When old Seralo, after hasty and doubtful conference with his fellow Regents, decided to call the tribe once more to the aboura, he did so with the words of a ruler, but the quaking heart of a child. There were three things he knew. First, that there was great trouble in the tribe. Second, that at the heart of the trouble lay the chief, and the marriage of the chief. Third, that though Dinamaula was to assume the chair of rule within a few days, those few days could not be left to the idle passage of time. He himself was still the first man in the Council of Regents, and the troubled tribe had need of his counsel and his hard words of admonishment.
There was a fourth thing that he guessed at, and a fourth thing that he came to know in full certainty, as soon as he stood up to face the restless, murmuring crowd on the aboura. The fourth thing was that his power was ebbing away from him like the rattling breath of a lion torn by spears, and that in its place was an ugly emptiness. Into that emptiness might step a single strong man – Puero, the third Regent, or Dinamaula himself; or else white Government, intent on re-establishing the pattern of order; or chaos itself, wearing the bloody mask of mob rule.
He wished in his old heart that there was a fifth thing that he knew. The fifth thing would be that peace and decency would return again, at a word from himself, a magic and binding word which would be taken up and acclaimed by all the assembled tribe. But he no longer had that authority, nor that magic. At his back sat Katsaula, an ill man still, and troubled by conflicting thoughts; and Puero, who might seize the moment and turn it to gross advantage. Before his eyes, restless like the waters of the dam at the time of flood, was the whole concourse of the Maulas. The burning sun was not less hot than their temper. Caught between these two forces, the one uncertain, the other violent, his ancient body trembled and his old head grew pinched and of no account.
But even he, on whom wisdom and authority still sat, was not to know that within the space of a short hour, the flood waters would turn to a muddy raging torrent, no longer to be controlled by a single man or a single thought.
At the end of that short hour, he knew. By then, his astonished eyes and ears had witnessed shameful things that should never fall to the lot of an old man near the end of his rule and his life.
Even as he spoke the accustomed words of greeting, he heard the young men in the middle of the aboura chanting in chorus: ‘Where is our chief? Where is our chief?’
He heard the scream of the women, in unheard-of interruption, taking up the chant.
He heard an older man, a man of the first rank, not given to foolishness, propose that no taxes should be paid until Dinamaula was installed as chief, and his rule accepted by white Government.
He heard Puero at his side making a long speech on the marriage of the chief, saying that whatever woman Dinamaula chose should be accepted by the tribe, without question.
He heard the utmost divided confusion break out when those on the aboura understood what was being said.
He heard himself say, in a voice not strong, that such a marriage was against the custom.
He saw Puero’s contemptuous smile, and the answering laughter from the young men.
He heard another headman, from a nearby village, saying that such talk was not seemly, and should be ended.
He heard the uncle of Miera, the former chosen bride of Dinamaula, say that all Maulas would be shamed unless the chief married one of his own race.
He heard a further wave of coarse laughter from the young men, and silence from the women, and yet another headman declare that his people would rather leave the tribe than countenance such a marriage, which was impure.
He saw fighting break out at the edge of the aboura, between some of the young men and some of the men not so young. He heard his own reedy voice call for peace and order, and knew that his voice was powerless.
He saw Katsaula, the second Regent, rise with a face of innermost sorrow, and heard him declare that tribal custom made it necessary for them all to accept whatever the chief did, without question, and without further discussion.
When a young man called out: ‘Even a white woman?’ Katsaula answered: ‘Even so.’
He heard another young man ask, in the deep ensuing silence: ‘What shall we do if Government forbids such a marriage?’ and he stood aghast as the whole middle ground of the aboura broke into angry, sustained cursing and shouting, and the older men in the foreground stood sullen and muted, shaking their heads.
He heard vile laughter as a small child on the edge of the aboura called out, mimicking: ‘No white woman, no taxes.’ There had never been a more shameful moment, in all the seventy years of his life.
He heard himself calling for silence and order, and then say: ‘It is not seemly to decide these matters in open aboura. I and the other Regents will take counsel.’
He heard Puero say, insultingly: ‘I have given my counsel.’
He heard Katsaula say, with sorrow and grim duty in his voice: ‘I have given my counsel.’
He saw a movement at his side, and turned, and watched in terrified amazement as Dinamaula himself appeared on the balcony at the front of the aboura, while the whole huge crowd burst into a scream of welcome and homage. Even though the young chief said nothing, simply standing there under the fierce sun in grave stillness, yet Seralo knew that he was accepting this moment, and the confused salute of the aboura, and that from this tempest could come nothing but bloodshed and sorrow and shame.
Yet when Seralo strove to speak and voice these thoughts, his words died in his dry throat, while at his side Dinamaula stood nobly presented, and before them the Maulas of Gamate, in full aboura, roared their acclaim in wave after wave of thunderous tumult.
Andrew Macmillan was dozing in his chair when the telephone rang. Caught between sleeping and waking, his heart gave an uneasy leap at the harsh sound. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was ten o’clock, and through the undrawn curtains he could see that full darkness had come to the Residency garden. The phone rang again, and he reached out for it.
‘RC,’ he said.
He heard a voice say: ‘Andrew? – Keith Crump here.’ Without the label, he might not have recognized it; Crump’s voice was taut, and he seemed to be breathing fast. Behind the voice was the staccato tapping of a typewriter, and behind that a vague murmuring, like the sound of a crowd over the rim of a hill.
‘What is it, Keith? Where are you?’
‘Down at the tax office. I’d have called you earlier, but things blew up suddenly.’
‘What things?’ asked Macmillan harshly.
Crump reacted to the harshness. His voice became more controlled, measurably more formal. ‘There’s been a bit of a riot down here, sir. I think it’s OK now, but we had a sticky session for a time.’
‘What happened?’
‘They got hold of some waggons down on the aboura, and overturned them, and set alight to a couple of them.’
‘Who is “they”?’
‘The young chaps. The Dinamaula Regiment. The waggons belonged to the headmen who spoke against the marriage, this afternoon.’
‘What happened then?’
‘A lot of fighting. One of the headmen was knifed in the groin. He’s in poor shape. And one of my chaps got beaten up pretty badly. We had to make two baton-charges.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you call me?’
‘Sir, it blew up so suddenly. And–’ Crump’s voice took on a small edge of pride, ‘–we got it under control again, after a bit.’
‘What’s the position now?’
‘They’re drifting away. There’s still a lot of noise, but my chaps are keeping them moving. The waggons are burnt out. I’m having a report typed.’
There was silence between them, while the telephone wire hummed, and in the background the noise of the crowd was heard on a low note of discord.
‘Was Dinamaula there?’ asked Macmillan.
‘No. None of the Regents were showing themselves. It just started with some drinking at the back of the tax office, and then they made a rush for the waggons. But one or two of our Press friends were on hand, very punctually.’
‘Taking any part?’
‘No,’ answered Crump again. ‘Just watching. Enjoying it, obviously. Father Hawthorne did a bit of first aid.’
‘Is it really quiet now?’ asked Macmillan after a pause. ‘Do you want me to come down?’
‘There’s no need for that, Andrew.’ They were back on a normal plane once more, after the disquieting moment of anger. ‘But I think you’ll have to give them a pep talk, fairly soon. Otherwise it’s going to happen again.’
‘You couldn’t pick out any actual ringleaders?’
‘No. I’ve got about a dozen of them in the cooler, but they were no worse than the rest. I’ve booked them all on riotous assembly. We might be able to pin the knifing charge tomorrow, if the headman recognized anyone – and if he recovers.’ Crump paused. ‘Will you talk to them, Andrew?’
‘Yes, I’ll talk to them,’ answered Andrew Macmillan grimly. He leant back in his chair, no longer sleepy, no longer rendered indecisive by doubt of his own capacity. This was something he could surely deal with … ‘Get on to George Forsdick, first thing in the morning – or now, if he’s still awake. I want Seralo to call an aboura – my official aboura – for tomorrow afternoon. Five o’clock. All the Regents are to be there, and the headmen. Can you rig up the public address system?’
‘Yes, we’ll lay all that on.’ Now Crump sounded cheerful and confident, catching Macmillan’s forceful change of mood. ‘What about Dinamaula?’
‘He is officially invited to attend.’
‘I doubt if he’ll come,’ returned Crump. ‘There’s a lot of talk that he’s not going to say anything, or do anything, until he’s confirmed as chief. Then he’ll really go into action.’
‘What action?’
‘Marriage. Reforms. Taking things over generally.’ Crump hesitated. ‘It’s a bit vague at the edges, and I wouldn’t like to swear to it on paper. But I get the impression of a plan of campaign, something a bit more subtle than the usual Maula shennanigans. It could be something that Dinamaula has worked out for himself. Or it could be those Press chaps, telling him how to go about it.’
‘Dinamaula’s no fool, on his own.’
‘Educated in England,’ answered Crump sourly. ‘My income tax.’
‘I’ll fix Dinamaula,’ said Macmillan brusquely. ‘And the Press, if I have to. A few deportation orders would work wonders. The first one of those lads I hear talking out of turn will end up on the plane for Windhoek. And that goes for Dinamaula, too.’
There was a vague noise at the other end of the telephone, and a third voice was faintly heard.
‘That’s my sergeant,’ said Crump after a moment. ‘The aboura is pretty well clear. They’ve called it a day.’
‘Suits me,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Keith. Fix up that aboura, as I said. And come down to my office about midday. There are one or two other things I want to work out.’
‘All right,’ said Crump. He paused. ‘There’s just one thing, Andrew.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They’re in a funny mood.’ Crump’s voice was careful. ‘So are the Regents. So is Dinamaula. It might be a mistake to get too tough.’
‘The mistake so far,’ said Andrew Macmillan coldly, ‘is that we haven’t been tough enough. We’ll change all that tomorrow. And Master Dinamaula and I are going to have a very instructive meeting, if things don’t go exactly as I want them.’