in a belfry, drowning the sound of other thoughts.By the light of a hurricane lamp he regarded the soldiers bringing in an old camp bed with indifference. When they had gone he began to pace up and down the small room frantically trying to gain control. To the first prompting of a logical reason for the whole affair he did not dare to listen. The disrupting cause was the complete inability to explain the familiar signature. To his Anglo-Saxonised mind, bred in the strict code of the south, tutoyer was only permissible to dogs, inferiors, most intimate relations and lovers. He was far too unbalanced to see the humour as he solemnly announced that certainly zu Pfeiffer was not a dog, nor in the social code an inferior; he was not a relation; therefore.… His mind baulked and raced into incoherence.A point of view which added false premises, as well as his attitude to those two little words, was the consciousness that many would consider that he had not treated his wife as a husband should do. This possibility had never occurred to him before, so that it came with disproportionate emphasis.As a young man he had been too absorbed in his profession to be a lady’s man; and of love he had reckoned little until he had met the Lucille Charltrain with whom half the world was in love. And she doubtless, like many a spoiled beauty, was a little piqued that the professor did not join the throng of her courtiers. In Birnier’s mind there had ever been associated with love the fear that the woman would demand too much, that no woman could understand that a man’s profession must of necessity come before[pg 88]all things. Lucille was the first woman whom he had met who really seemed to understand this point of view, as she, too, was devoted to her art. This had grown to be the biggest bond and attraction between them. Most men wished to make of love a nuisance, as Lucille once put it. So the good-looking professor had won the beauty. They were married on the mutual understanding that each should pursue their respective professions. Shortly afterwards Birnier was offered a special mission to go to Africa for the purpose of studying the customs and superstitions of the natives. Lucille had consented, forbidden, relented, and laughed.So Lucille sang from musical height to height and her husband sped from depth to depth in the seas of human fatuity. Whenever he took a furlough he went, of course, straight to her, wheresoever she was, in Berlin, New York, or Paris. To Birnier the situation was ideal. He had never dreamed of any other woman. Indeed the tracts of his mind were so filled with statistics of anthropology and Lucille that there was little or no room for any one else. The delight and satisfaction in Birnier’s mind were so sincere that he never had dreamed of questioning whether Lucille’s point of view had remained the same. But now?That“à toi”stung and baited him into the unprecedented realisation that after all women had been known to change their opinions. Perhaps pride had prevented her from ever openly demanding other ways. Lucille was young and beautiful, courted and flattered on every hand. Perhaps he had been wrong to leave her for years at a stretch. Of her loyalty he had had[pg 89]no doubt, but for the first time in his marital life the professor’s profound knowledge of human nature was shot like a spot-light on to his own affairs. Yet his erudition did not in the least relieve him from the laws of emotional reaction.Perhaps in an emotional moment.… That knowledge of the frailties of genus homo was too deep for comfort in such actuation.“À toi, Lucille! À toi, Lucille!”rang and echoed as he paced that room, striving for control.… And—and—why else should zu Pfeiffer have gone crazy?—why had he exclaimed:“Das ist der Schweinhünd”? The husband, of course, whom he wanted out of the way, and he had immediately seized the opportunity to secure that end, seemingly indifferent to consequences—symptomatic of the state of“being in love.”Around and about, about and around a field of weeds which had sprung from that seed“à toi,”had paced the professor all night. When the green was creeping through the high barred window, Sergeant Schneider had brought to him some coffee and biscuits. Birnier had drunk the coffee thirstily, and as the sergeant had no English nor French, had tried in broken German to extract some information. But the sergeant had merely grunted and retired. At seven he had returned again and escorted Birnier to the Court House. He returned from the mock trial a little more in touch with reality, and more impressed with the malignity of zu Pfeiffer. Yet the gratuitous insults, the laboured farce of the registering of an alleged Swiss trader, Birnier saw through, and was relieved, for it argued that zu Pfeiffer’s intention was to make Lucille a widow. No[pg 90]other reason could account for the homicidal intentions displayed.At the glow of dawn next day he was aroused by the big corporal who ordered him out. The tone of the man’s voice naturally stimulated a violent reaction. But Birnier realised that his sole chance lay in controlling himself to accept stoically whatever treatment was offered; for he saw instantly that any protest or indignation would be interpreted as insubordination and possibly be made an excuse to shoot him down.Outside in the grey light he saw under the guard of six native soldiers, the five others of his party. Mungongo, his personal“boy,”cried out at the sight of him, asking what was the meaning of these strange happenings. Before Birnier could reply, the big corporal struck the man savagely with a kiboko, bidding him to be silent. In spite of his resolution, the reaction made Birnier turn angrily upon the soldier, who deliberately repeated the order, and struck the white man across the face. As Birnier raised his fist the man lowered his bayonet and grinned, adding, apparently for the benefit of his men, that now the white would learn what it was to be a slave.Furiously Birnier looked around for Sergeant Schneider: but no white man was in sight.… He turned to Mungongo and said quickly:“Take no heed. Do as they bid thee for the moment.”“Be silent!”shouted the corporal, but as he raised his kiboko, Birnier looked him quietly straight in the eyes. The black hand was lowered; the man turned away, ordering the party in general to march.Dishevelled and without any camp equipment, Birnier began to march as the blood of the sky paled[pg 91]to orange. At the bottom of the great parade ground he turned in time to see the relieving guard falling in behind the Court House. For one moment he hesitated whether to put all to the test by refusing to go; but a significant gesture with the ever ready rifle of the corporal signified that he would not be given a chance. Humiliated, he obeyed. But just beyond the last hut, waiting by the path, was a group of women loaded with the soldiers’ gear; and beside them were some carriers bearing his green tent and apparently all his equipment. The sight cheered him a little. He attempted to find immediate consolation in the idea that the savagery of the corporal might possibly abate when they were away from the neighbourhood of the inciting agent, whom he was sure was zu Pfeiffer.Leading the caravan was a soldier; next to him came Birnier and behind him was another soldier, after whom walked Mungongo and the four other prisoners, with a soldier between each; and then the corporal, strutting portentously important within easy shooting distance of the white man. The carriers and women brought up the rear.The path led for some miles through the dreary swamp following the course of the small bayou, crossing and recrossing small streams swollen with the rains, through which the white man was forced to wade to his hips. For the first mile Birnier was so angry and humiliated that he dared not catch the troubled eyes of Mungongo. But by force of will he attained a reasonable plane of philosophic resignation, temporary at least, and smiled at the boy, who grinned back like a tickled child. At any rate, soliloquised[pg 92]Birnier, he had at least one man upon whom he could rely.At the head of the bayou they reached higher ground and the path zigzagged through dense jungle thick with fan palms. The longer Birnier pondered upon the situation the nearer he came towards the conclusion that he had better make his escape as soon as possible, or he would never have the chance. Rather by the uneasy glances of Mungongo, who dared not speak, did he guess that they had left the regular trail to the coast. What their destination was he could not imagine. Probably, he thought grimly, to make an end of the whole party and return to the camp. Yet why trouble to travel so far? And another good reason to hasten an escape was that, although for the moment he was in good health, a few days of exposure would subject him to fever and consequent weakness.Now and again the theme“à toi”would return like the refrain of a song to which he found himself keeping step; but the words sometimes became meaningless; for in the merciful way that nature has, the impulse of self-preservation so occupied his mind that he had scarcely leisure to worry over marital troubles.At the end of about two hours, when the heat of the sun was beginning to be felt severely, the corporal called a halt in the shade of a great baobab. Birnier sat down with his back against the bole. Alongside him squatted the corporal deliberately and called to the women for a gourd of juwala. There is a certain acid odour which native beer has that is particularly irritating to a dry palate. The corporal drank deep, sighed with satisfaction and set the gourd beside him almost touching the feet of the white. Involuntarily[pg 93]Birnier swallowed. The corporal saw and grinned. Birnier understood and turned his back to the man. Immediately the corporal arose and lowering his bayonet until it pricked the sleeve of Birnier’s coat, ordered him to get up. In the knowledge that he would be instantly shot by the others if he attempted to resist, he had perforce to obey.Outside the shade of the great tree, in the full glare of the sun, was the white man compelled to sit while the black corporal, with the rifle ready across his knee, drank deep and handed the gourd to his fellows. Again Birnier turned his back to him. But he began to realise faintly what treatment he would receive before the end came and an intimate knowledge of native ingenuity made him feel physically sick.Half an hour later they were on the march again. The path became rugged and difficult, passing through thorny ground, following burbling watercourses of rough stones. To make the going more trying Birnier wore light moccasins intended for camp use instead of his high field boots. Once when a long thorn penetrated the flank of his shoe he stopped to extract it. The corporal shouted at him; the soldier behind called him unmentionable names in the dialect and pushed him with his foot. The insult and the heat of the sun maddened him. He leaped to his feet. The corporal raised his gun promptly and jeered. For a moment Birnier stood trembling with passion; then he closed his eyes as if to shut out sight and sound and limped forward, fighting with himself.With natives had Birnier always been able to negotiate, to live, and to quarrel when necessary, on terms of amity; but this black“swine,”as he termed[pg 94]him in his wrath, prinked out in a masquerade of a white man’s clothes.… He jammed his heel down savagely upon the thorn to divert the southern passion. After all it was not the man’s fault but zu Pfeiffer’s. Put a white man in a uniform and he becomes a beast; put a nigger in a uniform and he becomes a devil, Birnier forced himself to reflect.The sun grew incandescent. The heat and the flies quickened his thirst. He plodded on, stumbling over the stones, sagging heavily in sandy patches. They had left the comparative shelter of the jungle and were crossing a flat plain approaching, he judged, to a river bed. The carriers, he noted, had lagged behind. Soon they must halt. Even the fiend of a corporal would not fatigue himself too much for the sake of tormenting a white man.Then a new idea was added to the plagues. He had tasted nothing save the coffee, canned beef, and native bread which had been given him for dinner on the previous evening. The corporal had manifested his conception of humour by refusing him beer and water on the march; was he going to torment him by starvation as well as by thirst? And if torture were reserved for him by that grinning black brute, then he knew what would be the end that awaited him.Within an hour they came to a river about forty yards broad, a swollen rushing torrent. There was no village as he had expected. The corporal halted. Birnier slid down the bank and thrust his muzzle into the flood. There was torture in the restraint not to drink too much. He clambered up the slope to find the corporal grinning at him. He turned his back and lay down. There was no shade; only short[pg 95]scrub and grass. Small sand flies buzzed and stung. He heard the gurgle of the corporal’s military water-bottle. But this time the sting was extracted; his belly was moist.Birnier stretched out, shielding from the glare the little that he could with his hands. Faint echoes of“à toi”strolled across his field of consciousness. He observed the apparently stoical indifference of Mungongo squatted a few feet from him, a soldier sprawling between them; but he cursed because investigations had taught him that that“stoical”should usually be read as“bovinity,”as he had termed it; and he smiled dismally at the ancient story that so well illustrated the point, of the peasant who expressed his occupation through the long winter hours as“sometimes we sits and thinks but mostly we just sits.”Mungongo“just sits,”he repeated, and envied him. Yet in that heat and hunger, waiting for his savage captor to wreak some new fancy upon him, so saturated with philosophic interest in life was Birnier, that he wandered off into a meditation upon the mechanical fatuity of human conduct; illustrating his reflections by his own actions when stirred by emotion.“The loaded gun may be as wise as Solomon was reputed to be,”he remarked beneath his hands,“but all the same when some one pulls the trigger the damn thing goes off,”and sat up to confront the muzzle of the corporal’s rifle, who was ordering him to get up. Birnier rose. But to the savage’s amazement, he smiled.The corporal backed away.“Ah, my friend,”remarked Birnier blandly in[pg 96]English.“You’ve lost, for I have found that which was lost!”The corporal scowled and bade him to follow. Birnier obeyed but he felt that he was obliging the man. The carriers had arrived and the green tent was pitched, invitingly cool against the grey flood of the river. He followed the corporal gladly, but at ten feet from his tent, beside a thorn bush four feet tall which spread in a fan shape, he was bidden to sit. For the moment, newly arrived from his philosophic dreams, he did not comprehend.“But that is my tent!”he said in Kiswahili.“Sit down!”commanded the corporal, grinning.“The white seller of slaves sits in the place of the slave, but his owner dwells in the place of the blessed.”“O God!”remarked Birnier as he bumped his head against black reality.[pg 97]Chapter 8Bakuma sat in the shade of the reed fence preparing the evening meal of boiled bananas. From her slender neck swung the precious amulet at which, as if to reassure herself of its safety, she clutched occasionally. Her half-sister, who had not yet passed through the initiation at maturity, sprawled upon her belly in the dwindling rays of the sun, scratching her woolly head. Beyond her were two slaves tending a fire beneath two large calabashes, preparatory to the brewing of banana beer, which had of course to be done by the chief widow, Bakuma’s half-sister’s mother.The mind of Bakuma was occupied by percepts of the charms of Zalu Zako; particularly as memorised on that afternoon by the river when the effect of the love charm had begun to work. These memories, as sweet as they would have been to any maid, were shot with gay colours by the words of the wizard; for he had assured her that with the toe-nail and hair to work magic upon, Zalu Zako would be bewitched by her charms for all time. And she had obtained them! She could have gotten the goat, not a skinny goat as described under the inhibiting influence of a wild hope that the wizard would relent. Her cousin, smarting under the reproaches of her husband, had such a goat, fat as goats in Wongolo go, and she was eager to exchange it or anything for an infallible[pg 98]charm against sterility. Bakuma feared to part with the charm, yet the matter was pressing; immediately she was the wife of Zalu Zako she would be in a position to purchase all the charms in the village.But difficult to obtain as they were, for as everybody knows no man leaves portions of himself around that may fall into the hands of an enemy to work magic upon, least of all a rich man,“half divine,”she had obtained some nail parings and one hair. With that charm against sterility, the only thing of value Bakuma possessed, had she bribed a concubine of Zalu Zako’s household to steal the ingredients required from the hut thatch where they had been hidden after the official shaving and paring following the ceremony of his father, pending their removal to the sacred precincts of the temple.Above her passion for Zalu Zako was her natural feminine appreciation of a good match. The Son of the Snake was far better from a woman’s point of view than union with a successful wizard. In the event of the death of the King-God, Kawa Kendi, the wives of his son and successor, although denied to him, were accorded special privileges; and upon his demise these royal wives retained their home upon the hill which had become his tomb. Moreover, as Bakuma knew well, now that Zalu Zako was heir-apparent, he must choose the principal wife who would for her life remain paramount in the household, avoiding the dread of every ageing woman that her husband would take unto him another wife younger and more supple.The one mosquito in paradise was the fear that as soon as her uncle, her father’s brother to whom she belonged by inheritance, learned the august personage[pg 99]who desired her, he would raise the price to a prohibitive figure; for he was mean as well as stupid and lazy, wherefore he had few goods, and although Zalu Zako was a rich man she knew that any man save a fool loves to drive a good bargain if only to prove his astuteness. Therefore was another imperative necessity to procure every means of magic and charm to fan the flame of her lover’s desires.Yet always flashed a bright-hued lizard in the sun of her joy when she imagined herself installed as the chief wife in the household of Zalu Zako, an unassailable position as long as she had one male child; the practical mistress of his first two wives as well as the retinue of slaves.Bazila, the younger wife, Bakuma knew well; the favourite and haughty, covered with the most expensive amulets against every ill and black magic, she was overfond of sneering at young girls of the hut thatch whose charms had not yet netted a victim.“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma and flashed her teeth as she rolled the warm leaves around the sticky mess,“then will the scent of my body be more bitter than the flower of the fish-faced cactus!”And so through the night did Bakuma nibble at anticipatory joys as she lay upon her reed mat on the slightly raised dais of the floor which was her bed, watching the smoke of the fire in the middle of the hut lose itself in the shadows of the roof, and listening in the hope of hearing some voice of the spirits whom Marufa was to invoke on her behalf. Save for the occasional bleating of a goat and once the harsh scream of the Baroto bird, which made her heart contract, for it is a bad omen, the night was still.[pg 100]However, at the hour of the monkey Bakuma arose to replenish the fire. As the western star was melting in the warm green she left the compound. On the outskirts of the village the tall figure of MYalu appeared from the shadows of the plantation.“Greeting, daughter of Bakala,”said he, his eyes greedily devouring her.“Greeting, O Chief!”returned Bakuma, as she politely stepped to one side to avoid standing on the vague shadow of the chief.“The fawn seeks the pastures early,”remarked MYalu.“Before the breath of the sun the grass is sweeter,”retorted Bakuma, edging away.“Aye,”remarked MYalu, with a hungry glint in his eyes,“thou art eager to slake thy thirst? But in the valley will no buck walk this day!”“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma, recollecting instantly the omen of the Baroto bird heard that night.“What meanest thou?”“Maybe the soul of him hath wandered and been caught in a trap or maybe——”He paused to watch her closely—“maybe an enemy hath made magic upon the parts of him.”“Ehh!”Bakuma started nervously.MYalu smiled and touched her upon the shoulder.“Thy flesh is cooler than the dew.”“Nay, nay, O Chief, thou hast not tied my girdle,”she protested, as she backed away from him, her eyes wide like a terrified deer’s.“Nay, but will I untie it soon,”he retorted.But as he stepped towards her she turned and fled. As MYalu watched her running as swiftly as a pookoo[pg 101]into the plantation he grinned and called out:“Even now is the cooling draught steaming in the breath of the Unmentionable One! But the goblet shall hold a sweeter draught for me!”“Aie! Aie-e!”wailed Bakuma, her heart beating furiously,“what devil hath bewitched me! O, that father of many goats hath betrayed me! Aie! Aie-e! O, the cry of the Baroto bird! Aie! Aie-e!”And when Bakuma, distraught with terror by the menace that she had only procured the nail paring and hair to give her lover into the hands of the false magician who, of course, had been bought by MYalu, arrived at the“pastures”by the river, as MYalu had foretold, no buck walked there.The sun spilled blue shadows on the village from the sacred hill where another scene was being enacted, and it was not as imagined by the amorous MYalu.In the council house, which was within the outer fence and before the sacred enclosure, was in progress a meeting of the doctors. In the door of the enclosure squatted Kawa Kendi, with Kingata Mata in attendance tending the royal fires. Before him, in front of their fellows, were seated Bakahenzie and Marufa in full dress of green feathers and the scarlet plume. The left side of the idol, which was so set that the shadow never fell upon the entrance to the compound, was gilded by the sun; the mouth grinned in one corner, one eye was closed in shadow, seemingly like a prodigious wink.To the thrumming of the sacred band Bakahenzie was rocking himself to and fro mumbling incantations. Kawa Kendi squatted immobile, but the others swayed and grunted softly in rhythm. Then on a sudden did[pg 102]Bakahenzie lift up his head and cry in a great voice. The drums ceased and the body of witch-doctors remained motionless, expectant. Bakahenzie dropped his head and began to chant:“Behold! I have heard the voice of the treesCrying softly by night!Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!As a woman with child!Behold! is she not to break forth?For she crieth for aid.Unless she be heard the infant will slip!The fruit will not be!The plants will not break!The milk will be sour!The beer will be green!Women will not bear!Our spears will be blunt!Our magic will wane!And He will be wroth!”“Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! …”grunted the chorus of the doctors. Then chanted Marufa:“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!Preying swiftly by night!Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throatOf a mighty bull eland!Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!Which panted for blood!The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree![pg 103]Take heed to the thirstOf Him who first was!Who lusts for a maid!Full breasted, soft thighed!Supple, bow arched!Clean blooded and strong!Whose name is forbid!Whose name is a sin!”“Who hath stolen the name?”screamed Bakahenzie, leaping to his feet.“Who is she that hath stolen the name?”“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”As the drums throbbed swifter Bakahenzie began to shuffle in a stooping posture as if he were snuffing a trail. To the continuous grunting he continued this dance for fully a quarter of an hour. Then stopping abruptly in front of the king he screamed:“Let her be biddenTo come to the feast!Let her be oiled!Let her be shaved!Let her come dancing!Let her be joyful!Let her be decked!Let her be glad!Lips of the groomThirst for her mouth!Let her be drunkenTo bear his sweet weight![pg 104]That the crops will be full!That the cattle grow fatWives will throw men!Spears will slice foes!”He sank suddenly upon his haunches. The drums ceased. A slave appeared bearing a pure white kid. Kingata Mata took the animal and held it before Kawa Kendi, who muttered a long incantation over it and cut the throat with a spear head. Then to Marufa was the bleeding carcass carried and while still alive he slit open the belly, smeared the liquid over his chest and right arm, and tore out the guts. The corpse was removed. Marufa, working only with the enchanted arm, turned the entrails over and about, peering closely.There was silence. The shadows grew in depth. From the village came an occasional bleat and the voice of a distant girl chanting.After a prolonged and studious search, Marufa caught up and wrapt round his neck an intestine. As he rose, the group of witch-doctors broke out into a mighty groaning. Marufa speeded across the small clearing and kneeled before Kawa Kendi. Through the bloody necklet he whispered two syllables:“kuma.”The groaning ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. Kawa Kendi cried out in a loud voice:“The bride is found!”Instantly the drums began a furious beat. A mighty shout rose from all assembled and they fell to the chest and belly grunting:“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”as Bakahenzie and Marufa began to dance the dance of thanksgiving.[pg 105]Bakumahad been doomed to be the victim for the Feast of the Harvest Festival, to be sacrificed in the orgy as the Bride of the Spirit of the Banana, because Marufa had discovered by divination that two syllables of her name were those of the secret name which only the King-God knew, of the Unmentionable One, the Usakuma.[pg 106]Chapter 9Before the green tent strutted a sentry as pompously as if he were on duty before the Kommandant’s bungalow. Inside, sprawling in a camp chair, was the corporal, in blue striped pyjamas, smoking a cigarette. Upon the floor crouched one of his women with a safety razor stuck in her woolly thatch, opening a can of beef. On the camp table were a bottle of brandy which had had its neck knocked off, a shaving mirror and an open tin of cigarettes. Squatting on the bed was another woman in field boots, cleaning up a can of salmon with one finger. The rest of the tent was a litter of broken cases, bottles, cans and papers.Ten yards away under the thorn shrub, lay Birnier, and near to him were Mungongo and the others. Mungongo’s regard shuttled between this scene in the tent and the white man with a mingled expression of terror and amazement: terror at the temerity of the corporal in treating a white in such a manner and incredulous bewilderment that the white did not immediately strike them all dead. But the others, more sophisticated to the white man’s ways, were solely occupied in envying the corporal’s debauch.The mauve shadows turned to blue as they lengthened. The clouds of small flies thinned and their ranks began to be refilled by the mosquitoes. Birnier lay with his back to the tent with a fly switch of grass,[pg 107]but he watched the doings of the corporal covertly. The corporal and his women had been drinking a good deal of the brandy and now he was supplying generous quantities to his men. Once he had come out to jeer. Birnier had taken no notice, nor even of the kick implanted by one of his own field boots on the foot of the woman. Already there was a bloodshot glint in the corporal’s yellow eyes and a pronounced uncertainty in his movements. Whether the man had had any particular instructions regarding the manner of his death Birnier did not know until he became loquacious and took to shouting insults at his white prisoner. The great white chief had given the white man to him as a slave, he yelled, and now he was going to take him home with him. This idea seemed to tickle him vastly and also his women, who giggled and applauded as the corporal began to describe what obscene acts they would make their white dog perform every day, what they would give him to eat, how he should be made to dance.They grew noisier and the women began to sing lewd songs. The soldiers too revealed signs of their frequent potations. Soon the whole crowd would go mad, Birnier knew, and sooner or later collapse, which would give him a chance to escape, unless they chained him, or, what was far more probable, they decided to bait him to death during an orgy. What they would probably do to him was unthinkable. Somehow he must find a way out by self-destruction. Even should he escape, he would be unarmed and without food, and there was every possibility that they would trail and overtake him in the morning. He was lame and footsore; also he was weak from want[pg 108]of food. Once, when despoiling his chop boxes, the corporal had contemptuously thrown him a half eaten tin of sardines and a cigarette. He let the cigarette lie. Nourishment he must have; and so after an inward struggle he had eaten it, having to claw out the fish like a monkey, while the big black and his women sprawled and laughed.The soldiers, except the one on sentry who still paced a trifle erratically, were grouped on their haunches around the fire in front of the tent on the threshold of which the corporal presided with as much pomposity as if he were the great Mogul, all drinking and smoking and eating. Now and again the women would screech insults over their heads at the white; and once the corporal threw an empty bottle at him, evoking a gale of applause. The women began the belly dance, crooning while the men accompanied with the rhythmic grunt, which ever leads to hysterical exaltation.The sun was dipping. They might come for him at any moment. He watched the sentry and contemplated making a rush, taking a venture on the man’s bad aim and unsteady hand. They would not follow him far in the dark for dread of the spirits that walk by night. The only alternative to suicide was the river, in flood and full of crocodiles, a slender chance. He determined to try it. He considered making the attempt then. But the darker the better; they would more easily miss. At any risk he must never let them get their hands upon him. He drew himself together, flexing his limbs for a leap and a rush, anxiously observing the chanting crowd around the fire in the sunset glow.[pg 109]The leashes of discipline were fraying. The sentry still plodded up and down, but with a rolling eye for his companions. The working of his mind was revealed when he walked round tying knots in the long grass which, as every Munyamwezi knows, is a sure method to prevent a prisoner’s escape; then he halted in front of Birnier, grinned, and pointed to the fire; evidently he knew or had heard that an orgy was coming. The man stood and watched him. Fearful that the fellow was about to drag him over or suggest that the victim be seized, if only in order to release him from his irksome duty, Birnier snatched up the cigarette lying in the grass and asked for a light to distract the man’s attention. The sentry shook his head and pointed to the fire. Hastily Birnier searched his pockets for a match; recollected that he had used the last, and took out a small tin box of wax vestas wrapped in oiled silk which he kept as a reserve in a special pouch of his belt. In the very act of striking the match Birnier ejaculated:“God!”“Nini?”demanded the sentry.“I burned myself,”returned Birnier.“Nothing to what you will soon!”retorted the nigger, grinning, made an obscene suggestion and swaggered across to the fire.Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the Munyamwezi would not understand.“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I throw up in the air this[pg 110]cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost understand?”“Truly, my master!”“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as it shall these children of dung!”“Truly, master!”Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair. They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry, excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round the outskirts of the throng.Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn bush he heard the rustle of movement and the“boy’s”gasped exclamation to the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right, which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his instructions.The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently above the chorus of the[pg 111]frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet hummed over his head.He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well, for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for some yards. He slid[pg 112]down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa. He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.For some time he could only hear the shouts and yells. He kept the water up to his chin and continuously splashed his face in the endeavour to slacken the efforts of the mosquitoes. The cries approached. He saw men outlined against the stars and then some gleams of lanterns. Something stirred ponderously near to him. It might be a crocodile, but he dared not move. The figures seemed to stay on the top of the bank for hours. He remained rigid, expecting a swirl of water and teeth.Suddenly a spurt of flame shot out above him and was followed by a fusillade of shots in the direction of up river. Had they spotted Mungongo or were they merely letting drive at a bush or the spirits in general? The latter was most probable. The water swirled near to him. All his will power was required not to leap frantically for the bank. Yet a crocodile would be far more merciful than those black devils. Again a swirl and something passed close to him at high speed. Probably an otter scared by the firing; at any rate it was not a crocodile. The lights and figures on the bank disappeared.Shots rang out again, and were followed by a wild outburst of yelling. Birnier began to wade for the bank, continually splashing water at the mosquitoes which were so thick that they reminded him of the bayou Lafourche in far-off Louisiana. Crouching,[pg 113]he waited on the edge of the bank to listen. The corporal might have had enough sense to post men in the grass. Yet he might be too fuddled to think of that, and no native would willingly stay there in the dark, unless under white discipline. Voices still muttered, but they sounded as if from the camp. Had they given him up for the night, relying on the chance that if he had not been taken by a crocodile they could trail him in the morning? Probably.Birnier squatted in the water, ready to plunge back, until he was sure they were in camp. Then as cautiously he crawled up the bank. Through the scrub with his uninjured eye he could make out the figures around the yellow of the fire which had gone down considerably. Now what would they do? He could hear the mumble of the corporal’s voice. Would they be sufficiently sobered to be ready for the chase in the morning? Birnier did not think so with that case of brandy there; the corporal would not, at all events. There was a scream of pain and the chatter of women’s voices.Was the corporal punishing the sentry for having let the prisoners escape, or were they beginning to fight among themselves? The latter was improbable, as non-commissioned officers are usually chosen from petty chiefs and the men under them, as far as possible, from their own village. Had they captured Mungongo or one of the others? Birnier listened again. Another scream was stoppered to a groan.“Devils!”muttered Birnier. Lying flat to watch the grass and shrub tops against the stars, he gave the frog croaks arranged, at intervals of ten seconds. About five minutes later he saw some grass tops quiver[pg 114]unnaturally. He croaked again. Came a whisper:“Is it thee, Infunyana?”(a name given in reference to Birnier’s gold fillings).“Aye.”A dark form glided towards him.“Where are the other men?”“I know not. I told them as thou hadst told me to do. When thou didst give the sign, I fled and plunged into the river.”“Thou wast not frightened of the crocodiles?”“Nay; for I have a mighty charm against all river beasts, enchanted by Bakahenzie, the greatest of magicians.”“Ehh!”commented Birnier, contorting his swollen lips in the dark,“would that I had such an one! Thinkest thou that the men did as they were bidden?”“Who knows what is in the heart of a goat?”returned Mungongo contemptuously, for they were of another tribe.“Ah, listen!”The mutter of the hand-drum grew swifter as a high tenor chanted to the accompaniment of the abdominal grunting and the laryngeal shrilling:“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 115]But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!What hath he given us to tickle our spears?A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of——!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 116]“Those children of folly have not obeyed,”whispered Birnier.“The time is come.… Wait here for me, O Mungongo. I go to take my spirit form. When I return be not afraid!”“Truly,”answered Mungongo, as Birnier crawled away and down the bank. By the water’s edge he swiftly stripped himself to his moccasins and taking out the wax vestas, damped each precious one and carefully rubbed lines over his face and body, endeavouring to get the most distinctive phosphorescent effect around the eyes. Leaving his clothes he crawled back to Mungongo.“Ehh!”exclaimed Mungongo in a muffled scream when he saw the glowing apparition. Birnier heard the rustle of grass. As the boy stood up to run he leaped and pulled him down savagely.“Be quiet, thou fool!”he whispered.“It is I. Be silent!”“Eh! Eh!”gasped Mungongo, who was trembling violently.“If thou dost not be quiet will I tie up thy heart,”threatened Birnier.Mungongo continued to quiver, but he remained passive.“Eh! Eh!”he gasped,“truly thou art a more mighty magician than Bakahenzie.”“Be quiet!”The drums and the song were still going and the chant had become more obscene.“Follow me!”whispered Birnier, when Mungongo was more reassured.They made a detour. As they drew near they could hear muffled screams and groans beneath the howl of[pg 117]the chorus and song. The mighty son of Banyala and his merry men were so engrossed in the orgy that Birnier could have walked right up to the fire before anyone would have seen him. But he would not take any unnecessary risk. Leaving Mungongo outside he crawled under the back flap of the tent. Crouched there he paused. The tent was empty; for all were engaged in the dance. His two shot-guns and two light rifles were stacked in the corner and the big express which the corporal had appropriated, leaned against the tent door behind the chair. He glanced hurriedly around for ammunition, but he could not see any open, and he had left his belt of cartridges with his clothes. Outside the men and women were circling in contrary directions, each with a spear, a knife or a firebrand in hand, around the fire beside which, trussed like bundles of faggots, were the four servants, their feet singeing on the outside hot ashes.For a second Birnier hesitated. He could not know whether any of the guns was loaded. The fire was of glowing embers which did not throw much light into the tent. Swiftly Birnier rose and glided into his own chair in the deep shadow of the tent flap. Then summoning all his nerve he uttered a yell and began to shout the first song which he could recollect:“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”The native minstrel stopped in the middle of his chant; the whole shuffling, grunting crowd was petrified in as many different poses. Birnier leaped to his feet waving his arms wildly, yelling:[pg 118]“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!As we …”But before he had gotten to“Georgia,”only the prostrate forms around the fire had not fled.

[pg 86]Chapter 7Gerald Birnier had flattered himself that he was a philosopher with a sense of humour, fairly well developed by ten years’ wandering about Central Africa, but deep emotions submerge such cherished qualities.The presence of the photograph was explicable by several surmises: zu Pfeiffer might have met Lucille at Washington, Paris, or Berlin: she might have given him the photograph or he might have bought it, or even stolen it. But—the signature“à toi, Lucille”! There lay the sting which maddened Birnier and strangled reason, the fact at which his mind yawed futilely.So great had been the shock that the arrest had seemed but a secondary matter in accord with the insanity of zu Pfeiffer’s statement that he was engaged to Lucille. The affair had been so sudden that for some time he could progress no farther in an attempt to think than a gasp, pawing mentally at an intangible substance which eluded him like a child’s small hand trying to grasp a toy balloon. Sense of reality appeared to have been dissolved. He had followed the sergeant across the square meekly without realising what was happening, and when he had been placed in a whitewashed room at the back of the native guard house which served as a jail, he sat down upon a chair, too bewildered to comprehend where he was. That“à[pg 87]toi, Lucille”rang like the clanging in a belfry, drowning the sound of other thoughts.By the light of a hurricane lamp he regarded the soldiers bringing in an old camp bed with indifference. When they had gone he began to pace up and down the small room frantically trying to gain control. To the first prompting of a logical reason for the whole affair he did not dare to listen. The disrupting cause was the complete inability to explain the familiar signature. To his Anglo-Saxonised mind, bred in the strict code of the south, tutoyer was only permissible to dogs, inferiors, most intimate relations and lovers. He was far too unbalanced to see the humour as he solemnly announced that certainly zu Pfeiffer was not a dog, nor in the social code an inferior; he was not a relation; therefore.… His mind baulked and raced into incoherence.A point of view which added false premises, as well as his attitude to those two little words, was the consciousness that many would consider that he had not treated his wife as a husband should do. This possibility had never occurred to him before, so that it came with disproportionate emphasis.As a young man he had been too absorbed in his profession to be a lady’s man; and of love he had reckoned little until he had met the Lucille Charltrain with whom half the world was in love. And she doubtless, like many a spoiled beauty, was a little piqued that the professor did not join the throng of her courtiers. In Birnier’s mind there had ever been associated with love the fear that the woman would demand too much, that no woman could understand that a man’s profession must of necessity come before[pg 88]all things. Lucille was the first woman whom he had met who really seemed to understand this point of view, as she, too, was devoted to her art. This had grown to be the biggest bond and attraction between them. Most men wished to make of love a nuisance, as Lucille once put it. So the good-looking professor had won the beauty. They were married on the mutual understanding that each should pursue their respective professions. Shortly afterwards Birnier was offered a special mission to go to Africa for the purpose of studying the customs and superstitions of the natives. Lucille had consented, forbidden, relented, and laughed.So Lucille sang from musical height to height and her husband sped from depth to depth in the seas of human fatuity. Whenever he took a furlough he went, of course, straight to her, wheresoever she was, in Berlin, New York, or Paris. To Birnier the situation was ideal. He had never dreamed of any other woman. Indeed the tracts of his mind were so filled with statistics of anthropology and Lucille that there was little or no room for any one else. The delight and satisfaction in Birnier’s mind were so sincere that he never had dreamed of questioning whether Lucille’s point of view had remained the same. But now?That“à toi”stung and baited him into the unprecedented realisation that after all women had been known to change their opinions. Perhaps pride had prevented her from ever openly demanding other ways. Lucille was young and beautiful, courted and flattered on every hand. Perhaps he had been wrong to leave her for years at a stretch. Of her loyalty he had had[pg 89]no doubt, but for the first time in his marital life the professor’s profound knowledge of human nature was shot like a spot-light on to his own affairs. Yet his erudition did not in the least relieve him from the laws of emotional reaction.Perhaps in an emotional moment.… That knowledge of the frailties of genus homo was too deep for comfort in such actuation.“À toi, Lucille! À toi, Lucille!”rang and echoed as he paced that room, striving for control.… And—and—why else should zu Pfeiffer have gone crazy?—why had he exclaimed:“Das ist der Schweinhünd”? The husband, of course, whom he wanted out of the way, and he had immediately seized the opportunity to secure that end, seemingly indifferent to consequences—symptomatic of the state of“being in love.”Around and about, about and around a field of weeds which had sprung from that seed“à toi,”had paced the professor all night. When the green was creeping through the high barred window, Sergeant Schneider had brought to him some coffee and biscuits. Birnier had drunk the coffee thirstily, and as the sergeant had no English nor French, had tried in broken German to extract some information. But the sergeant had merely grunted and retired. At seven he had returned again and escorted Birnier to the Court House. He returned from the mock trial a little more in touch with reality, and more impressed with the malignity of zu Pfeiffer. Yet the gratuitous insults, the laboured farce of the registering of an alleged Swiss trader, Birnier saw through, and was relieved, for it argued that zu Pfeiffer’s intention was to make Lucille a widow. No[pg 90]other reason could account for the homicidal intentions displayed.At the glow of dawn next day he was aroused by the big corporal who ordered him out. The tone of the man’s voice naturally stimulated a violent reaction. But Birnier realised that his sole chance lay in controlling himself to accept stoically whatever treatment was offered; for he saw instantly that any protest or indignation would be interpreted as insubordination and possibly be made an excuse to shoot him down.Outside in the grey light he saw under the guard of six native soldiers, the five others of his party. Mungongo, his personal“boy,”cried out at the sight of him, asking what was the meaning of these strange happenings. Before Birnier could reply, the big corporal struck the man savagely with a kiboko, bidding him to be silent. In spite of his resolution, the reaction made Birnier turn angrily upon the soldier, who deliberately repeated the order, and struck the white man across the face. As Birnier raised his fist the man lowered his bayonet and grinned, adding, apparently for the benefit of his men, that now the white would learn what it was to be a slave.Furiously Birnier looked around for Sergeant Schneider: but no white man was in sight.… He turned to Mungongo and said quickly:“Take no heed. Do as they bid thee for the moment.”“Be silent!”shouted the corporal, but as he raised his kiboko, Birnier looked him quietly straight in the eyes. The black hand was lowered; the man turned away, ordering the party in general to march.Dishevelled and without any camp equipment, Birnier began to march as the blood of the sky paled[pg 91]to orange. At the bottom of the great parade ground he turned in time to see the relieving guard falling in behind the Court House. For one moment he hesitated whether to put all to the test by refusing to go; but a significant gesture with the ever ready rifle of the corporal signified that he would not be given a chance. Humiliated, he obeyed. But just beyond the last hut, waiting by the path, was a group of women loaded with the soldiers’ gear; and beside them were some carriers bearing his green tent and apparently all his equipment. The sight cheered him a little. He attempted to find immediate consolation in the idea that the savagery of the corporal might possibly abate when they were away from the neighbourhood of the inciting agent, whom he was sure was zu Pfeiffer.Leading the caravan was a soldier; next to him came Birnier and behind him was another soldier, after whom walked Mungongo and the four other prisoners, with a soldier between each; and then the corporal, strutting portentously important within easy shooting distance of the white man. The carriers and women brought up the rear.The path led for some miles through the dreary swamp following the course of the small bayou, crossing and recrossing small streams swollen with the rains, through which the white man was forced to wade to his hips. For the first mile Birnier was so angry and humiliated that he dared not catch the troubled eyes of Mungongo. But by force of will he attained a reasonable plane of philosophic resignation, temporary at least, and smiled at the boy, who grinned back like a tickled child. At any rate, soliloquised[pg 92]Birnier, he had at least one man upon whom he could rely.At the head of the bayou they reached higher ground and the path zigzagged through dense jungle thick with fan palms. The longer Birnier pondered upon the situation the nearer he came towards the conclusion that he had better make his escape as soon as possible, or he would never have the chance. Rather by the uneasy glances of Mungongo, who dared not speak, did he guess that they had left the regular trail to the coast. What their destination was he could not imagine. Probably, he thought grimly, to make an end of the whole party and return to the camp. Yet why trouble to travel so far? And another good reason to hasten an escape was that, although for the moment he was in good health, a few days of exposure would subject him to fever and consequent weakness.Now and again the theme“à toi”would return like the refrain of a song to which he found himself keeping step; but the words sometimes became meaningless; for in the merciful way that nature has, the impulse of self-preservation so occupied his mind that he had scarcely leisure to worry over marital troubles.At the end of about two hours, when the heat of the sun was beginning to be felt severely, the corporal called a halt in the shade of a great baobab. Birnier sat down with his back against the bole. Alongside him squatted the corporal deliberately and called to the women for a gourd of juwala. There is a certain acid odour which native beer has that is particularly irritating to a dry palate. The corporal drank deep, sighed with satisfaction and set the gourd beside him almost touching the feet of the white. Involuntarily[pg 93]Birnier swallowed. The corporal saw and grinned. Birnier understood and turned his back to the man. Immediately the corporal arose and lowering his bayonet until it pricked the sleeve of Birnier’s coat, ordered him to get up. In the knowledge that he would be instantly shot by the others if he attempted to resist, he had perforce to obey.Outside the shade of the great tree, in the full glare of the sun, was the white man compelled to sit while the black corporal, with the rifle ready across his knee, drank deep and handed the gourd to his fellows. Again Birnier turned his back to him. But he began to realise faintly what treatment he would receive before the end came and an intimate knowledge of native ingenuity made him feel physically sick.Half an hour later they were on the march again. The path became rugged and difficult, passing through thorny ground, following burbling watercourses of rough stones. To make the going more trying Birnier wore light moccasins intended for camp use instead of his high field boots. Once when a long thorn penetrated the flank of his shoe he stopped to extract it. The corporal shouted at him; the soldier behind called him unmentionable names in the dialect and pushed him with his foot. The insult and the heat of the sun maddened him. He leaped to his feet. The corporal raised his gun promptly and jeered. For a moment Birnier stood trembling with passion; then he closed his eyes as if to shut out sight and sound and limped forward, fighting with himself.With natives had Birnier always been able to negotiate, to live, and to quarrel when necessary, on terms of amity; but this black“swine,”as he termed[pg 94]him in his wrath, prinked out in a masquerade of a white man’s clothes.… He jammed his heel down savagely upon the thorn to divert the southern passion. After all it was not the man’s fault but zu Pfeiffer’s. Put a white man in a uniform and he becomes a beast; put a nigger in a uniform and he becomes a devil, Birnier forced himself to reflect.The sun grew incandescent. The heat and the flies quickened his thirst. He plodded on, stumbling over the stones, sagging heavily in sandy patches. They had left the comparative shelter of the jungle and were crossing a flat plain approaching, he judged, to a river bed. The carriers, he noted, had lagged behind. Soon they must halt. Even the fiend of a corporal would not fatigue himself too much for the sake of tormenting a white man.Then a new idea was added to the plagues. He had tasted nothing save the coffee, canned beef, and native bread which had been given him for dinner on the previous evening. The corporal had manifested his conception of humour by refusing him beer and water on the march; was he going to torment him by starvation as well as by thirst? And if torture were reserved for him by that grinning black brute, then he knew what would be the end that awaited him.Within an hour they came to a river about forty yards broad, a swollen rushing torrent. There was no village as he had expected. The corporal halted. Birnier slid down the bank and thrust his muzzle into the flood. There was torture in the restraint not to drink too much. He clambered up the slope to find the corporal grinning at him. He turned his back and lay down. There was no shade; only short[pg 95]scrub and grass. Small sand flies buzzed and stung. He heard the gurgle of the corporal’s military water-bottle. But this time the sting was extracted; his belly was moist.Birnier stretched out, shielding from the glare the little that he could with his hands. Faint echoes of“à toi”strolled across his field of consciousness. He observed the apparently stoical indifference of Mungongo squatted a few feet from him, a soldier sprawling between them; but he cursed because investigations had taught him that that“stoical”should usually be read as“bovinity,”as he had termed it; and he smiled dismally at the ancient story that so well illustrated the point, of the peasant who expressed his occupation through the long winter hours as“sometimes we sits and thinks but mostly we just sits.”Mungongo“just sits,”he repeated, and envied him. Yet in that heat and hunger, waiting for his savage captor to wreak some new fancy upon him, so saturated with philosophic interest in life was Birnier, that he wandered off into a meditation upon the mechanical fatuity of human conduct; illustrating his reflections by his own actions when stirred by emotion.“The loaded gun may be as wise as Solomon was reputed to be,”he remarked beneath his hands,“but all the same when some one pulls the trigger the damn thing goes off,”and sat up to confront the muzzle of the corporal’s rifle, who was ordering him to get up. Birnier rose. But to the savage’s amazement, he smiled.The corporal backed away.“Ah, my friend,”remarked Birnier blandly in[pg 96]English.“You’ve lost, for I have found that which was lost!”The corporal scowled and bade him to follow. Birnier obeyed but he felt that he was obliging the man. The carriers had arrived and the green tent was pitched, invitingly cool against the grey flood of the river. He followed the corporal gladly, but at ten feet from his tent, beside a thorn bush four feet tall which spread in a fan shape, he was bidden to sit. For the moment, newly arrived from his philosophic dreams, he did not comprehend.“But that is my tent!”he said in Kiswahili.“Sit down!”commanded the corporal, grinning.“The white seller of slaves sits in the place of the slave, but his owner dwells in the place of the blessed.”“O God!”remarked Birnier as he bumped his head against black reality.

Gerald Birnier had flattered himself that he was a philosopher with a sense of humour, fairly well developed by ten years’ wandering about Central Africa, but deep emotions submerge such cherished qualities.

The presence of the photograph was explicable by several surmises: zu Pfeiffer might have met Lucille at Washington, Paris, or Berlin: she might have given him the photograph or he might have bought it, or even stolen it. But—the signature“à toi, Lucille”! There lay the sting which maddened Birnier and strangled reason, the fact at which his mind yawed futilely.

So great had been the shock that the arrest had seemed but a secondary matter in accord with the insanity of zu Pfeiffer’s statement that he was engaged to Lucille. The affair had been so sudden that for some time he could progress no farther in an attempt to think than a gasp, pawing mentally at an intangible substance which eluded him like a child’s small hand trying to grasp a toy balloon. Sense of reality appeared to have been dissolved. He had followed the sergeant across the square meekly without realising what was happening, and when he had been placed in a whitewashed room at the back of the native guard house which served as a jail, he sat down upon a chair, too bewildered to comprehend where he was. That“à[pg 87]toi, Lucille”rang like the clanging in a belfry, drowning the sound of other thoughts.

By the light of a hurricane lamp he regarded the soldiers bringing in an old camp bed with indifference. When they had gone he began to pace up and down the small room frantically trying to gain control. To the first prompting of a logical reason for the whole affair he did not dare to listen. The disrupting cause was the complete inability to explain the familiar signature. To his Anglo-Saxonised mind, bred in the strict code of the south, tutoyer was only permissible to dogs, inferiors, most intimate relations and lovers. He was far too unbalanced to see the humour as he solemnly announced that certainly zu Pfeiffer was not a dog, nor in the social code an inferior; he was not a relation; therefore.… His mind baulked and raced into incoherence.

A point of view which added false premises, as well as his attitude to those two little words, was the consciousness that many would consider that he had not treated his wife as a husband should do. This possibility had never occurred to him before, so that it came with disproportionate emphasis.

As a young man he had been too absorbed in his profession to be a lady’s man; and of love he had reckoned little until he had met the Lucille Charltrain with whom half the world was in love. And she doubtless, like many a spoiled beauty, was a little piqued that the professor did not join the throng of her courtiers. In Birnier’s mind there had ever been associated with love the fear that the woman would demand too much, that no woman could understand that a man’s profession must of necessity come before[pg 88]all things. Lucille was the first woman whom he had met who really seemed to understand this point of view, as she, too, was devoted to her art. This had grown to be the biggest bond and attraction between them. Most men wished to make of love a nuisance, as Lucille once put it. So the good-looking professor had won the beauty. They were married on the mutual understanding that each should pursue their respective professions. Shortly afterwards Birnier was offered a special mission to go to Africa for the purpose of studying the customs and superstitions of the natives. Lucille had consented, forbidden, relented, and laughed.

So Lucille sang from musical height to height and her husband sped from depth to depth in the seas of human fatuity. Whenever he took a furlough he went, of course, straight to her, wheresoever she was, in Berlin, New York, or Paris. To Birnier the situation was ideal. He had never dreamed of any other woman. Indeed the tracts of his mind were so filled with statistics of anthropology and Lucille that there was little or no room for any one else. The delight and satisfaction in Birnier’s mind were so sincere that he never had dreamed of questioning whether Lucille’s point of view had remained the same. But now?

That“à toi”stung and baited him into the unprecedented realisation that after all women had been known to change their opinions. Perhaps pride had prevented her from ever openly demanding other ways. Lucille was young and beautiful, courted and flattered on every hand. Perhaps he had been wrong to leave her for years at a stretch. Of her loyalty he had had[pg 89]no doubt, but for the first time in his marital life the professor’s profound knowledge of human nature was shot like a spot-light on to his own affairs. Yet his erudition did not in the least relieve him from the laws of emotional reaction.

Perhaps in an emotional moment.… That knowledge of the frailties of genus homo was too deep for comfort in such actuation.

“À toi, Lucille! À toi, Lucille!”rang and echoed as he paced that room, striving for control.… And—and—why else should zu Pfeiffer have gone crazy?—why had he exclaimed:“Das ist der Schweinhünd”? The husband, of course, whom he wanted out of the way, and he had immediately seized the opportunity to secure that end, seemingly indifferent to consequences—symptomatic of the state of“being in love.”

Around and about, about and around a field of weeds which had sprung from that seed“à toi,”had paced the professor all night. When the green was creeping through the high barred window, Sergeant Schneider had brought to him some coffee and biscuits. Birnier had drunk the coffee thirstily, and as the sergeant had no English nor French, had tried in broken German to extract some information. But the sergeant had merely grunted and retired. At seven he had returned again and escorted Birnier to the Court House. He returned from the mock trial a little more in touch with reality, and more impressed with the malignity of zu Pfeiffer. Yet the gratuitous insults, the laboured farce of the registering of an alleged Swiss trader, Birnier saw through, and was relieved, for it argued that zu Pfeiffer’s intention was to make Lucille a widow. No[pg 90]other reason could account for the homicidal intentions displayed.

At the glow of dawn next day he was aroused by the big corporal who ordered him out. The tone of the man’s voice naturally stimulated a violent reaction. But Birnier realised that his sole chance lay in controlling himself to accept stoically whatever treatment was offered; for he saw instantly that any protest or indignation would be interpreted as insubordination and possibly be made an excuse to shoot him down.

Outside in the grey light he saw under the guard of six native soldiers, the five others of his party. Mungongo, his personal“boy,”cried out at the sight of him, asking what was the meaning of these strange happenings. Before Birnier could reply, the big corporal struck the man savagely with a kiboko, bidding him to be silent. In spite of his resolution, the reaction made Birnier turn angrily upon the soldier, who deliberately repeated the order, and struck the white man across the face. As Birnier raised his fist the man lowered his bayonet and grinned, adding, apparently for the benefit of his men, that now the white would learn what it was to be a slave.

Furiously Birnier looked around for Sergeant Schneider: but no white man was in sight.… He turned to Mungongo and said quickly:“Take no heed. Do as they bid thee for the moment.”

“Be silent!”shouted the corporal, but as he raised his kiboko, Birnier looked him quietly straight in the eyes. The black hand was lowered; the man turned away, ordering the party in general to march.

Dishevelled and without any camp equipment, Birnier began to march as the blood of the sky paled[pg 91]to orange. At the bottom of the great parade ground he turned in time to see the relieving guard falling in behind the Court House. For one moment he hesitated whether to put all to the test by refusing to go; but a significant gesture with the ever ready rifle of the corporal signified that he would not be given a chance. Humiliated, he obeyed. But just beyond the last hut, waiting by the path, was a group of women loaded with the soldiers’ gear; and beside them were some carriers bearing his green tent and apparently all his equipment. The sight cheered him a little. He attempted to find immediate consolation in the idea that the savagery of the corporal might possibly abate when they were away from the neighbourhood of the inciting agent, whom he was sure was zu Pfeiffer.

Leading the caravan was a soldier; next to him came Birnier and behind him was another soldier, after whom walked Mungongo and the four other prisoners, with a soldier between each; and then the corporal, strutting portentously important within easy shooting distance of the white man. The carriers and women brought up the rear.

The path led for some miles through the dreary swamp following the course of the small bayou, crossing and recrossing small streams swollen with the rains, through which the white man was forced to wade to his hips. For the first mile Birnier was so angry and humiliated that he dared not catch the troubled eyes of Mungongo. But by force of will he attained a reasonable plane of philosophic resignation, temporary at least, and smiled at the boy, who grinned back like a tickled child. At any rate, soliloquised[pg 92]Birnier, he had at least one man upon whom he could rely.

At the head of the bayou they reached higher ground and the path zigzagged through dense jungle thick with fan palms. The longer Birnier pondered upon the situation the nearer he came towards the conclusion that he had better make his escape as soon as possible, or he would never have the chance. Rather by the uneasy glances of Mungongo, who dared not speak, did he guess that they had left the regular trail to the coast. What their destination was he could not imagine. Probably, he thought grimly, to make an end of the whole party and return to the camp. Yet why trouble to travel so far? And another good reason to hasten an escape was that, although for the moment he was in good health, a few days of exposure would subject him to fever and consequent weakness.

Now and again the theme“à toi”would return like the refrain of a song to which he found himself keeping step; but the words sometimes became meaningless; for in the merciful way that nature has, the impulse of self-preservation so occupied his mind that he had scarcely leisure to worry over marital troubles.

At the end of about two hours, when the heat of the sun was beginning to be felt severely, the corporal called a halt in the shade of a great baobab. Birnier sat down with his back against the bole. Alongside him squatted the corporal deliberately and called to the women for a gourd of juwala. There is a certain acid odour which native beer has that is particularly irritating to a dry palate. The corporal drank deep, sighed with satisfaction and set the gourd beside him almost touching the feet of the white. Involuntarily[pg 93]Birnier swallowed. The corporal saw and grinned. Birnier understood and turned his back to the man. Immediately the corporal arose and lowering his bayonet until it pricked the sleeve of Birnier’s coat, ordered him to get up. In the knowledge that he would be instantly shot by the others if he attempted to resist, he had perforce to obey.

Outside the shade of the great tree, in the full glare of the sun, was the white man compelled to sit while the black corporal, with the rifle ready across his knee, drank deep and handed the gourd to his fellows. Again Birnier turned his back to him. But he began to realise faintly what treatment he would receive before the end came and an intimate knowledge of native ingenuity made him feel physically sick.

Half an hour later they were on the march again. The path became rugged and difficult, passing through thorny ground, following burbling watercourses of rough stones. To make the going more trying Birnier wore light moccasins intended for camp use instead of his high field boots. Once when a long thorn penetrated the flank of his shoe he stopped to extract it. The corporal shouted at him; the soldier behind called him unmentionable names in the dialect and pushed him with his foot. The insult and the heat of the sun maddened him. He leaped to his feet. The corporal raised his gun promptly and jeered. For a moment Birnier stood trembling with passion; then he closed his eyes as if to shut out sight and sound and limped forward, fighting with himself.

With natives had Birnier always been able to negotiate, to live, and to quarrel when necessary, on terms of amity; but this black“swine,”as he termed[pg 94]him in his wrath, prinked out in a masquerade of a white man’s clothes.… He jammed his heel down savagely upon the thorn to divert the southern passion. After all it was not the man’s fault but zu Pfeiffer’s. Put a white man in a uniform and he becomes a beast; put a nigger in a uniform and he becomes a devil, Birnier forced himself to reflect.

The sun grew incandescent. The heat and the flies quickened his thirst. He plodded on, stumbling over the stones, sagging heavily in sandy patches. They had left the comparative shelter of the jungle and were crossing a flat plain approaching, he judged, to a river bed. The carriers, he noted, had lagged behind. Soon they must halt. Even the fiend of a corporal would not fatigue himself too much for the sake of tormenting a white man.

Then a new idea was added to the plagues. He had tasted nothing save the coffee, canned beef, and native bread which had been given him for dinner on the previous evening. The corporal had manifested his conception of humour by refusing him beer and water on the march; was he going to torment him by starvation as well as by thirst? And if torture were reserved for him by that grinning black brute, then he knew what would be the end that awaited him.

Within an hour they came to a river about forty yards broad, a swollen rushing torrent. There was no village as he had expected. The corporal halted. Birnier slid down the bank and thrust his muzzle into the flood. There was torture in the restraint not to drink too much. He clambered up the slope to find the corporal grinning at him. He turned his back and lay down. There was no shade; only short[pg 95]scrub and grass. Small sand flies buzzed and stung. He heard the gurgle of the corporal’s military water-bottle. But this time the sting was extracted; his belly was moist.

Birnier stretched out, shielding from the glare the little that he could with his hands. Faint echoes of“à toi”strolled across his field of consciousness. He observed the apparently stoical indifference of Mungongo squatted a few feet from him, a soldier sprawling between them; but he cursed because investigations had taught him that that“stoical”should usually be read as“bovinity,”as he had termed it; and he smiled dismally at the ancient story that so well illustrated the point, of the peasant who expressed his occupation through the long winter hours as“sometimes we sits and thinks but mostly we just sits.”

Mungongo“just sits,”he repeated, and envied him. Yet in that heat and hunger, waiting for his savage captor to wreak some new fancy upon him, so saturated with philosophic interest in life was Birnier, that he wandered off into a meditation upon the mechanical fatuity of human conduct; illustrating his reflections by his own actions when stirred by emotion.“The loaded gun may be as wise as Solomon was reputed to be,”he remarked beneath his hands,“but all the same when some one pulls the trigger the damn thing goes off,”and sat up to confront the muzzle of the corporal’s rifle, who was ordering him to get up. Birnier rose. But to the savage’s amazement, he smiled.

The corporal backed away.

“Ah, my friend,”remarked Birnier blandly in[pg 96]English.“You’ve lost, for I have found that which was lost!”

The corporal scowled and bade him to follow. Birnier obeyed but he felt that he was obliging the man. The carriers had arrived and the green tent was pitched, invitingly cool against the grey flood of the river. He followed the corporal gladly, but at ten feet from his tent, beside a thorn bush four feet tall which spread in a fan shape, he was bidden to sit. For the moment, newly arrived from his philosophic dreams, he did not comprehend.

“But that is my tent!”he said in Kiswahili.

“Sit down!”commanded the corporal, grinning.“The white seller of slaves sits in the place of the slave, but his owner dwells in the place of the blessed.”

“O God!”remarked Birnier as he bumped his head against black reality.

[pg 97]Chapter 8Bakuma sat in the shade of the reed fence preparing the evening meal of boiled bananas. From her slender neck swung the precious amulet at which, as if to reassure herself of its safety, she clutched occasionally. Her half-sister, who had not yet passed through the initiation at maturity, sprawled upon her belly in the dwindling rays of the sun, scratching her woolly head. Beyond her were two slaves tending a fire beneath two large calabashes, preparatory to the brewing of banana beer, which had of course to be done by the chief widow, Bakuma’s half-sister’s mother.The mind of Bakuma was occupied by percepts of the charms of Zalu Zako; particularly as memorised on that afternoon by the river when the effect of the love charm had begun to work. These memories, as sweet as they would have been to any maid, were shot with gay colours by the words of the wizard; for he had assured her that with the toe-nail and hair to work magic upon, Zalu Zako would be bewitched by her charms for all time. And she had obtained them! She could have gotten the goat, not a skinny goat as described under the inhibiting influence of a wild hope that the wizard would relent. Her cousin, smarting under the reproaches of her husband, had such a goat, fat as goats in Wongolo go, and she was eager to exchange it or anything for an infallible[pg 98]charm against sterility. Bakuma feared to part with the charm, yet the matter was pressing; immediately she was the wife of Zalu Zako she would be in a position to purchase all the charms in the village.But difficult to obtain as they were, for as everybody knows no man leaves portions of himself around that may fall into the hands of an enemy to work magic upon, least of all a rich man,“half divine,”she had obtained some nail parings and one hair. With that charm against sterility, the only thing of value Bakuma possessed, had she bribed a concubine of Zalu Zako’s household to steal the ingredients required from the hut thatch where they had been hidden after the official shaving and paring following the ceremony of his father, pending their removal to the sacred precincts of the temple.Above her passion for Zalu Zako was her natural feminine appreciation of a good match. The Son of the Snake was far better from a woman’s point of view than union with a successful wizard. In the event of the death of the King-God, Kawa Kendi, the wives of his son and successor, although denied to him, were accorded special privileges; and upon his demise these royal wives retained their home upon the hill which had become his tomb. Moreover, as Bakuma knew well, now that Zalu Zako was heir-apparent, he must choose the principal wife who would for her life remain paramount in the household, avoiding the dread of every ageing woman that her husband would take unto him another wife younger and more supple.The one mosquito in paradise was the fear that as soon as her uncle, her father’s brother to whom she belonged by inheritance, learned the august personage[pg 99]who desired her, he would raise the price to a prohibitive figure; for he was mean as well as stupid and lazy, wherefore he had few goods, and although Zalu Zako was a rich man she knew that any man save a fool loves to drive a good bargain if only to prove his astuteness. Therefore was another imperative necessity to procure every means of magic and charm to fan the flame of her lover’s desires.Yet always flashed a bright-hued lizard in the sun of her joy when she imagined herself installed as the chief wife in the household of Zalu Zako, an unassailable position as long as she had one male child; the practical mistress of his first two wives as well as the retinue of slaves.Bazila, the younger wife, Bakuma knew well; the favourite and haughty, covered with the most expensive amulets against every ill and black magic, she was overfond of sneering at young girls of the hut thatch whose charms had not yet netted a victim.“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma and flashed her teeth as she rolled the warm leaves around the sticky mess,“then will the scent of my body be more bitter than the flower of the fish-faced cactus!”And so through the night did Bakuma nibble at anticipatory joys as she lay upon her reed mat on the slightly raised dais of the floor which was her bed, watching the smoke of the fire in the middle of the hut lose itself in the shadows of the roof, and listening in the hope of hearing some voice of the spirits whom Marufa was to invoke on her behalf. Save for the occasional bleating of a goat and once the harsh scream of the Baroto bird, which made her heart contract, for it is a bad omen, the night was still.[pg 100]However, at the hour of the monkey Bakuma arose to replenish the fire. As the western star was melting in the warm green she left the compound. On the outskirts of the village the tall figure of MYalu appeared from the shadows of the plantation.“Greeting, daughter of Bakala,”said he, his eyes greedily devouring her.“Greeting, O Chief!”returned Bakuma, as she politely stepped to one side to avoid standing on the vague shadow of the chief.“The fawn seeks the pastures early,”remarked MYalu.“Before the breath of the sun the grass is sweeter,”retorted Bakuma, edging away.“Aye,”remarked MYalu, with a hungry glint in his eyes,“thou art eager to slake thy thirst? But in the valley will no buck walk this day!”“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma, recollecting instantly the omen of the Baroto bird heard that night.“What meanest thou?”“Maybe the soul of him hath wandered and been caught in a trap or maybe——”He paused to watch her closely—“maybe an enemy hath made magic upon the parts of him.”“Ehh!”Bakuma started nervously.MYalu smiled and touched her upon the shoulder.“Thy flesh is cooler than the dew.”“Nay, nay, O Chief, thou hast not tied my girdle,”she protested, as she backed away from him, her eyes wide like a terrified deer’s.“Nay, but will I untie it soon,”he retorted.But as he stepped towards her she turned and fled. As MYalu watched her running as swiftly as a pookoo[pg 101]into the plantation he grinned and called out:“Even now is the cooling draught steaming in the breath of the Unmentionable One! But the goblet shall hold a sweeter draught for me!”“Aie! Aie-e!”wailed Bakuma, her heart beating furiously,“what devil hath bewitched me! O, that father of many goats hath betrayed me! Aie! Aie-e! O, the cry of the Baroto bird! Aie! Aie-e!”And when Bakuma, distraught with terror by the menace that she had only procured the nail paring and hair to give her lover into the hands of the false magician who, of course, had been bought by MYalu, arrived at the“pastures”by the river, as MYalu had foretold, no buck walked there.The sun spilled blue shadows on the village from the sacred hill where another scene was being enacted, and it was not as imagined by the amorous MYalu.In the council house, which was within the outer fence and before the sacred enclosure, was in progress a meeting of the doctors. In the door of the enclosure squatted Kawa Kendi, with Kingata Mata in attendance tending the royal fires. Before him, in front of their fellows, were seated Bakahenzie and Marufa in full dress of green feathers and the scarlet plume. The left side of the idol, which was so set that the shadow never fell upon the entrance to the compound, was gilded by the sun; the mouth grinned in one corner, one eye was closed in shadow, seemingly like a prodigious wink.To the thrumming of the sacred band Bakahenzie was rocking himself to and fro mumbling incantations. Kawa Kendi squatted immobile, but the others swayed and grunted softly in rhythm. Then on a sudden did[pg 102]Bakahenzie lift up his head and cry in a great voice. The drums ceased and the body of witch-doctors remained motionless, expectant. Bakahenzie dropped his head and began to chant:“Behold! I have heard the voice of the treesCrying softly by night!Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!As a woman with child!Behold! is she not to break forth?For she crieth for aid.Unless she be heard the infant will slip!The fruit will not be!The plants will not break!The milk will be sour!The beer will be green!Women will not bear!Our spears will be blunt!Our magic will wane!And He will be wroth!”“Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! …”grunted the chorus of the doctors. Then chanted Marufa:“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!Preying swiftly by night!Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throatOf a mighty bull eland!Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!Which panted for blood!The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree![pg 103]Take heed to the thirstOf Him who first was!Who lusts for a maid!Full breasted, soft thighed!Supple, bow arched!Clean blooded and strong!Whose name is forbid!Whose name is a sin!”“Who hath stolen the name?”screamed Bakahenzie, leaping to his feet.“Who is she that hath stolen the name?”“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”As the drums throbbed swifter Bakahenzie began to shuffle in a stooping posture as if he were snuffing a trail. To the continuous grunting he continued this dance for fully a quarter of an hour. Then stopping abruptly in front of the king he screamed:“Let her be biddenTo come to the feast!Let her be oiled!Let her be shaved!Let her come dancing!Let her be joyful!Let her be decked!Let her be glad!Lips of the groomThirst for her mouth!Let her be drunkenTo bear his sweet weight![pg 104]That the crops will be full!That the cattle grow fatWives will throw men!Spears will slice foes!”He sank suddenly upon his haunches. The drums ceased. A slave appeared bearing a pure white kid. Kingata Mata took the animal and held it before Kawa Kendi, who muttered a long incantation over it and cut the throat with a spear head. Then to Marufa was the bleeding carcass carried and while still alive he slit open the belly, smeared the liquid over his chest and right arm, and tore out the guts. The corpse was removed. Marufa, working only with the enchanted arm, turned the entrails over and about, peering closely.There was silence. The shadows grew in depth. From the village came an occasional bleat and the voice of a distant girl chanting.After a prolonged and studious search, Marufa caught up and wrapt round his neck an intestine. As he rose, the group of witch-doctors broke out into a mighty groaning. Marufa speeded across the small clearing and kneeled before Kawa Kendi. Through the bloody necklet he whispered two syllables:“kuma.”The groaning ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. Kawa Kendi cried out in a loud voice:“The bride is found!”Instantly the drums began a furious beat. A mighty shout rose from all assembled and they fell to the chest and belly grunting:“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”as Bakahenzie and Marufa began to dance the dance of thanksgiving.[pg 105]Bakumahad been doomed to be the victim for the Feast of the Harvest Festival, to be sacrificed in the orgy as the Bride of the Spirit of the Banana, because Marufa had discovered by divination that two syllables of her name were those of the secret name which only the King-God knew, of the Unmentionable One, the Usakuma.

Bakuma sat in the shade of the reed fence preparing the evening meal of boiled bananas. From her slender neck swung the precious amulet at which, as if to reassure herself of its safety, she clutched occasionally. Her half-sister, who had not yet passed through the initiation at maturity, sprawled upon her belly in the dwindling rays of the sun, scratching her woolly head. Beyond her were two slaves tending a fire beneath two large calabashes, preparatory to the brewing of banana beer, which had of course to be done by the chief widow, Bakuma’s half-sister’s mother.

The mind of Bakuma was occupied by percepts of the charms of Zalu Zako; particularly as memorised on that afternoon by the river when the effect of the love charm had begun to work. These memories, as sweet as they would have been to any maid, were shot with gay colours by the words of the wizard; for he had assured her that with the toe-nail and hair to work magic upon, Zalu Zako would be bewitched by her charms for all time. And she had obtained them! She could have gotten the goat, not a skinny goat as described under the inhibiting influence of a wild hope that the wizard would relent. Her cousin, smarting under the reproaches of her husband, had such a goat, fat as goats in Wongolo go, and she was eager to exchange it or anything for an infallible[pg 98]charm against sterility. Bakuma feared to part with the charm, yet the matter was pressing; immediately she was the wife of Zalu Zako she would be in a position to purchase all the charms in the village.

But difficult to obtain as they were, for as everybody knows no man leaves portions of himself around that may fall into the hands of an enemy to work magic upon, least of all a rich man,“half divine,”she had obtained some nail parings and one hair. With that charm against sterility, the only thing of value Bakuma possessed, had she bribed a concubine of Zalu Zako’s household to steal the ingredients required from the hut thatch where they had been hidden after the official shaving and paring following the ceremony of his father, pending their removal to the sacred precincts of the temple.

Above her passion for Zalu Zako was her natural feminine appreciation of a good match. The Son of the Snake was far better from a woman’s point of view than union with a successful wizard. In the event of the death of the King-God, Kawa Kendi, the wives of his son and successor, although denied to him, were accorded special privileges; and upon his demise these royal wives retained their home upon the hill which had become his tomb. Moreover, as Bakuma knew well, now that Zalu Zako was heir-apparent, he must choose the principal wife who would for her life remain paramount in the household, avoiding the dread of every ageing woman that her husband would take unto him another wife younger and more supple.

The one mosquito in paradise was the fear that as soon as her uncle, her father’s brother to whom she belonged by inheritance, learned the august personage[pg 99]who desired her, he would raise the price to a prohibitive figure; for he was mean as well as stupid and lazy, wherefore he had few goods, and although Zalu Zako was a rich man she knew that any man save a fool loves to drive a good bargain if only to prove his astuteness. Therefore was another imperative necessity to procure every means of magic and charm to fan the flame of her lover’s desires.

Yet always flashed a bright-hued lizard in the sun of her joy when she imagined herself installed as the chief wife in the household of Zalu Zako, an unassailable position as long as she had one male child; the practical mistress of his first two wives as well as the retinue of slaves.

Bazila, the younger wife, Bakuma knew well; the favourite and haughty, covered with the most expensive amulets against every ill and black magic, she was overfond of sneering at young girls of the hut thatch whose charms had not yet netted a victim.

“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma and flashed her teeth as she rolled the warm leaves around the sticky mess,“then will the scent of my body be more bitter than the flower of the fish-faced cactus!”

And so through the night did Bakuma nibble at anticipatory joys as she lay upon her reed mat on the slightly raised dais of the floor which was her bed, watching the smoke of the fire in the middle of the hut lose itself in the shadows of the roof, and listening in the hope of hearing some voice of the spirits whom Marufa was to invoke on her behalf. Save for the occasional bleating of a goat and once the harsh scream of the Baroto bird, which made her heart contract, for it is a bad omen, the night was still.[pg 100]However, at the hour of the monkey Bakuma arose to replenish the fire. As the western star was melting in the warm green she left the compound. On the outskirts of the village the tall figure of MYalu appeared from the shadows of the plantation.

“Greeting, daughter of Bakala,”said he, his eyes greedily devouring her.

“Greeting, O Chief!”returned Bakuma, as she politely stepped to one side to avoid standing on the vague shadow of the chief.

“The fawn seeks the pastures early,”remarked MYalu.

“Before the breath of the sun the grass is sweeter,”retorted Bakuma, edging away.

“Aye,”remarked MYalu, with a hungry glint in his eyes,“thou art eager to slake thy thirst? But in the valley will no buck walk this day!”

“Ehh!”gasped Bakuma, recollecting instantly the omen of the Baroto bird heard that night.“What meanest thou?”

“Maybe the soul of him hath wandered and been caught in a trap or maybe——”He paused to watch her closely—“maybe an enemy hath made magic upon the parts of him.”

“Ehh!”Bakuma started nervously.

MYalu smiled and touched her upon the shoulder.

“Thy flesh is cooler than the dew.”

“Nay, nay, O Chief, thou hast not tied my girdle,”she protested, as she backed away from him, her eyes wide like a terrified deer’s.

“Nay, but will I untie it soon,”he retorted.

But as he stepped towards her she turned and fled. As MYalu watched her running as swiftly as a pookoo[pg 101]into the plantation he grinned and called out:“Even now is the cooling draught steaming in the breath of the Unmentionable One! But the goblet shall hold a sweeter draught for me!”

“Aie! Aie-e!”wailed Bakuma, her heart beating furiously,“what devil hath bewitched me! O, that father of many goats hath betrayed me! Aie! Aie-e! O, the cry of the Baroto bird! Aie! Aie-e!”

And when Bakuma, distraught with terror by the menace that she had only procured the nail paring and hair to give her lover into the hands of the false magician who, of course, had been bought by MYalu, arrived at the“pastures”by the river, as MYalu had foretold, no buck walked there.

The sun spilled blue shadows on the village from the sacred hill where another scene was being enacted, and it was not as imagined by the amorous MYalu.

In the council house, which was within the outer fence and before the sacred enclosure, was in progress a meeting of the doctors. In the door of the enclosure squatted Kawa Kendi, with Kingata Mata in attendance tending the royal fires. Before him, in front of their fellows, were seated Bakahenzie and Marufa in full dress of green feathers and the scarlet plume. The left side of the idol, which was so set that the shadow never fell upon the entrance to the compound, was gilded by the sun; the mouth grinned in one corner, one eye was closed in shadow, seemingly like a prodigious wink.

To the thrumming of the sacred band Bakahenzie was rocking himself to and fro mumbling incantations. Kawa Kendi squatted immobile, but the others swayed and grunted softly in rhythm. Then on a sudden did[pg 102]Bakahenzie lift up his head and cry in a great voice. The drums ceased and the body of witch-doctors remained motionless, expectant. Bakahenzie dropped his head and began to chant:

“Behold! I have heard the voice of the treesCrying softly by night!Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!As a woman with child!Behold! is she not to break forth?For she crieth for aid.Unless she be heard the infant will slip!The fruit will not be!The plants will not break!The milk will be sour!The beer will be green!Women will not bear!Our spears will be blunt!Our magic will wane!And He will be wroth!”

“Behold! I have heard the voice of the trees

Crying softly by night!

Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!

As a woman with child!

Behold! is she not to break forth?

For she crieth for aid.

Unless she be heard the infant will slip!

The fruit will not be!

The plants will not break!

The milk will be sour!

The beer will be green!

Women will not bear!

Our spears will be blunt!

Our magic will wane!

And He will be wroth!”

“Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! …”grunted the chorus of the doctors. Then chanted Marufa:

“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!Preying swiftly by night!Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throatOf a mighty bull eland!Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!Which panted for blood!The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree![pg 103]Take heed to the thirstOf Him who first was!Who lusts for a maid!Full breasted, soft thighed!Supple, bow arched!Clean blooded and strong!Whose name is forbid!Whose name is a sin!”

“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!

Preying swiftly by night!

Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throat

Of a mighty bull eland!

Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!

Which panted for blood!

The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree!

Take heed to the thirst

Of Him who first was!

Who lusts for a maid!

Full breasted, soft thighed!

Supple, bow arched!

Clean blooded and strong!

Whose name is forbid!

Whose name is a sin!”

“Who hath stolen the name?”screamed Bakahenzie, leaping to his feet.“Who is she that hath stolen the name?”

“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”

As the drums throbbed swifter Bakahenzie began to shuffle in a stooping posture as if he were snuffing a trail. To the continuous grunting he continued this dance for fully a quarter of an hour. Then stopping abruptly in front of the king he screamed:

“Let her be biddenTo come to the feast!Let her be oiled!Let her be shaved!Let her come dancing!Let her be joyful!Let her be decked!Let her be glad!Lips of the groomThirst for her mouth!Let her be drunkenTo bear his sweet weight![pg 104]That the crops will be full!That the cattle grow fatWives will throw men!Spears will slice foes!”

“Let her be bidden

To come to the feast!

Let her be oiled!

Let her be shaved!

Let her come dancing!

Let her be joyful!

Let her be decked!

Let her be glad!

Lips of the groom

Thirst for her mouth!

Let her be drunken

To bear his sweet weight!

That the crops will be full!

That the cattle grow fat

Wives will throw men!

Spears will slice foes!”

He sank suddenly upon his haunches. The drums ceased. A slave appeared bearing a pure white kid. Kingata Mata took the animal and held it before Kawa Kendi, who muttered a long incantation over it and cut the throat with a spear head. Then to Marufa was the bleeding carcass carried and while still alive he slit open the belly, smeared the liquid over his chest and right arm, and tore out the guts. The corpse was removed. Marufa, working only with the enchanted arm, turned the entrails over and about, peering closely.

There was silence. The shadows grew in depth. From the village came an occasional bleat and the voice of a distant girl chanting.

After a prolonged and studious search, Marufa caught up and wrapt round his neck an intestine. As he rose, the group of witch-doctors broke out into a mighty groaning. Marufa speeded across the small clearing and kneeled before Kawa Kendi. Through the bloody necklet he whispered two syllables:“kuma.”

The groaning ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. Kawa Kendi cried out in a loud voice:

“The bride is found!”

Instantly the drums began a furious beat. A mighty shout rose from all assembled and they fell to the chest and belly grunting:“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”as Bakahenzie and Marufa began to dance the dance of thanksgiving.

Bakumahad been doomed to be the victim for the Feast of the Harvest Festival, to be sacrificed in the orgy as the Bride of the Spirit of the Banana, because Marufa had discovered by divination that two syllables of her name were those of the secret name which only the King-God knew, of the Unmentionable One, the Usakuma.

[pg 106]Chapter 9Before the green tent strutted a sentry as pompously as if he were on duty before the Kommandant’s bungalow. Inside, sprawling in a camp chair, was the corporal, in blue striped pyjamas, smoking a cigarette. Upon the floor crouched one of his women with a safety razor stuck in her woolly thatch, opening a can of beef. On the camp table were a bottle of brandy which had had its neck knocked off, a shaving mirror and an open tin of cigarettes. Squatting on the bed was another woman in field boots, cleaning up a can of salmon with one finger. The rest of the tent was a litter of broken cases, bottles, cans and papers.Ten yards away under the thorn shrub, lay Birnier, and near to him were Mungongo and the others. Mungongo’s regard shuttled between this scene in the tent and the white man with a mingled expression of terror and amazement: terror at the temerity of the corporal in treating a white in such a manner and incredulous bewilderment that the white did not immediately strike them all dead. But the others, more sophisticated to the white man’s ways, were solely occupied in envying the corporal’s debauch.The mauve shadows turned to blue as they lengthened. The clouds of small flies thinned and their ranks began to be refilled by the mosquitoes. Birnier lay with his back to the tent with a fly switch of grass,[pg 107]but he watched the doings of the corporal covertly. The corporal and his women had been drinking a good deal of the brandy and now he was supplying generous quantities to his men. Once he had come out to jeer. Birnier had taken no notice, nor even of the kick implanted by one of his own field boots on the foot of the woman. Already there was a bloodshot glint in the corporal’s yellow eyes and a pronounced uncertainty in his movements. Whether the man had had any particular instructions regarding the manner of his death Birnier did not know until he became loquacious and took to shouting insults at his white prisoner. The great white chief had given the white man to him as a slave, he yelled, and now he was going to take him home with him. This idea seemed to tickle him vastly and also his women, who giggled and applauded as the corporal began to describe what obscene acts they would make their white dog perform every day, what they would give him to eat, how he should be made to dance.They grew noisier and the women began to sing lewd songs. The soldiers too revealed signs of their frequent potations. Soon the whole crowd would go mad, Birnier knew, and sooner or later collapse, which would give him a chance to escape, unless they chained him, or, what was far more probable, they decided to bait him to death during an orgy. What they would probably do to him was unthinkable. Somehow he must find a way out by self-destruction. Even should he escape, he would be unarmed and without food, and there was every possibility that they would trail and overtake him in the morning. He was lame and footsore; also he was weak from want[pg 108]of food. Once, when despoiling his chop boxes, the corporal had contemptuously thrown him a half eaten tin of sardines and a cigarette. He let the cigarette lie. Nourishment he must have; and so after an inward struggle he had eaten it, having to claw out the fish like a monkey, while the big black and his women sprawled and laughed.The soldiers, except the one on sentry who still paced a trifle erratically, were grouped on their haunches around the fire in front of the tent on the threshold of which the corporal presided with as much pomposity as if he were the great Mogul, all drinking and smoking and eating. Now and again the women would screech insults over their heads at the white; and once the corporal threw an empty bottle at him, evoking a gale of applause. The women began the belly dance, crooning while the men accompanied with the rhythmic grunt, which ever leads to hysterical exaltation.The sun was dipping. They might come for him at any moment. He watched the sentry and contemplated making a rush, taking a venture on the man’s bad aim and unsteady hand. They would not follow him far in the dark for dread of the spirits that walk by night. The only alternative to suicide was the river, in flood and full of crocodiles, a slender chance. He determined to try it. He considered making the attempt then. But the darker the better; they would more easily miss. At any risk he must never let them get their hands upon him. He drew himself together, flexing his limbs for a leap and a rush, anxiously observing the chanting crowd around the fire in the sunset glow.[pg 109]The leashes of discipline were fraying. The sentry still plodded up and down, but with a rolling eye for his companions. The working of his mind was revealed when he walked round tying knots in the long grass which, as every Munyamwezi knows, is a sure method to prevent a prisoner’s escape; then he halted in front of Birnier, grinned, and pointed to the fire; evidently he knew or had heard that an orgy was coming. The man stood and watched him. Fearful that the fellow was about to drag him over or suggest that the victim be seized, if only in order to release him from his irksome duty, Birnier snatched up the cigarette lying in the grass and asked for a light to distract the man’s attention. The sentry shook his head and pointed to the fire. Hastily Birnier searched his pockets for a match; recollected that he had used the last, and took out a small tin box of wax vestas wrapped in oiled silk which he kept as a reserve in a special pouch of his belt. In the very act of striking the match Birnier ejaculated:“God!”“Nini?”demanded the sentry.“I burned myself,”returned Birnier.“Nothing to what you will soon!”retorted the nigger, grinning, made an obscene suggestion and swaggered across to the fire.Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the Munyamwezi would not understand.“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I throw up in the air this[pg 110]cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost understand?”“Truly, my master!”“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as it shall these children of dung!”“Truly, master!”Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair. They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry, excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round the outskirts of the throng.Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn bush he heard the rustle of movement and the“boy’s”gasped exclamation to the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right, which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his instructions.The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently above the chorus of the[pg 111]frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet hummed over his head.He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well, for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for some yards. He slid[pg 112]down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa. He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.For some time he could only hear the shouts and yells. He kept the water up to his chin and continuously splashed his face in the endeavour to slacken the efforts of the mosquitoes. The cries approached. He saw men outlined against the stars and then some gleams of lanterns. Something stirred ponderously near to him. It might be a crocodile, but he dared not move. The figures seemed to stay on the top of the bank for hours. He remained rigid, expecting a swirl of water and teeth.Suddenly a spurt of flame shot out above him and was followed by a fusillade of shots in the direction of up river. Had they spotted Mungongo or were they merely letting drive at a bush or the spirits in general? The latter was most probable. The water swirled near to him. All his will power was required not to leap frantically for the bank. Yet a crocodile would be far more merciful than those black devils. Again a swirl and something passed close to him at high speed. Probably an otter scared by the firing; at any rate it was not a crocodile. The lights and figures on the bank disappeared.Shots rang out again, and were followed by a wild outburst of yelling. Birnier began to wade for the bank, continually splashing water at the mosquitoes which were so thick that they reminded him of the bayou Lafourche in far-off Louisiana. Crouching,[pg 113]he waited on the edge of the bank to listen. The corporal might have had enough sense to post men in the grass. Yet he might be too fuddled to think of that, and no native would willingly stay there in the dark, unless under white discipline. Voices still muttered, but they sounded as if from the camp. Had they given him up for the night, relying on the chance that if he had not been taken by a crocodile they could trail him in the morning? Probably.Birnier squatted in the water, ready to plunge back, until he was sure they were in camp. Then as cautiously he crawled up the bank. Through the scrub with his uninjured eye he could make out the figures around the yellow of the fire which had gone down considerably. Now what would they do? He could hear the mumble of the corporal’s voice. Would they be sufficiently sobered to be ready for the chase in the morning? Birnier did not think so with that case of brandy there; the corporal would not, at all events. There was a scream of pain and the chatter of women’s voices.Was the corporal punishing the sentry for having let the prisoners escape, or were they beginning to fight among themselves? The latter was improbable, as non-commissioned officers are usually chosen from petty chiefs and the men under them, as far as possible, from their own village. Had they captured Mungongo or one of the others? Birnier listened again. Another scream was stoppered to a groan.“Devils!”muttered Birnier. Lying flat to watch the grass and shrub tops against the stars, he gave the frog croaks arranged, at intervals of ten seconds. About five minutes later he saw some grass tops quiver[pg 114]unnaturally. He croaked again. Came a whisper:“Is it thee, Infunyana?”(a name given in reference to Birnier’s gold fillings).“Aye.”A dark form glided towards him.“Where are the other men?”“I know not. I told them as thou hadst told me to do. When thou didst give the sign, I fled and plunged into the river.”“Thou wast not frightened of the crocodiles?”“Nay; for I have a mighty charm against all river beasts, enchanted by Bakahenzie, the greatest of magicians.”“Ehh!”commented Birnier, contorting his swollen lips in the dark,“would that I had such an one! Thinkest thou that the men did as they were bidden?”“Who knows what is in the heart of a goat?”returned Mungongo contemptuously, for they were of another tribe.“Ah, listen!”The mutter of the hand-drum grew swifter as a high tenor chanted to the accompaniment of the abdominal grunting and the laryngeal shrilling:“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 115]But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!What hath he given us to tickle our spears?A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of——!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 116]“Those children of folly have not obeyed,”whispered Birnier.“The time is come.… Wait here for me, O Mungongo. I go to take my spirit form. When I return be not afraid!”“Truly,”answered Mungongo, as Birnier crawled away and down the bank. By the water’s edge he swiftly stripped himself to his moccasins and taking out the wax vestas, damped each precious one and carefully rubbed lines over his face and body, endeavouring to get the most distinctive phosphorescent effect around the eyes. Leaving his clothes he crawled back to Mungongo.“Ehh!”exclaimed Mungongo in a muffled scream when he saw the glowing apparition. Birnier heard the rustle of grass. As the boy stood up to run he leaped and pulled him down savagely.“Be quiet, thou fool!”he whispered.“It is I. Be silent!”“Eh! Eh!”gasped Mungongo, who was trembling violently.“If thou dost not be quiet will I tie up thy heart,”threatened Birnier.Mungongo continued to quiver, but he remained passive.“Eh! Eh!”he gasped,“truly thou art a more mighty magician than Bakahenzie.”“Be quiet!”The drums and the song were still going and the chant had become more obscene.“Follow me!”whispered Birnier, when Mungongo was more reassured.They made a detour. As they drew near they could hear muffled screams and groans beneath the howl of[pg 117]the chorus and song. The mighty son of Banyala and his merry men were so engrossed in the orgy that Birnier could have walked right up to the fire before anyone would have seen him. But he would not take any unnecessary risk. Leaving Mungongo outside he crawled under the back flap of the tent. Crouched there he paused. The tent was empty; for all were engaged in the dance. His two shot-guns and two light rifles were stacked in the corner and the big express which the corporal had appropriated, leaned against the tent door behind the chair. He glanced hurriedly around for ammunition, but he could not see any open, and he had left his belt of cartridges with his clothes. Outside the men and women were circling in contrary directions, each with a spear, a knife or a firebrand in hand, around the fire beside which, trussed like bundles of faggots, were the four servants, their feet singeing on the outside hot ashes.For a second Birnier hesitated. He could not know whether any of the guns was loaded. The fire was of glowing embers which did not throw much light into the tent. Swiftly Birnier rose and glided into his own chair in the deep shadow of the tent flap. Then summoning all his nerve he uttered a yell and began to shout the first song which he could recollect:“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”The native minstrel stopped in the middle of his chant; the whole shuffling, grunting crowd was petrified in as many different poses. Birnier leaped to his feet waving his arms wildly, yelling:[pg 118]“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!As we …”But before he had gotten to“Georgia,”only the prostrate forms around the fire had not fled.

Before the green tent strutted a sentry as pompously as if he were on duty before the Kommandant’s bungalow. Inside, sprawling in a camp chair, was the corporal, in blue striped pyjamas, smoking a cigarette. Upon the floor crouched one of his women with a safety razor stuck in her woolly thatch, opening a can of beef. On the camp table were a bottle of brandy which had had its neck knocked off, a shaving mirror and an open tin of cigarettes. Squatting on the bed was another woman in field boots, cleaning up a can of salmon with one finger. The rest of the tent was a litter of broken cases, bottles, cans and papers.

Ten yards away under the thorn shrub, lay Birnier, and near to him were Mungongo and the others. Mungongo’s regard shuttled between this scene in the tent and the white man with a mingled expression of terror and amazement: terror at the temerity of the corporal in treating a white in such a manner and incredulous bewilderment that the white did not immediately strike them all dead. But the others, more sophisticated to the white man’s ways, were solely occupied in envying the corporal’s debauch.

The mauve shadows turned to blue as they lengthened. The clouds of small flies thinned and their ranks began to be refilled by the mosquitoes. Birnier lay with his back to the tent with a fly switch of grass,[pg 107]but he watched the doings of the corporal covertly. The corporal and his women had been drinking a good deal of the brandy and now he was supplying generous quantities to his men. Once he had come out to jeer. Birnier had taken no notice, nor even of the kick implanted by one of his own field boots on the foot of the woman. Already there was a bloodshot glint in the corporal’s yellow eyes and a pronounced uncertainty in his movements. Whether the man had had any particular instructions regarding the manner of his death Birnier did not know until he became loquacious and took to shouting insults at his white prisoner. The great white chief had given the white man to him as a slave, he yelled, and now he was going to take him home with him. This idea seemed to tickle him vastly and also his women, who giggled and applauded as the corporal began to describe what obscene acts they would make their white dog perform every day, what they would give him to eat, how he should be made to dance.

They grew noisier and the women began to sing lewd songs. The soldiers too revealed signs of their frequent potations. Soon the whole crowd would go mad, Birnier knew, and sooner or later collapse, which would give him a chance to escape, unless they chained him, or, what was far more probable, they decided to bait him to death during an orgy. What they would probably do to him was unthinkable. Somehow he must find a way out by self-destruction. Even should he escape, he would be unarmed and without food, and there was every possibility that they would trail and overtake him in the morning. He was lame and footsore; also he was weak from want[pg 108]of food. Once, when despoiling his chop boxes, the corporal had contemptuously thrown him a half eaten tin of sardines and a cigarette. He let the cigarette lie. Nourishment he must have; and so after an inward struggle he had eaten it, having to claw out the fish like a monkey, while the big black and his women sprawled and laughed.

The soldiers, except the one on sentry who still paced a trifle erratically, were grouped on their haunches around the fire in front of the tent on the threshold of which the corporal presided with as much pomposity as if he were the great Mogul, all drinking and smoking and eating. Now and again the women would screech insults over their heads at the white; and once the corporal threw an empty bottle at him, evoking a gale of applause. The women began the belly dance, crooning while the men accompanied with the rhythmic grunt, which ever leads to hysterical exaltation.

The sun was dipping. They might come for him at any moment. He watched the sentry and contemplated making a rush, taking a venture on the man’s bad aim and unsteady hand. They would not follow him far in the dark for dread of the spirits that walk by night. The only alternative to suicide was the river, in flood and full of crocodiles, a slender chance. He determined to try it. He considered making the attempt then. But the darker the better; they would more easily miss. At any risk he must never let them get their hands upon him. He drew himself together, flexing his limbs for a leap and a rush, anxiously observing the chanting crowd around the fire in the sunset glow.

The leashes of discipline were fraying. The sentry still plodded up and down, but with a rolling eye for his companions. The working of his mind was revealed when he walked round tying knots in the long grass which, as every Munyamwezi knows, is a sure method to prevent a prisoner’s escape; then he halted in front of Birnier, grinned, and pointed to the fire; evidently he knew or had heard that an orgy was coming. The man stood and watched him. Fearful that the fellow was about to drag him over or suggest that the victim be seized, if only in order to release him from his irksome duty, Birnier snatched up the cigarette lying in the grass and asked for a light to distract the man’s attention. The sentry shook his head and pointed to the fire. Hastily Birnier searched his pockets for a match; recollected that he had used the last, and took out a small tin box of wax vestas wrapped in oiled silk which he kept as a reserve in a special pouch of his belt. In the very act of striking the match Birnier ejaculated:“God!”

“Nini?”demanded the sentry.

“I burned myself,”returned Birnier.

“Nothing to what you will soon!”retorted the nigger, grinning, made an obscene suggestion and swaggered across to the fire.

Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the Munyamwezi would not understand.

“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I throw up in the air this[pg 110]cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost understand?”

“Truly, my master!”

“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as it shall these children of dung!”

“Truly, master!”

Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair. They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry, excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round the outskirts of the throng.

Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn bush he heard the rustle of movement and the“boy’s”gasped exclamation to the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right, which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his instructions.

The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently above the chorus of the[pg 111]frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet hummed over his head.

He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.

Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well, for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for some yards. He slid[pg 112]down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa. He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.

For some time he could only hear the shouts and yells. He kept the water up to his chin and continuously splashed his face in the endeavour to slacken the efforts of the mosquitoes. The cries approached. He saw men outlined against the stars and then some gleams of lanterns. Something stirred ponderously near to him. It might be a crocodile, but he dared not move. The figures seemed to stay on the top of the bank for hours. He remained rigid, expecting a swirl of water and teeth.

Suddenly a spurt of flame shot out above him and was followed by a fusillade of shots in the direction of up river. Had they spotted Mungongo or were they merely letting drive at a bush or the spirits in general? The latter was most probable. The water swirled near to him. All his will power was required not to leap frantically for the bank. Yet a crocodile would be far more merciful than those black devils. Again a swirl and something passed close to him at high speed. Probably an otter scared by the firing; at any rate it was not a crocodile. The lights and figures on the bank disappeared.

Shots rang out again, and were followed by a wild outburst of yelling. Birnier began to wade for the bank, continually splashing water at the mosquitoes which were so thick that they reminded him of the bayou Lafourche in far-off Louisiana. Crouching,[pg 113]he waited on the edge of the bank to listen. The corporal might have had enough sense to post men in the grass. Yet he might be too fuddled to think of that, and no native would willingly stay there in the dark, unless under white discipline. Voices still muttered, but they sounded as if from the camp. Had they given him up for the night, relying on the chance that if he had not been taken by a crocodile they could trail him in the morning? Probably.

Birnier squatted in the water, ready to plunge back, until he was sure they were in camp. Then as cautiously he crawled up the bank. Through the scrub with his uninjured eye he could make out the figures around the yellow of the fire which had gone down considerably. Now what would they do? He could hear the mumble of the corporal’s voice. Would they be sufficiently sobered to be ready for the chase in the morning? Birnier did not think so with that case of brandy there; the corporal would not, at all events. There was a scream of pain and the chatter of women’s voices.

Was the corporal punishing the sentry for having let the prisoners escape, or were they beginning to fight among themselves? The latter was improbable, as non-commissioned officers are usually chosen from petty chiefs and the men under them, as far as possible, from their own village. Had they captured Mungongo or one of the others? Birnier listened again. Another scream was stoppered to a groan.

“Devils!”muttered Birnier. Lying flat to watch the grass and shrub tops against the stars, he gave the frog croaks arranged, at intervals of ten seconds. About five minutes later he saw some grass tops quiver[pg 114]unnaturally. He croaked again. Came a whisper:

“Is it thee, Infunyana?”(a name given in reference to Birnier’s gold fillings).

“Aye.”A dark form glided towards him.“Where are the other men?”

“I know not. I told them as thou hadst told me to do. When thou didst give the sign, I fled and plunged into the river.”

“Thou wast not frightened of the crocodiles?”

“Nay; for I have a mighty charm against all river beasts, enchanted by Bakahenzie, the greatest of magicians.”

“Ehh!”commented Birnier, contorting his swollen lips in the dark,“would that I had such an one! Thinkest thou that the men did as they were bidden?”

“Who knows what is in the heart of a goat?”returned Mungongo contemptuously, for they were of another tribe.

“Ah, listen!”

The mutter of the hand-drum grew swifter as a high tenor chanted to the accompaniment of the abdominal grunting and the laryngeal shrilling:

“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h![pg 115]

“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!

From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!

Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!

Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!

The son of Banyala!

Ough! … Ough!

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!

For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!

Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!

Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?

The son of Banyala!

Ough! … Ough!

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

What hath he given us to tickle our spears?A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

What hath he given us to tickle our spears?

A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!

Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!

A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.

The son of Banyala!

Ough! … Ough!

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of——!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!

Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!

He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!

His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of——!

The son of Banyala!

Ough! … Ough!

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!The son of Banyala!Ough! … Ough!E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!

A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!

Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!

A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!

The son of Banyala!

Ough! … Ough!

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

“Those children of folly have not obeyed,”whispered Birnier.“The time is come.… Wait here for me, O Mungongo. I go to take my spirit form. When I return be not afraid!”

“Truly,”answered Mungongo, as Birnier crawled away and down the bank. By the water’s edge he swiftly stripped himself to his moccasins and taking out the wax vestas, damped each precious one and carefully rubbed lines over his face and body, endeavouring to get the most distinctive phosphorescent effect around the eyes. Leaving his clothes he crawled back to Mungongo.

“Ehh!”exclaimed Mungongo in a muffled scream when he saw the glowing apparition. Birnier heard the rustle of grass. As the boy stood up to run he leaped and pulled him down savagely.

“Be quiet, thou fool!”he whispered.“It is I. Be silent!”

“Eh! Eh!”gasped Mungongo, who was trembling violently.

“If thou dost not be quiet will I tie up thy heart,”threatened Birnier.

Mungongo continued to quiver, but he remained passive.

“Eh! Eh!”he gasped,“truly thou art a more mighty magician than Bakahenzie.”

“Be quiet!”

The drums and the song were still going and the chant had become more obscene.

“Follow me!”whispered Birnier, when Mungongo was more reassured.

They made a detour. As they drew near they could hear muffled screams and groans beneath the howl of[pg 117]the chorus and song. The mighty son of Banyala and his merry men were so engrossed in the orgy that Birnier could have walked right up to the fire before anyone would have seen him. But he would not take any unnecessary risk. Leaving Mungongo outside he crawled under the back flap of the tent. Crouched there he paused. The tent was empty; for all were engaged in the dance. His two shot-guns and two light rifles were stacked in the corner and the big express which the corporal had appropriated, leaned against the tent door behind the chair. He glanced hurriedly around for ammunition, but he could not see any open, and he had left his belt of cartridges with his clothes. Outside the men and women were circling in contrary directions, each with a spear, a knife or a firebrand in hand, around the fire beside which, trussed like bundles of faggots, were the four servants, their feet singeing on the outside hot ashes.

For a second Birnier hesitated. He could not know whether any of the guns was loaded. The fire was of glowing embers which did not throw much light into the tent. Swiftly Birnier rose and glided into his own chair in the deep shadow of the tent flap. Then summoning all his nerve he uttered a yell and began to shout the first song which he could recollect:

“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”

“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!

Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”

The native minstrel stopped in the middle of his chant; the whole shuffling, grunting crowd was petrified in as many different poses. Birnier leaped to his feet waving his arms wildly, yelling:

“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!As we …”

“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!

As we …”

But before he had gotten to“Georgia,”only the prostrate forms around the fire had not fled.

Back to IndexNext