A favourite panacea for the results of a stupid action is the sentiment of
martyrdom. When MYalu persisted in bitter reproaches to Yabolo and
Sakamata the first retorted that the punishment was the result of having
committed the sacrilege of kidnapping the sacred Bride of the Banana. Then
MYalu considered that not only had he been trapped by one of his own
people whom he had deserted, but to add insult to injury he felt he was
not understood. Neither Yabolo nor Sakamata, as Bakahenzie, could
comprehend a chief and a warrior making such a fuss over a girl. That the
confiscation of MYalu’s property was an insult they both agreed, but
biassed by both fear of Eyes-in-the-hands and their own interests, they
were disposed to pretend that after all such a small matter as the
abduction of a girl could be overlooked when committed by the follower of
such a powerful god and magician, as expedience is so often the father of
a dispensation. Yet nevertheless in Yabolo, if not in Sakamata, whose
hatred of the tribal craft was deep in ratio to the degeneracy of his
native code, the outrage upon Bakuma as the Bride of the Banana, while an
act of dangerous sacrilege when performed by a Wongolo, violated the half
suppressed traditions and kindled a spark of bitter resentment ready to
flare up against Eyes-in-the-hands or Sakamata; but being a diplomatist,
he concealed that anger, even from himself to a certain degree.
Upon MYalu’s arrival in the guest-house to find that Bakuma had been
taken, his passion had nearly led to his instant destruction, for he had
desired to run amok among the grinning askaris. Afterwards, when the
efforts of his friends and the hungry points of bayonets had cooled his
ardour, he had wanted to rush straight to Eyes-in-the-hands who, according
to Sakamata employed as master of ceremony at the daily audiences, would
instantly restore Bakuma to him and visit a terrible punishment upon the
evil-doer. But the august presence could not be approached so casually:
petition must be made in orthodox form and the royal pleasure awaited
meekly.
According to the words of the Son-of-the-Earthquake, as zu Pfeiffer was
officially designated by his men, who placed the actual name under the
tabu in token of the acceptance of the magic purple, came a guard to take
away MYalu’s first-born as hostage to the village of the sons of chiefs.
Seething with red rage MYalu mutely followed Yabolo to the place appointed
for their housing. Then on the following afternoon at the time of audience
MYalu waited in the broiling heat for three hand’s-spans of the sun
without being summoned to the green temple. And thus it was for three
days.
But upon the fourth, when MYalu squatted in the general hut in company
with Yabolo, Sakamata, and other renegade chiefs, smouldering with bitter
resentment, came the pulse of a distant drum, the furious tattoo and long
pause, tattoo and long pause, which accompanies the mighty shout at the
coronation of a new King-God, “The Fire is lighted!” news that had
throbbed from that point within the forest from village to village to the
slopes of the Gamballagalla and to the Wamungo country. The perceptible
effect upon that circle of bronze figures was a scarcely audible grunt,
yet nevertheless the message was like unto a live ember dropped in the dry
grass of the cattle country.
That morning one of the renegade chiefs had brought in two others to make
their allegiance and received as reward for his fidelity a remittance of
one-third of the tax levy upon his property, a policy adopted by zu
Pfeiffer calculated to encourage the recruiting of his followers by
establishing a reputation for lavish generosity to those who obeyed him,
in contrast to his merciless severity to the recalcitrant ones.
An hour later MYalu was summoned from the sweating throng squatted before
the line of demon keepers through the giant ebon guards to audience with
the Son-of-the-Earthquake. At the entrance as bidden he knelt, for he knew
that he would be compelled did he refuse. A white flame was in his heart,
but yet the magnificence of the son of the World Trembler and his
satellites, the terrible ghosts of the distant white god, with amulets and
charms upon his breast, had awed and subdued MYalu. Then came the voice of
Sakamata relating that the chief MYalu, son of MBusa, made complaint to
the Son-of-the-Earthquake that his slaves, the keepers of the coughing
demons, had taken a girl named Bakuma, daughter of Bakala, and that he
craved restitution of his property. While this was being translated by the
corporal interpreter, MYalu watched the magic flame in the mouth of
Eyes-in-the-hands, marvelling greatly at the smoke which emerged. Then
said the interpreter:
“The son of the Lord-of-the-World, the Earthquake, the World Trembler who
eats up whom he pleases, whose eyes see all things, whose sword slays all
things, whose breath is the rain, whose voice is the thunder, whose teeth
are the lightning, whose frown is the earthquake, whose smile is the sun,
whose ear is the moon, whose eyes are the stars, whose body is the world,
saith that when the son of MBusa (MYalu) bringeth three chiefs of the same
rank to sit at the Feet then shall the daughter of Bakala return unto him,
but in the meantime shall her girdle remain untied. He hath spoken!”
As he finished zu Pfeiffer made the signal of dismissal with his jewelled
hand, but MYalu with the throb of that distant drum in his ears, cried out
in protest, saying:
“The words of the Son-of-the-Earthquake are like unto spears made of
grass!”
The interpreter boggled at the translation of the sentence. Zu Pfeiffer
saw a ripple of insubordination. He rapped out an order to have the man
taken away and given fifty lashes. Instantly the guards surrounded MYalu,
who submitted in sudden misgiving, and led him away to receive the
punishment.
Zu Pfeiffer gave orders that the girl Bakuma should be found and called
the next case, Kalomato the elderly chief who had had all his property
sequestered until he should deliver his eldest son as hostage. He was a
slight withered old man with a white tuft of beard and at the hands of the
askaris, after considerable endurance, had screamed his submission. Now he
hobbled into zu Pfeiffer’s presence with the aid of a stick. Pompously the
interpreter recited the list of the titles of the august one, and then
dwelt upon the wondrous benefits to be obtained at the magic jewelled
hands, and demanded that the old chief “eat the dust” and obey the royal
mandate.
But the sharp eyes gazed steadily from their wrinkled sockets with a
curious gleam in them as he mumbled that “his soul had wandered” (he had
dreamed) “and had met the spirit of Tarum, who had forbidden him to obey
the white god.”
“The shenzie” (savage—used contemptuously) “longs for more fire for his
paws, O Bwana,” translated the interpreter into Kiswahili.
“What does he say?” demanded zu Pfeiffer.
“He says, Bwana, that he hath dreamed that his god hath told him that he
must not obey you. Indio, Bwana.”
“Tell him that I slew his god, as every man knows.”
“The Son-of-the-Earthquake bids thee to know that he hath eaten up thy god
as he eateth up thy warriors when his wrath is aroused. Eat dust that thy
beard grow yet longer; stretch thy tongue and thou shalt be eaten entirely
and all that is thine!”
“The Fire is lighted,” mumbled the old man.
“What does he say?” demanded zu Pfeiffer sharply.
“He attempts to make magic against thee, Bwana,” replied the interpreter
who knew not the meaning of the phrase.
“Take away the animal,” commanded zu Pfeiffer.
The old man was accordingly led out to the further attentions of the
soldiery. But during that afternoon zu Pfeiffer became conscious of a
subtle air of defiance, a restlessness and exchanging of glances, so that
the demon which Bakunjala had once seen so vividly came back to roost
somewhere beneath the immaculate uniform.
Neither he nor his sergeants nor their men could speak the Wongolo tongue
fluently, so that for interpreter he was compelled to employ one of the
corporals. To employ any newly subjected race or tribe as soldiers or in
any responsible capacity is unwise, for ties of blood are liable to lead
to treachery; to trust to the idiosyncrasies and personal values of any
native interpreter is equally impolitic. Zu Pfeiffer and his party were as
unaware of the meaning of the phrases exchanged as they were of the
message in the throbbing of that distant drum. Between the conqueror and
the subjected tribe was a wall denser than any steel; the same wall of
tabu of the craft that Birnier was finding so difficult to penetrate.
Every attempt to persuade any of the witch-doctors to disclose the secrets
of their craft through the interpreter was doomed to failure; even had zu
Pfeiffer been able to speak the dialect as well as Birnier he would never
have accomplished it. Yet he tried the impossible. The answer was
invariably a mask of ox-like stupidity or the retort that he, being a
mighty magician, must needs know that he did but “tickle their feet”! At
length, irritated by this persistence, he had Sakamata put to the torture
and had for his pains a story in which the idol as the first man was the
father of the tribe whom the people believed to have been eaten up
literally, so that the conqueror had become the father of the people,
having the idol inside him, and the chance that the tale had a faint
resemblance to an account by a Frenchman of the superstitions of a West
African tribe, convinced him. Implicitly he believed the ingenious yarn
invented by a wily witch-doctor to save his hide and the perquisites of
his job by placating the white man, the trap into which most white
chroniclers have fallen. This conviction, which flattered his sagacity and
lulled any suspicions, strengthened his arm in the delivering of
punishment and reward.