The same vast balloons of sepia rolled over the lake, vomited a host of
liquid ramrods and, after short intervals of brilliant glare, were
succeeded by others. The gutters of the station were turned into burbling
brooks and the grass plot into a morass.
Behind the screen on the south verandah sat zu Pfeiffer in his pink silk
pyjamas, a scowl upon his brow. He sipped his café cognac distastefully
and inhaled a cigarette so fiercely that the heat burned his tongue. He
had not slept. Yet the broken nail on the left little finger had been cut
and polished. Half the night he had sat before the photograph in the ivory
frame, pondering upon, and rehearsing, the past; muttering aloud to
Lucille, sometimes words of love and sometimes savage curses; wondering
what she was doing and where she was; gritting his teeth at visions which
aroused insane jealousy; calculating what the consequences of his action
would be were he to obey the impulse that had leaped into his mind in the
first flush of passion. If he were to release the prisoner the fellow
would probably expect an explanation and an apology which was, of course,
out of the question. No, he must carry out the thing thoroughly without
leaving any chance for the man to make trouble at the coast, or through
the Embassy at Washington; at all costs not through Washington. For him,
Birnier merely existed as a person whose feelings mattered nothing.
With the greening of the moon zu Pfeiffer had retired. As he had lain
sleeplessly watching the pallor of the dawn he had savagely corroborated
the decision. Now the roar of the deluge appeared to him in the form of an
abettor to his plan. He watched the grey wall of rain with satisfaction,
stroking the left sentry moustache as if to tame the fierce bristles of an
outraged dignity. When he had emerged from the bath, the pink of his face
appeared to have spread to the whites of his eyes, a fact which Bakunjala
had noted with sullen dread.
Between the storms the sun glared yellow upon the smoking earth. Across
the square squelched zu Pfeiffer to the orderly room. He grunted at
Sergeant Schultz’s greeting and sprawled in the chair. When Schultz
proffered him some official documents he waved them aside irritably.
“Bring the prisoner to the Court, sergeant. I will try him immediately.”
“Excellence!” said the sergeant, saluting. “What charge am I to enter
against him, Excellence?”
“Arms and liquor running,” responded zu Pfeiffer quickly. “I hold papers
which prove the case completely; moreover you will see that Ali ben Hassan
and others are prepared to testify. But—the charge will be margined as
political: not criminal. Understand, sergeant?”
“Perfectly, Excellence. Ali ben Hassan and the others have to testify
before your Excellence now?”
“There will be no need.”
“Very good, Excellence.”
“And, sergeant, what is the personnel of the launch and the prisoner’s
party?”
“The launch returned immediately to Jinja, Excellence, as soon as the
prisoner had landed.”
“Ach, good.”
“The prisoner has a considerable battery, equipment and provisions; a
headman and personal servants. He intended to obtain porters here,
Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer meditated, tapping the desk with a gold pencil.
“What is the headman?”
“Bambeeba, Excellence.”
“Good. And the servants?”
“One is a Wongolo youth, the others are mixed Walegga and Kavirondo.”
“Arrest them all and see that none gets away.”
“Excellence!”
Schultz saluted and departed. Zu Pfeiffer frowned at the glare which was
suddenly extinguished by falling water. He lighted a cigar and waited.
Presently the sergeant returned in a waterproof cape, dripping, and
announced that the prisoner was ready. Zu Pfeiffer gathered up his long
legs and marched stiffly into the Court House adjoining.
Upon a slight dais was a large desk and a cane armchair beneath the
Imperial Eagles and a portrait of the Kaiser Wilhelm II. Pale, stubble
bearded, and tense eyed with anger, sat Birnier upon a form against the
wall; beside him stood Sergeant Schneider, for it is not usual etiquette
to put a white prisoner in charge of a black guard. The grizzled sergeant
stood stuffy to attention, which zu Pfeiffer acknowledged. Although he did
not meet Birnier’s gaze, he scowled as if he had expected him to salute
the majesty of the judge as well.
But as zu Pfeiffer mounted the step to the chair of justice he looked up
at the portrait of the Kaiser, stopped, and hesitated; then he wheeled
abruptly, and barked:
“Sergeant, bring the prisoner to the orderly room!”
In the orderly room Birnier was placed between Sergeant Schultz at his
table and Sergeant Schneider by the door. Birnier watched zu Pfeiffer
intently, but zu Pfeiffer regarded him icily as if he were a piece of
furniture. Without a word Birnier reached out and lifted a chair. Sergeant
Schneider started forward, evidently fearing that the prisoner was about
to attack his officer. Birnier said acidly: “I merely wish to sit down.”
Zu Pfeiffer scowled again, but he made no objection. He took up some
papers at random and began to peruse them. Said Birnier sharply:
“When you have finished with this farce I shall be obliged if you will
kindly explain your insane actions!”
The tap-tap of a typewriter sounded from another room. A fly buzzed. Zu
Pfeiffer’s eyelids did not blink. The sergeants stared woodenly to the
front. Birnier looked from one to the other, bit his lips, and then
exclaimed in exasperation: “What in hell do you mean by this damned
nonsense?”
The tap-tap continued; the fly buzzed irritatedly. Birnier clenched his
fist. But he sat still. Another storm so darkened the room that zu
Pfeiffer could scarcely have seen the print, but apparently he read on.
The deluge roared, passed, and the glare came as suddenly. Zu Pfeiffer
lifted his head and said in German:
“Sergeant, record the opening of the Court.”
“Excellence!” assented Sergeant Schultz and poised his pen ready to write.
“The prisoner, a Swiss subject——”
“I am American, as I have told you,” said Birnier in leashed anger.
“A pseudo trader and hunter, named Carl Bornstadt,” continued zu Pfeiffer
imperturbably, “is charged under sub-section 79 of section 8 with
supplying guns and liquor to the native subjects of his Imperial Majesty.”
“Good God!” began Birnier. But as he realised zu Pfeiffer’s purpose and
his own position, he closed his lips tightly.
Methodically the sergeant finished the entries and waited. Zu Pfeiffer
stroked his favourite moustache and considered. He glanced at Birnier, but
without a vestige of expression and continued:
“Make a special note, sergeant, that we have reason to suspect that the
prisoner is in the political service of”—a slight smile flicked the
lieutenant’s face—“in the service of the Portuguese, and so under
sub-section 109 of section 8, I am referring the case to Dar-es-salaam for
investigation; witnesses, documentary and personal, to accompany the
prisoner. Owing to unusual pressure of service we are unable to afford the
prisoner, although apparently of European descent, a white guard;
therefore, Sergeant Ludwig will detail a corporal and six men for the
duty.”
He paused. The sergeant’s pen scratched on. Zu Pfeiffer lighted a cigar
and added impersonally:
“The prisoner and escort will leave to-morrow morning. Sergeant Schneider,
remove the prisoner!”
Birnier’s face was a little paler, the eyes were slightly more bloodshot;
but he did not attempt to speak. Zu Pfeiffer rose. The sergeants stood to
attention and saluted. As he left the room towards the Court House, he
smiled with slight satisfaction as the gruff voice of Sergeant Schneider
barked: “Prisoner, shun! Right turn! Quick marrch!”
But zu Pfeiffer did not remain long in the Court House. After fidgeting
about with papers on the table and reprimanding Sergeant Schultz because
he had not arranged the next native case to his satisfaction, he rose
abruptly and marched swiftly across the square in the brilliant glare
without his helmet and into his study. There he straddled a chair and
leaned on the back sucking a dead cigar absent-mindedly. As he stared at
the portrait in the ivory frame, the blue eyes grew soft and the delicate
lips quivered like a child about to weep. He sighed heavily and then
rapping out an oath, rose violently, overturning the chair, poured out a
half-glass of neat cognac, and drank it at a gulp. As he neared the Court
House the sentry, turning at the end of his short beat, was so startled at
the proximity of the Kommandant, or incompletely disciplined, that he
became flurried. Zu Pfeiffer clicked his heels together and haughtily
watched the fumbled efforts to salute. The bolt caught in the man’s tunic.
Gold flashed in the sun as the sjambok descended. Zu Pfeiffer walked on
unconcernedly, leaving a grey weal on the terrified native’s face. To
Sergeant Schultz, rigid in the doorway, he snapped an order to have fifty
lashes given to the “clumsy dog.”
Sentences were harsher than usual that morning. All the native world about
him knew that a demon had taken possession of the Eater-of-men; he was
usually inhabited by an evil spirit, but this time the demon of Bakra who,
as everybody knows, tears the vitals with hot claws, making the victim to
have fits, to foam at the mouth, to be quite mad, had entered the white
man. Bakunjala, coming to the Court House with vermouth and biscuits at
eleven o’clock, distinctly saw the devil glaring through zu Pfeiffer’s
eyes, and was so scared that he let fall the tray, which was the reason
that he also was doomed to have twenty-five lashes that evening. Even the
stolid Sergeant Schultz remarked that the Herr Lieutenant had gotten a
touch of the sun; but the grizzled Schneider, who came from Luthuania,
opined that the Herr Kommandant had left his table knife edge uppermost.
When zu Pfeiffer went across to tiffin the hot sun had dried up the
gutters and the plot of grass. He did not return to the Court House, much
to the gratitude of many innocent and guilty. After drinking more wine
than usual he lay down for the siesta and fell asleep. But at five he
awoke with a mouth like a burnt cooking pot and the temper of the said
devil. He yelled for Bakunjala, who came, so trembling with fright that he
stuttered. Zu Pfeiffer threw a glass which missed him and broke a mirror.
“Another seven years’ ill luck!” shouted zu Pfeiffer, sitting on the bed
in his shirt. He glared at Bakunjala standing in the door, too
terror-stricken to flee, convinced that he would be blamed for breaking
the glass. “You—you superstitious nigger!” yelled zu Pfeiffer, and added
more calmly in Kiswahili: “Fetch me a brandy-soda! Upesi, you son of a
baboon!”
“Bwana!” exclaimed Bakunjala and fled gladly.
Zu Pfeiffer sat and scowled at the scattered pieces of mirror until
Bakunjala arrived with the drink. An hour later he emerged in his
immaculate undress uniform and sat on the north verandah, drank vermouth
and smoked cigars, staring out across the flat swamp where the pewter of
the lake was flecked with silver and blood of the sinking sun. From beyond
the fort came the yaps of the drill-sergeant busy in the cool of the
afternoon. At the bark of the relieving guard, zu Pfeiffer rose and walked
around the house to watch, with tetchy eyes, the saluting of the flag.
As he stalked off to dinner in the messroom eyes glimmered in the darkness
about him. Bakunjala, after receiving punishment, was indisposed, in fact
incapable of attending to his duties in the spritely manner required.
Another servant, who had taken his place, was nervous of the probable
consequences, and had a keen eye for the appearance of the devil so
realistically described by Bakunjala. But the demon apparently slept, for
zu Pfeiffer took the dishes placed before him with an unaccustomed
meekness, pushed them away absent-mindedly, and rising, retired to his
study. Even when the deputy brought the wrong bottle he reprimanded him
mildly without taking his eyes off the photograph in the ivory frame.
Yet, with the port, he did not omit to rise, and heels together, raise his
glass to the “Ihre Hochheit.” Then sprawling in the chair he began to
drink and to smoke steadily.
As the notes of the last post stuttered out in the clammy stillness he
summoned the “boy” and bade him fetch Sergeant Schultz. At the sound of
the sergeant’s steps on the verandah zu Pfeiffer stiffened up and patted
his lips as if desiring to erase the lines that were graven thereon; and
with one foot pushed the chair from the direct angle to the photograph.
“Take a cigar,” said zu Pfeiffer, when the man had entered. The words were
rather an order than an invitation. Sergeant Schultz obeyed. Zu Pfeiffer
smoked reflectively, still regarding the photograph out of the corner of
his eyes as if unable to resist the fascination.
“How long have you been in this benighted country, sergeant?”
“Nine years, Excellence.”
“You wish to retire on the pension at the year’s term?”
“I have not seen my wife and children for three years, Excellence.”
“You shall have special leave as soon as the Wongolo affair is over.”
“I thank you, Excellence.”
“And I will recommend you for the special colonial service medal and
pension.”
“I thank you, Excellence.”
“Take a drink, sergeant.”
“I thank you, Excellence.”
The sergeant obeyed with some semblance of initiative and he remarked that
the lieutenant drank half a tumbler of neat brandy at a gulp. As if to
drag himself away from the contemplation of the photograph zu Pfeiffer
stood up and sat on the arm of the chair with his face in shadow above the
lamp-shade. Gazing keenly at the sergeant, he said sharply:
“You are quite aware of the regulations regarding official secrets,
sergeant?”
“Ach, yes, Excellence!”
As the sergeant paused to answer with the glass in his hand there was just
a suspicion of astonishment in the tone.
“Good. Don’t forget it!” A note of menace was in zu Pfeiffer’s voice. He
added more mildly, “Political reasons may cause stringent measures
sometimes.”
“Yes, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smoked, coldly regarding the sergeant.
“Who is Sergeant Schneider detailing for the prisoner’s escort to-morrow?”
“Corporal Inyira, Excellence.”
“A long service man?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Good. Go and fetch him here.”
Not a shadow of surprise showed on Sergeant Schultz’s face as he departed.
Zu Pfeiffer smoked hard and drank another brandy thirstily with a slight
unsteadiness as he lifted the glass to his mouth. The sergeant returned
and stood at attention just within the door.
“The man is here, Excellence.” Zu Pfeiffer nodded.
“Forward, quick marrch,” commanded the sergeant in a muffled bark.
“Halttt!”
“Very good, sergeant, you may wait.”
Schultz saluted and retired without. The tall powerfully built native in
uniform stood as if he had a bayonet beneath his chin. There was a slight
nervousness about the blues of the eyes as he squinted in the attempt to
look straight ahead and to watch the Kommandant at the same time. One
nostril was slit, in the lobes of the ears were three can keys, and the
temples were tattooed with tribal scars.
“Corporal Inyira!” said zu Pfeiffer sharply. The black body twitched at
the voice. “You are to leave to-morrow for Dar-es-salaam and you will take
as a prisoner a white man who has been taking your tribe as slaves and
selling them to the Abyssinians. The Bwana Mkubwa protects you from these
evil white men and Arabs. You know that?” sharply.
“Bwana!”
“Very good. You know what would happen to you if you were sold as a slave?
You have had many brothers who have been sold to the Abyssinians?”
“Bwana! Many, Bwana!”
“Very good. Now listen! This white man is very bad. He leaves with you
to-morrow morning for Dar-es-salaam, but—he is never to arrive there. I
give him to you. You may do what you like with him, but never let me see
him again. You have my protection. Understand?”
“Bwana!”
The rubber lips pouted in the emphatic utterance.
“These are your secret orders. But you are not to tell them to any man,
woman, or child here; you may tell your men when you are gone. If you
disobey I will cut out your tongue and give you three hundred lashes.
Understand?”
“Bwana!”
“This man is the enemy of the Bwana Mkubwa. His enemies are your enemies.
His goods are yours. Begone!”
The black hand came up jerkily to the black forehead, shot away out and
down; the polished calves moved like the eccentrics of an engine, and
Corporal Inyira melted into the shadows.
“Sergeant Schultz!”
To smart heel taps on the verandah entered the sergeant.
“You will see that Corporal Inyira and the escort leave before daybreak;
moreover, that he talks with no one before he leaves.”
“Excellence.”
“Take a drink, sergeant.”
With legs as stiff as his sjambok, Sergeant Schultz obeyed the order;
lifted the glass and drank.
“You may go! Good night, sergeant.”
“Excellence, good night!”
As zu Pfeiffer shifted from the chair-arm to the seat his movements were
slightly erratic. He sat forward, staring at the photograph, as he drank
more brandy. Outside, the pæan of the frogs pulsed steadily. From a
distance came the throb of a native drum. A cricket shrilled
intermittently.
“Bwana!”
The ghostly figure of Bakunjala whispered from the doorway. Zu Pfeiffer
started nervously.
“Zingala,” began Bakunjala timorously.
“Gott verdamf—Emshi!” snapped zu Pfeiffer, his ring flashing in an
irritable gesture.
Bakunjala melted. Came a mutter of voices and a subdued giggle.
Zu Pfeiffer sat and drank and stared. Above the insectile anthem of the
night, rose a gurgling voice in a drinking song.… Later the crash of a
breaking glass was accompanied by an oath. The glimmer of three pairs of
eyes through the window screen vanished and reappeared.… Once more rose
the voice singing:
“Scheiden tut weh,
Scheiden, ja scheiden, scheiden tut weh!”
Just as the cricket began anew, after having politely ceased to hear the
lieutenant’s song, trickled out upon the clammy air the sound of weeping.