I, personally, never got beyond "Mr. Rhodes" in his lifetime, and I
don't see why I should now that he is dead.
As I was about to remark, the best piece of imaginative work that Mr.
Rhodes ever did was to plan the Cape to Cairo Railway. It has not been
carried out yet, but that doesn't matter; one day we shall see it,
unless flying kills the train.
The corner-stone to this imaginative piece of work is, without a doubt,
the bridge over the Victoria Falls.
I watched that bridge being built, not girder by girder, of course, but
generally speaking. Old Mkuni watched it girder by girder.
Mkuni was a fine old savage, who had, in his far off younger days,
carved out a little kingdom for himself. He possessed the left bank of a
little river called the Maramba, some square miles of rock, a few acres
of good land, and--the Victoria Falls.
A man who could establish his claim to the Falls has a right to be
regarded as of some importance.
Within the memory of man a large herd of elephants went over the Falls
and whirled in the Boiling Pot below--a noble offering to the spirits
who dwell there. Anyone who denies that the Falls are the abode of
spirits is a fool, be he white man or black.
Old Mkuni looked after the Falls and ministered in divers ways to the
wants of the spirits who inhabited the place. He it was who, in fair and
fierce battle, took this precious spot from old Sekute, the wall-eyed
ruffian who used to live on the north bank of the Zambesi.
To hide his defeat from the eyes of passing natives, old Sekute set up a
noble avenue of poles from the river to his village. On every pole he
placed a human skull; these, he vowed, were the headpieces of Mkuni's
men. Mkuni could afford to laugh, for did not he and all the world know
that some of the grim trophies were the heads of Sekute's own followers,
slain by Mkuni's men and added to at the expense of half a hundred of
Sekute's own slaves? All this was before Livingstone discovered the
Falls.
So you see, when all is said and done, Mkuni was a man worthy of
respect. He always had mine, and we were fast friends.
It fell to my lot to tell him of the bridge which would stand astride
the tumbling waters. He was interested, and gave his consent without
reserve.
When he asked me how it was going to be done, I had to confess I did
not know; engineering feats are not in my line.
"Are you going to build it, Morena?"
"No."
"Who then will build this bridge?"
"The people of the Great Man."
"The King of all the white men?"
"No, not he himself, but one of his greatest men."
"If the King would build it, I should believe, or," he added most
politely, "if you would build it, I should agree that it can be done,
but what do others know of bridges?"
This was a little difficult to answer, so I told him to watch.
Mkuni took my words literally; he did watch. He could be seen daily
perched upon a rock overlooking the work, surrounded by a large number
of his own people.
From time to time strangers from inland added to the watchers. To all
Mkuni held forth:
"Am not I an old man now? Have I not killed many in battle? Did I not
take the thundering smoke from a certain person? Who then knows so much
of the building of bridges as I?"
With this inconsequent line of argument the crowd of watchers would
murmur full agreement.
"When a man builds a small hut, is a pole from the ground to the roof
necessary?"
"No," from his audience.
"That is true, but if a man builds a hut as high as Heaven, is not a
pole necessary?"
All agreed that it was so.
"But see now these white men, who build a bridge across the thundering
smoke. It is not the King of the white men who builds, nor he who
collects from us the Hut Tax, but strangers. They build this bridge from
the north bank and from the south, but where is the pole to hold up the
roof of the bridge?"
From day to day Mkuni's supporters increased in number.
"Come and see the white man's bridge fall into the tumbling waters," was
his daily invitation, and many came.
"I am sorry for these white men, for they work to no profit."
And Mkuni's adherents increased.
But, in spite of all, the work progressed. The thin steel arms flung out
from either bank crept nearer daily towards the clasping of hands, and
yet the bridge did not fall.
Poor old Mkuni, firm in his belief, found it hard to stomach the
thinning in the number of his fellow watchers. He became highly
indignant. In vain he talked--piled unanswerable argument upon argument
unanswerable. Someone put it about that there was nothing the white man
could not do. Many agreed with this, and went home.
At last the engineer who built the Victoria Falls Bridge saw his work
complete.
Mkuni, too, saw that the work was finished--all but the pole in the
middle to keep it from tumbling down.
Under all his anxiety the poor old man had shrunk visibly; so, too, had
the number of those who believed in him, and had come at his invitation
to watch with him the disaster which he assured them must overtake that
bridge.
Poor old Mkuni!
It must be admitted that there is something of the gentleman about the
raw, untutored savage, for when the first train had crossed safely over
the Victoria Falls Bridge, Mkuni stood alone on his rock. No one
remained as witness to his discomfiture.
He climbed slowly down to his village. Everyone in it was busy with his
or her ordinary daily occupation; all strangers had quietly gone their
several ways.