Bones of the River (20 page)

That he was expected, he knew before the watch fires began to blaze on the beach. There was a crowd of 500 people waiting to receive him – Lugala had a population of 506 people, but six were too old or ill to journey to the beach. Borobo, the chief, offered him salt and apologies.

“Lord, there are many crocodiles in the river in these days of the year. Yesterday they took a woman from the village of Gobini whilst she was washing her baby on the shore.”

“Chief, have no fear. I come with peace in my heart,” said Bones magnificently, and stalked up the village street to the guest-house, which was ready for him, the chief having sent secret word that his rare dogs, which were usually kennelled here, should be ejected.

Lieut. Tibbetts’ own cook came ashore and prepared him his evening meal, which Bones ate before an audience of 503, three of the infirm and aged being carried out from their huts to witness the amazing spectacle of a man sticking a silver spear in his mouth at irregular intervals.

(“It is said,” whispered one awe-stricken gossip to another, “that Tibbetti cannot use his fingers because they were bitten by a snake when he was young.”)

When, later in the evening, tidings came to Bones that the
Wiggle
had assumed an even more alarming angle, he ordered all men ashore, and Saka was placed under guard in a hut at the end of the village.

Now, Saka’s fame was not limited to his own country. He enjoyed, in the regions beyond the frontier of Lujamalababa (or Lugala as it was sometimes called), a reputation which was the envy of many local medicine men, who very properly depreciated his powers. For that is the way of the world, black or white, that small men enhance their reputations by depreciating their betters. And from Bones, the centre of interest, as the night wore on, became, not the hut in which he was lodged and sleeping, noisily, but the larger hut where the philosopher of a foreign people spoke wisdom and initiated the village of Lugala into the mysteries and eccentricities of M’lo, the invisible.

And nobody was more interested than the Houssa sentry who was placed over him, for he was of the Kano people, who believe that his family was under the especial care of a red and green snake, the red half of which was male and the blue half female, and he never went to bed at night without placing a bowl of water near his head, that this especial demon should not grow thirsty.

“Bring to me,” boasted Saka, “those who are dead, and I will make them alive, through the wonder of M’lo, who is so small that his village is beneath the foot of an ant! And none can see him save only Saka, who has eyes more wonderful than crocodiles and brighter than leopards. And this little devil of mine is in this village. He sits on the leaf of a tree to make your head ache, O man-with-the-wire-about-your-head; and he sits on the top of a cooking-pot and whispers evil words into the ears of your wives as they boil the fish. But most terrible is he when he dwells in the clothes of white men.”

“My daughter has pains in her stomach, Saka,” said a man, edging forward. “Also, my garden grows no corn; and monkeys have eaten my wonderful long yellow fruit.”

“It is M’lo who has done this,” said the other complacently, and screwed up his eyes. “I see him! He is in the white man’s clothes. Now, tomorrow morning Tibbetti will go down to the river and wash himself all over, in the manner of these people. Take, then, all of his clothing, also the little silk shirt with hollow legs that he wears in his sleep – these you will find by the shore; and put wood under them and burn them, and I will send M’lo to another village.”

“But, Saka, if you do this,” said a troubled patient, “he will whip us, being a cruel man. Also, Sandi is within a day’s march, and he will come with his soldiers and chastise us, as he did in the days of the war, when he hanged my own father.”

“Who shall chastise you most?” demanded Saka, oracularly. “This Sandi, who is only a man, or M’lo, who is a god and a devil and a ju-ju and a ghost, all in one? Who shall save your village from burning, and your young maidens from serious trouble, and your wives from fickleness? Only M’lo, who is so small that he may cook his dinner in the eye of a mosquito, and that terrible bird shall not feel!”

“Lord,” said an aged man, shaking his head in fear, “we were a happy people till you came, for we knew nothing of M’lo, having our own devils, as our fathers had.”

“To know is to suffer,” said Saka, truly and cryptically. “If you will not do these things for me, then you must pass, as many villages have passed. For what did I see on the other bank of the river but a village that was not? And the elephant grass is growing amidst the roof trees, and the graves of the dead – where are they?”

Ten miles up the river was a village in which beri-beri had appeared, wiping out such of the population as would not flee before the scourge.

“Who broke down the walls and rotted the roofs? – M’lo,” chanted Saka. “And now he has come here, and I fear you will all die…”

Bones gave an order that he was to be called early. He had hailed with joy the excuse for breaking the journey, for he was most anxious to meet the Hon. Muriel Witherspan on terms that were complimentary to himself, and the
Zaire
was due that day, the chief told him – and he knew, for the
lokali
had been beating the news through the night. Bones, the subordinate of headquarters, was not the Bones in command of an important and special mission. It was only fair that she should know this. She might even find an inspiration in this new view of him.

He imagined the picture of the year at the Royal Academy: a stern, handsome young officer, his sword girt to his waist, his sun helmet pushed back to show the almost Grecian nose and the perfect chin of a born commander. He was standing in the white African sunlight, his hands resting lightly on the barrel of a Hotchkiss gun; in the background, an infuriated mob of indigenous natives, whose bloody spears and blood-curdling yells failed to shake the courage of this cynically smiling young man. (Bones had practised the cynical smile for days.) And the picture would be called, simply: “An Empire Builder,” or “The Iron Hand and the Velvet Glove,” or something similarly appropriate.

He had neither the time nor the necessary apparatus to do his hair as he would like it to be done, but that was a pleasure in store; Abiboo had brought him the intelligence that the
Wiggle
was free from the sand shoal, and was riding at anchor in the clear waters beyond.

“Take the men on board,” said Bones briskly. “We will not sail for an hour or two. I must overhaul the machinery, Abiboo.”

Abiboo went and collected his prisoner and men, shipped them on board and sat down to wait. Bones shaved with the greatest care with a safety razor, and, slipping a dressing-gown over his pyjamas, he shuffled down to a secluded cove in the river for his morning bath.

The idea of being depicted in the Academy was an enthralling one. The fact that Miss Muriel Witherspan did not exhibit in the Academy, or anywhere else that made superlative merit a test for exhibition, did not occur to Bones. He saw himself walking before the picture of the year, viewing it with a quiet, quizzical, self-deprecatory smile, and stroll away, followed by turning heads which whispered “That is he! Tibbetts, the Empire Builder.”

He was so absorbed with this picture that he stood for some time breast-high in the water, staring solemnly at the
Wiggle
in midstream.

The picture of the year! And why shouldn’t she paint it? She seemed a very intelligent young woman, her paint-box was almost new, and must have cost a lot of money. And, anyway, painting was only a question of putting the right colours in the right places.

With a long and ecstatic sigh he turned and swam through the shallow water, and came, pink and dripping, to a patch of grass where he had left his clothing and a towel. But even the towel was gone. His pyjamas, jacket, and trousers had vanished. His slippers, however, he found.

“Hi!” yelled Bones, wrathfully, and the echoed “Hi!” that came back to him from the wood had the quality of derision.

“Goodness gracious heavens alive!” said Bones aghast. He was not three minutes’ walk from his hut, but there was no way of reaching that shelter without passing through the village street.

Bones looked round helplessly for leaves, having a vague recollection that somewhere or other he had read of somebody who had formed an extemporised costume from this flimsy material. But the only leaves in view were the smallest leaves of a gum-tree; and Bones remembered he had neither needle nor thread.

“Hi!” he yelled again, purple in the face, but there was no answer.

He turned and looked at the boat. The current was running swiftly, but he was a good swimmer, and –

He saw a swirl of water, the comb of a rugged back, as a crocodile swam down river. It passed, only to turn in a wide circle and swim up again.

“Oh, confound and dash it!” wailed Bones. “Go away, you naughty old crustacean!”

He meant “silurian,” but it did not matter.

There was nothing to do but to make a dive for his hut, and he edged cautiously forward down the little path to the village, and presently came within a stone’s throw of the nearest hut. A woman passed down to the river with a stone jar on her head. Bones gazed enviously at the grass kilt she wore. Nobody else came into view, and he crept nearer to the hut, and, flattening himself against the rush walls, peeped into the interior. It was empty, and he dashed inside.

But it was not literally empty: stretched on two pegs was one of those identical kilts he had envied – a kilt made of long, pliant grass fixed to a string. And the maker had evidently just completed her labour, for the last strand of grass was not tied. Bones snatched the kilt from the wall and wrapped it round him. It had evidently been intended for a lady of more generous proportions, for the kilt passed twice round his body before it met. There was nothing left but to march up the street. The horrified people of Lugala gathered at the doors of their huts to see the strange and even appalling sight; but Bones, mindful of his dignity, screwed his eyeglass in his eye – thank heaven the unknown robbers had not stolen that – and walked with majesty the length of the street, apparently oblivious to the bewildered or guilty eyes that stared as he passed.

His servant had gone on board the
Wiggle
. His host was not in sight. Bones dived in and began a frantic search for clothes. They also had gone! His bedding had been taken away, his breeches – everything, indeed, except a short silk singlet which seemed, in all the circumstances, inadequate.

Bones put his head out of the door and yelled for the chief, but there was no response. Not that Borobo did not hear him. Indeed, he took trouble to explain to his impressed wives what the commotion was all about.

“The Lord Tibbetti sings every morning, being a young and joyous man. Now listen to his beautiful voice. Such is singing in the way of his people.”

“Heavens and Moses!” gasped Bones when no succour came, and he was on the point of stepping out, made shameless by his misfortune, when a familiar sound came to his ear. It was the “honk honk!” of the
Zaire
’s siren. Bones sat down and wiped his forehead. Sanders was here! And Hamilton, whom he had dropped at the mouth of the Isisi River to meet Sanders. And the Hon. Muriel! There was a scamper of feet past the door of the hut. All the village was tearing down to the beach to welcome the Commissioner.

Bones waited till he thought the coast was clear, then stepped out of the hut. There was a shriek from the girl attending a cooking-pot before the chief’s hut, and he dashed back again. He must be dreaming, he thought; pinched himself – and it was so easy to pinch himself – to make sure, and had very convincing proof that he was awake.

He waited, every second an hour, every minute an eternity, and then there came to him the voice of Sanders.

“That is the chief’s hut, Miss Witherspan, and this hut near is the guest-house. You’d better look inside the guest-house: it is less objectionable than the others.”

There was a patter of light feet, and Bones screamed: “Keep out, honourable miss! Jolly old Muriel, keep out!”

“Who’s that – Bones?” asked Sanders in amazement. “What the dickens are you doing here?”

“Don’t come in!” squeaked Bones. “I’ve got no clothes on.”

Incoherently he told his story. There was a sound of suppressed laughter. Of course, Ham would laugh!

“Don’t laugh, you silly old ass,” said Bones wrathfully. “Go along and get me some clothes, you naughty old captain.”

“I had to laugh,” said the musical voice of Muriel.

“Good heavens, young miss! Was it you?” stammered Bones.

“It was me. Captain Hamilton has gone down to get you some clothing. Can’t I just peep in?”

“No, you can’t,” said Bones loudly. “Have a sense of decency, dear old artist!”

“Who did this – the Wazoos?”

There was a malignity in her cooing voice that made Bones shiver. Hamilton had told her! The cad!

“Now listen, dear old painter and decorator – ” began Bones.

“Mr Tibbetts – you pulled my leg.”

“Be decorous!” urged Bones.

“You pulled my leg. I shan’t forget it. I’m coming in to sketch you!”

“I’ve got nothing on,” roared Bones, untruthfully, “except a pair of slippers and a kilt!”

Hamilton returned with a mackintosh and a sun helmet, pleading that that was all he could raise. The mackintosh was one which was slightly too short for Sanders. On the lank figure of Bones it had the appearance of a covert coat.

*  *  *

It was three months later before the illustrated newspaper came into the residency; and, opening it idly, Hamilton saw a picture and yelled. It was a black-and-white sketch, which bore in the corner the scrawled signature “MW”. It showed Bones in all the glory of singlet and grass kilt, with a sun helmet on his head and an eyeglass in his eye; and beneath was the superscription: “British officer wearing the native costume of the Wazoos.”

The mind of Mr Commissioner Sanders was as two books, the one open for inspection, and, by its very accessibility, defying the suspicion that any other could exist; the second a small tome, bound in steel and fastened with many locks.