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THE PHILANDERERS
BY A.E.W. MASON
Author of 'The Courtship of Morrice Buckler'
1897
PROLOGUE
Five Englishmen were watching a camp fire in the centre of a forestclearing in mid-Africa. They did not speak, but sat propped against logs,smoking. One of the five knocked out the ashes of his pipe upon theground; a second, roused by the movement, picked up a fresh billet ofwood with a shiver and threw it on to the fire, and the light for amoment flung a steady glow upon faces which were set with anxiety. Theman who had picked up the billet looked from one to the other of thefaces, then he turned and gazed behind him into the darkness. The floorof the clearing was dotted with the embers of dying fires, but now andagain he would hear the crackle of a branch and see a little flame spirtup and shine upon the barrels of rifles and the black bodies of thesleeping troops. Round the edge of the clearing the trees rose massed anddark like a cliff's face. He turned his head upwards.
'Look, Drake!' he cried suddenly, and pointed an arm eastwards. The manopposite to him took his pipe from his mouth and looked in thatdirection. The purple was fading out of the sky, leaving it livid.
'I see,' said Drake shortly, and, replacing his pipe, he rose to hisfeet. His four companions looked quickly at each other and the eldest ofthem spoke.
'Look here, Drake,' said he, 'I have been thinking about this businessall night, and the more I think of it the less I like it. Of course, weonly did what we were bound to do. We couldn't get behind that evidence;there was no choice for us; but you're the captain, and there is achoice for you.'
'No,' replied Drake quietly. 'I too have been thinking about it allnight, and there is no choice for me.'
'But you can delay the execution until we get back.'
'I can't even do that. A week ago there was a village here.'
'It's not the man I am thinking of. I haven't lived my years in Africa tohave any feeling left for scum like that. But also I haven't lived myyears in Africa without coming to know there's one thing above all othersnecessary for the white man to do, and that's to keep up the prestige ofthe white man. String Gorley up if you like, but not here—not beforethese blacks.'
'But that's just what I am going to do,' answered Drake, 'and just foryour reason, too—the prestige of the white man. Every day something isstolen by these fellows, a rifle, a bayonet, rations—something. When Ifind the theft out I have to punish it, haven't I? Well, how can I punishthe black when he thieves, and let the white man off when he thieves andmurders? If I did—well, I don't think I could strike a harder blow atthe white man's prestige.'
'I don't ask you to let him off. Only take him back to the coast. Let himbe hanged there privately.'
'And how many of these blacks would believe that he had been hanged?'Drake turned away from the group and walked towards a hut which stoodsome fifty yards from the camp fire. Three sentries were guarding thedoor. Drake pushed the door open, entered, and closed it behind him. Thehut was pitch dark since a board had been nailed across the only opening.
'Gorley!' he said.
There was a rustling of boughs against the opposite wall, and a voiceanswered from close to the grou