THE SULTANI
Six hours later the Leopard Woman's camp had arrived, had been pitched,
and everything was running again as usual. The new _askari_ headman,
Jack, had reported pridefully to Kingozi. The latter had nodded a
careless acknowledgment; and had referred the man to his mistress. She
had disappeared for a time, but now emerged again, bathed, freshened,
dainty in her silken tea gown, the braids of hair down her back, the
band of woven gold encircling her brow, the single strange jewel
hanging in the middle of her forehead. For a time she sat alone under
her own tree; but, as Kingozi showed no symptoms of coming to her, and
as she was bored and growing impatient, she trailed over to him, the
Nubian following with her chair. Kingozi was absorbed in establishing
points on his map. He looked up at her and nodded pleasantly, then
moved his protractor a few inches.
"Just a moment," he murmured absorbedly.
She lit a cigarette and yawned. The immediate prospect was dull.
Savages continued to drift in, to squat and stare, then to move on to
the porters' camps. There a lively bartering was going on. From some
unsuspected store each porter had drawn forth a few beads, some snuff,
a length of wire, or similar treasure; and with them was making the
best bargain he could for the delicacies of the country. The process
was noisy. Four _askaris_, with their guns, stood on guard. The shadows
were lengthening in the hills, and the heat waves had ceased to shimmer
like veils.
"That's done," said Kingozi at last.
"Thank the Lord!" she ejaculated. "This bores me. Why do we not do
something? I should like some milk, some eggs--many things. Let us
summon this king."
But Kingozi shook his head.
"That's all very well where the white man's influence reaches. But not
here. I doubt if there are three men in this people who have ever even
seen a white man. Of course they have all heard of us, and know a good
deal about us. We must stand on our dignity here. Let the _sultani_
come to us, all in his own time. Without his goodwill we cannot move a
step farther, we cannot get a pound of _potio_."
"How long will it take? I want to get on. This does not interest me. I
have seen many natives."
Kingozi smiled.
"Two days of visit. Then perhaps a week to get _potio_ and guides."
"Impossible! I could not endure it!"
"I am afraid you will have to. I know the untamed savage. He is
inclined to be friendly, always. If you hurry the process, you must
fight. That's the trouble with a big mob like yours. It is difficult to
feed so many peacefully. Even in a rich country they bring in _potio_
slowly--a cupful at a time. With the best intentions in the world you
may have to use coercion to keep from starving. And coercion means
trouble. Look at Stanley--he left hostilities everywhere, that have
lasted up to now. The people were well enough disposed when he came
among them with his six or eight hundred men. But he had to have food
and he had to have it quickly. He could not wait for slow, diplomatic
methods. He had to _take_ it. Even when you pay for a thing, that
doesn't work. The news travelled ahead of him, and the result was he
had to fight. And everybody else has had to fight ever since."
"That is interesting. I did not know that."
"A small party can negotiate. That's why I say you have too many men."
"But the time wasted!" she cried aghast.
"Time is nothing in Africa." He went on to tell her of the two
travellers in Rhodesia who came upon a river so wide that they could
but just see from one bank to the other; and so swift that rafts were
of little avail. So one man went back for a folding boat while the
other camped by the stream. Four months later the first man returned
with the boat. The "river" had dried up completely!
"They didn't mind," said Kingozi, "they thought it a huge joke."
An hour before sundown signs of activity manifested themselves from the
direction of the invisible village. A thin, high, wailing chant in
female voices came fitfully to their ears. A compact little group of
men rounded the bend and approached. Their gait was slow and stately.
"Well," remarked Kingozi, feeling for his pipe, "we are going to be
honoured by that visit from his majesty."
The Leopard Woman leaned forward and surveyed the approaching men with
some interest. They were four in number. Three were naked, their bodies
oiled until they glistened with a high polish. One of them carried a
battered old canvas steamer chair; one a fan of ostrich plumes; and one
a long gourd heavily decorated with cowrie shells. The fourth was an
impressive individual in middle life, hawkfaced, tall and spare,
carrying himself with great dignity. He wore a number of anklets and
armlets of polished wire, a broad beaded collar, heavy earrings, and a
sumptuous robe of softened goatskins embroidered with beads and cowrie
shells. As he strode his anklets clashed softly. His girt was free, and
he walked with authority. Altogether an impressive figure.
"The _sultani_ is a fine-looking man," observed Bibi-ya-chui. "I
suppose the others are slaves."
Kingozi threw a careless glance in the direction of the approaching
group.
"Not the _sultani_--some understrapper. Chief Hereditary Guardian of
the Royal Chair, or something of that sort, I dare say."
The tall man approached, smiling graciously. Kingozi vouchsafed him no
attention. Visibly impressed, the newcomer rather fussily superintended
the unfolding and placing of the chair. The slaves with the plumed fan
and the gourd stationed themselves at either side. The other two men
fell back.
Now the shrill chanting became more clearly audible. Shortly appeared a
procession. Women bearing burdens walked two by two. Armed men with
spears and shields flanked them. As they approached, it could be seen
that they were very gorgeous indeed; the women hung with strings of
cowries, bound with glittering brass and iron, bedecked with strings of
beads. To one familiar with savage peoples there could be no doubt that
these were close to the purple. Each bead, each shell, each bangle of
wire had been passed through many, many hands before it reached this
remote fastness of barbarity; and in each hand, you may be sure,
profits had remained. But the men were more impressive still. Stark
naked of every stitch of cloth or of tanned skins, oiled with an
unguent carrying a dull red stain, their heads shaved bare save for a
small crown patch from which single feathers floated, they symbolized
well the warrior stripped for the fray. A beaded broad belt supported a
short sword and the _runga_, or war club; an oval shield of buffalo
hide, brilliantly painted, hung on the left arm; a polished long-bladed
spear was carried in the right hand. And surrounding the face, as a
frame, was a queer headdress of black ostrich plumes. Every man of them
wore about his ankles hollow bangles of considerable size; and these he
clashed loudly one against the other as he walked.
It made a great uproar this--the clang of the iron, the wild wailing of
the women's voices.
Kingozi moved his chair four or five paces to the front.
"I'm sorry," he told her, "but I must ask you to stay where you are.
This is an important occasion."
He surveyed the oncoming procession with interest.
"Swagger old beggar," he observed. "His guard are well turned out. You
know those markings on the shields are a true heraldry--the patterns
mean families, and all that sort of thing."
The chanting grew louder as the procession neared. The warriors stared
fiercely straight ahead. Before Kingozi they parted to right and left,
forming an aisle leading to his chair. Down this the women came, one by
one, still singing, and deposited their burdens at the white man's
feet. There were baskets of _m'wembe_, earthen bowls of eggs, fowls,
gourds of milk, bundles of faggots and firewood, woven bags of _n'jugu_
nuts, vegetables, and two small sheep. Kingozi stared indifferently
into the distance; but as each gift was added to the others he reached
forward to touch it as a sign of acceptance. Their burdens deposited,
they took their places in front of the ranks of the warriors.
"Am I supposed to speak?" asked the Leopard Woman.
"Surely."
"Shouldn't we order out our _askaris_ with their guns to make the
parade?"
"No. We could not hope to equal this show, possibly. Our lay is to do
the supercilious indifferent." He turned to his attentive satellite.
"Cazi Moto," he ordered, "tell our people, quietly, to go back to their
camps. They must not stand and stare at these _shenzis_. And tell
M'pishi to make large _balauris_ of coffee, and put in plenty of sugar."
Cazi Moto grinned understandingly, and glided away. Shortly the safari
men could be seen sauntering unconcernedly back to their little fires.
Suddenly the warriors cried out in a loud voice, and raised their right
arms and spears rigidly above their heads. A tall, heavily built man
appeared around the bend. He was followed by two young women, who
flanked him by a pace or so to the rear. They were so laden with savage
riches as to be almost concealed beneath the strings of cowrie shells
and bands of beads. In contrast the man wore only a long black cotton
blanket draped to leave one shoulder and arm bare. Not an earring, not
a bangle, not even a finger ring or a bead strap relieved the sombre
simplicity of the black robe and the dark skin.
"But this man is an artist!" murmured Bibi-ya-chui. "He understands
effect! This is stage managed!"
The _sultani_ approached without haste. He stopped squarely before
Kingozi's chair. The latter did not rise. The two men stared into each
other's eyes for a full minute, without embarrassment, without contest,
without defiance. Then the black man spoke.
"_Jambo, bwana_," he rumbled in a deep voice.
"_Jambo, sultani_" replied Kingozi calmly.
They shook hands.
With regal deliberation the visitor arranged his robes and sat down in
the battered old canvas chair. A silence that lasted nearly five
minutes ensued.
"I thank you, _sultani_, for the help your men have given. I thank you
for the houses. I thank you for these gifts."
The _sultani_ waved his hand magnificently.
"It is not the custom of white men to give gifts until their
departure," continued Kingozi, "but this knife is yours to make
friendship."
He handed over a knife, of Swedish manufacture, the blade of which
disappeared into the handle in a most curious fashion. The _sultani's_
eyes lit up with an almost childish delight, but his countenance showed
no emotion. He passed the knife on to the dignitary who stood behind
his chair.
"This," said Kingozi, taking one of the steaming _balauris_ from Cazi
Moto, "is the white man's _tembo_."
The _sultani_ tasted doubtfully. He was pleased. He gave back the
_balauri_ at last with a final smack of the lips.
"Good!" said he.
Another full five minutes of silence ensued. Then the _sultani_ arose.
He cast a glance about him, his eye, avid with curiosity, held rigidly
in restraint. It rested on the Leopard Woman.
"I see you have one of your women with you," he remarked.
He turned, without further ceremony, and stalked off, followed at a few
paces by the two richly ornamented girls. The warriors again raised
their spears aloft, holding them thus until their lord had rounded the
cliff. Then, the women in precedence, they marched away. Kingozi puffed
his pipe indifferently.
The Leopard Woman was visibly impatient, visibly roused.
"Are you letting him go?" she demanded. "Do not you inquire the
country? Do not you ask for _potio_, for guides?"
"Not to-day," replied Kingozi. He turned deliberately to face her, his
eyes serious. "Please realize once for all that we live here only by
force of _prestige_. My only chance of getting on, our only chance of
safety rests on my ability to impress this man with the idea that I am
a bigger lord than he. And, remember, I have lived in savage Africa for
fifteen years, and I know what I am doing. This is very serious. You
must not interfere; and you must not suggest."
The Leopard Woman's eyes glittered dangerously, but she controlled
herself.
"You talk like a sultan yourself," she protested at length. "You should
not use that tone to me."
Kingozi brushed the point aside with a large gesture.
"I will play the game of courtesy with you, yes," said he, "but only
when it does not interfere with serious things. In this matter there
must be no indefiniteness, no chance for misunderstanding. Politeness,
between the sexes, means both. I will repeat: in this you must leave me
free hand no interference, no suggestion."
"And if I disobey your commands?" she challenged, with an emphasis on
the last word.
He surveyed her sombrely.
"I should take measures," he replied finally.
"You are not my master: you are not the master of my men!"
Kingozi permitted himself a slight smile.
"If you believe that last statement, just try to give an order to your
men counter to an order of mine. You would see. And of course in case
of a real crisis I should have to make myself master of you, if you
seemed likely to be troublesome."
"I would kill you! I warn you; I go always armed!"
From the folds of her silken robe she produced a small automatic pistol
which she displayed. Kingozi glanced at it indifferently.
"In that case you would have to kill yourself, too; and then it would
not matter to either of us."
"I find you insufferable!" she cried, getting to her feet.
She moved away in the direction of her camp. The faithful Nubian folded
her chair and followed. At the doorway of her tent she looked back.
Kingozi, his black pipe in his mouth, was bending absorbedly over his
map.