goats and the women were alive, and cried aloud for vengeance. They cried so loud that down at headquarters they were heard and Mr Commissioner Niceman — that was not his name, but it will serve — went up to see what all the noise was about. He found the Ochori people very angry, but more frightened.
“If,” said their spokesman, “they will return our goats, they may keep the women, because the goats are very valuable.” So Mr Commissioner Niceman had a long, long palaver that lasted days and days, with the chief of the Akasava people and his councillors, and in the end moral suasion triumphed, and the people promised on a certain day, at a certain hour, when the moon was in such a quarter and the tide at such a height, the women should be returned and the goats also.
So Mr Niceman returned to headquarters, swelling with admiration for himself and wrote a long report about iris genius and his administrative abilities, and his knowledge of the native, which was afterwards published in Blue Book (Africa) 7943-96.
It so happened that Mr Niceman immediately afterwards went home to England on furlough, so that he did not hear the laments and woeful wailings of the Ochori folk when they did not get their women or their goats.
Sanders, working round the Isisi River, with ten Houssas and an attack of malaria, got a helio message: “Go Akasava and settle that infernal woman palaver. — ADMINISTRATION.” So Sanders girded up his loins, took 25 grains of quinine, and leaving his good work — he was searching for M’Beli, the witchdoctor, who had poisoned a friend — trekked across country for the Akasava.
In the course of time he came to the city and was met by the chief.
“What about these women?” he asked.
“We will have a palaver,” said the chief. “I will summon my headmen and my councillors.”
“Summon nothing,” said Sanders shortly. “Send back the women and the goats you stole from the Ochori.”
“Master,” said the chief, “at full moon, which is our custom, when the tide is so, and all signs of gods and devils are propitious, I will do as you bid.”
“Chief,” said Sanders, tapping the ebony chest of the other with the thin end of his walkingstick, “moon and river, gods or devils, those women and the goats go back to the Ochori folk by sunset, or I tie you to a tree and flog you till you bleed.”
“Master,” said the chief, “the women shall be returned.”
“And the goats,” said Sanders.
“As to the goats,” said the chief airily, “they are dead, having been killed for a feast.”
“You will bring them back to life,” said Sanders.
“Master, do you think I am a magician?” asked the chief of the Akasava.
“I think you are a liar,” said Sanders impartially, and there the palaver finished.
That night goats and women returned to the Ochori, and Sanders prepared to depart.
He took aside the chief, not desiring to put shame upon him or to weaken his authority.
“Chief,” he said, “it is a long journey to Akasava, and I am a man fulfilling many tasks. 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 witchdoctor 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-Kato, 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 headquarters with the little army of bluejackets and Houssas, for M’Beli, the witchdoctor, 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 callisthenics, 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