leondumoulin.nl: Sanders Of The River (Commissioner Sanders) Book 1 of 2 in the Commissioner Sanders Stories Series . 2 people found this helpful. Helpful.
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There had been good crops, and good crops mean idleness, and idleness means mischief. Also there had been devil dances, and the mild people of the Bokari district, which lies contiguous to Lukati, had lost women. Shall we make a report and wait for reinforcements, or shall we chance our luck? If things go wrong you'll get the kicks; but if it were mine I'd go, like a shot—naturally.
George, it may be said, had no idea that he was anything but welcome in the village of Lukati. Olari the chief had greeted him pleasantly, and told him stories of Sanders' brutality—stories which, as George wrote, "if true, must of necessity sound the death-knell of British integrity in our native possessions. George stayed a month as the guest of Lukati. He had intended to stay at the most three days, but there was always a reason for postponing his departure. Once the carriers deserted, once the roads were not safe, once Olari asked him to remain that he might see his young men dance.
George did not know that his escort of four Houssas were feeling uneasy, because his interpreter—as big a fool as himself—could not interpret omens. George knew nothing of the significance of a dance in which no less than six witch-doctors took part, or the history of the tumbledown hut that stood in solitude at one end of the village. Had he taken the trouble to search that hut, he would have found a table, a chair, and a truckle bed, and on the table a report, soiled with dust and rain, which began: It was approaching the end of the month, when the Hon.
George thought he detected in his host a certain scarcely-veiled insolence of tone, and in the behaviour of the villagers something more threatening. The dances were a nightly occurrence now, and the measured stamping of the feet, the clash of spear against cane shield, and the never-ending growl of the song the dancers sang, kept him awake at nights.
Messengers came to Olari daily from long distances, and once he was awakened in the middle of the night by screams. He jumped out of bed and pushed aside the fly of his tent to see half a dozen naked women dragged through the streets—the result of a raid upon the unoffending Bokari. He dressed, in a sweat of indignation and fear, and went to the chief's hut, fortunately without his interpreter, for what Olari said would have paralysed him.
In the morning after this entirely unsatisfactory interview he paraded his four Houssas and such of his carriers as he could find, and prepared to depart. The land is full of bad people, and I have still much to tell you of the devilishness of Sandi. Moreover," said the chief, "tonight there is to be a great dance in your honour," and he pointed to where the three slaves were engaged in erecting a big post in the centre of the village street.
George was hesitating, when, of a sudden, at each end of the street there appeared, as if by magic, twenty travel-stained Houssas. They stood at attention for a moment, then opened outwards, and in the centre of each party gleamed the fat water-jacket of a Maxim gun.
The chief said nothing, only he looked first one way and then the other, and his brown face went a dirty grey. Sanders strolled leisurely along toward the group. He was unshaven, his clothes were torn with bush-thorn, in his hand was a long barrelled revolver. Olari looked round for a way of escape. He saw the Hon. George looking from one to the other in perplexity, and he flung himself at the correspondent's feet. Didn't you see the post? The condition of your district is a blot on civilization!
The Courier and Echo and another, "that the defendant Tackle did write a number of very libellous and damaging statements, and, to my mind, the most appalling aspect of the case is that, commissioned as he was to investigate the condition of affairs in the district of Lukati, he did not even trouble to find out where Lukati was. As you have been told, gentlemen of the jury, there are no less than four Lukatis in West Africa, the one in Togoland being the district in which it was intended the defendant should go.
How he came to mistake Lukati of British West Africa for the Lukati of German Togoland, I do not know, but in order to bolster up his charges against a perfectly-innocent British official he brought forward a number of unsupported statements, each of which must be regarded as damaging to the plaintiff, but more damaging still to the newspaper that in its colossal ignorance published them. HEROES should be tall and handsome, with flashing eyes; Sanders was not so tall, was yellow of face, moreover had grey hair.
Heroes should also be of gentle address, full of soft phrases, for such tender women who come over their horizon; Sanders was a dispassionate man who swore on the slightest provocation, and had no use for women any way. When you place a man upon a throne, even though that throne be a wooden stool worth in the mart fourpence more or less, you assume a responsibility which greatly outweighs all the satisfaction or personal gratification you may derive from your achievement.
There is a grave in Toledo, a slab of brass, over a great kingmaker who lived long enough to realize his insignificance. The epitaph upon that brass tomb of his is eloquent of his sum knowledge of life and human effort. Sanders was a maker of kings in the early days. He helped break a few, so it was in obedience to the laws of compensation that he took his part in reconstructive work. He broke Esindini, Matabini, T'saki—to name three—and helped, in the very old days, and in another country, to break Lobengula, the Great Bull.
King-maker he was beyond question—you could see Republicanism written legibly in the amused grin with which he made them—but the kings he made were little ones—that is the custom of the British-African rule, they break a big king and put many little kings in his place, because it is much safer. At the time of which I write it was neither, but it was ruled by Mensikilimbili for the Great King.
He was the most powerful of monarchs, and, for the matter of that, the most cruel. His dominion stretched 'from moonrise to sunset' said the natives, and he held undisputed sway. He had a court, and sat upon an ivory throne, and wore over the leopard skins of his rank a mantle woven of gold thread and scarlet thread, and he administered justice.
He had three hundred wives and forty thousand fighting men, and his acquaintance with white men began and ended with the coming of a French Mission, who presented him with a tall hat, a barrel organ, and one hundred thousand francs in gold. The little kings of the Southern lands spoke of him with bated breath; his name was uttered in a low voice, as of a god; he was the symbol of majesty and of might—the Isisi people, themselves a nation of some importance, and boastful likewise, referred to themselves disparagingly when the kingdom of Yitingi was mentioned.
Following the French Mission, Sanders went up as envoy to the Limbilu, carrying presents of a kind and messages of good will. He was escorted into the territory by a great army and was lodged in the city of the king. After two days' waiting he was informed that his Majesty would see him, and was led to the Presence. The Presence was an old man, a vicious old man, if Sanders was any judge of character, who showed unmistakable signs of anger and contempt when the Commissioner displayed his presents. The king gave a little sniff. It may be said that the kingdom of Yitingi owed its integrity to its faults, for, satisfied with the perfection of all his possessions, the great king confined his injustices, his cruelties, and his little wars within the boundaries of his state.
Also he sought relaxation therein. One day, just after the rains, when the world was cool and the air filled with the faint scent of African spring, Sanders made a tour through the little provinces. These are those lands which lie away from the big rivers. Countries curled up in odd corners, bisected sharply on the map by this or that international boundary line, or scattered on the fringe of the wild country vaguely inscribed by the cartographer as "Under British Influence.
After a month's travel the Commissioner came to Icheli, which lies on the border of the great king's domain, and with immense civility he was received by the elders and the chiefs. They told him; later they brought for his inspection a self-conscious girl, a trifle pert, he thought, for a native. A slim girl, taller than the average woman, with a figure perfectly modelled, a face not unpleasant even from the European standpoint, graceful in carriage, her every movement harmonious.
Sanders, chewing the end of his cigar, took her in at one glance. Tonight when the moon is high I will show you the dance of the Three Lovers. This Sanders did not know, and I doubt whether the knowledge would have helped him much if he did. He heard the tom-tom beating, that night as he lay in bed, and the rhythmical clapping of hands, and fell asleep wondering what would be the end of a girl who danced so that men went mad. The child was the chief's daughter, and at parting Sanders had a few words to say concerning her.
Chiefs and headmen from villages far distant come to see her. Perhaps he will send for her, offering this and that. In such a case," said the chief hopefully, "I will barter and bargain, keeping him in suspense, and every day the price will rise—". I will have no war, or women palaver, which is worse than war, in my country—mark that, chief.
Edgar Wallace
Sanders went back to his own people by easy stages. At Isisi he was detained for over a week over a question of witchcraft; at Belembi in the Isisi country he stopped three days to settle a case of murder by fetish. He was delivering judgement, and Abiboo, the Sergeant of Police, was selecting and testing his stoutest cane for the whipping which was to follow, when the chief of the Icheli came flying down the river with three canoes, and Sanders, who, from where he sat, commanded an uninterrupted view of the river, knew there was trouble—and guessed what that trouble was.
True to his pre-arranged scheme, the chief began the inevitable bargaining over terms. The presents offered were too small. The girl was worth a hundred thousand rods—nay, a thousand bags of salt. The bargaining went on through the night and all the next day, and in the end the envoy of the great king grew impatient. I think," he added, with a flash of that mordant humour which occasionally illuminated his judgments, "that the man pays twice, once to the father, and all his life to his wife—but that is as may be.
Six weeks later, after consultation, Sanders sent a messenger to the great king, demanding the price of the woman. What happened to the messenger I would rather not describe. That he was killed, is saying the least. Just before he died, when the glaze of death must have been on his eyes, and his poor wrecked body settling to the rest of oblivion, he was carried to a place before the king's hut, and Daihili danced the Dance of the Spirits.
This much is now known. Sanders did nothing; nor did the British Government, but hurried notes were exchanged between ambassadors and ministers in Paris, and that was the end of the incident. Two Icheli spies went up into the great king's country. One came back saying that the dancing girl was the favourite wife of the old king, and that her whims swayed the destinies of the nation.
Also he reported that because of this slim girl who danced, many men, councillors, and captains of war had died the death. It may have been his discovery that induced the girl to send an army against the Icheli, thinking perchance that her people were spying upon her. One day the city of Icheli was surrounded by the soldiers of the great king, and neither man, women nor child escaped. The news of the massacre did not come to Sanders for a long time.
The reason was simple; there was none to carry the message, for the Icheli are isolated folk. One day, however, an Isisi hunting party, searching for elephants, came upon a place where there was a smell of burning and many skeletons—and thus Sanders knew—"We cannot," wrote Monsieur Leon Marchassa, Minister for Colonial Affairs, "accept responsibility for the misdoings of the king of the Yitingi, and my Government would regard with sympathetic interest any attempt that was made by His Majesty's Government to pacify this country.
Taking his life in his hands, he went up to the border of Yitingi, with twenty policemen, and sent a messenger—a Yitingi messenger—to the king. With the audacity which was not the least of his assets, he demanded that the king should come to him for a palaver. This adventure nearly proved abortive at the beginning, for just as the Zaire was steaming to the borders Sanders unexpectedly came upon traces of a raiding expedition.
There were unmistakable signs as to the author. He kept steam in his little boat—he had chosen the only place where the river touches the Yitingi border—and waited, quite prepared to make an ignominious, if judicious, bolt. To his astonishment, his spies brought word that the king was coming. He owed this condescension to the influence of the little dancing girl, for she, woman-like, had a memory for rebuffs, and had a score to settle with Mr Commissioner Sanders.
The great king arrived, and across the meadow-like lands that fringe the river on both sides Sanders watched the winding procession with mingled feelings. The king halted a hundred yards from the river, and his big scarlet umbrella was the centre of a black line of soldiers spreading out on either hand for three hundred yards.
Then a party detached itself and came towards the dead tree by the water side, whereon hung limply in the still air the ensign of England. He walked leisurely toward the massed troops, and presently appeared before the old man squatting on a heap of skins and blinking like an ape in the sunlight.
He stood easily, with his hands in the pockets of his white uniform jacket, and the king was nearer death than he knew. Yet, if the Great King will pay a fine of one thousand head of cattle and will allow free access to his country for my soldiers and my commissioners, I will live in peace with him. Still less do I talk with dancing girls. My business is with Limbili the king. All the time the girl spoke he was watching from the corners of his eyes the man who talked with the king. He saw him disappear in the crowd of soldiers who stood behind the squatting figures, and prepared for the worst.
It had been hopeless from the first; this Sanders realized with some philosophy, as he lay stretched on the baked earth, trussed like a fowl, and exceedingly uncomfortable. At the first shot Abiboo, obeying his instructions, would turn the bows of the steamer down stream; this was the only poor satisfaction he could derive from the situation. Throughout that long day, with a pitiless sun beating down upon him, he lay in the midst of an armed guard, waiting for the death which must come in some dreadful form or other.
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He was undismayed, for this was the logical end of the business. Toward the evening they gave him water, which was most acceptable. From the gossip of his guards he gathered that the evening had been chosen for his exit, but the manner of it he must guess. From where he lay he could see, by turning his head a little, the king's tent, and all the afternoon men were busily engaged in heaping fiat stones upon the earth before the pavilion.
They were of singular uniformity, and would appear to be specially hewn and dressed for some purpose. He asked his guard a question. He must have been dozing, exhausted in body and mind, when he was dragged to his feet, his bonds were slipped, and he was led before the king. Then he saw what form his torture was to take. The flat stones were being taken from the fire with wooden pincers and laid to form a rough pavement before the tent.
The first stone he touched was only just warm, and on this he stood still till a spear-thrust sent him to the next. It was smoking hot, and he leapt up with a stifled cry. Down he came to another, hotter still, and leapt again—"Throw water over him," said the amused king, when they dragged the fainting man off the stones, his clothes smouldering where he lay in an inert heap.
Abiboo's Maxim-gun was in action at a range of fifty yards, and with him five hundred Ochori men under that chief of chiefs, Bosambo. For a moment the Yitingi stood, and then, as with a wild yell which was three parts fear, the Ochori charged, the king's soldiers broke and fled. They carried Sanders to the steamer quickly, for the Yitingi would re-form, being famous night fighters.
Sanders, sitting on the deck of the steamer nursing his burnt feet and swearing gently, heard the scramble of the Ochori as they got into their canoes, heard the grunting of his Houssas hoisting the Maxim on board, and fainted again. That was true, but in those far-off days there was no chief Bosambo. Now, because of my teaching, and because I have put fire into their stomachs, they have defeated the soldiers of the Great King.
Where did you get that cloak? I brought this, thinking that it would be evidence. It had borne the heat well enough, but rough handling had chipped a corner; and Sanders looked at this cracked corner long and earnestly. All around him was desolation and death. The plain was strewn with the bodies of men, and the big city was a smoking ruin. To the left, three regiments of Houssas were encamped; to the right, two battalions of African Rifles sat at "chop," and the snappy notes of their bugles came sharply through the still air.
Only her eyes never left the brick-red face of Sanders. Now we shall do nothing with you, Daihili—because you are nothing. It has been necessary for years—but why this sudden activity? He wipes out a nation. He makes me dance on the original good-intention stones of Hades. I personally think that Sanders may have been a little unjust in this point of view. After all, wars cost money, and wars of vengeance are notoriously unprofitable. By the river-side the little steamer was moored. There was a tiny bay here, and the swift currents of the river were broken to a gentle flow; none the less, he inspected the shore-ends of the wire hawsers before he crossed the narrow plank that led to the deck of the Zaire.
The wood was stacked on the deck ready for tomorrow's run. The new water-gauge had been put in by Yoka, the engineer, as he had ordered; the engines had been cleaned; and Sanders nodded approvingly. He stepped lightly over two or three sleeping forms curled upon the deck, and gained the shore. It was nine o'clock. He stood for a moment on the crest of the steep bank, and stared back across the river. The night was black, but he saw the outlines of the forest on the other side. He saw the jewelled sky, and the pale reflection of stars in the water.
Then he went to his tent, and leisurely got into his pyjamas. He jerked two tabloids from a tiny bottle, swallowed them, drank a glass of water, and thrust his head through the tent opening. He heard the rustle of men moving, the gurgles of laughter as his subtle joke was repeated, for the Cambul people have a keen sense of humour, and then the penetrating rattle of sticks on the native drum—a hollow tree-trunk. Fiercely it beat—furiously, breathlessly, with now and then a deeper note as the drummer, using all his art, sent the message of sleep to the camp.
In one wild crescendo, the lo-koli ceased, and Sanders turned with a sigh of content and closed his eyes—he sat up suddenly. He must have dozed; but he was wide awake now. He listened, then slipped out of bed, pulling on his mosquito boots. Into the darkness of the night he stepped, and found N'Kema, the engineer, waiting. From the night came a hundred whispering noises, but above all these, unmistakable, the faint clatter of an answering drum.
The white man frowned in his perplexity. He was reading the message that the drum sent. Sanders waited; he knew the wonderful fact of this native telegraph, how it sent news through the trackless wilds. He could not understand it, no European could; but he had respect for its mystery. Sanders clicked his lips impatiently. Here, indeed, in the heart of the loveliest glade in all Africa, encamped in the very centre of the Green Path of Death, was a white man, a sick white man—in the Forest of Happy Thoughts—a sick white man.
So the drum went on and on, till Sanders, rousing his own lo-koli man, sent an answer crashing along the river, and began to dress hurriedly. In the forest lay a very sick man. He had chosen the site for the camp himself. It was in a clearing, near a little creek that wound between high elephant-grass to the river. Mainward chose it, just before the sickness came, because it was pretty.
This was altogether an inadequate reason; but Mainward was a sentimentalist, and his life was a long record of choosing pretty camping places, irrespective of danger. Mainward was cursed with ill-timed confidence; this was one of the reasons he chose to linger in that deadly strip of land of the Ituri, which is clumsily named by the natives 'The Lands-where-all-bad-thoughts-become-good-thoughts' and poetically adapted by explorers and daring traders as 'The Forest of Happy Dreams.
He was endowed with the smattering of pigeon-English which a man may acquire from a three months' sojourn divided between Sierra Leone and Grand Bassam. Mainward had many strange things to think about. It was strange how they all clamoured for immediate attention; strange how they elbowed and fought one another in their noisy claims to his notice. Of course, there was the bankruptcy and the discovery at the bank—it was very decent of that inspector fellow to clear out—and Ethel, and the horses, and—and—The Valley of Happy Dreams! That would make a good story if Mainward could write; only, unfortunately, he could not write.
He could sign things, sign his name to 'three months after date pay to the order of—' He could sign other people's names; he groaned, and winced at the thought. But here was a forest where bad thoughts became good, and, God knows, his mind was ill-furnished. He wanted peace and sleep and happiness—he greatly desired happiness. Now suppose 'Fairy Lane' had won the Wokingham Stakes? It had not, of course he winced again at the bad memory , but suppose it had?
He closed his eyes again and had a strange dream. The principal figure was a small, tanned, clean-shaven man in a white helmet, who wore a dingy yellow overcoat over his pyjamas. What do you say to this? Sanders shook his head. Come, my friend, let me take you to my camp.
I want to try the supernatural effects of this pleasant place," he said with a weary smile. You don't wake from the dreams you dream here. Man, I know this country, and you're a newcomer; you've trekked here because you wanted to get away from life and start all over again. I was in England when things were going rocky with you, and I've read the rest in the papers I get from time to time.
But all that is nothing to me. I'm here to help you start fair. If you had wanted to commit suicide, why come to Africa to do it? Be sensible and shift your camp; I'll send my steamer back for your men. He was none too sure upon that point himself, and he hesitated before he spoke again. I'll come along tomorrow with a tip-top invalid chair for you—is it a bet? Mainward held out his shaking hand, and the ghost of a smile puckered the corners of his eyes. He watched the Commissioner walk through the camp, speaking to one man after another in a strange tongue.
A singular, masterful man this, thought Mainward. Would he have mastered Ethel? He watched the stranger with curious eyes, and noted how his own lazy devils of carriers jumped at his word. I've got to get back to my camp tonight, or I shall find half my stores stolen in the morning; but if you'd rather I stopped—". He wanted to be alone. He had lots of matters to settle with himself. There was the question of Ethel, for instance. White to white, and kin to kin, don't you know? We're all alone here, and there isn't a man of our colour within five hundred miles.
Good-night, and please take the tabloid—". Mainward lay listening to the noise of departure.
He thought he heard a little bell tingle. That must be for the engines. Then he heard the puck-a-puck of the wheel—so that was how the steamer got its name.
Sanders by Edgar Wallace (12 books)
Then there began to steal over him a curious sensation of content. He did not analyse it down to its first cause. He had had sufficient introspective exercise for one day. It came to him as a pleasant shock to realize that he was happy. He opened his eyes and looked round. His bed was laid in the open, and he drew aside the curtains of his net to get a better view. A little man was walking briskly toward him along the velvet stretch of grass that sloped down from the glade, and Mainward whistled. The little man was in his white riding-breeches, his diminutive top-boots were splashed with mud, and on the crimson of his silk jacket there was evidence of a hard race.
He touched his cap jerkily with his whip, and shifted the burden of the racing saddle he carried to the other arm. I thought the Fairy would do it, sir, and she did. The jockey grinned again. Coming up out of the Dip, she hung a little, but I showed her the whip, and she came on as straight as a die. I thought once the Stalk would beat us—I got shut in, but I pulled her round, and we were never in difficulties. I could have won by ten lengths," said Atty.
This win will get me out of one of the biggest holes that ever a reckless man tumbled into—I shall not forget you, Atty. There were several people in the glade now, and Mainward looked down ruefully at his soiled duck suit. But Venn saw him, and came tumbling through the trees, with his big, flabby hand extended and his dull eyes aglow. But you wanted a big sum—". Old feller, you can have it! Mainward was laughing, a low, gurgling laugh of pure enjoyment. Venn, of all people!
Venn, with his accursed questions and talk of securities. Then his merriment ceased, and he winced again, and his heart beat faster and faster, and a curious weakness came over him—How splendidly cool she looked. She walked in the clearing, a white, slim figure; he heard the swish of her skirt as she came through the long grass—white, with a green belt all encrusted with gold embroidery. He took in every detail hungrily—the dangling gold ornaments that hung from her belt, the lace collar at her throat, the—She did not hurry to him, that was not her way.
But in her eyes dawned a gradual tenderness—those dear eyes that dropped before him shyly. Do you mean it? He kissed her—her lips, her eyes, her dear hair—"O, God, I'm happy! Sanders sprang ashore just as the sun was rising, and came thoughtfully through the undergrowth to the camp.
Abiboo, squatting by the curtained bed, did not rise. Sanders walked to the bed, pulled aside the mosquito netting, and bent over the man who lay there. YOU who do not understand how out of good evil may arise must take your spade to some virgin grassland, untouched—by the hand of man from the beginning of time. Here is soft, sweet grass, and never a sign of nettle, or rank, evil weed. It is as God made it. Turn the soil with your spade, intent on improving His handiwork, and next season—weeds, nettles, lank creeping things, and coarse-leafed vegetation cover the ground.
Your spade has aroused to life the dormant seeds of evil, germinated the ugly waste life that all these long years has been sleeping out of sight—in twenty years, with careful cultivation, you may fight down the weeds and restore the grassland, but it takes a lot of doing. Your intentions may have been the best in disturbing the primal sod; you may have had views of roses flourishing where grass was; the result is very much the same. I apply this parable to the story of a missionary and his work. The missionary was a good man, though of the wrong colour.
He had large ideas on his duty to his fellows; he was inspired by the work of his cloth in another country; but, as Sanders properly said, India is not Africa. Sanders was at "chop" one blazing morning when his servant, who was also his sergeant, Abiboo, brought a card to him. It was a nice card, rounded at the corners, and gilt-edged, and in the centre, in old English type, was the inscription—REV.
Underneath was scribbled in pencil: He looked at the card again and frowned in his perplexity.
Edgar Wallace
Somehow the old English and the reverendness of the visiting card did not go well with the rounded corners and the gilt edge. Shall I kick him off? The Reverend Kenneth was sitting in Sanders' basket-chair, one leg flung negligently over one side of the chair to display a silk sock. His finger-tips were touching, and he was gazing with good-natured tolerance at the little green garden which was the Commissioner's special delight.
What do you want? He had come straight from England, where he had been something of a lion in Bayswater society, and where, too, his theological attainments had won him regard and no small amount of fame in even a wider circle. Regaining his self-possession, the missionary smiled. The negro smiled again. The next day the missionary announced his intention of proceeding up country. He came in to see Sanders as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he expected to find the Commissioner a little ashamed of himself; but if this was so he was disappointed, for Sanders was blatantly unrepentant.
In India some four hundred thousand—". Those who know the Akasava people best know them for their laziness—save in matter of vendetta, or in the settlement of such blood feuds as come their way, or in the lifting of each other's goats, in all which matters they display an energy and an agility truly inexplicable.
The People Of The River
Show me the way to the river"; and the Akasava warrior, raising a leg from the ground, pointed with his toe to the path. Though this legend lacks something in point of humour, it is regarded as the acme of mirth-provoking stories from Barna to the Lado country. It was six months after the Reverend Kenneth McDolan had left for his station that there came to Sanders at his headquarters a woeful deputation, arriving in two canoes in the middle of the night, and awaiting him when he came from his bath to the broad stoep of his house in the morning—a semi-circle of chastened and gloomy men, who squatted on the wooden stoep, regarding him with the utmost misery.
What do you seek? Now this was a most unusual request; for the Central African native does not easily starve, and, moreover, there had come no news of crop failure from the Upper River. Moreover, fish do not leave their playground without cause, and if they do they may be followed. The man spoke with some confidence, and this was the most surprising thing of all.
Sanders was nonplussed, frankly confounded. For all the eccentric course his daily life took, there was a certain regularity even in its irregularity. But here was a new and unfamiliar situation. Such things mean trouble, and he was about to probe this matter to its depth. Later I will come and make inquiries. The men were not satisfied, and an elder, wrinkled with age, and sooty-grey of head, spoke up. When he came out he carried a pliant whip of rhinoceros-hide, and the deputation, losing its serenity, fled precipitately. Sanders watched the two canoes paddling frantically up stream, and the smile was without any considerable sign of amusement.
That same night the Zaire left for the Akasava country, carrying a letter to the Reverend Kenneth McDolan, which was brief, but unmistakable in its tenor. In the event of your refusing to comply with this request, I have instructed my sergeant to arrest you. Sanders of the River Series. Commissioner Sanders is called upon by the Britis… More. Shelve Sanders Of The River. Read Currently Reading Want to Read. The classic Commissioner Sanders stories about Af… More. The River of Stars by Edgar Wallace. Shelve The River of Stars. Bosambo of the River by Edgar Wallace.
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Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was a prolific British crime writer, journalist and playwright, who wrote novels, 24 plays, and countless articles in newspapers and journals. Over films have been made of his novels, more than any other author.
In the s, one of Wallace's publishers claimed that a quarter of all books read in England were written by him. He is most famous today a Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was a prolific British crime writer, journalist and playwright, who wrote novels, 24 plays, and countless articles in newspapers and journals. He is most famous today as the co-creator of "King Kong", writing the early screenplay and story for the movie, as well as a short story "King Kong" credited to him and Draycott Dell. He was known for the J. Other books in the series.
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