SIMBA'S ADVENTURE
In the course of the evening Winkleman, conceiving that the right
moment had come, set himself seriously to establishing a dominance over
these members of an inferior race. He was a skilled man at this, none
more so; nevertheless he failed. For in the persons of Simba and
Mali-ya-bwana he was dealing not with natives, but with another white
man as shrewd and experienced as himself. Kingozi had from the
abundance of his knowledge foreseen exactly what methods and arguments
the Bavarian would use, and in his final instructions he had dramatized
almost exactly the scene that was now taking place. Simba had his
replies ready made for him. When an unexpected argument caught him
unaware, he merely fingered surreptitiously his magic bone, and
remained serenely silent. Winkleman might as well have talked at a
stone wall. He soon recognized this, as also that the man had been
coached minutely.
"Who is your _bwana?_" he asked at length.
"He is a very great _bwana_," Simba replied.
"His name?"
"He has many names among many people."
"What name do you call him?"
"I call him _bwana m'kubwa_ (great master)," replied Simba blandly.
Winkleman gave up this tack and tried another.
"What is his business? What does he do here?"
"His business is to fight."
"Ah!" ejaculated Winkleman. "To fight!"
"Yes. His business is to fight the elephant."
Winkleman swore. He could get at nothing this way. He must give his
mind to escape.
Early the next morning Simba started. He took with him, of course, his
magic bone; but, like a canny general, he carried also the rifle.
Mali-ya-bwana was left sufficiently armed by Winkleman's weapon and the
sixteen cartridges captured on his person.
By the water-hole Simba found the safari encamped. At sight of his
khaki-clad figure several men ran to meet him. Their countenances were
of a cast unfamiliar to Simba. He looked at them calmly.
"Does some one speak Swahili?" he inquired.
"_N'dio!_" they assented in chorus.
Simba looked about him. This was indeed a great safari, and a rich
_bwana_. The tent, of green canvas, was what is known as a "four-man
tent"; that is, it took four men to carry it. The pile of loads in the
centre of the cleared space was high. There were three tin boxes and
many chop boxes among them.
The group moved slowly across the open space, stared at by curious
eyes, and came to a halt before a drill tent slightly larger than the
little kennels assigned to the ordinary porters. Here over a fire
bubbled a _sufuria_, the African cooking pot, tended by a naked small
boy. A clean mat woven in bright colours carpeted the ground; on this
all seated themselves.
It would be tedious to relate each step of the ensuing negotiations.
These simple Africans would have needed no instruction from
civilization to carry on the most long-winded submarine controversy in
the most approved and circuitous manner. At the end of one solid hour
of grave and polite exchange it developed that the white man was not at
present in camp. Somewhat later Simba permitted it to be understood
that his own white man was not in the immediate neighbourhood. These
gems of knowledge were separated by much leisurely chatter, and
occasional and liberal dippings into the _sufuria_. And thus was the
beginning and the end of the first day.
At noon of the second day, after a refreshing night's sleep, Simba
moved up his forces.
"Your white man is known to me," said he.
Some one remarked appropriately.
"He is a prisoner in my camp."
"In the camp of your white man."
"In my camp. I myself have taken him prisoner," insisted Simba.
"You are telling lies," said the headman of the safari.
Simba took this calmly. In Africa to call a man a liar is no insult.
"It is the truth," said he. "With my own hands I took him; and he lies
bound in my camp."
"These are lies," persisted the headman. "How can such things be? That
you took a white man, a great _bwana?_ That is foolishness. That has
never been and could never be. How could you accomplish such a feat?"
"I have a magic."
"Ho!" cried the headman derisively. "Everybody knows that a magic is
not good against the white man. That has been tried many times!"
"This is a white man's magic."
The statement made a visible impression.
"Let us see it," they demanded.
But Simba refused. He was entirely at ease. In his ordinary habit he
would have become excited over being doubted, he would have wrangled,
have shouted--in short, would have been but one unit among many equals.
But the possession of the magic bone gave him a confidence from outside
himself. For the time being he slipped genuinely into the attitude of
the white man; became a super-Simba, as it were. This dignity and
sureness commenced to have its effect. Almost they began to believe
that Simba's words might be true!
At three o'clock the battle closed in.
"My men need _potio_" said Simba. "Let ten loads be put aside, and let
ten of these _shenzis_ be told to carry them where I shall say."
But the headman leaped to his feet.
"Who are you to give orders?" he cried. "These things belong to my
white man."
"Your white man is my property," replied Simba superbly; and with no
further parley he shot the headman dead.
Here indeed showed the super-Simba. The dispute might in the ordinary
course of events have come to shooting; but only after hours of excited
wrangling, and as a climax worked up to in a crescendo of emotion. This
expeditious nipping in the bud was a thoroughly white-manly proceeding.
The headman whirled about under the impact of the high-power bullet at
so close a range, and collapsed face down. Simba sat calmly in his
place. He did not even trouble to place himself in a better defensive
attitude against possible attack. His confidence in his magic bone was
growing to sublimity as he noted how efficiently it carried him through
every crisis. All over the camp the porters, startled, leaped to their
feet. But at the headmen's fire no one moved. They would ordinarily
have been afraid neither of Simba nor Simba's weapons. Firearms were
familiar to them. The usual sequence to Simba's deed would have been an
immediately defunct Simba. But his serene confidence in his magic
caught their credulity.
The white man's _prestige_ and privileges were invested in him.
"Yours is undoubtedly a great magic," said Winkleman's gun bearer
politely. "Let us talk."
They talked at great length, without bothering to remove the dead
headman. The result was finally a continued respect for Simba, his
magic bone, and his ready rifle; but a lingering though polite
incredulity as to the matter of Winkleman--_Bwana_ Nyele. It was
possible that Simba had killed the latter, of course. But to have taken
him alive--and to be holding him prisoner----
It was suggested that the various upper men of this safari accompany
Simba to the place of incarceration. Declined for obvious reasons.
Proposition modified to exclude all visitors but one. Still declined.
The debate summarized in the above short paragraph consumed six hours.
What is time in the face of an African eternity? And in Africa, as
every one knows, the feeling of eternity is an accompaniment of
every-day life.
After some refreshments the sitting rose. Simba did not spend the night
in camp. That did not seem to him wise. Instead he withdrew to a place
he had already marked, deftly built himself a withe platform in the
spread of an acacia, and slept soundly above the danger line.
Next morning the discussion was resumed. It was all on an amicable
basis. A bystander would have seen merely a group of lazy native
servants gossiping idly. And, indeed, for one word of relevance were a
dozen of sheer chatter. That is the African way.
Since it was impossible to visit _Bwana_ Nyele, why could not _Bwana_
Nyele be brought to within sight? Simba considered this; but finally
rejected it. The risk was too great, magic bone or no magic bone.
"It is probable you speak lies," said the gun bearer at last. "You say
you want _potio_ and that you hold _Bwana_ Nyele prisoner. But you do
not bring us orders from _Bwana_ Nyele for _potio_. Nor do you give us
proof. We must have proof before we believe or before we obey."
"I will bring you _Bwana_ Nyele's gun; or his coat; or anything that is
his that you may see that I hold him prisoner."
"Those things prove nothing," the gun bearer pointed out. "They might
have been taken from a dead man."
They negotiated further. One gifted with the power of seeing only
essential things would have found here a strange parallel. For these
two men, talking cautiously, clinging with tenacity to single points,
yielding grudgingly, would have been the same to him as two shrewd
business men coming together on the phrases of a contract, or two
diplomats framing the terms of a treaty.
Thus well into the third day. By that time an agreement had been
reached. It was very simple and direct and practical, when one thinks
of it; covered the situation fully; involved few compromises; and
gained each man his point.
Simba demanded _potio_ and obedience because he held the mighty
_m'zungu_ prisoner. The gun bearer wanted indubitable proof not only
that Simba held the white man, but that he held him alive.
It was agreed that Simba was to return to his own camp, was to procure
the proof agreed upon, and was promptly to return. The said proof was
to be one of _Bwana_ Nyele's fingers, which all agreed would be easily
recognizable both as to identity and freshness!
The divulgence of this simple little plan by a Simba quite in earnest
dissipated Winkleman's last hope of doing anything by means of
persuasion. He knew his African well enough to realize that this
fantastic method of identification seemed quite a matter of course. In
fact, Simba was at the moment sharpening his hunting knife in
preparation. Winkleman swore heartily and fluently, then grinned. He
was at heart a good soul, Winkleman, with a sense of amusement if not
of humour, and a philosophy of life denied most of his inexperienced
and theoretical countrymen. And also he realized that he had his work
cut out to prevent the program being carried through. The African is
slow to come to a definite conclusion, but once it is arrived at it is
apt to look to him like a permanent structure. It was a wonderful
tribute to Winkleman that it took him only four hours to persuade Simba
that there might be another way; and two hours more to convince him
that there might even be a better way. When Simba reluctantly and a
little doubtfully sheathed his knife, the big Bavarian wiped his brow
with genuine thankfulness.
The reader need not be wearied by a detailed report of the interminable
conferences that led up to the substitute plan. It would be a picture
of a big bearded man smoking slowly--for until affairs were decided he
could get no more of his own tobacco--leaning on his elbow beneath the
roof of the _banda_. Before him squatted on their heels in the posture
white men find so trying Mali-ya-bwana and Simba, entirely respectful,
their shining black eyes fixed on the white man. The open ends of the
_banda_ gave out on a dry boulder-strewn wash and the parched side of a
hill. All else was sky. Morning coolness was succeeded by the blaze of
midday, when the very surface of the ground danced in the shimmer; then
slowly the shadows crept out, the veils of mirage sank to earth, a
coolness wandered in from some blessed region; darkness came suddenly;
over the parched hill--now looming mysterious in black garments--the
tropic stars blazed out. Then outside some one lighted a fire. The
flames cast lights and shadows within the _banda_ where still the white
man leaned on his elbow, the black men squatted on their heels, and the
murmur of talk went on and on.
But Winkleman got his way. At an appointed hour and at an appointed
place Winkleman, Mali-ya-bwana, and two of the carriers met Simba
conducting the gun bearer from the other camp. The interview was very
short. Indeed it had all been carefully rehearsed. Winkleman said only
what he had agreed to say; and thereby earned his finger.
"This man holds me prisoner," he told the gun bearer. "What he says is
true. Do what he asks you to do. It is my command."
"Yes, _bwana_," agreed the gun bearer.
Then they parted. The immediate result was five loads of _potio_
brought by safari men to "somewhere in Africa," and thence transported
by Simba's men to Simba's camp. As game was thereabout abundant and
undisturbed everybody was happy.
Thus passed a week, which brought time forward to the moment when
Simba, following his instructions, was to report to Kingozi at the
village of M'tela. Therefore Simba set forth, taking with him,
according to African custom, one of the porters as companion. He
carried Kingozi's rifle, but left that belonging to Winkleman with
Mali-ya-bwana.
Winkleman watched Simba go with considerable satisfaction.
Mali-ya-bwana was a man much above average African intelligence, but he
had not the experience, the initiative, the _flaire_ of Simba. Nor had
he Simba's magic bone. Simba took that with him. Winkleman knew nothing
of the supposed virtues of that property; and in consequence
entertained a respect for qualities of Simba that were not entirely
inherent in that individual. He began to flatter Mali-ya-bwana; to
fraternize just enough; to assume complete resignation to his
plight--in short, to use just those tactics a clever man would use to
lull the alertness of any bright child. Naturally he succeeded. At
sundown of the second day he began to complain of the irksomeness of
his bonds.
"This is foolishness, so to treat a _m'zungu_," said he. "Nothing is
gained. I cannot sleep; and the skin of my wrists is sore. He who
watches has only to keep the fire bright. I cannot go like smoke."
To Mali-ya-bwana, in his flattered and unsuspicious mood, this seemed
reasonable. He was no such fool as to turn Winkleman loose to his own
devices; but he compromised by untying the Bavarian's wrists, and
doubling the thongs by which the latter's ankles were hitched to the
larger timbers of the _banda_. Also he instructed the sentinel to keep
the fire bright, to watch _Bwana_ Nyele, and to stop instantly any and
all movements of the hands toward the feet.
The early watches passed quietly. A second sentinel replaced the first.
Up to this time Winkleman had slept quietly. Now he began to shift
position often, to twist and turn, finally to groan softly. The
sentinel came to the end of the _banda_ and looked in. To him _Bwana_
Nyele raised a face so ghastly that even the half-savage porter was
startled. The man's eyes seemed to have sunk into his head, deep seams
to have creased his brow and jaws. Apparently Winkleman was on the
point of dissolution.
"_Magi! nataka magi!_"[16] he gasped.
[Footnote 16: Water! I want water!]
The sentinel took the canteen from the peg where it hung and bent over
the dying man. Instantly his throat was clasped by a pair of heavy and
powerful hands.
Two minutes later Winkleman rose to his feet free. The porter's knife
in his hand, he looked down on that unfortunate securely bound and
gagged. Treading softly Winkleman stepped through the sleeping camp
into the clear. He drew a deep breath. Then unconsciously wiping from
his face the mixture of grease and ashes that had constituted his
"make-up," he strode grimly away toward his own safari.