There was but the one hotel in that somber town of East Africa, and
Miss Gregory, fronting the proprietor of it squarely, noted that he
looked at her with something like amusement. She was a short woman
of fifty, grey-haired and composed, and her pleasant face had a quiet
and almost masculine strength and assurance. In her grey flannel
jacket and short skirt and felt hat, with a sun-umbrella carried like
a walking-stick, she looked adequate and worthy. Hers was a presence
that earned respect and deference in the highways of travel; she had
the air of a veteran voyager.
"I have managed to lose the boat," she said evenly; "and my luggage,
of course, has been carried on to Zanzibar."
The hotel proprietor had not risen from his chair. He shrugged and
smiled as he looked up at her.
"Vat you vant?" he asked.
Miss Gregory frowned. "I want a room for the night," she answered. "A
room and dinner, please."
The man smiled again and bit his nails. He was a lean creature,
unshaven and sidelong, and he had the furtive and self-conscious air
of one who perpetrates a practical joke. Miss Gregory watched him
with some impatience; she had yet to learn that a Portugee of the
Coast will even lose money to inconvenience an English man or woman.
"You got money?" he asked.
Miss Gregory squared her shoulders. "I shall pay in the morning," she
said. "You need have no fear; the Consul will be back to-morrow; I
inquired at the Consulate." She paused; he wore still his narrow grin
of malice. "Man!" she said contemptuously; "do you keep an hotel and
not know a lady when you see one?"
"No money?" he suggested insinuatingly.
Miss Gregory sank a hand in her big pocket and brought forth her
purse. There was a slight flush on her healthy broad face, but she
governed her voice admirably.
"Here are three English shillings," she said, tilting them into her
hand. "You can take these as a--as a deposit; and the rest will be
paid in the morning. Now show me to my room."
The landlord uncoiled himself and rose from his chair to look at the
money. He peered at it in her hand, then straightened up and faced
her. Suddenly he had become hostile, lividly vicious; he laughed a
shrill cackle in her face, his nose wrinkled like a dog's.
"No good to me," he said. "T'ree shillin'--poof! For free shillin'
here you buy-a free drink. For room--an' dinner--you pay-a one pound.
Take-a your t'ree shillin' away; I don't vant-a you an' your free
shillin'. You get out--go walk-a in da street."
His eyes traveled swiftly about the place, as though to make sure
that no one overheard; then he spat a foul epithet at her. His lean,
unbuttoned body writhed as he babbled; his hands whirled in gestures;
he seemed to be seeking courage to be violent. Miss Gregory, with a
little frown of consideration, watched him. She buttoned the flannel
jacket across her breast and restored her three shillings to her
pocket. It was all done very deliberately, and through it all her
formidable gaze held the Portugee at arm's length, till his gabbled
insults died out and left him armed only with scowls. Miss Gregory
waited, but he had no more to say.
"I will call on you to-morrow, my man," she said significantly, and
walked at a leisurely rate through the door to the grave street
without, where the quick evening was already giving place to night.
The sky overhead was deep blue and clear, powdered with a multitude
of stars, and over the sea to the east a crescent of moon floated
low. The night was fresh, but not cold. Miss Gregory, pacing
tranquilly along the cobbled street, found it agreeable after the
sterile heat of the afternoon. A faint breeze stirred the acacias
which were planted along the middle of the way, and they murmured
secretly. The prospect of a night without shelter did not greatly
disturb her; she was already conscious that when she came to look
back on it, it would take a high rank among her experiences.
A turning brought her to the Praca, the little square of the town,
its heart and centre. Here there were lights, the signal that the
place had waked up for the evening. Two or three low-browed cafes
abutted on the pavement, each lively with folk who drank and talked;
the open doors of a church showed an interior faintly luminous with
candles; and men and a few women stood about in groups or moved here
and there at their ease. With her deliberate step, Miss Gregory
passed among them, looking about her with the ready interest of the
old traveler who sees without criticizing. There was a flavor in the
place and its people that struck her like something pungent; they had
individuality; they belonged to each other. There was a sinister
character in the faces and bearing of the men, a formidable
directness in the women; not one but had the air of carrying a hidden
weapon. It was the commonplace evening population of an East African
town which has never lived down the traditions of its pirate-
founders, and Miss Gregory marked its fine picturesqueness with
appreciation. Every one turned to look at her as she passed; she,
clean, sane, assured, with her little air of good-breeding, was no
less novel to them than they to her. A thin dark woman, with arms and
breasts bare, took a quick step forward to look into her face; Miss
Gregory paused in her walk to return the scrutiny. The woman's wide
lips curled in a sudden laughter; Miss Gregory smiled patronizingly,
nodded to her and passed on.
She made a tour of the square, and even explored the mouth of a dark
lane that led out of it. But it seemed to lead nowhere; it was a mere
burrow between high silent houses, twisting abruptly among them with
no purpose of direction, and she turned back to the lights. She was
conscious by now that she had been on her feet since early in the
afternoon, and she crossed to one of the cafes, where a tinkling band
added its allurements to the yellow lights, and sat down at a small
table. With one accord the customers at the place turned to look at
her. A barefoot waiter received her order for coffee; she found
herself a cigarette, lit it and looked about her. The cafe was a low
whitewashed room, open to the pavement at one side; it was crowded
with little tables, and at one end an orchestra of four sallow girls
smoked and fiddled and strummed. All about her were the hard, keen
men and women she had seen in the square, more men than women. They
talked to each other earnestly, in guarded voices, with eyes alert
for eavesdroppers; nearly every one had an air of secrecy and
caution. They were of all the racial types she had ever seen. Teuton,
Latin and Slav, and variants and mixtures of these, murmured and
whispered among themselves; only one of them was unmistakably
English.
Miss Gregory had noticed him as soon as she entered, and her table
was next to the one at which he sat with three others, who watched
him while he talked, and said little. He was a fair youth, with a
bland, rather vacant face, and a weak, slack mouth. Miss Gregory knew
such faces among footmen and hairdressers, creatures fitted by their
deficiencies to serve their betters. He had evidently been drinking a
good deal; the table before him was sloppy and foul, and there was
the glaze of intoxication in his eyes. But what arrested her was a
touch of exaltation in him, a manner as of triumph. For some reason
or other he seemed radiant and glad. The cause soon became apparent,
for he fixed his unsure gaze on her, smiled ingenuously and attempted
a bow.
"Pardon me," he said, leaning carefully towards her. "Pardon me, but
the sight of an English lady----"
Miss Gregory nodded. "All right," she said.
He hitched his chair closer to her; his three companions exchanged
glances, and one of them made as though to nudge him, but hesitated
and finally forbore.
"In. a general way," said the youth confidentially, "I wouldn't
venture to speak to you. But "--and he broke into smiles--"I'm on me
way home myself."
"I see," answered Miss Gregory.
He beamed at her, fatuous and full of pride. "On me way home," he
repeated. "For good. No more Africa for me. I've 'ad just upon eight
years of it--eight years of sun an' bugs an' fever, and now I'm going
home." He paused and looked at her impressively. "I've made my
pile," he said.
"That's good," said Miss Gregory. She saw the three others exchange
another glance.
The English youth was rapt; for some moments his eyes were unseeing,
and his lips moved without sound. It was not difficult to see what
home meant for him, a goal achieved at hazard, something familiar and
sympathetic, worth all the rest of the world. He came back to his
surroundings with a long sigh.
"You don't happen to know Clapham Junction, ma'am?" he suggested.
"Not the station, I don't mean, but the place? No? Well, that's where
I'm off to. I 'aven't seen a tramcar for eight years; it'll be queer
at first, I expect." He looked round him slowly at the low bare room
and the men in white clothes and the whispering night without. "My
mother takes lodgers," he added inconsequently.
"She will be glad to see you," said Miss Gregory.
"She will that," he agreed. He dropped his voice to the tones of
confidence. "I got an idea," he said. "Give her a surprise. I'll go
along to the house just about dark and say I'm lookin' for a room.
Eh? And she'll begin about terms. Then I'll begin. 'Never you mind
about terms,' I'll say. ''Ere's the price of eight years sweatin',
and God bless you, old lady!'" He blinked rapidly, for his eyes were
wet. "What do you think of that for a surprise?"
"Capital!" agreed Miss Gregory. "Are you going down the Coast by the
boat to-morrow?"
"That's it," he cried. "I'm going second-class, like a gentleman.
Home, by gosh!"
"Then," suggested Miss Gregory, eyeing his sullen companions, "don't
you think it would be best if you went and got some sleep now? You
wouldn't care to miss the boat, I suppose?"
He stared at her. "No," he said, as if the contingency had just
occurred to him. He sat back; his mild, insignificant face wore a
look of alarm. "No, I shouldn't. It wouldn't do." His voice dropped
again. "It wouldn't do," he repeated. "I've got it on me, an' this
ain't what you call a moral place."
Miss Gregory nodded comprehendingly. "I know," she said. "So wouldn't
it be as well on all accounts to get to bed behind a locked door?"
"You've hit it," he said. "That's what I got to do--and lock the
door. That's common sense, that is." He stared at her for an instant,
then rose with care and deliberation to his feet. He had altogether
forgotten his companions; he did not even see them.
"That is, if it'll lock," he added, and held out his hand to Miss
Gregory.
"Good-bye," she said, taking it heartily. "I'm glad to hear of your
good fortune."
He gulped and left her, walking forth through the little tables with
the uncanny straightness of the man "in liquor." Miss Gregory drank
up her coffee and sat where she was.
She could see the men at the next table out of the corner of her eye;
their heads were together, and they were whispering excitedly. The
whole affair was plain enough to a veteran of the world's byways like
Miss Gregory; the plan had been to make the youth drunk, help him
forth, and rob him easily in some convenient corner. He was the kind
of man who lends himself to being robbed; the real wonder was that it
had not been done already. But, mingled with her contempt for his
helplessness, Miss Gregory felt a certain softening. His homing
instinct, as blind as that of a domestic animal, his rejoicing in his
return, his childish plan for taking his mother by surprise, even his
loyalty to the tramcars and all the busy littleness of Clapham
Junction--these touched something in her akin to the goodness of
motherhood. It occurred to her that perhaps he had been better off
under the lights of the cafe than alone on his way to his bed; and at
that moment the three men at the next table, their conference over,
rose and went out. She sat still till they were clear; then, on an
impulse of officiousness, got up and went out after them.
Their white clothes shone in the darkness to guide her; they cut
across the square and vanished in one of those dark alleys she had
already remarked. Miss Gregory straightened her felt hat, took a
fresh grip of the stout umbrella, and followed determinedly. The
corner of the alley shut out the lights behind her; tall walls with
scarce windows fast shuttered hemmed her in; the vast night of the
tropics drooped its shadow over her. Through it all she plodded at
the gait familiar to many varieties of men from Poughkeepsie to
Pekin, a squat, resolute figure, reckless alike of risk and ridicule,
an unheroic heroine. There reached her from time to time the noises
that prevail in those places--noises filtering thinly through
shutters, the pad of footsteps, and once--it seemed to come from some
roof invisible above her--the sound of sobbing, abandoned, strangled,
heart-shaking sobs. She frowned and went on.
A spot where the way forked made her hesitate; the men she was
following were no longer in sight. But as she pondered there came to
guide her a sudden cry, clear and poignant, the shout of a startled
man. It was from the right-hand path, and promptly, as though on a
summons, she bent her grey head and broke into a run in the direction
of it. As she ran, pounding valiantly, she groped in her pocket for a
dog-whistle she had with her; she took it in her lips, and, never
ceasing to run, blew shrill call upon call. Her umbrella was poised
for war, but, rounding a corner, she saw that her whistling had done
its work; three white jackets were making off at top-speed. It takes
little to alarm a thief; Miss Gregory had counted on that.
It was not till she fell over him that she was aware of the man on
the ground, who rolled over and cried out at the movement. She put a
steady hand on him.
"Are you hurt?" she asked eagerly.
He groaned; his face was a pale blur against the earth.
"They've got me," he said. "They stuck a knife in my back. I'm
bleeding; I'm bleeding."
"Get up," bade Miss Gregory. "Bleeding or not, we must get away from
here. Up you get."
She pulled him to a sitting position, and he screamed and resisted,
but Miss Gregory was his master. By voice and force she brought him
upright; he could stand alone, and seemed surprised to find it out.
"Take my arm," she ordered him. "Lean on it; don t be afraid. Now,
where are your rooms?"
"On this way," he sobbed.
Evidently he had an ugly wound, for at each few steps he had to stop
and rest, and sometimes he swayed, and Miss Gregory had to hold him
up. His breath came hastily; he was soft with terror. "They'll come
back! they'll come back!" he gabbled, tottering on his feet.
"They're coming now; I can hear them," replied Miss Gregory grimly.
"Here, lean in this doorway behind me, man. Stop that whimpering,
will you! Now, keep close."
She propped him against the nail-studded door, and placed herself
before, him, and the three robbers, bunched together in a group,
stealing along the middle of the way, might almost have gone past
without seeing them. But it was not a chance to trust to. Miss
Gregory let them come abreast of her; her whole honest body was tense
to the occasion; on the due moment she flung herself forward and the
brandished umbrella rained loud blows on aghast heads; and at the
same time she summoned to her aid her one accomplishment--she
shrieked. She was a strong woman, deep-chested, full-lunged; her raw
yell shattered the stillness of the night like some crazy trumpet; it
broke from her with the suddenness of a catastrophe, nerve-sapping,
ear-scaring, heart-striking. Before it and the assault of the stout
umbrella the robbers broke; a panic captured them; they squealed,
clasped at each other, and ran in mere senseless amaze. The Latin
blood, when diluted with Coast mixtures, is never remarkable for
courage; but braver men might have scattered at the alarm of that
mighty discordancy attacking from behind.
Fortunately the door they sought was not far off; through it they
entered a big untidy room, stone-floored as the custom is, and
littered with all the various trifles a man gathers about him on the
Coast. Miss Gregory put her patient on the narrow bed and turned to
the door; true to his fears, it would not lock. The youth was very
pale and in much fear; blood stained the back of his clothes, and his
eyes followed her about in appeal.
"You must wait a little," Miss Gregory told him. "I'll look at that
wound of yours when I've seen to the door. No lock, of course." She
pondered frowningly. "It's a childish thing at the best," she added
thoughtfully; "but it may be a novelty in these parts. Have you ever
arranged a booby trap, my boy?"
"No," he answered, wonderingly.
Miss Gregory shook her head. "The lower classes are getting worse and
worse," she observed. She put a chair by the door, which stood a
little ajar, and looked about her.
"As you are going away you won't want this china." It was his ewer
and wash-hand basin. "I don't see anything better, and it'll make a
smash, at any rate."
"What you goin' to do, ma'am?" asked the man on the bed.
"Watch," she bade him. It was not easy, but with care she managed to
poise the basin and the ewer in it on top of the door, so that it
leaned on the lintel and must fall as soon as the door was pushed
wider.
"Now," she said, when it was done, "let's have a look at that cut."
It was an ugly gash high in the back, to the left of the spine--a
bungler's or a coward's attempt at the terrible heart-stab. Miss
Gregory, examining it carefully, was of opinion that she could have
done it better; it had bled copiously, but she judged it not to be
dangerous. She washed it and made a bandage for it out of a couple of
the patient's shirts, and he found himself a good deal more
comfortable. He lay back on his bed with some of the color restored
to his face, and watched her as she moved here and there about the
room with eyes that were trustful and slavish.
"Well," said Miss Gregory, when she had completed an examination of
the apartment, "there doesn't seem to be much more one can do.
They'll come back, I suppose? But of course they will. How much money
have you got about you?"
"About two thousand pounds, ma'am," he said, meekly.
"H'm!" Miss Gregory thought a moment. "And they know it? Of course."
She added her little sharp nod of certainty. "Well, when they come
we'll attend to them."
There was a tiny mirror hanging from a nail, and she went to it,
patted her grey hair to neatness, and re-established her felt hat on
top of it. The place was as still as the grave; no noise reached it
from without. The one candle at the bedside threw her shadow
monstrously up the wall; while she fumbled with her hatpins it
pictured a looming giantess brandishing weapons.
She was still at the mirror, with hatpins held in her mouth, when the
steps of the robbers made themselves heard. The man on the bed
started up on his elbow, with wide eyes and a sagging mouth. Miss
Gregory quelled him with a glance, then crossed the floor and blew
the candle out. In the darkness she laid her hat down that it might
not come to harm, and put a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder,
it was quaking, and she murmured him a caution to keep quiet.
Together, with breath withheld, they heard the men in the entry of
the house, three of them, coming guardedly. Miss Gregory realized
that this was the real onslaught; they would be nerved for shrieks
this time. She took her hand from the youth's shoulder with another
whispered word, and stepped to the middle of the room and stood
motionless. The noise of breathing reached her, then a foot shuffled,
and on the instant somebody sprang forward and shoved the door wide.
The jug and basin smashed splendidly; whoever it fell on uttered a
little shrill yell and paused, confounded by the darkness. Miss
Gregory, her eyes more tuned to it, could make out the blur of white
clothes; with noiseless feet she moved towards them. She was all
purpose and directness; no tremor disturbed her. As calmly as she
would have shaken hands with the Consul she reached forward, felt her
enemy, and delivered a cool and well-directed thrust. An appalling
yell answered her, and she stepped back a space, the hatpin held
ready for another attack. There was a tense instant of inaction, and
then the three rushed, and one bowled her over on the floor and fell
with her.
Miss Gregory fell on her side, and before she was well down the steel
hatpin, eight inches long of good Paris metal, plunged and found its
prey. The man roared and wallowed clear, and she rose. The big room
was wild with stamping feet and throaty noises such as dogs make. The
bedside chair, kicked aside struck her ankles; she picked it up and
threw it at the sounds. It seemed to complicate matters. The place
was as dark as a well, and she moved groping with her hands towards
the bed. Some one backed into her--another yell and a jump, and, as
she stepped back, the swish of a blow aimed towards her that barely
missed her. Then she was by the bed, feeling over it; it was empty.
She had some moments of rest; every one was still, save for harsh
breathing. But she dared not stand long, lest their eyes too should
adapt themselves to the dark. It was evident that nobody had
firearms; there was that much to be thankful for. She gathered
herself for an attack, a rush at the enemy with an active hatpin,
when something touched her foot. She bent, swiftly alert for war, but
arrested the pin on its way. It was a hand from under the bed; her
protege had taken refuge there. She took his wrist and pulled; he
whimpered, and there was a grunt from the middle of the room at the
sound, but he came crawling. She dared not whisper, for those others
were moving already, but with her cool, firm hand on his wrist, she
sank down on all-fours and drew him on towards the door. It was
impossible to make no noise, but at any rate their noise was
disconcerting; the robbers could not guess what it betokened. Each of
them had his stab, a tingling, unaccountable wound, a hurt to daunt a
man, and they were separately standing guard each over his own life.
They encountered one half way across the room. He felt them near him,
and sent a smashing blow with a knife into the empty air. Miss
Gregory, always with that considered and careful swiftness that was
so like deliberation, reared to her knees, her left hand still
holding the youth's wrist, and lunged. Another yell, and the man,
leaping back, fouled a comrade, who stabbed and sprang away. They
heard the man fall and move upon the floor like a dying fish, with
sounds of choking. Then the door was before them, and, crawling
still, with infinite pains to be noiseless, they passed through it.
From within the room the choking noises followed them till they
gained the open air.
The tortuous alley received them like a refuge; they fled along it
with lightened hearts, taking all turnings that might baffle a chase,
till at last Miss Gregory smelt acacias and they issued again into
the little square. To Miss Gregory it was almost amazing that the
cafes should still be lighted, their tables thronged, the music
insistent. While history had paced for her the world had stood still.
She stood and looked across at the lights thoughtfully.
The youth at her side coughed. "The least I can do," he suggested
inanely, "is ask you to 'ave a cup of coffee, ma'am."
Miss Gregory turned on him sharply.
"And then?" she asked. "After the coffee, what then?"
He shuffled his feet uneasily. "Well, ma'am," he said; "this hole in
my back is more'n a bit painful. So I thought I'd get along to the
hotel an' have a lie down."
She looked at him thoughtfully. Her head was bare, and the night
breeze from the sea whipped a strand of grey hair across her brow.
She brushed it away a little wearily.
"Unless there's anything more I can do for you," suggested the young
man smoothly.
Anything more he could do for her! She smiled, considering him. The
events of the night had not ruffled him; his blonde face was still
mild, insignificant, plebeian. Of such men slaves are made; their
part is to obey orders, to be without responsibility, to be guided,
governed, and protected by their betters. Miss Gregory, sister of a
Major-General, friend of Colonial Governors, aunt of a Member of
Parliament, author of "The Saharan Solitudes," and woman of the
world, saw that she had served her purpose, her work was done.
"Thank you," she said; "there is nothing more. You had better go to
bed at once."
There was a broken fountain in the middle of the square, overgrown
with sickly lichen, and round it ran a stone bench. The acacias
sheltered it, and a dribble of water from the conduit sounded always,
fitting itself to one's thoughts in a murmuring cadence. Here Miss
Gregory disposed herself, and here the dawn found her, a little
disheveled, and looking rather old with the chill of that bleak hour
before the sun rises. But her grey head was erect, her broad back
straight, and the regard of her eyes serene and untroubled always.
She was waiting for the hour when the Consul would be accessible; he
was the son of her dearest friend.
"And I must not forget," she told herself--"I really must not forget
to attend to that hotel man."