The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

a time a young man came from England with a reputation. He was sent by the Colonial Office to hold a district under Sanders as Deputy Commissioner.

      He was a Bachelor of Law, had read Science, and had acquired in a methodical fashion a working acquaintance with Swehili, bacteriology, and medicines. He was a very grave young man, and the first night of his arrival he kept Sanders (furtively yawning) out of his bed whilst he demonstrated a system whereby the aboriginal could be converted — not converted spiritually, but from unproductive vagrancy to a condition of good citizenship.

      Sanders said nothing beyond using the conventional expressions of polite interest, and despatched the young man and his tremendous baggage to an up-country station, with his official blessing.

      Torrington — this was the grave young man’s name — established himself at Entoli, and started forth to instil into the heathen mind the elementary principles of applied mechanics. In other words he taught them, through the medium of Swaheli — which they imperfectly understood — and a tin kettle, the lesson of steam. They understood the kettle part, but could not quite comprehend what meat he was cooking, and when he explained for the fortieth time that he was only cooking water, they glanced significantly one at the other and agreed that he was not quite right in his head.

      They did not tell him this much to his face, for cannibals have very good manners — though their table code leaves much to be desired.

      Mr Torrington tried them with chemical experiments, showing them how sulphuric acid applied to sugar produced Su2, Su4, or words to that effect. He gained a reputation as a magician as a result, and in more huts than one he was regarded and worshipped as a Great and Clever Devil — which in a sense he was. But the first time he came up against the spirit of the people, his science, his law, and his cut-and-dried theories went phutt! And that is where Sanders came in — Sanders who had forgotten all the chemistry he ever knew, and who, as a student of Constitutional Law, was the rankest of failures.

      It came about in this way.

      There was a young man in Isisi who prophesied that on such a day, at such an hour, the river would rise and drown the people. When Mr Torrington heard of this prophecy he was amused, and at first took no notice of it. But it occurred to him that here might be a splendid opportunity for revealing to the barbarian a little of that science with which he was so plentifully endowed.

      So he drew a large sectional plan, showing (a) the bed of the river; (b) the height of the banks; (c) the maximum rise of the river; (d) the height of the surrounding country; and demonstrated as plainly as possible the utter absurdity of the prophecy.

      Yet the people were unconvinced, and were preparing to abandon the village when Sanders arrived on the scene. He sent for the prophet, who was a young man of neurotic tendencies, and had a wooden prison cage built on the bank of the river, into which the youth was introduced.

      “You will stay here,” said Sanders, “and when the river rises you must prophesy that it will fall again, else assuredly you will be drowned.” Whereupon the people settled down again in their homes and waited for the river to drown the prophet and prove his words. But the river at this season of the year was steadily falling, and the prophet, like many another, was without honour in his own country. Sanders went away; and, although somewhat discouraged, Mr Torrington resumed his experiments. First of all, he took up sleeping sickness, and put in three months’ futile work, impressing nobody save a gentleman of whom more must be written in a further chapter. Then he dropped that study suddenly and went to another.

      He had ideas concerning vaccination, but the first baby he vaccinated died of croup, and Torrington came flying down the river telling Sanders a rambling story of a populace infuriated and demanding his blood. Then Torrington went home.

      “The country is now quiet,” wrote Sanders to the Administrator, with sardonic humour. “There are numerous palavers pending, but none of any particular moment. The Isisi people are unusually quiet, and Bosambo, the Monrovian, of whom I have written your Excellency, makes a model chief for the Ochori. No thefts have been traced to him for three months. I should be grateful if full information could be supplied to me concerning an expedition which at the moment is traversing this country under the style of the Isisi Exploitation Syndicate.” Curiously enough, Torrington had forgotten the fact that a member of this expedition had been one of the most interested students of his sleeping sickness clinics.

      The Isisi Exploitation Syndicate, Limited, was born between the entree and the sweet at the house of a gentleman whose Christian name was Isidore, and who lived in Maida Vale. At dinner one night with a dear friend — who called himself McPherson every day of the year except on Yum Kippur, when he frankly admitted that he had been born Isaacs — the question of good company titles came up, and Mr McPherson said he had had the “Isisi Exploitation” in his mind for many years. With the aid of an atlas the Isisi country was discovered. It was one of those atlases on which are inscribed the staple products of the lands, and across the Isisi was writ fair “Rubber,” “Kola-nut,” “Mahogany,” and “Tobacco.” I would ask the reader to particularly remember “Tobacco.”

      “There’s a chief I’ve had some correspondence with,” said Mr McPherson, chewing his cigar meditatively; “we could get a sort of concession from him. It would have to be done on the quiet, because the country is a British Protectorate. Now, if we could get a man who’d put up the stuff, and send him out to fix the concession, we’d have a company floated before you could say knife.” Judicious inquiry discovered the man in Claude Hyall Cuthbert, a plutocratic young gentleman, who, on the strength of once having nearly shot a lion in Uganda, was accepted by a large circle of acquaintances as an authority on Africa.

      Cuthbert, who dabbled in stocks and shares, was an acquisition to any syndicate, and on the understanding that part of his duty would be the obtaining of the concession, he gladly financed the syndicate to the extent of seven thousand pounds, four thousand of which Messrs Isidore and McPherson very kindly returned to him to cover the cost of his expedition.

      The other three thousand were earmarked for office expenses.

      As Mr McPherson truly said: “Whatever happens, we’re on velvet, my boy,” which was perfectly true.

      Before Cuthbert sailed, McPherson offered him a little advice.

      “Whatever you do,” he said, “steer clear of that dam’ Commissioner Sanders. He’s one of those pryin’ interferin’—”

      “I know the breed,” said Cuthbert wisely. “This is not my first visit to Africa. Did I ever tell you about the lion I shot in Uganda?” A week later he sailed.

      In course of time came a strange white man through Sanders’ domain. This white man, who was Cuthbert, was following the green path to the death — but this he did not know. He threw his face to the forest, as the natives say, and laughed, and the people of the village of O’Tembi, standing before their wattle huts, watched him in silent wonder.

      It was a wide path between huge trees, and the green of the undergrowth was flecked with sunlight, and, indeed, the green path was beautiful to the eye, being not unlike a parkland avenue.

      N’Beki, chief of this village of the O’Tembi, a very good old man, went out to the path when the white man began his journey.

      “White man,” he said solemnly, “this is the road to hell, where all manner of devils live. Night brings remorse, and dawn brings self-hatred, which is worse than death.” Cuthbert, whose Swaheli was faulty, and whose Bomongo talk was nil, grinned impatiently as his coastboy translated unpicturesquely.

      “Dam nigger done say, this be bad place, no good; he say bimeby you libe for die.”

      “Tell him to go to blazes!” said Cuthbert noisily; “and, look here, Flagstaff, ask him where the rubber is, see? Tell him we know all about the forest, and ask him about the elephants, where their playground is?” Cuthbert was broad-shouldered and heavily built, and under his broad sun helmet his face was very hot and moist.

      “Tell the white man,” said the chief quietly, “there is no rubber within