Mack Reynolds - Blackman' Burden

She switched suddenly to Arabic, and he could follow her now. The drift of her talk was that word had come through that El Hassan was to make a great announcement in the near future and that meanwhile all his people were to await his word. But that there was to be a great meeting before the Mosque within the hour.

She switched again to Songhoi and repeated substantially what she’d said before. By now she had every woman hanging on her words.

A man on the outskirts of the gathering called out in high irritation, “But what of the storming of the administration buildings? Our leaders have proclaimed the storming of the reactionaries!”

Crawford, leaning heavily on the pilgrim staff, drifted over to the other. “Quiet, O young one,” he said. “I wish to listen to the words of the girl who tells of the teachings of the great El Hassan.”

The other turned angrily on him. “Be silent thyself, old man!” He raised a hand as though to cuff the American.

Homer Crawford neatly rapped him on the right shin bone with his quarterstaff to the other’s intense agony. The women who witnessed the brief spat dissolved in laughter at the plight of the younger man. Homer Crawford drifted away again before the heckler recovered.

He let Isobel handle the bulk of the reverse-rabble rousing. His bit was to come later, and as yet he didn’t want to reveal himself to the throngs.

They went from one gathering place of women to another. To the spice market, to the fish and meat market, to the bathing and laundering locations along the river. And everywhere they found animated groups of women, Isobel went into her speech.

At one point, while Homer stood idly in the crowd, feeling its temper and the extent to which the girl was dominating them, he felt someone press next to him.

A voice said, “What is the plan of operation, Yank?”

Homer Crawford’s eyebrows went up and he shot a quick glance at the other. It was Rex Donaldson of the Commonwealth African Department, the operative who worked as the witchman, Dolo Anah. Crawford was glad to see him. This was Donaldson’s area of operations; the man must have got here almost as soon as Crawford’s team, when he had heard of the trouble.

Crawford said in English, “They’ve been gathering for an outbreak of violence, evidently directed at the Reunited Nations projects administration buildings. I’ve seen a few banners calling for El Hassan to come to power, Africa for the Africans, that sort of thing.”

The small Bahamian snorted. “You chaps certainly started something with this El Hassan farce. What are your immediate plans? How can I cooperate with you?”

A teenage boy who had been heckling Isobel stooped now to pick up some dried cow dung. Almost absently, Crawford put his staff between the other’s legs and tripped him up. When the lad sprawled on his face the American rapped him smartly on the head.

Crawford said, “Thanks a lot, we can use you, especially since you speak Dogon. I don’t think any of my group does. We’re going to hold a big meeting in front of the square and give them a long monotonous talk, saying little but sounding as though we’re promising a great deal. When we’ve taken most of the steam out of them, we’ll locate the ringleaders and have a big indoor meeting. My boys will be spotted throughout the gang. They’ll nominate me to be spokesman, and nominate each other to be my committee and we’ll be sent to find El Hassan and urge him to take power. That should keep them quiet for a while. At least long enough for headquarters in Dakar to decide what to do.”

“Good heavens,” Donaldson said in admiration. “You Yanks are certainly good at this sort of thing.”

“Takes practice,” Homer Crawford said. “If you want to help, ferret out the groups who speak Dogon and give them the word.”

Out of a sidestreet came running Abe Baker at the head of possibly two or three hundred arm-waving, shouting, stick-brandishing Africans. A few of them had banners which were being waved in such confusion that nobody could read the words inscribed. Most of them seemed to be younger men, even teenagers.

“Good heavens,” Donaldson said again.

At first snap opinion, Crawford thought his assistant was being pursued and started forward to the hopeless rescue, but then he realized that Abe was heading the mob. Waving his staff, the New Yorker was shouting slogans, most of which had something to do with “El Hassan” but otherwise were difficult to make out.

The small mob charged out of the street and through the square, still shouting. Abe began to drop back into the ranks, and then to the edge of the charging, gesticulating crowd. Already, though, some of them seemed to be slowing up, even stopping and drifting away, puzzlement or frustration on their faces.

Those who were still at excitement’s peak charged up another street at the other side of the square.

In a few moments Abe Baker came up to them, breathing hard and wiping sweat from his forehead. He grinned wryly. “Man, those cats are way out. This is really Endsville.” He looked up at where Isobel was haranguing her own crowd, which hadn’t been fazed by the men who’d charged through the square going nowhere. “Look at old Isobel up there. Man, this whole town’s like a combination of Hyde Park and Union Square. You oughta hear old Jake making with a speech.”

“What just happened?” Homer asked, motioning with his head to where the last elements of the mob Abe’d been leading were disappearing down a dead-end street.

“Ah, nothing,” Abe said, still watching Isobel and grinning at her. “Those cats were the nucleus of a bunch wanted to start some action. Burn a few cars, raid the library, that sort of jazz. So I took over for a while, led them up one street and down the other. I feel like I just been star at a track meet.”

“Good heavens,” Donaldson said still again.

“They’re all scattered around now,” Abe explained to him. “Either that or their tongues are hanging out to the point they’ll have to take five to have a beer. They’re finished for a while.”

Isobel finished her little talk and joined them. “What gives now?” she asked.

Rex Donaldson said, “I’d like to stay around and watch you chaps operate. It’s fascinating. However, I’d better get over to the park. That’s probably where the greater number of the Dogon will be.” He grumbled sourly, “I’ll roast those blokes with a half-dozen bits of magic and send them all back to Sangha. It’ll be donkey’s years before they ever show face around here again.” He left them.

Homer Crawford looked after him. “Good man,” he said.

Abe had about caught his breath. “What gives now, man?” he said. “I ought to get back to Jake. He’s all alone up near the mosque.”

“It’s about time all of us got over there,” Crawford said. He looked at Isobel as they walked. “How does it feel being a sort of reverse agent provocateur?”

Her forehead was wrinkled characteristically. “I suppose it has to be done, but frankly, I’m not too sure just what we’re doing. Here we go about pushing these supposed teachings of El Hassan and when we’re taken up by the people and they actually attempt to accomplish what we taught them, we draw in on the reins.”

“Man, you’re right,” Abe said unhappily. He looked at his chief. “What’d you say, Homer?”

“Of course she’s right,” Crawford growled. “It’s just premature, is all. There’s no program, no plan of action. If there was one, this thing here in Mopti might be the spark that united all North Africa. As it is, we have to put the damper on it until there is a definite program.” He added sourly, “I’m just wondering if the Reunited Nations is the organization that can come up with one. And, if it isn’t, where is there one?”