Bones - Edgar Wallace - ebook

Bones ebook

Edgar Wallace



This collection of episodes in the Commissioner Sanders series continues Wallace’s subtly humorous look at colonial Africa. In „Bones”, Wallace spins an engaging yarn about the adventures of an intrepid lieutenant as he travels through Africa on a series of life-or-death missions. When Commissioner Sanders goes on leave, the trusty Lieutenant Hamilton takes over administration of the African territories. However, yet again, the trouble-prone Francis Augustus Tibbetts, known as „Bones”, while meaning to assist, only manages to spread his own unique style of innocent and endearing mischief. A richly detailed document of the colonial period, „Bones” is sure to spark the imagination of action-adventure fans.

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YOU will never know from the perusal of the Blue Book the true inwardness of the happenings in the Ochori country in the spring of the year of Wish. Nor all the facts associated with the disappearance of the Rt. Hon. Joseph Blowter, Secretary of State for the Colonies.

We know (though this is not in the Blue Books) that Bosambo called together all his petty chiefs and his headmen, from one end of the country to the other, and assembled them squatting expectantly at the foot of the little hillock, where sat Bosambo in his robes of office (unauthorized but no less magnificent), their upturned faces charged with pride and confidence, eloquent of the hold this sometime Liberian convict had upon the wayward and fearful folk of the Ochori.

Now no man may call a palaver of all small chiefs unless he notifies the government of his intention, for the government is jealous of self-appointed parliaments, for when men meet together in public conference, however innocent may be its first cause, talk invariably drifts to war, just as when they assemble and talk in private it drifts womanward.

And since a million and odd square miles of territory may only be governed by a handful of ragged soldiers so long as there is no concerted action against authority, extemporized and spontaneous palavers are severely discouraged.

But Bosambo was too cheery and optimistic a man to doubt that his action would incur the censorship of his lord, and, moreover, he was so filled with his own high plans and so warm and generous at heart at the thought of the benefits he might be conferring upon his patron that the illegality of the meeting did not occur to him, or if it occurred was dismissed as too preposterous for consideration.

And so there had come by the forest paths, by canoe, from fishing villages, from far-off agricultural lands near by the great mountains, from timber cuttings in the lower forest, higher chiefs and little chiefs, headmen and lesser headmen, till they made a respectable crowd, too vast for the comfort of the Ochori elders who must needs provide them with food and lodgings.

“Noble chiefs of the Ochori,” began Bosambo, and Notiki nudged his neighbour with a sharp elbow, for Notiki was an old man of forty-three, and thin.

“Our lord desires us to give him something,” he said.

He was a bitter man this Notiki, a relative of former chiefs of the Ochori, and now no more than over-head of four villages.

“Wa!” said his neighbour, with his shining face turned to Bosambo.

Notiki grunted but said no more.

“I have assembled you here,” said Bosambo, “because I love to see you, and because it is good that I should meet those who are in authority under me to administer the laws which the King my master has set for your guidance.”

Word for word it was a paraphrase of an address which Sanders himself had delivered three months ago. His audience may have forgotten the fact, but Notiki at least recognized the plagiarism and said “Oh, ho!” under his breath and made a scornful noise.

“Now I must go from you,” said Bosambo.

There was a little chorus of dismay, but Notiki’s voice did not swell the volume.

“The King has called me to the coast, and for the space of two moons I shall be as dead to you, though my fetish will watch you and my spirit will walk these streets every night with big ears to listen to evil talk, and great big eyes to see the hearts of men. Yea, from this city to the very end of my dominions over to Kalala.” His accusing eyes fixed Notiki, and the thin man wriggled uncomfortably.

“This man is a devil,” he muttered under his breath, “he hears and sees all things.”

“And if you ask me why I go,” Bosambo went on, “I tell you this: swearing you all to secrecy that this word shall not go beyond your huts” (there were some two thousand people present to share the mystery), “my lord Sandi has great need of me. For who of us is so wise that he can look into the heart and understand the sorrow-call which goes from brother to brother and from blood to blood. I say no more save my lord desires me, and since I am the King of the Ochori, a nation great amongst all nations, must I go down to the coast like a dog or like the headman of a fisher-village?”

He paused dramatically, and there was a faint–a very faint –murmur which he might interpret as an expression of his people’s wish that he should travel in a state bordering upon magnificence.

Faint indeed was that murmur, because there was a hint of taxation in the business, a promise of levies to be extracted from an unwilling peasantry; a suggestion of lazy men leaving the comfortable shade of their huts to hurry perspiring in the forest that gum and rubber and similar offerings should be laid at the complacent feet of their overlord.

Bosambo heard the murmur and marked its horrid lack of heartiness and was in no sense put out of countenance.

“As you say,” said he approvingly, “it is proper that I should journey to my lord and to the strange people beyond the coast–to the land where even slaves wear trousers–carrying with me most wonderful presents that the name of the Ochori shall be as thunder upon the waters and even great kings shall speak in pride of you,” he paused again.

Now it was a dead silence which greeted his peroration. Notably unenthusiastic was this gathering, twiddling its toes and blandly avoiding his eye. Two moons before he had extracted something more than his tribute –a tribute which was the prerogative of government.

Yet then, as Notiki said under his breath, or openly, or by innuendo as the sentiment of his company demanded, four and twenty canoes laden with the fruits of taxation had come to the Ochori city, and five only of those partly filled had paddled down to headquarters to carry the Ochori tribute to the overlord of the land.

“I will bring back with me new things,” said Bosambo enticingly; “strange devil boxes, large magics which will entrance you, things that no common man has seen, such as I and Sandi alone know in all this land. Go now, I tell thee, to your people in this country, telling them all that I have spoken to you, and when the moon is in a certain quarter they will come in joy bearing presents in both hands, and these ye shall bring to me.”

“But, lord!” it was the bold Notiki who stood in protest, “what shall happen to such of us headmen who come without gifts in our hands for your lordship, saying ‘Our people are stubborn and will give nothing’?”

“Who knows?” was all the satisfaction he got from Bosambo, with the additional significant hint, “I shall not blame you, knowing that it is not because of your fault but because your people do not love you, and because they desire another chief over them. The palaver is finished.”

Finished it was, so far as Bosambo was concerned. He called a council of his headmen that night in his hut.

Bosambo made his preparations at leisure. There was much to avoid before he took his temporary farewell of the tribe. Not the least to be counted amongst those things to be done was the extraction, to its uttermost possibility, of the levy which he had quite improperly instituted.

And of the things to avoid, none was more urgent or called for greater thought than the necessity for so timing his movements that he did not come upon Sanders or drift within the range of his visible and audible influence.

Here fortune may have been with Bosambo, but it is more likely that he had carefully thought out every detail of his scheme. Sanders at the moment was collecting hut tax along the Kisai river and there was also, as Bosambo well knew, a murder trial of great complexity waiting for his decision at Ikan. A headman was suspected of murdering his chief wife, and the only evidence against him was that of the under wives to whom she displayed much hauteur and arrogance.

The people of the Ochori might be shocked at the exorbitant demands which their lord put upon them, but they were too wise to deny him his wishes. There had been a time in the history of the Ochori when demands were far heavier, and made with great insolence by a people who bore the reputation of being immensely fearful. It had come to be a by-word of the people when they discussed their lord with greater freedom than he could have wished, the tyranny of Bosambo was better than the tyranny of Akasava.

Amongst the Ochori chiefs, greater and lesser, only one was conspicuous by his failure to carry proper offerings to his lord. When all the gifts were laid on sheets of native cloth in the great space before Bosambo’s hut, Notiki’s sheet was missing and with good reason as he sent his son to explain.

“Lord,” said this youth, lank and wild, “my father has collected for you many beautiful things, such as gum and rubber and the teeth of elephants. Now he would have brought these and laid them at your lovely feet, but the roads through the forest are very evil, and there have been floods in the northern country and he cannot pass the streams. Also the paths through the forest are thick and tangled and my father fears for his carriers.”

Bosambo looked at him, thoughtfully.

“Go back to your father, N’gobi,” he said gently, “and tell him that though there come no presents from him to me, I, his master and chief, knowing he loves me, understand all things well.”

N’gobi brightened visibly. He had been ready to bolt, understanding something of Bosambo’s dexterity with a stick and fearing that the chief would loose upon him the vengeance his father had called down upon his own hoary head.

“Of the evil roads I know,” said Bosambo; “now this you shall say to your father: Bosambo the chief goes away from this city and upon a long journey; for two moons he will be away doing the business of his cousin and friend Sandi. And when my lord Bim-bi has bitten once at the third moon I will come back and I will visit your father. But because the roads are bad,” he went on, “and the floods come even in this dry season,” he said significantly, “and the forest is so entangled that he cannot bring his presents, sending only the son of his wife to me, he shall make against my coming such a road as shall be in width, the distance between the King’s hut and the hut of the King’s wife; and he shall clear from this road all there are of trees, and he shall bridge the strong stream and dig pits for the floods. And to this end he shall take every man of his kingdom and set them to labour, and as they work they shall sing a song which goes:

"We are doing Notiki’s work, The work Notiki set us to do, Rather than send to the lord his King The presents which Bosambo demanded.

“The palaver is finished.”

This is the history, or the beginning of the history, of the straight road which cuts through the heart of the Ochori country from the edge of the river by the cataracts, even to the mountains of the great King, a road famous throughout Africa and imperishably associated with Bosambo’s name–this by the way.

On the first day following the tax palaver Bosambo went down the river with four canoes, each canoe painted beautifully with camwood and gum, and with twenty-four paddlers.

It was by a fluke that he missed Sanders. As it happened, the Commissioner had come back to the big river to collect the evidence of the murdered woman’s brother who was a petty headman of an Isisi fishing village. The Zaire came into the river almost as the last of Bosambo’s canoes went round the bend out of sight, and since a legend existed on the river, a legend for the inception of which Bosambo himself was mainly responsible, that he was in some way related to Mr. Commissioner Sanders, no man spoke of Bosambo’s passing.

The chief came to headquarters on the third day after his departure from his city. His subsequent movements are somewhat obscure, even to Sanders, who has been at some pains to trace them.

It is known that he drew a hundred and fifty pounds in English gold from Sanders’ storekeeper–he had piled up a fairly extensive credit during the years of his office–that he embarked with one headman and his wife on a coasting boat due for Sierra Leone, and that from that city came a long-winded demand in Arabic by a ragged messenger for a further instalment of one hundred pounds. Sanders heard the news on his return to headquarters and was a little worried.

“I wonder if the devil is going to desert his people?” he said.

Hamilton the Houssa laughed.

“He is more likely to desert his people than to desert a balance of four hundred pounds which now stands to his credit here,” he said. “Bosambo has felt the call of civilization. I suppose he ought to have secured your permission to leave his territory?”

“He has given his people work to keep them busy,” Sanders said a little gravely. “I have had a passionate protest from Notiki, one of his chiefs in the north. Bosambo has set him to build a road through the forest, and Notiki objects.”

The two men were walking across the yellow parade ground past the Houssas hut in the direction of headquarters’ bungalow.

“What about your murderer?” asked Hamilton, after a while, as they mounted the broad wooden steps which led to the bungalow stoep.

Sanders shook his head.

“Everybody lied,” he said briefly. “I can do no less than send the man to the Village. I could have hung him on clear evidence, but the lady seemed to have been rather unpopular and the murderer quite a person to be commended in the eyes of the public. The devil of it is,” he said as he sank into his big chair with a sigh, “that had I hanged him it would not have been necessary to write three foolscap sheets of report. I dislike these domestic murderers intensely–give me a ravaging brigand with the hands of all people against him.”

“You’ll have one if you don’t touch wood,” said Hamilton seriously.

Hamilton came of Scottish stock–and the Scots are notorious prophets.


NOW the truth may be told of Bosambo, and all his movements may be explained by this revelation of his benevolence. In the silence of his hut had he planned his schemes. In the dark aisles of the forests, under starless skies when his fellow-huntsmen lay deep in the sleep which the innocent and the barbarian alone enjoy; in drowsy moments when he sat dispensing justice, what time litigants had droned monotonously he had perfected his scheme.

Imagination is the first fruit of civilization and when the reverend fathers of the coast taught Bosambo certain magics, they were also implanting in him the ability to picture possibilities, and shape from his knowledge of human affairs the eventual consequences of his actions. This is imagination somewhat elaborately and clumsily defined.

To one person only had Bosambo unburdened himself of his schemes.

In the privacy of his great hut he had sat with his wife, a steaming dish of fish between them, for however lax Bosambo might be, his wife was an earnest follower of the Prophet and would tolerate no such abomination as the flesh of the cloven-hoofed goat.

He had told her many things.

“Light of my heart,” said he, “our lord Sandi is my father and my mother, a giver of riches, and a plentiful provider of pence. Now it seems to me, that though he is a just man and great, having neither fear of his enemies nor soft words for his friends, yet the lords of his land who live so very far away do him no honour.”

“Master,” said the woman quietly, “is it no honour that he should be placed as a king over us?”

Bosambo beamed approvingly.

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