Bones of the River (16 page)

“One of the advantages of the cinema,” said Hamilton, “is that you needn’t be able to spell. Who is this Chief Commissioner you keep talking about in your titles, Bones?” he asked, interested. “I didn’t know Sanders was assisting you in your nefarious plan to pander to the debased instincts of the British public!”

Bones coughed. “Well, to be perfectly candid, dear old thing,” he said, “dear old Sanders did talk about toddling down once, but he got stage-fright, old Ham. You know what these youngsters are, what, what?”

Bones could be waggish, but Bones could never be so waggish that he could lead Hamilton from his deadly trail.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you’re masquerading as a Commissioner? Why, even the poorest little street Arab that ever stole sixpence to go to the pictures will recognise you’re fake!”

Bones could afford to smile indulgently at the other’s strictures.

“What we want now, Ham,” he said seriously at dinner that night, “is a jolly old war! If we could only get a real good old dust-up between the mighty N’gombi and good old Bosambo, with me in the foreground, just to show that Britain’s watchful eye still keeps a watch, when naughty natives sleep – that’s a good bit of poetry, by the way, dear old thing, and don’t pass it off as your own.”

“Bones, if you wish for war I’ll kill you,” said Sanders, coming in at that moment. “The territories are quiet, and if we can only get over the harvest without a real big blood-letting, I shall be a happy man.”

Bones was silent, but not altogether hopeless. There was need for somebody to go to the Ochori country, for there was news of a recrudescence of Leopard trouble, and Bones gladly availed himself of the opportunity.

On the first night away from headquarters, when the
Zaire
was tied up to a wood, Private Mahmud sought out his sergeant.

“Effendi,” said he in coast Arabic, “what is this small box which Tibbetti carries and which you turn with a handle? Some say that it is a new gun; others that it is a taker of pictures. Now, we know that it is not a taker of pictures, because, when Hamiltini desires that a row of Houssas shall appear upon paper – which is against the law of the Prophet – he says, ‘Damnyoustandstill,’ which is an English word, and makes a clicking noise. Now Tibbetti does not say ‘Damnyoustandstill’ for he desires that you should walk; also he turns a handle. Tell me now, Effendi, why these things happen.”

Sergeant Ahmet, in all solemnity, explained as much of the mystery box as he understood.

“When Tibbetti turns the handle, pictures appear, one after another, so that when they are looked at quickly, they seem to be one and all moving.”

“That is too much of a mystery for me,” admitted the inquirer after knowledge, and sought no further information.

Not unconscious of his responsibility and importance, Ahmet was loth to let the discussion end there.

“Some day, when Tibbetti is away, I will gather you all together and make a special picture for you, so that your wives may see them. And for this you shall all give me one silver dollar.”

Though they boggled at the dollar, his men accepted the principle of the offer.

The opportunity he sought came to them after they had left the Ochori city and were journeying up that wild bank line which the
Zaire
so seldom traversed. More definite news had reached Bones about the Leopards – not the clean and yellow thing that stalks and slays, but something vile and abominable in the shape of man. Bones became instantly soldier and representative of the law, and for the moment his heart turned from Hollywood.

*  *  *

Obaga came back from his hunting. He had been a month away, and he had brought with him ten bushmen carriers, each with a load of pelts, for he was a skilful and patient man. His wife met him outside the village, her hands crossed before her, token of her meekness, and he passed her without a word, though, if he had known all he was to know, he would have returned to the village alone. She made him his dinner, and served it on the palms of her two hands.

“I stay here now for three and three moons,” said Obaga, “for the beasts will be breeding, and many have already gone away into their secret places.”

This she expected, and by native reckoning a month would pass before he learnt the truth. That night, when her husband was sleeping the sleep of utter weariness, she crept forth from her hut, and sped secretly to the wood, where the other man was waiting, she having sent for him.

“Obaga is returned,” she said. “Now, friend, what shall I do? For when he knows, he will kill me.”

“Why should he know?” compromised the other, manlike. “For are you not his wife, and is he not a man? I think it is best for you to say, ‘Husband, there is good news for you, and you shall have a son for your house’.”

She made a sound of impatience. “He knows what he knows,” she said cryptically, but to him understandably. “If I tell him this, I will take his killing spear into my hands, so that it will be sooner over. If you were to come into the hut tonight and spear him as he sleeps, or wait for him when he goes into the wood tomorrow, that would be best.”

“For you, woman, but not for me,” said the other. “All men in this village know that I am your lover, and Sandi will come with his guns and his soldiers, and my hut will be burnt. Also, Tibbetti is already here. He is sitting in the village of Busuri, where there is a Leopard palaver. It is said that there will be hangings. I know this, because the cunning ones have hidden their pads in the ground.”

She drew a quick breath. “Bring me the pads,” she whispered. “To-morrow, when it is dark, bring me the leopard pads.”

He was horrified at the suggestion, but she insisted; and in trepidation and fear he left her. She went back and lay down by her man.

When the next night came, she found Tebeli, for whom she had dared so much, and he was shaking like a leaf, and in his hands were two ugly skin-shapes, with little knives in place of claws, and the hair had earth upon it, as though they had recently been dug from the ground. He dropped them into the hands she held out as though they were red hot, and, turning without a word, would have fled back towards his village, but she stopped him.

“Now, my own man, go towards Busuri, where Tibbetti is, and tell him that a Leopard walks toward the village, and that, if they wait by the path, they may take him.”

He was in no mood for such an adventure, but she was stronger than he, and he went. And M’Libi returned to her hut, the pads, glove-like, on her hands. Obaga was too busy with his spears to notice, but when his eyes turned, he saw in the flickering light of the fire the hideous things she wore, and dropped his spear and leapt up with a roar.

“Woman who art shameless, what have you there?”

“These I found in my little box of wood, Obaga,” she said innocently.

She held her hands up to be admired, and the rusted steel claws glittered evilly.

“Oh ko!” said Obaga, agitated, “whose things are these?”

“They belong to a man in the village of Busuri,” she said. “Lobala, the fisher. These he gave to me when I was a little girl.”

“Give them,” said her husband, snatching them from her hand.

A second later, he was striding through the village to the forest path that led to Busuri. But the lover of his wife was quicker than he, and on the edge of the village three soldiers seized Obaga and brought him into the presence of Bones.

Now, of all things certain, this is most sure; any man who carries on his person, or hides in his hut, the insignia of the Leopard, is already dead. From one end of Africa to the other there is no mercy for the sons of the Leopard. Obaga knew that his fate was sealed.

“Man,” said Bones quietly, as he surveyed the damning evidence, “what horrible things are these?”

“Lord, they were given to me to bring to the village,” said Obaga.

“Who gave?” asked Bones, but the man was silent, because it was his wife who had given them.

“Lord, if I hang, I must hang,” said Obaga. “But I tell you this, that the Leopards are my enemies, for my father was a Fire Ghost, and we of the village of Labala have fought Leopards for a thousand years.”

Bones knew this was true, and was puzzled how a man from Labala came to be in possession of these things; and the order that should have been given for instant execution was delayed. In the morning the spies brought news from Busuri and the truth was out. Obaga, returning home, found his wife had fled.

That was the story of Obaga. There it would have ended, but for the village gossip. This matter of the Leopards cleared up to the satisfaction of everybody, save a still form that hung on a tree three miles from the village, Bones turned his thoughts to the customs and habits of native people. The artist in him had prayed that there would be a fight; the administrator in him was heartily glad that the trouble had ended without disturbance. Bones had a brilliant idea. He sent for the chief of the Busuri village and exhibited to him the camera.

“O chief,” said Bones, “this is a little eye that sees and remembers, and it desires to look upon the brave Ochori in battle. Now, let your young men play for me, pretending that they are warriors of two camps, attacking one another. But this you shall tell them, that if one man hurts the other, he shall be whipped,” he added hastily, knowing with what enthusiasm these spear players entered into the spirit of their exercise.

On the lower deck of the
Zaire
a troubled Sergeant Ahmet took counsel with a number of his comrades.

“Let no man speak to Tibbetti and tell him that I have turned the handle, that your faces should be in this wonderful box,” he said. For, in Bones’ absence, he had that day photographed his self-conscious soldiery. “Tomorrow morning, when it is light, I myself will get the pictures out of the box, for Tibbetti has told me, that all that is within there he will see. And I am a full sergeant, and he may take my stripes away.”

In the light of the early morning sun, under the curious and interested eyes of his friends, he opened the camera and looked carefully, unrolling the film foot by foot.

“Now, God be thanked!” said Ahmet in his relief. “For it seems that I did not take your picture at all. There is nothing there but yellow ribbon. Let us roll it up again, so that Tibbetti shall not know.”

The preparations for the great battle picture were made on an unprecedented scale. Bones rehearsed and rehearsed until his shirt stuck to his body, and then rehearsed again. And all the women and children of the village stood round, their fingers to their teeth, and watched the producer at work.

“Not there, you silly old ass!” screamed Bones in strident English. “Get over there, you silly old josser! Not there, go there! No, not there! Oh, you ditherer!”

These and similar injunctions, made the confused native a little more confused, and it is probable that the battle picture would never have been taken but for certain unforeseen circumstances.

“Now, all men go away, so that there is nobody in sight. And then you shall come from here, and you from there, and fight, and when I run to you and say ‘Stop’ you shall all lay down your spears.”

At the moment the actors withdrew, ready for the mimic battle, Obaga came swiftly along the forest path, and with him his brother and his ten kinsmen and their kinsmen by marriage.

“Man, where is my woman?” said Obaga, and he addressed the tall lover of M’Libi.

“Who knows, hunter?” replied the man.

“You know now, but how long will you know?” said Obaga, and struck with his spear.

His enemy twisted slightly, took the cut across his shoulder and ran. Obaga’s spear brought him to the ground. And in a second there was war.

Into the open they came, cutting, parrying, thrusting, yelling those shrill cries, meaningless but ominous, which the Ochori have screamed throughout ages.

“Stick it!” yelled Bones. “Turn the handle, Ahmet. That’s good! Go it, boys!” he shrieked in his best producer’s style. “That’s it, a little more to the left. Don’t hurt yourselves, you silly old jossers!”

And then in Bomongo he roared! – “I come.”

He strode with a dignified and picturesque swing of his shoulders into their midst, and raised his hand in a lordly gesture.

“Stop!” he cried. But they did not stop. A spear knocked his helmet off, a war club brought him to his knees. Bones reached for his gun, but he had not come armed. Fortunately, Sergeant Ahmet had…

“I thought it was a bit too realistic,” explained Bones, who had spent the morning admiring his bandaged head in a looking-glass. “But, of course, I never dreamt that there was a jolly old war on. And when you come to think of it, dear old Ham, it wasn’t half a bad stunt – my being knocked out. It’ll look so wonderfully thrillin’ that people will just sit tight in their jolly old seats and howl! I’ll bet it’s in all the papers, dear old Ham,” he went on. “The jolly old
Times
, and the dear old What-you-may-call-’em–”

Bones spent the night in a dark and smelly hut, illuminated only by a faint red glow from his developing lamp. But though he covered himself from head to foot in hypo, though he dipped and dipped the film until his arm ached, and conformed faithfully to every law contained in the book of instructions, he produced nothing but a succession of little black oblong blobs.

“Most extrordinary, dear old boy,” he said miserably. “Most amazing! Can’t understand it, dear old thing. There’s a fortune gone west, ab-so-lutely west!”

“Who turned the handle?”

“Ahmet. I taught him, dear old Ham. Taught him, and he did what I told him to do. That’s the horribly hideous part of it.”

For all his faith in Ahmet, he interviewed that gentleman.

“You didn’t open the little door, of course, Ahmet? The-door-that-must-never-be-opened?” he asked solemnly.

“Lord, I opened it, but only for a little time, whilst I looked for some pictures which I had improperly taken, without your lordship’s knowledge. But they were not there.”

“In daylight did you open it?” asked Bones in horror.

“No, lord, in sunlight,” said Ahmet, “but there was nothing there, as I have told your lordship, only a yellow ribbon and no pictures!”