Chapter XII: The Hooded King

There was a certain Portuguese governor--this was in the days when Colhemos was Colonial Minister--who had a small legitimate income and an extravagant wife. This good lady had a villa at Cintra, a box at the Real Theatre de São Carlos, and a motor-car, and gave five o’clocks at the Hotel Nunes to the aristocracy and gentry who inhabited that spot, of whom the ecstatic Spaniard said, “dejar a Cintra, y ver al mundo entero, es, con verdad caminar en capuchera.”

Since her husband’s salary was exactly $66.50 weekly and the upkeep of the villa alone was twice that amount, it is not difficult to understand that Senhor Bonaventura was a remarkable man.

Colhemos came over to the Foreign Office in the Praco de Commercio one day and saw Dr. Sarabesta, and Sarabesta, who was both a republican and a sinner, was also ambitious, or he had a Plan and an Ideal--two very dangerous possessions for a politician, since they lead inevitably to change, than which nothing is more fatal to political systems.

“Colhemos,” said the doctor dramatically, “you are ruining me! You are bringing me to the dust and covering me with the hatred and mistrust of the Powers!”

He folded his arms and rose starkly from the chair, his beard all a-bristle, his deep little eyes glaring.

“What is wrong, Baptisa?” asked Colhemos.

The other flung out his arms in an extravagant gesture.

“Ruin!” he cried somewhat inadequately.

He opened the leather portfolio which lay on the table and extracted six sheets of foolscap paper.

“Read!” he said, and subsided into his padded armchair a picture of gloom.

The sheets of foolscap were surmounted by crests showing an emaciated lion and a small horse with a spiral horn in his forehead endeavouring to climb a chafing-dish which had been placed on edge for the purpose, and was suitably inscribed with another lion, two groups of leopards and a harp.

Colhemos did not stop to admire the menagerie, but proceeded at once to the literature. It was in French, and had to do with a certain condition of affairs in Portuguese Central Africa which “constituted a grave and increasing menace to the native subjects” of “Grande Bretagne.” There were hints, “which His Majesty’s Government would be sorry to believe, of raids and requisitions upon the native manhood” of this country which differed little from slave raids.

Further, “Mr. Commissioner Sanders of the Territories regretted to learn” that these labour requisitions resulted in a condition of affairs not far removed from slavery.

Colhemos read through the dispatch from start to finish, and put it down thoughtfully.

“Pinto has been overdoing it,” he admitted. “I shall have to write to him.”

“What you write to Pinto may be interesting enough to print,” said Dr. Sarabesta violently, “but what shall I write to London? This Commissioner Sanders is a fairly reliable man, and his Government will act upon what he says.”

Colhemos, who was really a great man (it was a distinct loss when he faced a firing platoon in the revolutionary days of ‘12), tapped his nose with a penholder.

“You can say that we shall send a special commissioner to the M’fusi country to report, and that he will remain permanently established in the M’fusi to suppress lawless acts.”

The doctor looked up wonderingly.

“Pinto won’t like that,” said he, “besides which, the M’fusi are quite unmanageable. The last time we tried to bring them to reason it cost--Santa Maria! ... and the lives! ... phew!”

Colhemos nodded.

“The duc de Sagosta,” he said slowly, “is an enthusiastic young man. He is also a royalist and allied by family ties to Dr. Ceillo of the Left. He is, moreover, an Anglomaniac--though why he should be so when his mother was an American woman I do not know. He shall be our commissioner, my dear Baptisa.”

His dear Baptisa sat bolt upright, every hair in his bristling head erect.

“A royalist!” he gasped, “do you want to set Portugal ablaze?”

“There are moments when I could answer ‘Yes’ to that question,” said the truthful Colhemos “but for the moment I am satisfied that there will be no fireworks. It will do no harm to send the boy. It will placate the Left and please the Clerics--it will also consolidate our reputation for liberality and largeness of mind. Also the young man will either be killed or fall a victim to the sinister influences of that corruption which, alas, has so entered into the vitals of our Colonial service.”

So Manuel duc de Sagosta was summoned, and prepared for the subject of his visit by telephone, came racing up from Cintra in his big American juggernaut, leapt up the stairs of the Colonial Office two at a time, and came to Colhemos’ presence in a state of mind which may be described as a big mental whoop.

“You will understand, Senhor,” said Colhemos, “that I am doing that which may make me unpopular. For that I care nothing! My country is my first thought, and the glory and honour of our flag! Some day you may hold my portfolio in the Cabinet, and it will be well if you bring to your high and noble office the experience...”

Then they all talked together, and the dark room flickered with gesticulating palms.

Colhemos came to see the boy off by the M.N.P. boat which carried him to the African Coast.

“I suppose, Senhor,” said the duc, “there would be no objection on the part of the Government to my calling on my way at a certain British port. I have a friend in the English army--we were at Clifton together----”

“My friend,” said Colhemos, pressing the young man’s hand warmly, “you must look upon England as a potential ally, and lose no opportunity which offers to impress upon our dear colleagues this fact, that behind England, unmoved, unshaken, faithful, stands the armed might of Portugal. May the saints have you in their keeping!”

He embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks.

Bones was drilling recruits at headquarters when Hamilton hailed him from the edge of the square.

“There’s a pal of yours come to see you, Bones,” he roared.

Bones marched sedately to his superior and touched his helmet.

“Sir!”

“A friend of yours--just landed from the Portuguese packet.”

Bones was mystified, and went up to the Residency to find a young man in spotless white being entertained by Patricia Hamilton and a very thoughtful Sanders.

The duc de Sagosta leapt to his feet as Bones came up the verandah.

“Hullo, Conk!” he yelled hilariously.

Bones stared.

“God bless my life,” he stammered, “it’s Mug!”

There was a terrific hand-shaking accompanied by squawking inquiries which were never answered, uproarious laughter, back patting, brazen and baseless charges that each was growing fat, and Sanders watched it with great kindness.

“Here’s old Ham,” said Bones, “you ought to know Ham--Captain Hamilton, sir, my friend, the duke of something or other--but you can call him Mug--Miss Hamilton--this is Mug.”

“We’ve already been introduced,” she laughed. “But why do you let him call you Mug?”

The duc grinned.

“I like Mug,” he said simply.

He was to stay to lunch, for the ship was not leaving until the afternoon, and Bones carried him off to his hut.

“A joyous pair,” said Hamilton enviously. “Lord, if I was only a boy again!”

Sanders shook his head.

“You don’t echo that wish?” said Pat.

“I wasn’t thinking about that--I was thinking of the boy. I dislike this M’fusi business, and I can’t think why the Government sent him. They are a pretty bad lot--their territory is at the back of the Akasava, and the Chief of the M’fusi is a rascal.”

“But he says that he has been sent to reform them,” said the girl.

Sanders smiled.

“It is not a job I should care to undertake--and yet----”

He knitted his forehead.

“And yet----?”

“I could reform them--Bones could reform them. But if they were reformed it would break Bonaventura, for he holds his job subject to their infamy.”

At lunch Sanders was unusually silent, a silence which was unnoticed, save by the girl. Bones and his friend, however, needed no stimulation. Lunch was an almost deafening meal, and when the time came for the duc to leave, the whole party went down to the beach to see him embark.

“Good-bye, old Mug!” roared Bones, as the boat pulled away. “Whoop! hi! how!”

“You’re a noisy devil,” said Hamilton, admiringly.

“Vox populi, vox Dei,” said Bones.

He had an unexpected visitor that evening, for whilst he was dressing for dinner, Sanders came into his hut--an unusual happening.

What Sanders had to say may not be related since it was quite unofficial, but Bones came to dinner that night and behaved with such decorum and preserved a mien so grave, that Hamilton thought he was ill.

The duc continued his journey down the African Coast and presently came to a port which was little more than a beach, a jetty, a big white house, and by far the most imposing end of the Moanda road. In due time, he arrived by the worst track in the world (he was six days on the journey) at Moanda itself, and came into the presence of the Governor.

Did the duc but know it, his Excellency had also been prepared for the young man’s mission. The mail had arrived by carrier the day before the duc put in his appearance, and Pinto Bonaventura had his little piece all ready to say.

“I will give you all the assistance I possibly can,” he said, as they sat at déjeuner, “but, naturally, I cannot guarantee you immunity.”

“Immunity?” said the puzzled duc.

Senhor Bonaventura nodded gravely.

“Nothing is more repugnant to me than slavery,” he said, “unless it be the terrible habit of drinking. If I could sweep these evils out of existence with a wave of my hand, believe me I would do so; but I cannot perform miracles, and the Government will not give me sufficient troops to suppress these practices which every one of us hold in abhorrence.”

“But,” protested the duc, a little alarmed, “since I am going to reform the M’fusi...”

The Governor choked over his coffee and apologized. He did not laugh, because long residence in Central Africa had got him out of the habit, and had taught him a certain amount of self-control in all things except the consumption of marsala.

“Pray go on,” he said, wearing an impassive face.

“It will be to the interests of Portugal, no less than to your Excellency’s interest,” said the young man, leaning across the table and speaking with great earnestness, “if I can secure a condition of peace, prosperity, sobriety, and if I can establish the Portuguese law in this disturbed area.”

“Undoubtedly,” acknowledged the older man with profound seriousness.

So far from the duc’s statement representing anything near the truth, it may be said that a restoration of order would serve his Excellency very badly indeed. In point of fact he received something like eight shillings for every “head” of “recruited labour.” He also received a commission from the same interested syndicates which exported able-bodied labourers, a commission amounting to six shillings upon every case of square-face, and a larger sum upon every keg of rum that came into the country.

Sobriety and law would, in fact, spell much discomfort to the elegant lady who lived in the villa at Cintra, and would considerably diminish not only Senhor Bonaventura’s handsome balance at the Bank of Brazil, but would impoverish certain ministers, permanent and temporary, who looked to their dear Pinto for periodical contributions to what was humorously described as “The Party Fund.”

Yet the duc de Sagosta went into the wilds with a high heart and a complete faith, in his youthful and credulous soul, that he had behind him the full moral and physical support of a high-minded and patriotic Governor. The high-minded and patriotic Governor, watching the caravan of his new assistant disappearing through the woods which fringe Moanda, expressed in picturesque language his fervent hope that the mud, the swamp, the forest and the wilderness of the M’fusi country would swallow up this young man for evermore, amen. The unpopularity of the new Commissioner was sealed when the Governor learnt of his visit to Sanders, for “Sanders” was a name at which his Excellency made disapproving noises.