The Land Leviathan Read online

  At the opposite end of the hall from the great double doors through which we entered stood a dais carpeted in zebra skin, and upon the dais (I was reminded, for a moment, of the King of East Grinstead) was placed a throne of carved ebony, its scarlet, quilted back bearing the lion motif one saw everywhere in New Kumasi.

  Dressed in a casual, white tropical suit, Cicero Hood stood near his throne, looking out of a tall window. He turned when we were announced, dismissing the guards with one hand while keeping the other in his trouser pocket, crossing with a light step to a table where there had been arranged a variety of drinks and non-alcoholic beverages (Hood had doubtless been informed that there were several in our party who did not drink). He served each of us personally and then moved about the hall arranging chairs so that we might all be seated close together. No European king could have behaved with greater courtesy to guests he was determined to honour (and yet equally determined to impress, for he had made sure we saw all the outward signs of his power!).

  He had taken the trouble to find out the names of each individual in our party and to know something of their interests and special responsibilities in Bantustan and he chatted easily with them, showing a good knowledge of most subjects and ready to admit ignorance where he had it. Again, I was surprised. These were by no means the swaggering ill-manners of a parvenu monarch. There had been kings and emperors in my own world who might have learned much of the art of noblesse oblige from the Black Attila.

  He did not address me individually until he had talked for a while with the others, then he grinned at me and shook me warmly by the hand and I had the unmistakable impression that the tyrant actually liked me—a feeling I could not reciprocate and could not equate with my knowledge of his much-publicized hatred of the white race. My own response was polite, self-controlled, but reserved.

  “I am so glad, Mr. Bastable, that you could agree to come,” he said.

  “I was not aware, sir, that I had a great deal of choice,” I answered. “President Gandhi seemed to be under the impression that you had insisted on my being part of the mission.”

  “I expressed the hope that you might be able to join it, certainly. After all, I must show impartiality.” This was said with a smile which doubtless he hoped would disarm me. “The token European, you know.”

  Deliberately or not, he had made me feel self-conscious by referring to the colour of my skin. Even a joke had the effect of emphasizing the difference we both felt, and it would not have mattered if the man who made it had been my best friend, I should still have had the same feelings, particularly since there were no other whites in the room.

  Noting my discomfort, Cicero Hood patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bastable. A remark in bad taste. But hard for the son of a slave to resist, I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “It would seem to me, sir, that your own success would be sufficient to help you forget any stigma...”

  “Stigma, Mr. Bastable?” His voice hardened. “I assure you that I do not feel it is a stigma. The stigma, surely, belongs to those who enslaved my people in the first place.”

  It was a good point. “Perhaps you are right, sir,” I mumbled. I was no match for Hood’s intellectual swiftness.

  Hood’s manner instantly became condescending again. “But you are right. I have mellowed in the last year or two, thanks, in some measure, to the good fortune I have had. I have only one goal left and then I shall be content. However, that goal is the most difficult I have set myself, and I have a feeling I shall meet strong resistance from a certain Power which has, up to now, remained neutral.”

  “You mean the Australasian-Japanese Federation, sir?” This was Field Marshal Akari, the man we had elected as chief spokesman for our mission. A distinguished officer and one of President Gandhi’s oldest friends and supporters, he was owed much by Bantustan and had frequently acted as the President’s deputy in the past. “Surely they would not risk everything they have built up over the last few years? They cannot feel threatened by Ashanti!”

  “I am afraid that they do, field marshal,” said Hood in a tone of the utmost regret. “It would seem that they regard the Pacific as their territory and they have had some news of my plans—I have made no secret of them—and feel that if my ships begin to sail ‘their’ ocean it will only be a matter of time before I cast greedy eyes upon their islands.”

  Mrs. Nzinga, but lately Minister of Communications in Gandhi’s government, said quietly: “Then you intend to attack the United States? Is that what you mean, sir?”

  Hood shrugged. “Attack is not the word I would choose, Mrs. Nzinga. My intention is to liberate the black peoples of the United States, to help them build a new and lasting civilization there. I know that I am thought of as a senseless tyrant by many—embarked upon a crazy course of genocide—a war of attrition against the whites—but I think there is a method to my ‘madness’. For too long the so-called ‘coloured’ peoples of the world have been made to feel inferior by the Europeans. In many parts of Africa an awful, soul-destroying apathy existed until I began to show those I led that the whites had no special skills, no special intelligence, no special rights to rule. My speeches against the whites were calculated, just as my nationalism was calculated. I knew that there was little time, after the war, to make the gains I had to make. I had to use crude methods to build up my resources, my territory, the confidence of those I led. I happen to believe, rightly or wrongly, that it is time the black man had a chance to run the world. I think if he can rid himself of the sickness of European logic, he can make a lasting Utopia. I admire President Gandhi, Mrs. Nzinga—though you might find that strange in a ‘bloody-handed tyrant’. I have not threatened Bantustan because I fear your military strength. I want Bantustan to continue to exist because it is a symbol to the rest of the world of an ideal state. But it is Bantustan’s good fortune, not any special virtue, which has made it what it is. The rest of the world is not so fortunate and if President Gandhi tried to set up his state, say, in India he would find that it would not last for long! First the world must be united—and the way to unite it is to form large empires—and the way to form large empires, I regret, madam, is by war and bloodshed—by ferocious conquest.”

  “But violence will be met by violence,” said Professor Hira, whose university programme had been such a success in Bantustan. A small, tubby man, his shiny face positively glowed with emotion. “Those you conquer will, sooner or later, try to rise up against you. It is in the nature of things.”

  “Risings of the sort you describe, professor,” said General Hood grimly, “are only successful where the government is weak. Tyrannies can last for centuries—have lasted for centuries—if the administration remains firmly in control. If it cultivates in itself the Stoic virtues. If it is, in its own terms, just.

  “My Empire has been compared with that of Rome. The Roman Empire did not fall—it withered away when it was no longer of any use. It left behind it a heritage of philosophy alone which has continued to influence us all.”

  “But you see Western thinking as having brought us to the brink of world annihilation,” I put in.

  “In some ways only. That is not the point, however. I described an example. I believe that African thinking will produce a saner, more lasting civilization than that of the West.”

  “You have no proof of this,” I said.

  “No. But a theory must be tested to be disproved, Mr. Bastable. I intend to test the theory and to ensure that the test is thorough. The experiment will continue long after my death.”

  There was nothing much I could reply to this without getting involved in abstractions. I subsided.

  “You may see my ambitions in America as being motivated merely by revenge,” Cicero Hood continued, “but I wish to build something in the country of my birth as strong as that which I am building here. The whites of the United States are decadent— perhaps they have always been decadent. A new enthusiasm, however, can be generated amongst the blacks. I int
end to put power into their hands. I intend to liberate America. Have you not heard what is happening there now? Having no real enemy to fight any longer, the whites turn, as always, upon the minorities. They wiped out the Red Indians—now they plan to wipe out the Negroes. It is the spirit of Salem—the corrupting influence of Puritanism which in itself is a perversion of the Stoic ideal— infecting what remains of a nation which could have set an example to the world, just as Bantustan now sets an example. That spirit must be exorcized for good and all. When the whites are conquered they will not be enslaved, as we were enslaved. They will be given a place in the New Ashanti Empire; they will be given a chance to earn their way to full equality. I shall take their power from them—but I shall not take their dignity. The two have been confused for too long. But only a black man realizes that—for he has had the experience during centuries of exploitation by the whites!”

  It was a noble speech (even if I was skeptical of its logic), but I could not resist, at last, making a remark which General Hood was bound to find telling.

  “It is possible, General Hood,” I said, “that you can convince us that your motives are idealistic, but you have told us yourself that the Australasian-Japanese Federation is not so convinced. There is every chance that they will be able to thwart your scheme. What then? You will have risked everything and achieved nothing. Why not concentrate on building Africa into a single great nation? Forget your hatred of the United States. Let it find its own solutions. The A.J.F. is probably as powerful as the Ashanti Empire...”

  “Oh, probably more powerful now!” It was the clear, sweet voice of Una Persson that interrupted me. She had entered through a door behind Hood’s throne. “I have just received confirmation, General Hood, of what I suspected. O’Bean is in Tokyo. He has been there, it seems, since the outbreak of the war. He has been convinced that Ashanti represents a further threat to the world. He has been working on plans for a new fleet for nearly two years. Already a score of his ships have been built in the yards of Sydney and Melbourne and are ready to sail. Unless we mobilize immediately, there is every chance that we shall be defeated.”

  General Hood’s response was unexpected. He looked first at me, then at Una Persson, then he threw back his head and he laughed long and heartily.

  “Then we mobilize,” he said. “Oh, by all means—we mobilize. I am going home, Mrs. Persson. I am going home!”

  BOOK TWO

  THE BATTLE FOR WASHINGTON

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Two Fleets Meet

  Looking back, I suppose I should count myself fortunate in being, by a strange set of circumstances, witness to Hood’s decision to risk everything he had gained by invading America, and to experience the invasion (and its aftermath) itself. Not many young officers are given such an opportunity.

  My determination to take the law into my own hands if I judged Hood “guilty” remained as strong, but I was already beginning to realize that the Black Attila was a far subtler individual than I had at first supposed. Moreover, I soon came to learn that his ferocity, his reputation for putting to death or enslaving whole cities, was something of a myth which he encouraged. It was useful to him if his enemies believed the myth, for it quite often resulted in all but bloodless conquests! The defenders would prefer to parley rather than fight, and would often ask for terms quite inferior to those Hood was prepared to grant! This meant that, when he proposed terms which were better than they had expected, he gained the reputation of munificence which was quite undeserved, but encouraged the conquered to work willingly for him—out of a sense of relief as much as any other consideration!

  I saw little of Hood or Una Persson in the following week. They were far too involved in their plans for mobilization. We of the diplomatic mission could only gather what information was available and relay it to Bantustan. We were allowed, in the first days, to communicate information of all kinds freely to our own country, but a little later a certain censorship was imposed as General Hood became nervous of news reaching Tokyo. I think he had heard that the A.J.F. fleet was making for the Atlantic. The largest part of the Ashanti fleet had been based in Europe, where it was most useful, and some ships had to be recalled, while others were ordered to assemble in Hamburg, Copenhagen, Gothenburg and other Northern European ports, preparatory to sailing for America.

  I gathered that Hood was not merely relying on his vast land, air and sea fleets, but had another counter to play. From something Una Persson had said, I thought her trip to England had played a part in Hood’s ‘secret weapon’ being developed, but I was to learn more of this later.

  My next surprise came a day or two before Hood was due to sail. Una Persson visited me at the legation, where I was busy with some sort of meaningless paperwork. She apologized for disturbing me and said that General Hood would like to see me for a few moments during luncheon.

  I went unwillingly. Privately I was sure that the powerful Australasian-Japanese Federation would put a stop to his dreams of conquest for ever and that I no longer had a part to play in the history of this world. I was looking forward to returning to Bantustan when the Ashanti Empire collapsed, as it was bound to do.

  Hood had almost finished luncheon when I arrived at the palace. He was sitting at the head of a long table surrounded by his chief ministers and generals. There were charts spread among the remains of a simple meal and black faces were bent over them, conversing in low, urgent tones. All looked up as I arrived, and several frowned, making insulting remarks about their meal being spoiled by the sight of a white man. I had become quite used to this sort of thing from Hood’s lieutenants (though, to be fair, not all were so ill-mannered) and was able to ignore the comments, saying: “You sent for me, general?”

  Hood seemed surprised to see me. He looked vaguely at me for a moment and then snapped his fingers as if remembering why he had sent for me. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bastable. Just to tell you to have a bag packed by tomorrow morning and to present yourself to the captain of the Dingiswayo. He is expecting you. I’ve exchanged communications with President Gandhi and he is agreeable to the scheme. You have been seconded to my staff. You’re coming with us to America, Mr. Bastable. Congratulations.”

  There was nothing I could say. I tried to think of some retort, failed, and saluted. “Very well, sir.” Whether there was some deeper motive involved, or whether this was just another example of Hood’s quixotic and whimsical behaviour where my fate was concerned I did not know. It seems that by taking my initial decision I was now bound to follow it through all the way.

  And that was how I came to be the only white officer to accompany the sea-borne Black Horde when it sailed out over the Atlantic bound for New York with the express intention of destroying for ever the power of the Caucasian race!

  My life has been full of ironies since my first, ill-fated expedition to Teku Benga, but I think that that remains the greatest irony of them all.

  Hood had thrown virtually everything he had into the invasion fleet. Surface and underwater vessels, airships of every description, came together at last just off the coast of Iceland—a fleet which filled the sky and occupied the ocean for as far as the eye could see. Aboard the ships were stored Hood’s vast collection of land ironclads and in the centre of all these there rose a gigantic hull, specially built but utterly mysterious in its purpose, which could not progress under its own power but which had to be towed by thirty other battleships. I guessed that this must surely be Hood’s secret weapon, but neither I nor any of the other officers aboard the Dingiswayo had any inkling of its nature!

  And all the while news was coming through of the Australasian-Japanese fleet converging on our own.

  Hood’s hope was that we could run ahead of the A.J.F. fleet and get to the coast of North America before it caught up with us, but these new ships of O’Bean’s were much faster than ours (their fire-power was a completely unknown factor) and I knew that we had no chance. There was a school of thought which said that we should disperse our own fl
eet, but Hood was against this, feeling that we had a better chance if we concentrated our forces. Also, as was evident, he was prepared to risk almost everything to protect the vast hull we towed (or, at least, the contents of the hull) and I had the impression that he might consider sacrificing everything else so long as that hull arrived eventually in New York.

  There was scarcely a ship in the fleet which would not have dwarfed one of the ironclads of my own day. Equipped with long-snouted naval guns which could put a stream of incredibly powerful shells into the air in the time it took one of my world’s ships to fire a single shot, capable of cruising at speeds reaching ninety knots, of manoeuvring with the speed and ease of the lightest cruiser, a couple of them could have given our good old British navy a pretty grim time. Hood had a hundred of these alone in his fleet, as well as over fifty underwater battleships and nearly seventy big aerial men-o’-war (which, in turn, were equipped with light fighting airboats capable of leaving the mother ship, striking rapidly at an enemy and returning to safety above the clouds). As well as this massive fighting strength, there were dozens of smaller vessels, many cargo ships, carrying land ’clads and infantry, gunboats and torpedo boats—virtually all the remaining fighting ships of the nations of the world which had taken part in the war.

  If I had believed in the cause of the Ashanti Empire I am sure I would have felt a surge of pride when I looked upon the splendour of that fleet as it steamed away from Reykjavik in the early morning of 23rd December, 1907—a mass of black and scarlet upon the grey field of the wintry sea. Wisps of fog drifted from time to time across the scene and, standing on the quarterdeck of the Dingiswayo, listening to the sound of ships’ horns bellowing in the distance, I was overwhelmed with a sense of awe. How, I wondered, could anything in the world resist such might? And if there was a God, how could He allow it to have been created in the first place?