Timbani led a thousand spears into the Ochori country, and wished he had
chosen another method of spending a sultry morning, for whilst he was
burning the village of Kisi, Sanders came with vicious unexpectedness
upon his flank, from the bush country.
Two companies of Houssas shot with considerable accuracy at two hundred
yards, and when the spears were stacked and the prisoners squatted,
resigned but curious, in a circle of armed guards, Timbani realised that
it was a black day in his history.
"I only saw this, lord," he said, "that Bosambo has made me a sorrowful
man, for if it were not for his prosperity, I should never have led my
men against him, and I should not be here before your lordship,
wondering which of my wives would mourn me most."
"As to that, Timbani," said Sanders, "I have no means of knowing.
Later, when you work in the Village of Irons, men will come and tell
you."
Timbani drew a deep breath. "Then my lord does not hang me?" he asked.
"I do not hang you because you are a fool," said Sanders. "I hang
wicked men, but fools I send to hard labour."
The chief pondered. "It is in my mind, Lord Sandi," he said, "that I
would as soon hang for villainy as live for folly."
"Hang him!" said Sanders, who was in an obliging mood.
But when the rope was deftly thrown across the limb of a tree, Timbani
altered his point of view, electing to drag out an ignominious
existence. Wherein he was wise, for whilst there is life there is scope,
if you will pardon the perversion.
To the Village of Irons went Timbani, titular chief of the Lesser Isisi,
and found agreeable company there, and, moreover, many predecessors, for
the Isisi folk are notoriously improvident in the matter of chiefs.
They formed a little community of their own, they and their wives, and
at evening time they would sit round a smouldering log of gum wood,
their red blankets about their shoulders, and tell stories of their
former grandeur, and as they moved the loose shackles about their feet
would jingle musically.
On a night when the Houssa sentries, walking along raised platforms,
which commanded all views of the prisoners' compound, were unusually
lax, Timbani effected his escape, and made the best of his way across
country to the bush lands. The journey occupied two months in time, but
native folk are patient workers, and there came a spring morning, when
Timbani, lean and muscular, stood in the presence of Sakola, the bush
king.
"Lord," said he, though he despised all bushmen, "I have journeyed many
days to see you, knowing that you are the greatest of all kings."
Sakola sat on a stool carved crudely to represent snakes. He was under
four feet in height, and was ill-favoured by bush standards--and the
bush standard is very charitable. His big head, his little eyes, the
tuft of wiry whisker under his chin, the high cheek bones, all
contributed to the unhappy total of ugliness.
He was fat in an obvious way, and had a trick of scratching the calf of
his leg as he spoke.
He blinked up at the intruder--for intruder he was, and the guard at
each elbow was eloquent of the fact.
"Why do you come here?" croaked Sakola.