All day at Fort Eitel had been stir and bustle, the blare of trumpets and
the barking of sergeants, white and black. Long lines of women and slaves
streamed in from the surrounding countryside bearing loads of corn and
bananas. In the half-made parade ground at the foot of the hill of Kawa
Kendi, half a company of Wongolo whom zu Pfeiffer had conscripted from the
chiefs, stumbled and ran in awkward squads. In the hut of the Wongolo
chiefs squatted Yabolo among the rest, silently observing the preparations
for the punitive expedition which Sakamata had informed them was being
prepared in response to the insolent challenge of the white man who had
allied himself with the “rebels.” But over them, as well as every Wongolo
in and about the place, was a sullen air not of defiance but of expectant
listening.
In the mess hut a nervous Bakunjala prepared the table for dinner, the
whites of his eyes rolling at every sound of zu Pfeiffer’s voice from the
marquee adjoining. Never in his experience, nor in that of other servants
or soldiers, had the demon so utterly possessed the dread Eater-of-Men as
since the receipt of some terrible magic sent to him by the white man.
Opinion was divided as to whether this white man was the one who had been
arrested and sent to the coast with Corporal Inyira or whether he was a
brother; some said that the magic leaf which the messenger had brought was
the soul of the white man, others maintained that it was the incarnation
of Bakra, which explained why the Eater-of-Men was so entirely possessed.
Had he not screamed? they demanded, which clearly proved, as everybody
knew, the dreadful agony as the ghost entered into the body.
Even the white sergeants were frightened of their chief. They had been
seen talking together secretly, doubtless discussing what medicine they
could give him to exorcise the demon. Had he not been commanded by this
demon to leave the safety of the fort where they had the guns on the
hills, and to go into the forest where, as anybody knew, their eyes would
be taken from them so that they could not see to kill the dogs of Wongolo?
They were all conscious, native-like, that something was brewing among the
Wongolo, but what it was exactly they did not know. Two men had had fifty
lashes that morning because they had not saluted the totem—flag—correctly;
and a Wongolo chief had been shot because he had not brought in the amount
of ivory commanded. None dared to warn the Eater-of-Men. Some one had said
that the “leaf” was the soul of the idol come to lead the Eater-of-Men to
destruction. This idea took deep root among the Wunyamwezi soldiers, for
although they had delighted in the slaughter and rapine under the
leadership of the Eater-of-Men, yet always had there been an uneasy
feeling of sacrilege in destroying an idol.
In the half of the marquee reserved for the Kommandant’s private quarters
sat zu Pfeiffer in his camp chair with the inevitable stinger at his
elbow. Erect by the door stood Sergeant Schultz taking details for the
disposition of stores and troops during the absence of the punitive
expedition. Never had he in four years’ service seen the lieutenant as he
was now. Although Schultz could speak Kiswahili fluently he knew no word
of Munyamwezi, else he might have been disposed to agree with Bakunjala
and his friends. As it was he thought that the Herr Lieutenant had gotten
a touch of the sun or was drinking too heavily or perhaps a bit of both;
for to his mind the act of dividing up their scanty forces and leaving
their fortified positions to enter the forest, with no chance of keeping
open the line of communication, appeared to be military suicide.
He deemed it his duty to bring this point of view to his Kommandant’s
notice, but he was uncomfortably aware of zu Pfeiffer’s headstrong
character.
“What time does the moon set, sergeant?” demanded zu Pfeiffer.
“About three, Excellence.”
“Good. Then at five precisely the column will move. Warn Sergeant
Schneider.”
“Ya, Excellence.”
“You will transfer the remainder of your men and the Nordenfeldt as soon
as we have gone.”
“Ya, Excellence.”
“That is all, sergeant.”
Zu Pfeiffer dropped his head wearily on to his hand. Schultz remained
rigidly by the door. Zu Pfeiffer glanced up peevishly.
“I said that was all, sergeant,” he exclaimed tetchily.
“Ya, Excellence.”
“Herr Gott, what are you standing there for like a stuffed pig?”
Schultz saluted.
“Excellence, it is my duty to remind your Excellence that according to
regulation 47 of …”
“To hell with you and your regulations, damn you.… Will you leave me
alone!” The last was almost a plea.
“Excellence!”
Schultz saluted briskly and went. Again zu Pfeiffer’s head dropped on to
the cupped hand and he gazed at the portrait in the ivory frame.… Against
the blue twilight of the door appeared a tall figure in white.
“What in the name of——” began zu Pfeiffer.
“Chakula tayari, Bwana,” announced Bakunjala timidly.
“I don’t want any chakula,” said zu Pfeiffer. “Wait. Bring some here.”
“Bwana!”
Bakunjala fled, to reappear almost instantly with a covered plate, which
he placed on the table as bidden and vanished. Zu Pfeiffer regarded
distastefully his favourite dish of curried eggs. Then he bawled
irritably:
“Lights, animal!”
“Bwana!” gasped Bakunjala appearing in the doorway with the lamp.
But zu Pfeiffer pushed the plate away to stare at the photograph of
Lucille. The stare turned to a glare, and then as if mutinying against his
god, as Kawa Kendi had done when summoning rain, he suddenly snatched at
the frame and flung it upon the floor with an oath, grabbed up a fountain
pen and began to write.
Indeed zu Pfeiffer was half insane with anger which he was disposed to
vent upon Lucille by proxy as the source of yet another trouble and
possibly official disgrace. He had not had a notion that Birnier could
have survived the gentle hands of the corporal until without warning came
that ivory disc with “Amantes—Amentes!” scribbled upon it, which not only
inferred that Birnier had escaped, but that he was near to him and
intended to champion these native dogs against the Imperial Government in
the person of himself.
The message had been made the more insulting by the note of exclamation at
the end implying derisive laughter. It had, as Birnier had calculated that
it would, struck zu Pfeiffer upon the most tender spot in his mental
anatomy, evoking a homicidal mania which dominated his consciousness. To
be cheated, to be swindled, to be sworn at, cursed, even to be beaten was
sufferable to a degree, but to be laughed at—zu Pfeiffer’s haughty soul
exploded like a bomb at an impact. For a time he had been absolutely
incoherent with rage. His one impulse had been to rush out and tear
Birnier limb from limb. Well might the listening natives believe in the
mighty magic of the new King-God, that it should make the
Son-of-the-Earthquake to trumpet like a wounded cow elephant!
Then out of the dissolving acrid smoke of wounded pride begin to loom
arbitrary points. First, that Birnier would have complained, as he once
had threatened to do, to Washington, which would infuriate the authorities
in Berlin; and secondly, that he would have written to Lucille revealing
the attempt he had made upon the life of her husband as well as the things
he had said. How Birnier had escaped was immaterial, but the particular
fate that awaited Corporal Inyira was decided but futilely; for the bold
son of Banyala and his merry men were footing it to the south of lake
Tanganika, scared by day lest the long arm of the Eater-of-Men should
overtake them and haunted by the terror of seeing another illuminated
ghost by night.
As the jewelled hand glittered in the lamp-light came the mutter of a
distant drum on the moist darkness; zu Pfeiffer, abnormally irritable,
raised his head, scowled, and muttering that he would have to issue an
order to have the drums stopped, bent again to the uncongenial task of
finishing the report due for headquarters before he left. The drum ceased;
began again and was answered by another drum seemingly nearer at hand.
Five or ten minutes elapsed. As zu Pfeiffer took up a fresh sheet of paper
a shot rang out followed instantly by yells. Zu Pfeiffer with an oath
sprang to his feet, snatched at the revolver hanging above his camp bed
and rushed out as a fusillade of shots mingled with wilder cries. The
gruff coughs of the corporal in charge of the guard competed with the
sharp barks of Sergeant Schultz. Zu Pfeiffer, bawling for a sergeant, ran
to the great gate where the pom-pom was stationed. On the opposite hill
red flashes of rifle fire darted downwards. Came another outburst of
yelling. Forms of askaris scurrying to their places round the fence
brushed by him on every side.
“Sergeant Schultz!” shouted zu Pfeiffer.
A figure in white appeared beside him in the darkness.
“Excellence!”
“Put the gun on them! Quick!”
At the bark of the sergeant the gun crew, already at their post, deftly
manipulated the machine which coughed angry red bursts of flame into the
darkness. The cries and howls ceased as suddenly as they had begun.
“Cease fire!” commanded zu Pfeiffer.
In the resulting stillness muttered shouts and cries from somewhere in the
village below were punctuated by odd shots from the other hill.
“Sergeant Ludwig!” yelled zu Pfeiffer.
“Excellence!”
“Report!” snapped zu Pfeiffer.
“An unknown body of natives attacked and killed the sentry on the eastern
gate, Excellence,” came Sergeant Ludwig’s voice from the gloom. “They
entered and were repulsed according to instructions. That is all,
Excellence.”
“Losses?”
“None other, Excellence.”
“What about the lower guards?”
“I do not know, Excellence.”
“Take a platoon and investigate. We will cover you with the gun.”
“Excellence.”
The mutter of his orders was drowned in the excited jabber of the askaris.
“Didimalla!” came the dreaded voice of the Eater-of-Men. Instantly there
was silence. “Report!” commanded zu Pfeiffer to Sergeant Schultz.
“A body of natives attacked upon the western gate, Excellence. They were
repulsed.”
“Losses?”
“Two men killed and three wounded.”
“Ugm! Where’s the interpreter?”
“Bwana!”
Cloth creaked as the man saluted in the dark.
“Where is Sakamata?” demanded zu Pfeiffer in Kiswahili.
“Here, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz. “He was running away. I had
him arrested.”
“Good. Bring the animal to my quarters.”
“Excellence.”
The sergeant and the interpreter, with a trembling Sakamata between them,
followed zu Pfeiffer to the tent. As he entered he picked up the portrait
in the ivory frame and replaced it carefully on the table and sat down.
“Ask the shenzie why he has not informed us of this attack?”
The interpreter put the question to the terrified old man who mumbled that
he had not known anything about it.
“Ugm!” grunted zu Pfeiffer. “Send for a file of men, sergeant, and—— No!”
Zu Pfeiffer rose. “I’ll get the truth out of him. Stand aside, corporal!”
The corporal obeyed with alacrity as jerking his revolver downwards zu
Pfeiffer pulled the trigger. The shot took off two of Sakamata’s smaller
toes. The corporal grinned in appreciation. Zu Pfeiffer experienced a
shadow of the pleasure he would have had in mutilating Birnier.
“Pull him up!” commanded zu Pfeiffer. “Now ask him again!”
For a moment or two Sakamata, scarcely conscious of any pain in his
fright, could not comprehend what was said; at length he mumbled and
muttered. The interpreter lowered his head to listen.
“Well?”
“He says, Bwana, that he does not know anything; that they will not tell
him, but that he has heard that the god has come back.”
“The god! What god?”
“The god which these shenzie (savages) had here before the Bwana came.”
“The idol!” Zu Pfeiffer ripped out an oath. Then glaring questioningly at
the shrunken figure on the floor considered.
“Tell him he lies. How does he know that the idol has come back if they
will not tell him anything?”
Again the interpreter jabbered at Sakamata who mumbled back.
“He says, Bwana, that his words are white. That they have not told him,
but that he has heard the message of the drums. ‘The Fire is lighted!’”
“What is that?”
“I don’t know, Bwana.”
“Ask him, you swine pig!”
“He says that whenever there is a new king that they call out those words,
meaning that he is come.”
“Ugm!” Zu Pfeiffer took out a cigar and lighted it as he considered. I
believe the animal is right, he reflected. That swinehund American has
done this! He turned sharply to Sergeant Schultz: “Post double guards;
bring me Ludwig’s report and take this thing away and have it shot.”
“Excellence!”
The party went out. Zu Pfeiffer sat smoking fiercely. A single shot rang
out. Presently came Sergeant Ludwig in person.
“I have to report, Excellence, that the investigation infers that the
attack was only made with the purpose of freeing the sons of chiefs, for
the picket has been slain but all the others are unhurt save three
wounded.”
Zu Pfeiffer swore mightily, but he dismissed the sergeant with an
admonition to have his troops ready for inspection at four-thirty. He
drank a brandy neat and sat on, staring at the darkness. Then suddenly he
exclaimed and wheeled to the abandoned report.
“This is an undeniable overt act,” he muttered, seeing what he considered
an opportunity to neutralise the suppositious complaint which Birnier had
sent to Washington; and taking up his pen began a formal accusation
against Birnier, as an American subject, for having violated the
international laws of the Geneva Convention by aiding and abetting rebels
of his Imperial Majesty.