Complete works of henryk.., p.648
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz, page 648
“I prefer negroes,” the little maid replied.
“Yes, while you pass as a goddess. I was kidnapped from Fayûm with a little lady whose name was Nell, and now am conducting some kind of Mzimu. I shall tell my father and Mr. Rawlinson that they never should call you anything else.”
Her eyes began to sparkle and smile:
“Perhaps we may see our papas in Mombasa.”
“Perhaps. If it were not for that war on the shores of Bassa-Narok, we would be there sooner. Too bad that Fumba should be engaged in one at this time!”
Saying this, he nodded at Kali.
“Kali, did the sick negro hear of the war?”
“He heard. It is a big war, very big — Fumba with Samburus.”
“Well, what will happen? How shall we get through the Samburu country?”
“The Samburus will run away before the great master, before the King and before Kali.”
“And before you?”
“And before Kali, because Kali has a rifle which thunders and kills.”
Stas began to meditate upon the part which would devolve upon him in the conflict between the Wahima and Samburu tribes and determined to conduct his affairs in such a manner as not to retard his journey. He understood that their arrival would be an entirely unexpected event which would at once assure Fumba of a superiority. Accordingly it was necessary only to make the most of a victory.
In the villages, of which the sick hunter spoke, they derived new information about the war. The reports were more and more accurate, but unfavorable for Fumba. The little travelers learned that he was conducting a defensive campaign, and that the Samburus under the command of their king, named Mamba, occupied a considerable expanse of the Wahima country and had captured a multitude of cows. The villagers said that the war was raging principally on the southern border of the great water where on a wide and high rock King Fumba’s great “boma”* [* The same as a zareba in the Sudân. A great boma may also be a sort of fortress or fortified camp.] was situated.
This intelligence greatly grieved Kali, who begged Stas to cross the mountain separating them from the seat of the war as quickly as possible, assuring him, at the same time, that he would be able to find the road on which he could lead not only the horses but the King. He was already in a region which he knew well and now distinguished with great certainty peaks which were familiar to him from childhood.
Nevertheless, the passage was not easy, and if it were not for the aid of the inhabitants of the last village, won by gifts, it would have been necessary to seek another road for the King. These negroes knew better than Kali the passes leading from that side of the mountain, and after two days’ arduous travel, during which great cold incommoded them during the nights, they successfully led the caravan to a depression in a crest of a mountain and from the mountain to a valley lying in the Wahima country.
Stas halted in the morning for a rest in this desolate valley, surrounded by underwood, while Kali, who begged to be allowed to scout on horseback in the direction of his father’s “boma,” which was about a day’s distance, started that very night. Stas and Nell waited for him the whole day with the greatest uneasiness and feared that he had perished or fallen into the hands of the enemy, and when finally he appeared on a lean and panting horse, he himself was equally fatigued and so dejected that the sight of him excited pity.
He fell at once at Stas’ feet and began to implore for help.
“Oh, great master,” he said, “the Samburus have defeated Fumba’s warriors; they killed a multitude of them and dispersed those they did not kill. They besiege Fumba in a boma on Boko Mountain. Fumba and his warriors have nothing to eat in the boma and will perish if the great master does not kill Mamba and all the Samburus with Mamba.”
Begging thus, he embraced Stas’ knees, while the latter knitted his brow and meditated deeply as to what was to be done, for in everything he was particularly concerned about Nell.
“Where,” he finally asked, “are Fumba’s warriors whom the Samburus dispersed?”
“Kali found them and they will be here at once.”
“How many are there?”
The young negro moved the fingers of both hands and the toes of both his feet about a score of times, but it was evident that he could not indicate the exact number for the simple reason that he could not count above ten and every greater amount appeared to him as “wengi,” that is, a multitude.
“Well, if they come here, place yourself at their head and go to your father’s relief.”
“They fear the Samburus and will not go with Kali, but with the great master they will go and kill ‘wengi, wengi’ of Samburu.”
Stas pondered again.
“No,” he finally said, “I can neither take the ‘bibi’ to a battle nor leave her alone, and I will not do it for anything in the world.”
At this Kali rose and folding his hands began to repeat incessantly:
“Luela! Luela! Luela!”
“What is ‘Luela’?” Stas asked.
“A great boma for Wahima and Samburu women,” the young negro replied.
And he began to relate extraordinary things. Now Fumba and Mamba had been engaged in continual warfare with each other for a great many years. They laid waste to the plantations of each other and carried away cattle. But there was a locality on the southern shore of the lake, called Luela, at which even during the fiercest war the women of both nations assembled in the market-place with perfect safety. It was a sacred place. The war raged only between men; no defeats or victories affected the fate of the women, who in Luela, behind a clay enclosure surrounding a spacious market-place, found an absolutely safe asylum. Many of them sought shelter there during the time of hostilities, with their children and goods. Others came from even distant villages with smoked meat, beans, millet, manioc, and various other supplies. The warriors were not allowed to fight a battle within a distance of Luela which could be reached by the crowing of a rooster. They were likewise not permitted to cross the clay rampart with which the market-place was surrounded. They could only stand before the rampart and then the women would give them supplies of food attached to long bamboo poles. This was a very ancient custom and it never happened that either side violated it. The victors also were always concerned that the way of the defeated to Luela should be cut off and they did not permit them to approach the sacred place within a distance which could be reached by a rooster’s crow.
“Oh, great master!” Kali begged, again embracing Stas’ knees, “great master, lead ‘the bibi’ to Luela, and you yourself take the King, take Kali, take the rifle, take fiery snakes and rout the wicked Samburus.”
Stas believed the young negro’s narrative, for he had heard that in many localities in Africa war does not include women. He remembered how at one time in Port Said a certain young German missionary related that in the vicinity of the gigantic mountain, Kilima-Njaro, the immensely warlike Massai tribe sacredly observed this custom, by virtue of which the women of the contending parties walked with perfect freedom in certain market-places and were never subject to attack. The existence of this custom on the shores of Bassa-Narok greatly delighted Stas, for he could be certain that no danger threatened Nell on account of the war. He determined also to start with the little maid without delay for Luela, all the more because before the termination of the war they could not think of a further journey for which not only the aid of the Wahimas but that of the Samburus was necessary.
Accustomed to quick decisions, he already knew how he should act. To free Fumba, to rout the Samburus but not to permit a too bloody revenge, and afterwards to command peace and reconcile the belligerents, appeared to him an imperative matter not only for himself but also most beneficial for the negroes. “Thus it should be and thus it shall be!” he said to himself in his soul, and in the meantime, desiring to comfort the young negro for whom he felt sorry, he announced that he did not refuse aid.
“How far is Luela from here?” he asked.
“A half day’s journey.”
“Listen, then! we will convey the ‘bibi’ there at once, after which I shall ride on the King and drive away the Samburus from your father’s boma. You shall ride with me and shall fight with them.”
“Kali will kill them with the rifle!”
And passing at once from despair to joy, he began to leap, laugh, and thank Stas with as much ardor as though the victory was already achieved. But further outbursts of gratitude and mirth were interrupted by the arrival of the warriors, whom he had gathered together during his scouting expedition and whom he commanded to appear before the white master. They numbered about three hundred; they were armed with shields of hippopotamus leather, with javelins and knives. Their heads were dressed with feathers, baboon manes, and ferns. At the sight of an elephant in the service of a man, at the sight of the white faces, Saba, and the horses, they were seized by the same fear and the same amazement which had possessed the negroes in those villages through which the children previously passed. But Kali warned them in advance that they would behold the “Good Mzimu” and the mighty master “who kills lions, who killed a wobo, whom the elephant fears, who crushes rocks, lets loose fiery snakes,” etc. So, instead of running away, they stood in a long row in silence, full of admiration, with the whites of their eyes glistening, uncertain whether they should kneel or fall on their faces. But at the same time they were full of faith that if these extraordinary beings would help them then the victories of the Samburus would soon end. Stas rode along the file on the elephant, just like a commander who is reviewing his army, after which he ordered Kali to repeat his promise that he would liberate Fumba, and issued an order that they should start for Luela.
Kali rode with a few warriors in advance to announce to the women of both tribes that they would have the inexpressible and unheard-of pleasure of seeing the “Good Mzimu,” who would arrive on an elephant. The matter was so extraordinary that even those women who, being members of the Wahima tribe, recognized Kali as the lost heir to the throne, thought that he was jesting with them and were surprised that he wanted to jest at a time that was so heavy for the whole tribe and Fumba. When, however, after the lapse of a few hours they saw a gigantic elephant approaching the ramparts and on it a white palanquin, they fell into a frenzy of joy and received the “Good Mzimu,” with such shouts and such yells that Stas at first mistook their voices for an outburst of hatred, and the more so as the unheard-of ugliness of the negresses made them look like witches.
But these were manifestations of extraordinary honor. When Nell’s tent was set in a corner of the market-place under the shade of two thick trees, the Wahima and Samburu women decorated it with garlands and wreaths of flowers, after which they brought supplies of food that would have sufficed a month, not only for the divinity herself but for her retinue. The enraptured women even prostrated themselves before Mea, who, attired in rosy percale and a few strings of blue beads, as a humble servant of the Mzimu, appeared to them as a being far superior to the common negresses.
Nasibu, out of regard for his childish age, was admitted behind the rampart and at once took advantage of the gifts brought for Nell so conscientiously that after an hour his little abdomen resembled an African war drum.
XX
Stas, after a brief rest under the ramparts of Luela, started with Kali before sunset at the head of three hundred warriors for Fumba’s boma, for he wanted to attack the Samburus during the night, relying upon the fact that in the darkness the fiery snakes would create a greater sensation. The march from Luela to Mount Boko, on which Fumba was defending himself, counting the rests, required nine hours, so that they appeared before the fortress at about three o’clock in the morning. Stas halted the warriors and, having ordered them to preserve the deepest silence, began to survey the situation. The summit of the mountain on which the defenders had sought refuge was dark; on the other hand the Samburus burnt a multitude of camp-fires. Their glare illuminated the steep walls of the rock and the gigantic trees growing at its foot. From a distance came the hollow sounds of drums and the shouts and songs of warriors who evidently were not sparing in their indulgence of pombe,* [* A beer of millet with which the negroes intoxicate themselves.] desiring already to celebrate a near and decisive victory. Stas advanced at the head of his division still farther, so that finally not more than a hundred paces separated him from the last camp-fires. There were no signs of camp sentinels and the moonless night did not permit the savages to catch sight of the King who, besides, was screened by the underwood. Stas, sitting on his neck, quietly issued the final orders, after which he gave Kali the signal to light one of the sky-rockets. A red ribbon flew up, hissing, high in the dark sky, after which, with an explosive sound, it scattered into a bouquet of red, blue, and golden stars. All voices became hushed and a moment of gloomy silence ensued. A few seconds later two more fiery snakes flew out, as though with an infernal hiss, but this time they were aimed horizontally directly at the Samburu camp; simultaneously resounded the King’s roar and the loud cries of the three hundred Wahimas who, armed with assagais,* [* Negro spears.] maces, and knives, rushed ahead with irrepressible speed. A battle began, which was the more terrible because it took place in the darkness, as all the camp-fires in the confusion were at once trampled out. But, at the very beginning, blind terror at the sight of the fiery snakes seized the Samburus. What was happening passed entirely beyond their understanding. They only knew that they were attacked by some terrible beings and that horrible and unavoidable destruction threatened them. A greater part of them ran away before they could be reached by the spears and maces of the Wahimas. A hundred and a few tens of warriors, whom Mamba succeeded in rallying about him, offered stubborn resistance; when, however, in the flashes of the shots, they saw a gigantic beast and on him a person dressed in white, and when their ears were dinned with the reports of the weapon which Kali from time to time discharged, their hearts sank. Fumba on the mountain, seeing the first sky-rocket, which burst in the heights, fell on the ground from fright and lay as though dead for a few minutes. But, regaining consciousness, he imagined from the desperate yells of the warriors one thing, namely, that some kind of spirits were exterminating the Samburus below. Then the thought flashed through his mind that if he did not come to the aid of those spirits, he might incur their wrath, and as the extermination of the Samburus was his salvation, he mustered all his warriors about him and sallied forth from a secret side exit of the boma and cut off the road of a greater part of the fugitives. The battle now changed into a massacre. The Samburu drums ceased to beat. In the darkness, which was rent only by the red flashes cast by Kali’s rifle, resounded the howls of the men being killed, the hollow blows of the maces against shields and the groans of the wounded. Nobody begged for mercy, for mercy is unknown to negroes. Kali, from a fear that in the darkness and confusion he might wound his own people, finally ceased to fire, and seizing Gebhr’s sword rushed with it into the midst of the enemies. The Samburus could now flee from the mountains towards their frontiers only by way of one wide pass, but as Fumba blocked this pass with his warriors, out of the whole host only those were safe who, throwing themselves upon the ground, permitted themselves to be taken alive, though they knew that a cruel slavery awaited them, or even immediate death at the hands of the victors. Mamba defended himself heroically until a blow of a mace crushed his skull. His son, young Faru, fell into Fumba’s hand, who ordered him bound, as a future sacrifice of gratitude to the spirits which had come to his assistance.
Stas did not drive the terrible King into the battle; he permitted him only to trumpet to increase the terror of the enemies. He himself did not fire a single shot from his rifle at the Samburus, for in the first place he had promised little Nell on leaving Luela that he would not kill any one, and again he actually had no desire to kill people who had done no harm to him or Nell. It was enough that he assured the Wahimas a victory and freed Fumba, who was besieged in a great boma. Soon, also, when Kali came running with news of a definite victory, he issued an order for the cessation of the battle, which raged yet in the underwood and rocky recesses and which was prolonged by the implacable hatred of old Fumba.
However, before Kali succeeded in quelling it, it was daylight. The sun, as is usual under the equator, rolled quickly from beyond the mountains, and flooded with a bright light the battle-field on which lay over two hundred Samburu corpses pierced by spears or crushed by maces. After a certain time, when the battle finally ceased and only the joyful yells of the Wahimas disturbed the morning’s quiet, Kali again appeared, but with a face so dejected and sad that it could be perceived even from a distance that some kind of misfortune had overtaken him.
In fact, when he stood before Stas, he began to strike his head with his fists and exclaim sorrowfully:
“Oh, great master! — Fumba kufa! Fumba kufa!” (is slain).
“Slain?” Stas repeated.
Kali related what had happened, and from his words it appeared that the cause of the occurrence was only the inveterate hatred of Fumba, for after the battle had ceased, he still wanted to give the last blow to two Samburus, and from one of them he received the stroke of a spear.
The news spread among all the Wahimas in the twinkling of an eye and around Kali a mob gathered. A few moments later six warriors bore on spears the old king, who was not killed but fatally wounded. Before his death he desired to see the mighty master, the real conqueror of the Samburus, sitting on an elephant.
Accordingly uncommon admiration struggled in his eyes with the dusk with which death was dimming them, and his pale lips, stretched by “pelele,” whispered lowly:
“Yancig! Yancig!”
But immediately after that his head reclined backward, his mouth opened wide — and he died.
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