visits were conditional upon the African Queen being fit to travel, and upon there being no work upon the mining machinery demanding his immediate attention.
And Samuel had not allowed Rose even to be interested in Allnutt’s visits. The letters that had come had all been for him, always, and Allnutt was a sinner who lived in unhallowed union with a Negress up at the mine. They had to give him food and hospitality when he came, and to bring into the family prayers a mention of their wish for his redemption, but that was all. Those ten years had been a period of heat-ridden monotony.
It was different enough now. There was the broad scheme of proceeding to the lake and freeing it from the mastery of the Germans; that in itself was enough to keep anyone happy. And for detail to fill in the day there was the river, wide, mutable, always different. There could be no monotony on a river, with its snags and mud bars, its bends and its backwaters, its eddies and its swirls. Perhaps those few days of active happiness were sufficient recompense to Rose for thirty-three years of passive misery.
Chapter 4
T HERE came an evening when Allnutt was silent and moody, as though labouring under some secret grievance. Rose noticed his mood, and looked sharply at him once or twice. There was no feeling of companionship this evening as they drank their tea. And when the tea was drunk Allnutt actually got out the gin bottle and poured himself a drink, the second that day, and drank, and filled his cup again, still silent and sulky. He drank again, and the drink seemed to increase his moodiness. Rose watched these proceedings, disconcerted. She realized by instinct that she must do something to maintain the morale of her crew. There was trouble in the wind, and this gloomy silent drinking would only increase it.
“What’s the matter, Allnutt?” she asked, gently. She was genuinely concerned about the unhappiness of the little cockney, quite apart from any thought of what bearing it might have upon the success of her enterprise.
Allnutt only drank again, and looked sullenly down at the ragged canvas shoes on his feet. Rose came over near to him.
“Tell me,” she said gently again, and then Allnutt answered.
“We ain’t goin’ no further down the river,” he said. “We gone far enough. All this rot about goin’ to the lake.”
Allnutt did not use the word “rot,” but although the word he used was quite unfamiliar to Rose she guessed that it meant something like that. Rose was shocked—not at the language, but at the sentiment. She had been ready, she thought, for any surprising declarations by Allnutt, but it had not occurred to her that there was anything like this in his mind.
“Not going any farther?” she said. “Allnutt! Of course we must!”
“No bloody ‘of course’ about it,” said Allnutt.
“I can’t think what’s the matter,” said Rose, with perfect truth.
“The river’s the matter, that’s what. And Shona.”
“Shona!” repeated Rose. At last she had an inkling of what was worrying Allnutt.
“If we go on to-morrer,” said Allnutt, “we’ll be in the rapids to-morrer night. An’ before we get to the rapids we’ll ’ave to go past Shona. I’d forgotten about Shona until last night.”
“But nothing’s going to happen to us at Shona.”
“Ain’t it? Ain’t it? ’Ow do you know? If there’s anywheres on this river the Germans are watching it’ll be Shona. That’s where the road from the south crosses the river. There was a nigger ferry there before the Germans ever came ’ere. They’ll ’ave a gang watching there. Strike-me-dead-certain. An’ there ain’t no sneaking past Shona. I been there, in this old African Queen . I knows what the river’s like. It’s just one big bend. There ain’t no backwaters there, nor nothing. You can see clear across from one side to the other, an’ Shona’s on a ’ill on the bank.”
“But they won’t be able to stop
And Samuel had not allowed Rose even to be interested in Allnutt’s visits. The letters that had come had all been for him, always, and Allnutt was a sinner who lived in unhallowed union with a Negress up at the mine. They had to give him food and hospitality when he came, and to bring into the family prayers a mention of their wish for his redemption, but that was all. Those ten years had been a period of heat-ridden monotony.
It was different enough now. There was the broad scheme of proceeding to the lake and freeing it from the mastery of the Germans; that in itself was enough to keep anyone happy. And for detail to fill in the day there was the river, wide, mutable, always different. There could be no monotony on a river, with its snags and mud bars, its bends and its backwaters, its eddies and its swirls. Perhaps those few days of active happiness were sufficient recompense to Rose for thirty-three years of passive misery.
Chapter 4
T HERE came an evening when Allnutt was silent and moody, as though labouring under some secret grievance. Rose noticed his mood, and looked sharply at him once or twice. There was no feeling of companionship this evening as they drank their tea. And when the tea was drunk Allnutt actually got out the gin bottle and poured himself a drink, the second that day, and drank, and filled his cup again, still silent and sulky. He drank again, and the drink seemed to increase his moodiness. Rose watched these proceedings, disconcerted. She realized by instinct that she must do something to maintain the morale of her crew. There was trouble in the wind, and this gloomy silent drinking would only increase it.
“What’s the matter, Allnutt?” she asked, gently. She was genuinely concerned about the unhappiness of the little cockney, quite apart from any thought of what bearing it might have upon the success of her enterprise.
Allnutt only drank again, and looked sullenly down at the ragged canvas shoes on his feet. Rose came over near to him.
“Tell me,” she said gently again, and then Allnutt answered.
“We ain’t goin’ no further down the river,” he said. “We gone far enough. All this rot about goin’ to the lake.”
Allnutt did not use the word “rot,” but although the word he used was quite unfamiliar to Rose she guessed that it meant something like that. Rose was shocked—not at the language, but at the sentiment. She had been ready, she thought, for any surprising declarations by Allnutt, but it had not occurred to her that there was anything like this in his mind.
“Not going any farther?” she said. “Allnutt! Of course we must!”
“No bloody ‘of course’ about it,” said Allnutt.
“I can’t think what’s the matter,” said Rose, with perfect truth.
“The river’s the matter, that’s what. And Shona.”
“Shona!” repeated Rose. At last she had an inkling of what was worrying Allnutt.
“If we go on to-morrer,” said Allnutt, “we’ll be in the rapids to-morrer night. An’ before we get to the rapids we’ll ’ave to go past Shona. I’d forgotten about Shona until last night.”
“But nothing’s going to happen to us at Shona.”
“Ain’t it? Ain’t it? ’Ow do you know? If there’s anywheres on this river the Germans are watching it’ll be Shona. That’s where the road from the south crosses the river. There was a nigger ferry there before the Germans ever came ’ere. They’ll ’ave a gang watching there. Strike-me-dead-certain. An’ there ain’t no sneaking past Shona. I been there, in this old African Queen . I knows what the river’s like. It’s just one big bend. There ain’t no backwaters there, nor nothing. You can see clear across from one side to the other, an’ Shona’s on a ’ill on the bank.”
“But they won’t be able to stop
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