Chapter 13
On the morning on which zu Pfeiffer burned the village of Yagonyana, Birnier was encamped upon the southern boundary of Wongolo. By his “coup de superstition” had he recovered all his equipment except several bottles of brandy, some canned goods and two and a half pairs of pyjamas; also the field boots. The noble Inyira, son of Banyala, and his merry men never attempted to recapture their prisoners; no one save the Eater-of-Men in person could have persuaded them to return to that camp even had they had their rifles.
After Birnier had dressed his own foot and the charred feet of his men, had had a good drink and a better meal, he had sought to address the balance of his mind through a medium designed for the cure of melancholy, but efficacious for many other ills, The Anatomy of Melancholy. He opened the one big volume which had been his companion throughout his travels at a page marked at haphazard by an ivory paper knife with the American flag upon the flat hilt, an early gift from Lucille, and began to read the remarks of Robert Burton of quaintly glorious memory upon the source of his late adventure.
“Those which are jealous, most part, if they be not otherwise relieved, proceed from suspicion to hatred, from hatred to frenzy, madness, injury, murder [pg 143] and despair … Amestris, Xerxes’s wife, because she found her husband’s cloak in Masista’s house, cut off Masista’s wife’s paps and gave them to the dogs, flayed her besides and cut off her ears, lips, tongue, and slit the nose of Artaynta, her daughter.”
“Cheerful lady! She ought to have been zu Pfeiffer’s wife,” commented Birnier and went to sleep.
Birnier arose feeling rational enough to reconsider his position. The recollection of the signature on the photograph now failed to stimulate the emotional reaction as once it had done. The experience through which he had passed had had a beneficial effect in breaking or disconnecting the train of suggestive images. At first in the recess of his mind had lurked the desire to abandon everything, to rush straight to Lucille to demand an explanation. Now the rising sun of reason cast quite different shadows upon the incident. The high light was the fact that should he do so he would be sacrificing his mission for what might prove to be ridiculous. As his mind contemplated the subject the echo of “à toi, Lucille” tended to carry a high note, but this he vented by writing a long letter to Lucille recounting the facts and frankly admitting that he had been sufficiently insane with jealousy to “go up in the air.” Once or twice he ceased to write and gazed anxiously into the glare as his imagination suggested the long period of waiting for an answer, wondering whether the echo of that cursed “à toi” might not become unbearably shrill. He became a little more sentimental towards the end of the letter, remarking that perhaps he had been wrong in deserting her for so long and emphasising [pg 144] the rather ridiculous point that he was aware that he was not a young man. However, he let it remain, and at the first opportunity sent off the letter by runner to the nearest station in Uganda, together with an order for certain goods to be sent to a village on the Wongolo border.
Although still inclined to be emotional over the photograph, Birnier did not waste any energy over vindictive thoughts upon zu Pfeiffer, whom he philosophically regarded as irresponsible for his actions, inasmuch as he had been made that way just as any savage. He had gotten out of the toils set for him, so why should he spend time and trouble in seeking revenge which would merely consist in reporting the incident through a British station to Washington, who would open up interminable polite correspondence with the German Embassy, who would again write prodigious letters to the Colonial Minister in Berlin, who would… Ludicrous! No; he would not permit zu Pfeiffer to interfere with his plans. He would continue straight to Wongolo instead of investigating the Kivu country, where zu Pfeiffer might perhaps have another opportunity to cause more trouble. Accordingly he negotiated with the nearest village for carriers and set out, striking due west, thus approaching the Wongolo territory towards the southern boundary.
The people to the south of the Wongolo country was an inferior race, whom the Wongolo periodically raided to replenish their slaves. These Wamongo were split up into several petty chiefdoms, usually at war with one another. They had no defined theology. For they had not progressed beyond the stage of magic [pg 145] as far as any concept of religion, that is of praying for intercession to any power greater than themselves; whereas the mental state of the Wongolo was half-way between magic and religion, mixing and confusing the two as exemplified in the Rain-making ceremony of employing magic and alternately invoking the god and threatening him with dire penalties if he did not behave. There seemed to be no royal family or clan of the Wamongo; chiefs changed constantly as one more powerful for the moment arose; the wizards did not appear to have any political power, acting as general physicians and confining their efforts apparently to simple magic for the growing of corn, the curing of the evil eye and wounds. They were terrified of the Wongolo, much to Mungongo’s pride, who never let slip an opportunity of swaggering and bruiting abroad the fame of his master as the greatest of magicians the world had ever seen. Never was he tired of relating to a grunting audience the terrible sight and effect of his master’s transposition into a spirit. The yarn lost nothing in the telling.
Progress was slow. Every afternoon, as regular as the sun set, clouds of sepia sailed up from the west to clothe the world in a grey deluge of falling water. Fortunately they were travelling up a watershed so that there were no large rivers to cross. As they approached the Wongolo border rumours began of a white god with eyes upon his hands and live fire in his mouth who, so said the delighted Wamongo, had entirely eaten up the hated Wongolo. They seemed prepared to accept Birnier, when suggesting that he should make magic for them to conquer the Wongolo, as another terrible white god, and were accordingly [pg 146] polite. But Mungongo, vastly indignant, denied the story; according to him, no power on earth could have subdued his race, except perhaps the mighty Moonspirit (the name he had bestowed upon Birnier).
But when Birnier arrived at the first village of the Wongolo the absence of warriors corroborated the wild tales they had heard. The inhabitants of old men, boys and women surrounded the camp to gaze in awestruck curiosity at the white whom they believed to be the brother of the Eyes-in-the-hands. This calumny Mungongo strenuously gainsaid, and anew recounted the marvellous feats of magic of Moonspirit who could, he assured his compatriots, eat up Eyes-in-the-hands as easily as a crocodile would swallow a goat. Yet in spite of their terror they insisted that Birnier must go through the ceremony of purification incumbent upon all strangers in order to exorcise the evil influence of their eyes and souls; also the customary present must be sent to the king and his august permission to enter awaited, although no man knew where he was since the capital had been burned. Mungongo waxed furious. He informed them that Moonspirit was a friend of the Son-of-the-Snake, and moreover had before been in the country; that if they vexed Moonspirit he would enchant the whole village so that no man could move hand or foot. No matter, said they, that was the rule and must be done. They were impressed but obstinate.