Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur (лучшие книги .TXT) 📗
It was a good thing, Flynn decided, that the Wakamba tribe from which Commissioner Fleischer had recruited the majority of his labour force, affected clean-shaven pates. It would be impossible for a person of European descent to dress his straight hair to resemble the woollen cap of an African.
It was also a good thing about the M'senga tree. From the bark of the M'senga tree the fishermen of Central Africa decocted a liquid in which they soaked their nets. It toughened the fibres of the netting and it also stained the skin. Once Flynn had dipped his finger into a basin of the stuff, and despite constant scrubbing, it was fifteen days before the black stain faded.
It was finally a good thing about Sebastian's nose. Its new contours were decidedly negroid.
A thousand pounds!" said Flynn O'Flynn as though it were a benediction, and he scooped another mugful of the black liquid and poured it over Sebastian Oldsmith's clean-shaven scalp. "Think of it, Bassie, me lad, a thousand pounds! Your half share of that is five hundred.
Why! You'll be in a position to pay me back every penny you owe me. You'll be out of debt at last." They were camped on the Abati river, one of the tributaries of the Rufiji. Six miles downstream was Commissioner Fleischer's wood-cutting camp.
"It's money for jam," opined Flynn. He was sitting comfortably in a riempie chair beside the galvanized iron tub, in which Sebastian Oldsmith squatted with his knees drawn up under his chin. Sebastian had the dejected look of a spaniel taking a bath in flea shampoo. The liquid in which he sat was the colour and viscosity of strong Turkish coffee and already his face and body were a dark purply chocolate colour.
Sebastian isn't interested in the money," said Rosa Oldsmith. She knelt beside the tub and, tenderly as a mother bathing her infant, she was ladling the M'senga juice over Sebastian's shoulders and back.
"I know, I know!" Flynn agreed quickly. "We are all doing our duty. We all remember little Maria may the Lord bless and keep her tiny soul. But the money won't hurt us either." Sebastian closed his eyes as another mugful cascaded over his head.
Rub it into the creases round your eyes and under your chin," said Flynn, and Sebastian obeyed. "Now, let's go over it again, Bassie, so you don't get it all balled up. One of Mohammed's cousins is boss-boy of the gang loading the timber into the launches. They are camped on the bank of the Rufiji. Mohammed will slip you in tonight, and tomorrow his cousin will get you on to one of the launches going down with a load for Blitcher. All you've got to do is keep your eyes open. Joyce just wants to know what work they are doing to repair her; whether or not they've got the boilers fired; things like that. You understand?" Sebastian nodded glumly.
"You'll come back up-river tomorrow evening, slip out of camp soon as it's dark and meet us here. Simple as a pimple, right?" "Right," murmured Sebastian.
"Right then. Out you get and dry off." As the dry wind from the uplands blew over his naked body, the purply tint of the dye faded into a matt chocolate.
Rosa had modestly moved away into the grove of Manila trees behind the camp. Every few minutes Flynn came across to Sebastian and touched his skin.
"Coming along nicely," he said, and, "Nearly done," and, "Jeer, you look better than real." Then finally in Swahili, "Right, Mohammed, mark his face." Mohammed squatted in front of Sebastian with a tiny gourd of cosmetics; a mixture of animal fat and ash and ochre. With his fingers he daubed Sebastian's cheeks and nose and forehead with the tribal patterns. His head held on one side in artistic concentration, making soft clucking sounds of concentration as he worked, until at last Mohammed was satisfied.
"He is ready."
"Get the clothes," said Flynn. This was an exaggeration.
Sebastian's attire could hardly be called clothing.
A string of bark around his neck from which was suspended a plugged duiker horn filled with snuff, a cloak of animal skin that smelled of wood-smoke and man-sweat, draped over his shoulders.
"It stinks!" said Sebastian cringing from contact with the garment. "And it's probably got lice."
"The real thing," agreed Flynn jovially.
"All right, Mohammed. Show him how to fit the istopo the hat."
"I don't have to wear that also," Sebastian protested, staring in horror as Mohammed came towards him, grinning.
"Of course you've got to wear it." Impatiently Flynn brushed aside his protest.
The hat was a hollow six-inch length cut from the neck of a calabash gourd. An anthropologist would have called it a penis-sheath.
It had two purposes: firstly to protect the wearer from the scratches of thorns and the bites of insect pests, and secondly as a boost to his masculinity.
Once in position it looked impressive, enhancing Sebastian's already considerable muscular development.
Rosa said nothing when she returned. She took one long startled look at the hat and then quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks and neck flared bright scarlet.
"For God's sake, Bassie. Act like you proud of it. Stand up straight and take your hands away. Flynn coached his son-in-law.
Mohammed knelt to slip the rawhide sandals on to Sebastian's feet,
and then han-] him the small blanket roll tied with a bark string.
Sebastian slung it over one shoulder, then picked up the long-handled throwing-spear.
Automatically he grounded the butt and leaned his weight on the shaft; lifting his left leg and placing the sole of his foot against the calf of his right leg, he stood in the stork posture of rest.
