she had best find a new husband.” Then he turned to the old chief and his son.
“Old man,” he said, “how many years have you to live?”
“Master,” said the old man, “that is for you to say.” Sanders scratched his chin reflectively, and the old man watched him with fear in his eyes.
“You will go to Bosambo, chief of the Ochori, telling him I have sent you, and you shall till his garden, and carry his water until you die,” said Sanders.
“I am so old that that will be soon,” said the old man.
“If you were younger it would be sooner,” said Sanders. “As for your son, we will wait until the morning.” The Houssas in the background marched the younger man to the camp Sanders had formed down river — the boat that had passed had been intended to deceive a chief under suspicion — and in the morning, when the news came that the child was dead — whether from shock, or injury, or exposure, Sanders did not trouble to inquire — the son of the chief was hanged.
I tell these stories of Sanders of the River, that you may grasp the type of man he was and learn something of the work he had to do. If he was quick to punish, he acted in accordance with the spirit of the people he governed, for they had no memory; and yesterday, with its faults, its errors and its teachings, was a very long time ago, and a man resents an unjust punishment for a crime he has forgotten.
It is possible to make a bad mistake, but Sanders never made one, though he was near to doing so once.
Sanders was explaining his point of view in regard to natives to Professor Sir George Carsley, when that eminent scientist arrived unexpectedly at headquarters, having been sent out by the British Government to study tropical disease at first hand.
Sir George was a man of some age, with a face of exceptional pallor and a beard that was snowy white.
“There was a newspaper man who said I treated my people like dogs,” said Sanders slowly, for he was speaking in English, a language that was seldom called for. “I believe I do. That is to say, I treat them as if they were real good dogs, not to be petted one minute and kicked the next; not to be encouraged to lie on the drawingroom mat one day, and the next cuffed away from the diningroom hearthrug.” Sir George made no answer. He was a silent man, who had had some experience on the coast, and had lived for years in the solitude of a Central African province, studying the habits of the malarial mosquito.
Sanders was never a great conversationalist, and the three days the professor spent at headquarters were deadly dull ones for the Commissioner.
On one subject alone did the professor grow talkative.
“I want to study the witchdoctor,” he said. “I think there is no appointment in the world that would give me a greater sense of power than my appointment by a native people to that post.” Sanders thought the scientist was joking, but the other returned to the subject again and again, gravely, earnestly, and persistently, and for his entertainment Sanders recited all the stories he had ever heard of witchdoctors and their tribe.
“But you don’t expect to learn anything from these people?” said Sanders, half in joke.
“On the contrary,” said the professor, seriously; “I anticipate making valuable scientific discoveries through my intercourse with them.”
“Then you’re a silly old ass,” said Sanders; but he said it to himself.
The pale professor left him at the end of the fourth day, and beyond an official notification that he had established himself on the border, no further news came of the scientist for six months, until one evening came the news that the palefaced old man had been drowned by the upsetting of a canoe. He had gone out on a solitary excursion, taking with him some scientific apparatus, and nothing more was heard of him until his birch-bark canoe was discovered, bottom up, floating on the river.
No trace of Sir George was found, and in the course of time Sanders collected the dead man’s belongings and forwarded them to England.
There were two remarkable facts about this tragedy, the first being that Sanders found no evidence either in papers or diaries, of the results of any scientific research work performed by the professor other than a small notebook. The second was, that in his little book the scientist had carefully recorded the stories Sanders had told him of witch doctors.
(Sanders recognized at least one story which he had himself invented on the spur of the moment for the professor’s entertainment.) Six more or less peaceful months passed, and then began the series of events which make up the story of the Devil Man.
It began on the Little River.
There was a woman of the Isisi people who hated her husband, though he was very good to her, building her a hut and placing an older wife to wait upon her. He gave her many presents, including a great neck-ring of brass, weighing pounds, that made her the most envied woman on the Isisi River. But her hatred for her husband was unquenched; and one morning she came out from her hut, looking dazed and frightened, and began in a quavering voice to sing the Song of the Dead, mechanically pouring little handfuls of dust on her head, and the villagers went in, to find the man stark and staring, with a twisted grin on his dead face and the pains of hell in his eyes.
In the course of two days they burned the husband in the Middle River; and as the canoe bearing the body swept out of sight round a bend of the river, the woman stepped into the water and laved the dust from her grimy body and stripped the green leaves of mourning from her waist. Then she walked back to the village with a light step, for the man she hated best was dead and there was an end to it.
Four days later came Sanders, a grim little man, with a thin, brown face and hair inclined to redness.
“M’Fasa,” he said, standing at the door of her hut and looking down at her, as with a dogged simulation of indifference she pounded her grain, “they tell me your man has died.”
“Lord, that is true,” she said. “He died of a sudden sickness.”
“Too sudden for my liking,” said Sanders, and disappeared into the dark interior of the hut. By and by Sanders came back into the light and looked down on her. In his hand was a tiny glass phial, such as Europeans know very well, but which was a remarkable find in a heathen village.
“I have a fetish,” he said, “and my fetish has told me that you poisoned your husband, M’Fasa.”
“Your fetish lies,” she said, not looking up.
“I will not argue that matter,” said Sanders wisely, for he had no proofs beyond his suspicions; and straightway he summoned to him the chief man of the village.
There was a little wait, the woman pounding her corn slowly, with downcast eyes, pausing now and then to wipe the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and Sanders, his helmet on the back of his head, a half-smoked cheroot in his mouth, hands thrust deep into his duck-pockets and an annoyed frown on his face, looking at her.
By and by came the chief tardily, having been delayed by the search for a soldier’s scarlet coat, such as he wore on great occasions.
“Master, you sent for me,” he said.
Sanders shifted his gaze.
“On second thoughts,” he said, “I do not need you.” The chief went away with whole thanksgiving service in his heart, for there had been certain secret doings on the river for which he expected reprimand.
“M’Fasa, you will go to my boat,” said Sanders, and the woman, putting down her mortar, rose and went obediently to the steamer. Sanders followed slowly, having a great many matters to consider. If he denounced this woman to the elders of the village, she would be stoned to death; if he carried her to headquarters and tried her, there was no evidence on which a conviction might be secured. There was no place to which he could deport her, yet to leave her would be to open the way for further mischief.
She awaited him on