Sanders of the River E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"Bones: Further Adventures in Mr. Commissioner Sanders' Country" by Edgar Wallace continues the exploits of Commissioner Sanders in colonial Africa. Wallace crafts a thrilling narrative of intrigue, tribal conflicts, and the challenges of maintaining order. As Sanders confronts new adversaries and navigates the complexities of colonial dynamics, the story unfolds with suspense and moral dilemmas. The novel delves into the clash between tradition and progress, offering a vivid portrayal of the commissioner's relentless pursuit of justice in a vibrant and volatile setting.

Leseprobe

Edgar Wallace

Sanders of the River

Published by Fractal Press

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Fractal Press

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781787368507

Contents

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

CHAPTER I.

THE EDUCATION OF THE KING.

Mr. Commissioner Sanders had graduated to West Central Africa by such easy stages that he did not realise when his acquaintance with the back lands began. Long before he was called upon by the British Government to keep a watchful eye upon some quarter of a million cannibal folk, who ten years before had regarded white men as we regard the unicorn; he had met the Basuto, the Zulu, the Fingo, the Pondo, Matabele, Mashona, Barotse, Hottentot, and Bechuana. Then curiosity and interest took him westward and northward, and he met the Angola folk, then northward to the Congo, westward to the Masai, and finally, by way of the Pigmy people, he came to his own land.

Now, there is a subtle difference between all these races, a difference that only such men as Sanders know.

It is not necessarily a variety of colour, though some are brown and some yellow, and some—a very few—jet black. The difference is in character. By Sanders’ code you trusted all natives up to the same point, as you trust children, with a few notable exceptions. The Zulu were men, the Basuto were men, yet childlike in their grave faith. The black men who wore the fez were subtle, but trustworthy; but the browny men of the Gold Coast, who talked English, wore European clothing, and called one another “Mr.,” were Sanders’ pet abomination.

Living so long with children of a larger growth, it follows that he absorbed many of their childlike qualities. Once, on furlough in London, a confidence trick was played on him, and only his natural honesty pulled him out of a ridiculous scrape. For, when the gold-brick man produced his dull metal ingot, all Sanders’ moral nerves stood endways, and he ran the confiding “bunco steerer” to the nearest station, charging him, to the astonishment of a sorely-puzzled policeman, with “I.G.B.,” which means illicit gold buying. Sanders did not doubt that the ingot was gold, but he was equally certain that the gold was not honestly come by. His surprise when he found that the “gold” was gold-leaf imposed upon the lead of commerce was pathetic.

You may say of Sanders that he was a statesman, which means that he had no exaggerated opinion of the value of individual human life. When he saw a dead leaf on the plant of civilisation, he plucked it off, or a weed growing with his “flowers” he pulled it up, not stopping to consider the weed’s equal right to life. When a man, whether he was capita or slave, by his bad example endangered the peace of his country, Sanders fell upon him. In their unregenerate days, the Isisi called him “Ogani Isisi,” which means “The Little Butcher Bird,” and certainly in that time Sanders was prompt to hang. He governed a people three hundred miles beyond the fringe of civilisation. Hesitation to act, delay in awarding punishment, either of these two things would have been mistaken for weakness amongst a people who had neither power to reason, nor will to excuse, nor any large charity.

In the land which curves along the borders of Togo the people understand punishment to mean pain and death, and nothing else counts. There was a foolish Commissioner who was a great humanitarian, and he went up to Akasava—which is the name of this land—and tried moral suasion.

It was a raiding palaver. Some of the people of Akasava had crossed the river to Ochori and stolen women and goats, and I believe there was a man or two killed, but that is unimportant. The goats and the women were alive, and cried aloud for vengeance. They cried so loud that down at headquarters they were heard and Mr. Commissioner Niceman—that was not his name, but it will serve—went up to see what all the noise was about. He found the Ochori people very angry, but more frightened.

“If,” said their spokesman, “they will return our goats, they may keep the women, because the goats are very valuable.”

So Mr. Commissioner Niceman had a long, long palaver that lasted days and days, with the chief of the Akasava people and his councillors, and in the end moral suasion triumphed, and the people promised on a certain day, at a certain hour, when the moon was in such a quarter and the tide at such a height, the women should be returned and the goats also.

So Mr. Niceman returned to headquarters, swelling with admiration for himself and wrote a long report about his genius and his administrative abilities, and his knowledge of the native, which was afterwards published in Blue Book (Africa) 7943-96.

It so happened that Mr. Niceman immediately afterwards went home to England on furlough, so that he did not hear the laments and woeful wailings of the Ochori folk when they did not get their women or their goats.

Sanders, working round the Isisi River, with ten Houssas and an attack of malaria, got a helio message:

“Go Akasava and settle that infernal woman palaver.—Administration.”

So Sanders girded up his loins, took 25 grains of quinine, and leaving his good work—he was searching for M’Beli, the witch-doctor, who had poisoned a friend—trekked across country for the Akasava.

In the course of time he came to the city and was met by the chief.

“What about these women?” he asked.

“We will have a palaver,” said the chief. “I will summon my headmen and my councillors.”

“Summon nothing,” said Sanders shortly. “Send back the women and the goats you stole from the Ochori.”

“Master,” said the chief, “at full moon, which is our custom, when the tide is so, and all signs of gods and devils are propitious, I will do as you bid.”

“Chief,” said Sanders, tapping the ebony chest of the other with the thin end of his walking-stick, “moon and river, gods or devils, those women and the goats go back to the Ochori folk by sunset, or I tie you to a tree and flog you till you bleed.”

“Master,” said the chief, “the women shall be returned.”

“And the goats,” said Sanders.

“As to the goats,” said the chief airily, “they are dead, having been killed for a feast.”

“You will bring them back to life,” said Sanders.

“Master, do you think I am a magician?” asked the chief of the Akasava.

“I think you are a liar,” said Sanders impartially, and there the palaver finished.

That night goats and women returned to the Ochori, and Sanders prepared to depart.

He took aside the chief, not desiring to put shame upon him or to weaken his authority.

“Chief,” he said, “it is a long journey to Akasava, and I am a man fulfilling many tasks. I desire that you do not cause me any further journey to this territory.”

“Master,” said the chief truthfully, “I never wish to see you again.”

Sanders smiled aside, collected his ten Houssas, and went back to the Isisi River to continue his search for M’Beli.

It was not a nice search for many causes, and there was every reason to believe, too, that the king of Isisi himself was the murderer’s protector. Confirmation of this view came one morning when Sanders, encamped by the Big River, was taking a breakfast of tinned milk and toast. There arrived hurriedly Sato-Koto, the brother of the king, in great distress of mind, for he was a fugitive from the king’s wrath. He babbled forth all manner of news, in much of which Sanders took no interest whatever. But what he said of the witch-doctor who lived in the king’s shadow was very interesting indeed, and Sanders sent a messenger to headquarters, and, as it transpired, headquarters despatched in the course of time Mr. Niceman—who by this time had returned from furlough—to morally “suade” the king of the Isisi.

From such evidence as we have been able to collect it is evident that the king was not in a melting mood. It is an indisputable fact that poor Niceman’s head, stuck on a pole before the king’s hut, proclaimed the king’s high spirits.

H.M.S. St. George, H.M.S. Thrush, H.M.S. Philomel, H.M.S. Phoebe sailed from Simonstown, and H.M.S. Dwarf came down from Sierra Leone hec dum, and in less than a month after the king killed his guest he wished he hadn’t.

Headquarters sent Sanders to clear up the political side of the mess.

He was shown round what was left of the king’s city by the flag-lieutenant of the St. George.

“I am afraid,” said that gentleman, apologetically, “I am afraid that you will have to dig out a new king; we’ve rather killed the old one.”

Sanders nodded.

“I shall not go into mourning,” he said.

There was no difficulty in finding candidates for the vacant post. Sato-Koto, the dead king’s brother, expressed his willingness to assume the cares of office with commendable promptitude.

“What do you say?” asked the admiral, commanding the expedition.

“I say no, sir,” said Sanders, without hesitation. “The king has a son, a boy of nine; the kingship must be his. As for Sato-Koto, he shall be regent at pleasure.”

And so it was arranged, Sato-Koto sulkily assenting.

They found the new king hidden in the woods with the women folk, and he tried to bolt, but Sanders caught him and led him back to the city by the ear.

“My boy,” he said kindly, “how do people call you?”

“Peter, master,” whimpered the wriggling lad; “in the fashion of the white people.”

“Very well,” said Sanders, “you shall be King Peter, and rule this country wisely and justly according to custom and the law. And you shall do hurt to none, and put shame on none nor shall you kill or raid or do any of the things that make life worth living, and if you break loose, may the Lord help you!”

Thus was King Peter appointed monarch of the Isisi people, and Sanders went back to head-quarters with the little army of bluejackets and Houssas, for M’Beli, the witch-doctor, had been slain at the taking of the city, and Sanders’ work was finished.

The story of the taking of Isisi village, and the crowning of the young king, was told in the London newspapers, and lost nothing in the telling. It was so described by the special correspondents, who accompanied the expedition, that many dear old ladies of Bayswater wept, and many dear young ladies of Mayfair said: “How sweet!” and the outcome of the many emotions which the description evoked was the sending out from England of Miss Clinton Calbraith, who was an M.A., and unaccountably pretty.

She came out to “mother” the orphan king, to be a mentor and a friend. She paid her own passage, but the books which she brought and the school paraphernalia that filled two large packing cases were subscribed for by the tender readers of Tiny Toddlers, a magazine for infants. Sanders met her on the landing-stage, being curious to see what a white woman looked like.

He put a hut at her disposal and sent the wife of his coast clerk to look after her.

“And now, Miss Calbraith,” he said, at dinner that night, “what do you expect to do with Peter?”

She tilted her pretty chin in the air reflectively.

“We shall start with the most elementary of lessons—the merest kindergarten, and gradually work up. I shall teach him calisthenics, a little botany—Mr. Sanders, you’re laughing.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he hastened to assure her; “I always make a face like that—er—in the evening. But tell me this—do you speak the language—Swaheli, Bomongo, Fingi?”

“That will be a difficulty,” she said thoughtfully.

“Will you take my advice?” he asked.

“Why, yes.”

“Well, learn the language.” She nodded. “Go home and learn it.” She frowned. “It will take you about twenty-five years.”

“Mr. Sanders,” she said, not without dignity, “you are pulling—you are making fun of me.”

“Heaven forbid!” said Sanders piously, “that I should do anything so wicked.”

The end of the story, so far as Miss Clinton Calbraith was concerned, was that she went to Isisi, stayed three days, and came back incoherent.

“He is not a child!” she said wildly; “he is—a—a little devil!”

“So I should say,” said Sanders philosophically.

“A king? It is disgraceful! He lives in a mud hut and wears no clothes. If I’d known!”

“A child of nature,” said Sanders blandly. “You didn’t expect a sort of Louis Quinze, did you?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” she said desperately; “but it was impossible to stay—quite impossible.”

“Obviously,” murmured Sanders.

“Of course, I knew he would be black,” she went on; “and I knew that—oh, it was too horrid!”

“The fact of it is, my dear young lady,” said Sanders, “Peter wasn’t as picturesque as you imagined him; he wasn’t the gentle child with pleading eyes; and he lives messy—is that it?”

This was not the only attempt ever made to educate Peter. Months afterwards, when Miss Calbraith had gone home and was busily writing her famous book, “Alone in Africa: by an English Gentlewoman,” Sanders heard of another educative raid. Two members of an Ethiopian mission came into Isisi by the back way. The Ethiopian mission is made up of Christian black men, who, very properly, basing their creed upon Holy Writ, preach the gospel of Equality. A black man is as good as a white man any day of the week, and infinitely better on Sundays if he happens to be a member of the Reformed Ethiopian Church.

They came to Isisi and achieved instant popularity, for the kind of talk they provided was very much to the liking of Sato-Koto and the king’s councillors.

Sanders sent for the missioners. The first summons they refused to obey, but they came on the second occasion, because the message Sanders sent was at once peremptory and ominous.

They came to headquarters, two cultured American negroes of good address and refined conversation. They spoke English faultlessly, and were in every sense perfect gentlemen.

“We cannot understand the character of your command,” said one, “which savours somewhat of interference with the liberty of the subject.”

“You’ll understand me better,” said Sanders, who knew his men, “when I tell you that I cannot allow you to preach sedition to my people.”

“Sedition, Mr. Sanders!” said the negro in shocked tones. “That is a grave charge.”

Sanders took a paper from a pigeon-hole in his desk; the interview took place in his office.

“On such a date,” he said, “you said this, and this, and that.”

In other words he accused them of overstepping the creed of Equality and encroaching upon the borderland of political agitation.

“Lies!” said the elder of the two, without hesitation.

“Truth or lies,” he said, “you go no more to Isisi.”

“Would you have the heathen remain in darkness?” asked the man, in reproach. “Is the light we kindle too bright, master?”

“No,” said Sanders, “but a bit too warm.”

So he committed the outrage of removing the Ethiopians from the scene of their earnest labours, in consequence of which questions were asked in Parliament.

Then the chief of the Akasava people—an old friend—took a hand in the education of King Peter. Akasava adjoins that king’s territory, and the chief came to give hints in military affairs.

He came with drums a-beating, with presents of fish and bananas and salt.

“You are a great king!” he said to the sleepy-eyed boy who sat on a stool of state, regarding him with open-mouthed interest. “When you walk the world shakes at your tread; the mighty river that goes flowing down to the big water parts asunder at your word, the trees of the forest shiver, and the beasts go slinking to cover when your mightiness goes abroad.”

“Oh, ko, ko!” giggled the king, pleasantly tickled.

“The white men fear you,” continued the chief of the Akasava; “they tremble and hide at your roar.”

Sato-Koto, standing at the king’s elbow, was a practical man.

“What seek ye, chief?” he asked, cutting short the compliments.

So the chief told him of a land peopled by cowards, rich with the treasures of the earth, goats, and women.

“Why do you not take them yourself?” demanded the regent.

“Because I am a slave,” said the chief; “the slave of Sandi, who would beat me. But you, lord, are of the great; being king’s headman, Sandi would not beat you because of your greatness.”

There followed a palaver, which lasted two days.

“I shall have to do something with Peter,” wrote Sanders despairingly to the Administrator; “the little beggar has gone on the war-path against those unfortunate Ochori. I should be glad if you would send me a hundred men, a Maxim, and a bundle of rattan canes; I’m afraid I must attend to Peter’s education myself.”

“Lord, did I not speak the truth?” said the Akasava chief in triumph. “Sandi has done nothing! Behold, we have wasted the city of the Ochori, and taken their treasure, and the white man is dumb because of your greatness! Let us wait till the moon comes again, and I will show you another city.”

“You are a great man,” bleated the king, “and some day you shall build your hut in the shadow of my palace.”

“On that day,” said the chief, with splendid resignation, “I shall die of joy.”

When the moon had waxed and waned and come again, a pencilled silver hoop of light in the eastern sky, the Isisi warriors gathered with spear and broad-bladed sword, with ingola on their bodies, and clay in their hair.

They danced a great dance by the light of a huge fire, and all the women stood round, clapping their hands rhythmically.

In the midst of this there arrived a messenger in a canoe, who prostrated himself before the king, saying:

“Master, one day’s march from here is Sandi; he has with him five score of soldiers and the brass gun which says: ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!’”

A silence reigned in court circles, which was broken by the voice of the Akasava chief.

“I think I will go home,” he said. “I have a feeling of sickness; also, it is the season when my goats have their young.”

“Do not be afraid,” said Sato-Koto brutally. “The king’s shadow is over you, and he is so mighty that the earth shakes at his tread, and the waters of the big river part at his footfall; also, the white men fear him.”

“Nevertheless,” said the chief, with some agitation, “I must go, for my youngest son is sickening with fever, and calls all the time for me.”

“Stay!” said the regent, and there was no mistaking his tone.

Sanders did not come the next day, nor the next. He was moving leisurely, traversing a country where many misunderstandings existed that wanted clearing up. When he arrived, having sent a messenger ahead to carry the news of his arrival, he found the city peaceably engaged.

The women were crushing corn, the men smoking, the little children playing and sprawling about the streets.

He halted at the outskirts of the city, on a hillock that commanded the main street, and sent for the regent.

“Why must I send for you?” he asked. “Why does the king remain in his city when I come? This is shame.”

“Master,” said Sato-Koto, “it is not fitting that a great king should so humble himself.”

Sanders was neither amused nor angry. He was dealing with a rebellious people, and his own fine feelings were as nothing to the peace of the land.

“It would seem that the king has had bad advisers,” he reflected aloud, and Sato-Koto shuffled uneasily.

“Go, now, and tell the king to come—for I am his friend.”

The regent departed, but returned again alone.

“Lord, he will not come,” he said sullenly.

“Then I will go to him,” said Sanders.

King Peter, sitting before his hut, greeted Mr. Commissioner with downcast eyes.

Sanders’ soldiers, spread in a semi-circle before the hut, kept the rabble at bay.

“King,” said Sanders—he carried in his hand a rattan cane of familiar shape, and as he spoke he whiffled it in the air, making a little humming noise—”stand up!”

“Wherefore?” said Sato-Koto.

“That you shall see,” said Sanders.

The king rose reluctantly, and Sanders grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

Swish!

The cane caught him most undesirably, and he sprang into the air with a yell.

Swish, swish, swish!

Yelling and dancing, throwing out wild hands to ward off the punishment, King Peter blubbered for mercy.

“Master!” Sato-Koto, his face distorted with rage, reached for his spear.

“Shoot that man if he interferes,” said Sanders, without releasing the king.

The regent saw the levelled rifles and stepped back hastily.

“Now,” said Sanders, throwing down the cane, “now we will play a little game.”

“Wow-wow—oh, ko!” sobbed his majesty.

“I go back to the forest,” said Sanders. “By and by a messenger shall come to you, saying that the Commissioner is on his way. Do you understand?”

“Yi-hi!” sobbed the king.

“Then will you go out with your councillors and your old men and await my coming according to custom. Is that clear?”

“Ye-es, master,” whimpered the boy.

“Very good,” said Sanders, and withdrew his troops.

In half an hour came a grave messenger to the king, and the court went out to the little hill to welcome the white man.

This was the beginning of King Peter’s education, for thus was he taught obedience.

Sanders went into residence in the town of Isisi, and held court.

“Sato-Koto,” he said on the second day, “do you know the village of Ikan?”

“Yes, master; it is two days’ journey into the bush.”

Sanders nodded.

“You will take your wives, your children, your servants, and your possessions to the village of Ikan, there to stay until I give you leave to return. The palaver is finished.”

Next came the chief of the Akasava, very ill at ease.

“Lord, if any man says I did you wrong, he lies,” said the chief.

“Then I am a liar!” said Sanders. “For I say that you are an evil man, full of cunning.”

“If it should be,” said the chief, “that you order me to go to my village as you have ordered Sato-Koto, I will go, since he who is my father is not pleased with me.”

“That I order,” said Sanders; “also, twenty strokes with a stick, for the good of your soul. Furthermore, I would have you remember that down by Tembeli on the great river there is a village where men labour in chains because they have been unfaithful to the Government and have practised abominations.”

So the chief of the Akasava people went out to punishment.

There were other matters requiring adjustment, but they were of a minor character, and when these were all settled to the satisfaction of Sanders, but by no means to the satisfaction of the subjects, the Commissioner turned his attention to the further education of the king.

“Peter,” he said, “to-morrow when the sun comes up I go back to my own village, leaving you without councillors.”

“Master, how may I do without councillors, since I am a young boy?” asked the king, crestfallen and chastened.

“By saying to yourself when a man calls for justice: ‘If I were this man how should I desire the king’s justice?’”

The boy looked unhappy.

“I am very young,” he repeated; “and to-day there come many from outlying villages seeking redress against their enemies.”

“Very good,” said Sanders. “To-day I will sit at the king’s right hand and learn of his wisdom.”

The boy stood on one leg in his embarrassment, and eyed Sanders askance.

There is a hillock behind the town. A worn path leads up to it, and a-top is a thatched hut without sides. From this hillock you see the broad river with its sandy shoals, where the crocodiles sleep with open mouth; you see the rising ground toward Akasava, hills that rise one on top of the other, covered with a tangle of vivid green. In this house sits the king in judgment, beckoning the litigants forward. Sato-Koto was wont to stand by the king, bartering justice.

To-day Sato-Koto was preparing to depart and Sanders sat by the king’s side.

There were indeed many litigants.

There was a man who had bought a wife, giving no less than a thousand rods and two bags of salt for her. He had lived for three months with her, when she departed from his house.

“Because,” said the man philosophically, “she had a lover. Therefore, Mighty Sun of Wisdom, I desire the return of my rods and my salt.”

“What say you?” said Sanders.

The king wriggled uncomfortably.

“What says the father?” he said hesitatingly, and Sanders nodded.

“That is a wise question,” he approved, and called the father, a voluble and an eager old man.

“Now, king,” he said hurriedly, “I sold this woman, my daughter; how might I know her mind? Surely I fulfil my contract when the woman goes to the man. How shall a father control when a husband fails?”

Sanders looked at the king again, and the boy drew a long breath.

“It would seem, M’bleni, that the woman, your daughter, lived many years in your hut, and if you do not know her mind you are either a great fool or she is a cunning one. Therefore, I judge that you sold this woman knowing her faults. Yet the husband might accept some risk also. You shall take back your daughter and return 500 rods and a bag of salt, and if it should be that your daughter marries again, you shall pay one-half of her dowry to this man.”

Very, very slowly he gave judgment, hesitatingly, anxiously, glancing now and again to the white man for his approval.

“That was good,” said Sanders, and called forward another pleader.

“Lord king,” said the new plaintiff, “a man has put an evil curse on me and my family, so that they sicken.”

Here was a little poser for the little judge, and he puzzled the matter out in silence, Sanders offering no help.

“How does he curse you?” at last asked the king.

“With the curse of death,” said the complainant in a hushed voice.

“Then you shall curse him also,” said the king, “and it shall be a question of whose curse is the stronger.”

Sanders grinned behind his hand, and the king, seeing the smile, smiled also.

From here onward Peter’s progress was a rapid one, and there came to headquarters from time to time stories of a young king who was a Solomon in judgment.

So wise he was (who knew of the formula he applied to each case?), so beneficent, so peaceable, that the chief of the Akasava, from whom was periodically due, took advantage of the gentle administration, and sent neither corn nor fish nor grain. He did this after a journey to far-away Ikan, where he met the king’s uncle, Sato-Koto, and agreed upon common action. Since the crops were good, the king passed the first fault, but the second tribute became due, and neither Akasava nor Ikan sent, and the people of Isisi, angry at the insolence, murmured, and the king sat down in the loneliness of his hut to think upon a course which was just and effective.

“I really am sorry to bother you,” wrote Sanders to the Administrator again, “but I shall have to borrow your Houssas for the Isisi country. There has been a tribute palaver, and Peter went down to Ikan and wiped up his uncle; he filled in his spare time by giving the Akasava the worst licking they have ever had. I thoroughly approve of all that Peter has done, because I feel that he is actuated only by the keenest sense of justice and a desire to do the right thing at the right time—and it was time Sato-Koto was killed—though I shall have to reprimand Peter for the sake of appearances. The Akasava chief is in the bush, hiding.”

Peter came back to his capital after his brief but strenuous campaign, leaving behind him two territories that were all the better for his visit, though somewhat sore.

The young king brought together his old men, his witch-doctors, and other notabilities.