USUMAN IS AT LARGE
THE INDIAN WOMAN
For several years after the rising at Kano, Usuman remained at large. He and his band of followers continued to plunder and loot the countryside, until the very name "Usuman" came to strike terror into every heart—a name that was spoken only in whispers by the men, while mothers hushed their crying children with the words, "Usuman! Here he comes..."
The British still sought him for the murder of the English captain whom they had sent to parley with the Emir of Keffi, and the narrator himself desired his capture no less earnestly, for Usuman had wilfully brought about the death of his own beloved Zarah.
It was a Hausa soldier who first discovered him in hiding. Mallam Usuman had pitched his camp for the night at the foot of a hill. In the evening he sat beside his tent, saying his prayers, when suddenly a sharp prod in the middle of his back caused him to turn. A man with a rifle stood over him.
"Usuman, you are my prisoner."
If Usuman was afraid, he gave no sign of it. He was alone in the camp; his companions had gone forth upon a raid and would not return till midnight. Usuman knew this fully well, and he also knew how helpless he was, his own rifle lying inside the tent; therefore he resolved to play for time.
Seeing that his captor was a fellow tribesman, he spoke to him with easy familiarity. "Mallam, I am indeed your prisoner. But why? You are a true Muslim. Why must you betray your own brother to the unbelievers?"
The soldier frowned.
"I am a soldier," he replied, "and my duty comes first."
"Truly, your duty comes first. But how would you like to join forces with Usuman, terror of the North, and make plenty of money, and live in luxury? The men in my band do not eat dry black bread."
"They warned me of this," said the soldier. "They told me you would try to buy me." Usuman's tone suddenly grew . confidential
"Listen, my friend: if you really want prisoners, I will tell you something. The others will soon be back, and then you may take the whole company. As a matter of fact, I am growing weary of this life..."
"My time is short," the soldier answered.
Even as he spoke, a number of men appeared upon the scene. Usuman gasped with surprise when he saw that they were not his own followers. The newcomers carried rifles and haversacks, and were plainly soldiers of the British army. They seized Mallam Usuman without delay, led him from the camp, and struck out for Kano with all possible speed.
They had not gone far. Scarce a mile or two from the camp they fell into an ambush. From both sides of the path came a wild howl, then a sudden rush like an overwhelming gale; and before they could grasp their peril the soldiers were flung upon their faces, senseless. That great rogue, Usuman, quietly relieved them of their ammunition and rifles, remarking as he left the place:
"You would not join me; now you have your reward."
Yet the incident had taught him a lesson, and from that day forth Usuman went about with three of his stoutest men, and all were heavily armed.
It was still in the early years of the nineteen hundreds, when the common means of carrying loads in the North was upon the head. White men travelled in hammocks, winding their way through the bush and cursing the mosquitoes. Usuman knew this well; and soon after his encounter with the soldiers he learned by some means that an important British official was on his way to Kano, bearing money and supplies for the white men.
Usuman took counsel with his companions.
"We are in great need of money," he told them, as they sat beneath the trees, their eyes scanning the open country. "But we are badly armed. Beyond our four rifles, our knives and our fists we have nothing. And they will be guarded by a large force, with machine-guns, rifles, bayonets, and those little things that burst and shatter rocks."
They resolved that surprise should be their chief weapon. Placing a scout in the top of a tall tree, they made ready. About half an hour later the scout called down:
"Usuman! I see a cloud of dust..."
Usuman sprang to his feet. "Are there many people?"
"Hundreds!"
"What shall we do?" asked the others.
"Do?" said Usuman scornfully. "He who is afraid may leave now, before it is too late."
Those three men had seen too often what befell any who obeyed that invitation; they were not tempted to throw away their lives so lightly. For it was understood that if any one of them had dared to depart, Usuman would have shot him in the back.
"Make for the money boxes," Usuman resumed, when the silence remained unbroken.
They climbed into the trees and waited. Usuman could now see the long column winding across the tree-dotted plain before them. He cocked his rifle and held it ready.
As the procession drew nearer, he perceived, contrary to his expectation, that there were three white men, well protected by a ring of soldiers armed to the teeth. A few yards from the tree the whole train halted, and for one tense moment even the dauntless Usuman felt his heart leap as he feared they had spied him. But the white men had merely stopped to stretch their legs and admire the scenery.
"Listen!" whispered Usuman. "I think the money lies in those black boxes. Go for them at once; we shall meet behind the rocks."
Usuman winked at his men. Together they slipped down and raced toward the carriers bearing the strong-boxes. A short and swift struggle followed. No shots were fired. One moment the raiders were in the midst of the party; the next, they had dashed the strong-box to the ground. Usuman dismounted a man, sprang into the saddle himself, wheeled the horse about, received the money-box from his companions, and galloped away in a cloud of dust.
It was a stratagem they had rehearsed many times, and Usuman rode off in the firm belief that the others would soon join him at the appointed place.
He drew his horse to a standstill beside a stream that flowed between tall rocks. Leaving the beast to graze upon the tender grass, he took the box and forced it open with his rifle. To his dismay, though it had the appearance of a strong-box, it contained nothing but cartridges and handcuffs.
Usuman flung the box into the river, muttering:
"What am I to do with old iron?"
He waited there through the remainder of the night. When his friends did not appear, he concluded that some harm had befallen them, and at last he slept. The next day he set forth hungrier than before, and more desperate than ever. There was no knowing when the next caravan would pass. He had missed a golden chance, and such information was not lightly come by.
For months on end he roamed the wilds—companionalone and unsupported—his only the stolen horse. One afternoon, while he was watering the beast, he thought he heard, above the lapping of the stream, the noise of grinding wheels. The sound grew louder; turning, he beheld a billowing cloud of dust rising skyward. This was the opportunity he had awaited.
Walking cautiously up the bank, he saw a bullock team grinding its way northward. By his reckoning five passengers sat within the coach, travelling with the ease and comfort of those who suspect no misfortune. The thick-set driver flicked his whip carelessly at the bulls.
Mallam Usuman guided his horse quietly up the bank and rode slowly alongside, studying the transport. Experience told him that they had been journeying for some time and were therefore weary. He drove his heels into the flanks of his mount. In a moment he had drawn level and levelled his gun.
"Whoever you are," he snarled, "you may choose."
The transport halted. The driver turned his sun-scorched face toward him, anger blazing in his eyes.
"Which do you choose," Usuman continued, "your life or your money?"
"There—there is no money," stammered the driver.
"Do not lie!"
Usuman's quick eye had already marked the wooden box beneath the driver's seat; but now, as the passengers began to murmur and show signs of terror, he noticed that there was a woman among them. She sat tightly wedged between the others, calm and cool. She lifted her black veil for a moment, and Usuman's eyes widened at the sight of her face. She was beautiful.
The driver must have been watching him, for he said in Hausa: "You like her, then? Unfortunately she is not for you..."
"You rat!" snapped Usuman. "Throw down the money and drive on."
The driver glanced from the muzzle of the rifle into Usuman's face and chose to obey. He climbed down, fumbled for a moment, and was drawing something from beneath the box when Usuman shot him in the hand. A British revolver fell to the ground.
"Now will you put down the box?"
Cursing, the driver pushed the box down with his left hand and climbed back into his seat.
"Not yet," said Usuman. He turned and winked at the lady. "Open the carriage and let her step down!"
The driver's jaw dropped.
"Mallam, I swear she is the wife of an Arab prince. I—I have been commissioned to take her back to her husband."
As though pre-arranged, all the passengers suddenly raised a howl: "Yee-whoo! ... Wai-O!"
The driver leapt back into his seat and waved his arms frantically. From the distance a number of horsemen were charging toward them. Usuman saw the danger and made up his mind in an instant.
He sprang from his horse and struck the driver upon the head. With his left hand he tore open the door of the carriage, brandishing his rifle. In the distance the gowns of his enemies floated in the wind as they galloped nearer, shouting as they came. They were now so close that he might have seen their faces but for the dust. He dealt the beautiful woman a blow with his open hand and she fell senseless across the doorway. Then he lifted her body into the saddle. There was no time to seize the money.
When the horsemen drew near, he had vanished. They scattered in every direction, yet no trace of Usuman was to be found.
Usuman rode far into the night, until he met a nomadic herdsman who gave him shelter. The robber had told him that he was from Kano, driven from his home by the British; that the woman was his wife; and that he was now without any worldly goods.
Usuman must have dwelt with that cattleman for the space of a full year before I met him. I was then journeying to Sokoto, and my road led me by the cattleman's hut, where I halted for refreshment. His wife was most kind to me.
"We have so little milk these days," she said in apology. "The soldier and his wife take everything we have, pay nothing for it, and when we complain he threatens to shoot us."
"You have a soldier staying with you?"
"Yes. He is from the Kano wars."
"What is he like?"
"Oh! A very big man; and his wife"—she closed her eyes—"very nice!"
"I am from the Kano wars myself; I would see this man."
At that the woman grew fearful. "He desires to see no one. His temper is very ill—"
I dismounted from my horse and advanced towards the hut. As one who knew the country well at that time, it was natural that I should go warily. I held my rifle in my hands; my eyes and ears missed nothing that might prove perilous.
The door of the hut stood open when I reached it. Within I beheld Usuman and the woman also. She was a beautiful creature, yet in some way she seemed not wholly Nigerian. Mallam Usuman himself had grown much thinner and more unkempt, and his eyes glowered at me from the dimness. The very sight of him recalled all the loathing I had ever felt for the scoundrel. Mastering my voice, I said:
"We have met before, Usuman!" My hands trembled. "Come forth, and let us settle the matter."
From where I stood I might easily have shot him, but that would have been a cowardly deed. It was not my way to take advantage of a helpless foe. I could see that he glanced with anxiety at his rifle, which lay just beyond his reach behind his wife. He spoke no word, and again I called upon him.
"Did you hear me, Usuman? Come out before I put an end to you!"
There was a brief pause; then Usuman moved with suddenness. The door of the hut was shut with a crash, sending up a cloud of dust. A rifle cracked, and a bullet whistled past my ear. I fired in return. A woman screamed. The hut—a frail thing of grass—burst open at the back; Mallam Usuman sprang out, mounted his horse, and galloped away.
All had passed in a moment. I saw the dust raised by his horse as he sped into the distance. When it cleared, he was gone from sight and all was quiet as death. Just then the silence was broken by the wail of a tiny child.
I lifted the child. He was strikingly like Usuman. He had the same piercing eyes, the same savage set of the lips. It was easy for me to hate this infant and to wish to destroy it. But after all, I reasoned, why visit the sins of the father upon the son? My account would be settled with Mallam Usuman, and with no other.
"There now," I said, gathering him up in the cloth wherein he lay, "do not cry… Come, let us take you to Kano. There we shall surely find friends to rear you. Your father is my enemy, but I will pay for your upbringing. Allah sees!"
I can assure you I took no pleasure in performing this resolve. The roads were perilous, and the child was no ideal companion for a man leading a life so uncertain. Yet at length I placed Usuman's son among kind friends at Kano and departed.
About two years later there befell in Northern Nigeria an event that disturbed the peace of every honest man. It was the year 1906. A man named Satiru had risen to notice and had declared himself a Mahdi—a heaven-sent religious leader.
I was then staying at Sokoto in the year following. I had already placed a young Usuman, for whom I felt a certain responsibility, under the care of a Mallam of good repute and standing, when I began to inquire into the Satiru movement. One matter of importance I discovered: the Sultan was by no means eager for it. I learned also that Satiru had joined forces with my old enemy Usuman, and that they were at that very time gathering an army to march against the British.
The Sultan sent a messenger to Satiru.
"Bid him come hither. In the name of the Prophet, bid him come. Tell him that I, the spiritual head of all Muslims, desire a speech with him."
The messenger rode forth at dawn.
He returned not. And to this day none knows what truly became of him.
Despair drove the Sultan to appeal to the British Resident.
"This is the case," he explained. "Satiru is but a pretender. He is no true religious leader. I sent a message to him, yet he will not come, nor will he return my messenger."
"Well?" said the Resident.
"I seek leave to send an army against him." The white man smiled quietly.
"My friend," he replied, "you have done well. But remember, this is not your war: it is ours."
I rejoined the British forces, full of hope that I might meet Usuman upon the field of battle. We set out for the village of Satiru upon a Thursday morning. That day we marched until dusk, halting only at Bodinga, where we slept. Bodinga was a village some few miles from Satiru. Next morning, about eleven o'clock, we were once more on our way. There were about three companies of us, some horsemen, but chiefly foot soldiers.
We halted just outside the village. Those who were not fighting men—such as myself—were sent to gather fodder for the horses. We set forth, guarded by seven soldiers and one sergeant. The rest of the company began to take up positions. Some went to seek tree-trunks, rocks, and such things as might serve to build a low wall. Our commander at once dispatched a messenger on horseback into the village.
Hours passed slowly. We had dug ourselves in, we had eaten a hearty meal, and were waiting for action. All eyes were turned towards the village. Then a horse came galloping towards us riderless, while upon the wall of the village a man was waving something black.
"The messenger's horse!" cried someone.
"But where is the messenger himself?"
The white men, who had been looking through their field-glasses, answered the question. They told us that the man standing upon the wall was waving nothing but a human head. He was a big man with a wild beard and a scar upon his cheek.
My blood boiled when I heard it.
"That is Usuman!" I shouted.
"Who is Usuman?"
"A wild creature; a man who claims to be the son of the Emir."
"We don't know him. The Emir has no such son."
Our officers warned us that they could see Satiru getting ready for battle. Dane guns, hatchets, and clubs were being given out, and the people were running hither and thither in great excitement.
At the word of command those who had already formed a square began to advance. Just then, while our troops were still manœuvring into position, Satiru fell upon us with yells and shooting. Three Englishmen were slain, and our forces were compelled to retire in no little disorder.
Satiru had defeated us in that first meeting. After we had fallen back he had taken one of the Englishmen prisoner and had sought to learn from him the working of the field-guns. Threats, torture, and bullying availed nothing. Somewhat out of temper, Satiru shot him.
Our shattered troops returned to Sokoto, disgraced by an untrained fanatic. We did not have the heart to advance again at once against such numbers as the Mahdi had gathered, and therefore we sent to Zungeru for aid. That place was several hundred miles distant; there were no roads as we know them now, no telegraph lines, and robbers roamed at large. It took the best part of two months before our messengers reached it and returned with the welcome news that succour was on the way. Meanwhile there was every likelihood that Satiru would descend upon us and destroy us before that happy day arrived.
But help did come; and during our time of anxiety Satiru stirred not from his own place. That Saturday morning when we left Sokoto for the second encounter, he was probably as little aware of his peril as of the truth that heaven had never sent him to lead his people. This time we knew what we had to face. The moment we came into sight of the village we opened fire. Satiru, startled from his spiritual meditations, had scarce time to prepare.
In a few moments the place was a mass of flame and smoke. Goats and sheep ran panic-stricken in every direction. The people themselves poured from their houses, shouting and striving to save their goods.
Satiru was taken and made prisoner. He was a much younger man than I had looked for. His long, lean face gave no hint of the fire that burned in his heart and drew thousands to follow him.
I was making a last circuit of the village of Satiru, my eyes wide open and my ears alert for the least suspicious sound. It was evening, and the sun had set. I remember that day well: it was not very warm, and dust and smoke hung in the air. Suddenly I came upon the most conspicuous building. It bore a flag upon its roof—a sign that it was a drinking-house. The roof had fallen in, but in the midst of the main chamber stood a table that seemed to have been lately used.
I looked about: there was no one in sight. I had concluded that the room was empty and had turned away when—from nowhere—there fell a heavy blow upon the back of my head. My left arm grew suddenly numb, and I sank to the ground. Voices reached me as in a dream.
"Wai!…" cried a woman. "You have killed him."
"Yes," answered a man. "Let us go."
It was Usuman's voice.
THE SCHOOL AT MECCA
I was a cripple thereafter. My left arm was useless, dead. I saw that it would be vain for me to continue a life of adventure. I had learned my lesson, and the time had come to give myself to quieter pursuits—to those things that belong to the soul.
After the Satiru rebellion I placed myself under the teaching of Mallam Gobir, a man deeply read in the Koran and indeed a true scholar. He enlarged my mind and showed me great truths that made life more purposeful and more worthy. It must have been about the year 1910 that we set out upon a pilgrimage to Mecca, travelling on camels across the Great Desert. We took our time upon the journey, for my teacher was an old man, and he prided himself upon his knowledge of the desert and its secrets.
We met many other scholars at Mecca, and my tutor was never so happy as when he beheld learned men who practised the very virtues he had sought to instil in me: men who loved their fellows, who prayed morning, noon, and night, who feared not death, and who never troubled themselves unduly about their earthly misfortunes, but trusted that by Allah's grace all would be well in the end. I could see peace upon their calm faces—an inward peace that made me feel I had been a fool ever to think of slaying Usuman because he had caused the death of my Zarah.
But Mallam Gobir was not destined to return with me. He fell ill shortly after we reached Mecca, and within a week he died. It must have been the cold of the desert mornings that overcame him. I remember that he had often complained of a weakness in his chest.
Before he died he called me to his side and spoke thus:
"Promise me, Ilia, my son. Promise me one thing."
"Yes, my master."
"Promise me that you will always live according to the Prophet, that you will strive to be good, and to spread the faith…"
My heart glowed with warmth. "I promise," I whispered.
"That is all I ask."
A smile passed over his face. It was a noble old face, full of compassion and gentleness—not like mine, which had been hardened by the lust for vengeance. That smile was still upon his lips when he breathed his last.
I rose, and covered his dead face with a white sheet. As I made my way to the place of prayer my heart suddenly stood still. What irony of fate, after my promise to my late teacher, to come face to face with the very man I hated most in the world! He was washing his feet near the great red pots, and when he saw me his eyes widened with surprise. Seconds seemed like hours. I stood as if turned to stone. When he had finished he rose, took water into his mouth, rinsed it, and spat it full into my face. I remembered my promise to the old teacher and let the insult pass. But Usuman sought trouble. Throughout the time of prayer he made himself as distracting and annoying as he could, and when prayers were ended and the graver Mallams sat cross-legged in meditation, Usuman came over to me and whispered—bravely. It was a pity, however, that in the days when I was whole I had never once had the chance to meet him in such a duel as this.
As he said, there was a good moon. I had no difficulty in finding the place, but when I arrived Usuman was nowhere to be seen. I stood leaning against the palm, gazing at the river as it caught the moonlight. Then it came to me that there were people near at hand, talking in very low voices.
I looked around. A little distance from the palm sat two lovers. The man wore a blue gown and the woman something darker. Suddenly the man rose, and as he walked towards me I knew him for Mallam Usuman.
"I will not fight with you," he said, with a wave of his mighty arm. "You are no man. Still, it would have been pleasant to cut you in pieces before the eyes of the Chief Priest's daughter."
His words sent a hot flush of anger through me, and I knew he lied about the Chief Priest's daughter.
"Draw!" I cried, and drew my sword.
He paid not the least heed to me, and I warned him again: "Guard!"
But all Usuman did was to clap his hands scornfully, and from the ground about me men sprang up and ran towards me. I had fallen into a snare. With a furious thrust I lunged at him, but he leapt aside and the sword only caught the folds of his gown. The next instant someone knocked it from my grasp, and I was kicking and struggling in vain.
"Take him where he will find peace. I am weary of the wretch!"
They bound me hand and foot and carried me into the town. These were very silent men; I could not guess from their dark faces whether we were going until I beheld the lofty walls of the prison-yard. The horses halted at the gate; the men knocked and were admitted. They delivered me to a short man who rubbed his hands as he led me to my cell, remarking as he barred and locked the door:
"You will soon be all right! You will soon be all right!"
And so for the second time since first I met Usuman I found myself pacing a narrow room and wasting my feeble strength upon the unyielding bars. I could not understand what power that man possessed in Mecca that he should be so highly honoured and respected as to deprive me of my liberty. It seemed he had a company of men to guard his life and the whole prison staff at his command.
I must have lain in that prison two months when one evening the Chief Warder called me and asked whether I knew Mallam Gobir. I answered that I did, that he had been my teacher for many years. He smiled and went away.
A fortnight later a woman named Dije came and demanded my release. She had an air of mystery that stirred my fancy. She wore a black veil and hood, and her gown scarcely rippled as she walked through the heart of the town. She led me to a large mud building and told me that I was to dwell there and teach her schoolchildren all that I had learned from the great scholar. I was still a prisoner, but now entirely under her care.
I welcomed the change with joy, partly because I was no longer fit for active life, but chiefly because it gave me the opportunity to keep my promise to Mallam Gobir.
The pupils were eager and willing to learn all I taught them; yet behind them all I was ever conscious of the mysterious Dije watching me with a soft glance that sometimes made me think she loved me. She was not beautiful. She could not be compared with Zarah by any means. Where Zarah had been tall and graceful, she was small and neat. Her voice was even smaller than herself, and very musical. Little wonder that in time I asked her to become my wife.
This was not the hot love of youth, but the calm, mature affection of a man who has learned from life what things are truly precious. Looking back, I think my days in that school formed a bright patch upon an otherwise dark field. The compound had that quiet atmosphere which inspires the student. There were times when I forgot that I was at Mecca—a prisoner upon parole. Punctually at dawn the pupils came in their white caps and white jumpers to learn what I had been privileged to hear from Mallam Gobir.
We had finished our tasks one afternoon and the pupils were about to depart when one of the boys made a remark that wounded me to the heart.
"Mallam," he said, "if a man kills your wife, what is the right thing to do?"
"The right thing?" I stammered. "Take him to the judge and he will be punished. Why?"
"Nothing, Mallam. We were only arguing."
He sat down, and the rest of the boys exchanged glances. The next remark was even less gentle:
"Please tell us about Kanemi, Prince of the Tuaregs."
"What would you know of him?"
"Had he a daughter?"
A mist gathered before my eyes. These boys were tormenting me. They had heard of Zarah and me. They wished to test me by watching my face. I stood still, striving to master my rising anger. And then it came: before my very eyes rose the image of Zarah that had haunted me so many years. There she lay amid the ruins, bleeding, her lips trembling as she breathed my name.
I could endure it no longer.
I left the room. My heart beat violently against my ribs and I felt choked with emotion. Tears burned in my eyes. Under the trees it was cool, and I stood there a long while until Dije joined me; but though she sought to learn what had passed I told her nothing.
The next day, before dawn, I left the school compound without even bidding Dije farewell.
One thing only I did. As I passed the gate I saw the school messenger coming in and stopped him. Impulsively I drew him aside, took out a small laya—a talisman—and said:
"I am setting forth upon a journey and I forgot this."
He took it and examined it. "Long may you live, but it is not mine."
"It is for Dije," I answered. "I am in haste now and cannot return. Pray give it to her from me. Tell her, when the child comes, to hang this laya about its neck. It is a strong protection against evil, which Mallam Gobir taught me. She will understand."
The messenger took it, and though his eyes were puzzled he wished me a safe journey. For some strange reason, when I set out again my heart felt much lighter.
THE CAMEROONS CAMPAIGN, 1916
I wish I had remained at that school. There is no doubt that, with Dije's help, I might have forgotten everything. She was kind and gentle, and she did all in her power to make me happy. The conditions were favourable for reading and meditation. But an impetuous man must never remain impetuous. Such gentle consolations cannot bind him.
I remained in hiding at Mecca for about a month, striving to learn news of Mallam Usuman. No one knew anything of him. Somehow it did not seem to make sense. He had been powerful enough to send me to prison with a mere wave of his arm. Why then did they not know him?
It was long before I discovered the answer. Usuman had changed his name in Mecca, but now he had returned to Nigeria. They spoke so highly of how little he cared for money that I was tempted to expose him. Yet no one would have believed me had I declared that the glorious Usuman was nothing more than a first-class scoundrel.
This time I did not find the crossing of the Great Desert so pleasant a thing as when Mallam Gobir had been my companion.
I met a number of Arabs who were anxious to journey to Kano for the purpose of buying slaves. It was plain that they knew nothing of the change that had come upon the town since the British had taken it, and that the great slave market had long since ceased to be. Yet I thought it wiser to let them discover the truth for themselves when they arrived. So I offered to conduct them to the chief dealers, and in return they gave me a passage across the desert.
The crossing was soon made. My companions were eager to reach North Africa again in time for the yearly Slave Market. As soon as we came to Birnin Kwoni in the north-west, I led them to one of Prince Kanemi's kinsmen who chanced to be there, and left them to make their own way into trouble.
I entered Nigeria on foot. Careful enquiry brought me no tidings of Mallam Usuman. He seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth, or perhaps he still lingered at Mecca. For a year or two I wandered through the North, almost beside myself with sorrow. I had no home; I dared not return to Dijè and her school, for there I had earned nothing but imprisonment. They had received me as a man of culture and breeding, and I had betrayed their trust. Life was a torment then.
With a paralysed arm it was hard to earn my bread. I sought out such people as I had known before, and at last made my way to Kano. There I remained until the outbreak of the Great War in 1914. It was useless for me to think of enlisting as an infantryman, for I could not fight. But the army stood in sore need of men who could labour behind the lines. So once more I found myself a soldier—in the Pioneer Corps. And I knew that with all Mallam Gobir had taught me I could be of real service to my fellow men. The soldiers came to me with every kind of trouble, and I was often able to help them. My sincere faith and my want of fear gave them strength.
In the evenings we would gather in the barracks and tell tales of the Kano rising of 1903, and how much more truly it had been a man's fight than this war they called Great. For then men had ridden horses and fought with swords; there had been no hiding in holes and firing at unguarded strangers.
"I shall never forget one Mallam Usuman," said a middle-aged soldier. "Such a big man, and so fond of fighting."
"So you knew him?" asked another.
"Knew him? Why, I fought by his side. He was a man indeed."
The speaker smiled and looked round at the listening group.
"I wonder where Usuman is now," I said.
"Have you had dealings with him too, Mallam?"
I answered only with a smile.
"Well, I cannot say," he went on, "but if I know Usuman, he is in this war of ours. Only he does not happen to be in our particular company."
A prophetic statement indeed! About a year later I met Usuman once more. It was during the Cameroons Campaign. You may remember that the German Captain von Reuben had made his stand upon a hill in the Cameroons known as Mora Hill. It fell to us to take that hill and drive the Germans from the land. When we went against them for the first time, late in 1915, they beat us back. Von Reuben called his men "the heroic Germans." By the early months of 1916 fresh troops had joined us from the south, from French territory, and from Nigeria itself. The British General now in command was far better equipped for the encounter. And so the "heroism" of von Reuben's men ended in a fatal plunge down the slopes of Mora Hill.
During this campaign I fell in with a learned Mallam who was attached to the French troops, and we became fast friends. "I have heard much talk of you," he said one day. "They tell me how helpful you are to the soldiers, and that you studied under Mallam Gobir."
"That is true," I answered.
"He was a great man!" His voice warmed with praise. "How would you like to come with me when the fighting is done, to the French territory east of the Nigerian border—to places like Fort Lamy, Mandara, Marua, and the rest? That is where I live, and it is a happy place."
"It would please me greatly to go with you," I said. "But I have no permission—"
"Oh," he replied with a smile, "that is a small matter. I can easily obtain a passport for you after the war."
When the campaign ended we did not leave the district at once. There came a lull, and our troops lay encamped upon the hill. At night the men would go down into the town for a little jollification. My new friend was a scholar of some repute and cared little for such pastimes, but I could not always remain in his company when I knew that by joining the soldiers I might have a chance of finding Usuman.
Under the pretext that I wished to see the town, I took leave of the Mallam each evening. Within a week I knew every gambling-house in the neighbourhood and who kept it. I chose a bar that stood at a corner of the road, and went there night after night, talking with the soldiers.
One evening I sat in a corner from which I could command the door. The soldiers came in by twos and threes. Their talk was coarse and their behaviour worse, so that I shuddered; I feared someone might recognise me in these undignified surroundings.
The hour was past midnight when a large man entered. My breath caught in my throat as I knew him for Mallam Usuman. The yellow lamplight threw a shadow across the scar upon his cheek. As soon as he came in he went straight to the proprietor and stood speaking to him in very low tones. Suddenly the proprietor leaped over the counter, and Usuman followed him. They opened a private door and vanished together.
This was my moment. I glanced round; no one seemed to have marked the incident. I drew my gown about me and stole quietly towards the door. In their haste they had left it a little ajar. I slipped through, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The room was lit by one of those small clay lamps that sent up a trail of smoke. Mallam Usuman appeared to be trying to sell the proprietor some contraband goods. He was pressing him to pay, in truth he was blackmailing him.
Usuman turned and saw me. "Ilia!" he gasped. "What do you want, you dog?"
In a flash he was upon me. His powerful hands closed about my wrist, and the knife I held clattered to the floor. We struggled for some moments; then Usuman set himself to strangle me. My throat grew parched and dry; lumps rose in it when I tried to swallow. Suddenly he relaxed his grip, and I heard a voice cry, "What is going on here?"
A soldier had come in and stood at the door, rifle in hand, the frightened proprietor behind him. His bayonet glinted in the smoky haze. Usuman, who was nearest to the lamp, overturned it, and for an instant the room was plunged into darkness. There was a spurt and a sharp crack; the soldier cursed. I heard a crash and knew that Usuman must have escaped through the back door. I wormed my way in that direction, remembering the night of the shanchi, and had just reached it when a shout rang out: "Fire! … Fire! …"
It was true. The house was ablaze. Usuman had set it alight and had once more escaped. Another house broke up, I thought, as I made my way back to the barracks.