Читать книгу Woodsmoke - Francis Brett Young - Страница 8

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In the cool of the evening—or, rather, in that pleasant, tepid air that envelops the island when the shadows of the baobabs lengthen seaward and the breeze begins to fall—Antrim saw them again. By this time he had shaken off the lethargy of the morning in a long sleep, he had bathed luxuriously, and was walking in from the Bluff to shake up his liver and look for old acquaintances in the Mombasa Club, an airy hospitable building that stands under the shadow of the whitewashed fort of Jesus and the red flag of Zanzibar. Reaching the corner of the wide avenue of flamboyants where the road from Kilindini dips downward to the fort, he became aware of a crowd collecting in the middle of the street. For Mombasa this was an unusual occurrence; for the police are an efficient corps that will stand no nonsense, and the inhabitants, who are fonder of litigation than of violence, know better than to settle their differences in the neighbourhood of the barracks.

Evidently the affair was exciting, for everybody in the street had immediately forsaken his business and run towards the scene of the disturbance: ricksha boys, trailing their vehicles behind them; raw natives with burdens of fruit from Mazeras; sober Goanese shop-keepers; Indians in long frockcoats—even the labourers from the foundations of new store, and women from the round huts of the native location over the way, all were running as hard as they could pelt and clustering in one black mass like bees about a queen. Antrim hated nothing in the world more than a row; but this seemed serious, and he could not pass it by. If there were trouble it was his business to be there; so he, too, hurried to the spot.

There, in the middle of the murmuring crowd, stood a ricksha with lowered shafts, and in it, erect, fragile and very pale, sat the white figure of Mrs. Rawley. Antrim pushed his way through the crowd that smelt of black flesh and spices and the sickly oil with which the natives smear themselves. In front of the ricksha, crumpled up in the dust, lay its owner; and above him, flushed and dishevelled, stood Rawley, snorting like an angry bull. In one clenched hand he held a green-backed Swahili vocabulary, in the other the splintered shaft of a walking-stick that he had broken over the fellow’s back. He was cursing in English at the hostile crowd.

Antrim walked straight up to him and took him by the arm, but he seemed too consumed with anger to notice him or realise what he said.

“What’s the matter?” Antrim asked. He shook Rawley’s arm as if to wake him. “What’s the matter? Tell me quickly!”

“Matter? I told the brute to go slowly. He wouldn’t stop.”

“Are you sure he understood you?”

“Of course he understood me. It was just damned obstinacy. Then——” Rawley began to splutter. “Then he had the impudence to stand up to me.”

The figure in the dust gave a groan that was echoed by the sympathetic crowd. Rawley took out a white silk handkerchief. “I’ve broken my knuckles on the beggar’s head,” he said.

Antrim gave the ricksha boy a poke with his foot. “Get up!” he said in Swahili. “What’s the matter?”

The native began to whine. “The bwana told me to go fast. I went fast. How could I go faster with such a weight behind? Then he stood up and beat me like an ox with his stick. What could I do? And then he jumped from the ricksha and knocked me down with his fist. Now I wait for the police.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Antrim. “Get up. Let me see what’s the matter with you.”

The ricksha boy rose to his feet. Apart from the dust, which was his natural portion in life, there wasn’t much amiss with him. It would have taken more than Rawley’s fist to damage an African skull.

“You see, he’s all right,” Rawley grumbled.

“How much does the bwana owe you?” Antrim asked.

“Two rupees.”

“Here are four. If I give you four you’ll be satisfied. You’ll say no more about it. Otherwise you’ll get nothing. The bwana says you attacked him, and the memsahib will say the same.”

The man rubbed his eyes with his hands. Then he pointed to his back on which the lines cut by Rawley’s stick already stood out in weals. “Four rupees?” he cried. “Look ... see for yourself!”

The labourers from the cathedral laughed. Nothing appeals to an African sense of humour more than the sight of a painful thing. The whole crowd began laughing and talking at once.

“I’ll make it five,” said Antrim. “Will that do? Answer quickly, or you’ll get nothing.”

“N’dio Bwana,” said the man, with a feeble grin. He held out his hand. Antrim gave him five rupees.

“Come along,” he said, “we’d better get out of this. Will you come and have tea with me at the club?”

He offered his hand to Mrs. Rawley, who descended from her ricksha, and made a way for her through the laughter of the disintegrating crowd. Antrim and she walked together, Rawley sullenly followed, still carrying in his hands the Swahili vocabulary and the butt of his splintered walking-stick. A ridiculous proceeding, Antrim thought, why didn’t the fellow throw it away? The whole business had been unpleasant; just the sort of thing that oughtn’t to happen in a British possession, the very last affair that he would have chosen to be mixed up with. If Rawley had been alone, he would have left him to stew in his own juice, by gad, he would! Nothing but the presence of his wife, her fineness, her fragility and her pathetic silence, could have persuaded him to butt in. He would have a straight talk with Rawley when the woman was out of the way and tell him a thing or two for the good of his soul. So far the fellow hadn’t even had the decency to apologise for landing a luncheon acquaintance in a street row. All the way to the club, indeed, nobody spoke. It was a difficult situation. It needed every ounce of Antrim’s social tact to carry it off.

He called for tea on the club balcony, a peaceful and civilised place commanding the ancient harbour and the water-gate of the fort. Rawley sank down in the most comfortable chair and mopped his forehead. Rotten condition, Antrim thought; his wife’s as cool as can be. But it was emotion rather than walking that made Rawley sweat, and with the perspiration came out the apology for which Antrim had been waiting.

He didn’t do it gracefully—it was inconceivable that Rawley should have done anything with grace—but he evidently meant what he said, and this, together with his size and his humility, made him rather pathetic, so much so that Antrim felt that some word of extenuation from himself was demanded. But he couldn’t say it: that was the funny thing. He just sat awkwardly silent, listening to a piece of self-abasement as thorough as anything he’d ever heard, watching the two big tears that formed in Rawley’s eyes and the ridiculous movements that he made with his broken stick. It wasn’t decent. And then, to add to the fantastic situation, he heard in his left ear the clear unemotional tones of Mrs. Rawley’s voice:

“Captain Antrim, may I give you milk and sugar?”

Cool, had he said? The woman was as cold as ice! What he really wanted was whisky, but he said “Yes.” He simply had to come to Rawley’s rescue: “Yes, I quite understand,” he said. “You’re new to Africa. But I assure you that in this country that sort of thing isn’t done. You don’t handle a man unless he’s done something pretty serious. For instance, if he’d insulted your wife.”

Rawley flared up. “By God,” he said, “if he’d done that I should have killed him!” And he really looked as if he would.

“Would you mind passing my husband’s tea?” said Mrs. Rawley.

“Thank you, but what I want to explain to you is this,” Rawley went on. “I’m cursed with the most unfortunate temper. It’s the one thing that’s been in my way all through life. If once I let go, I’m done for. My wife will bear me out.”

He looked at her appealingly; but she didn’t. She didn’t move an eyelid.

“It doesn’t happen often; but when it does, it invariably lands me. When I was with the regiment ...”

Antrim felt uneasy: some unpleasant story was obviously coming. Luckily it didn’t come.

“No, I won’t talk about that,” Rawley said. “It’s very wrong of me to bore you with these personal things. The point is that I must have got mixed up with my Swahili. I’m new to the language. Probably the fellow misunderstood me.”

“He thought you wanted him to go faster,” Antrim said.

“Exactly. And I thought I told him to stop. The phrases are close together, and the ricksha was jolting over the road. I’d better look it up.” He began to fumble with his crumpled vocabulary.

“I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Your tea’s going cold. Have some more. Or would you prefer whisky?”

He chose whisky, and Antrim himself was grateful for the excuse; but this did not close the subject as he had intended.

“You paid him some money, I didn’t gather how much.”

“My dear fellow, don’t worry about it.”

“It was five rupees,” said Mrs. Rawley.

Rawley took out his purse and fumbled with it. Another indecency, Antrim thought. He saw Rawley going through life stumping up cash periodically for incidents of this kind. One of the privileges of wealth! Only this time he’d got his pleasure cheaply. How disgusted the wife must feel! With an effort he said “Thank you” as Rawley handed him the coins. He needn’t have rubbed it in by asking if it were right. A damned parvenu with no sense of proportion! He wondered how soon he could find an excuse for leaving him.

“Well, that’s over,” said Rawley with a sigh. “I wonder if it would bore you greatly if I talked about our plans?”

“Not at all,” Antrim lied. Evidently he was stuck there for the evening and must make the best of it. “But let me tell you to begin with that—” he hesitated—“that this sort of thing won’t pay in Africa. If it’s going to happen again—I mean when you’re somewhere out in the blue—I won’t answer for your safety or that of your wife. You’d much better confine yourself to civilised countries.”

“I’ve had enough of civilised countries,” Rawley answered bitterly. “That’s partly why I’m here. That’s ... but I won’t go into details.”

Antrim was glad that he didn’t. He was sure that the details would be unpleasant. And yet, as he sat there opposite to Rawley and realised the man’s disadvantages of appearance and temperament he couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. Perhaps it was the unconscious contrast between Rawley and himself that made condescension, if not kindliness, seem a duty. If the fellow had tried to justify his unpardonable behaviour it would have been another matter; but he didn’t. He was ashamed of himself, and made no bones about it. The incident of the five rupees had been sheer clumsiness. The man had been rattled and confused. Now, once more, he seemed, as Kilgour had said, to know what he was about. He took Antrim’s reproof lying down.

“You’re perfectly right,” he said, “and I shouldn’t have minded if you put it more strongly. I wish I could be sure of myself. Unfortunately I can’t. It’s ten to one that I shall make a fool of myself again; and the worst of it is, as you say, that my wife may suffer.” From Mrs. Rawley not a word. “However, there it is,” he went on, “and that’s partly why I want you to listen to our plans. I may as well tell you that I’m not a sportsman in the ordinary sense of the term. I dislike killing things. That doesn’t mean that I object to other people doing so or criticise them for it. It’s their own business. With me it’s temperamental. You understand, don’t you?”

Antrim understood. He had met a few of this kind before. More than ever he was certain that Africa was no place for Rawley.

“I’m not even a naturalist. I’m merely interested in game from a photographic point of view. I want to get some pictures of lion and things like that at close quarters. And incidentally I want to see something of Africa. I’m not much of a reader, but when I was a kid I got hold of Livingstone on Sundays and ever since then I’ve been wanting to see the sort of things he saw. I want to get on to new ground. Do you mind if I call for another drink?”

“Not in the least.” Antrim beckoned to one of the waiters.

“Thanks very much.” Rawley drew in his chair. “Well, I’ve been talking to Mr. Kilgour about porters and all that; and what he’s told me has rather put me off the idea of being sent on a kind of Cook’s tour by one of the usual safari outfitters. He says that they bleed you white. Well, I don’t mind that. I’m not a poor man. But I’ve been in business, and I like to get value for money. I shouldn’t be satisfied if I merely ‘saw the sights,’ so to speak. I want to get into virgin country. I want to see things that other fellows haven’t seen. It isn’t a soft job; I know that. But I’m prepared for a certain amount of danger and discomfort, and so is my wife.” He spoke of her with a pride that was almost touching. Antrim liked him for it.

“I see what you mean,” he said, “but aren’t you a bit ambitious? After all, you’ve had no experience of the country, and it isn’t as easy as it looks. You’d much better begin with something simple, and work up to the greater thrills. Get your hand in, so to speak.”

Rawley looked at him straightly.

“I’m not going to be persuaded out of this, you know,” he said. “I don’t want anything simple ... I didn’t come here for that.”

“I know you didn’t. If you were an old hand, understood natives and had a sense of the country, it’d be another matter. Your Swahili, to begin with ...” They both smiled. “And you have to consider your wife.”

“You needn’t consider me, Captain Antrim,” said Mrs. Rawley quickly. It was the first time she had entered the conversation. “It was my idea to begin with.”

“Yes, yes, quite so, of course I see what you mean,” Rawley broke in, “and that brings me to what I wanted to say. You’ve been up-country for some years, and I should imagine that you’re a good judge of men. Can you suggest to me the name of any one—a gentleman—who knows the country and would go with us?”

“Upon my soul ...” Antrim hesitated.

“Money is not to be considered,” he added.

Antrim stiffened.

“No. I realise that. But what you want isn’t exactly a marketable commodity. If you went up to Nairobi and made friends there ...” he paused, for he was almost certain that Rawley and Nairobi wouldn’t hit it off. “You see it’s an intensely personal thing. I really don’t know that I can help you.”

“That’s a pity. From what Kilgour told me I felt sure that you would. Will you think it over? It’s hardly fair to bother you at such short notice. You’re sailing the day after to-morrow, aren’t you?”

“No,” said Mrs. Rawley, “Captain Antrim isn’t sailing on the Vandal.”

“Really? But Mr. Kilgour said ...”

“He changed his mind this morning. Didn’t you?”

Antrim laughed. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“That alters matters,” said Rawley eagerly. “We had rather counted on your helping us.”

“You also?” Antrim turned to her with a challenging smile.

“Yes, I was sure that you’d help us,” she answered simply.

“That was kind of you,” said Antrim.

Rawley leaned forward. “Would it be presumption on my part to ask what you intend to do, if you are staying in Africa?”

“Not in the least. I’ve made no plans. At present, if they’ll have me, I shall stay with the Kilgours.”

“But Kilgour ...”

“Kilgour didn’t know he was going to have that pleasure.”

Rawley swallowed the remains of his second whisky and stared at the glass as though he wished it was full again.

“I want you to tell me straight away,” he said, “if the idea offends you. It may be out of the question. But I’ve just been thinking. If you would consent to be our guest on the trip that we’re planning, or if I could make any arrangement ...”

“No, no. Thanks very much. But it’s quite out of the question.”

“Look here, I’m sorry. I should have known better. If I’ve offended you by suggesting that some arrangement might be made ...”

“Please don’t speak of it. I’m not in the least offended. I hope you won’t think me rude if I leave you here? I’ll get some one to put your name in the book if you care to use this place.”

He rose, and Rawley rose and faced him.

“I’m very much your debtor already for that unfortunate business this afternoon, I assure you ...”

“Not at all. Glad I was able to help you.” He took Rawley’s hand. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye ... and many thanks.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Rawley.”

She rose and held out her hand. “We shall see you to-morrow,” she said.

The devil they would! An hour of it had been quite enough to go on with, and Rawley’s sudden proposal that they should join forces had frightened him. That it should have done so was ridiculous, for he was a free agent and should not have found it difficult to refuse. In point of fact it hadn’t been difficult; and yet he felt that if he had stayed to discuss the matter he might easily have made a fool of himself. This lack of confidence was a nuisance. It was new to him. Two days before, in Nairobi, he would have said that no man of his acquaintance knew his own mind better than himself. His passage had been booked without a moment’s hesitation. Before that disturbing night in the train he had questioned nothing. Then, in a casual moment at the Kilgours’, this woman, who never opened her mouth, had sprung a question on him, and straightway, without a second’s hesitation, he had announced a radical change in his plans, a change that, up to this point, he hadn’t really seriously contemplated. Even after he had told her that he wasn’t leaving Africa he hadn’t believed it. And yet, not two minutes since, he had confirmed the change again. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t meant to do anything of the sort. He had acted like a man under hypnotic suggestion rather than the staid determined creature he believed himself to be. That alone should be enough to convince him that he’d had enough, and a little more than enough, of Africa. Up-country nerves: the traditional result of great altitudes. The sooner he was out of it the better. This business of waiting for the boat was a horrible bore. And she’d said that they would see him to-morrow! Not if he knew it!