the greatest people in these lands, being feared even by Sandi because of their valour and wonderful courage.”
“I have heard of such people,” said the king of the N’gombi, “though I have never seen them, except the spearers of fish who live by the riverside.”
This was designed and accepted as a deadly insult, for the Akasava are great fish-eaters, and the N’gombi do not eat fish at all, preferring frogs and snakes (as the slander goes).
“My king will bring his people to see you,” said the envoy significantly. “And this he will do soon, if you do not return to us the bedstead you stole cala cala , and which my king desires.”
The king of the N’gombi was smoking a long-stemmed pipe with a tiny bowl, and the rancid scent of the native tobacco was an offence to the nose of the Akasava messenger.
“Am I M’shimba M’shamba, that I can bring from nothing something?” he asked. “As to your bedstead, it is not! Nor will it ever be again. Take this word to the little king of the Akasava, that I am M’shulu-M’shulu, son of B’faro, son of M’labo, son of E’goro, who put the Akasava city to the flames and carried away the bedstead which was his by right. That I, this man who speaks, will meet the Akasava, and many will run quickly home, and they will run with the happiest, for they will be alive. This palaver is finished.”
All this the embassy carried back to the Akasava, and the lokalis beat, the young men danced joyously, as young men will when the madness of war comes to a people: and then, when secret preparations had been completed, and all was in readiness, an Akasava man, walking through the forest by the river, saw a foreigner throw a pigeon into the air, and the man was brought to the king of the Akasava, and a council of war was held. The prisoner was brought, bound, before the king.
“O man,” said he, “you are a spy of Sandi’s, and I think you have been speaking evilly of my people. Therefore you must die.”
The Kano boy accepted the sentence philosophically. “Lord king,” he said, “I have a great ju-ju in a little basket. Let me speak to him before I die, and I will speak well of you to the ghosts of the mountains.”
They brought him the basket and the pigeon it contained, and he fondled it for five minutes, and none saw him slip into the red band about the pigeon’s leg a scrap of paper no larger than a man’s thumb. Then, before they could realise what was happening, the pigeon had been flung into the air and was flying, with long, steady strokes and ever widening circles, higher and higher, until it was beyond the reach of the arrows that the young men shot.
Six young warriors carried Ali, the Kano boy, into the forest. Bending down a young sapling, they fastened a rope to the top, the other end fastened in a noose about the spy’s neck. His feet were pinioned to the ground, so that he was stretched almost to choking by the upward tug of the tree. The king himself struck off the head with a curved N’gombi knife, and that was the end of Ali the spy.
Three days passed in a final preparation, and on the morning of the fourth the king of the Akasava assembled his fighting men by the riverside; their war-painted canoes blackened the beach, their spears glittered beautifully in the sun.
“O people,” said the king, exalted to madness, “we go now to make an end of the N’gombi…”
His speech was nearing its peroration – for he was a notorious talker – when the white nose of the Zaire came round the wooded headland that hides the course of the river from sight.
“This is real war,” said the king, and hardly had he spoken before a white puff of smoke came from the little steamer; there was a whine, a crashing explosion, and all that remained of the haughty king of the Akasava was an ugly mess upon the beach – it was a most fortunate shot.
Sanders came ashore with fifty Houssas and four machine-guns; there was no resistance, and Kofaba, the
“I have heard of such people,” said the king of the N’gombi, “though I have never seen them, except the spearers of fish who live by the riverside.”
This was designed and accepted as a deadly insult, for the Akasava are great fish-eaters, and the N’gombi do not eat fish at all, preferring frogs and snakes (as the slander goes).
“My king will bring his people to see you,” said the envoy significantly. “And this he will do soon, if you do not return to us the bedstead you stole cala cala , and which my king desires.”
The king of the N’gombi was smoking a long-stemmed pipe with a tiny bowl, and the rancid scent of the native tobacco was an offence to the nose of the Akasava messenger.
“Am I M’shimba M’shamba, that I can bring from nothing something?” he asked. “As to your bedstead, it is not! Nor will it ever be again. Take this word to the little king of the Akasava, that I am M’shulu-M’shulu, son of B’faro, son of M’labo, son of E’goro, who put the Akasava city to the flames and carried away the bedstead which was his by right. That I, this man who speaks, will meet the Akasava, and many will run quickly home, and they will run with the happiest, for they will be alive. This palaver is finished.”
All this the embassy carried back to the Akasava, and the lokalis beat, the young men danced joyously, as young men will when the madness of war comes to a people: and then, when secret preparations had been completed, and all was in readiness, an Akasava man, walking through the forest by the river, saw a foreigner throw a pigeon into the air, and the man was brought to the king of the Akasava, and a council of war was held. The prisoner was brought, bound, before the king.
“O man,” said he, “you are a spy of Sandi’s, and I think you have been speaking evilly of my people. Therefore you must die.”
The Kano boy accepted the sentence philosophically. “Lord king,” he said, “I have a great ju-ju in a little basket. Let me speak to him before I die, and I will speak well of you to the ghosts of the mountains.”
They brought him the basket and the pigeon it contained, and he fondled it for five minutes, and none saw him slip into the red band about the pigeon’s leg a scrap of paper no larger than a man’s thumb. Then, before they could realise what was happening, the pigeon had been flung into the air and was flying, with long, steady strokes and ever widening circles, higher and higher, until it was beyond the reach of the arrows that the young men shot.
Six young warriors carried Ali, the Kano boy, into the forest. Bending down a young sapling, they fastened a rope to the top, the other end fastened in a noose about the spy’s neck. His feet were pinioned to the ground, so that he was stretched almost to choking by the upward tug of the tree. The king himself struck off the head with a curved N’gombi knife, and that was the end of Ali the spy.
Three days passed in a final preparation, and on the morning of the fourth the king of the Akasava assembled his fighting men by the riverside; their war-painted canoes blackened the beach, their spears glittered beautifully in the sun.
“O people,” said the king, exalted to madness, “we go now to make an end of the N’gombi…”
His speech was nearing its peroration – for he was a notorious talker – when the white nose of the Zaire came round the wooded headland that hides the course of the river from sight.
“This is real war,” said the king, and hardly had he spoken before a white puff of smoke came from the little steamer; there was a whine, a crashing explosion, and all that remained of the haughty king of the Akasava was an ugly mess upon the beach – it was a most fortunate shot.
Sanders came ashore with fifty Houssas and four machine-guns; there was no resistance, and Kofaba, the
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