He wished that he could read the message of these disquieting drum-taps. Most probably, he thought, they announced some forlorn hope of a native rising already destined to wither before the German machine guns in the slaughter of black hosts. He knew the history of German South-West and the end of the Hereros. And he wondered—for he had lived so long in Africa that he knew the humble ideals of its millions—why these people should suffer our civilisation in the hail of Maxim fire. Yet, even while he indulged this vein of wonder and pity, he realised that a European community so small and so isolated as their little company at Luguru might very well be exterminated in the first outburst. In his years of wandering he had learnt that the best way of dealing with the African is to be direct and truthful. He stepped out into the path, and Hamisi, hearing his approach, pushed his spear into the hut and greeted him with a very charming smile.
“I have heard you talking of the war,” said M‘Crae. “And I have heard the drums say the same thing. What is this war?”
Hamisi smiled languidly, scratching his legs. “There is no war,” said he.
“But I have heard all that you said. And you were making ready a spear. You were not going to spear lions like the Masai. The Waluguru are not brave enough for that. You had better tell me.”
The idea that his lie had been taken for what it was worth seemed to please Hamisi. This time he laughed outright. If the bwana knew that there was a war, he said, why need he ask questions? The Wasungu (Europeans) knew more about everything than the Waluguru. They only knew that there was a war, and that they were going to fight.
“And who are you going to fight?” asked M‘Crae.
Hamisi smiled, but said he did not know; and when M‘Crae had questioned him a little longer he became convinced that in this, at least, Hamisi was speaking the truth. Somewhere in the world, somewhere in Africa—perhaps no nearer than the northern fringe of the Sahara—the smouldering flame of violence had flickered out. He did not know then any more than did Hamisi, sharpening his spear, that these angry drum-throbs were no more than the diminished echoes of the guns that were battering Liège.
He went into the house to find Eva. James, it seemed, had fallen once more into an uneasy and exhausted sleep. Even now his poor brain was haunted by the memory of the night’s horrors; but the watching had told so heavily on Eva that she thought she had better leave him for a little. M‘Crae found her in the kitchen making coffee for breakfast. She spoke in a whisper, as though she feared that her voice might be heard above the clamour in James’ brain. “He’s sleeping, or at any rate he’s stopped talking,” she said. She smiled quite bravely, but saw in a moment that some new thing was troubling M‘Crae. “What’s the matter now?” she said.
“I had wanted to keep it to myself,” said he. “I don’t think we need worry about it.”
“Nothing much worse could happen,” she said. “I think I could face anything now. What is he going to do?”