All things considered, perhaps they are dazzled, but they may have their own reasons for closing their eyes to them. Let's look into this.
Primo: Captain Marcenay. For him the question does not arise. The captain is not there to argue but to obey. Moreover, I cannot imagine that even without orders he would so much as think of retiring, so long as Mlle Momas goes forward. The sympathy they feel for one another has shown much more progress since we left Sikasso than that of ourselves. We have before us an official attachment, openly declared on both sides, which should logically end in a marriage so openly indeed that M. Barsac has spontaneously given up his hopes of making a conquest and has become simply the excellent man he really is. So let's pass on.
Secundo: M. Poncin. He also is a subordinate, and he also obeys. As to what he really thinks in his heart, that remains to be seen. He takes notes from morning to night, but he's so silent he could give points to Hermes himself. I could swear that since we started he hasn't said ten words. My opinion is that he scorns them. So let's leave M. Poncin.
Tertio: St. Berain. That's quite another matter. St. Berain sees only through the eyes of his aunt-niece; he lives only for her. And he's so absentminded he may not even know he's in Africa. So let's pass on from number three.
Quarto: Mlle Mornas. We know quite well why she's traveling. She's told us: because she wants to. That reason is enough, even if we weren't too tactful to wonder whether there's really something else.
Quinto: Myself. This number five is the only one whose conduct is perfectly logical. What's my reason for existing? Copy. So the more difficulties there are the more copy I shall get, and the happier I shall be. So it's quite clear that I don't dream of going back. So I don't dream of it.
There remains M. Barsac. He owes obedience to nobody, he is not in love with anybody, he cannot help realizing that we are in Africa, he is too serious minded to give way to a whim, and he hasn't any copy to place. So? ...
This question worries me so much I'm going to ask him outright.
M. Barsac looks me up and down, nods his head, and makes a gesture that doesn't mean a thing. That's all I can get out of him. Anyone can see he's used to being interviewed.
7th February. Things have been happening, and the night has been disturbed. Result: we didn't get off at the usual hour, and today we shall make only one march, in the evening.
Let's set down the facts in chronological order. The conclusion that may be clearly drawn from them is that upsets can sometimes be useful.
We had decided yesterday to say nothing to Morilire and to limit ourselves to watching him more closely. With that purpose, and so as to keep him under our eyes without letting the rank and file of our escort into the secret of our fears, we have to keep watch in turn. As there are six of us, including Mlle Mornas, who always regards herself as a man, that won't be too much of a business.
To keep to that programme, we have divided the night, from nine to five, into six parts more or less equal, and drawn lots for them. We come out of the hat in the following order: Mlle Mornas, M. Barsac, Captain Marcenay, myself, St. Berain, and M. Poncin. So fate has decided.
At one in the morning my turn comes, and I take Captain Marcenay's place. He tells me that everything is in order, and he points to Morilire who is asleep not far from us, wrapped up in some white garment.
The moon, now at its full, lets us see the fellow's black face and brings the white garment into relief.
Nothing out of the way during my turn of duty, except that, about half past one, I think I can hear the same roaring which had so much bewildered us near Kankan.
This noise seems to come from the east, but now it is so distant, so weak, so elusive, that even at the time I was not too sure of hearing it.
At a quarter past two I hand over duty to St. Berain and turn in. I cannot sleep. Because things are unusual, no doubt, sleep will not return after being interrupted. After half an hour's effort, I give it up, and I get out of bed, with the idea of finishing the night in the open air.
At that moment I again hear, so weakly that I think it might be another illusion, the same roaring noise that recently drew my attention. This time I'm going to make certain. I dash out and stretch my ear towards the night.
Nothing, or rather, so very little! A sound like breathing which fades, fades and dies very gradually towards the east. I shall have to resign myself to remaining uncertain.
I decide to go and find St. Berain, who is just carrying out his tour of duty.
Surprise! (Indeed! Is it a surprise?) St. Berain is not at his post. I bet the hopeless scatterbrain has forgotten his duty and is busy with something else. So long as Morilire has not taken the opportunity of leaving us without ceremony!
I make certain. No, Morilire has not absconded. He's still there, sleeping peacefully, stretched on the earth. I can see his black face and his white covering brilliantly lit up by the moon.
Reassured, I set out after St. Berain, with the idea of giving him a good talking to. I can pretty well guess where to find him, for I noticed a river flowing not far from our camp. I go straight there, and just as I had expected I can see a shadow in the middle of the current. How did this fanatic of a fisherman manage to get so far from the bank? Can he walk on water?
As he explained this morning, St. Berain has improvised a raft, just big enough to carry him, out of three lengths of wood; then, using a long branch instead of a punting-pole, he's pushed himself some way out into the stream. There he's moored himself, using a large stone as an anchor, tied to the raft by a fibre cord. Making this took only about half an hour's work. It's quite ingenious.
But at the moment that's not what I'm concerned with.
I go up to the bank and call him softly: "St Berain?
• • •
The shadow on the water replies "Here!"
I continue: "What are you doing there, St. Berain?"
I hear a quiet laugh, then the shadow replies: "I'm poaching, my dear fellow."
I must be dreaming! Poaching? ... In the Sudan? . . . I did not know that fishing rights were preserved here! I repeat:
"You're poaching? What sort of game are you playing?"
"That's right," St. Berain replies. "I'm fishing by night with a casting net. It's absolutely illegal
That idea amuses him. He laughs, the fool.
"And Morilire" I ask, exasperated.
There comes through the darkness a terrible oath, which my pen refuses to write, then the shadow begins to move, and St Berain, wet up to his knees, comes scrambling on to the bank like a thief. Now he's half-crazy with fright. He's left it a bit late.
"Morilire?" he repeats in a choking voice.
"Yes, Morilire" I tell you. What have you done with him, idiot?"
There comes another oath, and St. Berain makes off for the post he should never have left
Fortunately Morilire is still asleep. I could even swear that he hasn't moved since I relieved Captain Marcenay. St. Berain confirms this.
"You've given me a fright!" he sighs.
At that moment we hear a loudish noise from the river bank we've just left. Anyone would think it was somebody drowning.
We run, St. Berain and I, and indeed we can make out, on the far side of his improvised raft, some black object thrashing about.
"That's a Negro," says St. Berain.
He jumps on his raft, disentangles the Negro and brings him to the bank, meanwhile explaining to me:
"The rascal has got caught up in my net,I'd forgotten it." (Naturally, my dear St. Berain).
"But what the devil was he doing there?"
We bend over the poor devil, who at last is breathing strongly enough for us not to worry about his fate, and the same cry escapes from our lips:
"Morilire!"
It is indeed Morilire. Morilire completely naked, drenched from head to foot, and half-suffocated by his ducking. It is plain that the guide left the camp, swam across trie river, and went for a little walk in the country;
then when he came back he got caught up in the net providentially forgotten by St. Berain. Without our precious scatterbrain, the traitor's absence would have gone completely unnoticed.
Then suddenly a thought flashes into my head: what about the other Morilire, sleeping so soundly in the moonlight?
I run to that obstinate sleeper, I shake him. . . . Well, I ought to have guessed it; his garment is empty and comes away in my hand. As for the black face, it is only a lump of wood capped by the helmet and plume with which the former Tirailleur embellishes his natural beauty.
This time the wretch has been caught in the act. He'll be lucky if he can explain it.
I go back to St. Berain and his prisoner, who seems to be painfully returning to life.
I say "seems", for suddenly he makes an artful leap out of our hands and dashes off for the river bank, plainly meaning to have another bath.
Morilire has reckoned without his host. St. Berain's hand falls on the wrist of the fugitive, who vainly struggles to escape.
Honestly I think St. Berain less captivating than the Apollo Belvedere, but he's as strong as Hercules. He must have a terrible grip, if I may judge by the contortions and grimaces of the Negro. In less than a minute Morilire is overcome; he falls on his kness and begs for mercy.
At the same time something drops from his nerveless grasp.
I stoop down and pick up the object. Unfortunately we weren't sufficiently wary of the Negro. Morilire frees himself by a desperate effort, throws himself upon me and grasps the said object in his free hand; it disappears into his mouth.
Half choking, Morilire has to give up. But alas, he only gives up by half. With his steel-like teeth, the Negro has cut the suspicious object in two, and one half has been engulfed in the depths of his stomach.
I look at my quarry. It is a small piece of paper, with some writing on it.
"Look after that scum," I warn St. Berain.
St. Berain reassures me with a word, and I hurry to find Captain Marcenay. His first care is to deposit Morilire suitably bound, in a tent, round which he sets four men to whom he gives the most explicit instructions. After that we all go to the captain, clamouring to know what there is on the sheet of paper.
By the light of a lantern, we ascertain that it bears some Arabic characters. The captain, well versed in Arabic, would have no difficulty in reading them, if they were clearer and if the document were intact.
But the writing is very poor, and as I explain we have only half of the text. In its present state it's only a riddle, which the poor light of the lantern does not allow us to decipher. We must wait for daylight.
But when the day comes we reflect that we must be taking a lot of unnecessary trouble. Everything suggests that Morilire, no longer having any hope of deceiving us, will value our goodwill so much that he will confess his misdeeds and give us the complete translation of the document.
We go up to the tent which forms his prison, and go in.
Amazed, we pause upon the threshold: the cords which held the prisoner are lying on the ground. The tent is empty.
CHAPTER IX
BY SUPERIOR ORDERS
(From the notebook of Amidee Florence)
The same day. I have just had to break off, as Captain Marcenay was calling me to see the translation of the fragment of paper which escaped Morilire's appetite. I now resume my chronological record.
There we are, finding the tent empty. No trace of Morilire. Nothing but the rope on the ground. Greatly annoyed, Captain Marcenay questions the guard. But the poor devils are as taken aback as we are. They swear that they have never left their posts, and that they heard nothing suspicious. We can't make it out.
We go back into the tent, and then we see for the first time a hole cut into its roof: above this we observe a thick tree branch. That explains eveiything. Insecurely fastened, Morilire has somehow or other loosened his bonds, shinned up the tentpole, and got away, so to speak, by air.
Should we go after him? What's the use? He's got almost an hour's start, and how could we find him in the bush? We should need dogs.
Agreed on this, we yield to the inevitable. The Captain takes down the tent which had held Morilire so insecurely, dismisses the four Tirailleurs, and orders them on pain of severe punishment not to say a word about what they've seen. Then he goes off to his quarters to attack the mysterious document. Meanwhile St. Berain will tell our companions all about it, if he doesn't forget it himself.
An hour later Captain Marcenay sends for me, as I've already mentioned. I find him in M. Barsac's tent, where all the Europeans are assembled. Their faces show a natural astonishment. Where's the rhyme or reason in Morilire's treachery? Is he acting on behalf of some third party, whose intervention I've long been suspecting? Perhaps we shall know in a few minutes.
"The Arab writing," Marcenay explains, "goes from right to left, but as the paper is transparent we've only to turn it round to read it in the usual way. Here's the result."
He gives us a piece of paper, irregularly torn across, like the original; on this I read, copied in the Latin alphabet, the following words:
Mansa a man gnigne toubabou
Memou nimbe mando kafa
batake manaeta sofa
A okato. Batou
i a ka folo. Mansa a be
If it were left to me to decipher these cabalistics!
We pass the paper from hand to hand. Mlle Mornas and St. Berain do seem able to make something of it. I marvel at the extent of their knowledge. As for M. Barsac and M. Poncin, they know just as much as I do.
"The last words of the first two lines are incomplete," Captain Marcenay explains. "The first ought to be toubaboitlengo, which means 'Europeans', literally 'Red Europeans', and the last Kafama, meaning 'stiff.
"With these additions, here's the translation of the document: 'The Master (or The King) doesn't want the Europeans. ... As they are still coming on . . . letter will fetch the soldiers. ... He will give the orders. Obey . . . you have begun. The Master (or The King) is.
We make faces. That's not much clearer.
"The first part is easy to understand." Captain Marcenay continues. "Somewhere there is a 'Master' or a 'King' who doesn't want us to do so and so. For some reason or other he finds us a nuisance. The missing half no doubt begins by describing some plot which we don't know about. The next two lines aren't so clear. 'A letter will fetch the soldiers,' that doesn't tell us much. The fourth is only an order to Morilire, and we don't know who that 'he' is who will 'give the orders.' As for the last words, they don't mean anything, to us at any rate."
We look at each other disappointedly. That takes us a long way! M. Barsac sums things up:
"From what's happened so far, along with today's happenings, we can conclude: Prime-: our guide has betrayed us for the benefit of some third party who, for some reason unknown, wants to obstruct our movements. Secundo: this unknown person must have some influence, for even at Konakry he managed to plant on us a guide whom he had chosen. Tertio: this power is not too great, all the same, for so far he's only found childish methods of attaining his ends!"
I raise an objection: "Pardon! the mysterious unknown has made some attempts of quite a different character."
And I explain to my honourable audience my pondering over the doung-kono poison and the Ke'nie'lala's predictions. They praise my perspicuity.
"These ingenious deductions that M. Florence has made," adds M. Barsac, "all they do is to confirm my own. I say then that our adversary, whoever he may be, need not be feared too much, or the methods he used against us would be far more serious and far more effective."
M. Barsac is right. It is wisdom, Sophia, the great Sophia of the Greeks, that speaks through his mouth. He goes on: "My opinion is this, then, that while giving this business our serious attention, we must take care not to exaggerate it. This comes to saying, let's be prudent, but don't let's worry about it too much."
We all agree, which does not surprise me, for I know the secret mo
tives of all of them. What does surprise me, however, is M. Barsac's obstinacy. Why doesn't he take advantage of this chance of interrupting a journey whose uselessness can no longer be doubted?
Whatever happens, we've got to get some fresh guides. Mlle Mornas suggests her own; they know, or they ought to know, the country, as that was the very reason she engaged them. To settle the matter, we sent for Tchoumouki and Tongane.
The attitude of the former does not please me. He tells us that we can rely on him, but he seems uneasy and embarrassed, and while he speaks I can never catch his furtive eyes. To my mind this fellow is oozing with lies. In my opinion he's no better than Morilire.
Tongane on the other hand, is straightforward. He declares that he knows the way quite well, and that he will lead us wherever we want to go. He tells us, too, that he can get the porters and muleteers to see reason. This boy makes a good impression. His tones are candid and he looks you in the face.
I decide that from now on I shall have confidence in Tongane and distrust Tchoumouki
The two new guides go to hold a palaver with the native personnel. Keeping to the official version, they tell them that Morilire has been eaten by a crocodile and that henceforth they will take command in his place. Nobody says anything. After the midday rest, we set off.
9th February. Morilire is no longer here, but it's just the same. With Tchoumouki and Tongane we hardly advance any quicker than with their predecessor.
The two guides keep arguing about the direction we ought to take. They never agree, and their quarrels are endless. I always opt for Tongane's directions, and experience shows that I am right. If the majority happen to decide in favour of Tchoumouki, at the first village we come to we invariably find we are wrong. Then we have to swerve, sometimes across ground which is almost impracticable, so as to regain the good road we'd left.
At other times, the discussions of our two Africans last until the heat of the day comes and we have to stay where we are.
In such conditions, we do not get on very fast. So in two days and a half we've scarcely covered twenty miles. That's poor.