The White Father (2 page)

A constitutional conference was to be held in London in July. All the various interests in the colony were to be
represented
, including the Luagabu, who comprised nearly a third of the population. But there was no representative for the Ngulu, and Shrieve’s urgent appeals that someone should attend on their behalf, if only with a watching brief, had been ignored in the capital. Robbins had said that he’d do what he could, but there was a hell of a lot going on at the moment and he’d forward Shrieve’s request to the Colonial Office. Nothing had been heard of it since. Shrieve guessed that in the general turmoil of preparation for the conference the Ngulu would be forgotten, except, no doubt, by the Luagabu. So he had written directly to the Governor, who he knew would be sympathetic, and to a friend of his at the Colonial Office itself. James Weatherby was very much a man of Whitehall, but at least he could be relied on to advise how things were going and where and how it would be best to try and apply pressure. The Governor, somewhat to Shrieve’s disappointment, had agreed that the matter must not be overlooked but emphasised that there were any number of special interests clamouring for attention. Though the Ngulu were, of course, important, he implied, Shrieve must realise that they were only a very minor problem in an extremely complicated and delicate series of negotiations: he was sure that proper safeguards would be arranged.

But would they? “Proper safeguards” might be guaranteed on pieces of paper signed by every chief in the colony, but pieces of paper weren’t going to stop the Luagabu crossing the river and simply massacring or enslaving the Ngulu if they took it into their heads to do so. The local police, supposing there would be any to function during the exciting days of first independence, would certainly be Luagabu, and the local Governor would, equally certainly, be a Luagabu chief. No, phrases like “Proper safeguards” wouldn’t help the Ngulu at all. What was needed was a straightforward system of
protection
such as they now enjoyed. It was simple enough, and effective enough. It needed only one man and an uncommitted local governor and police force. The Ngulu didn’t have to be fed or clothed, and the doctor fifteen miles down the river, a Scottish Presbyterian missionary who issued tracts with
injections
, was not going to leave. But Shrieve, even if he too stayed on, could not prevent an incursion of hostile Luagabu by
himself
. The protection depended on the threat of British military intervention between tribes: when the British rule ended, so would the threat. Some new threat must be devised to replace it. The best hope lay in some form of tribal coalition in the capital, where rivalries could be played off against each other to the advantage of minorities—there were other small tribes who were in danger of being engulfed, though none of them were so helpless as the Ngulu. The political leaders of the various factions were, too, all men of education and, with a few exceptions, humanity. None of them would wish to see
genocide
in their new country. But caught up, as they inevitably would be, in the passions and intrigues of independence and power, they were not going to notice until too late that somewhere in the back country a stone-age tribe seemed, somehow, to have vanished.

Shrieve had good reason to fear the Luagabu. There had been, from time to time during British rule, raids across the river, whose right bank was Luagabu territory. On one early occasion the raiders had burned the Ngulu village and captured some dozen of the older people (the others had fled
precipitately
into the long grass) whom they subjected to elaborate and revolting tortures before decapitating them. On another occasion they had killed all the Ngulu cattle. The last raid, which had taken place just after Shrieve’s arrival, had been something of a flop: a large party of Luagabu had attempted to seize some cows which were being watered, but the Ngulu, warned in advance, had spiritedly counter-attacked while the enemy were trying to shoo the cattle into swimming the river. Some forty Luagabu had been captured. Shrieve returned them to the District Officer concerned, and they received severe
prison sentences. For a dozen years there had been complete peace. But recently Shrieve had been warned by Mackenzie, the same District Officer, that the Luagabu had begun to boast about what they were going to do to those effete Ngulu as soon as the sentimental British had gone. Mackenzie had not gone into details, but Shrieve could guess: warfare was not
conducted
under the Geneva Convention in those parts, and such primitive weapons as the Ngulu had would be useless against the vastly superior numbers of the Luagabu, some of whom had illegal rifles. Nor would it help to try and equip the Ngulu for self-defence. An arms race could only lead to the quick extinction of the smaller power: the Ngulu could muster a hundred and fifty serious warriors at most, and their listless attitude towards warfare would hardly lend credibility to any policy of deterrence.

It was, at least to Shrieve, a simple enough problem to which there should be an equally simple answer. The difficulty was to make busy men pause for long enough to see how simple the answer in fact was, and then to take the necessary steps.

Amy came in with a cup of tea and said, “The postman is waiting.”

“Oh yes,” said Shrieve. He looked at her hopefully. The postman, who came once a week, was a Luagabu, and relations between him and Amy consisted of the briefest exchanges and long haughty silences. Shrieve had tried to persuade her to be more generous, but her stony face told him he had failed yet again. “Tell him to wait a few minutes. I haven’t had time to read my letters yet. Give him a drink, Amy. Some tea or something.”

She snorted, muttered the Ngulu equivalent of “Nigger” and flounced back into the kitchen.

Shrieve shrugged and picked up
The
Illustrated
London
News,
which his aunt sent him. There were many sepia-tone
photographs
of various members of the royal family, a distant duchess of which had just had a baby. He reminded himself to show the picture to Amy, who doted on babies. She would be
impressed, he hoped, by the very definite covering of the upper part of the duchess’s body. Amy believed it was particularly wrong for mothers to cover their breasts during the period they were nursing their children. Shrieve was entirely on her side, really, but English visitors were so easily surprised.

He picked through the official mail. There was nothing urgent. Then he turned to the personal letters and found one from James Weatherby.

Shrieve frowned as he finished the letter. It was true that he had a lot of leave saved up, yet he wasn’t anxious to take it. He wasn’t at all sure, for one thing, that he was the best man to present the Ngulu case—he was too involved with it, he could too easily be dismissed as a man with a bee in his bonnet. And besides, he was so awkward in dealing with people. His fingers began to writhe in embarrassment.

The Ngulu were preparing this evening for their spring hunt, and that meant the festival would be held in four or five days. He must remain for that, and for its aftermath of sick stomachs. Then it would take some days to explain to the chiefs that he would be going away for a longish time, but that they must not think he wasn’t coming back. Then there was the business of arranging a temporary substitute with Robbins. It
would probably prove impossible to get anyone full-time, what with the general chaos in the capital, but a general weekly supervision was essential. Then there would have to be a period for the Ngulu to get used to the new man. Of course the substitute wouldn’t be able to understand half of what they said, since they spoke a highly idiosyncratic language, and he’d have even less idea of what was going on in their heads. But something could be arranged. Perhaps Mackenzie could come over a couple of days a week.

With a sudden shock of relief Shrieve realised that he was planning for the time he would be away before he had
consciously
accepted that he was going. It was often like that with important problems, he found. It had certainly been like that with Amy, for instance. He would worry and wrangle over something, and become so involved in its ramifications that it would take him some hours, or even days, to wake up to the fact that he was already carrying out the decision of his subconscious. If one could only confuse one’s conscious mind with enough logic and reason and serious argument pro and con, he believed, the subconscious would always come up with the right answer. It was a matter of pushing the problem deep down into the mind.

He got up and went into the kitchen to speak to the Luagabu postman. He was just putting down a bottle of the ubiquitous fizzy drink called Free. Amy, who didn’t trust him alone in her kitchen, was glowering at him from the back door, hands militantly on hips, her lower lip thrust out, like a customs officer ready to search him when he left.

“Ah,” said Shrieve, smiling weakly at the postman. Though he spoke Luagabu fluently, he always addressed members of the tribe in English, which annoyed Amy. But unlike the Ngulu the Luagabu could be, and were to a certain extent, educated to a European level, and it was a matter of principle with Shrieve, independence or no independence, to make them talk in English—a language considerably richer in nuance, and containing, what Luagabu lacked, the important abstract words which made conceptual thinking possible. He found
himself, though, and to his horror, frequently lapsing into a sort of pidgin English which helped no one.

The postman smiled broadly. He was a tall, very black man, with an upper lip enlarged by the Luagabu practice of inserting pieces of wood. Splinters for very young children became quite impressive chunks in adults. The Ngulu referred
contemptuously
to the Luagabu as fit for nothing but kindling.

“I’m afraid I want you to wait for half an hour or so. I have an important letter to write.”

The postman looked sulky, but said, “Yes, sir.”

Any looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to be glad that he was discomfited or cross that he would be staying longer than usual.

“It won’t take very long,” Shrieve assured both of them. It annoyed him to have his vital problem reduced to kitchen squabbling and silences: but in essence that was what it came to. The Luagabu would never be content while the Ngulu held their rich piece of land, and the Ngulu by themselves would never be able to resist attacks. All they could do was what Amy was doing, glower and depend on the white man. And when the white man went away their glowering would turn to panic and tears, unless …

“Give the postman another bottle of Free,” said Shrieve to Amy.

He went back to the living-room and wrote a letter to Robbins explaining that he intended to go to England and asking for someone to keep a watching brief over the Ngulu at home while he held one for them abroad. Robbins, he knew, would approve of his decision. They might think in the capital that Shrieve was going a little bit too native for some tastes, but they knew a good man when they had one. And besides, which of them hadn’t, at one time or another, had a native woman? Only those who had seen Shrieve and Amy together wondered whether he wasn’t, perhaps, attempting something too precarious. What, they asked, was he going to do when independence came and he was shoved off home? And if he decided to stay, what kind of life would that be?
Was he prepared to die in the country? For it was inconceivable that he should take Amy to England. These were questions that Shrieve avoided: when the time came, he hoped, he would find himself carrying out the answers.