Produced by Hunter Monroe, Suzanne Shell and the Online
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

                     THE WITCH DOCTOR AND
                   OTHER RHODESIAN STUDIES.

                       THE WITCH DOCTOR
                          AND OTHER
                      RHODESIAN STUDIES.

                              BY

                  FRANK WORTHINGTON, C.B.E.

 (_Lately Secretary for Native Affairs, Northern Rhodesia_).

                           LONDON:
                    THE FIELD PRESS LTD.,
           Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, E.C.4

                              To
                           MY WIFE.

CONTENTS.

THE MIND OF THE NATIVE.
                                     PAGE
    The Witch Doctor                    3
    The Riddle of Life and Death       25
    Flattery                           28
    Lizizi                             35
    Mironda--a Woman                   46

MAN AND BEAST.

    Protective Colouring               57
    Darwin--a Bird                     59
    The Lion's Skin                    67
    The Reverend Mr. Bumpus            74
    The Salvation Army Captain         81
    The Sport of Kings                 86
    The Lions of Makululumi            94

WHITE MEN AND BLACK

    White Men at Play                 105
    On the Building of Bridges        115
    The Compleat Angler               120
    The Song of the Great Occasion    125
    The Descent of Man                132
    The Railway Contractor            138
    The Licensed Victualler           149
    The Johnnie-come-Lately           154
    The Lost Rubies                   160
    The Cattle King                   170
    Partners                          177
    The Letter Home                   194
    The Doctor                        214

THE MIND OF THE NATIVE.

THE WITCH DOCTOR.

I.

The Native Commissioner's Court had, with a very brief interval for
luncheon, sat throughout the day. The weather was very hot and thundery,
for the breaking of the rains was imminent. A number of cases had been
disposed of, and the last was now drawing to a close. Having listened to
the arguments of both sides, the Commissioner summed up, gave judgment,
and dismissed the litigants, whereupon the native clerk began to collect
the papers and put things away.

The official lighted a cigarette, put on his hat, and walked towards the
door. He was met by his head messenger.

"Another case, Morena,"[1] said the messenger, pointing to a middle-aged
native squatting in the courtyard softly clapping his hands. The
hard-worked white man paused; he had thoughts of tea awaiting him in his
bungalow a hundred yards away.

    [1] _Morena_ signifies _Chief_.

"Tell the man to come to-morrow," he said, and walked off in the
direction of his house.

The head messenger turned to the man sitting in the yard and said: "The
Morena won't hear you to-day; you must sleep in the compound for
to-night; to-morrow he will listen."

"But my case is a big one," replied the stranger. "The father of his
people will surely hear my case."

The messenger pointed to the compound: "All cases are heavy in the hands
of those who bring them; the compound is there."

The man was evidently distressed. Raising his voice in the hope that the
Commissioner would hear him, he shouted shrilly: "Ma-we! Ma-we! But mine
is a big case, it is one of killing--of killing of people; the father of
his people must hear me. Oh! Morena, I have a case, a big case, a case
of killing."

But the Native Commissioner had reached his house and was out of sight,
the native clerk had locked the office door and, heedless of the man's
wailing, walked away. If he thought at all, it was that sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof; evil meaning work to him.

"Come, father," said the head messenger, "I go now to the compound, and
you with me; to-morrow the Morena will hear your case before any other.
I, Mokorongo, will see to it."

But the man was not to be consoled. "No," said he, "my case is a big
one, of people killed by witchcraft; I, too, will die to-night. Take me
to the Morena, my father; do not refuse and so kill me."

The messenger felt uncomfortable. For some reason, best known to
himself, his master disapproved of the killing of people, and also set
his face against witchcraft. No witch doctor could practise for long in
his district, for was not his medicine stronger than that of any witch
doctor? Did not the doctors know it, and had they not all moved to a
safer place? Who, then, could have done this killing by witchcraft?
Yes, it was a big case, and he would take the man to his master; but he
must break in upon the great man's rest with care, or there would be
trouble.

Telling the stranger to come with him, he strode towards the house,
pulling down his uniform in front and behind and settling his fez
smartly on his head--evidence of some nervousness. Arriving at the door,
he peered in. The hall was cool and dark, and, coming from the glare,
for a moment he could see nothing; the next, he was aware of the
Commissioner's eye upon him, and started violently at his master's sharp
"Well, Mokorongo, what is it?"

He began well: "Morena, here is a man who has killed another, and wants
to tell of the matter before the sun sets, when he, too, will die."

"Let the man come to the door."

For Mokorongo the worst was over. He had with impunity disturbed the
great man; the rest would be easy. He fitly marshalled the stranger to
the mat just inside the hall door, drew himself up to his full height,
and stood by to obey immediately such orders as his master might be
pleased to give.

The Commissioner, who was a good linguist, addressed the seated man
direct:

"So you have killed a man?"

"No, Morena."

"And you will yourself die to-night?"

"No, Morena."

Mokorongo's uneasiness returned; he shifted slightly and gazed at the
ceiling.

"Tell me your story."

"Morena, my case is a big one; it is of killing--the killing of people,
of my son--by witchcraft. Yesterday at sunset he died, and I, too, shall
die to-night unless the Morena, father of his people, makes a stronger
medicine, stronger than that of the witch doctor----" Here the wretched
fellow paused.

The Commissioner looked thoughtfully at the man in front of him; it was
evident that the native dared not mention the witch doctor's name.
Presently he rose, took from a side-table a decanter, poured himself out
some whisky, and added soda from a sparklet bottle. Returning to his
seat, he drank deeply of the bubbling liquid.

The native was much impressed. Boiling water alone, so far as he knew,
bubbled like that; he knew of the ordeal by boiling water, and had, no
doubt, seen more than once the test applied. But this white man drank
the boiling mixture with evident pleasure. Here, then, was the chief of
all witch doctors.

He finished his sentence: "--Chiromo."

"Where does he live?"

He explained in detail.

"Of what do you accuse Chiromo?"

"Of killing my son by witchcraft."

"Go on with your story."

"I have some goats. My son herded them by day and put them in the
village at night. My son had a black-and-white dog which followed him to
the lands each day. Two days ago the dog stole a skin from Chiromo's
bed. Chiromo saw the dog eating the skin, and killed him with his axe.
Chiromo is an angry man: he was angry with my son because his dog had
eaten his skin. He knew the dog was my son's dog. He went to my son and
said: 'I have killed your dog because your dog has eaten my skin.'

"My son was very much afraid and said: 'Yes, sir.'

"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's leg just above the knee, like this,
and said: 'Do you feel pain here?' My son said: 'No.'

"Then Chiromo said: 'You will to-morrow.'

"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's other knee and said: 'Do you feel
pain here?' My son said 'No.'

"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's arm at the elbow and said: 'Do you
feel pain here?' My son said: 'No.'

"Then Chiromo touched his other arm and asked my son if he felt pain
there. My son said he did not. He also touched him on the back of the
neck, asking him if he felt any pain there. My son said he felt no pain.

"Then Chiromo said: 'In your two legs and your two arms and in your neck
you will feel much pain to-morrow.'

"Then Chiromo went back to his own hut and my son, who was very
frightened, came and told me what Chiromo had said to him and I also was
frightened, for Chiromo is a great doctor. Then I went to my hut to
sleep and my son went to his hut.

"In the morning when I rose the goats were still in the village, and I
was angry with my son because he had not taken them to the lands. I
called to him, but he did not answer. I went to his hut, and found him
very stiff. He told me that Chiromo had killed him; that he had much
pain in his arms and legs and neck, and that he could not move. I tried
to lift him, but he cried out with pain. At sunset he died. Oh, Morena,
Chiromo has killed my son. My son who herded my goats. And to-night I
myself shall die. Chiromo is indeed a great doctor. My case is a big
one. A case of killing people by witchcraft. I, too, will----"

The Native Commissioner interrupted the man. "Enough, now you may go to
the compound, where you will sleep to-night; you will not die, because
I must talk with you again."

The man clapped his hands, bowed his forehead several times to the
floor, patted his chest, rose and withdrew, praising the Native
Commissioner as the custom is:

"Great Chief."

"Father of his people."

"The very great doctor."

"Sir, my best thanks."

"The Chief of our country."

"The lion, the great elephant, the Chief."

The head messenger was about to go too, but the Commissioner stopped
him.

"Mokorongo, you will have to go out and arrest Chiromo."

"To-morrow?"

"To-night."

"His village is far and the sun is setting."

"You will get there before morning and will bring Chiromo back with
you."

"How many go with me?"

"You go alone."

The messenger was very much afraid. He licked his lips, which had become
dry, he shuffled with his feet, his gaze wandered from ceiling to floor
and round the hall in which the Commissioner sat.

"Mokorongo."

"Morena."

"You are afraid."

"I am afraid, Morena."

"Very much afraid."

"Morena."

"Why?"

"Is not Chiromo a doctor?"

"What of that?"

"I am but a man, your servant."

"Yes, my servant. Why, then, are you afraid?"

"Morena."

Again the wretched man's eyes looked in any direction but in that of his
master.

"Mokorongo."

"Morena."

"Are you ready to start? It is getting late."

"Yes, it is late, for the sun sets."

"Are you ready?"

Mokorongo made no reply: he was now quite frightened. In the ordinary
way this simple native was full of courage, he would follow his master
anywhere; they had been in a tight corner together more than once and he
had shown up splendidly. But then his master, in whom he had implicit
faith, had been there. To go alone to arrest a witch doctor was quite
another matter. Had not the doctor killed the boy in a strange way? No,
it was too much to ask a man to do alone, and at night.

The Commissioner walked to his writing table and took from it a heavy
paperweight, which he handed to Mokorongo.

"Take this with you, it will protect you against Chiromo, for it is
mine."

The messenger was satisfied; he put the weight inside his tunic and
turned to go.

"Stop," said the Commissioner, "what are your plans?"

Mokorongo had a quick mind: he unfolded his plan without hesitation.

"I will talk awhile with the stranger, who will tell me of Chiromo;
whether he has a beard or has no beard; whether he is very old or not so
old; if he is fat or thin; what his loin cloth is like, or if he wears
a skin."

"Good, and then?"

"I will travel to the village, which I shall reach before morning. In
the bush I will hide my uniform. Near the village I will lie in wait. In
the morning Chiromo will come out of his hut. All day I will watch and
when the people have eaten and sleep I will arrest Chiromo."

"How?"

"I will go to his hut and call to him, saying that I am a traveller from
Sijoba on my way to Katora. That the sun has set and I ask for shelter.
I shall tell him that I have some meat of a buck which I found dead near
the path. Then Chiromo will open the door of his hut and I shall tie
him. And he will come with me because of my uniform and the people will
not hinder me because of my uniform."

"Good, take the handcuffs. But there is one thing you have forgotten.
You must bring in a basket all Chiromo's medicine."

"I will bring the medicine," replied the messenger, clutching at the
paperweight which bulged under his tunic.

"Go safely," said the master.

"Rest in peace," replied the man.

The Commissioner watched the retreating figure. The swinging stride
showed self-confidence and courage. Mokorongo would do successfully what
was required of him.

II.

The dawn was breaking. It had rained all night and the ground was very
wet. When the first rain falls the earth is slow in absorbing it.
Little puddles form everywhere and little streams, increasing in volume
as they join others, make small lakes or rushing torrents, according to
the lie of the land.

Mokorongo was not comfortable. He had travelled far in the night and had
stumbled many times in the darkness. Moreover, he was drenched to the
skin and very cold. The paperweight consoled him, as it had kept up his
courage throughout his long journey. He remembered now the cry of a
hyena close to the path at midnight, which had sent his hand clutching
at the paperweight. Then some large, dark object stirred beside him and
bounded away, crashing through the bush. Mokorongo's heart had thumped
in time to the heavy hoof-beats.

However, the dawn had come and his talisman had proved itself a sure
shield and protection.

The messenger took off his sodden tunic and drew it over his shoulders
as a cloak against the wind which always heralds the coming day. He
replaced the paperweight inside his shirt, and buckling on his belt
again sat down on his heels to watch the village.

Presently smoke arose from the yard of one of the huts, then from
another. A man came out of a low doorway, stretched and yawned. A dog
barked, the cattle began to low and fowls to cluck--the day had come.

He had chosen his observation post well. In front of him lay the village
in a hollow. Behind him, a patch of thick bush. To his left ran the path
to the cultivated lands and to the next village. On his right was a
stretch of rough country, good only for baboons and other beasts: it was
unlikely that he would be disturbed from that or any other quarter.

The village soon showed signs of full life. When the sun came out
Mokorongo stripped and spread out his tunic, shirt and loin cloth to
dry, placing the paperweight and handcuffs on a little tuft of short
grass which was comparatively dry.

As the sun crept up the sky, Mokorongo's back was warmed and he felt
more comfortable. He watched the coming and going of men, women and
children until midday. He had easily recognised Chiromo. The father of
the dead boy had described the witch doctor minutely, but even without
that description he would have picked him out. He was fat and looked
prosperous; some half-dozen inflated gall bladders of small mammals were
tied to tufts of his hair. He wore chillies in the lobes of his ears, a
sure sign that he had killed a lion--or a man.

His hut, too, was larger than the rest and stood slightly apart. Yes,
this surely was Chiromo; did he not wear, suspended from a string round
his waist, the skin of a black tsipa cat? And had not the case-bearer of
yesterday said: "Chiromo has the skin of a black tsipa?"

Yes, Mokorongo was sure of his man, and as the sun was now hot he
gathered together his belongings and carried them into the shade of the
thicket, where he settled himself for a sleep.

At sunset he awoke. He felt hungry and thirsty, but as there were no
means of satisfying either he turned his mind to the work immediately
ahead.

He crept back to his original post. The cattle were being kraaled; the
goats were already settled for the night; women were preparing the
evening meal.

Mokorongo slipped on his tunic shirt and loin cloth and buckled his
belt. He put on his fez and tucked the paperweight inside his tunic. He
then made sure that the handcuffs snapped as they should and that no
amount of tugging would open them; having reset them he put the key in
the small pouch attached to his belt.

There is little twilight in Africa. Soon after the sun sets it is dark.
He could see Chiromo's fire and, in the glow of it, Chiromo sitting on a
low stool.

Presently the night sounds began. Someone was beating a drum at a
distant village. A jackal barked far down the valley. Something rustled
in a bush near by. The frogs set up their shrill chorus. A dog in the
village began to howl, but stopped with a yelp as some woman threw a
stick at it.

After a while the fires burnt down; there was silence, and Mokorongo
judged that the time for action had arrived.

He came down from the high ground and skirted the village until he came
to the path from Sijoba. Then he turned and walked boldly towards the
cluster of huts. The dogs began to bark loudly but it didn't matter now:
was he not a stranger travelling from Sijoba to Katora?

He made his way to Chiromo's hut. The door was closed. Mokorongo
knocked.

"Who is it?"

"A stranger travelling from Sijoba to Katora."

"It is late, what do you want?"

"Yes, it is late. I ask for shelter for the night. I am in luck, for I
have found meat and I ask shelter of a friend."

There was a stir in the hut and the word meat was repeated several
times.

Mokorongo stood ready with the open handcuffs. Would the man never come
out? Meanwhile the occupants of adjacent huts were also astir and doors
were being opened. There would be many witnesses to the arrest of
Chiromo.

At length the door of the hut slid aside, a hand grasped either door
post and a woolly head appeared. Quick as lightning Mokorongo seized
Chiromo's right wrist and snapped the lock of the handcuff. Grasping the
black head, he pulled the startled Chiromo out of the doorway, and
before the witch doctor had recovered from his surprise, also secured
his left hand.

Mokorongo stepped back and surveyed his captive.

Chiromo said nothing, but the look in his eye made Mokorongo's hand fly
to the paperweight. The village was astir, and men came running, but,
seeing the uniform of authority, stood still.

Mokorongo was himself again. "What is this?" demanded Chiromo.

"The Morena calls you."

"What for?"

"How should I know the Morena's thoughts?"

"Loose my hands or ill-luck will come to you."

Mokorongo said nothing.

"Listen," said Chiromo.

Mokorongo listened and heard the laugh of a hyena.

"That," said Chiromo, "is a spirit."

Mokorongo clutched his paperweight: "It is a beast, and my master's
medicine is strong."

Chiromo looked round at the circle of fellow villagers; he could not see
their eyes, but felt that no help might be expected from them; they
would not come between him and a Government man.

Chiromo tried again.

"In my hut I have much white man's money and a gun--all are yours if you
will untie my hands; moreover, the iron hurts me and the Morena's orders
are that no man be hurt."

The mention of the money and the gun reminded Mokorongo of the medicine.

"Go in," he said, pushing Chiromo before him.

It is well that Mokorongo had the paperweight to support his courage.

III.

A fire smouldered in a circular hearth in the middle of the floor, but
the light from it was so dim that nothing more was visible. Mokorongo,
kneeling deftly, drew together the unburnt sticks and blew upon the
pile; the suddenness with which it burst into flame startled him. Then
he rose and looked round the hut.

Chiromo had walked over to his bed; he now sat watching.

The blackened walls were profusely decorated with rude drawings, done in
light clay, of men and beasts, with here and there a pattern such as one
sees on primitive earthenware vessels. From the roof, suspended by a
length of plaited bark, dangled the skull of a human being. Mokorongo
had seen many human skulls in his time, but, in such a place, this
ghastly human relic unnerved him a little. The skull spun slightly with
the air current which entered the open door, and ghostly eyes seemed to
peer from the empty sockets, first at one man, then at the other, as if
the lifeless thing were taking a lively interest in the situation.

Mokorongo pretended to scratch himself; what he really did was to shift
the paperweight until it rested under his left arm. In that position he
could press it to him without being noticed. The relief it brought was
great and lasting.

From a peg in the wall hung a mummified mass of what looked suspiciously
like entrails; whether human or not the messenger did not pause to
consider. The fleshless forearm and hand of a child protruded from the
thatch; the fingers were spread out as in the act of grasping. A pile of
mouldering skins lay on the floor, and beside it a little heap of dead
chameleons; one, more lately killed than the rest, contributed
generously to the evil smell which pervaded the hut. Just above this
carrion was a cluster of black and red weevils as large as mice; they
hung from a porcupine quill, each tied to it by a thin strand of twisted
sinew. The aimless movements of legs showed that some of the insects
were still alive. Here and there, propped against the wall, were gourds
and pots filled, no doubt, with strange nauseous mixtures brewed by the
witch doctor for his evil purposes.

Well-worn clothing and filthy rags hung from pegs thrust into the thatch
where the roof of the hut rested on the mud wall. The bleeding head and
slimy skin of a freshly killed goat lay on the floor at the foot of the
bed. Just beyond it was a large basket covered loosely with a leopard
skin; Mokorongo made a mental note of this.

If Chiromo expected his guard to show any sign of fear, he was
disappointed. Mokorongo drew a small stool towards him, and sat down;
with the exception of the bed, it was the only furniture in the hut.

The witch doctor was the first to speak:

"The gun is yours, father, and the money, when you untie my hands so
that I may get them for you."

"I have two guns in my village," replied the messenger, "and I also have
much money, for as I am a servant of the Government, I pay no tax."

"Can a man have too much money or too many guns?"

"I cannot say; but, as for me, I have enough."

"How many wives have you?" asked Chiromo.

The messenger did not answer. Such talk did not trouble him. He was a
simple African, whose one desire was to please his master; he was proof
against bribery in any form.

Chiromo tried other tactics.

"Yesterday, they say, I killed a man by charms. It is said also that
many men have died by poison. People fall sick, some say, when I think
of them in anger. It well may be that your master has fallen sick, for
my anger is strong towards him, and is rising against his servant, who
has tied me."

Mokorongo hugged the talisman, but did not reply. He glanced at the
skull which at that moment swung towards him, then at the hand which, in
the flicker of the firelight, seemed to reach out to grasp at him. He
looked at the chameleons, and spat on the floor as he became aware of
the stench arising from them; next, the aimless waving of the weevils'
legs attracted his attention, and then his glance rested on the basket
covered with the leopard skin.

Chiromo was about to speak again, but Mokorongo, springing to his feet,
interrupted him. His master had said: "Bring Chiromo back with you, and
bring his medicines." The basket must hold those medicines; moreover,
the prospect of listening to Chiromo until the morning, seated in the
midst of his evil properties, was unthinkable. He would feel more at his
ease walking through the night, although it was so dark and cold.

He went to the door and called. There was no reply. The village was full
of people, but they had a very real fear of what the witch doctor might
do. All had crept back to their huts. He called again, and in the name
of the Government, but still none came.

He shouted, that the whole village might hear: "I take Chiromo to our
Chief. Bring a rope, that I may tie him and lead him through the night."

Presently a woman appeared, bringing in her hand a stout rope such as
all natives use for trapping antelope. She handed it to Mokorongo,
volunteering the information that it was her son whom Chiromo had
killed. She did not actually say that he had been killed, neither did
she mention Chiromo's name--she dared not do this--but she did say that
before sunrise her son had been buried.

Mokorongo tied a slip-knot in the rope and passed it over Chiromo's
head. A sharp tug, accompanied by a peremptory "Stand, you!" brought
Chiromo quickly to his feet.

Indicating successively the horrors hanging from the roof and walls, he
said: "Put that, and this, and those into the basket."

Chiromo hesitated, but only for a moment; a tightening rope round one's
neck has an unpleasant feeling. With his manacled hands he picked up
each repulsive thing and thrust it into the basket.

"Bring the basket," Mokorongo commanded, moving towards the door.
Outside in the black night, and conscious of the paperweight under his
arm, the messenger's full courage and sense of authority returned to
him.

"Let all witnesses to this big case follow quickly to the Court; it is
the order of the Chief and the law of the Government."

Then, helping Chiromo to encircle the basket with his arms, he strode
off down the path leading from the village, his captive, securely
handcuffed and led by the rope round his neck, following tamely enough.

IV.

The witnesses were many--of all ages and of both sexes. The case
promised to be a famous one, so relations and friends had come from the
villages round about to attend. The people had travelled slowly,
consequently it was late in the afternoon when they arrived.

The Native Commissioner had decided to take evidence on the morrow; the
people were therefore directed to camp by the river for the night.
Chiromo was to remain in the cell to which he had been conducted earlier
in the day by the messenger.

Mokorongo was very happy. He had presented himself to his master on
arrival, returned the paperweight, reported the arrest of Chiromo, and
had handed over the basket of medicines. He would have told his story
then and there, but the Commissioner, who was busy, dismissed him with
"Good, now go and eat and sleep. You can return at sundown and tell me
everything. I will listen to the witnesses to-morrow."

But, of course, Mokorongo did not sleep. He felt a hero, and was so
regarded by his fellow messengers and others. He told the story of his
adventures to all who cared to hear, and they were many. Little work was
done that day by any native on the Station.

With much telling the story improved almost beyond recognition. For
instance, his seventh audience was thrilled by the recitation of the
threatening words which the skull had addressed to him; knots of woolly
hair rose when the efforts of the fleshless hand to grasp the master's
talisman were described; the brave words which Mokorongo had addressed
to the basket of medicines when it had shown an inclination to escape by
the door drew grunts of admiration; a shudder ran through his hearers
when he repeated what the dead chameleons had related to him--how they
had once been men, until transformed and killed by the very bad man now
under arrest.

The narrative was interrupted by one of the house-boys: "You are
called," was the curt command, meaning that his master wished to see
Mokorongo.

Under the stimulus of the great admiration of his fellows, generously
expressed, Mokorongo had given free play to his imagination. His
narrative had become thrilling; but now, under the cold eye of the
master, fancy fled, and the messenger's account of himself conformed to
the court formula--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.

How Chiromo passed the night cannot, of course, be told. He might have
spent the time preparing his defence; it is much more likely that he
simply slept.

V.

Everything was ready for the hearing of the case. On the veranda of the
Court House the Commissioner's table had been placed. Conspicuous upon
it was the paperweight. On the ground in front of it lay the witch
doctor's basket with its leopard skin covering. On the right sat
Chiromo; he was still handcuffed, but without the rope round his neck.
By his side stood Mokorongo. Immediately behind them were ranged the
rest of the messengers attached to the Station. They, with the Court
House, formed two sides of a square: the figure was completed by the
crowd of witnesses seated on the ground.

Presently the Commissioner was seen approaching along the path which
led from his house. The people began to clap their hands, which, in
certain parts of Africa, is the native way of showing respect. As the
Commissioner appeared on the verandah, the messengers saluted him by
raising their right hands above their heads and ejaculating "Morena."

The Commissioner nodded by way of acknowledgment, the people ceased to
clap; there was dead silence.

The white man looked across his table at the witch doctor. For a time he
said nothing. Chiromo blinked and looked away. Glancing up and finding
that unpleasantly steady gaze upon him still, he again looked quickly
away.

"Unlock those handcuffs," said the Commissioner. Mokorongo produced the
key from the pouch on his belt and freed the witch doctor's hands.

Addressing Chiromo, the official asked: "Is it true that you are the
killer of people?"

"It is not true," replied Chiromo.

"Can you kill people by means of charms and medicines?"

Chiromo said he could not.

"Is that your basket?"

"Yes, it is my basket."

"What is in the basket?"

"I do not know."

"Are not the things in the basket yours?"

"No, they are your messenger's; he put them in my basket."

Mokorongo was indignant at the lie. The witnesses, too, were amazed at
Chiromo's effrontery. But none spoke.

"Take the things out of the basket one by one and place them on the
ground in front of you."

The witch doctor without hesitation began to do as he was bid. The
skull, the arm, the weevils as large as mice, the chameleons, the stale
offal: these Mokorongo had seen in the hut, but there were other things
he had not seen. A necklet of human teeth, another of small antelope
horns, yet another of rats' skulls. These were followed by the shell of
a very small tortoise, a bush buck's horn containing a reddish-coloured
paste, four discs of ivory strangely carved, commonly known as "witch
doctor's bones," a small piece of looking-glass, a dozen or more little
bundles of something tied up in scraps of rag, a piece of red clay, a
length of snake's skin, several cartridge cases plugged with pieces of
wood, the sun-dried paw of a monkey, the beaks of several birds, a
feather ball or two, another set of "bones," a small knife with a wooden
sheath, a little gourd covered with beads, some charms of various sizes
and shapes to wear round the neck or wrist. There were many other bits
of rubbish which, at a sign from his master, Mokorongo emptied out on
the ground.

Under the direction of the Commissioner, Chiromo's possessions were
separated into two heaps. The skull, the arm, the offal, and anything
else of which there was only a single specimen, made one heap. The
chameleons, and anything of which there were more than one, were
carefully divided, half placed on one heap and the remainder on the
other.

"None of these things are yours?" asked the Commissioner.

"None, save the leopard skin," said Chiromo.

"Those I shall want later on," said the Commissioner, pointing to the
larger heap, "the rest you shall burn."

The witch doctor collected some dry grass, and some twigs and some
larger sticks. The Commissioner produced a box of matches. Mokorongo lit
the grass. The twigs crackled, the sticks caught fire and burned
brightly.

"Put those things on the fire," said the Commissioner, pointing to the
smaller of the two heaps.

Chiromo paused and looked round at the witnesses in a strange manner. As
his eyes sought out those of each witness ranged against him, his
personality made itself felt. Men quailed, women covered their faces,
and children cried lustily. The witch doctor pointed suddenly to the
sky, then at the ground, and then at the witnesses. Picking up a
chameleon he dangled it over the flame; he did not drop it in the fire,
but looked round again with a malignant grin. This was more than the
witnesses could stand; they bolted as fast as their legs could carry
them. Something dreadful was about to happen. When doctors engaged in a
trial of strength, ordinary men were better out of the way. The
messengers alone stood fast. They kept their eyes on Mokorongo who, in
turn, watched the Commissioner.

"Bring back the headman," thundered the Commissioner; "two of you will
do," as all the messengers started off.

The headman of the village in which Chiromo lived was quickly brought
back, and stood, covering his eyes with his hands.

"Now go on with the burning," ordered the Commissioner.

The tone of authority was unmistakable, so Chiromo complied without
further ado.

One by one the medicines, necklets, charms and other rubbish were
dropped into the fire. After a while, the headman removed his hands from
his face. It was evident that the white man was the stronger doctor of
the two. Chiromo had looked very bad, it was true, but he had been able
to do nothing. One by one the witnesses crept back and took their seats.

The Commissioner then sent for one of his house-boys and gave him an
order in an undertone. The boy presently returned, carrying a carpet
slipper.

"Hold Chiromo face downwards on the ground," said the Commissioner. The
messengers obeyed. "Now, Mokorongo, beat him."

And Mokorongo did so, in the manner of a mother chastising her
child--but rather harder.

Chiromo squealed, promising loudly never to offend again. Then someone
laughed, then another and another; presently all were laughing--with the
exception of Chiromo--even the Commissioner smiled: Mokorongo stopped
beating and laughed too.

The messengers released their hold on Chiromo, who got up rubbing a
certain portion of his anatomy. Everybody laughed again.

Laughter at a man kills faith in him. The spell was broken. From that
day forward this witch doctor, once powerful in hypnotic suggestion, was
as other men.

"And now," said the Commissioner, "we will hear the evidence."

The preliminary examination in the case of Rex v. Chiromo then began.

THE RIDDLE OF LIFE AND DEATH.

Of the many curios which I acquired during my twenty-five years'
residence in Africa, there is one which I value above all others. I
bought it a few weeks before I left the country. It is a round wooden
pot with a lid to it. On the lid is the seated figure of a little old
man with his shoulders hunched up, his chin resting in his two hands,
his elbows on his knees. There is a mildly amused expression on the
rudely carved face; whether this is there by accident or design I cannot
say. On one side of the pot is a snake in relief; on the other, a
tortoise.

I bought this pot from a very old native. So old was he that his scanty
knots of hair were quite white and his eyes were very dim. He must have
been a fine enough man once, but now his dull, greyish-black skin clung
in folds about his gaunt frame. I paid the old man the modest price he
named, and asked him the meaning of the figures on the lid and sides of
the pot.

The following is his explanation, given in short, jerky sentences, done
into English as literally as our language will permit:

"Yes, it was a long time ago. So long ago was it that no white man had
then come to this country. It was before my father's day. Before that
even of his father. Both died old men. Yes, so long ago was it, that
only the old people now speak of those past times. It was when men did
not grow old and die. There was no death then; all men lived on, and
happily.

"One day all this was changed. God became angry--that is God on the lid
of the pot. What foolish things men did to make God angry, I do not
know. He must have been very angry. In his anger God sent His messenger
of death to men. He sent His messenger, the snake. Then people began to
die--that is the snake on the side of the pot.

"So many people died that all became frightened. They thought all would
soon be dead. In their fear they cried to God. They said they were sorry
for their foolish act, whatever that might have been. They promised they
would anger Him no more. They begged Him to recall His messenger, the
snake.

"After a while God agreed. He said He would recall His messenger, the
snake. He would send another messenger--that is the second messenger on
the other side of the pot. God sent the tortoise to recall the snake."

The old man paused and mused for a little while, and then resumed:

"When I was a young man I thought to myself, perhaps the tortoise will
overtake the snake; that some day he will deliver God's message. I am an
old man now. I do not think the tortoise will ever overtake the
snake--at least, not in my time."

He said all this without a trace of emotion. He was too much of a
philosopher, it seemed, to indulge in anything so profitless as
self-pity.

"Do you kill snakes when you see them?" I asked.

"No," said he. "Why should I? But I do kill tortoises. The tortoise is
very lazy. He runs with his message so slowly. Moreover, a tortoise is
good meat."

Having told his story and pouched the price of his pot, the old man rose
painfully and hobbled away. Just outside my compound gate he paused and
made a vicious stab at something in a patch of grass.

Shouldering his assegai, he passed on his way, a writhing tortoise
impaled upon the blade.

FLATTERY.

I.

Robert Gregory was proud of his house. A Colonial Bishop, passing
through on his way to England, stayed with Gregory; in his
bread-and-butter letter he wrote:

"... I think your house the most beautiful and unique in Central
Africa...."

Unique perhaps it was, but scarcely beautiful.

When all is said and done, it was merely the ordinary bungalow of which
one finds examples all over Africa. In size it was very modest, having
only a hall, with a dining-room on one side and a bedroom on the other.
There were in addition various excrescences, termed locally "lean-to's."
One of these was a pantry, another a storeroom, a third a bathroom, and
so on. No, it must have been to the interior decorations that the Bishop
referred.

Gregory hoped to marry when next he went to England. During his last
visit to the old country, on leave, he became engaged.

The woman of his choice had once remarked to him: "I do hope you have
heaps and heaps of curios."

On his return to Africa Gregory began to collect curios, and now he had
indeed "heaps and heaps" of them. You see, he had his excuses.

On the walls of the hall were trophies of assegais and shields. These
trophies were arranged in the approved armoury manner; that is to say, a
shield in the centre with assegai blades radiating from it in all
directions.

Flanking each of the principal trophies were lesser ones, composed of
battle-axes in groups of two or three. These battle-axes were
murderous-looking things. The heads of some were crescent-shaped, others
were merely wedges of metal.

In the intervening spaces were a variety of knives remarkable chiefly
for their sheaths, which were curiously shaped and carved. There was a
dado, too, round the wall, made of arrows arranged head downwards
towards the floor. These were surmounted by bows fixed horizontally to
the wall; they completed the dado, as it were.

On the other two sides ancient guns of various makes and ages took the
place of the arrows. There were flint locks, Tower muskets, Portuguese,
French and German smooth-bore rifles, gaily decorated by native owners
with bands of highly polished copper round the barrel and brass-headed
nails driven into the stock.

On a shelf, which ran round the hall a few feet from the ceiling, were
specimens of native pottery. Some were highly coloured, others dull red.
All had curious patterns scratched on them, done before baking, and most
of them bore fire marks and other evidence that their makers were
somewhat lacking in the potter's skill. The shapes, however, were
pleasing.

The dining-room held a miscellaneous collection. The principal objects
were musical instruments, chiefly of the harmonica variety, strips of
hard wood suspended over gourds of different sizes. In the bad old days
human skulls were used in place of gourds. But there were many others,
both string and wind instruments, and some rattles.

In this room was also a collection of snuff boxes; nearly all of them
were minute gourds, differing one from another in decoration. Some were
completely covered with gaily coloured beads affixed cunningly and in
pleasing patterns. Some were banded with beads, which gave them the
appearance of small school globes. Others, again, were simply carved in
relief, whilst a few were decorated with plaited brass, copper, or iron
wire. All were very neatly made.

Occupying a space between a window and a door was a unique collection of
snuff spoons. These were nearly all made of bright metal. Not only do
the natives use them for taking snuff, but also for preparing to take
snuff and for recovering after snuffing. To be quite plain, they use
them as our snuff-taking ancestors used their bandannas. They have yet a
third use, namely, scraping the skin on a hot day.

The only reason why Gregory had so many of these nasty little implements
was that they were so neatly made and in such diversity of pattern.

In the spaces usually occupied by pictures were specimens of the native
weavers' art, very highly coloured cloths of coarse texture. On shelves
over the doors and windows of his dining-room were pots, mugs, bowls,
and platters of carved wood. The patterns were curiously like those one
finds on early pottery dug up in such quantities and in so many spots
along the shores of the Mediterranean. A kaross or skin blanket was
thrown over the back of almost every chair and covered the one settee.

There was hardly anything of European manufacture in the hall and
dining-room. Even the tables and chairs were native made and of country
timber. In place of carpets, the floors were covered with rush and reed
mats ornamented with strange patterns done in brightly dyed bark and
fibre.

The bedroom alone held nothing but European furniture.

The collection was certainly a remarkable one--I have not attempted a
complete inventory--and Gregory had taken great pains to arrange it, as
some would say, artistically.

One day five natives arrived carrying a letter addressed to Gregory. It
was from a woman, Chief in her own right. It ran as follows:

                                                             APRIL.

     MY FRIEND,

     I send to you my servant Siadiadiadi with four others. As I cannot
     come to you myself I send my five people. I have heard much of your
     fine house and wish to see it. As I am old I send my people that
     they may see it and bring me word of it. I ask you to let them see
     it for three days, and on the fourth they shall return to me.

     I am well and all my people are well, but the cattle have a
     disease. I hope you are well.

     I must close my letter now with greetings.

                             Your faithful friend,

                                                          MOVANA.

     Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni.

I believe Gregory was pleased: at any rate he permitted the messengers
to see his house. For the full three days they stayed. He often found
them agape in the hall or in the dining room, taking mental notes. It
was clear that the five natives were much impressed. Whenever Gregory
entered the house, they saluted him and crept silently out. There was
no reason to guard against theft; uncivilised natives do not steal.

On the fourth day Siadiadiadi and his companions thanked Gregory in the
name of their mistress and went away.

  O wad some power the giftie gie us
    To see oorsel's as ithers see us!
  It wad frae monie a blunder free us
    And foolish notion.

II.

Some six months later Gregory, travelling to the extreme limit of his
district, found himself within easy distance of the village occupied by
the Chieftainess who had been so curious about his house. He felt
inclined to go out of his way to see her. When he was resting at midday
a native brought him a letter which helped him to make up his mind to do
so.

     MY FRIEND,

     I hear that you have arrived near to my village. Please come and
     see my house. I think you will like it. Hoping you are well, with
     greetings.

                                 Your faithful friend,

                                                        MOVANA.

     Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni. I, too, send greetings.

So Gregory went to see the house.

Outside the village he was met by the usual gathering of elderly
headmen, polite and dignified, who led him to the door of their Chief's
house.

The house was barnlike, with a high, well-thatched roof.

At the entrance stood the owner. She was very stout and wore a print
dress. A red shawl was thrown over her shoulders, and she had a very
small straw hat perched on her large, woolly head. Gregory noticed that
the hat was very much on one side. Her feet were bare.

After unusually hearty greetings she led the white man into her house.

When Gregory stepped over the threshold he stopped and stood looking
from wall to wall aghast. The old black woman interpreted his open mouth
to indicate admiration, wonder. This is what he saw.

On a deal table a complete toilet set. Complete to the extent that it
included two of those very intimate pieces of domestic furniture seldom
seen outside the shops where toilet ware is sold, and surely never
before exhibited with pride by the owner. Hanging awkwardly from a nail
in the wall, a slop pail of enamelled iron. This was supported on the
one side by a dustpan and brush, on the other by a pair of elastic-sided
boots. On each side of this remarkable trophy were pinned two very
ordinary coloured pocket handkerchiefs.

On a small corner shelf was a large brown earthenware teapot with the
words "Advance Australia" done in raised letters. Four enamelled ware
egg cups were its companions.

One wall was devoted exclusively to kitchen utensils; new tin kettles
predominated, but almost everything was represented.

Opposite this bright array the wall was literally covered with bedding.
The centre piece was a mattress; sheets on one side, blankets on the
other, pillows above, bolsters below.

But what shocked Gregory more than anything else was a regular trousseau
of feminine underclothing, ranged round the door through which he had
entered. He blushed hotly and with difficulty suppressed an impulse to
bolt without ceremony.

"What do you think of my house, my friend?"

"I think it--er--beautiful, the most wonderful in all the world."

"Yes, I thought you would like it. Do you not like the things my people
use? For myself, I like the things the white people use. You put the
black man's things in your house. I put the white man's things in my
house. We are two friends who have the same thoughts. You buy from the
people. I buy from the traders. The traders have promised to bring me
many more things. My house is not finished yet. After the rains it will
be finished, then you must come and see it again."

When Gregory reached his bungalow after his journey he stripped his
walls and packed all his curios in boxes. These he despatched to his
father in England, who was very pleased with them.

He replaced his curios by the Hundred Best Pictures, framed suitably in
fumed oak.

"LIZIZI."

I.

The Native Commissioner was hurrying home. It was nearly midday and
getting hot. Moreover, he had been on a long journey and was anxious to
get back to his bungalow which, for him, meant a measure of
civilisation. His garden, his books, prints on the wall, white ducks,
fair cooking and no more tinned food for a while, a cool verandah and
occasional converse with his fellow officials. At daylight he had left
his caravan to follow whilst he pushed on ahead.

His sturdy horse also had thoughts of home for, in spite of the heat, he
cantered briskly along the dusty road without any encouragement from his
master. Half a mile from the house a short cut skirted a patch of young
gum trees and led through the servants' compound to the back door of the
bungalow.

The horse, without hesitation and not waiting for direction, took the
short cut. As a general rule the Commissioner chose the longer way. He
preferred entering his own house by the front door; he had designed and
built his home himself and had given much thought to its face and
approach, for, who could tell, might he not some day lead an English
bride up the winding drive?

The Commissioner let the beast have his way: he was amused and, leaning
forward, patted his horse's neck.

As he clattered through the compound he caught sight of some of his
servants conversing with a stranger. There was nothing remarkable in
that, but two things he noticed. One, that his people did not see or
hear him until he was almost abreast of them, and secondly, that the
stranger, a native from the river district, let him pass without the
usual salute.

He rode on and dismounted at the back of the house. A groom took his
horse. A small boy opened the door for him and led him through to the
front hall. The Commissioner dropped into a chair and, after a short
rest, busied himself with getting comfortable.

A shave, followed by a hot bath, a change into "slacks," a light
luncheon, and a pipe. Then he attacked his accumulated mail. He had
scarcely sorted his home from his official letters--the latter could
well wait--when his head house boy came in rather breathless.

"Morena," he said, "what is to-day?"

"What do you mean, the day of the month or of the week, and why do you
ask?"

"Oh no," said the boy, "but what is the number of the day?"

"Tuesday the sixth. Why?"

"It is only that I wanted to know, for has not the Morena been absent
for a great many days?"

"Well, it's the sixth, Tuesday the sixth of September."

"Thank you, Morena."

The boy withdrew.

The Native Commissioner turned to his letters again. His mother had
written pages telling him of his sister's engagement to his oldest
friend; his sister wrote more pages about her happiness; his father
referred to his younger brother at Oxford, to the engagement just
announced, and described the latest strike at some length.

Presently he got up and went out to the verandah to stretch his legs. He
admired his garden and mentally praised his own cunning in setting it
out. The rains had not yet broken but some of the trees were already in
new leaf. What a blaze of colour there would be in a few weeks!

"Morena, what day is it to-day?"

Turning, he met the gaze of a garden labourer who, spade in hand, was
standing slightly in advance of some half a dozen of his fellows.

"The sixth. But why do you ask?"

"It is because black people do not know how to count, and one day with
us is as another."

All returned to their work. A few minutes later the dog boy came with a
litter born during his master's absence. They were a likely looking lot
and the native took personally the remarks passed upon his charge: he
appeared to assume responsibility for their colour, shape and sex.

"Morena, what day is it to-day?"

"Why?"

"See, Morena, I mark each day on a stick; the dogs were born ten days
ago."

"Well, it's the sixth."

"Thank you, Morena."

At sundown the cattle came in. The herdsman came up to the house to
report that the two calves born whilst his master was away on his
journey were heifers, and received a few shillings as a reward for his
good management When bull calves came the cattle herd made many excuses
and neither expected nor received any reward.

"You have done well."

"Thank you, Morena," said the boy, tying the silver in a corner of his
loin cloth. "What is the number of the day to-day?"

Now this was the fourth time the question had been asked. What did it
mean? Could it mean anything of importance and, if so, what?

But the Commissioner decided in his own mind that his people had some
trivial dispute and were appealing to him to settle a knotty point.
Still, he felt a little curious as to what that point might be, but
knowing natives well, concluded that he would hear about it all in good
time.

He asked no question this time but replied simply: "The sixth."

The news of his return spread quickly and several officials dropped in
for a "sundowner." Headquarters news, dull and trivial as it usually is,
was quickly disposed of. The Browns had gone home on leave, Jones had
just come back, and Robinson had passed the law exam very well. A lion
had been heard outside the township, and a mad cur had run amok through
the compounds and, as a result, several good dogs had been shot and half
a dozen natives sent south for treatment.

What sport had the Commissioner had?

On the whole, bad; he had missed a black-maned lion in a patch of bush
near the river, and as the beast slipped through to the main forest he
didn't bother to follow. He had, however, bagged a small leopard and two
full-grown cheetahs. There were plenty of birds and buck about and, oh,
yes, he had killed a bad old buffalo bull who nearly turned the tables
on him. After listening to the details of the adventure, the visitors
rose to leave.

No, he would not join them at the Club later, he felt tired and was
looking forward to a comfortable bed for a change.

The Commissioner dined alone and turned in early.

In the morning he woke with a start. It was late, nearly eight o'clock;
what the deuce were his people about?

He jumped out of bed and went to the bath-room. The bath was not set
ready. He called to his boy. There was no answer. He slipped on a
dressing gown and went to the kitchen. It was empty, the fire was not
even lighted. He went back to the house for a pair of slippers and a hat
and walked across to the native compound. By this time he was very
angry.

To his amazement, the compound was quite empty. On his way back he
looked in at the stable. His horses whinnied: they had not been fed, nor
had the stable been cleaned. He fed the horses himself and then walked
over to the cattle kraal. His half-dozen cows had not been milked.

At that moment the Magistrate came up.

"What's the matter with the natives?"

"I don't know, why?"

"Not a black soul in the township will do a hand's turn."

"Mine aren't here."

"Is there going to be a rising?"

"Certainly not. You people who live in camp are always expecting
risings."

"Well, you know best, of course, but the boys refuse to work. They say
Lizizi has told them not to."

"Who's Lizizi?"

"How should I know? I came to ask you that."

"Never heard of him."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know yet. Send some of your people down to me, mine have made
themselves scarce."

"Right, but what are you going to do to them?"

"Nothing, of course, except question them."

"I'll send my two house boys down."

"Send your cook as well."

"Why my cook?"

"Because I haven't had my breakfast yet."

"Well, neither have I for that matter."

"Then you had better come with them, we'll have breakfast all right."

The Magistrate went away and the Commissioner returned to his house to
dress.

He hated having no bath; he disliked, too, going without breakfast.
Discomfort on a journey he thought nothing of, but discomfort in his own
home was ridiculous.

When the Commissioner emerged from his room, dressed but unshaven, and
in a very bad temper, he found his head native in the hall and the rest
of the servants standing on the verandah.

"We wish to speak with you," said the boy.

"I, too, have something to say."

"We cannot work to-day. To-morrow we will work."

"You will work to-day and now."

"No, Morena, we cannot work to-day, to-morrow we will work well."

"Why can't you work to-day?"

"Because Lizizi says we may not work to-day."

"Who's Lizizi?"

"A great doctor."

"Where is he?" said the Commissioner, looking round.

"No, he is not here, Morena, he lives on the Zambesi. He sent his man
with a message yesterday."

"Was that the messenger I saw in the compound?"

"Yes, Morena."

"Where is he?"

"He has gone."

"Where?"

"He did not say where he was going. He told us he must carry the
master's messages."

"What are the messages?"

"No man may work for his master to-day."

"What are the others?"

"That is all he said to us."

"Have you eaten this morning?"

"Yes, Morena."

"Then bring breakfast for the Magistrate and me, and quickly."

"But, Morena--"

"Well?"

"I may not work to-day."

"Breakfast is food, not work. Bring it."

"Yes, Morena."

The boy went out. The Commissioner turned to the rest of his servants.

"You won't work to-day?"

The cattle herd answered: "We may not, it is forbidden."

"Who forbids you?"

"Lizizi."

"Who is Lizizi?"

"The great doctor."

"Great?"

"Yes, Morena. Does he not jump into the river and come out alive on the
third day?"

"I should say not, but where does he live?"

"At Minanga, on the Zambesi."

"Go to your work. I will visit this Lizizi. There is some mistake. The
messenger is a foolish fellow, he had forgotten his master's words. I
will see to it. Tell all the people that I go on a visit to Lizizi. He
who does not work now and at once and well will meet with misfortune."

The servants dispersed to their various occupations. Slowly at first,
and with evident reluctance; but, hearing that the head boy was busy
getting his master's breakfast, they, too, set about their various
duties.

When the Magistrate arrived he found everything normal. He had breakfast
with the Commissioner. When the meal was over he found his own servants
had gone back to his compound. The word had spread abroad that the
Commissioner would visit Lizizi and put matters right.

"How did you do it?"

"Just talked to them a little."

"No violence, I hope?"

"Unnecessary."

"What was it all about?"

"I know no more than you, but intend to find out."

In a few hours the Commissioner was on his way to Minanga, on the
Zambesi, the home of Lizizi, the great doctor.

II.

All next day, and for several days following, natives might be seen
passing south in the direction of Minanga. The curious thing about these
flocks of travellers was that they were chiefly composed of
children--little children, from infants in arms to boys and girls of
nine or ten, none older. When questioned, the parents would reply
simply: "We are called. We are called to Minanga by Lizizi--by Lizizi,
the great doctor."

The native servants who worked in the houses of the officials could, or
would, give no fuller explanation. "Yes, they are called by Lizizi," was
the only answer to all questioning.

In the Club, speculation as to what the Commissioner would do
monopolised the conversation. Nearly all the officials wagered on a
native rising. The Commandant of Police went about to prepare
systematically for an event of this kind.

III.

The Commissioner travelled light and quickly. He, too, passed hordes of
natives, mostly children. He, too, learnt that Lizizi called--that
Lizizi had apparently mustered all the children of the district. He was
now doubly certain that this was no native rebellion, or the children
would have been conspicuously absent. He grudged Lizizi this implicit
obedience. Two could not run the same country.

At length he approached Minanga. The neighbouring villages were thronged
with children. In Minanga itself there were many hundreds. The
Commissioner rode to the centre of the village and demanded to be shown
Lizizi's hut. He was led up the hill to a single small hut built
half-way up the slope. In front of it grew a huge tamarind tree.

"There is Lizizi," said his guide, pointing to an old man sitting on a
stool in front of the hut.

The Commissioner watched. A strange performance was going on. A long
queue of children was moving slowly past the seated figure, and as each
child was marshalled forward--screaming with fright, for the most
part--the old man put his hands on its head.

The Commissioner rode up to the hut. The old man touched the head of the
child in front of him with his crossed thumbs; that was all, and the
child passed hurriedly on to join a throng, already large, of others who
had passed through the ordeal, or whatever it was.

On seeing the Commissioner the old man rose and seated himself on the
ground, clapping his hands by way of greeting.

This curious native wore a large pair of spectacles, which gave him a
benevolent air. His feet were bare--so, too, was his head--but he was
otherwise clothed to the extent of a patched and very dirty shirt and an
aged pair of trousers.

"Are you Lizizi?" asked the Commissioner.

"Morena, I am his slave."

"Where is Lizizi?"

"He walked on the water. Then he went to the bottom of the river and
stayed there. After three days he came out alive and well. Some people
said so who saw him."

"Where is he now?"

"Who can tell?"

"Did you send that message to the servants of the white men, saying that
they were not to work?"

"I sent my master's message."

"What are you doing to these children?"

"My master said they must come."

"What for?"

"I put my hands on them, as my master said. Lizizi said: 'Let the
children come, the little children, and do not stop them.' And Lizizi
said: 'You must work for six days, and on the seventh day you must not
do anything.'"

So that was the explanation. It came to the Commissioner in a flash.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Sinyoro."

"You have worked for a white man?"

"Yes, I was with the Mission."

"I thought as much."

"Lizizi" was the nearest this native could get to Jesus. The poor old
man was, it transpired, a little mad. He had lived with the missionaries
for many years, and had recently asked permission to visit friends on
the Zambesi. The head missionary had let him go. As he afterwards
explained, he knew the man was a little mad, but quite harmless. They
had christened him James--James Sinyoro.

However, James, it seemed, had been trying his prentice hand at
missionary work, and had given orders based on the little he remembered
of the Mission Bible teaching.

James Sinyoro returned to the Mission Station, and the district to its
normal tranquillity.

MIRONDA--A WOMAN.

The Paramount Chief had many wives. A newly arrived missionary,
determined to convert the great man, opened his attack by asking why he
had so many wives. The answer was disconcerting: "For political
reasons." This matter of the Chief's was a rock upon which all
missionary endeavours foundered. The Chief must discard all his wives,
save one. The Chief was determined to keep them all.

To another reformer he said: "Leave me alone. Do what you will with the
children and young people. Leave me to myself. You have shown me that my
beliefs are foolish. You have not proved to me that yours are any
wiser."

A third good man, about to transfer his activities to other fields,
offered to present the Chief with his bright brass bedstead provided he
became a Christian.

"Let me see it," said the old heathen. The bed was produced. "I have a
better one. I paid a trader ten head of cattle for it." So no bargain
was struck.

I think there must have been some grounds for saying that he clung to
his many wives "for political reasons," because they, or at any rate
some of them, were more trouble to the Chief than they were perhaps
worth.

There was Mavevana, for instance, who was large and fat and therefore
very beautiful from a native point of view, but whose tongue was a
constant source of strife without and within the harem.

I should explain that each wife had her own group of huts. These
groups--there were seventeen of them--were surrounded by a high reed
fence, strengthened by sharply-pointed poles. The harem was a village
within a village. Outside the fence the common people lived.

Each woman had her slaves. A strong guard of fully-armed men patrolled
the harem at night. Old Sikoro, the keeper of the harem, was about day
and night.

Then there was Mironda. Poor Mironda, who later paid, as women do, be
they white, black or yellow.

Mironda was rather nearer to yellow than to black. I think she had some
European blood in her. One does not often see a native woman with hazel
eyes nor with freckles; and besides, she was very tall and slim.

As a special mark of his good will the Chief once took me through his
harem. That is how I first came to see Mironda.

The woman aroused my interest. When we entered her compound she glared
at her lord and master as a caged beast does upon free men. She did not
for a moment take her eyes off him. She never so much as glanced in my
direction. Her eyes caught the light once and reflected it as do those
of a cat, a tiger. Yes, that was it, she put me in mind of a caged
tiger.

She clasped her hands continuously during our short stay. The click,
click, click of her ivory bangles drew my attention to her hands. Her
hands and her wrists were very small, her finger nails long and sharp. I
noticed her hands particularly because she had solid ivory bangles on
each arm from wrist to elbow. These bangles were very small and, as they
were solid, could only pass over very small hands.

I saw this curious woman twice only: the second time was some years
later.

As I have said before, old Sikoro was the keeper of the harem. I hated
him instinctively the moment I first set eyes on him: I hated him more
when I heard the whole story.

Sikoro had only one eye. In his youth he had had smallpox, which pitted
his face remorselessly and destroyed one eye. He wore a soldier's red
tunic, the colour dimmed with age and dirt. Perched on his head was a
tall cone-shaped fur cap which he plucked off whenever he met a
superior. He was always plucking it off, not because he was really
inferior in the black man's social scale to all he so saluted; on the
contrary, in view of his office, he was an important person; he was over
polite because he chose to appear humble.

The man knew his power well: his occupation gave him the ear of the
Chief. All realized this and were ready to show him the respect which
was justly his due: Sikoro was before them in showing respect, which was
unnecessary. Men did not understand this humbleness of his and feared
him. Sikoro loved their fear.

The woman, Mironda, alone had no fear of him. She despised the man and
did not try to hide it. She often refused to see him. It was only utter
boredom that induced her to admit him to her compound at all. The truth
is he was a great gossip and was the link between the harem and the
outer world. Sikoro knew everything, was an authority on everything, and
the first to hear all news.

Now this is what befell Mironda. I don't blame her; no one could. I
consider her a victim of circumstances. The old, old story. A young and
impulsive woman, an elderly, much married lord, a well-favoured young
man. The long and the short of it is that Mironda was in the end
divorced; but the manner of that divorce enrages me whenever I think of
it.

One morning she was sitting on a mat in the shade thrown by the
overhanging thatch of her hut. She was singing in a low voice and
threading beads picked with the point of her needle from a wooden bowl
held by a small girl slave.

  The father of Mbututu
  Was killed on the sand bank
  Wei ye-i, wei i-ye,
  Wei ye-i, wei i-ye,
  The father of Mbututu
  Was killed on the sand bank
  Wei ye-i, etc.

The monotonous chant in a minor key was interrupted by someone
scratching on the reed fence.

"Go," said Mironda to the child, "see who it is."

The child put down the bowl of beads and ran to the fold in the fence
which formed the gate. She looked out. A glance was sufficient. She ran
back past her mistress and into a far hut, muttering as she went
"Ma--we! Ma--we! It is Sikoro!"

Mironda moved uneasily on her mat, then fell to fumbling nervously with
the brightly-dyed bark patterns which ornamented it.

Sikoro slouched into the compound, removing his fur cap as he came. Just
inside he knelt down and sat on his heels, placing his cap on the ground
beside him. He arranged his voluminous skirts carefully round him and
then clapped his hands very respectfully.

Mironda did not look at him. After a short interval Sikoro broke the
silence.

"Good day to you, Morena."

"Yes, good day."

"And has the Chief's wife slept well?"

"She has."

"And the slaves of her house, have they slept well?"

"They have."

"And is the Chief's wife pleased with the new shawl chosen by Sikoro as
a gift from the Chief to his wife?"

"It is all right."

Sikoro relapsed into silence and Mironda did not speak. Presently the
man got up and, in a crouching attitude, shuffled nearer and sat down as
close as possible to the edge of the woman's mat without actually
touching it. To touch the mat of the Chief's wife would have been an
offence, to come so near to it was studied insolence.

Mironda looked up angrily, met the bloodshot eye of Sikoro and opened
her mouth as if to speak. Instead of doing so, however, she looked away
and examined the work upon which she had been engaged when the man
arrived.

Sikoro grinned and, detaching from his belt a small gourd, emptied some
snuff into the palm of his hand.

This was a deliberate insult to the Chief's wife and conclusive evidence
to her, if indeed she needed it, that she might now expect the worst.

Sikoro blew his nose unpleasantly and loudly sniffed up the snuff from
the palm of his hand. Then, clearing his throat, he said: "Someone has
stolen one of the Chief's heifers."

"Eh."

"A yellow one which the Chief might well have sold to a Jew."

"So."

"It is no great loss to the Chief, as the heifer is barren."

Mironda's eyes blazed with fury; she had no child.

"The thief has been caught."

"What will be done with him?"

Ah! he had aroused her interest at last. Sikoro smiled pleasantly as he
said: "He will, of course, be strangled."

"Will not the Missionaries prevent it?"

"The Missionaries? They do not know and may not know for many days, and
anyhow, what could they do?"

"The white man's Government will prevent the killing of people."

"No doubt the white man's Government will do many foolish things, but
the Magistrate has not yet come."

"He is coming soon."

"But they strangle Miyobo to-day, now."

No name had been mentioned before: indeed it was not necessary even now;
Mironda had known Sikoro's errand from the manner of entry into her
compound.

The abominable man leant forward and repeated: "Now, now, now," then put
his hand to his ear. The woman listened, too, and heard distinctly the
shriek and gurgle of a dying man: then silence save for the pattering of
slaves' feet and their shrill inquiries and conjectures. Miyobo had been
strangled just outside the compound in which the woman sat.

Mironda looked at Sikoro with wide eyes of fear. He, of course, enjoyed
the situation. Did he not hate this woman for her overbearing pride? Had
not she and Miyobo fooled him more than once, and had it not been the
merest chance which had delivered them into his hand?

His one eye contracted with merriment, a cruel smile lifted his lip and
disclosed a row of sharply-filed teeth--the tribal mark of a subject
race; he was a freed slave.

Pointing to the bangles on the woman's arm, Sikoro asked: "What are you
doing with the Chief's ivory?"

One by one Mironda took her bangles off and placed them on the mat
before her.

"Is not that the Chief's new shawl?"

The wretched woman took the garment from her shoulders and laid it on
the mat beside the bangles.

"And why," said Sikoro, "do you sit on the Chief's mat?"

Mironda slowly rose to her feet.

"And is not this the Chief's hut?"

This was the last word, the full sentence of divorce; she, now a common
woman, had no right to stand where she stood. She looked hastily round
the compound and then walked silently to the gate and so out.

The man gathered up the ivory bangles and tied them in the shawl. He
rolled up the mat upon which Mironda had been sitting and tucked it
under his arm. Then, spitting contemptuously on the ground, he followed.

Some years later I saw Mironda, clothed in the rags of a slave woman,
begging food at the Mission station.

When the wife of the Chief is divorced, her fall is gradual. For a space
she becomes the wife of a head man, who presently passes her on to
someone lower in the social scale, and so from hand to hand she passes
until she becomes the consort of a slave.

In Mironda's case she first became the wife of Sikoro; surely a no more
cruel punishment could have been devised for her.

MAN AND BEAST.

PROTECTIVE COLOURING.

Mobita had views on protective colouring. Who is Mobita? Oh, an elephant
hunter, a black man; a very good fellow--as black men go. Mobita used to
say that elephants, and big and small game generally, could not see
black and white. Black they could and white they could, but not a
judicious combination of the two. His usual hunting kit was a black hat
with a white feather in it, a black waistcoat over a white shirt, a
black and white striped loin cloth. His thin arms and legs were dull
ebony. There you have Mobita.

Mobita's theory worked very well for a time, but as he had missed an
essential he paid the penalty in the end. A zebra is black and
white--more or less--and in the bush is practically invisible so long as
it stands still. That, then, is the essential adjunct to protective
colouring--you must keep still.

This is what happened to Mobita.

Just before the war I was hunting on the edge of the Great Swamp. Early
one afternoon, when the day was at its hottest, I heard a shot fired.
Later, I met a freshly-wounded tusker and dropped him. I went up to have
a look at him, and found dry blood on his ground tusk and a hole behind
his near shoulder; someone had just missed his heart. My shot took him
in the ear.

I left some of my men to cut out his tusks, and, out of curiosity, went
back along his spoor. I had not far to go. Sitting round a pile of green
branches I found a dozen of Mobita's people, looking very glum.

They told me their yarn, which I did not believe until I had had a look
round for myself. The spoor told me their story was true enough.

It appears that Mobita had followed the bull since early morning. He got
in a moderate shot; the bull saw him and gave chase. The ground was
unbroken, with no large ant-hills or big trees to dodge behind. Here and
there they went, this way and that, but the tusker kept his eye on
Mobita--on his protective colouring, I should think. Then somehow Mobita
tripped and fell, and the game was up. The elephant stamped on him,
knelt on him, put his tusk through him. Then--and here is the strange
part of it all--went from tree to tree picking green branches and piling
them up on what was left of Mobita.

Then he moved off and shortly met me.

Did I bury Mobita? Why, no. People came around presently--as natives
will when meat is about--and I made them pile stones on him; quite a
hill they made. I paid them for their trouble with elephant meat, and
handed the tusks to Mobita's men, as the custom is.

Protective colouring is all right, no doubt--if you keep still.

DARWIN--A BIRD.

When the railway construction reached to within reasonable distance of
my camp, I realised how tired I was of living in a mud hut, and acquired
sufficient material from the contractor for a small house. I also asked
him to spare one of his carpenters to erect it for me.

The man sent to me was a German named Fritz Kunst. He was not only a
carpenter, but a mason, bricklayer, plumber, and painter as well. He was
an excellent workman, a member of no union, and intent only on finishing
his job quickly and well. I hasten to explain that this was many years
before the war.

In build he was very short, almost deformed. His head was abnormally
large; so, too, were his hands and feet, especially his feet. He looked
upon his feet as his salvation. He was flat-footed, and on that account
had never served in the German army. He referred to his feet as, "My
goot luck, isn't it?"

I had but one fault to find with him. He was rough with his native
servant. The boy sometimes complained to me, and when I remonstrated
with Kunst or threatened him with the law he would burst into a flood of
tears and offer to pay cash for his lapse. One day the boy complained
to me that Kunst had beaten him severely and without cause. He could,
however, show no mark, but I sent for his master and demanded an
explanation. Kunst was evidently very angry with the boy, for he shook
his fist in his face and bellowed in his coarse, guttural voice: "Zo,
you make er tam vool of me, eh? I will your head break. You spoil my
money. Gott tam you!"

In broken English, but with considerable fluency and force, Kunst told
me the source of his indignation. It appeared that from time to time he
commissioned his boy to make small purchases for him--eggs, fowls, milk,
fish, and the like. On the previous evening the boy produced a very
large egg for which he said he had paid sixpence. As eggs were then
never more than sixpence a dozen in that country, Kunst charged him with
cheating. The boy explained that the egg was a very large one. It was
large--huge, in fact--for a hen's egg, so Kunst did not press the
charge, but went to bed, telling the boy to boil it for breakfast next
morning.

On the breakfast-table the egg looked larger than ever. It couldn't sit
in the tin egg-cup, so lay on the table beside it.

Now Kunst was a greedy man and attacked the egg in the best of good
spirits. He tried to crack it in the usual way with a spoon, but without
success. He banged it on the table. The shell did crack then, but, to
Kunst's indignation, the egg proved to be hard set. Whether he thought
parts of it might be good I cannot say, but the German broke open the
egg and examined it more closely. He then became very angry indeed, for
what he found satisfied him that the egg was not a hen's egg at all. The
creature upon which he gazed was three-parts beak and most of the rest
was made up of feet. Kunst had never seen anything like it. In a rage of
disappointment he beat the boy. He had so looked forward to eating that
very large egg which the boy assured him was a hen's egg. Had not his
trusted servant declared that the egg had cost sixpence?

I soothed Kunst's ruffled feelings, and persuaded him to go to his work
and forgive the boy.

When I had settled the little differences between the German and the
native, I cross-questioned the latter. It transpired that the giant egg
was that of a marabout stork which had nested in a tree a few miles
away. As one egg still remained in the nest, I told the boy to let a
week or two go by, and if by then the egg had hatched out to bring the
chick to me.

In due course Darwin arrived. I did not call him Darwin for several
weeks; the name occurred to me later. Darwin was the queerest of
objects. He was a large ball of fluff based on two very long legs, and
surmounted by a huge beak protruding from a bald head. He was wise from
birth; it was when I had fully realised how very wise he was that I
christened him Darwin.

When he first came to me he made no proper use of his legs. He could not
stand erect, but sat awkwardly with his bird equivalent to knees
protruding behind and his large feet, with toes spread out, in front. He
resembled a downy globe on rails. He crawled about my bungalow almost
from the first day I had him. This he managed by sliding first his right
hand rail along the floor and then his left, clapping his huge beak
after each movement. I suppose I subconsciously accepted this beak
clapping as the crooning of a baby bird, for I soon found myself
indulging in baby talk with him.

His appetite was amazing; moreover, he was omnivorous.

When it was neither his meal time nor mine, he would sit on the floor in
front of me blinking up at me with wisdom in his eyes. He winked. There
is no doubt about it. It was as if he had just remarked: "What you and I
don't know isn't worth knowing." I soon dropped the baby talk with
Darwin, and discussed with him Affairs of State.

He grew rapidly. One day I detected a feather. By degrees feathers
replaced the down, but the most important sign of Darwin's growing up
was when he took his first step. One morning without warning he heaved
himself up, and, by using his beak as a third leg, actually stood on his
feet. For the space of a full minute he remained in this position, then,
suddenly lifting his head, he was erect. For one moment only; then,
overbalancing backwards, he fell with a crash full length on the floor.
He appeared stunned at first. I picked him up and placed him on his
rails again, and there he sat, thinking the matter over. Presently he
repeated the manoeuvre, but with no better success, falling this time on
his "front" as a child would say. Again I gathered him up, and
apparently, after mature consideration, he decided that his time for
walking had not yet come, for he made no more attempts that day.

About a week later, as if the idea had struck him for the first time, he
got up quite suddenly, and coolly walked out of the back door into the
yard; he stood there sunning himself, and chattering to and at everybody
and everything in sight.

Darwin never looked back. He quickly developed a curiosity as insatiable
as his appetite. He became playful, too. He made friends with the dogs,
and romped with them. He noticed that the doctor paid a daily visit to
the compound, and hid behind the fence in wait for him. As the doctor
sped past on his bicycle, Darwin would shoot out his heavy beak at him.
So sure a marksman did the bird become--he always narrowly missed the
saddle, but hit the doctor--that the good man complained, and approached
the compound by the long way round.

The day arrived when certain puppies had to lose their tails. Darwin
took a proper interest in the operation, and gobbled up each tail as it
fell. He appeared to like dogs' tails, and went in search of more. He
found a nice long one which he tried to swallow, but it happened to be
still attached to an elderly greyhound. Poor Darwin met with his first
serious rebuff in life; he came to me for sympathy with a large puncture
in his beak. The mark of the dog's displeasure was permanent.

When natives came, as they did in hundreds, to sell the produce of their
gardens, woods, and streams, Darwin inspected their wares. With a twist
of his beak he would filch a pinch of meal from a bowl to see, so the
natives declared, whether it was of uniform whiteness throughout. Eggs
had to be protected with outstretched arms, so, too, had baskets of
little fishes, for he was very partial to them both, and only a very
full sample would satisfy him. The natives declared him possessed.
Judging by the way he first abused and then assaulted any one of them
bold enough to resist his inspection, I think they were right.

I have already mentioned his curiosity. He permitted this defect in his
character to carry him too far when he became a common thief. A
traveller stayed with me for a few days. In spite of warning, he left
the door of his hut open when he came across to the mess hut for
breakfast. Darwin entered to inspect. It is surmised that he swallowed
my guest's shaving brush and tooth brush, for they have never been
found. It is only surmise, but there was circumstantial evidence to
support the charge in the form of the stick of shaving soap which was
found on the floor with marks on it which might have been made by the
beak of a large bird.

Again, the contents of two boxes of cigars were found scattered far and
wide; each cigar had been nipped in half. Darwin was questioned; he
looked wise but said nothing. A native witness swore he had seen the
accused walking in the yard with the white man's pipe in his mouth. This
was a wicked slander, for the white man had that pipe in his pocket, and
it was his only one.

The case was not proven, but Darwin left the court without a shred of
character.

I have referred to his appetite. One day the cook missed a piece of
lamb's neck, weighing probably half a dozen pounds. He couldn't blame
the cat, because there wasn't one, so he pointed the finger of
accusation at Darwin. The evil bird was sent for. I felt he was guilty,
and, although he winked at me for sympathy, I had to say so. Besides, he
had not been sufficiently careful to hide the loot; even a professional
detective could have recognised the meat by the very large, irregular
bulge in the bird's pouch. In places the mutton bones threatened to
pierce the thin disguise.

Darwin certainly had his uses. No nasty-smelling scrap could lie
undetected for long. His scent was keen and his eye sharp. I never found
a snake in the house after Darwin grew up, nor were there many rats
about the place.

Once a huge swarm of locusts fell upon us, and all hands turned out to
destroy them. Darwin joined in the fray, and soon we retired and left
him to finish the job, as he disposed of thousands to our joint
hundreds. His method was simplicity itself. He dashed here, there, and
everywhere with his huge beak wide open. Only now and then, and for a
moment, did he close it to gulp down what had fallen in.

The doctor, who lived a mile away, did not like Darwin; partly because
of his stupid trick of pecking at him as he cycled by, but chiefly
because he seemed to know what was going on in the hospital. If an
operation was being performed, Darwin could be heard tramping about
impatiently on the corrugated iron roof of the building. As the marabout
stork mainly lives on carrion scraps, there was, the doctor considered,
questionable taste in Darwin's visits.

Alas! Darwin met with a violent death in his early prime.

Like all others of his kind, he grew those beautiful downy feathers so
highly prized by women who dress well. There was a demand throughout the
country for the feathers, and many of these delightful and useful birds
died at the hands of the natives in consequence.

An operation was going on at the hospital, and Darwin was hurrying
thither on foot, as I had recently cut the feathers of one of his wings.
In the road he met a strange native, who despatched him with his
assegai, stripped him of his feathers, and walked on.

The spoiler soon came up with two of my servants who, on hearing of the
man's good luck, as he put it, took him back to the scene of the
outrage.

Yes, it was "Da-wi-ni"; was not that the hole in his beak which the
angry greyhound made?

My servants decided that Darwin had been most foully murdered, and acted
according to their lights.

It was well that the doctor knew his job. After six anxious weeks the
native was so far recovered from the beating as to be pronounced out of
danger.

THE LION'S SKIN.

In the year 1898 Sergeant Johnson, the one with the bright red beard,
was sent up country to establish and to remain in charge of the new
out-station of Likonga. Likonga, a little-known spot in Central Africa,
was, and still is, miles away from civilisation. Sergeant Johnson's
command was cut to small dimensions by malaria at headquarters. He had
but a corporal and two men. Likonga in those days consisted of nothing
but a name on the map, and nothing at all in the way of buildings or
anything else to show you when you had got there. The Commandant of
Police had dotted vaguely the imperfect sketch map with his pencil, and
had instructed Sergeant Johnson to go there. The Sergeant had glanced at
the map as it lay on the office table, and had said, "Yes, sir."

"You will take with you Corporal Merton and Privates Hay and Hare. I
cannot spare more."

Again the Sergeant said, "Yes, sir."

"You will take rations for ninety days, the small buck waggon, and the
black span of oxen."

For the third time Sergeant Johnson said, "Yes, sir."

Now, this man with the bright red beard had been a soldier elsewhere
before he became a policeman in the middle of Africa. His old training
had not encouraged questions, so he never asked any now. When,
therefore, the Commandant of Police glanced up from the map, the
Sergeant saluted, turned about, and left the office.

He wasted no time. He took Corporal Merton, Privates Hay and Hare, the
small waggon, ninety days' rations, a span of fourteen black oxen, the
Zulu Jacob to drive, and the Kaffir boy "Nine-thirty" to lead.

Just before sundown he pulled out of camp. It is hardly necessary,
perhaps, to say that the leader of a waggon is the native who walks in
front of the oxen, but it is necessary to explain that a leader of oxen
in Africa answers to any name flung at him. This particular one was
called "Nine-thirty" because, without any apparent effort, he stood and
walked with his feet splayed at what should have been an impossible
angle to his legs. If his right big toe pointed east, his left one
pointed west, whilst he himself faced north or south, as the case might
be.

For seven days the party travelled in a northeasterly direction,
Sergeant Johnson spending most of the time on his back on the waggon,
Corporal Merton tramping immediately behind, whilst Privates Hay and
Hare followed at any distance ranging between a hundred yards and half a
mile.

The party was not a cheery one; it might have travelled for yet another
day, or even more, had not the Sergeant dropped his looking glass off
the tail end of the waggon. He was devoted to his big red beard. While
lying on the waggon he spent his time fondling and trimming this beard,
smearing vaseline on it and admiring it in his little lead-framed
looking glass.

When, therefore, he dropped his glass, he said: "Damn," and then, more
loudly, "This is Likonga; outspan, Jacob!"

The driver shouted "Ah, now!" to the oxen, and the outfit came to a
halt.

As a camping place, the spot so casually chosen was not a bad one. There
was wood and there was water, good grazing for the cattle, and obviously
some game about. Moreover, there were some granite boulders on the left,
set round in the form of a rude circle. Under the Sergeant's direction
all were soon roughly housed. The cattle had been made secure at night
by a skilful reinforcement of the circle of boulders, here a thorn bush
and there a few poles. Patrol tents, protected by a straggling fence,
satisfied the Sergeant and his men. Jacob spent the day in the lee of
his waggon and the night under it. "Nine-thirty" slept on the other side
of the cattle kraal, under the propped-up roof of an abandoned native
hut; during the day he herded the cattle. The making of this very
primitive out-station occupied less than a couple of days, and then the
question, "What the devil shall we do now?" fell upon the party like a
blight.

But, as is so often the case, the devil decided.

All had turned in for the night. The Sergeant had taken a last look at
his beard. Corporal Merton had read something of Kipling's. Private Hay,
after a long-winded argument with Private Hare, in which neither seemed
to gain advantage, had told his adversary to go to hell. Private Hare
had found satisfaction in saying, "Ditto, brother." Jacob had retired
under his waggon, and, like most natives, fell asleep immediately, with
his head well covered by his blanket.

The leader with the silly name, alone of all the party, remained awake
in his solitude on the other side of the cattle kraal. His evening meal
of maize porridge was bubbling in his small cooking pot, perched on a
handful of embers. He was playing a minute native "piano," a trumpery,
tinkling thing, made of half a gourd, a strip of hard wood, with a few
tongues of metal affixed to it.

The tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink; tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, sounded very
plaintive and lonely in Africa's wide expanse. The boy was singing,
too--if his wail could be called singing.

    The crocodile,
    Floating near the bank,
    Sleeps in the river.
  Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.
    The fish,
    Floating on the water,
    Sleeps in the river.
  Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.
    The hippopotamus,
    Floating in mid-stream,
    Sleeps in the river.
  Tinkle, tinkle,...

The music stopped. Africa was deadly still, save for the croaking of a
frog.

"Nine-thirty" sat motionless, looking straight before him, out beyond
his little fire. Immediately opposite stood a large, black-maned lion.
The pair faced each other, a yard or so apart. The only movement was the
lion's tail, which switched from side to side. The huge beast looked
steadily at "Nine-thirty," who, full of fear, stared back at the lion.

Where life and death are concerned, things happen very suddenly. The
lion took one step forward and seized "Nine-thirty" by the knee. The boy
reached for his assegai and plunged it into the lion's ribs.

The Sergeant heard the cry and a roar of pain in his sleep, and woke up
to fumble with his beard. Corporal Merton, from an interrupted dream,
cried out: "Halt! Who goes there?" Private Hay, if awake, said nothing,
whilst his companion in arms muttered: "What's up?" Jacob answered from
under his blanket: "It's a lion, master, and he has killed my leader."
At any rate, it was certain something serious had happened. A lion,
uncomfortably close, was making such a din that the leaves of the trees
near by seemed to flutter, and "Nine-thirty" was moaning on the other
side of the cattle kraal.

"Stand to arms!" commanded the Sergeant.

All tumbled out of their blankets, rifle in hand, shirttails flapping in
the night wind. They were not cowards, neither were they fools. The four
listened to the sound of a lion growling and retreating as he growled.
The moaning came from one place, so it was evident that Nine-thirty was
for the moment safe. Then, hastily lighting a lantern, the policemen
picked their way round the cattle kraal to Nine-thirty's little fire.
The Sergeant knew something of first aid. He lifted the mauled native
carefully and carried him back to the waggon. The boy's knee was in a
bad state--the joint was crushed. A "tot" of brandy, a thorough wash of
the wound, a bandage, a blanket or two, and a bed of grass near the camp
fire made Nine-thirty as comfortable as possible. After making up the
fire, all turned in again.

At daylight the Sergeant mustered his men, and thus addressed them:

"We will now go and blot out this accursed lion. Load, and remember no
one fires until I give the word. Put on your boots, don't bother about
your bags."

The four lined up.

"March!"

They hadn't far to go--barely a couple of hundred yards. The lion raised
his head and growled. Nine-thirty's assegai, broken off short, still
protruded from the beast's ribs.

"Fire!" commanded the Sergeant. Four shots rang out as one, and the
lion's head sank upon his paws. The men reloaded, and approached with
caution, but the marauder was dead.

The Sergeant instructed Jacob to skin the beast, and the four returned
to camp for breakfast and to think out the problem which had arisen out
of the killing of this lion.

All things being equal in sport, and rank apart, and as man to man, to
whom belonged the skin? Someone had missed, because there were only
three holes in the skin. Someone had made a rotten bad shot, because
there was a bullet hole in the lion's rump. Someone had killed the beast
outright, because a bullet had passed through the lion's brain. Someone
had done for him, because another shot had taken him behind the
shoulder.

All claimed the head shot.

Well, Jacob was out of it anyway. So, too, was poor Nine-thirty. Neither
had fired a shot.

When I arrived I found Nine-thirty well on the way to recovery, but the
policemen still "man to man." A deputation presented me with the skull
and asked me to decide about the skin. I declared Nine-thirty the owner
by all the rules of hunting; he had drawn first blood, and had stopped
the lion.

I suggested, however, that as Nine-thirty did not want the skin, the
four who fired at the lion should have a five shilling sweepstake for
it, Nine-thirty to have the pound and the winner the skin.

Sergeant Johnson drew the prize.

But Jacob, being a Zulu, collected the lion's fat, melted it into tins,
bottles, and small gourds, and sold it for many pounds to his friends
when he went home a year later. All Zulus know that lion's fat smeared
on the head, face, or beard makes a man brave in battle.

THE REVEREND MR. BUMPUS.

Some missionaries I like very much, they are good fellows; others I am
not so sure about; others, again, I admit I cordially dislike. I place
the Rev. Mr. Bumpus in the third category. I met him once going down the
road from the Zambesi as I was going up. He, lucky beggar, was
travelling to rail-head in his ox-waggon, going on leave. I was trekking
north in my waggon, having just exhausted my home leave. All his fun was
to come; mine was over for a period. I felt, when I met him, like a boy
who, having eaten his own plum cake, must now watch another boy devour
his.

The Rev. Bumpus had a wife. Poor soul, she was cooped up with him in the
waggon, and had been for three weeks. They had come about two hundred
miles from their mission station in that time. Think of it, cooped up
for three solid weeks with the Rev. Mr. Bumpus. How I pitied her!

What a change there was in the little woman. Three years earlier, I
remember, she had gone north with Bumpus, newly married, and with a look
in her eyes of a brave soldier of the faith, rosy cheeked, well favoured
and plump. And now! What a battle she must have had! And I'm sure she
didn't find a good ally in the man of her choice. She was thin and
drawn, had a sad, discouraged eye, and looked more than twice her age.

Almost the first question she asked was: "Oh, have you any tobacco? Any
you can spare, I mean?" I produced my pouch, and said I had plenty in my
waggon coming on behind.

The Rev. Bumpus slipped off the waggon, took a handful, crammed his
pipe, and put the remainder in his alpaca coat pocket. Then he lit up,
took a puff or two, and said--nothing! It was she who thanked me,
adding:

"Fred has been impossible for the last five days; he's had no tobacco. I
didn't pack enough. Perhaps his temper will be better now." And this
poor little lady cast a beseeching look at her lord and master.

As for the reverend gentleman, he climbed back into the waggon, sat down
with a grunt of contentment, and puffed vigorously at his pipe.

"I'm so glad we've met you," continued the woman. "We've been followed
for days by some lions. Last night they took my riding donkey."

"They'll have you next," interjected her gallant spouse with a grin.
"They like donkey-meat."

The fellow was a brute. His wife was scared, and even if he couldn't
encourage her he needn't have tried to frighten her more. But there he
sat, grinning down from his perch in the waggon, and showing his big,
yellow teeth. Yes, certainly, I disliked the Rev. Mr. Bumpus. I did my
best to reassure the lady, advised the man to put out lighted lanterns
at night to keep off the lions, and said good-bye.

I did a short trek that evening, and outspanned early. I couldn't help
thinking of the callous man and the frightened woman. I knew that if
the lions came round Bumpus was no man to cope with them, or, for that
matter, to take sensible precautions. For myself, I had some poles out,
tied lighted lanterns to them, and set them up some distance ahead,
behind, and on either side of my waggon. In addition, I had a good fire
lit beyond the leading oxen and an extra large one in front of my patrol
tent by the side of the waggon.

I had been sitting by the fire for a little while after dinner, smoking,
when I was startled by a rifle shot, and then another. I judged by the
direction that they must have been fired by the Rev. Bumpus or his
driver, and, by the sound, that we were not camped very far apart. I
took a couple of boys, my rifle, and a lantern, and hurried along the
road to see what had happened. The missionary's waggon was further away
than I expected. When I got there the Rev. Bumpus was on the roof of the
waggon, on the top of the tent, in his nightshirt. I hadn't seen a
nightshirt on a man for years. His wife was inside the waggon. The
driver--it was he who had fired the shots--was, with his leader,
crouching under the waggon. The oxen were very restless.

It was quite dark, and there would be no moon all night. The
missionary's fire had died down, and I couldn't see a yard beyond the
ring of light shed by the lantern in my hand. My first concern,
therefore, was to shake the unburnt logs together and get the fire going
again. Then, with my lantern in one hand and my rifle in the other, I
walked along the line of oxen, talking to them as I went, with the
object of settling them down. I counted the cattle as I passed and found
the span intact.

Then, under my direction, my boys collected as much wood as we could
find handy, and lighted another fire, ahead of the oxen. Then I went
back to the waggon to question the missionary.

Had he seen a lion?

"Yes, a large one."

"Where?"

"Close to the leading oxen."

Had she seen any?

"No, nothing," said his wife.

Had the driver seen the lion?

"Ja, baas, two."

At that moment I nearly jumped out of my skin. The driver, from under
the waggon, fired again; his bullet must have missed my legs by inches
only. I had to use un-Sunday School language before I could make the
Rev. Bumpus stop his din from the top of the waggon; he was terrified,
and showed it without shame or reserve. I took the rifle from the
driver. Lions at night are bad enough, but the additional risk of a
scared native armed with a Martini is a little too much.

"What the devil did you let fly for?"

"At the lion, baas."

"Where?"

"Over there, baas."

"Over there," indeed, a few yards from the waggon, it was as black as
ink, but I argued, natives have good eyesight, and a lion's eyes have a
way of reflecting the light of a distant fire. He might have seen a
lion.

Well, there was nothing for it, more fires must be built.

The missionary had only one lantern, and that I lighted. It was too dark
to find a pole, so I dug a hole in the sandy soil, planted the waggon
whip in it, and slung the lantern to the whip-stick.

Then began a night of toil and anxiety; I have no wish to live through
such a night again. My boys were frightened now. Frightened does not
describe the condition of the Rev. Mr. Bumpus. There he was, a weird
figure, perched on the top of the waggon-tent, ghostly in his white
nightshirt, chattering with alarm. Mrs. Bumpus sat, fully dressed,
inside the waggon, quite still and silent. The missionary's driver,
leader, and my boys stood huddled round the largest fire at the tail end
of the waggon, their eyes looking unusually large and white as they
peered into the thick darkness.

"There he is, baas!"

"Where?"

"There!"

"Where's there, you fool?"

"Listen!"

I listened, and sure enough I heard the shush, shush of something moving
in the dead leaves and dry grass a little distance away. The oxen
nearest the waggon showed signs of nervousness. I would have given much
for a dog that night. The movement stopped. We all listened. The Rev.
Bumpus began to mumble something from his perch aloft.

"For goodness sake shut up! How can I hear anything while you're making
all that noise!"

He stopped.

"There he is, baas!"

"Where?"

"There!"

I listened, but could hear nothing. I listened for quite a long time. We
all listened--we could hear nothing. The nearest ox lay down with a
grunt, which meant that he, at any rate, was not much alarmed.

The Rev. Bumpus asked whether I thought he could come down, as on the
top of the waggon-tent it was very cold. I was just about to say he
could when again that shush, shush! I heard it myself distinctly this
time. At once the chorus again of "There he is," in as many languages as
there were natives huddled round me.

I decided that we must do something, make a sortie and get more wood;
the fires had burnt low.

Presently we had four fires blazing away, the one in front of the
leading oxen, one on either side of the waggon, and one at the tail-end
of it. My boys' courage rose as the circle of light grew. They dashed
here and there--strictly within the circle of light formed by the
fires--collecting dry wood. After a while you could have roasted the
proverbial ox at any one of the fires.

While we were busy the Rev. Bumpus had crept down from his place of
vantage and had gone to bed. His wife, the better man of the two, made
us some strong coffee. The missionary's driver and leader joined in the
scramble for wood.

The lion had evidently drawn off, so we had some coffee and stood
warming ourselves by the fire.

"There he is, baas!"

I grabbed my rifle. "Where?"

"There, I can hear him now."

"Listen! Silence, all of you!"

Shush, shush; shush, shush.

From over there! No, from there! Where the devil is he?

And this sort of thing went on the whole night through. Quiet for a
while. Fires die down. Shush, shush; shush, shush. Hurried collection of
wood. Fires blaze up. Silence. The shush, shush just beyond the limit
of light. "There, he is, baas!" "Where?" "There!" and so on.

Then dawn. How slowly it came! Intense desire to murder that lion or
lions. A little lighter now.

I set out, with the natives following, to look for the spoor.

Shush, shush; I heard it quite plainly. Good heavens! where is that
lion? Broad daylight now. Is the thing a ghost?

No. There it is--a scrubby, little, scaly anteater! Still grubbing in
the fallen leaves. Shush, shush; shush, shush.

We stood looking at it, tired-eyed and weary.

"Why don't you kill the wretched rat?"

It was the Rev. Mr. Bumpus who spoke.

Talking of rats, I could have killed that man there and then.

When I got back to my own waggon I found lion spoor on the sandy road.
It was not difficult to read from their tracks--there were three
lions--that they had followed the missionary's waggon until they came to
a turn in the road and saw my lanterns. From that point the spoor led
down to the river bed, across it, and into the thick bush on the other
side. They hadn't come near the waggons.

THE SALVATION ARMY CAPTAIN.

To-day you may book your passage with Cook's, in Ludgate Circus, to the
Victoria Falls and back, and travel in comfort all the way. In 1897 it
was different. There was no road to the Victoria Falls then, let alone a
railway. I won't bother you with an account of our journey out by waggon
as far as Panda-Ma-Tenga, or of how we rode across country from the edge
of the Kalahari Desert to the Falls, guided by the column of spray
arising from them, or, where the land dipped, by a sense of direction.

At length we got there, or, more correctly, within a hundred yards of
the tumbling waters. Their roar was deafening. It was a wonderful sound
and a more wonderful sight. Imagine the hum of London traffic increased
ten thousand fold. Imagine a forest of palm, fern, black-trunked trees,
all within a hothouse of immense proportions, and a tepid, tropical rain
soaking you to the skin. We cut through the distance which separated us
from the lip of the Falls. Thick, tough creeper and undergrowth,
maidenhair fern waist high; it seemed a sin to trample it underfoot.
From time to time up to the thigh in watery mud when, unluckily, one
stepped in the pit-like spoor of a hippopotamus which had passed in the
night. Monkeys chattering from overhead. I think I caught sight of a
buffalo.

What a difference to-day! You might see a monkey in the trees now and
then, but a fire has since passed through that jungle at the end of a
dry season, and a century will not repair the damage. Moreover, there
are gravel paths leading from the new hotel to every "view" now, but we,
who saw the Victoria Falls twenty-four years ago, have something to
remember and to brag about.

We spent half a day looking and looking and looking. We were drenched by
the spray, dried by the sun, deafened by the roar of the waters, and
struck dumb by the beauty of it all.

At about one o'clock we felt hungry, and went in search of our
pack-horses. We had off-saddled outside the thicket and turned our
beasts loose. We found our saddles easily enough, and the horses, too,
for that matter; the grass was so luscious and plentiful that no horse
would desire to stray far after several weeks in the dry Kalahari. We
had lunch and a little rest, and then set out again to do more
exploring. We hadn't gone far before we came upon the track of a waggon.
Robinson Crusoe, when he found the footprint of the man Friday, could
not have been more amazed than we.

So far as we knew, no other expedition had come to the Falls ahead of
us. Who, then, was the intruder?

We followed the track, and presently, in a small clearing, we saw a
waggon. Whoever he was, this traveller deserved full credit for what he
had done. We had ridden to the Falls, and were proud of it, but here was
a man who had got a waggon through. Stout fellow. And there, seated on a
skin near his oxen, was the man. He had a matted beard, and didn't look
too clean. Under one arm he hugged a huge calabash, from which he was
eating honey with a stick. The honey was old and granulated. There were
many flies in it, too, evidence that the neck of the calabash had been
left uncovered at times. He didn't move when he saw us, but, holding out
his stick, said: "Have some."

We told him we had just fed, but thanked him all the same.

"Sit down," said he, "sit on this skin," but he made no room for us. "I
shot it yesterday at the Falls. This is the cub; the lioness went off."

"How long have you been here?"

"A couple of days."

"How did you get through?"

"Cut my way."

"Lose any cattle in the thirst country?"

"Didn't come that way; took a bee line from Bulawayo."

This was a good performance indeed. All the old hands had said it
couldn't be done.

"What did you come for?"

"What did you?"

The man who asked the question first was travelling north to take over
the administration of a tract of country as big as France. He explained
his business.

"Oh, so you're the magistrate, are you?"

"Yes, that's about it. And you?"

"I'm a captain in the Salvation Army down south, but I've brought a
fellow up to prospect for mineral on the other side of the Zambesi. He
crossed yesterday, and moved up country on foot this morning."

I looked at this queer fellow with interest. His cap of calling lay on
the ground beside him. Throughout the conversation he went on eating
the honey. The Zambesi in those days was about the last place I should
have expected to find a Salvation Army man. Looking round I caught sight
of the familiar red jersey with the yellow letters. It was hanging on a
bush, evidently drying. The captain had followed my gaze, and
volunteered: "Had a bit of a washing day, first on this trip." From the
look of him I concluded that his own turn was yet to come.

"Well, tell us about the lion cub."

I think he told the truth. I can't, of course, vouch for it, but he was
sitting on the skin of a newly-killed cub. Before we left the Falls the
vultures told us where to find the lioness. But this is his story:

"I was walking along in the rain-forest with my rifle, looking for a pig
or a palla or anything else eatable. I hadn't gone far when I nearly
fell over this cub. He snarled at me, so I shot him. While he lay
kicking on his back up comes his mother, so I reloaded my old Martini
and gave her one for herself. Not being a first-class shot, I didn't do
for her right off. She looked so angry and seemed to be coming on that I
stepped back a pace or two, but keeping my eye on her. I tried to
reload, but the empty cartridge case jammed. I broke off a stick from a
handy bush and plugged it down the muzzle. I must have pushed too hard,
for the stick broke off short."

The captain stopped, got up, and fetched his rifle from the wagon. The
stick was still in the barrel, evidently stuck fast in the cartridge,
which, in its turn, was firmly fixed in the breech. We had a look at the
rifle and then at the captain. He simply said: "Can either of you
gentlemen fix this up for me?" We both said we could, and both asked:
"But what about the lioness?"

"Oh, the lioness. Why, there she was and there I was. She with a very
ugly look, and growling, and I with my rifle put out of action. I felt
it was time to do something, so I backed out of the bush singing a hymn
in a loud voice."

THE SPORT OF KINGS.

The days have gone by when the Paramount Chiefs of the Barotse embarked
annually upon a large-scale Lechwe drive. I believe the last big hunt
took place in 1899. I, at any rate, have heard of no such happening
since.

It is just as well that these drives have come to an end. The African
natives' idea of sport does not altogether tally with that of the white
man; no sportsman likes to see animals slaughtered _en masse_.

In those days the Lechwe antelope were strictly preserved for the
pleasure of the Paramount Chief and his entourage. No native was
permitted to disturb them in their natural haunts--the wide, open
plains--and no man could kill one under pain of heavy penalty. The only
exception to this rule was when a few head strayed into the vicinity of
Lealni, the principal native village of the Barotse valley. Then the
people were allowed to hunt them with dogs, but not to shoot them.

The time chosen for these drives was after the rains had ceased to fall,
but while the Zambesi had still more water to carry off than its banks
could contain. The overflow was such that for a space the Barotse
Valley became a vast lake, varying in depth from a few inches to a dozen
feet.

The same may be said with equal truth of the Luena river, an important
tributary which, flowing from the East, made its junction with the
Zambesi not far from Lealni. It was in the Luena basin that the drives
took place.

For two months before the time of hunting preparations for the drive
began. Those long, heavy casting assegais, peculiar, I believe, to that
part of Africa, were cleaned and sharpened. Narrow hunting canoes were
collected, repaired and caulked. Four foot long pikes, sharpened at one
end--which was hardened by burning--with a stout blade fixed in the
other, were prepared in great numbers by the Batotela, a slave tribe
cunning in the manufacture of iron. The blades of these pikes were short
and flat and had the rounded point of an oyster-knife.

I was invited by the Chief to be present at the drive in 1899, and I
went.

It took two days to reach the hunting ground. We travelled in
shallow-draught, dug-out canoes. The first night we slept in elaborate
grass shelters prepared for us beforehand.

Next morning we resumed our journey at daylight. The Chief went first in
a very small and narrow canoe. He was accompanied by one man only. They
stood up in the canoe and punted with long, red-wood poles. All European
clothes had been discarded by the natives. The Chief wore a woollen
nightcap and a long, white shirt. Round his waist, but under his shirt,
he had a highly-coloured, fringed tablecloth. His legs and feet were
bare; so, too, were his arms to the elbow.

My canoe started immediately after that of the Chief, but I did not
retain that position long. It was more comfortable and, therefore, much
heavier and slower. It carried a crew of seven.

I suppose there must have been several thousand canoe loads of men. Two
of the Chief's wives accompanied the party. All etiquette was abandoned.
It became a race to follow the Chief, and although the waterway was
several miles wide, collisions were frequent. Everyone was
good-humoured, including one of the Chief's wives, whose canoe was
capsized in the scurry. She was rescued amid much laughter and joking,
in which she joined.

_En route_ we passed many canoes loaded down to the gunwale with pikes.
To these everyone gave a wide berth for fear of swamping them, for the
pikes were necessary to the sport.

In the afternoon of the second day we arrived at the spot selected, or,
to be more precise, at a large camping ground within easy reach of it.

Here we found even more elaborate grass huts ready for us. The Chief
gave me a hut quite near to his own, a compliment which I did not
appreciate at its intended value, because his band played and women sang
throughout the night and robbed me of all sleep.

The moment we arrived the Chief started off in his fast canoe to inspect
the ground over which the Lechwe were to be driven next day. On his
return he told me that the place had been well chosen and that the
country was alive with Lechwe. He also said he had found a high ant-hill
for me to stand upon and watch the drive.

At daylight we set out again and reached my ant-hill in about an hour.
The Chief took me to the top of it, pointed out the direction from
which the antelope would come, and explained the plans for the day's
sport.

Looking through my field-glasses I saw two faint lines which, beginning
more than a mile away in the open plain, converged, forming a funnel.
The narrow end of the funnel terminated within a quarter of a mile from
my ant-heap and in a line with it.

The faint lines were really thin strips of dry palmleaf tape, which
shone white in the bright sunlight. Every few yards a bight was taken
round a bunch of tall, growing grass, which lent support to it and gave
the impression that a one-strand fence or a barrier of some sort had
been erected.

The Chief referred to the two thin lines as walls, and assured me that
the antelope, if properly driven, would not break through them.

He then drew my attention to the apparent opening at the narrow end of
the funnel, and asked me if I saw anything to prevent the Lechwe from
escaping in that direction.

I said I could see no bar. He replied that the Lechwe couldn't either,
so, when pressed, would dash for the opening.

"It is then that the sport will begin," he added.

At this I looked more carefully and saw innumerable pikes had been
driven into the ground with their iron points sloping forward towards
the wire end of the funnel. The grass had been carefully rearranged.

This, then, was the general plan: to drive the Lechwe into the funnel,
down it, and on to the pikes at the narrow end.

In reply to my questions, he said that many thousands of beaters, drawn
from the slave tribes, had been wading through the swamps for two days
collecting small herds of antelope and driving them slowly forward
towards the mouth of the funnel.

He drew a diagram with his stick on the side of the ant-heap to show how
the beaters were disposed. He had adopted the well-known African method
of envelopment--the crescent, with the horns well forward. The men who
formed the horns had already reached the extremities of the funnel and
were passing slowly down outside the line. The antelope, he told me,
were contained in the arc of men coming forward.

As yet I could see no antelope, nor could I see the men who formed the
arc; they were still too far away.

In the meantime, all the men who had come in small hunting canoes had
taken their places outside, but close to, the two thin lines or walls.
The moment they reached their stations they sat down and were lost to
view in the long grass. The Chief explained that these men remained
hidden until the Lechwe had passed them, when their business was to
stand up and frighten the antelope forward with shouts and
gesticulations. Should any Lechwe attempt to break through the sides of
the funnel, the canoemen had to drive them back or assegai them.

I now knew what to expect.

The Chief presently left me, as he, too, had to take up his station. He
begged me to keep myself hidden, as a premature exposure might easily
spoil the entire drive.

I lay flat on the ant-heap, looking through a small gap which I made in
the tall grass which crowned it. I could see admirably, but could not be
seen.

It was a long time before I could discern any movement, even at the
mouth of the funnel. I could hear the cries of the beaters as they
approached, faintly at first, then a hum, then a roar.

Presently I saw a single reed-buck ram pacing very slowly towards the
concealed assegais. From time to time he stopped, stamped, sniffed and
whistled, scenting danger. What became of him, I don't know. I lost
sight of him.

Looking through my glasses towards the entrance of the funnel again, I
saw a sight which made me gasp. Although the most distant beaters had
not yet appeared, a huge herd of Lechwe seemed literally to block the
funnel and were trotting steadily down it. Half way they stopped. A fine
ram turned and walked towards the left-hand wall. A man stood up and the
antelope turned in the direction of the opposite wall; he went at a trot
again and the immense herd followed him. When within twenty yards of the
palmleaf tape, some dozen men stood up. All the antelope but the ram
stopped. He, fine fellow that he was, made a bold bid for liberty. He
dashed on, gathered himself together, and cleared the fence. One of the
men in a canoe made a movement. It was too far off to see anything
clearly, but as the Lechwe landed in a heap, I realised that he had been
transfixed in mid-air by one of those heavy hunting assegais.

The herd was not leaderless for long. Another ram forged ahead and
trotted straight towards the narrow end of the funnel. Immediately every
man sat down. It was clear that these hunters had been very well
drilled.

After moving rapidly for a hundred yards the Lechwe came to a halt. They
were not as yet frightened, but highly suspicious.

First, they turned at a walk towards the right-hand wall: a man stood
up. They moved across to the left: the first man sat down and his
opposite number stood up. The antelope broke into a trot. After heading
to the right again for a little way, some hundreds broke back, and this,
I think, is where the mistake was made, for, instead of leaving them to
the beaters, who were approaching, driving many more herds of Lechwe
before them, man after man stood up, shouting and waving their arms
wildly.

This had the effect of breaking up the whole of the antelope formation.
They dashed here and there, thoroughly frightened; some broke through
the wall, some cleared it, some dashed right back, and others came on
towards the trap.

I watched these last. There were several hundred of them. They came
along at a very fast trot, the rams with their heads forward, noses up,
and horns lying along their backs. A ram led. He struck one of the
hidden pikes full with his chest and gave a mighty leap into the air,
bleeding from a terrible wound in the brisket. He landed on the point of
another pike and bounded up from it, his entrails dragging behind him.
Much weakened, he leaped and leaped again until, completely
disembowelled, he fell and lay still.

There was no escape, the pikes were set so closely together: not a foot
apart. They reached right across the gap in the funnel and to the depth
of forty or fifty yards. I do not think a single one of this part of the
large herd escaped. For the space of two minutes they were dashing past
me and on to the hidden pikes. Every one was disembowelled before it
fell dead--rams, ewes, and young alike. It was a disgusting sight.

The natives were in a frenzy of excitement. No doubt their one idea was
to drive the Lechwe to the trap and in that they succeeded; but they
also drove a considerable part of the herd back upon the beaters, who
were pressing other herds before them. The confusion was complete.
Lechwe were dashing in all directions. Men were shouting and hurling
their assegais. A deafening roar rose from the beaters, now close in.
From time to time a score or so Lechwe dashed upon the pikes and added
to the slaughter.

I saw a Setutunga approach the pikes leisurely out of the confusion. He
lifted his feet high at every step, a habit bred of life in the papyrus
swamps. A native appeared from nowhere in particular and running him
down killed him with a club.

The drive was over.

That evening when I met the Chief he was still furious. Someone had
blundered and most of the Lechwe had escaped. Moreover, a man in a small
canoe, hurling his heavy assegai at a Lechwe, had missed the beast and
killed his brother. The Chief's own cook and several of his companions
had been mauled out in the plain by a leopard. No, the drive had not
been a success by any means.

I wondered what the bag would have been if all had gone well with the
Chief's plans. I had personally counted three hundred mutilated
carcasses, but, feeling sick, had given up the tally and returned to
camp.

THE LIONS OF MAKULULUMI.

How hot it was! September, 1897. I had not shot my first lion then, and
many, many months were to pass before my luck came. Dame Fortune doesn't
often condescend to glance my way. She smiled broadly once when, with
three tickets, I won first, second, and third prize in a sweep on the
Grand National; but then I have never drawn a prize in a sweep since.

However, to return to September, 1897. Yes, by Jingo, it was hot. Not a
breath of air; not a leaf on any tree. The rains were almost due, but
not a shower had fallen. The only shade was in the shadow of the wagon.

But it was not the blazing sun alone with which we had to contend. There
thrives in the Kalahari Desert a pestiferous little winged insect called
the Mopani bee, named after the hardwood tree in which it sets its hive.
It would seem that this creature must have moisture, moisture of any
kind--it isn't at all particular. And to think that I used to eat the
stuff they call Mopani honey until, one day, I saw a bunch of them
lapping up the moisture from a perspiring native runner. Ugh!

These bees will congregate in dozens at the corners of your eyes, try
to burrow into them and then collect the tears which the discomfort of
their burrowing produces. They will crowd at the corners of your mouth;
when you open it to blow the little plagues away, they rush in. Thank
Heaven, the Mopani bee doesn't sting.

We were struggling up to the Zambesi from Bulawayo. Our waggons were
overloaded, for the Kalahari had taken heavy toll of our cattle and our
spans were therefore many oxen short.

We had reached and covered the first ten miles of the thirty-five which
separate Makululumi from Kasibi. All those who knew the old Hunter's
road will remember that stretch. The first ten miles are not bad going,
but the next seven are the heaviest and loosest sand that oxen were ever
asked to drag a waggon through.

Between Makululumi and Kasibi there is no water, so the Major who
commanded our little party thought it wise to send the oxen back from
the ten-mile point to have the best part of a couple of days' rest at
Makululumi before calling upon them to tackle the next stage of the
journey.

During the afternoon of the second day, by following my chief's example,
I got the better of those bees. It is true I was slowly suffocating, but
that was better than being tormented. I was lying on my back under the
waggon, with my head covered with a blanket, perspiring immoderately. At
least three more hours of this before the cattle returned and we resumed
our journey.

Presently I heard a conversation going on in Dutch between the Major and
one of his boys. I looked out and saw one of the drivers who should have
been with the cattle.

"What are you doing here?" the Major asked.