You will have remarked that Sanders took native people seriously, and that, I remark in passing, is the secret of good government. To him, ghosts were factors, and fetishes potent possibilities. A man who knew less would have been amused, but Sanders was not amused, because he had a great responsibility. He arrived at the city of Isisi in the afternoon, and observed, even at a distance, that something unusual was occurring. The crowd of women and children that the arrival of the Commissioner usually attracted did not gather as he swung in from midstream and followed the water-path that leads to shoal.
Only the king and a handful of old men awaited him, and the king was nervous and in trouble.
“Lord,” he blurted, “I am no king in this city because of the new god; the people are assembled on the far side of the hill, and there they sit night and day watching the god in the box.” Sanders bit his lip thoughtfully, and said nothing.
“Last night,” said the king, “The Keepers of the Stone appeared walking through the village.” He shivered, and the sweat stood in big beads on his forehead, for a ghost is a terrible thing.
“All this talk of keepers of stones is folly,” said Sanders calmly; ‘they have been seen by your women and your unblooded boys.”
“Lord, I saw them myself,” said the king simply; and Sanders was staggered, for the king was a sane man.
“The devil you have!” said Sanders in English; then, “What manner of ghost were these?”
“Lord,” said the king, “they were white of face, like your greatness. They wore brass upon their heads and brass upon their breasts. Their legs were bare, but upon the lower legs was brass again.”
“Any kind of ghost is hard enough to believe,” said Sanders irritably, “but a brass ghost I will not have at any price.” He spoke English again, as was his practice when he talked to himself, and the king stood silent, not understanding him.
“What else?” said Sanders.
“They had swords,” continued the chief, “such as the elephant-hunters of the N’Gombi people carry. Broad and short, and on their arms were shields.” Sanders was nonplussed.
“And they cry ‘war,’” said the chief. “This is the greatest shame of all, for my young men dance the death dance and streak their bodies with paint and tall boastfully.”
“Go to your hut,” said Sanders; “presently I will come and join you.” He thought and thought, smoking one black cigar after another, then he sent for Abiboo, his servant.
“Abiboo,” he said, “by my way of thinking, I have been a good master to you.”
“That is so, lord,” said Abiboo.
“Now I will trust you to go amongst my crew discovering their gods. If I ask them myself, they will lie to me out of politeness, inventing this god and that, thinking they please me.” Abiboo chose the meal hour, when the sun had gone out and the world was grey and the trees motionless. He came back with the information as Sanders was drinking his second cup of coffee in the loneliness of the tiny deckhouse.
“Master,” he reported, “three men worship no god whatever, three more have especial family fetishes, and two are Christians more or less, and the four Houssas are with me in faith.”
“And you?”
Abiboo, the Kano boy, smiled at Sanders’ assumption of innocence. “Lord,” he said, “I follow the Prophet, believing only in the one God, beneficent and merciful.”
“That is good,” said Sanders. “Now let the men load wood, and Yoka shall have steam against moonrise, and all shall be ready for slipping.” At ten o’clock by his watch he fell-in his four Houssas, serving out to each a short carbine and a bandoleer. Then the party went ashore.
The king in his patience sat in his hut, and Sanders found him.
“You will stay here, Milini,” he commanded, “and no blame shall come to you for anything that may happen this night.”
“What will happen, master?”
“Who knows!” said Sanders, philosophically.
The streets were in pitch darkness, but Abiboo, carrying a lantern, led the way.
Only occasionally did the party pass a tenanted hut. Generally they saw by the dull glow of the log that smouldered in every habitation that it was empty. Once a sick woman called to them in passing. It was near her time, she said, and there was none to help her in the supreme moment of her agony.
“God help you, sister!” said Sanders, ever in awe of the mysteries of birth. “I will send women to you. What is your name?”
“They will not come,” said the plaintive voice. “Tonight the men go out to war, and the women wait for the great dance.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight, master — so the ghosts of brass decree.” Sanders made a clicking noise with his mouth.
“That we shall see,” he said, and went on.
The party reached the outskirts of the city. Before them, outlined against a bronze sky, was the dark bulk of a little hill, and this they skirted.
The bronze became red, and rose, and dull bronze again, as the fires that gave it colour leapt or fell. Turning the shoulder of the hill, Sanders had a full view of the scene.
Between the edge of the forest and slope of the hill was a broad strip of level land. On the left was the river, on the right was swamp and forest again.
In the very centre of the plain a huge fire burnt. Before it, supported by its poles, on two high trestles, a square box.
But the people!
A huge circle, squatting on its haunches, motionless, silent; men, women, children, tiny babies, at their mothers’ hips they stretched; a solid wheel of humanity, with the box and the fire as a hub.
There was a lane through which a man might reach the box — a lane along which passed a procession of naked men, going and returning. There were they who replenished the fire, and Sanders saw them dragging fuel for that purpose. Keeping to the edge of the crowd, he worked his way to the opening. Then he looked round at his men.
“It is written,” he said, in the curious Arabic of the Kano people, “that we shall carry away this false god. As to which of us shall live or die through this adventure, that is with Allah, who knows all things.” Then he stepped boldly along the lane. He had changed his white ducks for a dark blue uniform suit, and he was not observed by the majority until he came with his Houssas to the box. The heat from the fire was terrific, overpowering. Close at hand he saw that the fierceness of the blaze had warped the rough-hewn boards of the box, and through the opening he saw in the light a slab of stone.
“Take up the box quickly,” he commanded, and the Houssas lifted the poles to their shoulders. Until then the great assembly had sat in silent wonder, but as the soldiers lifted their burden, a yell of rage burst from five thousand throats, and men leapt to their feet.
Sanders stood before the fire, one hand raised, and silence fell, curiosity dominating resentment.
“People of the Isisi,” said Sanders, “let no man move until the godstone has passed, for death comes quickly to those who cross the path of gods.” He had an automatic pistol in each hand, and the particular deity he was thinking of at the moment was not the one in the box.
The people hesitated, surging and swaying, as a mob will sway in its uncertainty. With quick steps the bearers carried their burden through the lane, they had almost passed unmolested when an old woman shuffled forward and clutched at Sanders’ arm.
“Lord,