The Witch Doctor and other Rhodesian Studies Part 40

Some of the men had no money with them, which was not to be wondered at, since they had come out looking for trouble and certainly with no intention of paying tax. He seized upon this as an excuse for collecting no more tax that day, and informed Nanzela that he would accompany him and his people back to the village and encamp there, so that each man might bring his money from his hut. He made no reference to the night spent on the high land near the river.

The animals were saddled up and the interpreter sent back on his pony with a note calling upon the Native Commissioners to follow to Nanzela's village with all possible speed, bringing their census books, tax receipt forms, and the rest of their travelling office.

A strange procession now formed. First walked the Chief with his a.s.segai--recovered from the tree--in one hand and the tax-paper in the other. Then a body-guard of fully-armed men, some with and some without tax-papers. In the midst of these rode Wrenshaw, with his rifle gripped between his saddle and his thigh. Then followed the gunbearer leading the mule; the cook slouched along behind.

The rear was brought up by the remainder of Nanzela's men, a few of whom had tax-papers, which they carried well in the air, much to the envy of those who had not yet paid. The little papers in the sticks appealed to the child-like fancy of these savages; taxpaying had become a game, a receipt in a stick, a toy.

To say that Wrenshaw was much relieved is not to overstate the case. As he looked round him upon this mob of armed men eager to pay their tax and receive in exchange a piece of coloured paper, he realised better than anyone else could how tight a corner he had been in.

His thoughts were disturbed by a commotion as the ranks parted and a man ran up to him with a letter in a stick; as the native held it up it resembled a miniature notice-board.

Good heavens! It was his letter home; in the excitement of starting he had forgotten it. The man who brought it was one of Nanzela's people who had gone back to pick up anything which the white man or his servants might have left behind. He hoped, no doubt, to find a stray cartridge or two in the gra.s.s, or perhaps a spoon or a table knife.

Wrenshaw did not remove the letter from the stick, but carried it as the natives did their tax-papers. The simple people became impatient to pay their tax; was not the white man also playing this new game?

The letter home was never sent. In place of it Wrenshaw despatched a brief account of his adventure, told in a very matter-of-fact way.

Over the mantelpiece of his den hangs a frame; in place of a picture it contains a letter in a stick which, at a short distance, looks like a miniature notice-board.

THE DOCTOR.

Those who go in search of trouble usually find it. They deserve no sympathy and seldom get any.

The well-meaning man frequently meets with trouble too, although it is the one thing he doesn't want. When he is in difficulties, people pity him; they give him that pity which is akin to contempt, not to love.

But Harry Warner was lucky. He most certainly went in search of trouble; he also meant well. His reward was unusual and quite out of proportion to the little good he did. He achieved immortal, if only local, fame.

It was the natives who dubbed him "doctor." He wasn't one, he had no medical qualifications and little knowledge of medicine.

But what do black people know or care about qualifications? Wasn't Warner always accessible? Did he not give medicine to all who asked for it, no matter what the disease might be? Did not some of those to whom he gave medicine recover? Had he ever asked anyone for payment?

What a doctor!

So the natives declared, and do still declare, that there never has been, never will be, never could be so great a doctor in their country as he.

Now if Warner possessed no medical knowledge, he had the "goods." The goods consisted of a miscellaneous collection of superfluous drugs, plasters and pills, all a little stale, packed in an old whisky case and presented to him by a hospital orderly of his acquaintance.

Warner watched the packing and asked questions.

"Iodine, what's that for?"

"Oh, sore throat, water on the knee, to stop vomiting, for fixing a gumboil, chilblains, and a host of other things. It's made from seaweed."

"Do you drink it?"

"Not in every case, not with housemaid's knee or sore throat, anyway.

You paint it in the throat or on the knee. Here, we'd better put you in a camel's hairbrush."

"Good. And what's nitrate of potash for?"

"Well, if you have an inflamed eye, put a spot or two in this eye-cup, fill it up with water and blink into it--like this."

"Thanks. And what do you use chlorodyne for?"

"Bad pains in the stomach."

"I see. And quinine is good for fever, of course."

"Yes, that's right. Cover a sixpence with the powder, mix it with a little whisky, add a little water, and toss it off."

"And corrosive sublimate?"

"Oh, that's good stuff for was.h.i.+ng wounds with, jolly good. Don't make it too strong or you'll burn the bottom out of the pot you mix it in, not to mention the wounded part. About one in ten thousand makes a useful solution if the water you use isn't too dirty."

"I understand. And what is in this funny little box marked 'Sovereign Remedy'?"

"Dash it all! That box belongs to my set of conjuring tricks. Can't think how it's got mixed up with this lot. But you may as well take it along; you might want to surprise the natives and you'll certainly do it with that."

"How do you use it?"

"It's all on the box, full directions."

"And what's in all these pill boxes? Pills?"

"Yes, pills."

"But what are they all for?"

"Bless the man! I haven't time to wade through the lot. Besides, you must know in a general way what pills are for. All the boxes have the dose on them. Now let's get a move on. Give a hand with the packing. I'm on duty in half an hour."

And now we know just as much about doctoring as Warner did on the threshhold of his short medical career. Even a real doctor has much to learn before he reaches Harley Street; he picks up many wrinkles on the way and much improves with practice.

THE SOVEREIGN REMEDY.

Warner had travelled many miles from civilisation before his first patient came to him. The precious box of medicines had all along been kept handy on the waggon. From time to time he got it down, unpacked it, examined the labels, shook the bottles, and carefully repacked them.

But, like a real doctor, he did not advertise. It isn't done.