The Mercy of the Lord Part 35

But it was a pretty little place. A real oasis in the surrounding desert of sands, and almost bewilderingly green amidst thickets of banana trees.

A tall fat man showed in the verandah of the opposition.

"_Guten, morgen, mien freund_," he called, with superb indifference. "I gif you welcome."

That was doubtless Franz Braun, the German rival, and Alexander Blooker hated him at sight; but he kept his dignity.

"The same to you, sir," he replied stiffly, "I trust trade is good."

"It is goot for me," remarked Franz Braun, with an air for which Alexander Blooker could have kicked him. That being impossible owing to their relative sizes, the little man relieved his bellicose feelings by beginning on "'Twas in Trafalgar Bay." It still had for him the charm of novelty to be able to beat time when and where he chose.

"_Mein Gott!_" shouted Franz Braun excitedly over the way. "_Wa.s.s fur eine Stimme! Wunderbar!_"

It was the voice that did it. But for it the armed neutrality of the past between the rival firms might have remained in the future; as it was, an hour afterwards Alexander Blooker was politely but steadily refusing to sing a second to the "Wacht am Rhein," although Franz Braun (who had an equally good high tenor, after the fas.h.i.+on of tall burly men) wept on his shoulder and called him "_Bruderlein_."

"You must to the pastor-house this evening," sighed the big creature at last, "Fraulein Anna, who is to the Pastor Schmidt daughter, will make you sing. She is _my verlobte_. I will to her be married, but she will make you sing."

Nevertheless, neither her yellow hair nor her blue eyes beguiled Alexander Blooker from his fixed determination; but they sang together for half the night, and the memory of Fraulein Anna's soaring soprana, as the notes of "Oh! for the wings of a dove" floated into the hot air, was with him as, despite the lateness of the hour, he set all in readiness for the morrow. Since on the next day's doings much depended; for it was the yearly market-day, on which all the native traders from far and near came to buy goods. Alexander Blooker, in fact, had hurried his _doongah_ up the sinking river so as to reach the Distant Depot in time for it. His last task was the undoing of one of the small bales which throughout their journey had been the objects of his special care.

"It you tike a' hinch you may as well tike the h'ell," he murmured, as he cut the packing threads by the dim light--for he had refused to use the "Made in Germany" lamp of his predecessor. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he held up the top one of the hard-pressed pile of printed cotton handkerchiefs.

"That ought to fetch 'em," he said admiringly. Certainly it might have "fetched" anything and everything. To use heraldic terms, the field of the kerchief was gules, argent and azure, arranged in _saltire_--otherwise, a Union Jack. An _escutcheon of pretence_ bore the Queen's head _regardant_, while _quarterly_, _en surtout_, were: on the first, _gules_, three lions _pa.s.sant_, or, for England; on the second, or, a lion _rampant_ within a double _tressure flory counter flory_, _gules_, for Scotland; on the third, azure, a harp, _or_, stringed _argent_, for Ireland; on the fourth?--well!--why the fourth field should have been charged with specimens from a pack of cards, Alexander Blooker did not know. It was a blot on the _scutcheon_, no doubt; but two days had not sufficed for the printing of a special design, and this was the best he had been able to find. Besides, in a measure, it was true. There was no blinking the fact that even British civilisation was apt to bring gambling and drinking with it.

The next day the whole place was full up with native traders and natives generally. The first sight of them made Alexander Blooker wonder why they were so eager for piece goods, considering how little of them they wore! But then he had hardly realised that beyond that northerly desert lay a huge tract of densely-populated, almost unknown land.

Trade was brisk over the way at Franz Braun's store. The cheap German muslins, guaranteed full length, and packed in convenient carriageable size, went off like smoke; and it was not until the best lots had gone off that a trader thought it worth while to give a perfunctory glance at Alexander Blooker's consignments. Then his eye fell instantly on the heraldic handkerchiefs.

"Sell, how much?" he asked.

Alexander Blooker shook his head. "They are not for sale, sir," he replied loftily. "They are a gift. An Imperial gift from Her Gracious Majesty the Queen of England. Everyone as buys forty yards of English stuff has one of them given in, free, gratis, and for nothin'. Him as buys two, has three, and so on--much the same as parcel post rates."

It took two interpreters to bring home this admixture of patriotism and progressive bribery to the limited brains of purchasers, but when it did find its way into their understanding, the effect was marvellous.

Before the sun set Alexander Blooker had to conceal his last bale of handkerchiefs against the year which must elapse before he could get a new supply.

"So! _mein freund_," said Franz Braun, with a good-natured laugh. "It is well; but it is not trade!"

"It will be trade," replied little Alexander stoutly. "I am going to work this job on Imperial lines."

It grew to be a joke in this Distant Depot, as it had been in the City office where the yellow fog lay on the windows like cotton wool; but here Mr. Blooker had liberty to beat time to anything he chose. And it was surprising how the natives took to him. He must have spent a good deal of his fifty pounds on the purchase of medicines, for his morning dispensary soon out-rivalled Pastor Schmidt's--who, in truth, was growing a bit old for the work. He had lost his wife of late years, his daughter was betrothed to Franz Braun (who had a promise of a post elsewhere), and the hearts of all three held hope of change in the near future which hindered much enthusiasm in the present. Not that there had ever been much of it in their lives; even the old missionary had gone on his way coolly, if conscientiously.

Alexander Blooker, on the contrary, was always at fever heat. He managed to transfer some of his ardour even through the lengthy mail to "Our Firm," so that when the river route reopened, a double consignment of dry goods took advantage of the water. The last penny, too, of the fifty pounds had gone, through Mr. Mossop's agency, in handkerchiefs of brand-new design, more heraldic, more patriotic than ever, and guiltless of cards. Perhaps Alexander Blooker felt that, so far as he was concerned, British civilisation was bringing no evil in its train.

And it was not. It was surprising, indeed, to see how the Distant Depot had improved in tone. Franz Braun, who, deprived by the difficulty of carriage of sufficient lager beer to satisfy him, had taken to over-much whisky instead, now, greatly to the delight of his "_verlobte_," satisfied his thirst on home-made ginger-pop, brewed by a recipe of Alexander's aunt, while the old pastor gave in with smiling acquiescence to the appropriation by Alexander Blooker of what might be called "parochial work." In fact, there was some talk of building another shanty as a parish hall; for the little man was distinctly churchy, and liked things in order. A Temperance League and a Band of Hope had, combined with an enlarged liver, made the liquor-store keeper take leave home, and Alexander, having offered to run the business until another man could come out, was now conducting it with a curious mixture of conscience and commerce.

So the eve of the next yearly market came round, and Alexander, in a fervour of Imperialism, actually climbed up the telegraph post which stood in one corner of his compound, and nailed a pocket-handkerchief to it, flag-wise.

"So!" called Franz Braun from over the way, half-jocularly, half-vexedly, "the patrol will at you haf damages when he returns."

For that single wire which sped seawards from north to south was patrolled at intervals by a staff of engineers from the former.

"He has paid his last visit for the cool season," said Alexander knowingly; "so there it can stay if it likes for the next four months, at any rate."

"I wish that to me came the same certainty of liking," growled Franz Braun, "but, you see, the Herr papa ails, and the _verlobte_ wishes him to the Homeland to take, and I would also go if I could."

A vague alarm showed on Alexander Blooker's face. "And leave me here alone? I'm glad you can't."

The idea, however, stuck in his brain. Supposing he were left alone, what would he do?

After he had arranged everything to his liking for the morrow, this idea of perfect solitude kept him from sleep and he strolled out with a pipe to quiet his nerves in the desert.

What would he do if he were left alone? A curious elation mixed with his natural dread. He walked, and walked, scarcely thinking out the question, only feeling it in that big heart of his. He had instinctively followed the telegraph line himself so as to be sure of not losing his way, but now he started at the sight of a solitary figure before him, visible in the moonlight, advancing to him, and keeping the same bee-line swiftly yet stumblingly, with a pause as for a few seconds' rest at each post. It was someone who was ill, or very, very tired.

A woman, a native woman! He could hear her voice now in her pauses.

Always the same words mumbled mechanically over and over again:

"Save me, Queen-of-the-handkerchief.... Save me...."

He knew enough of the language now to understand so much, and he waited, watching her curiously.

Across the last gap she stumbled towards him, gave one surprised look at him, and--with a vague effort at the same words as if he had been a telegraph post--sank down in a dead faint.

She was quite a slip of a girl, and, after a time, she came to herself; but she was so exhausted that it was past grey dawn when Alexander Blooker managed to get her back to the telegraph post in the corner of his compound. And to this she clung pertinaciously, much to his annoyance, for he wanted to get her out of the way, and find who she was, and what she wanted, before the native traders began to turn up.

His remonstrances, however, were in vain. Her only reply was a murmured incoherent repet.i.tion of her first appeal:

"Save me! Queen-of-the-handkerchiefs."

And every time she said it, Alexander Blooker experienced a patriotic thrill down his back. He felt that she must at all costs be saved--but from what?

The dawn grew from grey to gold.

"_Gott in Himmel!_" laughed Franz Braun, coming down very early because of something he had forgotten. "_Mein Alexander mit a Madchen! Ach!_ fie!"

"Stop your silly jaw and find out what she is wanting," cried Alexander Blooker fiercely, "or help me to get her into the shanty before the traders come."

"_Mein bruderlein_," replied Franz Braun solemnly, "when you have so long as me been in savage places you will-not-to-redress-women's-wrongs-learn."

Alexander Blooker swelled visibly. "That sentiment is made in Germany, sir. She has appealed to that"--he pointed to the flag pocket--handkerchief on the telegraph post which was waving in the breeze of dawn--"and, by George! she shall have protection!"

There was nothing more to be said, not even when some of the traders, coming on the scene, recognised the girl as the daughter of a powerful chief in the northern land, who would be certain to give trouble were she harboured by the Distant Depot. It would be better to send her back in their charge. How she had found her way so far was a mystery; she must have followed the telegraph posts day by day, have slept in their shadow night by night.

Some vague confused sense of the poetry of this--night after night sleeping, all unconsciously as it were, under the flag of England--day after day following the course of light to freedom, rose in Alexander's throat, and half-choked him.

"She shall stay," he said. "Let her father come to fetch her; if he is in the right, he shall have her."

"My dear sir," quavered old Pastor Schmidt, "he will not time for explanation give. I was in a to-be-compared position once. I will not be so again. I will take my daughter-ling away. I will go. There is no good in staying to be ma.s.sacred when pension has become due."

It was all to no purpose. Alexander Blooker stood firm. The utmost he would do was to write a conciliatory letter for the traders to give on their return to the girl's father, saying that his daughter had been handed over to the charge of a suitable matron, and that he might have her again if adequate explanations were tendered to Her Gracious Britannic Majesty's representative at the Distant Depot. And here the great temptation of his life came to Alexander Blooker. He would have loved to sign himself "Consul C.M.G." No one would be the wiser. But the sense of duty was strong within him, and he refrained.