"Who accuses this man of law-breaking?" demanded the Chief.

There was no reply. All knew their master's weakness for ivory.

The Chief addressed Moyo: "Tell me, old man, what mischief was in your heart when last you left my village?"

Moyo pointed to the tusks. "I went to hunt elephants for the Chief. For long I hunted before I killed. When I had killed, I brought my ivory to my Chief. I am no law-breaker. Is it against the law for the Chief's slave to hunt elephants for the Chief?"

"If," answered the Chief, "to bring me ivory is to break the law, let many break it. Who accused this man?"

As no answer was forthcoming, the Chief accepted the ivory.

As a matter of fact this old man Moyo had been very troublesome in days gone by. He had refused to pay the annual tribute of honey, corn and skins, and had driven away the tax-gatherers sent to collect. Now, realising that he was getting on in years, he thought it wise to make his peace. No one ventured to remind the Chief of these things in view of the offering of two goodly tusks. Moyo was permitted to go to his home in peace; it was, however, plainly hinted to him that ivory would not save his skin if again he thought fit to defy the Chief's authority.

At length Bositi's turn came. "Who is this slave?" asked the Chief.

Someone spoke for him. "He comes with a small gift. He has been working for many years for the white man."

"Is this the fellow who has been making the white man's stemala?"

(By "stemala" the Chief meant railway, probably an attempt at the word "steamers.")

"Yes, Chief," said Bositi, "I have been making stemalas."

"Can you make good stemalas?"

"Yes, Chief, I can make them. I have been helping the white man to make them for many years."

"What does the white man use stemalas for?"

"To carry goods too heavy for a man to carry, and to travel distances more quickly and greater than a man can travel."

"Could you build a stemala for me?"

Without hesitation Bositi declared he could build a railway for the Chief if he were provided with the necessary men to help him and a few axes and adzes for felling and shaping the timber.

"Is not the stemala made of iron?" inquired the Chief.

"Yes, the white man uses iron from his country where it is found in pieces as long and as straight as a palm tree. He has no big trees in his country. In the Chief's country iron is only found in little pieces, but the trees are large and long."

"If you make a good stemala for me you shall be the headman of your village and the induna of your district. The axes and the adzes shall be given to you. Go and make a stemala for me; go quickly and make the stemala quickly."

"I will go, but the Chief must know that a stemala is a big thing to make. Many men and many days are wanted for its making."

"It is well; I understand," said the Chief. Then turning to one of his princ.i.p.al advisers, he directed him to see that Bositi had all the men and all the tools he required.

That night much fuss was made over Bositi who was to become the headman of his village and the induna of his district--when he had made a railway for his Chief.

As for Bositi, he talked big things and adopted the manner of a big man, bearing himself as if his railway were already built and he installed in his high position.

In due course were settled such small details as where the railway was to be built, how many men were required, and what tools would be wanted from the Chief's store.

At length the party set out. Bositi was the most important member of it.

Next, and with authority in some respects even greater than his, was the Chief's representative. This man had power to requisition slave labour in the Chief's name and free food from the villages near to the seat of operations.

The spot chosen for the railway was some two hundred miles from the Chief's village. This was fortunate for Bositi, for the distance freed him from too much tiresome supervision. It was on the main river where free navigation is interrupted by a waterfall of considerable size and a series of formidable rapids. For centuries travellers had been content to drag their canoes overland round these obstacles. The going was very heavy as the soil was loose and sandy. The railway was to save this labour. Canoes were to be put on the rails above the falls and so transported to the quiet water below. A more useful railway, from the natives' point of view, could not have been planned.

I was shown over the works by Bositi himself in the early days of construction, before those difficult problems arose which sooner or later confront all who "bite off more than they can chew."

If Bositi had paid strict attention to business and had attached that importance to details which details have a way of demanding, I think his railway would have been a success. But this is too much to expect of any native.

He began well.

I found firmly fixed to the ground by means of stout wooden pegs half a dozen well-made wooden rails. Much labour had been expended on these, for they were cut from large trees. They were perfectly straight and set in true parallel. Resting on the rails were two pairs of wheels: each pair was linked together by a heavy axle bar, rounded at either extremity to permit the wheels to turn freely, but squared between the wheels. The wheels, which were secured to the axle by wooden pins, were shaped like cotton reels: that is, they were doubly f.l.a.n.g.ed in order to keep them from slipping off the rails.

Bositi ordered his men to put a long, heavy log across the axle of the two pairs of wheels and proudly pushed it backwards and forwards along the short length of line, some sixty feet.

He explained that when the work was finished it would be necessary only to place a canoe, fully loaded, across the axles and push it along.

I asked him how many months he had been at work on the construction. He said six. I pointed out that as the distance to be covered by the rails was some three miles, it would be forty years and more before the railway was ready for use. In the meantime, what about the ravages of the white ant?

Bositi appeared hurt but not discouraged. I think he put my criticism down to the natural jealousy which a white man would feel upon finding that a native is not incapable of great things.

He explained that the work had required some planning out, that the local people had been slow to respond to the calls made upon them by the Chief's representative for food and labour, and that the rains had hindered progress.

I admitted that these were difficulties which required time to overcome, and asked to be shown his working camp.

Bositi led me some distance into the forest. Here I saw a number of men busy with tiny native adzes upon some felled trees, shaping them into wooden rails. In very few instances were the rails in the making as straight as those already laid. It was clear to me that the wheels would somehow have to negotiate very awkward turns and twists in the line, and I wondered how they would do it.

By no amount of questioning and patient explanation could I get Bositi to see the difficulty which lay ahead of him, so I presently continued my journey, encouraged by the promise that when next I pa.s.sed that way with my canoes I should enjoy a ride on the wooden railway.

That section of the Cape to Cairo railway was never finished. I inspected the abandoned line many months later and found, as I had expected, that the white ants had eaten the rails almost as quickly as they were laid. I also saw that less trouble had been taken in making them. The trees from which they were cut were crooked, so here the rails widened, there they narrowed. Here there was a hump, there a depression.

I made it my business to find out what had become of Bositi. He had not been made a headman of his village nor an induna of his district; but, having failed in his undertaking and squandered all his substance, he had gone south again to live the careless life of the railway camp, where, under the hand of the white man, difficulties seem to disappear as quickly as the morning mist before the rising sun.

THE LICENSED VICTUALLER.

John Smith was an up-country caterer in a remote part of Africa. We called him Joseph, after other shining lights in the trade.

I don't think I ever saw him quite sober, but, on the other hand, never heard of his being drunk. He was not good to look at, being fat, bald and red-faced.

A stranger once called him Joe. Our host was indignant at the familiarity, and snapped: "I'm Joe to me pals, John Smith to me acquaintances, Mr. Smith to you, d.a.m.n you!" Coming across to my table, he winked heavily, and said in a hoa.r.s.e stage-whisper: "P'raps you've 'eard a bloke say that afore?"

I admitted I had.