Chapter 27
All day at Fort Eitel had been stir and bustle, the blare of trumpets and the barking of sergeants, white and black. Long lines of women and slaves streamed in from the surrounding countryside bearing loads of corn and bananas. In the half-made parade ground at the foot of the hill of Kawa Kendi, half a company of Wongolo whom zu Pfeiffer had conscripted from the chiefs, stumbled and ran in awkward squads. In the hut of the Wongolo chiefs squatted Yabolo among the rest, silently observing the preparations for the punitive expedition which Sakamata had informed them was being prepared in response to the insolent challenge of the white man who had allied himself with the “rebels.” But over them, as well as every Wongolo in and about the place, was a sullen air not of defiance but of expectant listening.
In the mess hut a nervous Bakunjala prepared the table for dinner, the whites of his eyes rolling at every sound of zu Pfeiffer’s voice from the marquee adjoining. Never in his experience, nor in that of other servants or soldiers, had the demon so utterly possessed the dread Eater-of-Men as since the receipt of some terrible magic sent to him by the white man. Opinion was divided as to whether this white man was the one who had been arrested and sent to the coast with [pg 276] Corporal Inyira or whether he was a brother; some said that the magic leaf which the messenger had brought was the soul of the white man, others maintained that it was the incarnation of Bakra, which explained why the Eater-of-Men was so entirely possessed. Had he not screamed? they demanded, which clearly proved, as everybody knew, the dreadful agony as the ghost entered into the body.
Even the white sergeants were frightened of their chief. They had been seen talking together secretly, doubtless discussing what medicine they could give him to exorcise the demon. Had he not been commanded by this demon to leave the safety of the fort where they had the guns on the hills, and to go into the forest where, as anybody knew, their eyes would be taken from them so that they could not see to kill the dogs of Wongolo? They were all conscious, native-like, that something was brewing among the Wongolo, but what it was exactly they did not know. Two men had had fifty lashes that morning because they had not saluted the totem—flag—correctly; and a Wongolo chief had been shot because he had not brought in the amount of ivory commanded. None dared to warn the Eater-of-Men. Some one had said that the “leaf” was the soul of the idol come to lead the Eater-of-Men to destruction. This idea took deep root among the Wunyamwezi soldiers, for although they had delighted in the slaughter and rapine under the leadership of the Eater-of-Men, yet always had there been an uneasy feeling of sacrilege in destroying an idol.
In the half of the marquee reserved for the Kommandant’s [pg 277] private quarters sat zu Pfeiffer in his camp chair with the inevitable stinger at his elbow. Erect by the door stood Sergeant Schultz taking details for the disposition of stores and troops during the absence of the punitive expedition. Never had he in four years’ service seen the lieutenant as he was now. Although Schultz could speak Kiswahili fluently he knew no word of Munyamwezi, else he might have been disposed to agree with Bakunjala and his friends. As it was he thought that the Herr Lieutenant had gotten a touch of the sun or was drinking too heavily or perhaps a bit of both; for to his mind the act of dividing up their scanty forces and leaving their fortified positions to enter the forest, with no chance of keeping open the line of communication, appeared to be military suicide.
He deemed it his duty to bring this point of view to his Kommandant’s notice, but he was uncomfortably aware of zu Pfeiffer’s headstrong character.
“What time does the moon set, sergeant?” demanded zu Pfeiffer.
“About three, Excellence.”
“Good. Then at five precisely the column will move. Warn Sergeant Schneider.”
“Ya, Excellence.”
“You will transfer the remainder of your men and the Nordenfeldt as soon as we have gone.”
“Ya, Excellence.”
“That is all, sergeant.”
Zu Pfeiffer dropped his head wearily on to his [pg 278] hand. Schultz remained rigidly by the door. Zu Pfeiffer glanced up peevishly.
“I said that was all, sergeant,” he exclaimed tetchily.
“Ya, Excellence.”
“Herr Gott, what are you standing there for like a stuffed pig?”
Schultz saluted.
“Excellence, it is my duty to remind your Excellence that according to regulation 47 of …”
“To hell with you and your regulations, damn you.… Will you leave me alone!” The last was almost a plea.
“Excellence!”
Schultz saluted briskly and went. Again zu Pfeiffer’s head dropped on to the cupped hand and he gazed at the portrait in the ivory frame.… Against the blue twilight of the door appeared a tall figure in white.
“What in the name of——” began zu Pfeiffer.
“Chakula tayari, Bwana,” announced Bakunjala timidly.
“I don’t want any chakula,” said zu Pfeiffer. “Wait. Bring some here.”
“Bwana!”
Bakunjala fled, to reappear almost instantly with a covered plate, which he placed on the table as bidden and vanished. Zu Pfeiffer regarded distastefully his favourite dish of curried eggs. Then he bawled irritably:
“Lights, animal!”
“Bwana!” gasped Bakunjala appearing in the doorway with the lamp.
But zu Pfeiffer pushed the plate away to stare at the photograph of Lucille. The stare turned to a glare, and then as if mutinying against his god, as Kawa Kendi had done when summoning rain, he suddenly snatched at the frame and flung it upon the floor with an oath, grabbed up a fountain pen and began to write.
Indeed zu Pfeiffer was half insane with anger which he was disposed to vent upon Lucille by proxy as the source of yet another trouble and possibly official disgrace. He had not had a notion that Birnier could have survived the gentle hands of the corporal until without warning came that ivory disc with “Amantes—Amentes!” scribbled upon it, which not only inferred that Birnier had escaped, but that he was near to him and intended to champion these native dogs against the Imperial Government in the person of himself.
The message had been made the more insulting by the note of exclamation at the end implying derisive laughter. It had, as Birnier had calculated that it would, struck zu Pfeiffer upon the most tender spot in his mental anatomy, evoking a homicidal mania which dominated his consciousness. To be cheated, to be swindled, to be sworn at, cursed, even to be beaten was sufferable to a degree, but to be laughed at—zu Pfeiffer’s haughty soul exploded like a bomb at an impact. For a time he had been absolutely incoherent with rage. His one impulse had been to rush out and tear Birnier limb from limb. Well might the listening natives believe in the mighty [pg 280] magic of the new King-God, that it should make the Son-of-the-Earthquake to trumpet like a wounded cow elephant!
Then out of the dissolving acrid smoke of wounded pride begin to loom arbitrary points. First, that Birnier would have complained, as he once had threatened to do, to Washington, which would infuriate the authorities in Berlin; and secondly, that he would have written to Lucille revealing the attempt he had made upon the life of her husband as well as the things he had said. How Birnier had escaped was immaterial, but the particular fate that awaited Corporal Inyira was decided but futilely; for the bold son of Banyala and his merry men were footing it to the south of lake Tanganika, scared by day lest the long arm of the Eater-of-Men should overtake them and haunted by the terror of seeing another illuminated ghost by night.
As the jewelled hand glittered in the lamp-light came the mutter of a distant drum on the moist darkness; zu Pfeiffer, abnormally irritable, raised his head, scowled, and muttering that he would have to issue an order to have the drums stopped, bent again to the uncongenial task of finishing the report due for headquarters before he left. The drum ceased; began again and was answered by another drum seemingly nearer at hand.
Five or ten minutes elapsed. As zu Pfeiffer took up a fresh sheet of paper a shot rang out followed instantly by yells. Zu Pfeiffer with an oath sprang to his feet, snatched at the revolver hanging above his camp bed and rushed out as a fusillade of shots mingled with wilder cries. The gruff coughs [pg 281] of the corporal in charge of the guard competed with the sharp barks of Sergeant Schultz. Zu Pfeiffer, bawling for a sergeant, ran to the great gate where the pom-pom was stationed. On the opposite hill red flashes of rifle fire darted downwards. Came another outburst of yelling. Forms of askaris scurrying to their places round the fence brushed by him on every side.
“Sergeant Schultz!” shouted zu Pfeiffer.
A figure in white appeared beside him in the darkness.
“Excellence!”
“Put the gun on them! Quick!”
At the bark of the sergeant the gun crew, already at their post, deftly manipulated the machine which coughed angry red bursts of flame into the darkness. The cries and howls ceased as suddenly as they had begun.
“Cease fire!” commanded zu Pfeiffer.
In the resulting stillness muttered shouts and cries from somewhere in the village below were punctuated by odd shots from the other hill.
“Sergeant Ludwig!” yelled zu Pfeiffer.
“Excellence!”
“Report!” snapped zu Pfeiffer.
“An unknown body of natives attacked and killed the sentry on the eastern gate, Excellence,” came Sergeant Ludwig’s voice from the gloom. “They entered and were repulsed according to instructions. That is all, Excellence.”
“Losses?”
“None other, Excellence.”
“What about the lower guards?”
“I do not know, Excellence.”
“Take a platoon and investigate. We will cover you with the gun.”
“Excellence.”
The mutter of his orders was drowned in the excited jabber of the askaris.
“Didimalla!” came the dreaded voice of the Eater-of-Men. Instantly there was silence. “Report!” commanded zu Pfeiffer to Sergeant Schultz.
“A body of natives attacked upon the western gate, Excellence. They were repulsed.”
“Losses?”
“Two men killed and three wounded.”
“Ugm! Where’s the interpreter?”
“Bwana!”
Cloth creaked as the man saluted in the dark.
“Where is Sakamata?” demanded zu Pfeiffer in Kiswahili.
“Here, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz. “He was running away. I had him arrested.”
“Good. Bring the animal to my quarters.”
“Excellence.”
The sergeant and the interpreter, with a trembling Sakamata between them, followed zu Pfeiffer to the tent. As he entered he picked up the portrait in the ivory frame and replaced it carefully on the table and sat down.
“Ask the shenzie why he has not informed us of this attack?”
The interpreter put the question to the terrified old man who mumbled that he had not known anything about it.
“Ugm!” grunted zu Pfeiffer. “Send for a file of men, sergeant, and—— No!” Zu Pfeiffer rose. “I’ll get the truth out of him. Stand aside, corporal!”
The corporal obeyed with alacrity as jerking his revolver downwards zu Pfeiffer pulled the trigger. The shot took off two of Sakamata’s smaller toes. The corporal grinned in appreciation. Zu Pfeiffer experienced a shadow of the pleasure he would have had in mutilating Birnier.
“Pull him up!” commanded zu Pfeiffer. “Now ask him again!”
For a moment or two Sakamata, scarcely conscious of any pain in his fright, could not comprehend what was said; at length he mumbled and muttered. The interpreter lowered his head to listen.
“Well?”
“He says, Bwana, that he does not know anything; that they will not tell him, but that he has heard that the god has come back.”
“The god! What god?”
“The god which these shenzie (savages) had here before the Bwana came.”
“The idol!” Zu Pfeiffer ripped out an oath. Then glaring questioningly at the shrunken figure on the floor considered.
“Tell him he lies. How does he know that the idol has come back if they will not tell him anything?”
Again the interpreter jabbered at Sakamata who mumbled back.
“He says, Bwana, that his words are white. That [pg 284] they have not told him, but that he has heard the message of the drums. ‘The Fire is lighted!’”
“What is that?”
“I don’t know, Bwana.”
“Ask him, you swine pig!”
“He says that whenever there is a new king that they call out those words, meaning that he is come.”
“Ugm!” Zu Pfeiffer took out a cigar and lighted it as he considered. I believe the animal is right, he reflected. That swinehund American has done this! He turned sharply to Sergeant Schultz: “Post double guards; bring me Ludwig’s report and take this thing away and have it shot.”
“Excellence!”
The party went out. Zu Pfeiffer sat smoking fiercely. A single shot rang out. Presently came Sergeant Ludwig in person.
“I have to report, Excellence, that the investigation infers that the attack was only made with the purpose of freeing the sons of chiefs, for the picket has been slain but all the others are unhurt save three wounded.”
Zu Pfeiffer swore mightily, but he dismissed the sergeant with an admonition to have his troops ready for inspection at four-thirty. He drank a brandy neat and sat on, staring at the darkness. Then suddenly he exclaimed and wheeled to the abandoned report.
“This is an undeniable overt act,” he muttered, seeing what he considered an opportunity to neutralise the suppositious complaint which Birnier had sent to Washington; and taking up his pen began a formal [pg 285] accusation against Birnier, as an American subject, for having violated the international laws of the Geneva Convention by aiding and abetting rebels of his Imperial Majesty.