AFRICAN KNIGHTHOOD
At the end of two days Mr. Hampton and Niellsen, the photographer, a
tall rangy Scandinavian some ten years older than the boys,
returned. And when this intelligence was communicated to Chief
Ruku-Ru he made preparations for the carrying out of the ceremonies
in honor of the boys that very night.
Prior to going to the village, the two parties exchanged
experiences. And while Mr. Hampton and Niellsen had had no such
exciting times as the boys, yet they, too, had not been without
adventure.
In particular, the boys laughed heartily over Niellsen’s description
of an incident attending the photographing of some baboons. It being
the dry season, their guides had taken Mr. Hampton and Niellsen to a
certain dry river bed in which water could be obtained by digging, a
fact with which the baboons were well aware. Here, prophesied the
guides, they would undoubtedly be able to obtain excellent pictures
of baboons. And in this prophecy they had been correct.
“But,” laughed Mr. Hampton, “you should have seen what happened to
Niellsen. Tell it, Oscar.”
Niellsen joined the older man in the laugh. He had an honest open
face with a tip-tilted nose and sandy recalcitrant hair which gave
him a humorous appearance calculated to induce smiles in his
auditors before ever he spoke. And in keeping with his appearance he
had a habit of dry speech which the boys found highly amusing.
“The joke was on me, all right,” he said.
“Or the baboon was,” said Mr. Hampton, laughing harder than ever, as
if at some diverting recollection.
At this Jack could no longer conceal his impatience. “Come on, tell
it,” he said. “Don’t keep this all to yourselves.”
“Well, it was this way,” said Niellsen. “You know if I’d have shown
myself to the baboons with my camera, I’d never have gotten them to
stand still long enough to have their pictures taken. Instead of
watching the birdie, they’d have come up and tried to operate the
machine. So I decided to hide myself. And for my place of
concealment, I chose the branches of a small uprooted tree.
“There I was, had been waiting about half an’ hour, when the baboons
arrived. They began digging in the sand like regular ditch diggers.
How they did make the dirt fly. There were baboons everywhere,
scores of them. The whole tribe must have eaten pretzels and then
hustled off to this spot in the river with a whale of a thirst to be
squenched.
“I was fooling around, trying to get a good focus, for the light was
tricky. And at last I had just what I wanted, and set my hand to the
crank, all ready to begin grinding.
“At that moment, something lighted on my head with such force that I
fell clean out of my perch. But fortunately the ground wasn’t far
away, a matter of three or four feet.
“I didn’t know what had struck me. But when I got to my feet and
looked around, there sat a baboon in my old perch. And he was
cranking away, just grinding for dear life, and chattering with
delight.
“The beggar had jumped on my head, and then had taken my job away
from me.”
The boys roared.
“What did you do?” asked Frank.
“Do? I bows to him and says, ‘Please, Mr. Baboon, won’t you go
away?’ And after giving me a line of baboon talk that I couldn’t
understand because I didn’t have my dictionary with me, he swung
away to join his friends.”
“But the camera?” asked Jack. “Had the baboon damaged it?”
“Not a bit of it,” averred Niellsen. “I found the focus still good,
and continued to grind out some more film. And I believe the beggar
took some good stuff while he was at the crank. If it comes out all
right in developing, I’m going to have stuff worth a fortune.
‘Baboons photographed by one of their number.’ Can’t you just see
that caption on the screen?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hampton, “and I was fortunate enough to obtain a
picture of the baboon turning the crank, for I was standing nearby
with my camera when it occurred. So you see we could show an actual
‘still’ of the baboon playing photographer.”
Dinner was hastily consumed, and then the whole party escorted by a
guard of honor from the chief’s own bodyguard, comprising the
tallest and best formed of the young warriors, proceeded to the
village.
Under the council tree in his battered arm chair sat Chief Ruku-Ru,
and near him the boys took their station. A great fire blazing in
the middle of the square threw off a dancing light which illumined
the mud walls of the nearest huts, showed rank on rank of dusky
bodies gathered in the square and, falling upon the spears of the
chief’s bodyguard at his back, struck from their brightly polished
heads a myriad gleams as if fireflies flitted in the dusk.
A hush hung over the scene, a solemnity that impressed itself on the
boys. And as they took their places at the chief’s right, surrounded
by their warrior escort, they spoke only in whispers.
“What’s that package under your arm, Bob?” asked Jack, for the first
time noting a bulky package borne by his comrade. “Is it—”
But he did not get to finish his question, for Mr. Hampton laying a
warning hand on his arm enjoined silence as Chief Ruku-Ru, rising
from his chair and advancing several steps in their direction, began
to address them.
He spoke at length, the sound of his voice alone being heard in the
great square. And when he had finished, Wimba translated hurriedly.
Chief Ruku-Ru, said he, was deeply grateful to the young white men
for the part they had played in routing the Bone Crusher’s warriors.
For this, all three were to be admitted to warriorhood in the clan.
“It’s just as if you fellows were young squires in some old medieval
kingdom,” whispered Mr. Hampton. “And the king was about to lay the
accolade on your shoulders and acclaim you knights.” Moreover,
continued Wimba, while Chief Ruku-Ru stood silent, with folded arms,
awaiting the interpreter’s conclusion, Bob was to be especially
honored. He had overcome the Bone Crusher, and had proved himself
the mightiest of all Kikuyu warriors. He was to be given the title
of Mikalwa which meant Strong-Arm and the honorary rank of war chief
of the clan.
As the import of Wimba’s words dawned upon him, big Bob could be
seen by a close observer to pale slightly. And Frank was a close
observer.
“Hold your ground, old boy,” he whispered. “They’re not going to eat
you. Don’t let War Chief Mikalwa show fright now.”
Three tall warriors now advanced at the chief’s signal from the
bodyguard at his back. Each carried a conical cap of rhinoceros
hide, with a gleaming white rhinoceros tusk, upcurving like a
sickle, attached to each side. These caps were placed on the heads
of the boys.
So impressive was this ceremony, there in the African night, in the
heart of an African village, with the gleaming firelight flashing on
spearheads and on the multitude of assembled blacks in the
background, that for once the boys did not feel like giving way to
the spirit of fun-making. Not a whisper passed between them. Their
faces were solemn.
As for Niellsen, stationed at his camera equipped with a lens for
night photography, he was grinding merrily away, assured that the
film he was obtaining would be without a parallel.
After the caps with their rhino tusks had been placed on the boys’
heads, the three warriors retired, giving way to three more. These
latter placed long spears in the boys’ hands, in turn giving way to
still another trio who equipped them with beautifully decorated hide
shields.
Once more Chief Ruku-Ru spoke, but this time to his people, and his
words were followed by a burst of approving cries that seemed to
shake the very leaves of the council tree drooping in the windless
night overhead. Wimba translating said the chief had announced to
his people that the boys now were Kikuyu warriors, and that Bob
should henceforth be Mikalwa or Strong-Arm.
“You will have to thank him, fellows,” said Mr. Hampton. “And I
guess, Bob, since he singled you out, it is up to you to act as
spokesman.”
Bob groaned; nevertheless he advanced a step or two in front of his
friends and, addressing the chief, thanked him for the honor
conferred upon himself and his comrades. This Wimba translated. Then
Bob tore the paper wrappings from the parcel which he had been
carrying under his arm, and Jack with a start recognized it as one
of their portable radio sets.
“Tell Chief Ruku-Ru,” said Bob, to Wimba, “that in return for his
kindness to us, we wish to make him a present. By means of this, he
can hear strange music and speech tonight and so long as we are in
his vicinity.”
When Wimba had translated, Bob advanced and asked Chief Ruku-Ru to
seat himself in his armchair throne. Then he adjusted the headpiece
to the chief’s ears, threw a wire over the council tree, and tuned
in to catch the music which Matse, who had been left behind at the
camp for the purpose, was playing on the talking machine.
“You certainly won his heart that time, Bob,” said Jack, admiringly,
as Bob returned to the side of his comrades. “Look at his face, if
you want to see real amazement.”
The chief continually taking off and restoring the receivers, and
all the time curiously eyeing the cabinet. It was as if he were
trying to determine the origin of the strange sounds which he heard
when the receivers were attached to his ears but which were reduced
to the thinnest of whispers when he removed the headpiece.
“I wondered what that package under your arm contained,” added Jack.
“Well, you see, I thought we owed the old boy something in return
for what he was doing for us,” said Bob. “So I decided to give him a
real present. I fixed up with Matse to play the records. He’s become
a great radio fan, and when you fellows left me alone with him the
other night—when you used the radio to free Wimba, you know—why, I
showed him how to operate the set. He’s as imitative as a monkey and
as bright as a new penny. I listened in for a minute, before putting
the headpiece on the chief’s ears, and Matse had things going all
right.”
“Well, you might have let a fellow in on it,” said Jack.
“Oh, you and Frank were too busy talking to your father,” said Bob.
In the meantime, although Chief Ruku-Ru had retired from the center
of the stage, so to speak, matters had not come to a standstill.
Quite the contrary, in fact, for with the completion of the
ceremonies having to do with the boys, the Kikuyus had gone about
the business of celebration in earnest.
Numerous smaller fires sprang into being about the square, and some
the feasting was in full swing. Always ready for merry-making, the
Kikuyus had seized upon this occasion for a celebration despite the
fact that only two or three nights before another had been held.
However, as Mr. Hampton and the boys had no desire to participate in
the drinking of the heavy native beer or to witness the orgy which
was bound to follow as the natives came under the influence of
liquor, they excused themselves to the chief on the ground that they
found it necessary to retire in order to be prepared for breaking
camp at an early hour on the morrow, and departed.
Wrapped up in his new toy, Chief Ruku-Ru made no objection, and so
they managed to get away. Behind them already the dancing about the
fires was growing wilder and more unrestrained.
“These Africans are just children, after all,” said Mr. Hampton,
shaking his head. “They don’t know the meaning of the word
restraint. Well, now for a good night’s sleep, everybody. We start
at dawn.”