Gerald Birnier had flattered himself that he was a philosopher with a
sense of humour, fairly well developed by ten years’ wandering about
Central Africa, but deep emotions submerge such cherished qualities.
The presence of the photograph was explicable by several surmises: zu
Pfeiffer might have met Lucille at Washington, Paris, or Berlin: she might
have given him the photograph or he might have bought it, or even stolen
it. But—the signature “à toi, Lucille”! There lay the sting which maddened
Birnier and strangled reason, the fact at which his mind yawed futilely.
So great had been the shock that the arrest had seemed but a secondary
matter in accord with the insanity of zu Pfeiffer’s statement that he was
engaged to Lucille. The affair had been so sudden that for some time he
could progress no farther in an attempt to think than a gasp, pawing
mentally at an intangible substance which eluded him like a child’s small
hand trying to grasp a toy balloon. Sense of reality appeared to have been
dissolved. He had followed the sergeant across the square meekly without
realising what was happening, and when he had been placed in a whitewashed
room at the back of the native guard house which served as a jail, he sat
down upon a chair, too bewildered to comprehend where he was. That “à toi,
Lucille” rang like the clanging in a belfry, drowning the sound of other
thoughts.
By the light of a hurricane lamp he regarded the soldiers bringing in an
old camp bed with indifference. When they had gone he began to pace up and
down the small room frantically trying to gain control. To the first
prompting of a logical reason for the whole affair he did not dare to
listen. The disrupting cause was the complete inability to explain the
familiar signature. To his Anglo-Saxonised mind, bred in the strict code
of the south, tutoyer was only permissible to dogs, inferiors, most
intimate relations and lovers. He was far too unbalanced to see the humour
as he solemnly announced that certainly zu Pfeiffer was not a dog, nor in
the social code an inferior; he was not a relation; therefore.… His mind
baulked and raced into incoherence.
A point of view which added false premises, as well as his attitude to
those two little words, was the consciousness that many would consider
that he had not treated his wife as a husband should do. This possibility
had never occurred to him before, so that it came with disproportionate
emphasis.
As a young man he had been too absorbed in his profession to be a lady’s
man; and of love he had reckoned little until he had met the Lucille
Charltrain with whom half the world was in love. And she doubtless, like
many a spoiled beauty, was a little piqued that the professor did not join
the throng of her courtiers. In Birnier’s mind there had ever been
associated with love the fear that the woman would demand too much, that
no woman could understand that a man’s profession must of necessity come
before all things. Lucille was the first woman whom he had met who really
seemed to understand this point of view, as she, too, was devoted to her
art. This had grown to be the biggest bond and attraction between them.
Most men wished to make of love a nuisance, as Lucille once put it. So the
good-looking professor had won the beauty. They were married on the mutual
understanding that each should pursue their respective professions.
Shortly afterwards Birnier was offered a special mission to go to Africa
for the purpose of studying the customs and superstitions of the natives.
Lucille had consented, forbidden, relented, and laughed.
So Lucille sang from musical height to height and her husband sped from
depth to depth in the seas of human fatuity. Whenever he took a furlough
he went, of course, straight to her, wheresoever she was, in Berlin, New
York, or Paris. To Birnier the situation was ideal. He had never dreamed
of any other woman. Indeed the tracts of his mind were so filled with
statistics of anthropology and Lucille that there was little or no room
for any one else. The delight and satisfaction in Birnier’s mind were so
sincere that he never had dreamed of questioning whether Lucille’s point
of view had remained the same. But now?
That “à toi” stung and baited him into the unprecedented realisation that
after all women had been known to change their opinions. Perhaps pride had
prevented her from ever openly demanding other ways. Lucille was young and
beautiful, courted and flattered on every hand. Perhaps he had been wrong
to leave her for years at a stretch. Of her loyalty he had had no doubt,
but for the first time in his marital life the professor’s profound
knowledge of human nature was shot like a spot-light on to his own
affairs. Yet his erudition did not in the least relieve him from the laws
of emotional reaction.
Perhaps in an emotional moment.… That knowledge of the frailties of genus
homo was too deep for comfort in such actuation.
“À toi, Lucille! À toi, Lucille!” rang and echoed as he paced that room,
striving for control.… And—and—why else should zu Pfeiffer have gone
crazy?—why had he exclaimed: “Das ist der Schweinhünd”? The husband, of
course, whom he wanted out of the way, and he had immediately seized the
opportunity to secure that end, seemingly indifferent to
consequences—symptomatic of the state of “being in love.”
Around and about, about and around a field of weeds which had sprung from
that seed “à toi,” had paced the professor all night. When the green was
creeping through the high barred window, Sergeant Schneider had brought to
him some coffee and biscuits. Birnier had drunk the coffee thirstily, and
as the sergeant had no English nor French, had tried in broken German to
extract some information. But the sergeant had merely grunted and retired.
At seven he had returned again and escorted Birnier to the Court House. He
returned from the mock trial a little more in touch with reality, and more
impressed with the malignity of zu Pfeiffer. Yet the gratuitous insults,
the laboured farce of the registering of an alleged Swiss trader, Birnier
saw through, and was relieved, for it argued that zu Pfeiffer’s intention
was to make Lucille a widow. No other reason could account for the
homicidal intentions displayed.
At the glow of dawn next day he was aroused by the big corporal who
ordered him out. The tone of the man’s voice naturally stimulated a
violent reaction. But Birnier realised that his sole chance lay in
controlling himself to accept stoically whatever treatment was offered;
for he saw instantly that any protest or indignation would be interpreted
as insubordination and possibly be made an excuse to shoot him down.
Outside in the grey light he saw under the guard of six native soldiers,
the five others of his party. Mungongo, his personal “boy,” cried out at
the sight of him, asking what was the meaning of these strange happenings.
Before Birnier could reply, the big corporal struck the man savagely with
a kiboko, bidding him to be silent. In spite of his resolution, the
reaction made Birnier turn angrily upon the soldier, who deliberately
repeated the order, and struck the white man across the face. As Birnier
raised his fist the man lowered his bayonet and grinned, adding,
apparently for the benefit of his men, that now the white would learn what
it was to be a slave.
Furiously Birnier looked around for Sergeant Schneider: but no white man
was in sight.… He turned to Mungongo and said quickly: “Take no heed. Do
as they bid thee for the moment.”
“Be silent!” shouted the corporal, but as he raised his kiboko, Birnier
looked him quietly straight in the eyes. The black hand was lowered; the
man turned away, ordering the party in general to march.
Dishevelled and without any camp equipment, Birnier began to march as the
blood of the sky paled to orange. At the bottom of the great parade ground
he turned in time to see the relieving guard falling in behind the Court
House. For one moment he hesitated whether to put all to the test by
refusing to go; but a significant gesture with the ever ready rifle of the
corporal signified that he would not be given a chance. Humiliated, he
obeyed. But just beyond the last hut, waiting by the path, was a group of
women loaded with the soldiers’ gear; and beside them were some carriers
bearing his green tent and apparently all his equipment. The sight cheered
him a little. He attempted to find immediate consolation in the idea that
the savagery of the corporal might possibly abate when they were away from
the neighbourhood of the inciting agent, whom he was sure was zu Pfeiffer.
Leading the caravan was a soldier; next to him came Birnier and behind him
was another soldier, after whom walked Mungongo and the four other
prisoners, with a soldier between each; and then the corporal, strutting
portentously important within easy shooting distance of the white man. The
carriers and women brought up the rear.
The path led for some miles through the dreary swamp following the course
of the small bayou, crossing and recrossing small streams swollen with the
rains, through which the white man was forced to wade to his hips. For the
first mile Birnier was so angry and humiliated that he dared not catch the
troubled eyes of Mungongo. But by force of will he attained a reasonable
plane of philosophic resignation, temporary at least, and smiled at the
boy, who grinned back like a tickled child. At any rate, soliloquised
Birnier, he had at least one man upon whom he could rely.
At the head of the bayou they reached higher ground and the path zigzagged
through dense jungle thick with fan palms. The longer Birnier pondered
upon the situation the nearer he came towards the conclusion that he had
better make his escape as soon as possible, or he would never have the
chance. Rather by the uneasy glances of Mungongo, who dared not speak, did
he guess that they had left the regular trail to the coast. What their
destination was he could not imagine. Probably, he thought grimly, to make
an end of the whole party and return to the camp. Yet why trouble to
travel so far? And another good reason to hasten an escape was that,
although for the moment he was in good health, a few days of exposure
would subject him to fever and consequent weakness.
Now and again the theme “à toi” would return like the refrain of a song to
which he found himself keeping step; but the words sometimes became
meaningless; for in the merciful way that nature has, the impulse of
self-preservation so occupied his mind that he had scarcely leisure to
worry over marital troubles.
At the end of about two hours, when the heat of the sun was beginning to
be felt severely, the corporal called a halt in the shade of a great
baobab. Birnier sat down with his back against the bole. Alongside him
squatted the corporal deliberately and called to the women for a gourd of
juwala. There is a certain acid odour which native beer has that is
particularly irritating to a dry palate. The corporal drank deep, sighed
with satisfaction and set the gourd beside him almost touching the feet of
the white. Involuntarily Birnier swallowed. The corporal saw and grinned.
Birnier understood and turned his back to the man. Immediately the
corporal arose and lowering his bayonet until it pricked the sleeve of
Birnier’s coat, ordered him to get up. In the knowledge that he would be
instantly shot by the others if he attempted to resist, he had perforce to
obey.
Outside the shade of the great tree, in the full glare of the sun, was the
white man compelled to sit while the black corporal, with the rifle ready
across his knee, drank deep and handed the gourd to his fellows. Again
Birnier turned his back to him. But he began to realise faintly what
treatment he would receive before the end came and an intimate knowledge
of native ingenuity made him feel physically sick.
Half an hour later they were on the march again. The path became rugged
and difficult, passing through thorny ground, following burbling
watercourses of rough stones. To make the going more trying Birnier wore
light moccasins intended for camp use instead of his high field boots.
Once when a long thorn penetrated the flank of his shoe he stopped to
extract it. The corporal shouted at him; the soldier behind called him
unmentionable names in the dialect and pushed him with his foot. The
insult and the heat of the sun maddened him. He leaped to his feet. The
corporal raised his gun promptly and jeered. For a moment Birnier stood
trembling with passion; then he closed his eyes as if to shut out sight
and sound and limped forward, fighting with himself.
With natives had Birnier always been able to negotiate, to live, and to
quarrel when necessary, on terms of amity; but this black “swine,” as he
termed him in his wrath, prinked out in a masquerade of a white man’s
clothes.… He jammed his heel down savagely upon the thorn to divert the
southern passion. After all it was not the man’s fault but zu Pfeiffer’s.
Put a white man in a uniform and he becomes a beast; put a nigger in a
uniform and he becomes a devil, Birnier forced himself to reflect.
The sun grew incandescent. The heat and the flies quickened his thirst. He
plodded on, stumbling over the stones, sagging heavily in sandy patches.
They had left the comparative shelter of the jungle and were crossing a
flat plain approaching, he judged, to a river bed. The carriers, he noted,
had lagged behind. Soon they must halt. Even the fiend of a corporal would
not fatigue himself too much for the sake of tormenting a white man.
Then a new idea was added to the plagues. He had tasted nothing save the
coffee, canned beef, and native bread which had been given him for dinner
on the previous evening. The corporal had manifested his conception of
humour by refusing him beer and water on the march; was he going to
torment him by starvation as well as by thirst? And if torture were
reserved for him by that grinning black brute, then he knew what would be
the end that awaited him.
Within an hour they came to a river about forty yards broad, a swollen
rushing torrent. There was no village as he had expected. The corporal
halted. Birnier slid down the bank and thrust his muzzle into the flood.
There was torture in the restraint not to drink too much. He clambered up
the slope to find the corporal grinning at him. He turned his back and lay
down. There was no shade; only short scrub and grass. Small sand flies
buzzed and stung. He heard the gurgle of the corporal’s military
water-bottle. But this time the sting was extracted; his belly was moist.
Birnier stretched out, shielding from the glare the little that he could
with his hands. Faint echoes of “à toi” strolled across his field of
consciousness. He observed the apparently stoical indifference of Mungongo
squatted a few feet from him, a soldier sprawling between them; but he
cursed because investigations had taught him that that “stoical” should
usually be read as “bovinity,” as he had termed it; and he smiled dismally
at the ancient story that so well illustrated the point, of the peasant
who expressed his occupation through the long winter hours as “sometimes
we sits and thinks but mostly we just sits.”
Mungongo “just sits,” he repeated, and envied him. Yet in that heat and
hunger, waiting for his savage captor to wreak some new fancy upon him, so
saturated with philosophic interest in life was Birnier, that he wandered
off into a meditation upon the mechanical fatuity of human conduct;
illustrating his reflections by his own actions when stirred by emotion.
“The loaded gun may be as wise as Solomon was reputed to be,” he remarked
beneath his hands, “but all the same when some one pulls the trigger the
damn thing goes off,” and sat up to confront the muzzle of the corporal’s
rifle, who was ordering him to get up. Birnier rose. But to the savage’s
amazement, he smiled.
The corporal backed away.
“Ah, my friend,” remarked Birnier blandly in English. “You’ve lost, for I
have found that which was lost!”
The corporal scowled and bade him to follow. Birnier obeyed but he felt
that he was obliging the man. The carriers had arrived and the green tent
was pitched, invitingly cool against the grey flood of the river. He
followed the corporal gladly, but at ten feet from his tent, beside a
thorn bush four feet tall which spread in a fan shape, he was bidden to
sit. For the moment, newly arrived from his philosophic dreams, he did not
comprehend.
“But that is my tent!” he said in Kiswahili.
“Sit down!” commanded the corporal, grinning. “The white seller of slaves
sits in the place of the slave, but his owner dwells in the place of the
blessed.”
“O God!” remarked Birnier as he bumped his head against black reality.