Chapter X: The Loves of M'lino

When a man loves one woman, whether she be alive or dead, a deep and fragrant memory or a very pleasant reality, he is apt to earn the appellation of “woman-hater,” a hasty judgment which the loose-minded pass upon any man whose loves lack promiscuosity, and who does not diffuse his passions. Sanders was described as a woman-hater by such men who knew him sufficiently little to analyse his character, but Sanders was not a woman-hater in any sense of the word, for he bore no illwill toward woman kind, and certainly was innocent of any secret love.

There was a young man named Ludley who had been assistant to Sanders for three months, at the end of which time Sanders sent for him--he was stationed at Isisi City.

“I think you can go home,” said Sanders.

The young man opened his eyes in astonishment.

“Why?” he said.

Sanders made no reply, but stared through the open doorway at the distant village.

“Why?” demanded the young man again.

“I’ve heard things,” said Sanders shortly--he was rather uncomfortable, but did not show it.

“Things--like what?”

Sanders shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Oh--things,” he said vaguely, and added: “You go home and marry that nice girl you used to rave about when you first came out.”

Young Ludley went red under his tan.

“Look here, chief!” he said, half angrily, half apologetically, “you’re surely not going to take any notice--you know it’s the sort of thing that’s done in black countries--oh, damn it all, you’re not going to act as censor over my morals, are you?”

Sanders looked at the youth coldly.

“Your morals aren’t worth worrying about,” he said truthfully. “You could be the most depraved devil in the world--which I’ll admit you aren’t--and I should not trouble to reform you. No. It’s the morals of my cannibals that worry me. Home you go, my son; get married, crescit sub pondere virtus--you’ll find the translation in the foreign phrase department of any respectable dictionary. As to the sort of things that are done in black countries, they don’t do them in our black countries--monkey tricks of that sort are good enough for the Belgian Congo, or for Togoland, but they aren’t good enough for this little strip of wilderness.”

Ludley went home.

He did not tell anybody the real reason why he had come home, because it would not have sounded nice. He was a fairly decent boy, as boys of his type go, and he said nothing worse about Sanders than that he was a woman-hater.

The scene that followed his departure shows how little the white mind differs from the black in its process of working. For, after seeing his assistant safely embarked on a homeward-bound boat, Sanders went up the river to Isisi, and there saw a woman who was called M’Lino.

The average black woman is ugly of face, but beautiful of figure, but M’Lino was no ordinary woman, as you shall learn. The Isisi people, who keep extraordinary records in their heads, the information being handed from father to son, say that M’Lino came from an Arabi family, and certainly if a delicately-chiselled nose, a refinement of lip, prove anything, they prove M’Lino came from no pure Bantu stock.

She came to Sanders when he sent for her, alert, suspicious, very much on her guard.

Before he could speak, she asked him a question.

“Lord, where is Lijingii?” This was the nearest the native ever got to the pronunciation of Ludley’s name.

“Lijingii has gone across the black water,” said Sanders gently, “to his own people.”

“You sent him, lord,” she said quickly, and Sanders made no reply.

“Lord,” she went on, and Sanders wondered at the bitterness in her tone, “it is said that you hate women.”

“Then a lie is told,” said Sanders. “I do not hate women; rather I greatly honour them, for they go down to the caves of hell when they bear children; also I regard them highly because they are otherwise brave and very loyal.”

She said nothing. Her head was sunk till her chin rested on her bare, brown breast, but she looked at him from under her brows, and her eyes were filled with a strange luminosity. Something like a panic awoke in Sanders’ heart--had the mischief been done? He cursed Ludley, and breathed a fervent, if malevolent, prayer that his ship would go down with him. But her words reassured him.

“I made Lijingii love me,” she said, “though he was a great lord, and I was a slave; I also would have gone down to hell, for some day I hoped I should bear him children, but now that can never be.”

“And thank the Lord for it!” said Sanders, under his breath.

He would have given her some words of cheer, but she turned abruptly from him and walked away. Sanders watched the graceful figure as it receded down the straggling street, and went back to his steamer.

He was ten miles down the river before he remembered that the reproof he had framed for the girl had been undelivered.

“That is very extraordinary,” said Sanders, with some annoyance, “I must be losing my memory.”

Three months later young Penson came out from England to take the place of the returned Ludley. He was a fresh-faced youth, bubbling over with enthusiasm, and, what is more important, he had served a two-years’ apprenticeship at Sierra Leone.

“You are to go up to Isisi,” said Sanders, “and I want to tell you that you’ve got to be jolly careful.”

“What’s the racket?” demanded the youth eagerly. “Are the beggars rising?”

“So far as I know,” said Sanders, putting his feet up on the rail of the verandah, “they are not--it is not bloodshed, but love that you’ve got to guard against.”

And he told the story of M’Lino, even though it was no creditable story to British administration.

“You can trust me,” said young Penson, when he had finished.

“I trust you all right,” said Sanders, “but I don’t trust the woman--let me hear from you from time to time; if you don’t write about her I shall get suspicious, and I’ll come along in a very unpleasant mood.”

“You can trust me,” said young Penson again; for he was at the age when a man is very sure of himself.

Remarkable as it may read, from the moment he left to take up his new post until he returned to headquarters, in disgrace, a few months later, he wrote no word of the straight, slim girl, with her wonderful eyes. Other communications came to hand, official reports, terse and to the point, but no mention of M’Lino, and Sanders began to worry.

The stories came filtering through, extraordinary stories of people who had been punished unjustly, of savage floggings administered by order of the sub-commissioner, and Sanders took boat and travelled up the river hec dum.

He landed short of the town, and walked along the river bank. It was not an easy walk, because the country hereabouts is a riot of vegetation. Then he came upon an African idyll--a young man, who sat playing on a squeaky violin, for the pleasure of M’Lino, lying face downwards on the grass, her chin in her hands.

“In the name of a thousand devils!” said Sanders wrathfully; and the boy got up from the fallen tree on which he sat, and looked at him calmly, and with no apparent embarrassment. Sanders looked down at the girl and pointed.

“Go back to the village, my woman,” he said softly, for he was in a rage.

“Now, you magnificent specimen of a white man,” he said, when the girl had gone--slowly and reluctantly--”what is this story I hear about your flogging O’Sako?”

The youth took his pipe from his pocket and lit it coolly.

“He beat M’Lino,” he said, in the tone of one who offered full justification.

“From which fact I gather that he is the unfortunate husband of that attractive nigger lady you were charming just now when I arrived?”

“Don’t be beastly,” said the other, scowling. “I know she’s a native and all that sort of thing, but my people at home will get used to her colour----”

“Go on board my boat,” said Sanders quietly. “Regard yourself as my prisoner.”

Sanders brought him down to headquarters without troubling to investigate the flogging of O’Sako, and no word passed concerning M’Lino till they were back again at headquarters.

“Of course I shall send you home,” said Sanders.

“I supposed you would,” said the other listlessly. He had lost all his self-assurance on the journey down river, and was a very depressed young man indeed.

“I must have been mad,” he admitted, the day before the mail boat called en route for England; “from the very first I loved her--good heavens, what an ass I am!”

“You are,” agreed Sanders, and saw him off to the ship with a cheerful heart.

“I will have no more sub-commissioners at Isisi,” he wrote acidly to the Administration. “I find my work sufficiently entertaining without the additional amusement of having to act as chaperon to British officials.”

He made a special journey to Isisi to straighten matters out, and M’Lino came unbidden to see him.

“Lord, is he gone, too?” she asked.

“When I want you, M’Lino,” said Sanders, “I will send for you.”

“I loved him,” she said, with more feeling than Sanders thought was possible for a native to show.

“You are an easy lover,” said Sanders.

She nodded.

“That is the way with some women,” she said. “When I love, I love with terrible strength; when I hate, I hate for ever and ever--I hate you, master!”

She said it very simply.

“If you were a man,” said the exasperated Commissioner, “I would tie you up and whip you.”

“F--f--b!” said the girl contemptuously, and left him staring.

To appreciate the position, you have to realise that Sanders was lord of all this district; that he had the power of life and death, and no man dared question or disobey his word. Had M’Lino been a man, as he said, she would have suffered for her treason--there is no better word for her offence--but she was a woman, and a seriously gifted woman, and, moreover, sure of whatever powers she had.

He did not see her again during the three days he was in the city, nor (this is the extraordinary circumstance) did he discuss her with the chief. He learned that she had become the favourite wife of O’Sako; that she had many lovers and scorned her husband, but he sought no news of her. Once he saw her walking towards him, and went out of his way to avoid her. It was horribly weak and he knew it, but he had no power to resist the impulse that came over him to give her a wide berth.

Following this visit, Sanders was coming down stream at a leisurely pace, he himself at the steering wheel, and his eyes searching the treacherous river for sand banks. His mind was filled with the problem of M’Lino, when suddenly in the bush that fringes the Isisi river, something went “woof,” and the air was filled with flying potlegs. One struck his cabin, and splintered a panel to shreds, many fell upon the water, one missed Sergeant Abiboo’s head and sent his tarbosh flying.

Sanders rang his engines astern, being curious to discover what induced the would-be assassin to fire a blunderbuss in his direction, and Abiboo, bare-headed, went pattering forward and slipped the canvas cover from the gleaming little Maxim.

Then four Houssa soldiers jumped into the water and waded ashore, holding their rifles above their heads with the one hand and their ammunition in the other, and Sanders stood by the rail of the boat, balancing a sporting Lee-Enfield in the crook of his arm.

Whoever fired the shot had chosen the place of killing very well. The bush was very thick, the approach to land lay through coarse grass that sprang from the swamp, vegetation ran rank, and a tangle of creeper formed a screen that would have been impenetrable to a white man.

But the Houssas had a way--they found the man with his smoking gun, waiting calmly.

He was of the Isisi people--a nation of philosophers--and he surrendered his weapon without embarrassment.

“I think,” he said to Sergeant Abiboo, as they hurried down the bank to the river-side, “this means death.”

“Death and the torments of hell to follow,” said Abiboo, who was embittered by the loss of his tarbosh, which had cost him five francs in the French territory.

Sanders put up his rifle when he saw the prisoner. He held an informal court in the shattered deck cabin.

“Did you shoot at me?” he asked.

“I did, master,” said the man.

“Why?”

“Because,” the prisoner replied, “you are a devil and exercise witchcraft.”

Sanders was puzzled a little.

“In what particular section of the devil department have I been busy?” he asked in the vernacular.

The prisoner was gazing at him steadily.

“Master,” he replied, “it is not my business to understand these things. It is said to me, ‘kill’--and I kill.”

Sanders wasted no more time in vain questions. The man was put in irons, the nose of the steamer turned again down stream, and the Commissioner resumed his vigil.

Midway between B’Fani and Lakaloli he came to a tying-up place. Here there were dead trees for the chopping, and he put his men to replenish his stock of fuel.

He was annoyed, not because a man had attempted to take his life, nor even because his neat little cabin forward was a litter of splinters and broken glass where the potleg had struck, but because he nosed trouble where he thought all was peace and harmony.

He had control of some sixteen distinct and separate nations, each isolated and separated from the other by custom and language. They were distinct, not as the French are from the Italian, but as the Slav is from the Turk.