Bones of the River (12 page)

Sanders welcomed him with a geniality which he offered to few other traders. He knew that there were no cheap German rifles concealed at the bottom of the
Comet
’s cargo, nor illicit bottles of synthetic gin artfully hidden beneath bolts of Manchester goods. Halley was white in every sense, and whitest in his dealing with the women of the backlands.

“The country is quiet and the people are fairly happy,” he said. “Avoid the Tugesini River – there is another outbreak of smallpox there…the N’gombi have been trapping leopards, and you should get some good skins.”

They gossiped of the people, of their idiosyncrasies and peculiar tastes. Of how the Akasava never bought mirrors, and the queer passion of the Lesser Isisi folk for aluminium saucepans.

That afternoon, the
Comet
went on its slow way, its donkey engine puffing noisily.

“Queer bird,” said Hamilton, watching the departing boat. “I wonder what the dickens he is doing with Ochori paddlers – did you notice them, sir?”

Sanders nodded. “Bosambo sent them up the coast a month ago – he’s a great shopper. I wonder what stuff Halley is taking to our friend. I meant to ask him.”

Bosambo was the one chief of the territory who held any communication with the outside world. He waited patiently for the arrival of the
Comet
, and when the ship came wallowing round the green bluff that hid the lower reaches of the river, Bosambo went down in state to meet his visitor, and for three days there were great bargainings and hagglings, Bosambo squatting on the untidy deck, Halley in his skin-seated chair.

“Effendi,” said Bosambo (it was his title of honour for all strangers), “for all I buy I will pay in white man’s money.”

Halley was gratified, but sceptical, and when Bosambo produced bags of shining coin, he was agreeably surprised. If he tried samples of the first bag in his strong white teeth, he did not test the second bag at all.

Halley brought his eccentric boat to the mouth of the river, in the dark hours of the morning, and Bones, going down to the beach for his dip, saw the
Comet
crawling along the coast, no unusual circumstance, for the trader never stopped at the residency on his homeward voyage unless a sea was running. As it happened, Mr Halley had nothing to stop for, since there had been no unusual happening to report.

*  *  *

“Have you ever thought, dear old sir, what a dinky little ice plant you could rig up in that old dug-out?” asked Bones, standing, his arms akimbo, before the grey door of the magazine. “A refrigeratin’ plant, dear old Ham – we might even get some skatin’!”

“I’ve often thought I’d like to see it a little cleaner than it is,” said Hamilton. “Have it turned out and lime-washed, Bones – and for heaven’s sake let the men do the whitewashing.”

“My dear old officer,” said Bones reproachfully, “as if I should turn myself into a jolly old paperhanger an’ decorator!”

Nevertheless he came to lunch next day with boots that were splashed white and a long streak of whitewash on his nose.

“By the way, have you a great deal of ammunition in stock, Hamilton?” asked Sanders, who had been very quiet through lunch.

“The regulation amount, sir,” said Hamilton in surprise. “A thousand rounds per man – why, are you expecting trouble?”

“No,” said Sanders shortly, and Hamilton knew from his brusque tones that the Commissioner’s uncanny instinct was at work.

“Maybe dear old excellency is worryin’ about my gettin’ a splash of whitewash in my eye,” suggested Bones.

“Maybe he isn’t,” replied Hamilton.

“It’s a funny thing about me, dear old Ham – ” began Bones, but his superior was not in the mood to discuss the many funny aspects of Bones which had struck him from time to time. For Sanders’ anxiety had communicated itself to him. And yet there was no apparent reason for uneasiness; by the reports that came to headquarters, peace and prosperity were the orders of the day from one end of the river to the other.

But Hamilton knew, as Sanders knew, that this condition of affairs was the invariable preliminary to all outbreaks and disturbances. The bolts, the real bolts, fell from a cloudless sky. Secretly Sanders preferred a condition when little quarrels between the tribes completely occupied their minds. Native people cannot think of two things at once. They are children who live in and for the day. Yesterday is
cala cala
, tomorrow is the dim and misty future.

And then, one sleepy afternoon…

By all the laws of average and chance, Bones should have been killed. As it was, he sneezed, and when Bones sneezed, his body fell into strange and fearful contortions. Sometimes he sneezed forward and finished up with his head between his knees (you must suppose him sitting in the shade of his verandah); sometimes he sneezed backward and his head jerked over the rail of his deck-chair, and, to the alarmed spectator, seemed in danger of dropping off. Usually he sneezed forward, but this time he raised his contorted visage to the heavens and sneezed at the blue skies. And the arrow, missing his throat, struck a pole of the verandah and stuck quiveringly.

Lieutenant Tibbetts looked at the deadly shaft, dazed for a second. Then he rose quickly and went into his hut. He was out again in a second, a sporting Lee Metford in his hand. A glance at the arrow showed the direction. It had come from a clump of cotton bush at the far side of the parade ground, and, sinking to one knee, Bones aimed at the ground-line and fired.

The “pang!” of the shot brought the Houssa guard tumbling out of their hut, but before the sergeant could reach him, the long legs of Bones were flying across the parade in the direction of the bushes. He heard a shout, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Hamilton leap the verandah and pelt along after him, but he did not slacken his pace, and was tearing through the bush before Hamilton had jumped the first fence of the plantation, and, guided by certain sounds of anguish, came up with his subordinate. Bones was standing, legs wide apart, arms akimbo, glaring down at a writhing, terror-stricken man on the ground.

He did not display any apparent wound, and Hamilton frowned questioningly at the other.

“Little toe,” said Bones briefly, and yet in his very terseness conveying a hint of annoyance. “And I aimed for the
big
toe!” he added later. “I must have that naughty old rifle corrected. It isn’t like me to make a perfectly ghastly error like that, old Ham – you know Bones!”

Hamilton ignored the opening. “What happened?” he asked, and at that moment Sanders came through the trees, a sporting rifle under his arm.

He listened as Bones described his exact position before the hut, his occupation, his tendency to sneeze forward, his emotions at the sight of the arrow. His first thoughts, his alacrity, his amazing presence of mind and marksmanship. When he had finished, Sanders looked at the stricken man.

“Speak: Why did you do this evil thing?”

“Lord, that is my mystery.”
[3]

Sanders jerked his head on one side and looked at the assassin through narrowed lids.

“If I hang you, what of your mystery then?” he asked, and the man made no reply.

They put the would-be murderer in irons and confined him to the guard-room.

“I don’t understand it,” said the troubled Sanders. “This fellow is Akasava and, though the Akasava are by nature and inclination assassins, they have never come to headquarters to carry out their dirty work. Have steam in the
Zaire
, Hamilton, and warn your men to be ready.”

“It may be some friend of his late majesty,” suggested Hamilton, but Sanders shook his head.

“One king is as good as another to the Akasava,” he said.

“But why Bones?” said Hamilton, and Bones smiled sadly.

“It’s perhaps dawnin’ on your fusty old brain, dear old Ham, that the indigenous native is slowly wakin’ up to the sense of proportion, dear old sir and superior. You can’t kid the jolly old native, Ham. He knows who’s important an’ who isn’t important. He strikes at the keystone of administration, dear old bird – not that I’d disparage the importance of our blessed old excellency–”

“I’d hate to deceive you, Bones,” said Sanders, with his rare smile, “but I hardly think that it is your importance that made you the object of attack – you happened to be in sight – so you got it.”

For once Sanders was wrong.

Bones went to his hut that night, after inspecting the loose cordon of sentries he had posted, and getting into his pyjamas went to bed without the least suspicion that his claim was in any way justified. Bones was ordinarily a heavy sleeper and addicted to snoring – a practice which he strenuously denied.

His bed was in the centre of a large and airy hut, and there were two big windows, which were open day and night except for the frame of thin netting placed to keep out midnight insects.

It was a burning sensation on his wrist that woke him with a snort. He rubbed the sore place and diagnosed the cause as mosquitoes. The hut was full of them, and he could hear the low buzzing of insects. He was out of bed instantly, slipping his feet into his long, pliable mosquito boots.

A glance at the nearest window revealed the fact that the netting was gone, and even as he looked he saw, against the dim light, a stealthy hand creep up and then a head.

“
Twing!
”

The arrow zipped past him, and he heard the thud of it as it struck the bed.

Bones crossed the hut noiselessly and slipped his automatic from its holster.

Twice he fired, and, flinging open the door, ran out. A killing spear grazed his shoulder, and he fired again. He saw a man fall and another disappear into the darkness. Presently came a shot from the other side of the square – a sentry had seen the flying figure and had fired.

“Another Akasava,” said Sanders, the first to reach the spot.

He turned over the limp figure that lay huddled against a verandah post. The second man sprawled on the square with a pistol bullet through his thigh, and he also was of the same people – the third man had escaped.

At dawn the
Zaire
pushed out into the river. Day and night she steamed, stopping only to gather wood to feed her boilers. In the darkness, the villagers on the river saw her pass, a banner of sparks floating from her two funnels, and the
lokalis
sent word through the night that there was war – for the
Zaire
never steamed at night between the treacherous shoals unless the spears were out.

The wooden drum carried news to others more interested, and ten miles short of the Akasava city, where the river narrows to pass through a sheer gorge, a cloud of arrows fell upon the deck, wounding a soldier and missing the steersman by a miracle.

The
Zaire
panted forward, for here the river runs at seven knots, and whilst the marksmen peppered the edge of the bluff, Sanders examined the arrow heads.

“Tetanus,
[4]
I think,” he said, and knew just how serious was the situation, for the Akasava did not usually poison their arrows.

The Akasava city was deserted, except for women and old men.

“Lord,” said a trembling ancient, “Kofaba has gone to the Ochori to get his beautiful bed that Tibbetti has given to Bosambo.”

“You are the father of ten fools,” snarled Sanders, “for the bed of the Akasava is in my great Ghost House.”

“Master, a man saw the Ghost House and it was empty, and a spy of Kofaba has seen the bed, very shining and beautiful, before the hut of Bosambo.”

The
Zaire
took on a new stock of wood and went northward. Near to the edge of the Ochori country, Sanders saw a canoe paddling downstream, and pulled the steamer across the river.

In the canoe was a dead man.

“This Kofaba, the king,” said the headman of the paddlers, “he was killed this morning in a great fight, for Bosambo has the help of many devils. We go to bury Kofaba in the middle island, according to our custom.”

Later Sanders met the main body of the routed army and stopped their canoes, only to collect their spears and arrest the petty chiefs who were in charge.

And each told him the story of Bosambo and his bed of brass.

“I cannot understand it,” he said puzzled, “the Akasava would not make war on a rumour which Bosambo set in circulation that he had their infernal bed.”

The shadows were lengthening when he came at last to the Ochori city, and so unexpected was the arrival, that Bosambo was unaware of his coming until Sanders strode up the main street.

He came within sight of the king’s hut and stopped dead.

Before the hut, and surrounded by his admiring people, Bosambo sat in state. His throne was a brass bedstead, over the slats of which skins had been spread.

It was a bedstead of great beauty, having four glittering knobs, one at each corner, and on the headrail were shining medallions that caught the light of the setting sun and sent it back in a thousand gleaming rays.

“Oh, Bosambo, I see you,” said Sanders, and the big man scrambled to his feet.

“Lord,” he said hastily, “these Akasava men are thieves, for they came into my land with their spears to steal my beautiful bed.”

“So I observe,” said Sanders grimly, “but now you will tell your strong men to carry the bed to my ship, for did you not tell the Akasava that by magic you had taken this beautiful bedstead from the House of Ghosts?”

The agitation of Bosambo was pitiful to see. “Lord, I told them this in jest. But this bed I bought from Halli, and, lord, I spent a great fortune, paying with real silver dollars that I had saved.”

“You may have the money back again,” said Sanders, and Bosambo’s eyes lit up, “for if you take a bedstead by magic, you may take money.”

Bosambo spread out his hands in resignation. “It is written,” he said.

He was a good Mohammedan, and most of the silver dollars he had paid were of a dubious quality. Mr Halley discovered this later.

The mail-boat had come into sight, had dropped its letter-bag, and was a smudge on the horizon. Sanders sorted the personal mail, putting the letters beside each plate at the breakfast-table, and Captain Hamilton of the Houssas had read three letters, a balance-sheet, and the circular of a misguided racing tipster (this was sent on from Hamilton’s club), and was re-reading one of the letters for the second time when Sanders asked: “Where on earth is Bones?”