Sanders of the River. Edgar Wallace
I desire that you do not cause me any further journey to this territory."
"Master," said the chief truthfully, "I never wish to see you again."
Sanders smiled aside, collected his ten Houssas, and went back to the Isisi River to continue his search for M'Beli.
It was not a nice search for many causes, and there was every reason to believe, too, that the king of Isisi himself was the murderer's protector. Confirmation of this view came one morning when Sanders, encamped by the Big River, was taking a breakfast of tinned milk and toast. There arrived hurriedly Sato-Koto, the brother of the king, in great distress of mind, for he was a fugitive from the king's wrath. He babbled forth all manner of news, in much of which Sanders took no interest whatever. But what he said of the witch-doctor who lived in the king's shadow was very interesting indeed, and Sanders sent a messenger to headquarters, and, as it transpired, headquarters despatched in the course of time Mr. Niceman—who by this time had returned from furlough—to morally "suade" the king of the Isisi.
From such evidence as we have been able to collect it is evident that the king was not in a melting mood. It is an indisputable fact that poor Niceman's head, stuck on a pole before the king's hut, proclaimed the king's high spirits.
H.M.S. St. George, H.M.S. Thrush, H.M.S. Philomel, H.M.S. Phoebe sailed from Simonstown, and H.M.S. Dwarf came down from Sierra Leone hec dum, and in less than a month after the king killed his guest he wished he hadn't.
Headquarters sent Sanders to clear up the political side of the mess.
He was shown round what was left of the king's city by the flag-lieutenant of the St. George.
"I am afraid," said that gentleman, apologetically, "I am afraid that you will have to dig out a new king; we've rather killed the old one."
Sanders nodded.
"I shall not go into mourning," he said.
There was no difficulty in finding candidates for the vacant post. Sato-Koto, the dead king's brother, expressed his willingness to assume the cares of office with commendable promptitude.
"What do you say?" asked the admiral, commanding the expedition.
"I say no, sir," said Sanders, without hesitation. "The king has a son, a boy of nine; the kingship must be his. As for Sato-Koto, he shall be regent at pleasure."
And so it was arranged, Sato-Koto sulkily assenting.
They found the new king hidden in the woods with the women folk, and he tried to bolt, but Sanders caught him and led him back to the city by the ear.
"My boy," he said kindly, "how do people call you?"
"Peter, master," whimpered the wriggling lad; "in the fashion of the white people."
"Very well," said Sanders, "you shall be King Peter, and rule this country wisely and justly according to custom and the law. And you shall do hurt to none, and put shame on none nor shall you kill or raid or do any of the things that make life worth living, and if you break loose, may the Lord help you!"
Thus was King Peter appointed monarch of the Isisi people, and Sanders went back to head-quarters with the little army of bluejackets and Houssas, for M'Beli, the witch-doctor, had been slain at the taking of the city, and Sanders' work was finished.
The story of the taking of Isisi village, and the crowning of the young king, was told in the London newspapers, and lost nothing in the telling. It was so described by the special correspondents, who accompanied the expedition, that many dear old ladies of Bayswater wept, and many dear young ladies of Mayfair said: "How sweet!" and the outcome of the many emotions which the description evoked was the sending out from England of Miss Clinton Calbraith, who was an M.A., and unaccountably pretty.
She came out to "mother" the orphan king, to be a mentor and a friend. She paid her own passage, but the books which she brought and the school paraphernalia that filled two large packing cases were subscribed for by the tender readers of Tiny Toddlers, a magazine for infants. Sanders met her on the landing-stage, being curious to see what a white woman looked like.
He put a hut at her disposal and sent the wife of his coast clerk to look after her.
"And now, Miss Calbraith," he said, at dinner that night, "what do you expect to do with Peter?"
She tilted her pretty chin in the air reflectively.
"We shall start with the most elementary of lessons—the merest kindergarten, and gradually work up. I shall teach him calisthenics, a little botany—Mr. Sanders, you're laughing."
"No, I wasn't," he hastened to assure her; "I always make a face like that—er—in the evening. But tell me this—do you speak the language—Swaheli, Bomongo, Fingi?"
"That will be a difficulty," she said thoughtfully.
"Will you take my advice?" he asked.
"Why, yes."
"Well, learn the language." She nodded. "Go home and learn it." She frowned. "It will take you about twenty-five years."
"Mr. Sanders," she said, not without dignity, "you are pulling—you are making fun of me."
"Heaven forbid!" said Sanders piously, "that I should do anything so wicked."
The end of the story, so far as Miss Clinton Calbraith was concerned, was that she went to Isisi, stayed three days, and came back incoherent.
"He is not a child!" she said wildly; "he is—a—a little devil!"
"So I should say," said Sanders philosophically.
"A king? It is disgraceful! He lives in a mud hut and wears no clothes. If I'd known!"
"A child of nature," said Sanders blandly. "You didn't expect a sort of Louis Quinze, did you?"
"I don't know what I expected," she said desperately; "but it was impossible to stay—quite impossible."
"Obviously," murmured Sanders.
"Of course, I knew he would be black," she went on; "and I knew that—oh, it was too horrid!"
"The fact of it is, my dear young lady," said Sanders, "Peter wasn't as picturesque as you imagined him; he wasn't the gentle child with pleading eyes; and he lives messy—is that it?"
This was not the only attempt ever made to educate Peter. Months afterwards, when Miss Calbraith had gone home and was busily writing her famous book, "Alone in Africa: by an English Gentlewoman," Sanders heard of another educative raid. Two members of an Ethiopian mission came into Isisi by the back way. The Ethiopian mission is made up of Christian black men, who, very properly, basing their creed upon Holy Writ, preach the gospel of Equality. A black man is as good as a white man any day of the week, and infinitely better on Sundays if he happens to be a member of the Reformed Ethiopian Church.
They came to Isisi and achieved instant popularity, for the kind of talk they provided was very much to the liking of Sato-Koto and the king's councillors.
Sanders sent for the missioners. The first summons they refused to obey, but they came on the second occasion, because the message Sanders sent was at once peremptory and ominous.
They came to headquarters, two cultured American negroes of good address and refined conversation. They spoke English faultlessly, and were in every sense perfect gentlemen.
"We cannot understand the character of your command," said one, "which savours somewhat of interference with the liberty of the subject."
"You'll understand me better," said Sanders, who knew his men, "when I tell you that I cannot allow you to preach sedition to my people."
"Sedition, Mr. Sanders!" said the negro in shocked tones. "That is a grave charge."
Sanders took a paper from a pigeon-hole in his desk; the interview took place in his office.
"On