The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

said Sanders, “being by Government appointed his keeper.”

      “Give me a sign,” she croaked, and the people in her vicinity repeated, “A sign, master!”

      “This is a sign,” said Sanders, remembering the woman in labour. “By the god’s favour there shall be born to Ifabi, wife of Adako, a male child.” He heard the babble of talk; he heard his message repeated over the heads of the crowd; he saw a party of women go scurrying back to the village; then he gave the order to march. There were murmurings, and once he heard a deep-voiced man begin the war-chant, but nobody joined him. Somebody — probably the same man — clashed his spear against his wicker shield, but his warlike example was not followed. Sanders gained the village street. Around him was such a press of people that he followed the swaying box with difficulty. The river was in sight; the moon, rising a dull, golden ball over the trees, laced the water with silver, and then there came a scream of rage.

      “He lies! He lies! Ifabi, the wife of Adako, has a female child.”

      Sanders turned swiftly like a dog at bay; his lips upcurled in a snarl, his white, regular teeth showing. “Now,” said Sanders, speaking very quickly, “let any man raise his spear, and he dies.” Again they stood irresolute, and Sanders, over his shoulder, gave an order.

      For a moment only the people hesitated; then, as the soldiers gripped the poles of the god-box, with one fierce yell they sprang forward.

      A voice screamed something; and, as if by magic, the tumult ceased, and the crowd darted backward and outward, falling over one another in their frantic desire to escape.

      Sanders, his pistol still loaded, stood in openmouthed astonishment at the stampede.

      Save for his men he was alone; and then he saw.

      Along the centre of the street two men were walking. They were clad alike in short crimson kilts that left their knees bare; great brass helmets topped their heads, and brass cuirasses covered their breasts.

      Sanders watched them as they came nearer, then: “If this is not fever, it is madness,” he muttered, for what he saw were two Roman centurions, their heavy swords girt about their waists.

      He stood still, and they passed him, so close that he saw on the boss of one shield the rough-moulded letters: “AUGUSTUS CAE”

      “Fever” said Sanders emphatically, and followed the box to the ship.

      When the steamer reached Lukati, Sanders was still in a condition of doubt, for his temperature was normal, and neither fever nor sun could be held accountable for the vision. Added to which, his men had seen the same thing.

      He found the reinforcements his pigeon had brought, but they were unnecessary now.

      “It beats me,” he confessed to Carter, telling the story; “but we’ll get out the stone; it might furnish an explanation. Centurions — bah!” The stone, exposed in the light of day, was of greyish granite, such as Sanders did not remember having seen before.

      “Here are the ‘devil marks,’” he said, as he turned it over. “Possibly — whew!” No wonder he whistled, for closely set were a number of printed characters; and Carter, blowing the dust, saw—’MARIUS ET AUGUSTUS CENT…NERO IMPERAT…IN DEUS…DULCE.’ That night, with great labour, Sanders, furbishing his rusty Latin, and filling in gaps, made a translation: “Marius and Augustus, Centurions of Nero, Caesar and Emperor, Sleep sweetly with the gods.”

      “We are they who came beyond the wild lands which Hanno, the Carthaginian, found…

      “Marcus Septimus went up into Egypt, and with him Decimus Superbus, but by the will of Caesar, and the favour of the gods, we sailed to the black seas beyond…

      “Here we lived, our ships suffering wreck, being worshipped by the barbarians, teaching them warlike practices.

      “…You who come after…bear greetings to Rome to Cato Hippocritus, who dwells by the gate…” Sanders shook his head when he had finished reading, and said it was “rum.”

III. Bosambo of Monrovia

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      For many years have the Ochori people formed a sort of grim comic relief to the tragedy of African colonization. Now it may well be that we shall laugh at the Ochori no more. Nor, in the small hours of the night, when conversation flags in the little circle about the fires in fishing camps, shall the sleepy-eyed be roused to merriment by stories of Ochori meekness. All this has come about by favour of the Liberian Government, though at present the Liberian Government is not aware of the fact.

      With all due respect to the Republic of Liberia, I say that the Monrovians are naturally liars and thieves.

      Once upon a time, that dignity might be added to the State, a warship was acquired — if I remember aright it was presented by a disinterested shipowner. The Government appointed three admirals, fourteen captains, and as many officers as the ship would hold, and they all wore gorgeous but ill-fitting uniforms. The Government would have appointed a crew also, but for the fact that the ship was not big enough to hold any larger number of people than its officers totalled.

      This tiny man-of-war of the black republic went to sea once, the admirals and captains taking it in turn to stoke and steer — a very pleasing and novel sensation, this latter.

      Coming back into the harbour, one of the admirals said— “It is my turn to steer now,” and took the wheel.

      The ship struck a rock at the entrance of the harbour and went down. The officers escaped easily enough, for your Monrovian swims like a fish, but their uniforms were spoilt by the sea water. To the suggestion that salvage operations should be attempted to refloat the warship, the Government very wisely said no, they thought not.

      “We know where she is,” said the President — he was sitting on the edge of his desk at Government House, eating sardines with his fingers— “and if we ever want her, it will be comforting to know she is so close to us.” Nothing more would have been done in the matter but for the fact that the British Admiralty decided that the wreck was a danger to shipping, and issued orders forthwith for the place where it lay to be buoyed.

      The Liberian Government demurred on account of expense, but on pressure being applied (I suspect the captain of H.M.S. Dwarf, who was a man with a bitter tongue) they agreed, and the bell-buoy was anchored to the submerged steamer.

      It made a nice rowdy, clanging noise, did that bell, and the people of Monrovia felt they were getting their money’s worth.

      But all Monrovia is not made up of the freed American slaves who were settled there in 1821. There are people who are described in a lordly fashion by the true Monrovians as “indigenous natives,” and the chief of these are the Kroomen, who pay no taxes, defy the Government, and at intervals tweak the official nose of the Republic.

      The second day after the bell was in place, Monrovia awoke to find a complete silence reigning in the bay, and that in spite of a heavy swell. The bell was still, and two ex-admirals, who were selling fish on the foreshore, borrowed a boat and rowed out to investigate. The explanation was simple — the bell had been stolen.

      “Now!” said the President of the Liberian Republic in despair, “may Beelzebub, who is the father and author of all sin, descend upon these thieving Kroomen!” Another bell was attached. The same night it was stolen. Yet another bell was put to the buoy, and a boatload of admirals kept watch. Throughout the night they sat, rising and falling with the swell, and the monotonous “clang-jangle-clong” was music in their ears. All night it sounded, but in the early morning, at the dark hour before the sun comes up, it seemed that the bell, still tolling, grew fainter and fainter.

      “Brothers,” said an admiral, “we are drifting away from the bell.” But the explanation was that the bell had drifted away from them, for, tired of half measures,