The Enchanted City, page 6
As for Chocolat, who always did what people wanted of him, he casually drank a few mouthfuls, which did not even make him blink. With a blissful smile, he declared: “Manducaverum of sardines; bibi of cocoa; bono!”
After an hour’s rest, Isidore declared that it was time to take up the thread of the interrupted operations. He got everyone on their feet, climbed onto Moonchild, and prepared to cross the gap of five or six hundred meters between the besiegers’ lines and the city’s defenses. He arranged his men in a tight column with a front as wide as the breaches, and made them move at the double, threatening anyone who made as if to break ranks with the courbache.
And they set off on the warpath once again.
Eighty meters from the latticework palisade, the general let his troops take a breather; then he ordered the charge, in order to pour through the breach like a torrent between the piles of a bridge. He thought that by virtue of the acquired momentum, they would pass over the ditch swiftly; mentally, he calculated the force of the shock by multiplying the mass by the velocity, and concluded that they would arrive at the stockade in excellent conditions to drive back the defenders of the breach. That would then be the moment to open fire and to bring the affair to a conclusion.
Such was Isidore’s plan.
Following that plan, he launches his attack column forward. They arrive at the palisade—but what do they encounter there? One of those snags that the Americans call “diabolical surprises.” The breach is obstructed, and by what? By a row of enchained buffaloes, tightly packed together, forming a barricade, heads lowered, presenting their long horns to the aggressors.
“Forward!” cried the excited Isidore. “Forward!”
With that, the commanding general, bravely setting an example, gets down from Moonchild, unsheathes his large hussar’s saber and promptly stabs a first buffalo, and then a second—but at the third thrust, the long blade breaks on one of the chosen victim’s bones. The splinters of iron, projected in a spray, nearly put out Isidore’s eyes. He no longer has anything in his hand but a hilt without a blade.
“Wooden sword!” he says, throwing the debris away. “Truly, I have no luck at all—but that’s all right; one can carry on; let’s carry on. Forward! Forward!”
With Mimoun having enlarged the breach by felling three more beasts with revolver shots, the column resumes its course as best it can, crossing the pass and reforming under cover in the bottom of the ditch. From there, the stockade is only one step away.
The general gives the signal for the attack; everyone launches forward, scaling the wall; they arrive at the breach opened by the morning’s fire.
“Let’s go!” says Isidore, somewhat reassured. “This time, it will go like clockwork. Come on, a little courage! Forward, friend! Forward, forward!”
But the friends are hanging back. They seem hesitant, swooning with terror. Finally, they prostrate themselves, in conformity with the customs of the region, muttering bizarre litanies.
“Ganga nzumba! Nzumba djoudou…! Ganga nzumba...!”—and so on, indefinitely, without advancing by a single step, or making any movement at all.
Isidore no longer understands anything. What can be happening now?
Briefly, Mimoun reveals the seemingly mysterious causes of this new disarray. Among the Ormas, the he-goat is a sacred animal; it is the god of battles, the living idol of war. No one dares touch it, or even to look at it; one renders it divine honors; it is essentially djoudou—which is to say, inviolable. Anyone who does not fear to confront the sight of one is profane.
Now, in the breadth of the breach, three he-goats with long white beards are attached to stakes planted in the ground.
“Oh!” said Isidore, utterly disconcerted. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but I’ve never had such cardboard soldiers under my nose. Mimoun, take care of this for me.”
The chief of the general staff detached the goats rapidly—which, turning round, departed at top speed for the interior of the besieged location.
The way was clear.
“Let’s go, lads!” cried Isidore. “Look lively! On your feet! The goats have gone! The moment has come to open fire; we’re about to take the banza! And it’s not some wretched village; it’s a banza greater than Constantinople, one of the greatest capitals of China. The city’s ours. Forward, lads, forward!”
But the lads did not move.
“Come on!” Isidore went on, already very annoyed. “A little courage! The sun’s setting—this is the moment to open fire!”
No one budged.
Along the lines, however, confused noises rose up. A concert of lamentable voices was heard, and, as the tumult increased, the members of the attack column, still lying on the ground, were soon able to make out the meaning of the cries uttered in the advance posts of the Kifoukourou lines: “Eya! Eya! Motto! Motto!”
What was happening, then? At the moment so well determined by Isidore for opening fire, it was fire that was taking hold behind him, propagating rapidly through the dry grass, threatening to set everything ablaze.
The piercing cries encountered echoes in the attack column. Without paying any further heed to whether or not to render themselves culpable of sacrilegious gazes, the pious warriors rose to their feet, shouting in their turn: “Motto! Motto! Motto!”
The peril was great. To ward it off, there was no time to lose.
Stopped in front by the place where his men have refused to set foot, Isidore sees that he is being attacked from the rear by the conflagration. He orders the retreat, cursing his eternal bad luck.
They go back through the palisade, which will probably soon burn down. Beyond it, they perceive fires wandering through the vicinity. Everything is burning. Lianas are writhing, wood is spitting; it is a sea of flame! And all the Ormas flee recklessly, shouting: “Bush fire! Bush fire!”
Isidore climbs back on to Moonchild in order to get out of the circle of fire. The brave beast sets off at her rapid amble, but suddenly makes an abrupt lurch. The ganga-ya-ita is nearly thrown overboard.
“Hey!” says Isidore. “My mount seems to be pitching. What’s up?”
“Simba! Simba!” replies the mahout.
A lion, uttering frightful roars, has hurled itself forward to attack the elephant, but the latter, having, so to speak, caught it on the wing and wrapped her trunk around it, has just crushed it underfoot—hence the lurch.
“There, Matoto, there!” says the Hindu, caressing the beast.
“Another Simba!” says Mimoun, a moment later.
Another furious lion has attacked his elephant from behind and lacerated her with its teeth.
Unsaddled, Mimoun beat a retreat toward his general, who extended the ladder for him. From the height of the haoussah, the hunter hastened to fire at the wild beast, which fell dead. He then pointed out to Isidore that the beast had no tail, and that the said appendage had been recently cut off. He was explaining that the ablation had probably been carried out in Kisimbasimba, and that the lion had emerged from the besieged location, when shrill screams rang out, uttered by Chocolat, whose terrified little donkey had just taken refuge under the elephant’s belly.
“The lion, Señor Isidore! The lion seeking quem decoret…!”
Indeed, a third lion was racing forward at top speed. Blood was spurting from the root of its severed tail.
Formed as he was like a wading bird, the mulatto had no need of a ladder. He held out his long arms to Isidore, who grabbed his hands and hauled him up onto the haoussah. The aide-de-camp, like the chief of staff, was saved. This time, kneeling down, he rendered thanks to San José de Cacuaco, whose protecting hand he recognized.
Mimoun, shooting the lion, saved the little gray donkey—but it was not over.
Other lions were arriving from all directions, like bands of skirmishers, pursuing the Orma infantrymen, overtaking the fugitives or leaving them no other escape route than to plunge into the flames.
Mimoun fired from the elephant’s back in vain; scarcely had he put one animal down when another beast appeared to replace the fallen comrade. The lions, which were running furiously, were all devoid of a tail, and blood was dripping from their wound. Mimoun ran out of cartridges.
They were still in the midst of the fires, which it was necessary to get through as soon as possible, under threat of being roasted alive.
The situation, which had become desperate, was fortunately saved by Moonchild. The brave animal, whose mahout had abandoned her to the inspirations of an instinct comparable to human intelligence, discovered a tongue of land, an isthmus that the flames had not yet reached. She precipitated her amble in the required direction, and, thanks to the vivacity of her stride, passed through the fjord framed by two blazes.
She was just in time.
The travelers in the haoussah had scarcely come through the pass when the flames closed the circle behind them.
“Well,” said Isidore, “do I have bad luck! As misfortune goes, that’s misfortune, or I don’t know myself. It’s complete!”
The cook was mistaken; his disaster was yet to have a completion; he was about to drink the cup of bitterness to the dregs.
Chapter VIII
Sack and Rope.
The first human face that the unfortunate cook encountered when he returned to Kifoukourou was that of the Mata Sonapanga.
Sitting on a stool of cubic form, draped in a red carpet of English manufacture, with his feet on a tiger grass mat, the great chief of the Ormas was, as usual, flanked by his general staff of magicians. In addition, Most Serene Highnesses, foreigners of distinction, were forming a thick black semicircle around his seat of honor.
“Mousoungou,” said the Sonapanga, in a dry tone, “look at the sky. The sun is already setting in the Tanganyika; the moon is rising. Is the banza Kisimbasimba in your power? Has the governor of the province asked you for aman? Has he sent, to make his surrender, a simple district chief? Has the governor of the besieged fort thought of sending you a negotiator? No, Kisimbasimba is not taken.”
“That’s true,” Isidore replied. “The day is ended, and I haven’t received any capitulatory visit. What do you want?”
“I’m your master.”
“Which is to say that I’ve become your slave again. That’s fair; I’ve lost the game. I made superb plans—but I had no luck at all.”
“Eyah! I thought you were Ouaka’s envoy; I thought you were a prophet. You’re nothing but an impostor, a bad ganga-ya-ita.”
“Your….”
“You shall die.”
“Indeed. That’s your right. I don’t protest.”
“You shall die, and when your soul has been taken back by Ouaka, perhaps we shall be delivered from the evil spirits that are denying us access to Kisimbasimba.”
“So you believe that the city is inhabited by spirits? Well, let me tell you that’s a load of rubbish?”
“I shall offer you as a sacrifice to Loubari, Mgoussa and Moussamouira.”
“So be it. You see, I’d rather get it over with right way than listen to you talking such nonsense.”
“You shall, moreover, have a fine funeral.”
“Oh, that’s all the same to me—except that I have one request to make before I smoke my last cigarette. I have two poor wretches with me: my black Arab and my mulatto. You know—the big baby who tells his beads to Mohammed and the lanky penguin who is always complaining that he’s starving. One can’t refuse anything to a man condemned to death, isn’t that right? Well, let them alone and set them free, if that’s within the scope of your bounty.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m asking you for a little pity for brave men who haven’t done anything—or rather, they’ve only done what I’ve told them to do. If the city isn’t taken, it’s not their fault, it’s mine.”
“They’ll follow you to Ouaka. Your Arab has committed sacrilege; he raised his hand to the sacred goats.”
“What, you believe that! You, a young man from a good family! But the mulatto, at least, hasn’t done any harm to anyone!”
“Death to that soko!”
“Chocolat! What have you got against him?”
“That soko, that gorilla, has unleashed the rage of the spirits against us, especially that of Mousammouira, who reigns over this place. His crime is that of having the evil eye.”
“Don’t you believe it! My poor Chocolat only has eyes for soup—but he has good ones, of course, indefatigable for good nourishment.”
“All three of you shall die!”
“That’s not new. You’re going to put on a second performance of the other day’s play. As you like! But quickly, if you please—tie us to the tree and shoot us right away.”
“No, not this evening, and not shot under the tree. Tomorrow morning, when the sun reappears in the sky, you will be taken to the edge of the lake, to the summit of the rock of the soft grass; the Arab will be hoisted onto the round rock; the mulatto on top the rock in the form of a dog’s head.”
“Each to his Calvary, then.”
“Then, at the same moment, at a signal from the chief of the magicians, you will be thrown into the lake.”
“Well, that’s not new. It recalls the famous rock near the Capitol of Toulouse.”
A coup de théâtre cut short Isidore’s ludicrous reflections. A hand fell on his shoulder; his torture commenced. He saw re-entering the stage the Kilombe, the Tringote and the Troumbachaganga, combining the effects of their lugubrious grimaces in chorus. The three torturers were accompanied by their usual valets.
Mimoun and Chocolat were apprehended, like their chief. The Tringlote, attaching herself to Mimoun as if to a prey lost and found again, showed the unfortunate spahi her long teeth, blackened by betel.
But what extraordinary torture is in preparation for the condemned men? By the light of the conflagration, which is not yet extinct, Isidore sees three large sacks brought forth, longer than those employed in his regiment to go for bread under the guidance of the company quartermaster and the orders of the duty captain.
What does that signify? The sacks are made of antelope skin. What are they going to do with that strange fabric?
The poor cook soon has the key to the mystery. Two of the executioner’s valets hold the unfortunate Chocolat upright while a third puts a sack over his head, which comes down all the way to his feet. The mulatto is imprisoned like an umbrella in its sheath. He can be heard imploring his patron, San José de Cacuaco, who appears to have blocked his ears. The valets make the prisoner turn ninety degrees and lay him on the ground. Then the chief of the omen readers advances at a solemn pace and throws into the sack a yellow bird, a snake and a fish. That done, the aides seal the sack with the aid of a thick rope, which, measuring no less than two meters in length, is able to make twenty turns. The knot is solid.
The sack enclosed Chocolat is rolled into a corner; the jack-jack agitates madly, uttering moans and invoking San José incessantly, who remains deaf to his in manos.
It is Mimoun’s turn. The procedure is the same, with the one aggravating difference that as the antelope skin shroud is about to be passed over him, the inexorable Tringlote comes to show him her grinding jaw one last time.
“Alhamulillah!”—Praise God—the impassive Muslim limits himself to saying, allowing himself to be incarcerated without putting up the slightest resistance. The chief of the augurs puts into the sack a bird known as an adjutant, a small monkey and a lizard. It is secured and bound, and the stout cylinder is rolled alongside Chocolat’s. Mimoun maintains a very dignified silence and immobility.
My turn now! Isidore says to himself. My sack! To think that it will fit me like a glove! No, for sure, a ceremony like this isn’t as interesting as one might think. It even lacks entertainment, considerably.
With that, the poor ganga-ya-ita was subjected to the operation of being put in the sack. While he was being dressed, his thoughts took on a melancholy tint, the outcome of bitter consolations dictated to him by an invincible self-esteem.
This, he said to himself, is what it is to be a true general. I’m meeting the fate of all great men. Look at Lafayette, that respectable old man, with his white horse and his white hair, and William Tell, and Belisarius, who was reduced to begging for alms with his helmet at the door of the Madeleine, and me, who is going to perish with his sack on his back!
Isidore is soon clad in the antelope skin. The chief omen reader has given him for intimate companions a small rodent, a green bird and a lake fish. Then the worthy zouave is tied up and rolled side by side with his comrades.
With these preparations terminated, the Mata Sonapanga, his courtiers and his magicians have nothing more to do than wait patiently for dawn. Already, however, the spirits are manifestly placated, by virtue of the victims having been put in sacks. There is a downpour, which puts out the fires in the plain and preserves from imminent ruin all the bomas of the investment line.
To celebrate this first success, the Mata of the Ormas assembles his faithful followers in the hut nearest the point where the three sacks have been placed. He has enormous earthenware jars brought under the maize thatch, vats that are filled with pommbé. Slaves distribute bowls of woven straw to the great chief’s guests, with long aspiration tubes in the form of gigantic bassoons. The entire company drinks; the sorghum beer is pumped in waves, while the rain falls in torrents outside.
In the meantime and inter pocula, the merry drinkers hold a kind of council of war. Yes, whatever it costs, they will take the insolent Kisimbasimba. Yes, the death of the victims will appease the anger of the spirits. In any case, they have seven army corps, each seventy thousand men strong, and if those troops are insufficient, they will summon others. They will call the entire Orma nation to the flag. In any case, the city will be taken; they swear it by Ouaka.
And they continue drinking the pommbé.
Enclosed in his sack, Isidore can hear what the drinkers are saying distinctly. When will they finish drinking and shouting? Personally, what he would like is a little peace and quiet, the time to collect himself before passing from life to death.
