Читать книгу Sandi the King-Maker - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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THERE is something in the atmosphere of the British Colonial Office which chills the stranger to an awed silence. The solemnity of lofty corridors and pale long windows is oppressive. Noble and sombre doors, set at intervals as regular as the cells of a prison, suggest that each door hides some splendid felon. There are in these corridors at certain hours of the day no manifestations of life, save for the occasional ghostly apparition of a solitary clerk, whose appearance in the vista of desolation is heralded by the deep boom of a closing door, sounding to the nervous visitor like a minute gun saluting the shade of a mourned official.

A tanned, slight man came into one of these corridors on an October afternoon, and the sound of his halting feet echoed hollowly. He was consulting a letter, and stopped at each doorway to examine the number. Presently he stopped, hesitated, and knocked. A subdued official voice bade him enter.

The room was occupied by two sedate young gentlemen, whose desks had been so disposed that each had an equal opportunity of looking out of the window, and at sight of Sanders one of the youths rose with a heaviness of movement that suggested premature age—this also being part of the atmosphere of the Colonial Office—and walked with a certain majesty across the room.

"Mr. Sanders?" he whispered rather than said. "Oh, yes, Mr. Under-Secretary was expecting to see you." He looked at his watch. "I think he will be disengaged now. Won't you please sit down?"

Sanders was too impatient and too nervous to sit. He had all the open-air man's horror of Government offices, and his visits to the headquarters of his old Department had been few and at long intervals. The young man, who had disappeared into an adjoining room, returned, opened wide the door, and ushered Sanders into a larger room, the principal features of which were a carved marble fireplace and a large desk.

A gentleman at this latter rose, as Sanders came hesitatingly into the room, and welcomed him with a smile. The humanity of that smile, so out of place in this dead and dismal chamber, did something to restore the visitor's vitality.

"Sit down, Mr. Sanders." And this time Sanders did not refuse.

The Secretary was a tall lean man, thin of face and short-sighted, and Sanders, who had met him before, was as near ease as he was likely to be in such surroundings. Mr. Under-Secretary did not seem to be anxious to discuss the object of Sanders's summons. He talked about Twickenham, about the football games which were played in that district, about life in the Home Counties, and presently, when Sanders had begun to wonder why a Colonial Office messenger had been detailed to deliver a letter to him that morning, the Under-Secretary came suddenly to the point.

"I suppose you're out of Africa for good, Mr. Sanders?" he said.

"Yes, sir," said Sanders quietly.

"It's a wonderful country," sighed Sir John Tell, "a wonderful country! The opportunities today are greater than they have ever been before—for the right man."

Sanders made no reply.

"You know Tofolaka and the country beyond the Ghost Mountains, of course," said Mr. Under-Secretary, playing with his pen and looking intently at the blotting-pad.

"Yes, very well," smiled Sanders. "That is, as well as anybody knows that country. It is rather terra incognita."

Sir John nodded.

"You call it, I think—?" he said suggestively.

"We called it the country of the Great King," said Sanders. "It lies, as you know, beyond the Ochori country on one side of the river and the Akasava on the other, and I never went into the country except once, partly because the mountain roads are only passable for three months in the year, and I could never get sufficient, steam or speed into the Zaire—that was my ship, you remember—to pass through Hell Gate."

"Hell Gate?" said Sir John reflectively. Oh, yes, that is the narrow canyon beyond the Ghost Mountains. There is a terrific current, isn't there?"

"Ten knots," said Sanders promptly, "and no slack water. Hell Gate has done more to keep the Great King's country free from inquisitive visitors than any other cause. I should imagine. By—the way, that was German territory, was it not?" he asked, with sudden interest.

"It was and it wasn't," said Sir John carefully. "There were two or three nations which marked the territory on their colonial maps, although none can claim either to have conquered or occupied the country. And that is just why I wanted to see you, Mr. Sanders. At the Peace Conference, when the question of the redistribution of Germany's colonies came up for decision, the Great King's territory gave us more trouble and caused more—er—unpleasantness than any other of her possessions which we took over. You see"—he shifted round and faced Sanders, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs comfortably—"it was never admitted by any of the great nations that the Great King's country belonged to anybody. It is now virtually under the dominion of the—er—League of Nations." he said.

Sanders smiled.

"That means it's still No Man's Land." he said bluntly.

"In a sense, yes," agreed the Under-Secretary. "As a matter of fact, we have received a mandate from the League to straighten out matters, put the country on a proper footing, and introduce something of civilization into a territory which has hitherto resisted all attempts at penetration, pacific or otherwise."

He stopped, but Sanders made no comment.

"We think," said Sir John carefully, "that in six or seven months a strong, resolute man with a knowledge of the native—a superhuman knowledge, I might add—could settle the five territories now under the Great King, and establish law and justice in a country which is singularly free from those ethical commodities."

Again he paused, and again Sanders refrained from speaking.

Sir John rose and, walking to the wall, pulled down a roller map.

"Here is a rough survey of the country, Mr. Sanders," he said.

Sanders rose from the chair and went to the other's side.

"Here are the Ghost Mountains, to the west of which are your old friends, the Ochori; to the cast is Tofolaka, and due south on the other side of the big river is Bubujala. Here the river takes a turn—you will see a lake, very imperfectly charted."

"What is that island asked Sanders, pointing.

"That is called the Island of the Golden Birds—rather romantic," said Sir John.

"And that." said Sanders, stabbing the map with his forefinger, "is Rimi-Rimi, where the Old King lives."

"And north is a mountain—Limpisi." said the Under-Secretary. "That would be new country for you, Mr. Sanders; you're not used to mountains and plateaux. It is very healthy, I'm told, and abounding in big game."

"Very probably it is," said Sanders, returning to the table with his superior, "but I really know very little about it, Sir John, and if you have sent for me to give you information, I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you."

The Under-Secretary smiled.

"I have sent for you to give you some information, Mr. Sanders," he said quietly. "I have told you we want a resolute man, a man who has authority over natives, such as you possess, to go out and settle the country."

"I'm sorry—" began Sanders, shaking his head.

"Wait." The Under-Secretary stopped him with a gesture. "The Government is most anxious that this should be done at once, because—" he hesitated "—you may have heard the news, we sent a man to interview the Old King and make inquiries about the poor Fergusons, the missionaries, and—", He shrugged.

"They chopped him?" said Sanders. "Who was it?"

"Lloyd Thomas."

Sanders nodded.

"I knew him, poor chap. But it is a fairly dangerous proceeding to send a man into the Great King's country alone."

"Ye—es," agreed the other, "it was an error on the part of your successor, Mr. Sanders, but one for which, of course, we must take full responsibility. This is what I want to say. The war in Africa has passed the king's territory untouched. There was neither the need nor the occasion for either side to penetrate in that direction, so that the Old King has neither had the salutary lessen which the passage of troops through his country might have afforded, nor such supervision as Germany was able to exercise. The result is—" his voice was grave "—there is serious trouble threatened to your old territory. From what we have been able to discover, Lloyd Thomas was received in the haughtiest manner, and the gifts he took with him to propitiate the Old Man were burnt at the king's great fire!"

Sanders made a little grimace.

"That's bad. Poor Thomas could not have had the opportunity, or he would have cleared when he saw that happen. It is a tradition, you know, that wars in the Northern Territory start with the burning of gifts—it is so with the Northern Ochori and with the Akasava."

He was silent for a while, then drew a long breath.

"I should like to help the Government, Sir John," he said, "but honestly I am out of Africa for good!"

The Under-Secretary scratched his chin and again avoided Sanders's eye.

"We have sent a beautiful little ship to the river," he said; "it is a great improvement on the Zaire and with three times her power."

Sanders shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Of course, we shouldn't object to your choosing your own officers and advancing them one grade in their ranks—even if they have left the Service," he added significantly. "I understand that your brother-in-law, Captain Hamilton—"

"He's out of it, too," said Sanders quickly, though here he might have hesitated, for Hamilton at that moment was nursing a sore heart. Women are proverbially fickle, and there had been a certain Vera Sackwell, who had married a man better favoured than Hamilton in the matter of riches.

"And Mr. Tibbetts?"

Sanders smiled.

"Mr. Tibbetts is a very rich man now," he said, "and nothing would induce him to leave London—of that I am perfectly sure," he said.

The Under-Secretary shrugged his shoulders and rose.

"I'm sorry, too," he said. "Anyway, think it over for a couple of days, Mr. Sanders, and let me know what you think. You are already Commander of St. Michael and St. George, I believe?"

"Yes, sir," said Sanders, with a ghost of a smile on his tanned face.

"Six months' work," said Sir John absently, "and the Government would not be unmindful of its obligation to the man who accomplished that work, Mr. Sanders. To a man like you, of course," he said, with a deprecating smile, "a knighthood means nothing. But the ladies rather like it. You're married, are you not, Mr. Sanders? Why, of course you are! Good-bye." He held out his hand, and Sanders shook it. "By the way," said Sir John, "that Ferguson case was a bad one. We have inquiries every week from the poor mother."

Sanders nodded. He had met the wife of the murdered missionary, and he wanted to forget her.

"She has a theory that the girl, her daughter, is still alive in the hut of one of the king's chiefs."

"Perfectly horrible!" said Sanders shortly. "Please God, she's dead! Good-bye, sir. I'm sorry—"

The aged youth from the room outside appeared from nowhere and opened the door, and in a few minutes Sanders was walking along Whitehall, a very preoccupied man.

It so happened that that night there was a little dinner-party at Twickenham. Mr. Tibbetts, late of the City, and now devoting his great mind to intensive agriculture, was present, and with him a pretty girl, whom he addressed with extravagant and solemn deference; and Hamilton was there, sometime captain of Houssas, a little peaky of face, for he had taken the loss of the lady who was now Mrs. Isadore Mentleheim very badly; and, above all, Patricia Sanders, in Sanders's eyes the most radiant being of any.

It is perhaps incorrect to say that Bones was present, because he had not arrived when the dinner started, and his late arrival added something to the restraint for which Sanders was mainly responsible. He had returned silent and thoughtful, and his wife, who had half-guessed the object of his call to the Colonial Office, did not press him for an account of what had transpired, knowing that in good time he would tell, She guessed what the object of that summons had been, did he but know.

"Come on, Bones," growled Hamilton. "Do you know you've kept us waiting for half an hour?"

Bones had burst into the room, straightening his tie as he came, and bowed reverently to the girl who sat at his right, respectfully to Sanders and affectionately to Patricia, before he had taken his scat.

"Dear old officer!" said Bones. "Tomatoes!"

"Tomatoes?" said Hamilton, looking at his soup. "It is consomme."

"When I say tomatoes, dear old thing." said Bones loftily, "I imply the trend and tendency of my jolly old studies. As dear old Hamlet said—"

"Shut up and eat your soup," said Hamilton.

"Give me the jolly old farm," said Bones ecstatically, pausing with his spoon half-way to his mouth, heedless of the drip, drip, drip of consomme julienne which fell upon his immaculate shirt—front. "Give me—"

"Give him a table napkin and a bib," said Hamilton savagely. "Really, Bones, don't you recognize there's something in the air? Haven't you any sensibility?"

"None, dear old thing." said Bones firmly, and turning to his partner. "Lovely old child," he asked, "have you noticed any of that jolly old nonsense about poor old Bones?"

"Have you decided to stick to farming, Bones?" It was Sanders who asked the question.

"Yes, sir," said Bones promptly. "I've got the jolliest old scheme for raising cabbages in hot-water bottles—in the off-season, dear old Ham, you understand," he said, turning to his friend. "It's funny that nobody ever thought about hot-water bottles. You fill them with hot water."

"Why not hot air?" asked the offensive Hamilton.

"It's a pretty good job you've decided to stick to farming," said Sanders, "because what I'm going to tell you won't worry you. I've had an offer to go back to the Territories. Not exactly the Territories," he corrected, "but to the Great King's country, beyond the Ochori."

Bones and Hamilton put down their spoons together.

"Dear me," said Bones mildly.

"Of course I turned it down," said Sanders indifferently.

"Of course," said Bones.

"Naturally." said Hamilton.

"The idea was for us to go out for six months—"

"Us?" said Bones. "Did you say 'us', dear old Commissioner?"

"I said 'us' for it amounted to that," smiled Sanders. "They offered to let me choose any officers I liked, and to give them a rank one grade higher than that at which they retired. That would make Hamilton a major, and you, Bones, a full-blown skipper."

Bones coughed.

"As I say, I turned it down," said Sanders. "I don't want to go back—even for six or seven months."

"Would it mean anything good for you?" asked Patricia quietly.

Sanders smiled.

"Well, I suppose they'd be grateful, and all that sort of thing, but I told them I was finished with Africa, and I told them, Hamilton, that you were also settled down, as you are, now you're running Bones's business."

"Quite," said Hamilton. "Of course this is rather a slack time of the year, and we are taking up nothing new for another six months."

"Besides," Sanders went on, "I don't see the fun of upsetting one's life even for six months. It isn't as if we were going back to the humdrum old Territories again. Apparently the Old King's up in arms, and there would be all sorts of trouble until we got him tamed."

"Would there be any danger?" The girl on Bones's left looked at him apprehensively.

"Danger, dear old fiancée!" said the excited Bones, "Danger doesn't worry us, dear old thing. Danger is the neth of my brostrils—I mean noth of my bristrils. Danger?" He was preparing to elaborate, but a warning glance from Sanders stopped him. "Danger? No, dear old friend and partner," he said soothingly. "When I said 'danger', I was talking figuratively. Danger! Ha, ha!"

Bones had a laugh which made you wince.

"Absolutely none, charming old child, and soon to be, I hope—ahem! A jolly old lion or two, a few naughty old cannibals, a wicked old king who wants to cut your jolly old head off, and there you are! Nothing startling!"

"Anyway," said Sanders, after a pause, "I told the Secretary that I can't possibly go. So that's that."

"Quite," said Hamilton, and Bones coughed again.

"I shall have quite a lot of work to do, clearing up the mess that Bones has left," Hamilton went on, "and Bones has pretty well decided on his farm. But it is rather an interesting offer."

"Very." said Sanders.

And then distraction came, and the tension broke. A maid came into the room and bent over her mistress.

"Mrs. Ferguson?" she said in surprise. "Isn't that the poor woman who lost her husband and child, dear?"

Sanders groaned. He saw the hand of a cunning Under-Secretary in this visitation.

"Yes—er—I'll see her."

"Show her in here, Mary," said Patricia, and before Sanders could protest the girl was gone.

"Why, what is the matter?" Patricia asked anxiously.

"Oh, nothing—nothing, dear."

The men rose as the visitor entered the room. She was a slight, frail woman in black, and two deep sad eyes fastened upon Sanders, and he quailed before them.

"You know Mr. Hamilton—Mr. Tibbetts—er—miss—" he stammered.

She took the chair he offered her.

"Mr. Sanders, are you going?" she asked.

Sanders flushed.

"I want you to believe—" he began, and his wife watched his confusion in astonishment.

"Mrs. Sanders, will you let your husband go?" said the woman in a low voice. "You have always been kind and sweet to me, and I know how great is the sacrifice I ask."

"My wife will let me go if I wish to," said Sanders and so quiet was the room that his voice sounded loud.

Mrs. Ferguson was silent for a while.

"I saw it," she said. "They came when we were at breakfast—though the Old King had eaten salt with my husband—and Mofobolo, the king's hunter, led them. Henry told me to run to the river, where our little steamboat was. I saw them drag him out covered with blood, and I saw Mofobolo running after my—my darling—into the bush. Oh, my God, Mr. Sanders! He has her, that man! She will be nineteen on the first of the month!"

"Mrs. Ferguson, please!"

Sanders's face was drawn, and in his eyes there was a look of agony.

"She's there—there now!" the woman almost screamed. "Every hour you defer your decision is a crime, a crime!"

The women took her out, and the men sat in silence each with his separate thoughts. They heard the thud of the front door closing, and the grind of a cab's wheels on the gravel of the drive, and then the two women returned.

Patricia, as she passed her husband, dropped her hand upon his shoulder, and he caught and kissed it.

"I am leaving by the next Coast steamer," he said simply. "Who goes with me?"

There was no need to ask. Hamilton was smiling savagely, and as for Bones, he was swaying backwards and forwards in his chair, his eyes half-closed, like a man in a trance, and he was uttering strange sounds. Strange to the two women was that raucous chant of his, though Patricia caught the rhythm of it, for Bones was singing the song of the fighting Isisi, the song that they used to roll forth in deep-chested chorus as the little Zaire came round the bend of the river in sight of its landing-place.

"Sandi, who makes the laws, Sandi, who walks by night, Sandi, the slayer of Oosoombi. And the hanger of N'gombo. Who gives health to the sick, And justice to the poor..."