And again, there was a grim humor discoverable in a man who, concentrating his life’s story into so few words, could yet indulge his mordant wit by writing: “I am many marches from Rabat but few from death,” and even poke a bitter jest at M’Wanga for his fantastic notion of a specific against backwater fever!
It was a forceful picture that Warden conceived when in his mind’s eye he saw the “artist and musician,” and ex–pirate, too, sitting in the shade of a giant tree near the king’s hut, and pricking out with needle and dyes, on parchment torn from the back of his dead comrade, the record of those terrible years. He could limn the hollow cheeks, the wasted frame, the fever–light in the dark eyes, and the melancholy smile that must have lifted the cloud of suffering for a little while when the concluding lines were written. Warden knew the scene so intimately that if he put pencil to paper, and Garcia’s long–forgotten shade were permitted to testify to the accuracy of the sketch, there could be no reasonable doubt that imagination must have come very near the truth.
Though the Portuguese did not say as much, it was not hard to guess that the “cunning receptacle” he had devised for his last manuscript was the graven image of M’Wanga himself. His artist’s eye had caught the possibilities of the curiously–shaped gourd, and, as he said in his own way, he had used his “skill in carving” as a means of preservation—perhaps of securing a certain measure of good treatment. No doubt the King of Benin, sitting on the state stool in front of his palace of mats and wattle, was greatly flattered by the portrait. He would appreciate its realism while missing its subtle irony. In the circle of subordinate chiefs and witch–doctors surrounding him there must have been many who hated the white man because he won the royal favor even for a moment. But they would be wary, and join loudly in the chorus of praise, for there was a grove near by in which the latest victims of M’Wanga’s wrath fouled the air with their dead bodies.
Garcia’s description of the black ruler as “King of Benin” puzzled Warden at first. Modern Benin was far enough removed from Oku and the upper reaches of the Benuë to render the title vague and seemingly mistaken.
Yet Garcia’s sparse record already promised an astounding truthfulness. Warden was quite sure he would discover some contemporary proof of the loss of the Santo Espirito. He believed that any one who visited the tomb of Hassan beyond the walls of Rabat would find the ruby placed there nearly one hundred and eighty years ago. Why, then, should the chronicler err in his allusion to M’Wanga’s rank?
M’Wanga’s counterfeit answered the unspoken question. Warden happened to look at the calabash, now hardly visible in the ever–increasing darkness. But the cruel eyes still glinted at him, and he could almost discover a sardonic grin on the thick lips.
“By Jove!” he muttered, “When that fellow reigned in Benin his empire spread as far as his reputation. I have no manner of doubt but he lived in the interior, where it is healthier than on the coast. Yes, you man–devil!” he added, leaping excitedly to his feet as a new and discomforting thought possessed him. “You did mischief enough during your evil life, and now you have resurrected yourself just in time to take a silent part in more of the wild doings in which you would have gloried.”
For he was spurred to this sudden outburst by the knowledge that not only did political trouble loom across the West African sky, but that he, and he only, was the Christian and friend to whom Domenico Garcia made his dying appeal. There was a ruby of great price to be won, and masses to be said in the Cathedral of the Patriarch at Lisbon. Could he refuse to fulfil the terms of that pathetic bequest? He had nearly six months of unexpired furlough at disposal, and the Under Secretary did not appear to have any dread of immediate developments in Nigeria, such as would demand the recall of officers to their duties. What argument would convince his own mind that he might justly decline an almost intolerable legacy?
Well, he would go into the pros and cons of a doubtful problem later. He was not a rich man, and the journey to Rabat and back would probably be very expensive. Certainly that ruby would look very well on the white throat of Evelyn Dane, though people might well wonder how the wife of a poorly–paid official could afford to wear a “gem of great price.”
The conceit so tickled him that he laughed, laughed all the louder, perhaps, because he was conscious that the black king of Benin was scoffing at him maliciously from the table. But the glee died in his throat when a thunderous double rat–tat shook the outer door of the flat, and Warden was prepared, for one thrilling instant, to fight a legion of ghosts and demons if need be. Then his scattered wits told him that His Majesty’s post demanded his appearance. He struck a match, lighted the gas, and went to the door, where a small boy, who seemed to be physically incapable of using a knocker with such vehemence, handed him a telegram.