Читать книгу Wyndham's Pal - Harold Bindloss - Страница 7

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Moonlight glittered on the West African river and it was very hot; the air was heavy, humid, and tainted by miasmatic vapors. Inside the lonely factory, moisture dripped from the beams and the big bare room that opened on the veranda smelt of mildew. Across the river, tangled mangroves loomed through drifting mist that hid the banks of mud about their long, arched roots. Wyndham's schooner, Columbine, rode in midstream, her tall masts and the graceful sweep of her rail cutting black against the silver light. Somebody on board was singing a Kroo paddling song with a strange monotonous air. In the distance one heard the rumble of heavy surf.

The factory was old and ruinous and the agent's hair was going white. He sat opposite Wyndham, at the end of a table about which documents were scattered; a cocktail jug and some glasses occupied the middle. Ellams was haggard and his skin was a jaundiced yellow. Marston lounged in a deck chair, with the perspiration running down his face, and smoked a cigarette.

"I think I have told you all you want to know, and I'm willing to give up my post," Ellams remarked. "Indeed, I'm beginning to feel I'm too old for the job. Few white men have lived as long in the fever swamps; as a rule an agent's run was very short when I first came out. We didn't bother about mosquitoes then. The tropical-diseases people hadn't discovered the mischievous habits of anopheles."

"You were here with my uncle, I think?" said Wyndham.

"I was with him for a year or two," Ellams answered, in a reminiscent tone. "A strange man, in some ways! I expect it's long since you saw him?"

"He came to England when I was a boy."

Ellams smiled. "When I saw you cross the compound, I thought Rupert Wyndham had come back. Wait a moment; I have his portrait."

He brought a faded and mildewed photograph. Wyndham studied it, without speaking, and then gave it to Marston, who made a little gesture of surprise. He imagined Rupert Wyndham was about his comrade's age when the portrait was taken, and the likeness was strange. There was in both faces a hint of recklessness and unrest, although the hint was plainer in the portrait. It indicated that Rupert would venture much and take paths sober men did not tread. Somehow it disturbed Marston.

"I suppose you know he vanished in the West Indies?" Wyndham remarked.

"Yes," said Ellams quietly. "I half expected something like this——"

"Ah!" said Wyndham. "Well, we've done with business for to-night. Tell me about my uncle."

Ellams drained his glass and Marston noted that his hand shook. The man had obviously suffered much from ague and fever.

"Rupert Wyndham was here before me," Ellams began. "Procter was agent when he arrived and Procter had got some native habits. That's a risk men who indulge their curiosity run in Africa. There's danger of forgetting one is white. I imagine it was unlucky Rupert began with Procter; his was a strange, adventurous temperament——"

"I'm told I have some of Rupert's characteristics," Wyndham remarked. "But go on."

"When your uncle came out, there was no rule but the negro headman's. British authority stopped a few miles from the outpost stockade, and traders made their own laws; they lived and drank hard. In some ways, things are not very different yet. We kill mosquitoes and dig drains, but Africa doesn't change.

"Well, Procter had gone the way some white men go, and when he died your uncle got a jar. Rupert had only known England and he was young, but I don't mean he was daunted. Rather he lost his balance and started on a line he ought to have left alone. Sometimes he talked about the thing. I suspect he knew the Leopards killed Procter."

"The Leopards?" Marston interrupted.

"The Ghost Leopards, a secret society. In this country, there are a number, run by the Ju-Ju priests. They're supposed to use magic, but they're a power in native politics and have given the British government trouble. Perhaps the Leopards are the strongest. The bushmen believe they can take the form of the animals, and when they like make themselves invisible. Anyhow, the headman they don't approve seldom rules very long——"

Ellams paused for a few moments and resumed: "It was a hot night when Rupert Wyndham thought he heard Procter call. He said his voice was choked and faint. He got up; he occupied the room yonder—" Ellams indicated a door opposite and went on: "There was no light, but the moon shone through the window behind us. Rupert had only been awake a few moments and heard nothing but the faint cry. He ran out in his pyjamas and found Procter on the floor. Procter's body was warm, but when Wyndham tried to lift him he saw he was dead. He lay across the cracked board where Mr. Marston sits."

Marston half-consciously pushed back his chair. "But what indicated the Leopards?"

"There were strange marks on Procter's throat. Wyndham thought they looked like the marks of claws."

Marston pondered while Ellams filled his glass. He pictured the huddled figure in pyjamas lying across the rotten boards, and the marks on the throat. As a rule his nerve was good, but the picture daunted him and he did not like his comrade's strange, fixed look. In a sense, the story was ridiculous; that is, it would have looked ridiculous in England, but Africa was different. Theatrical tragedy was not strange there, and he did not think Ellams had exaggerated much.

"Well," said the latter, "in the morning Wyndham found the factory boys had gone. He was alone with Procter and could get no help; besides, he had a dose of fever and when malaria grips you, your imagination works. He said perhaps the worst was the quietness and the buzzing of the flies. He dug a grave, but could not get Procter down the steps; fever makes one very limp, you know. Well, he sat there all day, keeping the flies off Procter, and in the evening a Millers' launch came up stream."

"A ghastly day!" said Marston, but Wyndham signed to Ellams.

"You haven't told it all. Go on."

"I'm an old servant and you're the head of the house," Ellams replied meaningly. "Well, I think that day left a mark on Rupert Wyndham. When I arrived he was moody and often brooded, but it looked as if he had a talent for managing the bushmen. They seemed to understand him and the business was growing fast. He began to go up river, although I imagine no other trader had reached the native market then. It was good for business; our oil was first quality and we got stuff, skins and sometimes ivory, Millers' and the Association couldn't buy. Besides, there were bits of pottery, brass, and silver work, the Fulah brought across the desert. Wyndham said the patterns were Sarascenic and the stuff was hundreds of years old. The house knew where to sell the goods at home. Once or twice we got Aggri beads."

"I didn't know about that," Wyndham remarked and turned to Marston. "In Africa, Aggri beads are worth almost any price you like to ask. We can't imitate them and don't know how they are made. It's very rare for a negro headman to let an Aggri go."

Ellams made a sign of agreement, and gave Wyndham an apologetic glance. "You see what this implies?"

"I think I see. My uncle was getting native habits; he was getting an influence——"

"He stopped away from the factory longer. Men with tattoo marks I didn't know came down and talked to him, and sometimes brought no trade. I thought he ran risks and warned him, but he laughed. It went on, and we were getting rich when the change began. Our trade did not fall off much, but one felt a difference——"

Ellams paused, and looked thoughtful when he resumed: "I can't altogether make things plain; there was a feeling of insecurity, and Wyndham's moodiness got worse. He did not go away so much, and locked his room door at night. I think he did not sleep and took some draught; not drugs white men use, but stuff the negroes make. When he did sleep, he was strangely hard to rouse. He was cool and as nearly fearless as any man I knew, but he began to look haggard and start at unexpected sounds. One morning I could not wake him and went round to the veranda window. Wyndham was fast asleep and a gun lay across his bed. He was a good shot with a pistol, but this was a heavy duck-gun that threw an ounce and a quarter of shot. Well, I was getting nervy, and the factory boys would not stop—it looked as if they knew something was wrong. I began to wonder how long Wyndham could keep it up."

The others were quiet when Ellams reached for the cocktail jug and finding it empty filled his pipe. Marston had spent some weeks on the African coast and sympathized with the agent. When one had seen the country and breathed the foul miasma that saps the white man's strength, one could understand the strain Ellams talked about. It was a daunting country and the gloom of its steamy forests was the shadow of death.

"After all," said Ellams, "there was no theatrical climax. One day a launch brought us a cablegram. Wyndham was wanted at home, the ebb tide was running and a mailboat was due to call at Takana lagoon. In an hour Columbine dropped down stream and my notion is it was a relief to Wyndham the cablegram arrived. If it had not arrived, he would have stayed. He was that kind of man."

"Had you trouble afterwards?" Marston asked.

"I had not. It was as if a shadow had melted. The strain had gone."

"Then it looks as if my uncle, alone, were threatened." Wyndham remarked.

Ellams nodded. "Yes. I think it was, so to speak, a personal thing. For all that, our trade got slack and has not since touched the mark it reached in your uncle's time. Well, I think that's all, and perhaps I have talked too much."

"If you'll mix another cocktail, we'll go to bed," Wyndham replied and when, a few minutes afterwards, he went to his room stopped at the door.

"This is where Rupert Wyndham slept with the gun beside him, I suppose?" he said. "I wonder what he dreamed about!"

For some time Marston did not sleep. As a rule, he did not indulge his imagination, but he had been disturbed by the agent's tale and there were strange noises. Some he thought were made by cracking boards and falling damp; others puzzled him and he found them daunting in the dark. They were like footsteps, as if somebody stole about the rooms. Marston had had enough of Africa and yet he owned the country had a mysterious charm. White men stayed, knowing the risk they ran and without much hope of money reward, until they died of fever or their minds got deranged. The latter happened now and then. In order to keep sane, one must concentrate on one's business and refuse to speculate about the secret life of the bush. After all, there was much to speculate about——