CHAPTER XVIII

_Trial_

After breakfast Bertram attended Court, which was a table under a tree, and took his seat on the Bench, an inverted pail, as a Ruler and a Judge, for the first and last time in his life. He felt that it was a strange and terrible thing that he should thus be suddenly called upon to try a man for his life.

Suppose that his two fellow-judges, Berners and Clarence, disagreed as to the death-sentence, and he had to give his verdict, knowing that a man’s life depended on it! . . .

A couple of _askaris_ of the King’s African Rifles, police-orderlies of “Leesey” Lindsay’s, brought in the prisoner. He was a powerful and decidedly evil-looking negro, clad in a striped petticoat. He had more of the appearance of furtive intelligence than is usual with _shenzis_ of his tribe. Bertram decided that he carried his guilt in his face and had trickster and traitor written all over it. He then rebuked himself for pre-judging the case and entertaining prejudice against an untried, and possibly innocent, man.

“Guilty,” said Augustus Gus. “Who’s coming for a walk?”

“I’m President of this Court,” replied Berners. “Who asked you to open your head? If I’m not sure as to his guilt, I may consult you later. Or I may not.”

“Look here, Berners—let’s do the thing properly,” was the reply. “There’s a Maxim—or is it a Hotchkiss—of English Law which says that a man is to be considered Guilty until he is proved to be Innocent. Therefore we start fair. He is Guilty, I say. Now we’ve got to prove him Innocent. Do be a sport, and give the poor blighter a show.”

“I b’lieve it’s the other way about,” said Berners.

“Oh, indeed!” commented Augustus. “You’d say the feller’s innocent and then start in to prove him guilty, would you? . . . Dirty trick, I call it. Filthy habit.”

Wavell appeared at the entrance to his tent, holding a green, silk-covered book in his hand. The cover was richly embroidered and had a flap, like that of an envelope, provided with strings for tying it down. It was a copy of the Koran, and on it all witnesses were sworn, repeating an oath administered by Wavell in Arabic. . . .

“Ready?” asked he of the President, and proceeded with great patience, skill and knowledge of languages and dialects, to interpret the statements of Wadegos, Swahilis, Arabs, and assorted Africans. Occasionally it was beyond his power, or that of any human being, to convey the meaning of some simple question to a savage mind, and to get a rational answer.

For the prosecution, Lindsay, who was down with dysentery, had produced fellow-villagers of the accused, from each of whom Wavell obtained the same story.

Prisoner was enamoured of a daughter of the headman of the village, and, because his suit was dismissed by this gentleman, he had led a German raiding-party to the place, and, moreover, had shown them where hidden treasures were _cached_, and where fowls, goats, and cattle had been penned in the jungle, and where grain was stored. Also, he had “smelt out” enemies of the _Germanis_ among his former neighbours, wicked men who, he said, had led English raiding-parties into the country of the _Germanis_, and had otherwise injured them. These enemies of the _Germanis_ were all, as it happened, enemies of his own. . . . When this raiding-party of _askaris_, led by half a dozen _Germanis_, had burnt the village, killed all the villagers who had not escaped in time, and carried off all they wanted in the way of livestock, women, grain and gear, they had rewarded accused with a share of the loot. . . .

“Do they all tell the same tale in the same way, as though they had concocted it and learnt it by heart?” asked Bertram.

“No,” replied Wavell. “I didn’t get that impression.”

“Let’s question them one by one,” said Berners.

A very, very old man, a sort of “witch-doctor” or priest, by his ornaments, entered the witness-box—otherwise arose from the group of witnesses and stood before the Court—to leeward by request.

“Hullo, Granpa! How’s things?” said Augustus.

The ancient ruin mumbled something in Swahili, and peered with horny eyes beneath rheumy, shrivelled lids at the Court, as he stood trembling, his palsied head ashake.

“Don’t waggle your head at _me_, Rudolph,” said Augustus severely, as the old man fixed him with a wild and glassy eye. “_I_’m not going to uphold you. . . . Pooh! _What_ an odour of sanctity! You’re a _high_ priest, y’know,” and murmured as he sought his handkerchief, “Poignant! . . . Searching. . . .”

The old man repeated his former mumble.

“He says he did not mean to steal the tobacco,” interpreted Wavell.

“Sort of accident that might happen to anybody, what?” observed Augustus. “Ask him if he knows the prisoner.”

The question was put to him in his own tongue, and unfalteringly he replied that he had not meant to steal the tobacco—had not _really_ stolen it, in fact.

Patiently Wavell asked, and patiently he was answered. “Do you know the prisoner?”

“I never steal.”

“Do you know this man?”

“Tobacco I would never steal.”

“What is this man’s name?”

“Tobacco.”

“Have you ever seen that man before?”

“What man?”

“This one.”

“Yes. He is the prisoner.”

“When have you seen him before?”

“Last night.”

“When, before that?”

“He ate rice with us last night. He is the prisoner.”

“Do you know him well?”

“Yes, I know he is the prisoner. _He_ stole the tobacco.”

“Have you known him long?”

“No. He is only a young man. He steals tobacco.”

“Does he come from your village?”

“Yes.”

“Have you known him all his life?”

“No, because he went and spent some time in the _Germanis’_ country. I think he went to steal tobacco.”

“Did he come back alone from the _Germanis’_ country?”

“No. He brought _askaris_ and _muzangos_. {183a} They killed my people and burnt my village.”

“You are sure it was this man who brought them?”

“Is he not a prisoner?”

Suddenly an ancient hag arose from the group of witnesses and bounded into Court. At the feet of Wavell she poured forth a torrent of impassioned speech.

“Cheer up, Auntie!” quoth Augustus, and as the woman ceased, added: “Ask her if she’d come to Paris for the week-end.”

“What does she say?” enquired the President of the Court.

“In effect—that she will be security for _witness’s_ good behaviour, as he is her only child and never steals tobacco. He only took the tobacco because he wanted a smoke. He is ninety years of age, and a good obedient son to her. It is her fault for not looking after him better. She hopes he will not be hung, as she is already an orphan, and would then be a childless orphan. . . . She undertakes to beat him with a _runga_.” {183b}

“Does she identify prisoner as the man who led the German raiding-party?” asked Bertram, after Augustus had called for three loud cheers for the witness, had been himself called to order by the President, and had threatened that he would not play if further annoyed by that official.

Again, in careful Swahili, Wavell endeavoured to find traces of evidence for or against the accused.

“Do you know this man?”

“Yes, _Bwana_.”

“Who is he?”

“The prisoner, _Bwana Macouba_ (Great Master).”

“Why is he a prisoner?”

“Because he brought the _Germanis_ to Pongwa, oh, _Bwana Macouba Sana_ (Very Great Master).”

“How do you know he brought the _Germanis_ to Pongwa?”

“Because he has been made prisoner for doing so, oh, _Bwana Macouba Kabeesa Sana_ (Very Greatest Master).”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He is the man who stole the tobacco which my little boy took.”

All being translated and laid before the Court, it was decided that, so far, prisoner was scarcely proven guilty.

“Let’s ask him whether he would like to say anything as to the evidence of the last two witnesses,” suggested Bertram.

“He doesn’t understand Swahili,” objected Berners.

“I feel sure he does,” replied Bertram. “I have been watching his face. He half grinned when they talked about tobacco, and looked venomous when they talked about him.”

“Do you understand Swahili?” asked Wavell, suddenly, of the prisoner.

“No, not a word,” replied that individual in the same tongue.

“Can you speak it?”

“No, not a word,” he reaffirmed in Swahili.

“Well—did the last two witnesses tell the truth about you?”

“They did not. I have never seen them before. They have never seen me before. I do not know where Pongwa is. I think this is a very fine trial. I like it.”

Other witnesses swore that the accused had indeed done the treacherous deed. One swore with such emphasis and certainty that he carried conviction to the minds of the Court—until it was discovered that witness was swearing that prisoner had stolen a bundle of leaf-tobacco from the son of the woman who was an orphan. . . .

The Court soon found that it could tell when a point was scored against the defendant, without waiting for translation, inasmuch as he always seized his stomach with both hands, groaned, rolled his eyes, and cried that he was suffering horribly from _tumbo_, when evidence was going unfavourably.

At length all witnesses had been examined, even unto the last, who swore he was the prisoner’s brother, and that he saw the prisoner leading the _Germanis_ and, lo, it wasn’t his brother at all, and concluded with: “Yes—this is true evidence. I have spoken well. I can prove it, for I can produce the _sufuria_ {184} which prisoner gave me to say that I am his brother, and to speak these truths. He is my innocent brother, and was elsewhere when he led the _Germanis_ to Pongwa.”

“Let’s give him something out of the poor-box,” suggested Augustus when this speech was interpreted, and then marred this intimation of kindly feelings by adding: “and then hang the lot of them.”

“Has the prisoner anything to say?” asked the President.

The prisoner had.

“This is a good trial,” quoth he, in Swahili. “I am now an important man. All the witnesses are liars. I have never seen any of them before. I do not associate with such. I have never seen Pongwa, and I have never seen a _Germani_. I will tell . . .”

Wavell looked at him suddenly, but made no movement.

“_Noch nichte_!” said he in German, very quietly.

The man stopped talking at once.

“You understand German. You speak German!” said Wavell, in that language, and pointing at him accusingly. “Answer quickly. You speak German.”

“_Ganz klein wenig_—just a very little,” replied the prisoner, adding in English: “I am a very clever man”—and then, in German: “_Ich hab kein Englisch_.”

“Prisoner has never seen a _Germani_—but he understands German!” wrote Bertram in his notes of the trial. “Also Swahili and English.”

“Please ask him if he hasn’t had enough trial now, and wouldn’t he like to be hanged to save further trouble,” said Augustus.

“_Tiffin tyar hai_, {185} _Sahib_,” said the Mess butler, approaching the President, and the Court adjourned.

The afternoon session of the Court proved dull up to the moment when the lady who was an orphan and the mother of the ninety-year-old, bounded into Court with a scream of:

“Ask him where he got his petticoat!”

Apparently this was very distressful to the defendant, for he was instantly seized with violent stomachic pains.

“Poignant! . . . Searching! . . .” murmured Augustus.

“Where did you get that _’Mericani_?” asked Wavell of the prisoner, pointing to his only garment.

“He got it from the _Germanis_. It was part of his share of the loot,” screamed the old lady. “It is from my own shop. I know it by that mark,” and she pointed to a trade-mark and number stencilled in white paint upon the selvedge of the loin-cloth.

Terrible agonies racked the prisoner as he replied: “She is a liar.”

“Trade-mark don’t prove much,” remarked the President. “My pants and vest might have same trade-mark as the Kaiser’s—but that wouldn’t prove he stole them from me.”

The sense of this remark was conveyed to the witness.

“Then see if a mark like _this_ is not in the corner of that piece of _’Mericani_,” said the old lady, and plucking up her own wardrobe, showed where a small design was crudely stitched.

The _askaris_ in charge of the prisoner quickly demonstrated that an identical “laundry-mark” ornamented his also. Presumably the worthy woman’s secret price-mark, or else her monogram.

Terrific agonies seized the prisoner, and with a groan of “_Tumbo_,” he sank to the ground.

A kick from each of the _askaris_ revived him, and he arose promptly and took a bright interest in the subsequent proceedings, which consisted largely in the swearing by several of the villagers that they had seen the _Germanis_ loot the old lady’s store and throw some pieces of the _’Mericani_ to the accused. Two of the witnesses were wearing petticoats which they had bought from the female witness, and which bore her private mark. . . .

“Gentlemen,” said the President at length, “I should like your written findings by six o’clock this evening, together with the sentence you would impose if you were sole judge in this case. The Court is deeply indebted to Captain Wavell for his courteous and most valuable assistance as interpreter. The witnesses may be discharged, and the prisoner removed to custody. . . . Clear the blasted Court, in fact, and come to the Bristol Bar. . . .”

“Oh, hang it all, Berners,” objected Augustus, “let’s hang him _now_. We can watch him dangle while we have tea. . . .” But the Court had risen, and the President was asking where the devil some bally, fat-headed fool had put his helmet, eh? . . .

For an hour Bertram sat in his _banda_ with throbbing, aching head, considering his verdict. He believed the man to be a spy and a treacherous, murderous scoundrel—but what was really _proven_, save that he knew German and wore a garment marked similarly to those of three inhabitants of Pongwa? Were these facts sufficient to warrant the passing of the death sentence and to justify Bertram Greene, who, till a few days ago, was the mildest of lay civilians, to take the responsibility of a hanging judge and imbrue his hands with the blood of this man? If all that was suspected of him were true, what, after all, was he but a savage, a barbarous product of barbaric uncivilisation? . . . What right had anyone to apply the standards of a cultured white man from London to a savage black man from Pongwa? . . . A savage who had been degraded and contaminated by contact with Germans moreover. . . .

After many unsatisfactory efforts, he finally wrote out his judgment on leaves torn from his military pocket-book, and proposed, as verdict, that the prisoner be confined for the duration of the war as a spy, and receive twenty-five strokes of the _kiboko_ for perjury. . . .

On repairing to Berners’ hut at the appointed time, he found that Clarence had written a longer and better judgment than his own, and had proposed as sentence that the accused be detained during the King’s pleasure at Mombasa Gaol, since it was evident that he had dealings with Germans and had recently been in German East Africa. He found the charge of leading a German raiding-party Not Proven.

The sentence of the President was that prisoner should receive twenty lashes and two years’ imprisonment, for receiving stolen goods, well knowing them to be stolen, and for committing perjury.

“And that ought to dish the lad till the end of the war,” observed he, “whereafter he’ll have precious small use for his German linguistic lore—unless he goes to Berlin for the Iron Cross or a Commission in the Potsdammer Poison-Gas Guards, or somethin’, what?”