Part 14

"A third, who did not return with us, broke her back with a club, but she tore his thigh with her teeth. Then I went to her and pierced her belly with my assegai. But she bit me in the arm and shoulder and clawed me down the back. She also broke my assegai with her teeth so that it was useless.

"Then, having nothing with which to kill her, I held her by the ears with my two hands, calling to these slaves to come and finish her, for I could see by her face that she was dying. But they were afraid and ran away like women. And the leopard shook her head and my hands slipped because of the blood which had run down my arm from my shoulder. And when my hands came together, she took them in her mouth and crushed them both. Then she died."

The man's hands were swollen and shapeless. He had a large gash and a deep puncture in his shoulder, and his back was very badly scored.

After staring for a while at their companion, the natives who brought him slipped quietly away, hastened in their departure, no doubt, by his reference to the sorry part which they had played in the affair.

Warner was greatly pleased. He looked upon the coming of this wounded man as a stroke of good fortune. Here at last was a straightforward case, all clear and above board. And he knew exactly what to do. Corrosive sublimate, one in ten thousand, wash the blood off, keep the wounds clean, make the man comfortable.

He shouted for his kitchen boys and ordered warm water in large quantities. He had not seen them go, so called the wounded man's companions to build a shelter of grass and branches for him. When he realised that they had gone, he set to work on the shelter himself.

For weeks Warner laboured on those wounds. The man improved slowly. As he grew better he spoke of payment. Warner told him not to bother about it, but he persisted.

"Have you not given me back my life?"

"What of it?"

"Are not those others dead?"

Now, this was true. The other wounded men who went to their homes all died of blood-poisoning, and Warner's reputation grew in consequence.

But no matter what arguments and persuasions were used, Warner would not hear of payment in any shape or form.

The man was obstinate.

"If I receive a gift from a man, must I not give one in return? Am I to be shamed? Is it not the custom that a gift shall be received with a gift? And gifts must be equal. What, then, shall I give to the Great Doctor? What have I, a very poor man, of value equal to the life which the Doctor has given back to me? I have no cattle and no sheep. I have a few goats, very few, and I have some wild cats' skins. But what are these to a life?"

Twice daily did Warner wash and dress the man's wounds. Each time the man spoke of a gift for a gift. He seemed to feel his honour was at stake.

At length the day came when Warner thought he could safely send his patient away. The man's final protestations of gratitude and his entreaties to be permitted to make some payment caused Warner much embarrassment. He firmly declined to accept the merest trifle in return for all his time and trouble. He would not be robbed of the feeling that at length he had done some genuine good for good's sake.

Of course he could explain nothing of this to the old native.

The man was much troubled. He went away at length saying he would bring next day the gift which he knew now the Doctor wanted. Warner repeated that he wanted nothing and would take nothing.

Next morning, when Warner got up and came out of his tent, he found the old man waiting for him. He was not alone. By his side sat a little girl, the old man's daughter.

Warner remembered having seen her several times before during her father's long illness. From time to time she had come with her mother to inquire how the old man progressed and to bring him some horrid-looking native delicacy.

"Here she is," said the late patient. "Here is my child. She is my only one. You ask for her and I give her to you. A life for a life, which is just."

Warner protested indignantly that he had not asked for the girl, that he did not want her or anything else.

"See, she is strong," persisted the old man. "She is strong to carry water, to grind grain. She is worth three cows, five goats and ten hoes."

Warner became quite angry.

The old man was incredulous and distressed. He had somehow concluded that Warner had really set his heart upon possessing his daughter, his plain, fat little daughter and nothing else, but that, native-like, he had not said so.

In the end Warner accepted, in self-defence, a mangy, evil-smelling cat's skin.

CHLORODYNE.

A day or two after Warner had become the unwilling possessor of the mangy skin, which, by the way, he promptly buried as soon as its donor's back was turned, he set out on a three days' journey from his camp to visit a white trader with whom from time to time he transacted business of some kind. He went on foot, accompanied only by a few natives, one of whom carried the box of medicines.

While he was resting during the midday heat, the Headman of the neighbouring village approached him with many signs of deference.

"Good day to you, Great Doctor."

"Good day to you," Warner replied.

"Are you indeed the Great Doctor?"

Warner was bold enough to say he was.

"Will the Great Doctor help me with medicines? My wife, who is very old, suffers from a great sickness. Her arms are now no thicker than a stick. Pain is with her always. She never sleeps. All day long and all the night she lies and moans. She no longer cries out. Will not the Great Doctor kill this sickness? I have told her of you."

Warner rose abruptly. He felt a lump rising in his throat. He wished he were a doctor instead of merely the owner of a box of drugs and all but ignorant of the uses to which they should be put.

"Where is your wife?" he asked gruffly.

"The Great Doctor will come!" exclaimed the delighted old native, leading the way towards his village.

Warner could distinguish little or nothing when he found himself inside the Headman's hut. Coming in directly from the outside glare made it difficult to see. The native pointed to a form propped up against the pole which supported the roof of the hut.

Warner looked; suddenly he saw all there was to see, and gasped as a faint moan of pain reached his ears. A thin old woman lay there with closed eyes, so thin that Warner marvelled that she could be alive. Her arms and legs, too, for that matter were indeed, as the Headman had said, as thin as sticks. Her distended ribs showed plainly even in the dim light. She had neither hair nor flesh on her skull, merely wrinkled, dull brown skin adhering closely to the bone. Her neck was no thicker than one's wrist. Her stomach was enormous.

Warner looked down upon this poor, emaciated creature with horror.

She moaned again.

Her husband said: "See, woman, here is the Great Doctor of whom all men speak. He has turned aside from his journeying to make you well with medicines. Does he not make all men well? Do not the people say so? Soon you will be well and will laugh again. Soon you will sit in the sun or go to the fields. Do you hear, woman? The Great Doctor has come."

Warner cursed under his breath. He never expected this sort of thing when he lightheartedly accepted from the hospital orderly the box of medicines with a conjuring trick thrown in. The thought of that conjuring trick was nauseating in the presence of this pain.

Save for the rapid heaving of her bony chest to laboured breathing, the woman had made no move since he entered the hut. Now, however, Warner saw the drooping eyelids flicker. A fear seized him that the poor creature would look up. He couldn't stand that. He couldn't meet her eyes. He hurried away, saying he would bring some medicine.

He reached his resting place and opened his box. Right on the top lay the bottle of chlorodyne. He repeated to himself: "Chlorodyne, good for pains in the stomach! Chlorodyne, good for pains in the stomach!"

Warner returned to the hut but wouldn't go in. He pushed the bottle into the old man's hand saying, parrot-like: "Good for pains in the stomach, give her some water with it."

Then he went back to his halt again, called to his boys to pack up and follow him, anxious only to put distance between himself and all that pain and suffering.

Ten days later Warner passed by that village again on his return journey. He could have followed another route, but a strong desire to ask about the woman drew him to the village. He must know about the woman. He had casually asked the trader with whom he had transacted his business how much chlorodyne one usually takes at a dose. The reply: "Oh, about fifteen drops or from ten to twenty, according to your size," nearly made his heart stand still. And he, the Great Doctor, had given the old native a full bottle of the stuff! True, he had not told him how much to take, but Warner found scant consolation in this thought.

As he and his carriers neared the village, he heard a great commotion, men shouting to each other and women making that shrill quavering noise familiar to all travellers in Africa. He thought he could distinguish the word "doctor." He was certain of it now. "The Great Doctor is coming. He who saves the people! The white man with the medicines! The Doctor! The Doctor!"

The natives broke through from the bush on every hand. They surrounded the little party. The carriers were quickly relieved of their loads. There was no mistaking the nature of the demonstration; it was one of goodwill, not of hate.

The old Headman hobbled up, praising Warner lustily.

What could it all mean?

At length Warner asked the question point blank: "How is your wife?"

"Oh, she is dead," replied the old man. "She died with a smile upon her face. I gave her half a cup full of your medicine filled up with water. She was silent for a long while. Then she said: 'I have now no pain.' And then: 'Give me more.' She smiled when I gave her another cup of your good medicine. And then she slept. And I knew she had no pain because she smiled. And as she slept she died. And when we buried her the smile was on her face. You are a Great Doctor and your medicine is very good. Good Fortune has come to the people that you are here. Can a man smile who is in pain? Does not a smile mean pleasure? Ah, but that is a good medicine."

"Give me back that bottle," said Warner, and his voice sounded strangely weak.

"Yes, Great Doctor, it is indeed a precious medicine."

NITRATE OF POTASH.

The memory of that old woman haunted Warner. He argued continuously with himself. Yes, he had certainly killed her. There was no doubt about it. On the other hand, she would have died in any case. If he had not come upon the scene, she might have lingered on for a few more weary weeks, never free from pain. Still, if he had overdosed her intentionally to end her pain, it would surely have been murder. At best it was a criminal blunder. But then he meant well. So, too, do other fools. Common sense told him he had no cause to worry, nothing to regret, it was merely a fortunate accident. Conscience viewed the matter seriously and with harshness.

Warner was still engaged in this mental struggle when a stranger, a white man, walked briskly up to his tent.

"Is anyone at home?"

"Yes, come in."

"Have you any nitrate of potash, doctor?"

Warner had become so used to the term "doctor" that he did not at once notice the significance of the word when spoken by a white man. So he merely answered: "Yes, I think so. What do you want it for?"

"I, too, am a doctor."

"A doctor?"

"Yes, a medical missionary, your new neighbour on the other side of the hill."

"Sit down a minute, I'll get the stuff."

Warner went to his box and, opening it, surveyed his wretched stock of stale drugs. So here was a real doctor! Thank Providence for that! He passed in review his many cases, only a few of which are set down here. He knew he had done his best, but he blamed himself for ever having aped the doctor.

"Is there anything you want besides nitrate of potash?"

"No, thanks. I've got everything else I'm likely to require."

Warner brought the bottle. "Here you are."

"Thanks. I only want a little."

"Take the lot."

"But you'll want it sooner or later."

"No."

"Of course you will."

"No."

"Then you have some more?"

"No."

"Then of course you'll want it."

"No, I'm not a doctor and I don't know how to use it. I don't really know the use of any drug. I've probably killed off dozens of people in my efforts to assist. I'm so glad you've come to live here."

When Warner sent applicants for medical relief to his new friend on the other side of the hill, they went, of course, but not too willingly. The newcomer did much good, but it was Warner who got the credit for it all. The natives invariably consulted Warner before going to the Missionary, and returned again to thank him after they had been treated. They persisted in the belief that the Missionary doctor was their Doctor's man.

Warner is still spoken of as "The Doctor"; all others who came later are referred to as "Medical Men."

THE END.

Printed by THE FIELD PRESS LTD., Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, E.C.4

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Spelling has not been standardized (e.g. wagon/waggon) or corrected (beginnng). Close quotes have not been added at the end of paragraphs followed by more dialogue.