The boy lay along the bough, as flat as a squirrel or a lizard, while the palaver went on. He did not expect to hear anything interesting. It would probably be talk about the crops, or the things to be bought at the next market, or some such matter. But it proved to be a terribly fascinating discussion. Mpoko kept stiller than ever as he listened. He did not know what would happen to him if he should be found there.
The chief and his old men were worried over the trader’s doings. In some of his glass bottles he had strong drink which took away a man’s sense and made him quarrelsome and silly. “Drink beer, think beer,” the Bantu proverb says; but this was something much worse than any of the mild drinks made by the natives. Even a little of it would lead a man to make the most foolish bargains and tell whatever he knew. The trader was spoiling the country, they said.
Then the Alo Man spoke, and he had an even more dreadful thing to tell. He had once seen this trader coming in from a wild country with about twenty slaves, forked limbs over their necks, chained to one another and guarded by armed men. These men carried weapons which could kill from a distance with a great noise. The trader’s bodyguard had them, and might have more hidden among their wares.
This was the worst possible news. All the people knew what slave raids were. They had lived in fear of Tswki for years and years for this very reason. His army was so strong that he had from time to time come over the mountain and burned a village and carried off men, women, and children to a far country where they would never see their own people again. But for some time now Tswki had let them alone. The Alo Man had heard that in the country beyond Tswki’s country there were new rulers and new laws, punishing all who took or sold slaves. If this were so, it would keep Tswki from selling any captives he might take, and would make him afraid to raid the villages of his neighbors.
But the village could not send a messenger across Tswki’s country to these new rulers to get help, even if there were time. The trader might have many more men coming to help him. His boat, or dhow, was probably hidden somewhere down the river, and when he had got his slaves he would put them on board and go away. Even if they warned the other villages and all the fighting men joined to drive him off, he could kill them much faster than they could kill his men, with his strange weapons. And finally, if any such fight happened, Tswki would hear of it and might come over the mountain to help the trader and get their country for himself.
It was a very bad situation, and it looked worse and worse to them the longer they talked. The only hopeful fact in sight was that the trader did not seem to know anything about Tswki. If he had known, he would probably have gone to that chief in the beginning, to buy slaves and to secure his help in getting more. Yet by this time he might have heard almost anything from the men who had sold their good rubber and oil and provisions for his bottles of trade gin.
Plan after plan was suggested, and there was something wrong with each one. At last the men separated and went each to his own hut, all but the Alo Man, who still sat there in the deep shadow, thinking. Mpoko slid very cautiously down on the far side of the tree, but just as he reached the ground the Alo Man spoke his name in a low tone. Then Mpoko knew that the Alo Man had seen him, but that no one else had.
“I went to sleep in the tree,” he said sheepishly.
“You had better forget what you heard,” said the Alo Man.
Mpoko lingered, digging one bare brown toe into the earth.