Before the green tent strutted a sentry as pompously as if he were on duty
before the Kommandant’s bungalow. Inside, sprawling in a camp chair, was
the corporal, in blue striped pyjamas, smoking a cigarette. Upon the floor
crouched one of his women with a safety razor stuck in her woolly thatch,
opening a can of beef. On the camp table were a bottle of brandy which had
had its neck knocked off, a shaving mirror and an open tin of cigarettes.
Squatting on the bed was another woman in field boots, cleaning up a can
of salmon with one finger. The rest of the tent was a litter of broken
cases, bottles, cans and papers.
Ten yards away under the thorn shrub, lay Birnier, and near to him were
Mungongo and the others. Mungongo’s regard shuttled between this scene in
the tent and the white man with a mingled expression of terror and
amazement: terror at the temerity of the corporal in treating a white in
such a manner and incredulous bewilderment that the white did not
immediately strike them all dead. But the others, more sophisticated to
the white man’s ways, were solely occupied in envying the corporal’s
debauch.
The mauve shadows turned to blue as they lengthened. The clouds of small
flies thinned and their ranks began to be refilled by the mosquitoes.
Birnier lay with his back to the tent with a fly switch of grass, but he
watched the doings of the corporal covertly. The corporal and his women
had been drinking a good deal of the brandy and now he was supplying
generous quantities to his men. Once he had come out to jeer. Birnier had
taken no notice, nor even of the kick implanted by one of his own field
boots on the foot of the woman. Already there was a bloodshot glint in the
corporal’s yellow eyes and a pronounced uncertainty in his movements.
Whether the man had had any particular instructions regarding the manner
of his death Birnier did not know until he became loquacious and took to
shouting insults at his white prisoner. The great white chief had given
the white man to him as a slave, he yelled, and now he was going to take
him home with him. This idea seemed to tickle him vastly and also his
women, who giggled and applauded as the corporal began to describe what
obscene acts they would make their white dog perform every day, what they
would give him to eat, how he should be made to dance.
They grew noisier and the women began to sing lewd songs. The soldiers too
revealed signs of their frequent potations. Soon the whole crowd would go
mad, Birnier knew, and sooner or later collapse, which would give him a
chance to escape, unless they chained him, or, what was far more probable,
they decided to bait him to death during an orgy. What they would probably
do to him was unthinkable. Somehow he must find a way out by
self-destruction. Even should he escape, he would be unarmed and without
food, and there was every possibility that they would trail and overtake
him in the morning. He was lame and footsore; also he was weak from want
of food. Once, when despoiling his chop boxes, the corporal had
contemptuously thrown him a half eaten tin of sardines and a cigarette. He
let the cigarette lie. Nourishment he must have; and so after an inward
struggle he had eaten it, having to claw out the fish like a monkey, while
the big black and his women sprawled and laughed.
The soldiers, except the one on sentry who still paced a trifle
erratically, were grouped on their haunches around the fire in front of
the tent on the threshold of which the corporal presided with as much
pomposity as if he were the great Mogul, all drinking and smoking and
eating. Now and again the women would screech insults over their heads at
the white; and once the corporal threw an empty bottle at him, evoking a
gale of applause. The women began the belly dance, crooning while the men
accompanied with the rhythmic grunt, which ever leads to hysterical
exaltation.
The sun was dipping. They might come for him at any moment. He watched the
sentry and contemplated making a rush, taking a venture on the man’s bad
aim and unsteady hand. They would not follow him far in the dark for dread
of the spirits that walk by night. The only alternative to suicide was the
river, in flood and full of crocodiles, a slender chance. He determined to
try it. He considered making the attempt then. But the darker the better;
they would more easily miss. At any risk he must never let them get their
hands upon him. He drew himself together, flexing his limbs for a leap and
a rush, anxiously observing the chanting crowd around the fire in the
sunset glow.
The leashes of discipline were fraying. The sentry still plodded up and
down, but with a rolling eye for his companions. The working of his mind
was revealed when he walked round tying knots in the long grass which, as
every Munyamwezi knows, is a sure method to prevent a prisoner’s escape;
then he halted in front of Birnier, grinned, and pointed to the fire;
evidently he knew or had heard that an orgy was coming. The man stood and
watched him. Fearful that the fellow was about to drag him over or suggest
that the victim be seized, if only in order to release him from his
irksome duty, Birnier snatched up the cigarette lying in the grass and
asked for a light to distract the man’s attention. The sentry shook his
head and pointed to the fire. Hastily Birnier searched his pockets for a
match; recollected that he had used the last, and took out a small tin box
of wax vestas wrapped in oiled silk which he kept as a reserve in a
special pouch of his belt. In the very act of striking the match Birnier
ejaculated: “God!”
“Nini?” demanded the sentry.
“I burned myself,” returned Birnier.
“Nothing to what you will soon!” retorted the nigger, grinning, made an
obscene suggestion and swaggered across to the fire.
Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and
the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the
more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the
Munyamwezi would not understand.
“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I
throw up in the air this cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the
river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until
thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the
frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost
understand?”
“Truly, my master!”
“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as
it shall these children of dung!”
“Truly, master!”
Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet
twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of
a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the
yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal
Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of
his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair.
They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry,
excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round
the outskirts of the throng.
Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn
bush he heard the rustle of movement and the “boy’s” gasped exclamation to
the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink
Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right,
which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his
instructions.
The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently
above the chorus of the frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the
chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably
drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could
see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the
scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until
after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the
excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier
reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The
spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when
they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as
the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he
would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun
to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet
hummed over his head.
He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been
spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A
hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.
Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well,
for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out
vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights
glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the
river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could
he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for
some yards. He slid down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although
the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa.
He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried
his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.
For some time he could only hear the shouts and yells. He kept the water
up to his chin and continuously splashed his face in the endeavour to
slacken the efforts of the mosquitoes. The cries approached. He saw men
outlined against the stars and then some gleams of lanterns. Something
stirred ponderously near to him. It might be a crocodile, but he dared not
move. The figures seemed to stay on the top of the bank for hours. He
remained rigid, expecting a swirl of water and teeth.
Suddenly a spurt of flame shot out above him and was followed by a
fusillade of shots in the direction of up river. Had they spotted Mungongo
or were they merely letting drive at a bush or the spirits in general? The
latter was most probable. The water swirled near to him. All his will
power was required not to leap frantically for the bank. Yet a crocodile
would be far more merciful than those black devils. Again a swirl and
something passed close to him at high speed. Probably an otter scared by
the firing; at any rate it was not a crocodile. The lights and figures on
the bank disappeared.
Shots rang out again, and were followed by a wild outburst of yelling.
Birnier began to wade for the bank, continually splashing water at the
mosquitoes which were so thick that they reminded him of the bayou
Lafourche in far-off Louisiana. Crouching, he waited on the edge of the
bank to listen. The corporal might have had enough sense to post men in
the grass. Yet he might be too fuddled to think of that, and no native
would willingly stay there in the dark, unless under white discipline.
Voices still muttered, but they sounded as if from the camp. Had they
given him up for the night, relying on the chance that if he had not been
taken by a crocodile they could trail him in the morning? Probably.
Birnier squatted in the water, ready to plunge back, until he was sure
they were in camp. Then as cautiously he crawled up the bank. Through the
scrub with his uninjured eye he could make out the figures around the
yellow of the fire which had gone down considerably. Now what would they
do? He could hear the mumble of the corporal’s voice. Would they be
sufficiently sobered to be ready for the chase in the morning? Birnier did
not think so with that case of brandy there; the corporal would not, at
all events. There was a scream of pain and the chatter of women’s voices.
Was the corporal punishing the sentry for having let the prisoners escape,
or were they beginning to fight among themselves? The latter was
improbable, as non-commissioned officers are usually chosen from petty
chiefs and the men under them, as far as possible, from their own village.
Had they captured Mungongo or one of the others? Birnier listened again.
Another scream was stoppered to a groan.
“Devils!” muttered Birnier. Lying flat to watch the grass and shrub tops
against the stars, he gave the frog croaks arranged, at intervals of ten
seconds. About five minutes later he saw some grass tops quiver
unnaturally. He croaked again. Came a whisper:
“Is it thee, Infunyana?” (a name given in reference to Birnier’s gold
fillings).
“Aye.” A dark form glided towards him. “Where are the other men?”
“I know not. I told them as thou hadst told me to do. When thou didst give
the sign, I fled and plunged into the river.”
“Thou wast not frightened of the crocodiles?”
“Nay; for I have a mighty charm against all river beasts, enchanted by
Bakahenzie, the greatest of magicians.”
“Ehh!” commented Birnier, contorting his swollen lips in the dark, “would
that I had such an one! Thinkest thou that the men did as they were
bidden?”
“Who knows what is in the heart of a goat?” returned Mungongo
contemptuously, for they were of another tribe.
“Ah, listen!”
The mutter of the hand-drum grew swifter as a high tenor chanted to the
accompaniment of the abdominal grunting and the laryngeal shrilling:
“We have come from afar from the Place of the waters!
From the place where dwells the mighty Eater-of-Men!
Hard was the road as the hills of Kilimanjaro!
Hot was the sun as the wrath of Inyira the bold!
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
But strong are we still as the trunk of an elephant!
For have we not walked in the shade of a great chief!
Blacker and fiercer than the male rhinoceros!
Swifter and more terrible than the mother of whelps?
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
What hath he given us to tickle our spears?
A dainty white dog whose meat is so tender!
Fattened and groomed by the Eater-of-Men!
A gift from the great Chief to his ally and friend.
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
We will tickle his white flesh with the tongue of our spears!
Our women shall pluck out his hair and his manhood!
He shall dance to our liking in the midst of the fire!
His girl screams for mercy shall lave hungry ears of ——!
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
Great was the gift of the great Eater-of-Men!
A white slave so sleek to dance the dance of the ants!
Eh! We’ll slit up his nostrils and pull out his hairs!
A white slave and four black ones to wait on one great chief!
The son of Banyala!
Ough! … Ough!
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!
“Those children of folly have not obeyed,” whispered Birnier. “The time is
come.… Wait here for me, O Mungongo. I go to take my spirit form. When I
return be not afraid!”
“Truly,” answered Mungongo, as Birnier crawled away and down the bank. By
the water’s edge he swiftly stripped himself to his moccasins and taking
out the wax vestas, damped each precious one and carefully rubbed lines
over his face and body, endeavouring to get the most distinctive
phosphorescent effect around the eyes. Leaving his clothes he crawled back
to Mungongo.
“Ehh!” exclaimed Mungongo in a muffled scream when he saw the glowing
apparition. Birnier heard the rustle of grass. As the boy stood up to run
he leaped and pulled him down savagely.
“Be quiet, thou fool!” he whispered. “It is I. Be silent!”
“Eh! Eh!” gasped Mungongo, who was trembling violently.
“If thou dost not be quiet will I tie up thy heart,” threatened Birnier.
Mungongo continued to quiver, but he remained passive.
“Eh! Eh!” he gasped, “truly thou art a more mighty magician than
Bakahenzie.”
“Be quiet!”
The drums and the song were still going and the chant had become more
obscene.
“Follow me!” whispered Birnier, when Mungongo was more reassured.
They made a detour. As they drew near they could hear muffled screams and
groans beneath the howl of the chorus and song. The mighty son of Banyala
and his merry men were so engrossed in the orgy that Birnier could have
walked right up to the fire before anyone would have seen him. But he
would not take any unnecessary risk. Leaving Mungongo outside he crawled
under the back flap of the tent. Crouched there he paused. The tent was
empty; for all were engaged in the dance. His two shot-guns and two light
rifles were stacked in the corner and the big express which the corporal
had appropriated, leaned against the tent door behind the chair. He
glanced hurriedly around for ammunition, but he could not see any open,
and he had left his belt of cartridges with his clothes. Outside the men
and women were circling in contrary directions, each with a spear, a knife
or a firebrand in hand, around the fire beside which, trussed like bundles
of faggots, were the four servants, their feet singeing on the outside hot
ashes.
For a second Birnier hesitated. He could not know whether any of the guns
was loaded. The fire was of glowing embers which did not throw much light
into the tent. Swiftly Birnier rose and glided into his own chair in the
deep shadow of the tent flap. Then summoning all his nerve he uttered a
yell and began to shout the first song which he could recollect:
“Hurrah! Hurrahhhhhhh! It is the Jubileeeee!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that set you free!”
The native minstrel stopped in the middle of his chant; the whole
shuffling, grunting crowd was petrified in as many different poses.
Birnier leaped to his feet waving his arms wildly, yelling:
“Thus we sang the chor-uss from Atlanta to the Sea-aa!
As we …”
But before he had gotten to “Georgia,” only the prostrate forms around the
fire had not fled.