Bosambo of the River

The Grasshopper, towing forty war canoes of the Ochori, came round a bend of the great river and fell into an ambuscade.

The Ochori were a brave people, but unused to the demoralising effect of firearms, however badly and wildly aimed.

Bosambo from the stern of the little steamer yelled directions to his panic-stricken fleet without effect. They turned and fled, paddling for their lives the way they had come. Jim essayed a turning movement in the literal sense, and struck a submerged log. The ill-fated Grasshopper went down steadily by the bow, and in a last desperate effort ran for the shore under a hail of bullets. They leapt to land, four men – Bosambo's fighting headman was the fourth – and, shooting down immediate opposition, made for the bush.

But they were in the heart of the enemy's land – within shooting distance of the Akasava city. Long before they had crossed the league of wood, the lokali had brought reinforcements to oppose them. They were borne down by sheer weight of numbers at a place called Iffsimori, and that night came into the presence of the great King Ofesi, the Predestined.

They came, four wounded and battered men bound tightly with cords of grass, spared for the great king's sport.

"O brother," greeted Ofesi in the face of all his people, "look at me and tell me what has become of Tobolono, my dear headman?"

Bosambo, his face streaked with dried blood, stared at him insolently.

"He is in hell," he said, "being majiki" (predestined).

"Also you will be in hell," said the king, "because men say that you are Sandi's brother."

Bosambo was taken aback for a moment.

"It is true," he said, "that I am Sandi's brother; for it seems that this is not the time for a man to deny him. Yet I am Sandi's brother only because all men are brothers, according to certain white magic I learnt as a boy."

Ofesi sat before the door of his hut, and it was noticeable that no man stood or sat nearer to him than twenty paces distant.

Jim, glancing round the mob, which surrounded the palaver, saw that every other man carried a rifle, and had hitched across his naked shoulders a canvas cartridge-belt. He noticed, too, now and then, the king would turn his head and speak, as it were, to the dark interior of the hut.

Ofesi directed his gaze to the white prisoners.

"O white men," he said, "you see me now, a great lord, greater than any white man has ever been, for all the little chiefs of this land are dead, and all people say 'Wah, king,' to Ofesi."

"I dare say," said Coulson in English.

"To-night," the king went on, "we sacrifice you, for you are the last white men in this land – Sandi being dead."

"Ofesi, you lie!"

It was Bosambo, his face puckered with rage, his voice shrill.

"No man can kill Sandi," he cried, "for Sindi alone of all men is beyond death, and he will come to you bringing terror and worse than death!"

Ofesi made a gesture of contempt.

He waved his hand to the right and as at a signal the crowd moved back.

Bosambo held himself tense, expecting to see the lifeless form of his master. But it was something less harrowing he saw – a prosaic stack of wooden boxes six feet high and eight feet square.

"Ammunition," said Jim under his breath. "The devil had made pretty good preparation."

"Behold!" said Ofesi, "therein is Sanders' death – listen all people!"

He held up his hand for silence.

Bosambo heard it – that faint rattle of the lokali. From some far distant place it was carrying the news. "Sanders dead!" it rolled mournfully, "distantly – moonlight – puc-a-puc – middle of river – man on bank – boat at shore – Sandi dead on ground – many wounds." He pieced together the tidings. Sandi had been shot from the bank and the boat had landed him dead. The chief of the Ochori heard the news and wept.

"Now you shall smell death," said Ofesi.

He turned abruptly to the door of the hut and exchanged a dozen quick words with the man inside. He spoke imperiously, sharply.

Alas! Mr. Bannister Fish, guest of honour on the remarkable occasion, the Ofesi you deal with now is not the meek Ofesi with whom you drove your one-sided bargain in the deep of the Akasava forest! Camel-train and boat have brought ammunition and rifles piecemeal to your enemy's undoing. Ofesi owes his power to you, but the maker of tyrants was ever a builder if his own prison-house.

Mr. Fish felt his danger keenly, pulled two long-barrelled automatic pistols from his pocket and mentally chose his route for the border, cursing his own stupidity that he had not brought his Arab bodyguard along the final stages of the journey.

"Ofesi," he muttered, "there shall be no killing until I am gone."

"Fisi," replied the other louder, "you shall see all that I wish you to see," and he made a signal.

They stripped the white men as naked as they were on the day they were born, pegged them at equal distance on the ground spread-eagle fashion. Heads to the white man's feet they laid Bosambo and his headman.

When all was finished Ofesi walked over to them.

"When the sun comes up," he said, "you will all be dead – but there is half the night to go."

"Nigger!" said Bosambo in English, "yo' mother done be washerwomans!"

It was the most insulting expression in his vocabulary, and he reserved it for the last.

* * * * *

Sanders saw the glow of the great fire long before he reached the Akasava, his own lokali sounding forth the news of his premature decease – Sanders with the red weal of a bullet across his cheek, and a feeling of unfriendliness toward Ofesi in his heart. All the way up the river through the night his lokalisent forth the joyless tidings. Villagers heard it and shivered – but sent it on. A half-naked man crouching in the bushes near Akasava city heard it and sobbed himself sick, for Ahmed Ali saw in himself a murderer. He who had sworn by the prophet to end the life of Ofesi had left the matter until it was too late.

In a cold rage he crept nearer to the crowd which was gathered about the king's hut – a neck-craning, tip-toeing crowd of vicious men-children. The moment of torment had come. At Ofesi's feet crouched two half-witted Akasava youths giggling at one another in pleasurable excitement, and whetting the razor-keen edges of their skinning knives on their palms.

"Listen, now," said Ofesi in exultation. "I am he, the predestined, the ruler of all men from the black waters to the white mountains. Thus you see me, all people, your master, and master of white men. The skins of these men shall be drums to call all other nations to the service of the Akasava – begin Ginin and M'quasa."

The youths rose and eyed the silent victims critically – and Mr. Bannister Fish stepped out of the hut into the light of the fire, a pistol in each hand.

"Chief," said he, "this matter ends here. Release those men or you die very soon."

Ofesi laughed.

"Too late, lord Fisi," he said, and nodded his head.

One shot rang out from the crowd – a man, skilled in the use of arms, had waited for the gun-runner's appearance. Bannister Fish, of Highgate Hill, pitched forward dead.

"Now," said Ofesi.

Ahmed Ali came through the crowd like a cyclone, but quicker far was the two-pound shell of a Hotchkiss gun. Looking upward into the moonlit vault of the sky, Jim saw a momentary flash of light, heard the "pang!" of the gun and the whine of the shell as it curved downward; heard a roar louder than any, and was struck senseless by the sharp edge of an exploded cartridge-box.

* * * * *