Part 12

It was Wrenshaw who discovered the curious fraud which was being perpetrated by the Chief. It appeared that having met all demands of him, he deliberately invented names. When asked how it was that all these people had failed to have their names recorded on the census, he suggested that they must have been away from home at the time.

At last the truth came out.

"I pay willingly," said the old man; "willingly and in full, Morena. I have paid all the money I have to the Government because the Government asks for money. I am not a Barushu to refuse to pay. What does it matter how many people I have; does not the Government want money, and is it not right that I should give all I have to the Government?"

"Old man," said Wrenshaw kindly, "take back your money. The Barushu will certainly pay. If, when all have paid, the Government still wants money, I will ask you for it. For this time you have done enough; you have paid willingly and well."

Then, turning to his assistants, he directed them to cross out all the new and obviously fictitious names which they had just entered in the register and return the money paid in excess of the amount due. Later, and at their leisure, they could check the census, and if they found that any of the people really did exist, they could, of course, accept the money.

As he was speaking a cattle-trader hurried up, panting. "There is a rising!" he shouted; "the Barushu are up. They have killed my partner and taken my cattle. They have beaten the police and will soon be here. Quick! Form a laager and let's get into it!"

"Stop that, and go in there!" said Wrenshaw, pointing to his tent. To the officials who had been receiving the tax-money and issuing receipts he gave instructions to carry on.

Entering the tent Wrenshaw asked: "What's your name?"

"Wilkie."

"Have they killed your partner?"

"Yes."

"What did they kill him with?"

"I don't know; assegais, I suppose."

"Then you didn't see them kill him?"

"No."

"Is he dead?"

"I have told you that the Barushu are up, that they----"

Wrenshaw interrupted the man: "Did you see his dead body?"

"No."

"Then you don't know that he is dead. You say they have taken your cattle; how many?"

"A hundred and fifty head."

"Did they threaten to kill you?"

"No."

"Did you do anything to prevent the Barushu from taking your cattle?"

"How could I? I wasn't there."

"Who was in charge of the cattle?"

"My partner, Jones."

"One more question: who told you that the Barushu had beaten the police?"

"A native."

"Did he also tell you that the Barushu had risen?"

"Yes."

"And that your partner had been killed and your cattle taken away?"

"Well, not exactly; but----"

"You're a silly scaremonger, spreading a yarn like this, and a cur to boot for deserting your partner! Get out of my camp; get out quickly; go South, go anywhere. I don't care where you go so long as you do go!"

The man expostulated and threatened to report to Headquarters Wrenshaw's unmannered treatment of him. As the Commissioner took no more notice of him, he went off.

But Wrenshaw was scanning the road which led towards the seat of the alleged trouble. Presently he stepped back into his tent, picked up his field-glasses and, returning, focussed them on a distant point of the road.

What he saw perturbed him; he returned the glasses to his case and walked impatiently up and down before his tent. A runner was approaching, a Government messenger, he could tell that by his uniform. In his hand he bore a split reed with a letter slipped in it. His long Arab shirt was gathered up and tucked into his belt to give greater freedom in running.

The messenger came along at that steady jog trot which enables the native to cover such surprising distances in Africa. On nearing Wrenshaw he dropped into a walk, approached the white man, saluted and handed him the letter.

The envelope was addressed to the Commandant of the Police Force at Headquarters. Without hesitation the Commissioner tore it open and read as follows:

C.A.R. POLICE, MORA STATION. "MONDAY, 26th JUNE, 19--.

SIR,

I have the honour to report that there is a native rising. This p.m. I met a large crowd of them who behaved in such a queer way that I thought it best to go back to camp, seeing that I had only two police boys with me and they having no rifles and me only a few rounds.

On the way back to camp I fell in with the trader Jones with a mob of cattle, whose partner Wilkie has been killed by the natives and he anxious to come into laager.

I am putting the camp in a state of defence with the help of the said Jones and await orders.

Your obedient servant, JOSEPH WILSON, Sergeant in Charge.

So there was something in it after all. Wrenshaw went into his tent and wrote a reply to the Sergeant of Police:

To SERGEANT JOSEPH WILSON,

I have read your letter to the Commandant and will deal with it. Do not worry overmuch about the rising, I will attend to that too. Remain in camp or you might miss me, I am coming your way.

RICHARD WRENSHAW.

After a short consultation with his juniors Wrenshaw issued his orders.

He sent for his horse, told the interpreter to get his pony, and also to saddle-up and load a pack mule. The two Native Commissioners were to carry on as usual, accepting the tax from those who came to pay.

It was nearly midday. He had to cover twenty miles by sundown. This was easy enough for himself and his interpreter, but he would also take his gunbearer and his cook. He believed in being comfortable, and saw no reason for roughing it now. The two on foot would have to hurry.

II.

It was after sundown when the party reached their destination. The cook had stubbed his toe against a root in the path.

Taking advantage of the remaining light, Wrenshaw helped the interpreter to pitch the patrol tent. The cook collected wood for an all-night fire and then fetched water from the nearest stream half-a-mile away. The gunbearer cut coarse grass for bedding for the horses. Each servant had his job, which he performed with the precision born of long practice.

The camping ground was well-chosen. In front was a level plain, probably a mile wide. After the first quarter of a mile it was very swampy; a single path led across it to the high ground which flanked the river beyond. Wrenshaw knew this path, he was probably the only living white man who did. The high ground was thickly covered with palm trees; behind the spot chosen for the camp was mile upon mile of thin forest.

When bringing in his last load of grass the gunbearer stumbled over a native lying face downwards on the ground.

He stirred him with his foot. "Now then, you, what do you want?"

As he could get no satisfactory reply he brought the fellow to Wrenshaw, who asked who he was.

"One of Nanzela's men, Morena."

"Nanzela the Barushu?"

"He is."

"Where is he now?"

"On the river bank."

"With his people?"

"With his people."

"What are you doing here?"

"I was on my way to join him when you arrived. I was afraid, and hid myself."

"You may go to Nanzela and give him a message. Say that I have come. That I come because I hear Nanzela boasts. He says he will not pay the Government tax. That he asks for war. Tell him that if by sunrise to-morrow he does not come to me with tax-money in his hands, I shall come to him with a gun in mine."

Whilst Wrenshaw had been speaking the native's eyes had wandered. He was making a mental note of the white man's forces. There was the white man himself--an unknown quantity--an alien black man in clothes who interpreted the white man's words, a native of a neighbouring tribe attending to two horses, and a half-caste busy with some cooking-pots at the fire. So far as he could see there were no more than these. He looked again at the white man and wondered what his real strength might be. However, it didn't matter, as by this time Nanzela had posted scouts on every path, and the police camp, some miles away, was being watched. The white man, too, would be watched.

The sun had set, and it was now quite dark save for the camp fire which the cook had made. A mile away, on the high ground by the river, little points of light appeared. The Barushu were lighting their fires and preparing for the night. Judging by the distance on either hand to which these fires extended, the natives had assembled in some force.

Presently the sound of a drum, then of another, then of many, reached the white man's ear.

"What is that sound?"

"I do not know, Morena."

"Are they not drums?"

"They are drums."

"War drums?"

"I do not know."

"What is their message?"

"I do not know."

The man, of course, lied; he could read their message as well as any other native of his tribe within earshot.

"Go, give my message to Nanzela."

The man turned to go, bidding the white man rest in peace.

"Go safely," was the reply.

Presently the cook announced "Dinner ready, sir," and Wrenshaw moved to the small camp table. The moment he sat down he felt he could not eat. He had decided on his lonely journey in the heat of the moment--of the midday sun, as it were; now that it was dark and cold, he wished he had brought one of his assistants with him.

On second thoughts he was very glad he had come alone. If there was going to be trouble--and it looked uncommonly like it--a life might have been needlessly sacrificed.

His cook aroused him from his mooning by: "Soup's cold, sir."

"Well, take it away and bring something else! What is there?"

"Guinea-fowl and some native peas, sir."

"All right, and give me a drink."

"Whisky or gin, sir?"

"Whisky to-night; not much, just a little."

After a drink Wrenshaw felt more settled and attacked the guinea-fowl.

Presently he started up and walked a few paces from his camp and listened.

His message must have reached Nanzela: a roar of distant laughter, followed by a hum of voices, arose from the encamped Barushu. Then the drums began again, but this time they beat to a song well known to Wrenshaw, a song to which natives dance.

Stop the pig and see where he will pass; Stop him! Stop him! Stop him!

That Nanzela should see in his message a huge joke slightly annoyed Wrenshaw, but he reflected that people with a sense of humour were more easily dealt with than those in a sullen mood. Yes, it was, perhaps, a ridiculous thing for him to have come alone on such an errand.

He went back to his table and attacked the guinea-fowl once more, this time with vigour.

After dinner he lit his pipe and ordered a large billy-can of coffee made very strong. He had a long night in front of him.

He made no attempt to sleep; he wouldn't risk it. The Barushu had, in days gone by, a nasty habit of making a night attack. He didn't expect them to attack him, especially after their laughter; but he intended to take no risks.

He had the fire piled up and saw that a plentiful supply of wood had been collected and placed handy. He told his natives to turn in, and walked across to where the horses were tethered. The animals seemed comfortable: one was lying down and the other standing with drooping head, dozing. He satisfied himself that their blankets were secure and that they had emptied their nosebags.

Next he loaded his rifle and tied it lightly to the tent pole; he also loaded a double-barrelled horse-pistol, a twenty-bore, shooting large, leaden slugs; very handy for close quarters.

Then he sat down and listened. The camp fires over the way were for the most part dying down. Wrenshaw had no illusions: he knew that he was being watched; by how many, he could not tell. It might be the intention of the Barushu to make a sudden end of him during the night. If he had brought a dog with him it would have given him timely warning; but, then, no dog can travel comfortably for twenty miles in the heat of the day without water.

And supposing they did wipe him out, what then? His mind flew back to England. Would she care? He supposed she would; hoped she would. Well, no, not exactly hoped; that was hardly the word. But did she care? Did she care enough to make her home with him in this rough country?

She certainly seemed sorry when he left England a few months before. Her letters, too, were a source of encouragement to him, for she dwelt upon the good times they had had together when he was on leave.

He took her last letter from his pocket. "Dear Mr. Wrenshaw." How bald it looked to be sure. If only she had written "Dear Dick," or "My dear Dick," or.... However, she hadn't; but she did sign herself "Your friend." Into this simple signature Wrenshaw read a whole world of meaning, which, of course, might not have been intended; again, it might.

By Jove! Why not write to her? It might be his last chance. Those fools on the high ground over the way might blot him out. He had his writing gear with him. He would write.

He must, however, be careful what he wrote. No pathetic sort of last letter. No heroics of the penny novelette type. If he did go under, well, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that just before the event he had thought of her.

Wrenshaw got some paper and an indelible pencil and began:

MY FRIEND...

At this he stuck for a long time; what on earth could he write about? There were ten thousand things he wanted to say. Most of them he had no right to say because they were not engaged; there was not even an understanding between them. The remainder would give the show away; she would see that he was in danger, or, at any rate, in a tight place. He must write in some sort of general terms.

This is what he wrote:

MY FRIEND,

I am on one of my journeys through the country; at this moment am sitting by the light of my camp fire, writing.

I do not feel very sleepy to-night, some strong coffee which I drank after dinner is keeping me awake.

The natives in the distance are beating their drums, which adds to the mystery of the night. Their booming may mean a message sent by the African equivalent to the telegraph or it may be that a cheery dance is in progress miles away. Do you remember our last dance?

We are quite a small party here, only a couple of horses, a mule, and three natives. I like to travel light in this way sometimes, it gives one a sense of greater freedom, of independence.

To-morrow I continue my journey; until morning comes I shall not know exactly in which direction I am to travel. All depends upon an interesting meeting to which I have called the members of a curious tribe. They may have arranged my journey for me.

Wrenshaw read through what he had written and mentally condemned it for a stupid letter, a poor effort. What more was there to say? Plenty he wanted to say, but what more could he say? He couldn't add that he felt sleepy now and must go to bed, it would look so silly with that opening reference to the strong coffee. How should he end it?

He settled the matter by saying that he would tell her all about his plans in the morning, and signed himself: "Your sincerest friend, D.W." He then addressed the envelope.

Rising, he split a thin stick a few inches down its length, inserted the envelope, and made it fast with a twist of bark. Then he pressed the stick into the ground. The letter in its holder resembled a miniature notice board. If the natives did dispose of him, they wouldn't destroy the letter. The written message is sacred in Africa: some native would deliver it to some white man. In due course it would reach her, shortly after the news of his death, perhaps. If she cared, she would understand. If she didn't, she would vote it a dull letter.

Rather ashamed of his weakness, Wrenshaw poured himself out another large mug of strong black coffee and returned to his lonely vigil.

His three companions were sound asleep, snoring loudly. Of the three, the interpreter had most cause for concern, because he should have had some inkling of the position, but even he slept. The half-caste was a brainless fellow, albeit a good cook. The gunbearer didn't bother his head about matters which didn't appear to disturb his master.

In the far distance a lion was roaring. A large green beetle hurried past Wrenshaw's feet in the direction of the fire. He picked it up and threw it far into the darkness; the insect somehow reminded him of himself.

III.

Just before dawn the gunbearer woke up feeling cold. He crept out of his blanket and to the fire, which had died down and was nearly out. On reaching the fire he saw his master sleeping in his chair without other covering than the clothes he had ridden in throughout the afternoon. The man quietly got his own blanket and gently spread it over his master's knees.

Wrenshaw was wide awake in an instant. His hand shot out to his pistol, but, recognising his gunbearer, the movement was arrested. He accepted the attention; to have refused the grimy blanket would have been ungracious and have hurt the man; besides, he was chilled to the bone. He told the gunbearer to rake the fire together and throw on some more wood. There was still some coffee in the pot, and this he heated and drank.

Feeling warmer, he got up and paced about to restore his circulation and get rid off his stiffness.

So after all he had slept; well, he was glad he had, for now he felt rested and refreshed.

He woke the interpreter and told him to feed the horses. The cook got up and took charge of the fire.

Looking towards the other side of the plain he saw signs that the Barushu were also astir. The points of light twinkled at him across the intervening space.

The sky in the east was becoming tinged with red. The silence was broken only by the sound of his animals munching their corn. This, slight as it was, woke a flock of guinea fowl roosting in some trees not far away; they began to exchange shrill greetings.

As it became lighter he could see a thin ribbon of white mist suspended over the swamp. This did not interfere with his view of the high ground on which the Barushu had camped during the night, but he could distinguish nothing but the dark shadow of the palm trees and undergrowth. The light of the first was becoming rapidly paler as the day dawned.

The gunbearer, who had the usual eyesight of uncivilised man, was the first to notice movement on the other side.

"The Barushu are coming, Morena."

"Good, many of them?"

"Yes, many."

Wrenshaw took his glasses and scanned the further edge of the swamp. Yes, there they came, in single file. He smiled as he noted the twistings of the secret path which they followed. On they came, a thin black stream fed constantly from the palm tree forest. Soon the head of the column disappeared in the stratum of mist which obscured the greater part of the swamp, but the stream of natives from the palm trees did not cease.

Wrenshaw untied his rifle from the tent pole and put it and the horse pistol on his camp table. Then he pushed the table into the patrol tent and, placing his chair in the entrance, sat down. In this position he had only to stretch out his hand to reach his weapons if the necessity arose; in the meantime they were out of sight.

Although he had been expecting for some time to see the first Barushu emerge from the mist, he was a little startled when he realised that the van of the oncoming column was within three hundred yards of him. The natives had left the secret path, but still moved in single file.

By this time it was quite light.

Wrenshaw took up his glasses again and examined his visitors. They were an ugly looking lot and quite naked. He presently became aware that there was something strange about them; what was it? Oh, of course, contrary to their custom, they carried no assegais. Well, that, at any rate, was a good sign.

Then again, they were walking extraordinarily slowly. Marking time, obviously, until their fellows had crossed the swamp. On second thoughts Wrenshaw rejected that explanation. He kept his glasses fixed on the foremost man. The fellow appeared to be lame, lame in the right leg. He shifted his glasses. By Jingo, the whole lot were lame, all lame or stiff in the right leg.

It was the gunbearer who solved the mystery.

"Morena."

"Well?"

"Why do the Barushu carry their assegais in their toes to-day?"

"Why, indeed?"

So the devils meant trouble after all. Stalking him, were they? He would make some of 'em smart for this.

The white man took some cartridges from his pocket and placed them handy on the table. He glanced at his letter, which stood erect in its holder like a miniature notice-board.

He looked at the dull-brained cook and felt sorry for him. His interpreter, who was standing, appeared to be feeling faint. The gunbearer was quite unperturbed.

Close to a large dead tree, which stood alone in the plain about a hundred yards from where Wrenshaw was sitting, the leader halted and the Barushu began to bunch into knots, talking quietly. Wrenshaw didn't like the look of things. Something must be done, and done quickly. He must make the first move, and lose no time about it.

"Go," he said to the interpreter, "and tell the Barushu that they may pile their assegais against that tree, and after that they may come forward and talk to me."

"Morena, I am afraid."

"So it seems, but what's the matter with your hands, with your coat?"

The interpreter was terrified, and, which was worse, showed it. He fiddled with the buttons of his coat, doing them up, undoing them, and again doing them up. His pale, yellow face had become greenish, his eyes were rolling, and he seemed unable to stand still.

This would never do. Even if the Barushu meant no mischief, such an exhibition of fear wasn't good for them.

"Pick up that log," said Wrenshaw, pointing to a huge piece of wood collected overnight for the fire, "and hold it in your arms."

The frightened man obeyed, he held the log as a woman does a baby.

Wrenshaw turned to the gunbearer, "You go and tell them to stack their assegais and come forward to talk. Don't go too near them, shout from halfway. I have my rifle ready."

If the Barushu made to kill his man he would open fire at once and get in a few shots before the end came.

The gunbearer stepped forward. The Barushu watched his approach. A single man and unarmed. They could see that the white man was alone save for a Government servant in clothes; he, at any rate, was of no account. Then there was the half-caste at the fire; well, after all, what could two men do against so many? What was the trap? No, let this fellow come forward, they would wait and see what he was going to do.

Halfway the gunbearer stopped and delivered his message in a loud voice that all could hear. Then he repeated it. No one heard his voice the third time, although he shouted lustily, for the Barushu broke into peals of laughter. "Oh, this white man, how cunning he is; so he has found us out and has spoilt our very good joke. Well, well, better do as we are told, put our assegais against the tree and hear what he is going to say to us. But it would have been very funny."

Each man lifted his right foot, and removing his assegai from between his toes placed it against the dead tree.

At length all the Barushu were seated, marshalled to their places by the imperturbable gunbearer. At a signal from Nanzela, who sat slightly in advance of his followers, a good two thousand men clapped their hands in greeting to the chief official of the District.

So far, so good. Normal relations had been established. The usual formal inquiries concerning the well-being of each were put and answered.

"Come nearer, Nanzela, and sit here," said Wrenshaw. "I wish to speak to you."

Nanzela walked to the spot pointed out to him and sat down.

"The time has come when all men pay the tax to the Government. Have you had warning of it?"

"I have."