, I'd eat you without spitting out the bones."
"That, sir, is your opinion. But I must warn you I was highly thought of in the light heavyweight division."
"Oh, goddamn it." Flynn shook his head wearily and capitulated. "What difference does it make what we call the mother-loving place. Sit down, for God's sake. Here! Let's drink to whatever you want to call it."
Sebastian sat on the carpet and accepted the mug that Flynn handed him. "We shall call it-" he paused dramatically, "we shall call it New Liverpool," and he lifted the mug.
"You know, said Flynn, "for a limey, you aren't a bad guy," and the rest of the night was devoted to celebrating the birth of the new colony.
In the dawn the empire builders were paddled ashore in the dug-out by two of Flynn's gun-bearers.
The canoe ran aground on the narrow muddy beach of New Liverpool, and the sudden halt threw both of them off-balance. They collapsed gently together on to the floor of the dug-out, and had to be assisted ashore by the paddlers.
Sebastian was formally dressed for the occasion but had buttoned his waistcoat awry and he kept tugging at it as he peered about him.
Now at high tide, New Liverpool was about a thousand yards long and half as broad. At the highest point it rose not more than ten feet above the level of the Rufiji river.
Fifteen miles from the mouth the water was only slightly tainted with salt and the mangrove trees had thinned out and given way to tall matted elephant grass and slender bottle palms.
Flynn's gun-bearers and porters had cleared a small opening above the beach, and had erected a dozen grass huts around one of the palm trees. It was a dead palm, its crown leaves long gone, and Flynn pointed an unsteady finger at it.
"Flag pole," he said indistinctly, took Sebastian's elbow and led him towards it.
Tugging at his waistcoat with one hand and clutching the bundled Union Jack that Flynn had provided in the other, Sebastian felt a surge of emotion within him as he looked up at the slender column of the palm tree.
"Leave me," he mumbled and shook off Flynn's guiding hand. "We got to do this right. Solemn occasion very solemn."
"Have a drink." Flynn offered him the gin bottle, and when Sebastian waved it away, he lifted it to his own lips.
"Shouldn't drink on parade." Sebastian frowned at him.
"Bad form."
Flynn coughed at the vicious sting of the liquor and smote himself on the chest with his free hand.
"Should draw the men up in a hollow square," Sebastian went on. "Ready to salute the flag."
"Jesus, man, get on with it," grumbled Flynn.
"Got to do it right."
"Oh, hell," Flynn shrugged with resignation, then issued a string of orders in Swahili.
Puzzled and amused, Flynn's fifteen retainers gathered in a ragged circle about the flag pole. They were a curious band, gathered from half a dozen tribes, dressed in an assortment of cast-off Western clothing, half of them armed with ancient double-barrelled elephant rifles from which Flynn had carefully filed the serial numbers so they could never be traced back to him.
"Fine body of men," Sebastian beamed at them in alcoholic goodwill, unconsciously using the words of a Brigadier who had inspected Sebastian's cadet parade at Rugby.
"Let's get this show on the road," Flynn suggested.
"My friends," Sebastian obliged, "we are gathered here today..." It was a longish speech but Flynn weathered it by nipping away quietly at the gin bottle, and at last Sebastian ended with his voice ringing and tears of great emotion prickling his eyelids, In the sight of God and man, I hereby declare this island part of the glorious Empire of His Majesty, George V, King of England, Emperor of India, Protector of the Faith..." His voice wavered as he tried to remember the correct form, and he ended lamely, and all that sort of thing."
A silence fell on the assembly and Sebastian fidgeted with embarrassment. "What do I do now?" he enquired of Flynn O'Flynn in a stage whisper.
"Get that goddamned flag up."
"Ah, the flag!" Sebastian exclaimed with relief, and then uncertainly, "How?"
Flynn considered this at length. "I guess you have to climb up the palm tree."
With shrill cries of encouragement from the gun-bearers, and with Flynn shoving and cursing from below, the Governor of New Liverpool managed to scale the flag pole to a height of about fifteen feet. There he secured the flag and descended again so swiftly he tore the buttons off the front of his waistcoat, and twisted his ankle. He was borne away to one of the grass huts singing, "God save our Gracious King" in a voice broken with gin, pain and patriotism.
For the rest of their stay on the island, the Union Jack flew at half mast above the encampment.
Carried initially by two Wakamba fishermen, it took fully ten days for the word of the annexation to reach the outpost of the German Empire one hundred miles away at Mahenge. - Mahenge was in the bush country above the coastal lowlands. It consisted, in its entirety, of four trading posts owned by Indian shopkeepers and the German boma.
The German boma was a large stone building, thatched, set about with wide verandas over which purple bougainvillea climbed in profusion. Behind it stood the barracks and parade ground of the African Askari, and before it a lonely flag pole from which streamed the black, red and yellow of the empire. A speck in the vastness of the African bush, seat of government for an area the size of France. An area that spread south to the Rovurna river and the border of Portuguese Mozambique, east to the Indian Ocean, and west to the uplands of Sao Hill and Mbeya.
From this stronghold the German Commissioner
(Southern Province) wielded the limitless powers of a medieval robber baron. One of the Kaiser's arms, or, more realistically, one of his little fingers, he was answerable only to Governor Schee in Dares Salaam. But Dares Salaam was many torturous miles away, and Governor Schee was a busy man not to be troubled with trivialities. just as long as the Herr Commissioner Herman Fleischer collected the taxes, he was free to collect them in his own sweet way;
though very few of the indigenous inhabitants of the southern province would have described Herman Fleischer's ways as sweet.
At the time that the messenger, carrying the news of the British annexation of New Liverpool, trotted up over the last skyline and saw through the acacia Thorn trees ahead of him the tiny clustered buildings of Mahenge, Herr Fleischer was finishing his midday meal.
A man of large appetite, his luncheon consisted of
20 approximately two pounds of Eisbein, as much pickled cabbage, and a dozen potatoes, all swimming in thick gravy.
Having aroused his taste-buds, he then went on to the sausage. The sausage came by weekly fast-runner from Dodoma in the north, and was manufactured by a man of emus, a Westphalian immigrant who made sausages with the taste of the Black Forest in them. The sausage, and the Hansa beer cooling in its earthenware jug, aroused in Herr Fleischer a delicious nostalgia. He ate not quietly but steadily, and these quantities of food confined within the thick grey corduroy of his tunic and breeches, built up a pressure that squeezed the perspiration from his face and neck, forcing him to pause and mop up at regular intervals.
When he sighed at last and sagged back in his chair, the leather thongs squeaked a little under him. A bubble of trapped gas found its way up through the sausage and passed in genteel emption between his lips. Tasting it, he sighed again in happiness and squinted out from the deep shade of the veranda into the flat shimmering glare of the sunlight.
Then he saw the messenger coming. The man reached the steps of the veranda and squatted down in the sun with his loin-cloth drawn up modestly between his legs. His body was washed shiny black with sweat but his legs were powdered with fine dust to the knees, and his chest swelled and subsided as he drank the thin hot air. His eyes were downcast, he could not look directly at the Bwana Mkuba until his presence was formally acknowledged.
Herman Fleischer-watched him broodingly, his mood evaporating for he had been looking forward to his afternoon siesta and the messenger had spoiled that. He looked away at the low cloud above the hills in the south and sipped his beer. Then he selected a cheroot from the box before him and lit it. The cheroot burned slowly and evenly, restoring a little of his good humour. He smoked it short before flicking the stub over the veranda wall.
"Speak," he grunted, and the messenger lifted his eyes, and gasped with wonder and awe at the beauty and dignity of the Commissioner's person. Although this was ritual admiration, it never failed to stir a faint pleasure in Herr Fleischer.
"I see you, Bwana Mkuba Great Lord," and Fleischer inclined his head slightly. "I bring you greetings from Kalani, headman of Batja, on the Rufiji. You are his father, and he crawls on his belly before you. Your hair of yellow, and the great fatness of your body, blind him with beauty."
Herr Fleischer stirred restlessly in his chair. References to his corpulence, however well-intentioned, always annoyed him. "Speak," he repeated.
"Kalani says thus: "Ten suns ago, a ship came into the delta of the Rufiji, and stopped by the Island of the Dogs, Inja. On the island, the men of this ship have built houses, and above the houses, they have placed on a dead palm tree the cloth of the Insingeese which is of blue and white and red, having many crosses within crosses."
Herr Fleischer struggled upright in his chair and stared at the messenger. The pink of his complexion slowly became cross-veined with red and purple.
"Kalani says also: "Since their coming the voices of their guns have never ceased to speak along the Rufiji river, and there has been a great killing of elephants so that in the noonday the sky is dark with the birds that come for the meat."
Herr Fleischer was thrashing around in his chair, speech was locked in his throat and his face had swollen so it threatened to burst like an over-ripe fruit.
"Kalani says further: "Two white men are on the island.
One is a man who is very thin and young and is therefore of no account. The other white man Kalani has seen only at a great distance but by the redness of this man's face, and by his bulk, he knows in his heart it is Fini.
At the name Herr Fleischer became articulate, if not coherent he bellowed like a bull in rut. The messenger winced, such a bellow from the Bwana Mkuba usually preceded a multiple hanging.
"Sergeant!" The next bellow had form, and Herr Fleischer was on his feet, struggling to clinch the buckle of his belt.
"Rasch!" he roared again. O'Flynn was in German territory again; O'Flynn was stealing German ivory once more and compounding the insult by flying the Union Jack over the Kaiser's domain.
"Sergeant, where the thunder of God are you?" With incredible speed for a fat man Herr Fleischer raced down the long length of the veranda. For three years now, ever since his arrival in Mahenge, the name of Flynn O'Flynn had been enough to ruin his appetite, and produce in him a condition very close to epilepsy.
Around the corner of the veranda appeared the sergeant of the Askari, and Herr Fleischer braked just in time to avert collision.
"A storm patrol," bellowed the Commissioner, blowing a cloud of spittle in his agitation. "Twenty men. Full field packs, and one hundred pounds of ammunition. We leave in an hour."
The sergeant saluted and doubled away across the parade ground. A minute later a bugle began singing with desperate urgency.