The expeditionary party decided to approach slowly, showing that they clearly meant no harm and wished only to make contact. Akan led the way, followed closely by the native porter, who had the best chance of initiating communication, provided his mother tongue in any way resembled the speech of the villagers.
It did not. The women stared curiously at the party, laughing every so often but showing absolutely no indication that they were in any way afraid.
"What should we do now, sir?" Westmoreland asked.
"Fortunately, there is another language. This is a common tongue that all men speak," Huxley replied. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small leather pouch containing loose change from back home, along with several shiny gold coins, which he fished out with his dirty fingers and held out, placed carefully on his palm, for the women to see and admire, but that held their interest only momentarily. They were back to their jokes and linguistically obscured comments in a very short amount of time.
"I wasn't expecting that," said Huxley, tucking the gold safely back into his pocket. "Maybe we should find the men. They may be more negotiable."
At this, the foremost woman, who wore a deep red wrapper and a matching headscarf, flashed an offended look, though Westmoreland was the only one to immediately catch it.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Westmoreland?"
"I think she understood you."
"What? That's impossible!"
Huxley immediately turned his full attention back to the small group of women. The foremost gave a slight nod.
"Do you understand me? Do you speak English?"
The woman grinned, exposing several gaps in her mouth where teeth should have been.
"Un peu," she replied.
"What? What did you say? What did she say?" he asked, looking at every member of his own party as if they held some secret knowledge.
"I believe that's French, sir," said Westmoreland.
"French? I can understand teaching a native English. That's a highly dignified manner of civilizing the natives, after all, but to teach them French. That just seems cruel and rather unconscionable. Honestly, what kind of person would do such a thing?"
"True as that may be, sir, perhaps you should be asking her the question."
"Right, thanks. So you speak English?" he asked the woman, turning back to her.
The woman nodded.
"How? Who taught you?"
"Church," said the girl.
"Church? Damn it all. That means they've already been here. There's a mission nearby, no doubt, if not in the village proper."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Does that make our expedition obsolete?"
"No, Westmoreland. Not yet, at least."
Westmoreland's words still hung off of him, like the swollen sting of a bee once the insect itself had moved on, and for a brief moment, he felt like a very old, very unnecessary piece of the greater machine--a cog once taken from the system as a whole, failed to impede the intended machinations. But Huxley's actual intentions had little to do with mapping out the gradually decreasing hidden places of the world, for his true trade was manipulation.
It did not. The women stared curiously at the party, laughing every so often but showing absolutely no indication that they were in any way afraid.
"What should we do now, sir?" Westmoreland asked.
"Fortunately, there is another language. This is a common tongue that all men speak," Huxley replied. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small leather pouch containing loose change from back home, along with several shiny gold coins, which he fished out with his dirty fingers and held out, placed carefully on his palm, for the women to see and admire, but that held their interest only momentarily. They were back to their jokes and linguistically obscured comments in a very short amount of time.
"I wasn't expecting that," said Huxley, tucking the gold safely back into his pocket. "Maybe we should find the men. They may be more negotiable."
At this, the foremost woman, who wore a deep red wrapper and a matching headscarf, flashed an offended look, though Westmoreland was the only one to immediately catch it.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Westmoreland?"
"I think she understood you."
"What? That's impossible!"
Huxley immediately turned his full attention back to the small group of women. The foremost gave a slight nod.
"Do you understand me? Do you speak English?"
The woman grinned, exposing several gaps in her mouth where teeth should have been.
"Un peu," she replied.
"What? What did you say? What did she say?" he asked, looking at every member of his own party as if they held some secret knowledge.
"I believe that's French, sir," said Westmoreland.
"French? I can understand teaching a native English. That's a highly dignified manner of civilizing the natives, after all, but to teach them French. That just seems cruel and rather unconscionable. Honestly, what kind of person would do such a thing?"
"True as that may be, sir, perhaps you should be asking her the question."
"Right, thanks. So you speak English?" he asked the woman, turning back to her.
The woman nodded.
"How? Who taught you?"
"Church," said the girl.
"Church? Damn it all. That means they've already been here. There's a mission nearby, no doubt, if not in the village proper."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Does that make our expedition obsolete?"
"No, Westmoreland. Not yet, at least."
Westmoreland's words still hung off of him, like the swollen sting of a bee once the insect itself had moved on, and for a brief moment, he felt like a very old, very unnecessary piece of the greater machine--a cog once taken from the system as a whole, failed to impede the intended machinations. But Huxley's actual intentions had little to do with mapping out the gradually decreasing hidden places of the world, for his true trade was manipulation.
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