Witch-Doctors

In a bayou in the south-eastern corner of the Victoria Nyanza was the station of Ingonya, a brown scab on the face of the green earth. The round mud huts of the askaris were like two columns of khaki troops marching rigidly on each side of the parade ground. To the north, upon a slight rise of ground, were the white men’s quarters; the non-commissioned officers had four bungalows to the south of the orderly room and Court House; and beyond a green plot flanked by a store house and an ordnance building, was a bigger bungalow, florid in the amplitude and colour of the red pillared verandah, the residence of the Kommandant, Herr Ober-Lieutenant Hermann von Schnitzler und zu Pfeiffer.

On the northern side, overlooking the swamp and the distant lake, was a flagpole, before which paced an ebon sentry in a uniform of white knickers, tunic and lancer cap, red faced. The glow of sunrise stained the green of the moon with crimson. A trumpet blared. From the rear of the Residence marched with stiff-legged precision a squad of askaris and the stocky figure of a non-commissioned officer in a white helmet. Simultaneously appeared on the verandah of the large bungalow the tall form of a white man in pink silk pyjamas. The sergeant barked. The squad presented arms. A coloured ball slid up the flagpole. The first rays of the sun splintered the bloodied waters beyond into silver spikes and caressed a fluttering black, white and red flag.

Then the squad ported arms, relieved the sentry, and retired, their black legs gleaming blue points as they rose and fell. The pink figure disappeared. Sergeant Schultz strutted back to his bungalow, in the verandah of which squatted a native girl clad in gay trade cloths. He emerged lighting a cigar, and sjambok in hand, returned to the orderly room. Another trumpet blared. From beyond the askaris’ camp came a line of natives, young and old, their scrawny necks linked together by a light iron chain which clanked musically. Filing on to the parade ground they were divided into gangs by Sergeant Schneider to labour under guard at the interminable work of the camp.

The air above the swamp began to sizzle in the heat. The same slender figure clad in immaculate white reappeared upon the south verandah of the florid bungalow. Herr Ober-Lieutenant stood staring about the small square with a peevish glint in the fair eyes. A big negro in spotless white hurried around the house bearing a brass tray set with a cup, a liqueur glass and a decanter. Herr Lieutenant sprawled his legs on either arm of a Bombay chair. As he delicately mixed cognac with his coffee, his jewelled fingers sparkled in a shaft of sunlight which set afire the sapphires mounted in an ivory bracelet.

At a yard from the table stood the servant as rigid as the flagpole. With a lazy insolence which marked his movements, the lieutenant sipped the café-cognac and smoked a cheroot, as if he were seated on the terrace of the Café de la Paix. The brutality of the round skull, emphasized by the cropped blonde hair, seemed at variance with the boyish rotundity of the face and the small, but dominant, nose. Two separate moustaches bristled so fiercely that they suggested sentries on guard over the feminine softness of the lips. When he had finished zu Pfeiffer arose languidly, lighted a fresh cigar, adjusted his helmet with care, took a gold-mounted sjambok from his servant, and strode across the square. The lines of his torso were so perfect that they suggested artificial aid.

The orderly room was square and whitewashed; grass matting was upon the floor, and high screened doors opened on to the north verandah. Zu Pfeiffer sprawled in a swing chair before the office desk placed at an oblique angle to the wall, encumbered with books and papers. After tapping reflectively on a book cover with a polished nail zu Pfeiffer’s hand sharply struck the bell. Instantly a corporal appeared at the farther door and stood as if petrified, black hand to black temple. Zu Pfeiffer snapped instructions in Kiswahili without removing his cigar. The man grunted, shot his hand away at right angles with as much energy as if he were trying to knock down an elephant, and vanished.

“Sergeant!”

“Ja, Excellence.”

At the other door like another Jack-in-the-box appeared Sergeant Schultz in exactly the same attitude. At a nod the sergeant melted into the semblance of human movement: he drew aside a chair, selected a certain document from a pile of them, and handed it to the lieutenant. Zu Pfeiffer pushed a box of cigars across the table, lolled back with one foot on the table, and began to peruse lazily. The sergeant retired respectfully with the cigar to the outer office. A fly buzzed hopefully at the mosquito wire. The tap of a typewriter sounded like some other insect. On the hot air came the faint barks of a drill-sergeant on the parade ground. From behind the building rose fitfully the murmur of voices from a herd of natives squatted in the sun awaiting the opening of the Court House. Leaves rustled largely under the Lieutenant’s fingers.…

At length he pitched the report on to the table, carefully placed the butt of his cigar in an ash-tray, lighted another, and disposed of the match with equal care.

“Sergeant.”

“Ja, Excellence!”

Zu Pfeiffer indicated a chair by a thrust of the chin. The sergeant sat. Tapping the report with the highly polished and very long finger-nail of the left hand, the lieutenant demanded:

“Who is the man who gave you this report?”

“Ali Ben Hassan, an Arab trader, Excellence.”

“Trustworthy?”

“Ja, Excellence. He has done much work for us.”

“Where?”

“On the Tanganika district, sub-division B II, Excellence. He brought papers of first-class recommendation from the Kommandant.”

“Ben Hassan speaks of one Sakamata, nicht wahr?”

“Ja, Excellence.”

“Of what tribe is he?”

“Wongolo.”

“A witch-doctor?”

“Ja, Excellence.”

“He is here? Let him come in.”

The sergeant rose, saluted and departed. Gutturals sounded lazily. The sergeant reappeared and behind him shuffled a native. Clad only in a dirty loin-cloth, his brown skin was wrinkled in scaly folds upon his chest and belly; his face was like an ancient tortoise; the small lack-lustre eyes were bloodshot and furtive; the limbs were almost fleshless. He squatted upon the ground and with lowered lids appeared to be absorbed in the contemplation of a white man’s table leg. Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man as one would a stray dog and nodded to the sergeant, who sat down.

“Does he speak Kiswahili?”

“Nein, Excellence. Only his monkey speech.”

“Why do you suppose that he is trustworthy?”

“Because, Excellence, his interests are with ours. There is no competition. The Schweinhünde Engländer have no interest there—yet. They are too busy with the Uganda railroad.”

“Ja, ja. Again what is the tribal system there, King-God or——” The lieutenant permitted a slight smile—“or Dis-established Church?”

“King-God, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz gravely.

“This fellow then is an apostate priest, nicht wahr?”

The sergeant noticed the movement of one of the sentry moustaches. A twitch of the lips recognized his superior’s pleasantry.

“Ja, Excellence.”

Zu Pfeiffer stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and regarded idly the dumb figure on the floor against the wall.

“We must have the Wongolo country, c’est entendu. Now what’s your opinion of the method, sergeant?”

“With due deference, Excellence,” responded Sergeant Schultz, “I propose that we advance and bring them to subjection in the usual manner.”

Zu Pfeiffer fingered a ring and stared out into the yellow glare.