imperialism - 5. suspicion

by sabine sablon

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin imperialism

click here to read the previous episode of imperialism

click here to begin the 14th princess

ashley, the man from cairo, was not to be denied. margrave, wilkinson and mercer resigned themselves to searching the area where hawkins had been murdered. they began walking back the half mile to the jeep that they had left at the beginning of the road where the murder had taken place. ashley had insisted on their leaving it there and walking to the spot, so as not to drive over any possible tracks or evidence. "look here," margrave announced, "there is no need for us all to come back here. mercer can round up a couple of boys and i will come back with them to do your bloody search." he turned to ashley, who was keeping up rather a brisker pace than the others cared for, eager though they might be to return to the hotel bar . "i suppose you wish to be present for the search?" "why of course." "er - i am acting chief of police, you know," wilkinson put in, but he, margrave and mercer know it was only for show. "happy to do it, old chap," margrave answered. "after all, i am deputy commissioner." "deputy commissioner", as they all, including ashley, knew, was a largely meaningless title. the "commissioner" was a remote figure in nairobi. or was it cairo? basically they all just muddled along. they knew what they had to do - the ones of them that had anything to do - and they did it as best they could, when they were sober enough. "thank you, " wilkinson told margrave. they were approaching the jeep. "of course," margrave addressed ashley, " you agreed we are going to have a bit of refreshment before we come out here again." "why of course," ashley replied graciously. he had won his little victory. "we can have luncheon if you like." they reached the jeep. margrave got behind the wheel and they headed back to the hotel, with the sun blazing overhead in the blue sky. * wilkinson, who managed the hotel and lived in it, had gone up to his room for his afternoon nap. mercer had gone back to the plantation . three natives that he had assigned to aslhley's search had come up the road and were waiting for margrave and ashley outside the hotel, beside margrave's jeep. inside in the bar, margrave was attempting to try ashley's patience by lingering over "one more drink." when he finally finished it, he announced, "the sun is pretty high, i guess we can have one more." "you can have one more, if you like," ashley answered. "you are right, we have time - if you have nothing else on your plate." "hmm. so, how long do you think it will take, once we are out there, i mean?" "oh, probably no more than an hour. maybe less." "ah, that's no so bad then." the liquor, which usually made margrave more belligerent, seemed, along with ashley's estimation of the time, to mellow him a bit. "sure you won't have another?" "no thank you." ashley looked out the window. "i see the boys are here. i think i will go out and explain to them what we will be doing." margrave snorted. "bloody waste of time. when we get there you will still have to stand over them to make sure they do what you want." "perhaps." ashley started to get up. "but i don't see that it can hurt." "you want to talk to the buggers as little as possible. they try their infernal palaver on you, try to get you to go native. like poor mercer." "oh?" ashley laughed. "i have to say none of you chaps quite struck me as 'going native'." "ha ha! yes, the poor devil is quite under the spell of his black woman." margrave took another sip of his drink. "and, by god, they say the black woman is one of the leaders of the rebels." "you don't say." suddenly ashley's whole demeanor changed. "you don't say. that is very interesting. i'd like to hear some more about this, if you please." margrave flushed. he had not expected ashley's reaction and some of his natural bellicosity returned. "oh, it's just - i'm sure it's just talk, you know. you know how chaps talk out here, just from boredom, really. probably nothing to it." "all the same, it's talk i would like to hear." ashley sat back down. "we take this sort of thing very seriously. very seriously indeed." he rapped his forefinger on the table. "i would like to hear the details of this so-called talk." "i'm sure it's nothing, really." "i'll be the judge of that." * the first thing mercer did after getting back to the plantation was assign three of the workers to the detail of helping ashley in his quest of the bullet. his first thought was to assign the three laziest and incompetent ones he could find. no, he thought, that might look suspicious. he compromised. he found tam, his young second boss, and ordered him to take paul and jojo, the two laziest scoundrels on the plantation, and report to margrave and ashley at the hotel. "it's hot walking, boss. can we take the truck?" again mercer hesitated. if he made them walk it would give him time, but would it not arouse ashley's suspicions? at best, it would not look very cooperative. "get martin to drive you over," he told tam. "will he come back and pick us up?" "maybe. probably." mercer wondered if tam could sense his nervousness. of course he showed no signs of noticing anything. he dismissed tam with a nod and watched him head off in search of paul and jojo. he walked into the shade where his house was, and entered. jeanette was sitting beside the window sipping tea. she took one look at him. "what is the matter now?" "i think the jig may be up. we - i - may have to make a run for it." jeanette did not seem perturbed. "really? why don't you tell me about it?" * sabine stopped typing. it was late at night. there was a bit of fog outside. the room seemed quiet without the click-clack of the old typewriter. it was almost time for helga to arrive. sabine wanted to make sure she got in her request to go for a walk as soon as the sun came up. sabine had no compunction about using her cozy relationship with helga to her own advantage in small things. surprisingly, none of the other princesses seemed to mind, though some of the guards thought it was amusing. there was a knock on the door. sabine recognized it as mara's knock, not helga's. she got up and opened the door. it was indeed mara. "hello there." mara stared directly into sabine's eyes, the way she always did. "helga couldn't make it." "so i see." "mind if i come in?" "please." like most of the other girls, sabine found the politeness of the guards amusing. "will helga be around later?" mara came in and sat on sabine's bed. "maybe. why, don't you like my company?" sabine kept a straight face. "no, i just wanted to ask her something." "helga's been pretty busy. and if you don't mind my saying so, because i know you and her are such good buds, she's been kind of bitchy lately." sabine just nodded. "i think - just think, mind you," mara continued, "because i don't really know anything, that something is going down." * to be continued

imperialism - 4. hot

by sabine sablon

illustrated by danny delacroix

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin imperialism

click here to begin the 14th princess

it was hot. bloody hot. the trees they were walking through, though giving a bit of shade, made it even hotter. wilkinson wanted a drink. margrave needed a drink. mercer was on the verge of weeping for want of a drink. however, as the assistant manager of the main plantation, and de facto manager since the murder of hawkins, it was up to him to escort the man from the colonial office, who had arrived to investigate the crime, around the plantation and the settlement. despite their differences, wilkinson, margrave and mercer had been united in hoping the colonial office fellow would regard his mission as a formality, and quickly retire with them to the relative cool of the bar at the hotel. but ashley, the man sent from cairo, was having none of it. right keen, he was, and determined to "get to the bottom" of the matter. he insisted on being led to the spot where the body of hawkins had been found. the spot mercer led him to was quite indistinguishable from the rest of the path and the wood around it. ashley looked around. "so, this is where the body was found?" "close enough," mercer answered, after a slight hesitation. "close enough, eh?" ashley snorted. he looked the sweating mercer up and down like a colonel inspecting a private on parade. "but it was you who discovered him, was it not?" "one of the boys discovered him. he came to me. i was the first white man to see him." "so far as you know you were the first white man to see him." mercer winced. behind him margrave and wilkinson rolled their eyes. "what is that supposed to mean?" mercer asked. "what does it mean? it means that if he had been shot by a white man, that white man would have been the last to see him, would he not?" "he wasn't shot by a white man. he was shot by a native." "you know that, do you? how do you know that?" good god, was this son of a bitch a bloody barrister as well as a sniveling bureaucrat? "it's what the natives do," mercer answered gamely. "besides, none of us had any reason to kill him. why would any of us want to do him in?" "why, why does anybody do anybody in? an argument over money, a woman, perhaps - " "there are no white women here , " margrave interjected. ashley just laughed at this. "i am aware of that." "surely you don't expect a chap to kill another over a native woman," wilkinson put in. "expect has nothing to do with it, " ashley answered impatiently. "i am just trying to find the facts." "but surely you have never seen such a thing?" wilkinson. "a chap killing a chap over a black woman?" "have i seen it? why, yes, as a matter of fact i have, all over the empire. over black women, black boys, over great strapping blackfellows who could beat a tiger with a riding crop." ashley looked up at the almost white sky, which was beating down hotter than ever through the trees. "look here, this is enough of this palaver." he turned away from mercer and fixed his gaze on wilkinson. "you are acting chief of police, are you not?" "why, yes, but i am not actually a policeman, you know. the bailiwick is hardly big enough for a real force. somebody has to have the title, and i stepped up." "no need to get your back up, old chap, i understand how things are done in these places. it is what i deal with. i just have a few questions, if you don't mind. i will be as happy as you to get them over with and get out of this sun. " wilkinson stiffened. "fire away." "you are sure the fellow was shot?" "i know a bullet wound when i see one. " "no doubt. but no bullet was recovered?" wilkinson hesitated. "no." "was one searched for?" "none was found." "as i thought. and no bullet was found in the body?" "he had been shot clean through." "was an autopsy performed? " "doctor wilson had a look at him." "and he determined what?" "why, he determined that he had been shot and that he was dead as a dog." "of course. of course." ashley sighed. "look here, i want a thorough search made here for the bullet. within a radius of a thousand yards of the spot i am standing on." " but - " wilkinson hesitated. "but what?" "it has been over a week," margrave put in. "anything could have happened to the bullet - if there was one - in that time." 'if there was one?" ashley replied. "i thought we had established that there was. and what could have happened to it?" "why, a native could have picked it up. you wouldn't believe what scavengers they are. or a wild dog. or the ants." "ants? what use would ants have for a shell casing?" "who knows what an ant wants? any more than what a native wants?" "we have some bully ants here," wilkinson added. "they can drag away the carcass of a rhino. they wouldn't have any trouble with a bullet." "and have you ever seen these ants drag away the carcass of a rhino?" "not myself, no, but i've heard tales -" "i am sure. enough of this. have the area searched. as soon as possible. it will be one thing done and out of the way. we can proceed from there." "but, look here," mercer put in. "we can tell the boys to search, but unless we stand over them the whole time they won't really do anything. in fact, they are as likely to hide the bullet, out of spite, if they do find it." "well then, stand over them, captain jenks, stand over them when ready, if that is what it takes. or get down on your hands and knees and search yourself. " "what is the point?" margrave was close to losing his temper. "we know he was shot. what will finding the bloody bullet do?" "the bullet might be matched with a particular gun." "oh come, that's all mumbo jumbo." "hardly. in any case, it's regulation mumbo jumbo. his majesty's regulation mumbo jumbo." suddenly all the fight went out of wilkinson and margrave. the two of them, and mercer, who had no fight in him to begin with, looked down at the dust, surrendering to the man from cairo. the sun had reached its zenith. "so you will have the search done this afternoon?" "yes," wilkinson muttered. "excellent. with any luck we will spared the nuisance of digging up the poor chap." they all nodded. "i need a drink," margrave declared. "of course, " ashley agreed. "of course. i could use a glass of club soda myself. with ice. you do have ice, do you not?" "yes, we have ice, " wilkinson answered. "we are not completely uncivilized." 5. suspicion

imperialism - 3. bongo

by sabine sablon

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin imperialism

click here to begin the 14th princess

although the hotel had an elevator, it was only used by the totally incapacitated.  which did not mean that it was never used.  it was operated by hand, usually by one of the native porters or bartenders getting a guest up to his room after the bar closed.   it tended to get stuck between floors, a circumstance which was never  attributed to anything but the incompetence of the native operating it. despite his hangover and unsteadiness on his feet, nudworth did not even consider using it.  he made his way unsteadily down the stairs to the bar.  the stairwell had a  comforting shadowed dinginess, and he winced as he entered the bar and was hit by a few blinding rays of noonday sunlight coming through the slats of the heavy blinds on the window.  he was a little surprised to find only two other white men there.  pashwick, the banana company agent, and gurdy, the water man.  they were seated together at a table in front of the bar, hunched over stiff ones.  nudworth took a seat at a table a little apart from theirs.  he had absolutely no desire to  talk to either of them,  but it would have been rude to sit so far away from them that they would have had to raise their voices to speak to him.   pashwick only nodded, but gurdy, in that irritating way he had, stared at nudworth as if he had never seen him before and as if he were the strangest creature he had ever seen or ever would see.   the boy behind the bar, who knew bloody well what nudworth wanted, was carefully arranging some glasses on a shelf.  nudworth stared straight ahead.  he breathed as evenly as he could.  it would not do to give in to an attack of bongo so early in the day.  in the afternoon, actually. no, it would not do at all to give in to bongo, especially with his head in the condition it was.  "bongo" was the term the white men used for the insupportable rage that occasionally overwhelmed them when faced with the everlasting all-consuming, slow, drawling wide-eyed oh-so-innocent insolence of the natives.   when nudworth had been first been posted to the tropics, the fellow behind the desk in london had told him:  "you will get used to the sun.  you will get used to the dust.  you will get used to the insects.  you will get used to the paperwork.  you will get used to never seeing a white woman.  you may even get used to the food.   you will never get used to the bloody insolence of the natives.  it kills more chaps than malaria, depend upon it."  how true.  nudworth took a dangerously deep breath and closed his eyes.  when he opened them again the bartender was smiling down on him and placing his drink on the table - the drink he had had to describe two thousand times before the bloody bartenders began to get  it half right.  smiling down on him with that infernal eternal native smile that had maddened a million bwanas and sent them screaming into the bush or across the dusty plantations into the sun.  nudworth seized the drink.  he didn't care if the boy had made it right.   he didn't care if his hand was trembling.  he made sure he was holding it tight.   aaaaaaaaaaaah!  that felt better.  he was walking down  a long green lane under a sky of purest english gray.  a figure in the distance was striding toward him...   gurdy was still staring at him.   "heard the news?"   nudworth put his glass down.  "news of what?"   "if you don't know what the news is about, then i imagine you haven't heard the news."    "no."  nudworth didn't care what the news was.  this too shall pass, he thought.  he looked longingly down at his still half filled glass.    "chap arrived from the office.  margrave and mercer are showing him around.  wilkinson tagged along with them."   "the office? which office?  about the mangoes?"   "no. the colonial office.  sent the poor bugger all the way from cairo, can you believe it?"    nudworth didn't care about the  poor bugger all the way from cairo.  he took another  pull from his glass before replying.  "about the mangoes?"   "no, about hawkins!"    "hawkins?"     pashwick laughed.  "you are knackered this morning, aren't you, mate?  ready to join the temperance society?"    gurdy ignored this.  "hawkins.  hawkins, the plantation manager that was murdered by the bloody wogs!"   "oh, of course.  hawkins."  suddenly nudworth felt completely awake and disgustingly alive.  he finished his drink.  what filthy swill, he thought.  aloud he said, "parkins was right, then, they sent a man out right away.  just like sending a chap from liverpool to glasgow."  "ah," pashwick answered.  "but this fellow isn't replacing hawkins.  he wasn't sent by the company - "  "no,"  cried gurdy, " didn't you hear me?  he was sent by the colonial office, by the bloody bureaucrats  in london and cairo!"  "you mean the colonial office is going to take over the plantation from the company?"  nudworth held up his empty glass for the bartender to see it.  "no, no, he's not here to take over, he is here to investigate hawkins' death." "whatever for?  investigate what?  you can't investigate anything in the bush. " "ah, you try telling him that."  pashwick laughed. "margrave already tried, " gurdy  added. "there is nothing to investigate." nudworth stared over at the bartender as he took his sweet bloody time preparing his second drink - only his second drink of the day! "nothing is real out here, don't  they know that?  it's all just a bad dream." "no, it would seem that  they do not know that.  you try explaining it to the gentleman when he returns." "if he returns." pashwick and gurdy both laughed heartily at this sally.  nudworth felt a surge of pleasure - his fellows almost never laughed at his jokes. maybe it would not be such a bad day.   maybe he could get through it. 4. hot

imperialism - 2. the pomegranate agent

by sabine sablon

illustrated by roy dismas , konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin imperialism

click here to begin the 14th princess

nudworth, the pomegranate company agent, awoke at his usual time - just before noon, in his permanent room on the top floor of the hotel. his head felt like a bomb ready to go off - as it did every morning. he kept a bottle of hair of the dog in the drawer of a small dresser by the door. getting up and crossing the two yards of floor to get it was torture, but experience had taught him that if he kept the bottle within easier reach he was prone to knocking it over and spilling it or even breaking it. the headaches had one good effect - they dispelled the traces of his terrible dreams and assured him in no uncertain terms that he was safely back in the real world. the latest dream had been the worst of all - or at least as bad as any. had he cried out? had anyone heard him? he hated living in the hotel - how he wished he could afford a small villa of his own, far from the eyes and ears of the other white men. often he thought of getting a little shack - no better than a native's. with a dirt floor, a corroded wash basin and pitifully inadequate mosquito netting. but how would he justify it to the other men? and, terrifying as the night was with its dreams, the clean and starched white sheets that the hotel provided were always a pleasure to slip under - the only pleasure he had in life, really. he took his first judicious swallow. ahh! he needed it, badly. but it hardly decreased the hammering in his head. the other chaps often compared their headaches to jungle drums, but his were more like factories with thousands of ungreased metal wheels grinding in rising crescendos. like the factories whose endless corridors and skywalks he dreamed of, when he wasn't dreaming of deserts or deserted beaches ... (never jungles or plantations)... he took another pull at the bottle, holding it a little steadier. for the first time he really opened his eyes. and of course, wished he had not. he carefully capped the bottle and placed it gently on top of the dresser. he would wait now until he dressed and made it down to the bar. nudworth never considered not drinking. drinking was all he had. the hangovers and other physical discomforts were a small price to pay for the partial obliteration of reality. reality. ah, yes, reality. by day - the continuing failure of the pomegranate crop. not as bad as the almost total failure of the mangoes - but wilkinson had his job as hotel manager to fall back on. nudworth was alone with his pomegranates. and by night - the dreams. the occasional standard "nightmare" - of being chased by giant nameless beasts or by lions - nudworth had never actually seen a lion, as they were not common in the area, though he had heard tales. but these were not the dreams he feared. the dream he had just awoken from was typical... he had been walking in a dark garden filled with moss-grown statues and haunted by shadowy figures (waiters? guests of the "prime minister" ? - a recurring figure who was privy to all his most shameful secrets). beyond the garden a railroad track which was also a beach - the track/beach filled with giant red crabs/boxcars that he had to count before morning - and he had not even begun! there was no hope... and then a voice behind him. the typical voice.... menacing, mockingly respectful... filled with darkness... he turned and beheld the hulking black brute ... with shaved head and bulging muscles... a creature from the arabian nights... little resembling the local native "boys" with their sunken chests, long legs and big feet ... and naked! he felt the amused gazes of the guests/waiters and the suddenly alive statues (mostly women in evening dress)... he tried to maintain his dignity and say "look here, fellow, put some clothes on if you please" but the words would not escape his mouth. and the arabian nights creature seized him in a passionate embrace that he could not resist... suddenly the "prime minister" strode through the garden .... "what the devil is going on here, eh?" and the guests/waiters/statues/women in evening dress/crabs/boxcars laughed as he cried out and saw the face of.... of.... and woke up. as always, wondering if he had cried out and been heard... when he first had the dreams, before he had even come to the tropics, nudworth had prayed to be released from them. first he had prayed to the presbyterian/methodist god of his forefathers. and then, after reaching the tropics, he had picked up some of the materials from the papist missionaries and begun praying to the virgin and various obscure martyred saints - to no avail. he had begged, if not to be freed from the dreams altogether, at least for his irresistible seducers to be white! some golden apollos or davids or angel gabriels ... but the dreams only grew more frequent and his ravishers more dusky.... he had surrendered. there was no hope. he had resigned himself to eternal humiliation in this life and eternal damnation in the next. well! no use rehearsing all this for the five thousandth time. he put the bottle of hair of the dog back in the drawer. it was time to straighten himself up and get down to the bar to do some real drinking. 3. bongo