I am on one of my journeys through the country; at this moment am
sitting by the light of my camp fire, writing.
I do not feel very sleepy to-night, some strong coffee which I
drank after dinner is keeping me awake.
The natives in the distance are beating their drums, which adds to
the mystery of the night. Their booming may mean a message sent by
the African equivalent to the telegraph or it may be that a cheery
dance is in progress miles away. Do you remember our last dance?
We are quite a small party here, only a couple of horses, a mule,
and three natives. I like to travel light in this way sometimes, it
gives one a sense of greater freedom, of independence.
To-morrow I continue my journey; until morning comes I shall not
know exactly in which direction I am to travel. All depends upon an
interesting meeting to which I have called the members of a curious
tribe. They may have arranged my journey for me.
Wrenshaw read through what he had written and mentally condemned it for
a stupid letter, a poor effort. What more was there to say? Plenty he
wanted to say, but what more could he say? He couldn't add that he felt
sleepy now and must go to bed, it would look so silly with that opening
reference to the strong coffee. How should he end it?
He settled the matter by saying that he would tell her all about his
plans in the morning, and signed himself: "Your sincerest friend, D.W."
He then addressed the envelope.
Rising, he split a thin stick a few inches down its length, inserted the
envelope, and made it fast with a twist of bark. Then he pressed the
stick into the ground. The letter in its holder resembled a miniature
notice board. If the natives did dispose of him, they wouldn't destroy
the letter. The written message is sacred in Africa: some native would
deliver it to some white man. In due course it would reach her, shortly
after the news of his death, perhaps. If she cared, she would
understand. If she didn't, she would vote it a dull letter.
Rather ashamed of his weakness, Wrenshaw poured himself out another
large mug of strong black coffee and returned to his lonely vigil.
His three companions were sound asleep, snoring loudly. Of the three,
the interpreter had most cause for concern, because he should have had
some inkling of the position, but even he slept. The half-caste was a
brainless fellow, albeit a good cook. The gunbearer didn't bother his
head about matters which didn't appear to disturb his master.
In the far distance a lion was roaring. A large green beetle hurried
past Wrenshaw's feet in the direction of the fire. He picked it up and
threw it far into the darkness; the insect somehow reminded him of
himself.