Part 9

"Who is this who brings ivory?" asked the Chief.

"It is Moyo of the Rivoswe country," someone volunteered.

"Oh, the man who is said to have broken our laws. See, he brings two tusks and they are large ones."

"Yes, the tusks he brings are large ones," remarked several of those in the Council House.

"Who accuses this man of law-breaking?" demanded the Chief.

There was no reply. All knew their master's weakness for ivory.

The Chief addressed Moyo: "Tell me, old man, what mischief was in your heart when last you left my village?"

Moyo pointed to the tusks. "I went to hunt elephants for the Chief. For long I hunted before I killed. When I had killed, I brought my ivory to my Chief. I am no law-breaker. Is it against the law for the Chief's slave to hunt elephants for the Chief?"

"If," answered the Chief, "to bring me ivory is to break the law, let many break it. Who accused this man?"

As no answer was forthcoming, the Chief accepted the ivory.

As a matter of fact this old man Moyo had been very troublesome in days gone by. He had refused to pay the annual tribute of honey, corn and skins, and had driven away the tax-gatherers sent to collect. Now, realising that he was getting on in years, he thought it wise to make his peace. No one ventured to remind the Chief of these things in view of the offering of two goodly tusks. Moyo was permitted to go to his home in peace; it was, however, plainly hinted to him that ivory would not save his skin if again he thought fit to defy the Chief's authority.

At length Bositi's turn came. "Who is this slave?" asked the Chief.

Someone spoke for him. "He comes with a small gift. He has been working for many years for the white man."

"Is this the fellow who has been making the white man's stemala?"

(By "stemala" the Chief meant railway, probably an attempt at the word "steamers.")

"Yes, Chief," said Bositi, "I have been making stemalas."

"Can you make good stemalas?"

"Yes, Chief, I can make them. I have been helping the white man to make them for many years."

"What does the white man use stemalas for?"

"To carry goods too heavy for a man to carry, and to travel distances more quickly and greater than a man can travel."

"Could you build a stemala for me?"

Without hesitation Bositi declared he could build a railway for the Chief if he were provided with the necessary men to help him and a few axes and adzes for felling and shaping the timber.

"Is not the stemala made of iron?" inquired the Chief.

"Yes, the white man uses iron from his country where it is found in pieces as long and as straight as a palm tree. He has no big trees in his country. In the Chief's country iron is only found in little pieces, but the trees are large and long."

"If you make a good stemala for me you shall be the headman of your village and the induna of your district. The axes and the adzes shall be given to you. Go and make a stemala for me; go quickly and make the stemala quickly."

"I will go, but the Chief must know that a stemala is a big thing to make. Many men and many days are wanted for its making."

"It is well; I understand," said the Chief. Then turning to one of his principal advisers, he directed him to see that Bositi had all the men and all the tools he required.

That night much fuss was made over Bositi who was to become the headman of his village and the induna of his district--when he had made a railway for his Chief.

As for Bositi, he talked big things and adopted the manner of a big man, bearing himself as if his railway were already built and he installed in his high position.

In due course were settled such small details as where the railway was to be built, how many men were required, and what tools would be wanted from the Chief's store.

At length the party set out. Bositi was the most important member of it. Next, and with authority in some respects even greater than his, was the Chief's representative. This man had power to requisition slave labour in the Chief's name and free food from the villages near to the seat of operations.

The spot chosen for the railway was some two hundred miles from the Chief's village. This was fortunate for Bositi, for the distance freed him from too much tiresome supervision. It was on the main river where free navigation is interrupted by a waterfall of considerable size and a series of formidable rapids. For centuries travellers had been content to drag their canoes overland round these obstacles. The going was very heavy as the soil was loose and sandy. The railway was to save this labour. Canoes were to be put on the rails above the falls and so transported to the quiet water below. A more useful railway, from the natives' point of view, could not have been planned.

I was shown over the works by Bositi himself in the early days of construction, before those difficult problems arose which sooner or later confront all who "bite off more than they can chew."

If Bositi had paid strict attention to business and had attached that importance to details which details have a way of demanding, I think his railway would have been a success. But this is too much to expect of any native.

He began well.

I found firmly fixed to the ground by means of stout wooden pegs half a dozen well-made wooden rails. Much labour had been expended on these, for they were cut from large trees. They were perfectly straight and set in true parallel. Resting on the rails were two pairs of wheels: each pair was linked together by a heavy axle bar, rounded at either extremity to permit the wheels to turn freely, but squared between the wheels. The wheels, which were secured to the axle by wooden pins, were shaped like cotton reels: that is, they were doubly flanged in order to keep them from slipping off the rails.

Bositi ordered his men to put a long, heavy log across the axle of the two pairs of wheels and proudly pushed it backwards and forwards along the short length of line, some sixty feet.

He explained that when the work was finished it would be necessary only to place a canoe, fully loaded, across the axles and push it along.

I asked him how many months he had been at work on the construction. He said six. I pointed out that as the distance to be covered by the rails was some three miles, it would be forty years and more before the railway was ready for use. In the meantime, what about the ravages of the white ant?

Bositi appeared hurt but not discouraged. I think he put my criticism down to the natural jealousy which a white man would feel upon finding that a native is not incapable of great things.

He explained that the work had required some planning out, that the local people had been slow to respond to the calls made upon them by the Chief's representative for food and labour, and that the rains had hindered progress.

I admitted that these were difficulties which required time to overcome, and asked to be shown his working camp.

Bositi led me some distance into the forest. Here I saw a number of men busy with tiny native adzes upon some felled trees, shaping them into wooden rails. In very few instances were the rails in the making as straight as those already laid. It was clear to me that the wheels would somehow have to negotiate very awkward turns and twists in the line, and I wondered how they would do it.

By no amount of questioning and patient explanation could I get Bositi to see the difficulty which lay ahead of him, so I presently continued my journey, encouraged by the promise that when next I passed that way with my canoes I should enjoy a ride on the wooden railway.

* * * * *

That section of the Cape to Cairo railway was never finished. I inspected the abandoned line many months later and found, as I had expected, that the white ants had eaten the rails almost as quickly as they were laid. I also saw that less trouble had been taken in making them. The trees from which they were cut were crooked, so here the rails widened, there they narrowed. Here there was a hump, there a depression.

I made it my business to find out what had become of Bositi. He had not been made a headman of his village nor an induna of his district; but, having failed in his undertaking and squandered all his substance, he had gone south again to live the careless life of the railway camp, where, under the hand of the white man, difficulties seem to disappear as quickly as the morning mist before the rising sun.

THE LICENSED VICTUALLER.

John Smith was an up-country caterer in a remote part of Africa. We called him Joseph, after other shining lights in the trade.

I don't think I ever saw him quite sober, but, on the other hand, never heard of his being drunk. He was not good to look at, being fat, bald and red-faced.

A stranger once called him Joe. Our host was indignant at the familiarity, and snapped: "I'm Joe to me pals, John Smith to me acquaintances, Mr. Smith to you, damn you!" Coming across to my table, he winked heavily, and said in a hoarse stage-whisper: "P'raps you've 'eard a bloke say that afore?"

I admitted I had.

"Come in nice and 'andy, tho'," said Joe.

Joe's place of business was a frame house with walls of canvas. He had named it the "Duke of York's Restuarant." The spelling was his; so, too, was the sign-writing.

He was a man of uncertain temper. One day a hungry guest asked for more beef. Joe thought this unreasonable, and thus addressed the man:

"Yore twist do give yer nerve. 'Ere, tike the bloomin' lot!" With that he hurled the round of beef full at the hungry man's head; it missed him and passed out through the canvas wall. Joe glared at his damaged property for a space, and then in a loud voice made it known to the rest of us that "Beef's off."

On another occasion a boarder declined to partake of a doubtful-looking meat concoction which Joe declared was "frickerdells."

"Wot, yer don't like 'em, don't yer?"

"No."

"Won't eat 'em, won't yer?"

"No."

We all held our breath, wondering what manner of assault Joe would select for this reckless fellow.

But Joe grinned, actually grinned, and replied: "I don't blame yer; I wot makes 'em wouldn't touch 'em; no, not for a fortune."

One Saturday afternoon I happened to be passing through the yard when Joe was discussing with his handy-man, Sammy, the Sunday lunch. (Sammy was an Indian, and in Africa all Indians are "Sammy" to all men.)

"'Ow many dead chickens are there, Sammy?"

"Fourteen, Boss."

"'Ell! 'Ow many died yesterday and 'ow many did yer find dead this mornin'?"

"Eight yesterday and six to-day, Boss."

"Well, we'll curry the eight and roast the six."

On Sunday I refused curry and roast fowl. Joe asked why. I told him.

"Blokes wot 'ang around the cook-'ouse door 'ears things an' sees things o' times wot puts 'em off their grub. 'Ave some bully?"

I did.

Joe seldom had enough waiters, and what he had were mostly black men, quite untrained. I remember one white waiter who answered to the name of William. In our eyes he had many faults--in Joe's, but one. He would talk to the customers, stand and talk instead of attending to wants.

Joe warned him repeatedly, but his warnings were lost on William.

One day Joe lost his temper. "Look 'ere, you snip, wot 'ave I told yer? Wot 'ave I kep' on tellin' yer? You'd talk the 'ind leg off a mule! You'r hat it agen. 'Ere, quit. Sling yer 'ook out o' this. I'm bloomin' well fed up with yer."

William blinked at Joe during this harangue, and then quietly asked: "Do I understand you to mean, Joe, that I'm sacked?"

"Yes," said Joe, "I sack yer. Come to the till for yer pay."

"Do you mean," pursued William, "that I am a free man?"

"You are," said Joe.

William turned and looked up and down the crowded tables. He then walked quietly to an empty seat and sat down, bawling:

"Joe, bring me a plate o' beef; look sharp, I'm in a hurry."

As Joe's business grew (and it did grow in spite of Joe), the waiting became too much for him. He had so many guests that he couldn't get them served quickly enough to please himself, or them. This man wanted one thing, that another, and a third something else; all called their wants loudly and together.

Joe's remedy was, I believe, original. Sharp at one o'clock he had each place set round with generous helpings of all the dishes for the day. You would find a plate piled with roast beef, greens and potatoes; a second equally full of cold pork, potatoes and spring onions; a third with hashed mutton and potatoes; a fourth with hot suet pudding plentifully smeared with treacle; half a loaf of bread on a fifth, and so on. To one arriving a little late, this spectacle was far from appetising. One knife and fork and one spoon had to do duty for the lot.

Most people ate what they wanted and left the rest. Once a guest protested that he could not eat everything set before him. Joe was hurt. "'Oo the 'ell arst yer to?" he thundered savagely. "It won't cost yer no more, nor no less, either way."

Just inside the "restuarant" door there stood what Joe described as a "wash-and-brush-up-nice-and-'andy." It was his claim that he catered for the "better clarse." The "wash-and-brush-up" consisted of a tin basin on an empty upturned whisky case. The water was usually dirty; the towel, suspended from a roller, was always so; the soap was a long bar of "blue mottled." Dangling from a piece of string, tied to a nail driven into the wooden framework of the wall, was a tooth-brush. Heaven knows where Joe got it from; it was by no means new. He had never used one himself. When I questioned him on the subject of this "fitting," he said: "Some people uses 'em. Like as not I should be arst for one quick enough if I didn't have one. Best to tie it to the 'ouse, or some bloke 'ud lift it."

Someone once asked for a table napkin. Joe was puzzled, and looked searchingly at the man. He suspected a "leg-pull."

"What for?" he demanded.

The man explained.

"Oh, it's a servy-yet yer want, is it? Ain't got any! You wait till the railway comes, then we'll get all manner o' things--servy-yets, toothpicks, and suchlike. Don't be unreasonable; you ain't in a drawin'-room now, yer know."

When the railway did come, Joe sold his business for much money and went North. The sight of a starched collar and a tie in his "restuarant" was a sign for him that civilisation had reached his very door. Joe didn't like civilisation, and hated "torfs." He had been known to remark: "The sight of a bloke in a boiled shirt makes me sick."

* * * * *

On the spot once occupied by Joe's eating house now stands a large hotel built of stone, with a bathroom leading out of every bedroom.

THE JOHNNIE-COME-LATELY.

William Blake walked quietly into the bar of the Tantani Hotel. It was obvious to all that he had not been out from England long, because his clothes were so new and clean. Besides, he bore the self-conscious air which is an unmistakeable sign.

All the men who crowded the bar wore reach-me-downs; or, if their clothes had been made in England, it was very, very long ago.

William knew the barman, who had been at Eton with his elder brother. Men find strange jobs in Africa in the process of reaching their proper level. I must add that in course of time that same barman bought the bar--and many other things besides--and ultimately represented his district on the Legislative Council.

At the moment of William's entry the barman was busy, so the youngster edged his way in between the wall and the brawny back of a corduroyed transport-rider, intending to wait quietly until he could catch the barman's eye.

The place was thick with the fumes of strong drink and tobacco smoke--Boer tobacco smoke. Of all the unlovely habits which men acquire, that of smoking Boer tobacco is the most trying to other people. I know, because I used to smoke it once, and I have seen it empty an Underground railway carriage at every station.

But William did not smoke, neither did he drink strong drink; he merely wanted to have a talk to the man his brother fagged for. But, on reaching the bar, he unintentionally jogged the transport-rider's arm and spilt some of his liquor.

"Who the hell are you shovin'?"

"Sorry."

"Sorry, are you? Yer bloomin' tailor's model."

The barman's chief asset was a quick ear and a keen sense of rising trouble. He was at the end of the counter in a moment.

"Hullo, Bill. Upset Rogers' drink, have you? Well, both have a drink at my expense. This boy is a friend of mine, Rogers."

"Well, Jimmy, as he's a friend of yours I'll overlook the accident--and I will. Mine's a gin and tonic; what's the boy goin' to drink?"

Before William could explain that he didn't drink, the barman said: "I know his poison, don't I, Bill?" following this up with a heavy wink.

"Mr. John Rogers--Mr. William Blake."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blake. Put it here."

The pair shook hands.

The barman pushed two glasses forward--one, containing gin, towards Rogers, and the other, lime-juice, for Blake. He took something out a bottle under the counter for himself, gave Rogers a small tonic, and split a small soda with William.

"Here's fun," said Rogers.

"Chin, chin," said Jimmy the barman.

The boy nodded gravely at each. They drank.

"Come on, let's have another," said Rogers. "Same as before for me, but not quite so much of your bloomin' tonic, Jimmy. Spoils the gin."

No sooner were the drinks poured out than the barman hurried away to attend to the calls at the other end of the counter, so the two were left to themselves.

"What are you drinkin', might I ask?"

"Lime-juice and soda," said William.

"Just what I thought. Now, my young friend, it won't do. Didn't you see the train come in to-day?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you? Well, isn't this the very first train to get here from the South?"

"Yes."

"Well, ain't you goin' to get drunk on it?"

"Certainly not."

Rogers stepped back and looked the boy up and down. Then----

"What will you bet?"

William didn't answer. The transport-rider knocked over the lime-juice and placed his gin in front of the boy.

"Drink that."

"No, I won't."

"Yer won't?"

"No."

"I'll give you three chances and no more."

With that Rogers drew a heavy revolver from his coat pocket.

"Drink! One!"

"No."

"Drink! Two!"

"No."

"Drink! Three!"

"No, I won't drink it."

Rogers stared at the boy for a moment and then put the revolver back in his pocket again.

"I like you. You've got grit. Drink rot-gut if you like, it ain't any business of mine. Here, take these."

"These" were a bundle of Standard Bank notes tied up with a piece of string. William edged close to the wall.

"Here, you take 'em; they're fivers. Got paid for a job to-day, but I like you, so you've got to have 'em."

"I don't want your money."

"Neither do I. Take 'em."

"No."

"What? You don't drink and you won't take good money?"

"No."

"I'll give you three chances, and this time I'll shoot."

"Take 'em! One!"

"No."

"Take 'em! Two!"

"No."

"Take 'em before I say three!"

"No."

"Well then, no one shall have 'em." And with that Rogers flung the bundle out of the door into the darkness. Then he bent his head upon his crossed arms and sobbed.

Jimmy seemed to be watching, for he lifted a flap in the bar counter, went outside the door, and returned almost immediately, stuffing the bundle into his pocket.

"Don't mind him, William."

Then to Rogers, "What about your drink?"

The transport-rider stood up.

"Did you see the train, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"Ain't nobody drunk?"

"Not very."

"The train's in and nobody drunk? I'll get drunk. I will get drunk."

And with that he danced round and round the bar waving his glass. "The train! The train! The train!" ... Crash!

Everyone turned round. John Rogers, transport-rider of Tantani, had fallen, and lay on the floor insensible.

"Rogers drunk?" came in a chorus of incredulity from all quarters. No one stooped to examine him; perhaps because few besides William and the barman felt it quite safe to stoop. Then several of his fellows pushed him under a seat with their feet, and turned to the bar again.

"Poor old Rogers," they said, "who would have thought it? Must be breaking up. Used to keep goin' for days together without turnin' a hair. Poor old blighter. Train's taken his transport-ridin' away from him. Yes, that's what's upset him."

But William met Rogers next morning, quite himself again.

"Morning, boy."

"Good morning."

"Jimmy gave me my money back."

"Of course."

"Have you got a job?"

"No."

"Looking for one?"

"Yes."

"Well, come my next journey with me. I'll go on the strict t.t. I'll show you some good shooting, too, and I want a hefty young man to help me with my cattle. Jimmy told me he thought you'd come. I want you to come."

William went, and a partnership sprang up which resulted in profit to both.

Rogers and Blake own that large cattle ranch just beyond Belingwe. Rogers must be nearly seventy now, and is still hale and hearty.

THE LOST RUBIES.

If you asked a South African mining man, no doubt he would tell you that there are no rubies in Africa. He would be wrong.

To my knowledge two very large ones have been found. One of them I have seen. The other I have heard about. Take my word for it, there are many rubies in Africa. I will go so far as to tell you where. I hope you will go and look for them, and, what is more, find them.

The rubies of which I write are to be found on the banks of the Zambesi, somewhere below the Victoria Falls. If I could give more exact details, I wouldn't do it: I should go and look for them myself.

As I said before, I know they are there, because I have actually held one in my hand. The man who showed it to me told me it was a ruby. I believed him, of course. I had reason to. But just to make sure, I placed it between two half-crowns, put the precious sandwich on a flat slab of granite, and gave it a severe twisting under my heel.

My silver suffered. I did manage to pass those half-crowns off on someone, but I felt a criminal.

Now this old man who showed the ruby to me looked a very old man indeed. He was a Scotsman. His long beard was only slightly red, otherwise it was white. To be quite accurate, I suppose I should say he had a long white beard tinged with pink. At least, so it seemed to me the first time I saw it and him.

It is just twenty-five years ago that the old man came to my camp on the Zambesi, some forty-five miles above the Victoria Falls.

Quite apart from his beard he was obviously old. His legs were thin. He hobbled from rheumatism. His cheeks were hollow, and how very thin his ears were! I remember his ears quite well, they were almost transparent and his hands--well, they were just claws.

This poor old man came to me for three things.

One. Could I mend a shot-gun? I had a look at the dingy old weapon and admitted that it was quite beyond me. It was a double-barrelled shot-gun with four good inches gone from the right barrel, one from the left, and the rib of metal which should join the two was curled back for a good ten inches.

He explained that he had tried to shoot a king-fisher and his gun exploded. He suggested that a mouse must have crept up the barrel during the night.

Perhaps one had.

I, personally, should have said that the gun was suffering from the same complaint as its owner--old age.

Well, I couldn't help him in the matter of the gun, so what was the next thing?

Had I a drop of good Scotch? Yes, by Jingo, I had, and very welcome the poor old fellow was to it.

I gave him a good dose of his native medicine, which seemed to put back the clock of time for him at least a couple of dozen years.

And the third thing?

Oh, yes, the third thing. He began:--

"You see, I am an old man. I'm an honest man, oh yes, quite honest. I don't lie like the others."

He paused and looked out of the door of my tent.

"The other two are bad."