Bones of the River (7 page)

The father said nothing, for the boy was sixteen and of a marrying age. The new wife, on the contrary, said much.

“I do not want this man, your son,” she said frankly. “I am a great dancer, and my price is ten bundles of ten malakos in ten heaps ten times ten repeated. A man of my people would give as much salt as would fill a hut if I would be his wife, yet your son comes to me and takes me and gives nothing to my father nor to me. And when I turned from him, he struck me down. Here is the mark.”

The mark was horridly patent, and N’shimba’s father was troubled and sought his son.

“Why have you taken this woman?” he asked. “Presently her father will come and demand her price. And Sandi will come and give judgment against me. Let her go, for, even if you are married to her, what does it matter? Is there not a saying that ‘Women marry many times but have one husband’?”

“I am that man,” said N’shimba. “As to Sandi, I am the child of his spirit, as all people know, and I take what I need.”

That evening he beat his new wife, and her father, arriving in wrath to make the best of a bad bargain, was also beaten to his shame.

“Who is N’shimba?” asked Captain Hamilton curiously when the news came to headquarters, and Sanders, a thoughtful, troubled man, explained.

“It wouldn’t worry me at all, but the young devil has used the slogan of the old N’shimba, ‘I take what I need’ – and that is a very bad sign. One whisper of black eggs and I will take N’shimba and hang him.”

He sent a warning, and marked down N’shimba in his diary as one to be interviewed when he next went north. Then one day there came into existence the Blood Friends of Young Hearts.

In native territories, secret societies are born in a night, and with them their inspired ritual. From what brain they come, none knows. The manner of their dissolution is as mysterious. They come and they go; perform strange rites, initiate secret dances; men meet one another and say meaningless but thrilling words; there is a ferment and thrill in life – then of a sudden they are no more. Sometimes there is a little blood-letting, as when the N’gombi people held a society which was called The Mystery of the Five Straight Marks. Five cuts on the left cheek was the sign of the order. Sanders heard, saw, said nothing. On the whole, he thought the personal appearance of the N’gombi people was improved by the mutilations. But when, at a big palaver of the society, an Ochori girl was beheaded and her skin distributed to the members of the order, Sanders went quickly to the spot, hanged the leaders, flogged their headmen, and burnt the village that had been the scene of the ceremony. Thereafter the Five Marks vanished from existence.

“Ahmet says N’shimba is behind this new society,” he said, calling Hamilton into his airy little office. “I’m scared lest N’shimba discovers that the mantle of his disreputable namesake has descended upon him. If he does, there will be bad trouble. I think I’ll send Bones to the Isisi with a platoon of young men. The wholesome presence of authority may nip in the bud the activities of the Young Hearts.”

“Why ‘Young Hearts’?” asked Hamilton lazily.

“They are mostly young men, and the movement is spreading,” said Sanders. “Bosambo has reported that a branch of this interesting society has been formed in the heart of the Ochori city.”

“Send Bones,” suggested Hamilton promptly. “I know of no more depressing influence.”

“What is the matter with him!”

“If this were a civilised country, and the necessary opportunities existed, I should say that Bones was in love,” said Hamilton. “As it is, I think he’s sickening for something.”

“It can’t be measles,” said Sanders. “He’s had them twice.”

Hamilton sniffed. “Bones is the sort of fellow who would have measles three times and never turn a hair. But it isn’t measles. And it isn’t liver. I had him in yesterday morning and insisted on his swallowing three pills. He made a fuss about it, and I had to quote the Army Act. And even now he’s depressed.”

Sanders stared thoughtfully across the sunburnt parade ground.

“I think a trip to the Isisi might do him a lot of good,” he said.

*  *  *

There were moments when there came to the soul of Lieutenant Augustus Tibbetts a great unrest. Times when even the pursuit and practice of his latest course of study brought neither peace nor consolation. Bones (for such was his name to his equals) found a melancholy satisfaction in the phenomena, for these conditions of unease usually preceded some flashing inspiration. It was as though Nature in her mysterious way ordained that Bones should only put forth his finest efforts after some (to him) tremendous ordeal. Such a tinge of irritation came to Bones one sunny day in April, and at a moment when he had every reason to be perfectly happy. The mail had brought to him a diploma which certified to his proficiency as an accountant. He had been elected a
Fellow of the Society of Accountancy (Wabash)
, as a result of a course of correspondence lessons conducted by
The College of Practical and Theoretical Accountancy (also of Wabash, USA).

His half-yearly inspection had passed off magnificently, with the trifling exception that his books were out of order and that the sum of three pounds one shilling had in some mysterious fashion crept into the credit column. But this was instantly rectified by the discovery that he had added the day of the month, Bones invariably did this. Generally he added the year. Sometimes he was
£
192 1
s
short. Sometimes he had
£
19 2
s
1
d
surplus. Sanders had praised some work of his; his immediate superior, Captain Hamilton, had been unusually gracious. And Bones was unhappy.

There was, in truth, an excellent reason. Bones was one of those uncomfortable people who take a passionate interest in every phase of human activity that happens outside their own especial orbit of duty. He was an officer of Houssas. He enjoyed an allowance from a wealthy uncle, he was living the kind of life he would have chosen of all others, and yet Bones was constantly striving toward perfection in professions which had nothing whatever to do with soldiering. He “took up” almost every branch of study that was offered to him through the advertisement pages of the magazines. He learnt elocution, public speaking, newspaper illustration, short-story writing, motor-car construction, law, motion-picture production, engineering, and the after-care of babies, through the medium of weekly questionnaires and test sheets, though without possessing the slightest aptitude for the practice of a single calling which he so assiduously studied.

And he read. He read the Hundred Best Books and Egyptian History and John Stuart Mill, and books on Inductive and Deductive Logic, and Works of Travel and Sociology. If he did not actually read them, he bought them. Sometimes he read nearly through the first chapter, but generally he read the introduction and put the book away to be read some day “when I can give my mind to it.” That day never dawned. Possibly the introductions were sufficient to assure him that they were books he did not wish to know.

Bones was passing through a phase of intellectual development when the inequalities of life were all too apparent. He grieved for his fellowmen. He despised wealth and spoke glibly and contemptuously of capitalism. But for Florence, his life would have been intolerable. Florence was the property of Captain Hamilton. She was a hen, and she was of the Plymouth Rock variety. From her chickhood she had conceived a violent affection for Bones, and Bones, to whom all living things had a soul, had returned her love.

There was an embarrassing side to the friendship, for Florence followed him like a pet dog, and invariably inspected the guard behind him. And the Houssa has a very keen sense of humour.

Yet even Florence did not wholly compensate for the social conditions which were revealed to Bones from week to week in the pages of a fiery periodical which came to him. Bones grew careless in his attire, and addressed Abiboo, his sergeant, as “Comrade.” Which Sergeant Abiboo reported to Hamilton.

“It is clear that the young lord Tibbetti has fever,” he said, “for this morning he spoke to me as if he were a common man, and said that all men were equal. Even sergeants with privates. Also he said that the land did not belong to Government, but to me and to his lordship. This I report officially.”

Finding no traces of fever, Hamilton had given his subordinate three large pills, Bones protesting.

Summoned to the residency, he heard of his projected trip without enthusiasm. Ordinarily the prospect of assuming control of the
Wiggle
would have brought him to a high pitch of ecstasy.

“Thank you, sir an’ excellency,” he said gloomily. “I’ll go because it is my duty. I have a premonition that I may not come back. Instinct, my dear old Ham – I’ve always been like that. I’m physic.”

“‘Psychic’ is the word you want,” said Hamilton.

“We always call it ‘Physic’,” said Bones calmly, “and that’s the way it’s spelt, dear old comrade and OC Troops. If a johnny is physic, surely to good gracious heavens he knows how it’s spelt?”

“What have you a premonition of, Bones?” asked Sanders.

Bones made a grimace, lifted his angular shoulders and threw out his hands – gestures indicating his inability to give a plain answer to a plain question.

“Not wishing to cast a dark old shadow or be a jolly old killjoy, I’d rather not say,” he replied darkly, “but I’ve had this feeling, comrade–”

“A little less ‘comrade’ would be welcome,” said Hamilton.

“We’re all comrades, dear old officer,” said Bones gloomily. “We’ve got our jolly old social values mixed up. The condition of society with its naughty old artificial restrictions is positively ghastly. It is indeed, old Ham. Sweinmacher says–”

“What Sweinmacher or any other Dutch trader says is immaterial,” said Hamilton. “You go to the Isisi this afternoon. And if your premonition comes off I’ll write the nicest little obituary notice you’ve ever seen.”

Bones inclined his head gravely. “I’ve already written it,” he said. “You’ll find it in my desk, dear old com – officer. You might send it to the
Times
– I’ve subscribed to that jolly old Thunderer for years, an’ they’ll be glad to put it in. About 20,000 words as near as I can judge, but if you’d like to add anything to it, I’ll take it as a kindness.”

Sanders came down to see his subordinate leave.

“N’shimba you will deal with firmly. As yet he is not dangerous. These fellows hold tight to tradition, and until the arrival of the black egg – and the spies say he has been searching for it – there will be no general rising. If necessary, kill N’shimba. You’re not taking Florence?”

Florence was perched on the rail of the boat, a brooding, sleepy figure. Undisturbed, she remained when the
Wiggle
cast off and pushed its blunt nose to the rapid waters of the big river.

Bones passed the Isisi country according to plan, and his first call was upon Bosambo, Paramount Chief of the Ochori, and thorn in the side of all kings, chiefs and headmen of the Isisi, Akasava and N’gombi. As well he might be, for he was a Krooman by birth, adventurer by instinct, and a great collector of other men’s property by choice.

“I see you one time: I looka you longa longa times, Bonesi. You be good fellow.” Thus Bosambo in English, for he had been educated in an English mission school.

Bones struggled hard against resenting the familiarity. Tactfully, he replied in Bomongo.

“Sandi has sent me to speak with your young men, Bosambo, for Sandi’s heart is troubled because of this secret society.”

“Lord,” said Bosambo calmly, “there is no secret society in this land. When the older men join together in dances and call themselves by ghostly names, I say no word, for old men are great talkers and nothing comes of that. But when my young men meet in secrecy, then I know that they will talk scandal. And what is scandalous here in the Ochori but taxation and the punishment I give to evil men? These Young Hearts spoke of me badly, and this I discovered. Now the Young Hearts are not in the Ochori,” he added significantly.

Bones considered the matter, scratching his nose. “Bosambo, in this land all men are equal,” he said, and the big chief regarded him dispassionately.

“Lord, all men are equal who are equal to one another,” he said. “But no man is equal to me, for I am the chief king of the Ochori. And I am not equal to you, Tibbetti, nor you to Sandi. If you are equal to Sandi, speak.”

Bones modestly refrained, and the big man went on: “It is right that I should be over the Ochori,” he said, “for someone must stand high above the people, or he would not see them well. When there are ten thousand goats upon the plain, what does any goat see but the goat that is next to him? And how may he know what happens on the edge of the flock, where the leopards come crawling and creeping?”

“All men – ” began Bones again, but thought better of it. Bosambo was not a man who would be readily convinced.

He secured a certain amount of information about the Young Hearts – information which Bosambo had taken the most drastic measures to procure.

“They are of the Isisi,” said Bosambo, “and this king of the Isisi is no man, but a cow. For he sits down and hears these boys speak, and does not beat them. You go to the Isisi, lord?”

Bones went on his way, and his host watched by the riverside, until the white hull of the little
Wiggle
had disappeared round a woody headland. Then Bosambo returned to his hut and to his wife, who was also his counsellor.

“Light of my life,” she said in the Arabic of the coast, “Tibbetti has been in many terrible places, but I think the Isisi country will be worse for him.”

In two nights and a day Bones came to the Isisi city, and was received in state by the king.

“Lord, I know nothing of the Young Hearts,” said Bugulu nervously. “The folly of children is not for me and my wise old men, but for their parents. As to N’shimba, what is he but a child?”

Bones did not attempt to supply an answer to his question. He had not failed to notice, in his walk through the widely scattered city of the king, that, which ever way he looked, he saw no young men. There were those who were old squatting at the fires, and women of all ages going about their proper business. He called the attention of Bugulu to this fact, and the king grew more miserable.