Admission was by ticket only, and Hillard wondered how and where the man
sitting next him had obtained one. He was, in that decorously neutral
assembly, as conspicuous in his way as a game-cock among crows. His coat
was of some sort of greenish khaki, strapped, patched and pocketed over
almost every available inch of its surface; his trousers did not fit him
or the coat; his boots—Hillard could not see his boots, but he thought
they were tan; his tie looked like a knotted red handkerchief; his hair
was red, and he himself so scorched and reddened by sun that it seemed
as if his cool grey eyes should have melted amid the fervent heat of his
face. So much Hillard saw in his first casual inspection, as he sat
awaiting boredom. After a bishop had introduced the speaker and the
lecture had begun, he was too much interested in the slight black figure
on the platform to spare much attention elsewhere. You know those
bioscope pictures that show in a few minutes the life-cycle of a plant
from seed to seed? Hillard says that Paul Raynor, with the aid of a
magic lantern and his own simplicity, was showing them thus the birth of
a seed of law and love, the growth of light in darkness, of safety in
the shadow of death. Not a soul in the audience could remain quite
unmoved.
It was about half-way through that Hillard felt a tug at his sleeve. The
man in the khaki coat was leaning forward intently, his elbow on the
back of the chair ahead and his hand at his ear.
“What did he say, mister?”
“I beg your pardon. When?”
The man lifted his hand impatiently. “Then. Before the last picture. I
couldn’t be sure . . .”
“Oh, he said he was probably the only man in the country who knew the
language.”
“Meanin’ himself? Raynor?”
“Yes.”
“Ah”—the man spoke with a certain jealous satisfaction—“so he thinks.
But it ain’t so. It ain’t true.”
“Indeed?” Hillard was curt.
“Nah. I know it.”
Hillard looked at the interrupter who, quick as an animal to read a
rebuff, had drawn away and was once more listening to the lecturer with
a bitter intentness. Something made Hillard sorry he had been curt; so
that when the audience broke up in unusual enthusiasm, and he found
himself descending the stairs, shoulder to shoulder with the khaki coat,
he followed the impulse of repentance and spoke.
“An uncommonly interesting talk, eh?”
“Interestin’?” The man eyed him warily. “Yes, I guess it was interestin’
all right.”
Hillard: “And you must have found it specially so knowing the country
and the people.”
They had reached the pavement, and the man swung round almost
threateningly. “Who says I know the country?”
“Well, I thought it likely, as you said you knew the language.”
“Ah, so I did, mister, so I did. . . And you was interested?”
“Why, yes. I think anyone would be. To see the school, the little
thatched church, the neat fields, all grown up in a couple of years, and
all the work of two white men. . . They’re brave fellows out there; good
men.”
They had turned into the Park, pleasant with a sense of cool grass and
damp borders. The man in khaki paused and sniffed luxuriously; the
wariness had gone out of his face. “Yes,” he said, gravely, “they’re
good men. That man Raynor, now, he’s a mix of holiness and horse-sense
which you’d call uncommon. Yes, sir, uncommon. And all that good man
has”—he turned suddenly and laid his hand on Hillard’s arm—“all that
good man has, all he’s done, he owes to Brad Timmins, who weren’t good
in any sense o’ the word. Queer, ain’t it?”
Hillard took him deftly by the elbow, turned him to a bench, and said,
“Go on.”
It came something like this:
“We were days and days in the grass country, and that’s a thing very bad
for the nerves. You see nothing but grass, close-packed, stem and blade.
We travelled blind as if we was in a tunnel, and the roof of the tunnel
was the achin’ sky. We’d brush through the grass as endless as water.
And hot. . . Brad and I we quarreled all the way up, and, what made it
worse, we had to quarrel amiable. In a friendly voice, I mean, so the
niggers wouldn’t know. It’s that way. It was about a girl; and he’d
curse me to kingdom come in a tea-and-ices sort of tone that made me
sick, and I’d answer accordin’. He was a hard case, was Brad. But pretty
soon he forgot about the girl, and thought of nothing but what we’d come
for.
“The heat was such, and the glare on all them leagues of yellowish
grass, I give you my word I scarce knew when we got among the trees. I
just looked up, saw it was dark, felt a warm splash on my face, and
there we was in the forest. Nothing gradual about that country. One hour
that blazin’ grass, the next, them everlastin’ trees. Grass couldn’t
have been no grassier, forest couldn’t have been no treeier. It’s that
way. . .”
He looked at a taxi throbbing beside the curb, watched it as it slid
away on the smooth asphalt. “Over there we don’t overrun things—dead
things, I mean, like earth and trees and rivers. . . Or are they so
dead? Well, over here it’s us that count; over there it’s them. Our
life’s nothin’. And it’s not the people either; they may be little
better than beasts. But you could plant London, Paris, and Noo York
among them trees, and it wouldn’t make no difference—at least, not to
last. Them things are so strong. It’s that way.
“We was after ivory, and not green stuff that’s been buried for years,
waiting for a good bargain, either. Brad he wanted it fresh. He wanted a
good village on the edge of the forest where he could get more hunters
and porters, and store his ivory, and send it back in lots. He didn’t
think or pray or want for a thing but ivory.
“We found a village. . . Yes, Raynor’s village. There wasn’t no church
then, nor no school, and the trees was thicker. Raynor thinned ’em a lot
and quite wise. But I see he’s took down some of our stockade, which
ain’t so wise. You see that picture of the reclaimed witch-doctor with
the locket round his neck, a hoeing his pumpkin-patch? Well, that
feller, he run things, and the young headman was under his thumb. He was
too clever for a nigger—he favoured us for his reasons, and we favoured
him for ours, and things was very pleasant and comfortable all around.
“Brad and me we’d go off in the grass country for days after the herds.
Yes, and we had good luck. You wouldn’t get such luck now, not
anywheres. A wonderful great country under the moon, and the elephants
moving. . . Well, it’s that way. And then we’d go back to our clean
grass huts huddling on the edge of the trees, and we’d see the little
fires at night and hear the girls chatter, and it would seem ’most like
home. Then the young chief he’d come in and talk. A bright young feller
and we sort o’ fascinated him. He got terribly fond of Brad Timmins.
Brad he was a big, open-faced, hearty-speakin’ sort, and it wasn’t till
you know’d him well that you’d see how tight his mouth shut and how hard
his eyes was. He was always most fair and friendly with the natives, and
they thought no end of him. Only that old witch-doctor, squatting in his
hut among the rags and chickens—only he saw through Brad. He’d say:
‘That white man would burn a whole village for the sake of one tusk,’
and it was quite true. But the young headman would say: ‘I’m black and
he is white, but he is my friend.’ And the doctor, blinking his black
eyelids with the gray lashes like a monkey’s, he’d laugh.
“We sent off three lots of ivory down country. We’d a pile growing, and
I—I was getting a bit tired of it. I wanted to take my share and make
for the coast, and enjoy myself awhile. Well, it’s that way with me. I
ain’t hard like Brad was. But he was a shark over the ivory. He never
got enough. He killed out that country—not for the lust to kill that
sometimes takes a man, but because of the money in the ivory, which, I
give you my word, is quite a different thing, mister. He was like a
miser too. He’d a store of the very finest tusks wrapped up like babies
and buried under the floor of his hut. He just couldn’t bear to part
with ’em, though he knew they might sp’ile. He just loved ’em. No one
knew they was there, but me, and he didn’t know I knew. They was his
secret hoard, like in a book. I didn’t care. I give you my word that I
was half-scared o’ Brad Timmins them days, he was that mad on the ivory,
though always most fair and friendly to them that helped him to it.
“I’m nothing to boast of in the way of softness, mister, as you can
guess; but there’s things. . . Well, it’s that way with me. You’ll find
a feelin’ if you dig far enough, as the dentist said. There’s a few
things that reach home to me, and that young headman he was one of them
when he pulled Brad out from a charging bull. Yes, sir; right out from
under. And boosted him up a tree, and nipped up himself, and Brad he
shot the bull. It was a fine thing. ‘You’ll give him a gun for that,’ I
says to Brad. And Brad, he says; ‘You mind your own business. I’ve no
guns to spare.’ Then I knew he’d do it cheap, and I was ashamed, and I
give the nigger my own third gun, and told him it came from Brad, and
not because of the gun, but because he’d saved his life. Yes, it’s that
way. Queer, ain’t it?
“Well, that country was just about used up; all our ivory was on its way
south, and I wanted to follow it. But Brad he would go on. He was set on
travelling round the edge of the tree belt till we found fresh elephant
country, using the village as a base camp. He had his way, as a man who
don’t care nothin’ for nobody else most generally does. The village
howled with grief, all but the old witch-doctor, who made our
arrangements for us. At the end of the talk he said something that
sounded like ‘Mabendy.’
“What’s that?” said I.
“He waved his hands toward the forest. ‘Very bad people,’ he said, ‘come
and fight, try and take the village. If they take it, they eat us.’
“And a tough morsel you’d be,” I thought to myself. And Brad, he
laughed. The headman was there, too, and generally when Brad laughed
he’d laugh. He didn’t now. He said: ‘It is very bad. They are as many as
the leaves, and their arrows are strong. They came once before and we
beat them off, but they killed many of our fighting men. Now our huts
are full of children again, but they are little, and I have just taken
my third wife, whom I love. It is very bad.’ He laid his hand, which was
black as a coal and delicate as a girl’s, for a moment on Brad’s. ‘It is
very bad if they come while you, a great warrior, are away. But I will
send a messenger, and then you will return and help us.’
“Yes. He said it just like that. Not as a question. He thought Brad was
his friend, you see, and spoke accordin’.
“Brad Timmins he looked at me with one big wink, but I looked at my
boots. Later I said to him: ‘If Mabendy—whoever he or they are—comes,
and you’re sent for and you don’t go, you’ll lose your face. You won’t
get no more hunters and beaters out o’ that village.’ And he swore at me
with pure astonishment as a meddlesome grannie that minded what a pack
of niggers thought. Yes, he swore amazin’.”
A girl passed, wearing small, high-heeled, patent-leather shoes; the man
in khaki watched them gravely until the girl was out of sight. Then he
said, suddenly, “But not so bad as when the message come”—and was once
more silent.
“Then Mabendy came?”
The man in khaki looked at Hillard, nodding gravely, “Yes, mister. As we
heard by special messenger, two days out—a boy with a rag round his
head. He come reeling up our line and rolled at Brad’s feet, gasping out
a word or two. And Brad he began kickin’ him cruel.
“‘Whatever are you doin’?’ I says, pulling Brad back. He was in a
breathless rage, and couldn’t speak for a minute.
“‘Those f-fools,’ he stutters, ‘those fools! Do they think. . .’ His
voice ran up to a sort of yell. And then, all of a sudden he stopped,
gapin’ at me like a fish, and his jaw workin’.
“‘What is it _now_?’ I says.
“He lets out a sort of whisper—’ My tusks—and the next moment, mister,
I give you my word, he was beatin’ our boys with a gun-butt to turn ’em
round quicker.”
The man leaned down and brushed some dust from his outrageous trousers.
“Yes. He’d remembered those tusks, you see—those choice tusks that I
wasn’t expected to know of. Yes; buried under the floor of his hut. He
was afraid Mabeady’d find ’em. So we was goin’ back. . . . . .”
He was silent again. When he did speak it was unexpected.
“These pants ’re his.”
“Whose?”
“Brad’s. He was a bigger man than me.”
“Did he give them to you!”
“No, mister; I shouldn’t say gave. . . Found ’em, I did—aft. Couldn’t
find anything else; it’d been all took and distributed. No, not exactly
stole; more for relics, like the Cath’lics.”
“Then you got back to the village?”
“Yes, we got back—in a little more than thirty hours—half dead,
because of the ivory. . . . There was a little hillock beyond
arrow-shot, overlooking the village. We was goin’ to spy out a bit from
this. We hadn’t met no enemy. The sun was settin’ behind us, behind the
great grass-country—settin’ terrible bright, and every leaf and branch
on the edge of the forest was sharp and distinct in a great blaze of
gold light. Never see such light here, mister. We left our boys on the
ground, and Brad and me we crawled up that hillock to have a look. . . .
“The first thing that struck me was the quiet. It was all so quiet. Not
till you saw that little black ripple and eddy among the huts would you
have guessed that it was men fighting—for their homes and their
kids—as you or me might do. It was the absence of firearms that made it
seem so quiet.
“I didn’t see it all so quick as Brad; he was ahead of me. When he saw
the fight among the huts he gave a cry, kind of as if he was hurt. I
guess he was. Then his breath seemed to go from him, and he stood up
clear on the top of the mound, his arms out, cursing in
whispers—because of the ivory.
“That great gold light seemed to beat on him like water. I can’t
describe it, mister. He seemed to grow bigger, to tower over the huts,
to be as huge as one of the trees. To those poor harried folk in the
shadow he must have shown, I take it, like a god, a deliverer,—a
saviour—there in the light with his arms spread out. Come to save ’em,
eh?
“I give you my word for it, the whole fight was held up while you could
count twenty, while they stared up at the great gold figure on the
hillock. Then—we was out of arrow-range, but some one had an old
breech-loader—Brad he went down coughing. When I ran up, ‘Damn you,’ he
groans. ‘Don’t stop here. Get the tusks out, you fool’. . . Yes, he’d
forgot I wasn’t supposed to know about them. They was the last thing he
thought of, I guess—this side.
“Then . . .?”
He began again with a start. “Then our men from the village rushed up
behind me, mad. And we went down. . .
“I don’t remember much else, mister, I never do. Some takes it this way
and some that. I got a crack on the head, too, and when I come round a
few days after, Brad Timmins he was dead and buried _and_ what you might
call canonized. Yes, sir.
“Which way? Well, for coming back at the call of his friend in need, I
suppose, and losin’ his life over it. ‘A man of great heart is he who
will go into the dark night at the word of his brother,’ said the young
headman to me; I believe it says much the same thing in the Bible. . .
And the old witch-doctor pipes up, ‘If he was indeed a man, O child!’
“Mister, I saw the beginning of what you and your kind would call a very
curious process—the making of a god. Me, I simply didn’t count, though
I’d done a lot more than stand on top of a hill in the sunset. Why, I
was all blacked up with the back-spit of my old Colt. It’s that
way. . . . I went to look at Brad’s grave, and it was all planted round
with holy bushes and a mess of rags and feathers and pots and pumpkins.
And while I stood there a woman led her little boy up to the grave and
set his little black hand like a monkey’s paw on the earth, and said
something to Brad. And in two weeks it was rumoured that Brad didn’t
like folks round there after dark. And in three it was said that as he
stood on the hillock he’d gathered the sun’s rays in his hands and
turned them into the blinded faces of Mabendy. Our village had got off
uncommon cheap, and it was all laid down to Brad Timmins. ‘Most
unreasonable. But it’s that way. . . .
“And the stamp of Brad Timmins was on every white man after that. He
became the type—what you’d call the symbol, mister. He, in his grave
there, smoothed the way for Raynor. Raynor, he was listened to because
of Brad Timmins. You may say the church was built by Brad, and the
schools laid on him as a foundation stone. And all the time. . . Well,
what gets me is, who’ll have the credit, eh?”
“And the ivory?”
The man in khaki coughed uneasily. “I give you my word, and you may set
me down for a fool, I left the ivory where it was. I guess it’s there
still. They’d have known. . . poor devils in the dark. . . I guess I’ve
kept you an uncommon time, mister.”
“Not too long.” Hillard drew out a card. “This is my name and address.
Will you take it, and—come and tell me some more any time you’re
inclined?”
“Thank you; I’d be pleased.” He got up and shook hands absently, and
turned away. But he came back.
“Raynor and his kind they don’t know. They can’t know. Stands to
reason. . . But you saw the picture of that old witch-doctor hoeing his
pumpkins that innocent? Yes? And the locket made o’ cocoa tins round his
neck? Yes? There’s the heart of Brad Timmins in them cocoa-tins.” He
moved off again, pausing only to say, gravely over his shoulder, “And I
guess it rattles about inside like a dried bean.”
Then he went, and Hillard watched him walking cautiously among the
well-dressed crowd, as if he were afraid of tripping over the roots of
trees, the blinding spears of the elephant grass.