“Look here, , we ought to do something to help Wimba. I don’t believe he’s getting a square deal.”
“Nor I, Frank. But what can we do? Chief Ruku-Ru is here. And if he decides against Wimba—”
Jack Hampton’s tone was as near hopeless as one could ever expect to hear from the lips of that optimistic young adventurer.
Nor is that to be wondered at. The predicament of their head man, Wimba, a Kikuyu of superior parts whose services they had been fortunate enough to obtain at Nairobi, capital of British East Africa or Kenya Colony, was serious.
Here on the far fringe of the Kikuyu country, several hundred miles from Nairobi, the nearest outpost of white civilization in Central Africa, Wimba was being tried on a charge of murder. Chief Ruku-Ru, head of the local tribesmen, presiding as judge, gave every indication of being about to sentence Wimba to death.
And the two boys knew Wimba was innocent. They believed the latter’s story. Wimba said he had come upon two local tribesmen stealing from the effects of his employers and that, when discovered, they had attacked him. Fighting in self- he had been unfortunate enough to kill one, whereupon the other had run to Chief Ruku-Ru with the tale that Wimba had murdered his comrade.
During the course of the trial, which was being held beneath a great thorn tree, Jack Hampton and Frank Merrick had been breathless spectators. Their companion. Bob Temple, lay weak from fever in his tent, and could not be present.
In an old armchair which had been brought by a trader years before to this remote village, sat Chief Ruku-Ru, as if in a throne. His hair was to a knob on the very top of his round head. His black face was preternaturally grave as became an of justice. Around his neck were a half dozen of wire. His arms were covered from wrist to elbow with of similar material. Thrown across his right shoulder and drawn together beneath his left armpit was the single cotton garment which constituted his only clothing. And in his right hand he held a number of small sticks. These were important. If the scored a point in the , he planted a stick in the ground on the right. If Wimba’s defense scored a point, he planted a stick on his left. At the end of the trial, he would count the number of sticks in each row and that side having the greater number would win.
This much had been explained to the boys by Wimba’s assistant, an intelligent young Kikuyu named Matse. But the latter’s command of English was not much to lean upon, and he could not inform the boys of every point in the case. From him, however, they had learned enough to realize that Wimba was drawing near the end of his defense, and that the prosecution had the better of it. The pile of sticks on the right was larger.
“If only Dad was here,” Jack, in a whisper.
But Mr. Hampton, together with Oscar Niellsen, their cameraman, was off on an expedition to photograph wild animals at a water hole many miles away.
Frank squirmed at his companion’s side. “Jack, I’ve got an idea. It’s a long chance, but it may work.”
“What is it?”
For a minute or two Frank whispered in Jack’s ear, and the latter’s face lighted up.
“What do you think of it?” asked Frank, in conclusion, drawing back. “Will it work?”
“We’ll chance it,” whispered Jack, in reply, nodding. “But you’ll have to be quick. Now away with Matse and leave me to do my part.” Without further waste of words or time, Frank drawing the young Kikuyu interpreter after him drew back amongst the grass-thatched huts of the Kikuyu village fringing the council square.
His departure was unnoticed by the big crowd of tribesfolk gathered in a circle, and hanging upon the progress of the trial.
The minutes passed and with the passage of each one Jack grew more anxious. But presently Frank again slipped into position beside him.
“Thank goodness,” he whispered, breathlessly, “that we rigged up that loudspeaker in the council tree last night.”
“Yes,” replied Jack, “and that we haven’t had a chance to try it out yet. Nobody knows it’s there, But was Bob all right?”
“A little weak yet,” replied Frank. “But he took charge of operations, all right. Was to death.”
“Well, we meant to give them a concert out of the council tree,” said Jack. “But this will be better. Wonder we didn’t think of it before.”
“Oh, well,” replied Frank, “so long as the idea came to us in time, what does it matter?”
“But Matse?” asked Jack, anxiously. “Does he understand the part he’ll have to play? Will he handle it all right?”
Frank smiled confidently. “When I give him the signal,” he said, “Matse will do his part, never fear. He’d undertake anything in order to save Wimba. But we’re not out of the woods yet, Jack. We don’t know what’s going on. Oh, if we only had another boy who could speak English and could translate this for us.”
Jack gripped his companion’s arm. “Look, Frank, the trial is over. Now Chief Ruku-Ru is about to pronounce sentence. See. Wimba is staring hard at us. Poor fellow, he believes his end has come and what a look of dumb appeal. Up, Frank, it’s time to act I’m sure.”
From their place on the and a little to one side of the semi-circle of , Frank and Jack rose with white faces and advanced the few steps necessary to bring them face to face with Chief Ruku-Ru seated opposite across the open space surrounding him.
The tall forming the chief’s guard, coal-black, six foot tall, magnificent of manhood, stood aghast. What did the white strangers ?
Chief Ruku-Ru half rose from his chair in anger at this interruption. But before he could give a command to have the boys seized, if such discourtesy to his guests was , Jack holding himself proudly addressed the throne.
“Oh, great chief,” he cried in English, “we be strangers in your land, it is true. Yet have we watched with interest the progress of this trial, and your conduct. But we believe you have been deceived by amongst those who seek Wimba’s life. Therefore we appeal to our gods to speak from the sky and tell you the truth. Wimba,” he commanded, “tell the chief what I have said. Forget nothing. There will be a voice from the sky and in the chief’s own language. Do not fear. But speak quickly.”
From his position between two tall Kikuyu warriors, Wimba who stood to the left of the chief, had been listening in blankest . His strong face with the thin lips and intelligent lines of many of the Kikuyu tribesmen had betrayed as much despair as his self-restraint under would permit him to betray, when Jack had begun to speak. But now not only the despair but the succeeding astonishment disappeared.
“Speak Wimba,” commanded Jack. “Remember what you placed in the council tree for us last night.”
He was safe, he knew, in thus reminding Wimba, as none in the audience had any knowledge of English. And he had explained enough of the mysteries of radio the previous night, when the entire village slept after heavy potations of native beer following a royal reception to the new guests, to give Wimba confidence now that Jack would be able as he promised to bring a voice seemingly out of the sky.
At any rate, Wimba was in a desperate situation. He was ready to grasp at any straw. Gazing about he saw the multitude of natives crowding close, awaiting the verdict. He saw Chief Ruku-Ru open-mouthed at the white boy’s interruption. He knew if he were going to act, he must act at once. Otherwise the chief would order the interrupters seized, perhaps; and most certainly would order him .
And he could not contemplate being staked out on an ant hill with .
Bowing low, Wimba addressed Chief Ruku-Ru in a loud voice. The boys could not understand his words, for he in the Kikuyu tongue. But they could perceive that he was making their startling announcement, for over the chief’s face spread a look of startled bewilderment while through the of natives around behind them in a semi-circle passed a like a wind the surface of a lake.
They watched Wimba closely, and saw the burst on his face. He was speaking in deadly earnestness, for it was a matter of life or death to him.
When Wimba ceased, Chief Ruku-Ru appeared to pull himself together and he addressed a few sharp words to Wimba in a contemptuous tone.
“He’s scared, but doesn’t want to show it,” was Jack’s whispered comment.
Frank nodded, but did not reply. His face was on that of Wimba. He knew the crisis had come. And the prisoner’s words confirmed his belief.
“Bring the voice from the sky, baas,” said Wimba. “The chief says he does not believe, but he is afraid.”
Frank was pale as death. Stepping a few paces in front of Jack, he paused in the middle of the open space before Chief Ruku-Ru’s armchair throne. Then lifting his eyes skyward, as if appealing to some in the overhead, he put his fingers between his lips and emitted a piercing whistle. Once, twice, thrice, it .
Silence.
Over all that assemblage of black men, over the group of bearers to one side, awaiting the verdict upon their comrade, over the old gray-haired elders in a knot near the chief, over the tall warriors of the guard with their spears, over the ring of warriors with their shields of painted bullock and elephant hide on the ground before them, over the pushing mass of women and children behind, spread a deathlike silence.
Every eye was lifted in . Every face gazed skyward. The words of the white young men as interpreted by Wimba had spread unbelievable . They waited, fascinated, half believing, half terrified, for the voice from the sky which the white men had promised.
Then it came.
From the top of the great council tree boomed out a voice in the Kikuyu tongue. It was a voice unknown to them all. It was a voice the volume of which seemed supernatural. Yet every word was clear. And this great voice cried:
“Oh, Chief Ruku-Ru, great amongst the Kikuyus, I am the spirit by the white men. Their fate is in my keeping. I watch over them and their servants. And I tell you that Wimba is guiltless. Let but a hair of his head be touched and thy village shall be levelled, thy people destroyed by plague, thy cattle die, thy springs dry up. I have spoken. Set Wimba free or these things shall come to pass. It is an order.”