Samba: A Story of the Rubber Slaves of the Congo

  CHAPTER II

  "Rubber is Death"

  "Whew! This is a warm country, Jack. There'll soon be nothing left ofus."

  "There's plenty at present, uncle," replied Jack Challoner with asmile. "Barney can spare less, after all."

  "Sure an' that's the truth's truth, sorr. 'Twas the sorrow uv memother's heart that I ran to length instid uv breadth. Whin I was abhoy she had to buy breeches always a size too long for me, and mebones grew so fast they almost made holes in me skin--they did."

  "Confound it, man, that's where you score. The mosquitoes leave youalone: can't find enough juice in you to make it worth their while toworry you. Whereas they suck at me till I'm all ulcers. Hi! Nando,when shall we get to this Banonga we've heard so much about?"

  "Berrah soon, sah. Paddle small small, sah, den Banonga."

  Mr. Martindale mopped his brow and drew his white umbrella closer downupon his head. He was lying under a grass shelter amidships a dug-out,with his nephew Jack at his side and his man Barney O'Dowd at his feet.The clumsy native craft rocked to and fro under the paddles of twelvestalwart Baenga, who stood, their bodies bent slightly forward, singingin time with their strokes. They were paddling against the current ofa stream that forced its brown waters into one of the tributaries ofthe Congo. It was a broiling day. A rainstorm in the night hadcleared the sky of the haze that commonly covered it, and the sun beatdown out of a dome of fleckless blue, irradiating the crimsons andpurples, the golds and whites, of the rich vegetation on the banks.

  "I tell you, Jack," continued Mr. Martindale, "I shall grumble if thistalk of Banonga turns out to be wind. I don't see what the Congo Statehas to gain by exterminating the natives; and we know what liars theseblacks can be."

  "Suppose the talk of gold turns out to be wind, uncle?"

  "Eh? What's that? Wind! Rubbish! The difference is that we hear ofBanonga from the blacks; but 'twas Barnard told me of the gold, andBarnard hasn't got enough imagination to say more than he knows. No,the gold is there safe enough; and I tell you I shall be glad when weget through this Banonga and can proceed to business."

  John Martindale was a florid well-preserved man of fifty-five years.Born in New York, he had early gone west, rapidly made his pile inCalifornia, and retired from the direction of his mines. But meetingone day in San Francisco an old friend of his, a queer stick of afellow named Barnard, who spent his life in roaming over the world andmaking discoveries that laid the foundation of other men's fortunes,not his own, he learnt from him that clear signs of gold had beenobserved in the Maranga district on the Upper Congo. Mr. Martindalewas very rich; but, like many another man, he found after hisretirement that time hung somewhat heavy on his hands. He was stillfull of energy, and Barnard's story of gold in a new country stirredthe imagination of the old miner. He decided to take a trip to Africaand test his friend's information. As a matter of course he invitedBarnard to accompany him.

  "No, no, John," replied his friend. "I scratched the soil; I know goldis there; I've no further interest in the stuff. I'm off to thePhilippines next week. Go and dig, old fellow, and take plenty ofquinine with you."

  It happened that Mr. Martindale's only nephew, Jack Challoner, a lad ofseventeen, was just home from school. He was an orphan. His mother,Mr. Martindale's sister, had married an English barrister of greatability, who had already made a name at the Parliamentary Bar. But hedied when his boy was only six years old; two years later his wifefollowed him to the grave, and the guardianship of Jack fell to hisuncle, who, being a bachelor without other ties, readily assumed thecharge. He surprised his friends by the course he took with the boy.Instead of bringing him to America, he entered him at Bilton andafterwards at Rugby, declaring that as the boy was English it was onlyfair he should receive an English education. "I read _Tom Brown_ yearsago," he would say, "and if they turn 'em out now as they didthen--well, we can't do better this side of the herring pond." Jackspent his holidays either in America, or in travelling about Europewith his uncle, and the two became great chums.

  But when Jack reached his seventeenth birthday Mr. Martindale againsurprised his friends. "Send him to Oxford?" he said. "Not much! Hehas had nearly four years at Rugby, he's in the fifth form, and I guesshe's enough book learning to serve his turn. He's tip-top at sports:he's a notion of holding his own and helping lame dogs; and I don'twant his nose to turn up, as I believe noses have a trick of doing atOxford. No: the boy'll come home. I don't know what he's to be; butI'll soon find out what he's fit for, and then he'll have to work atit. The least I could do for his father's sake was to give him anEnglish education; he'll come back to America for a smartening up."

  It was not long after Jack's return that Mr. Martindale met his friendBarnard. Since Barnard would not be his companion, Jack should. "Itwill do you no harm to see a little travel off the beaten track," hesaid, "and I'm not going to work the gold myself: my mining days aredone. You may tumble to it; in that case you'll stay in Africa andtake care not to waste my capital. You may not: that'll be one thingsettled, anyway."

  Accordingly, when Mr. Martindale sailed for Europe he took Jack withhim. With characteristic energy he very quickly settled thepreliminaries. He obtained for a comparatively small sum from aBelgian trading company, the holders of a large concession on the UpperCongo, the mining rights in the Maranga district, on condition of thecompany receiving a percentage of the profits. The first practicalstep having been taken, Mr. Martindale's interest in his project becamekeen. He had never travelled out of America or Europe; there was acertain glamour about an adventure in the heart of Africa; and he wasrich enough to indulge his humour, even if the results of Barnard'sdiscovery should prove disappointing.

  Uncle and nephew sailed for Africa, spent a few days at Boma, travelledover the cataract railway from Matadi to Leopoldville, and thence wentin a steamer for nearly three weeks up the Congo. Then, leaving themain river, they embarked on a smaller steamer, plying on a tributarystream. In about a week they arrived at a "head post," whence theycontinued their journey, up a tributary of a tributary, by canoe. Thislast stream was quite a considerable river as the term would beunderstood in Europe, though neither so broad nor so deep as the onethey had just left. But this again was insignificant by comparisonwith the mighty Congo itself, fed by a thousand tributaries in itscourse of fifteen hundred miles from the heart of Africa to the sea.Mr. Martindale became more and more impressed as the journeylengthened, and at last burst out: "Well, now, this licks even theMississippi!"

  But not the Shannon! Barney O'Dowd was a true Irishman. Mr.Martindale had engaged him in London as handy-man to the expedition.He had been in the army; he had been a gentleman's servant, wardroomattendant at a hospital, drill-sergeant at a boys' school, 'busconductor, cabman, and chauffeur; but in none of these numerousvocations, he said with a sigh, had he ever grown fat. He was long,lean, strong as a horse; with honest merry blue eyes, and curly lipsthat seemed made for smiling. He drove the travellers in a hansomduring the week they stayed in London, and looked so sorrowful when Mr.Martindale announced his departure that the American, on the spur ofthe moment, with bluff impulsiveness, invited him to join theexpedition.

  "Sure an' 'tis me last chance, sorr," cried Barney, cheerfullyconsenting. "A sea voyage does wonders for some. There was TerenceO'Bally, now, as thin as a lath in the ould counthry; he went toAustralia, and by the powers! when he came back to say 'God bless you'to his ould mother, she did not know him at all at all, he was so fullin the flesh, sorr. Sure an' I'll come wid ye wid the greatestpleasure in the world, and plase the pigs I'll fatten like Terence.Only wan thing, sorr; ye would not have any inshuperable objection toPat, sorr?"

  "Who on earth's Pat?"

  "Just a dog, sorr; a little darlint uv a terrier no fatter than me,sorr; as kind an' gentle as wan uv the blessed angels. He has as poorappetite, sorr, an' sleeps on my coat, so he will not cost ye much forboard and lodging. And I would thank ye kindly, sorr, if I might b
utgo home to 'm an' say, 'Pat, me darlint, times is changed. We are inluck, Pat. There's a nice, kind, fat, jolly American gentleman thattakes very kindly to dogs an' Irishmen, an'----'"

  "There then, that'll do," said Mr. Martindale, laughing. "Bring Pat,if you like. But he'll have to go if he proves a nuisance."

  And so Pat became a member of the party. And he lay curled up now inthe bottom of the canoe, and cocked an eye as Barney declared withemphasis that the Congo was a "mighty foine river, sure an' 'tis onlyfair to say so; but by all the holy powers 'tis not to be compared widthe Shannon, blessed be its name!"

  It was Pat that sprang first ashore when the paddlers with a resounding"Yo!" drove the canoe alongside a turfy platform by the bank, wornlevel by the treading of innumerable feet. The dog uttered one sharpbark, faced round to the river, and stood with ears pricked and stumpytail wagging, to watch his master step to land.

  "Now, Nando," said Mr. Martindale, when all were ashore, "lead the way.Not too fast: and not too near skeeters or jiggers."

  "Berrah well, sah; me go fust; frighten skeeters all away."

  Leaving ten of the crew in the canoe, the rest of the party set offunder Nando's guidance. He led them through the mass of tall grassthat lined the river bank, across a swampy stretch of heath, where anarrow path wound in and out among trees large and small, beset bydense undergrowth and climbing plants. Insects innumerable flitted andbuzzed around the travellers, provoking lively exclamations from Mr.Martindale and Jack, and many a vicious snap from the terrier, butleaving Barney almost untouched. Once a wild pig dashed across thepath and plunged into the thicket, with Pat barking frantically at itsheels. Here and there Mr. Martindale caught sight of red-leggedpartridge and quail, and sighed for his rifle. Parrots squawkedoverhead; once, from the far distance, muffled by the foliage, came thetrumpet of an elephant; but signs of humanity there were none, save themeandering track.

  At length, however, they came to a clear open space amid the trees,where, on a low hill, stood a crude open hut, consisting of uprightsupports surmounted by a roof of bamboos and leaves, and partly walledby cloth.

  "Berrah nice place, sah," said Nando cheerfully. "Chief him missisburied dah."

  The travellers approached with curiosity. Inside the shed they saw asmall image, roughly carved in semblance of a human figure, set uprightin the ground. At one side lay two or three wicker baskets, at theother a bottle; in front a big iron spoon stuck out of the soil, andall around were strewed hundreds of small beads. Nando explained thatthese had been the property of the deceased lady.

  "And is she buried under them?" asked Mr. Martindale, stepping back apace.

  "Bit of her, sah."

  "What do you mean--a bit of her?"

  "All dey find, sah. Bula Matadi come, make big bobbery; bang! chiefhim missis lib for[1] dead, sah. Bad man cut up, put in pot, onlylittle bit left, sah."

  Mr. Martindale shivered, then waxed indignant.

  "I don't believe it," he declared stoutly. "Such things aren't done inthese days. There are no cannibals in these days--eh, Jack?"

  "I hope not, uncle. But are we near Banonga, Nando?"

  "Small small, sah, den Banonga."

  "Lead on, then," cried Mr. Martindale; "I want to see with my own eyeswhether those fellows were telling the truth."

  Some distance down the river, just after camping for the night, Mr.Martindale's rest had been disturbed by a loud and excited conversationbetween his own party and a group of newcomers who had halted toexchange greetings. Inquiring the cause of the commotion, he learntthat the men had brought news of a terrible massacre that had takenplace at Banonga, a village in the forest many miles up stream. Thevillagers had been remiss in their collection of rubber; the agents ofBula Matadi (which, originally the native name for Sir H. M. Stanley,had become the name for the Congo Free State) had appeared at thevillage with a force of native soldiers, and, according to theinformant, who had received the news from an up-country man, the wholepopulation had been annihilated. Mr. Martindale had heard, in Americaand England as well as in Africa, strange stories of the administrationof the Congo State; but, like many others, he had been inclined topooh-pooh the rumours of cruelty and atrocity as the vapourings ofsentimentalists. But the stories imperfectly interpreted by Nando onthat pleasant evening by the river made a new impression on him. Hewas a hard-headed man of business, as little inclined to sentimentalityas any man could be; he hated any appeal to the emotions, and unaskedgave large subscriptions to hospitals and philanthropic societies so asto avoid the harrowing of his feelings by collectors and otherimportunate folk; but beneath his rough husk lay a very warm heart, asnone knew better than his nephew Jack; and the stories of cruelty toldby the lips of these natives made him feel very uncomfortable. At adistance he could shut his eyes to things--open his purse to deservingobjects and believe that his duty was done; but here, on the spot, thiseasy course was not possible. He did not like discomfort, bodily ormental; it annoyed him when any external cause ruffled the serenity ofhis life; and he made up his mind to pay a visit to Banonga on his wayup the river, test the negroes' story, and prove to his ownsatisfaction, as he believed he would do, that it was exaggerated ifnot untrue. That done, he would dismiss the matter from his thoughts,and proceed to the proper business of his journey without anything todisturb his peace of mind.

  The party left the grave on the hill and followed the same path throughanother stretch of forest until they came, almost unawares, upon alarge clearing.

  "Banonga, massa," said Nando, stretching out his hand, and looking intoMr. Martindale's eyes with a glance as of some frightened animal.

  "Banonga! But where are the huts?" said Mr. Martindale.

  No one answered him. The party of five stood at the edge of theclearing, looking straight before them. Pat the terrier trottedaround, wagging his stump, and blinking up into their faces as if toask a question. What did they see? A long broad track, leadingbetween palms and plantains away into the impenetrable forest. Theseleafy walls were vivid green, but the road itself was black. A smellof charred wood and burnt vegetation filled the air. There was not acomplete hut to be seen. The space once thronged with a joyouschattering crowd was now empty, save for ashes, half-burnt logs,shattered utensils. Here and there a bird hopped and pecked, flying upinto the trees with shrill scream as Pat sprang barking towards it.But for these sounds, the silence was as of death.

  "Come," said Mr. Martindale, stepping forward. It was he who led theway now as the party left the ring of forest and walked into theclearing. Barney, coming behind with Nando, groaned aloud.

  "Stop that noise!" cried Mr. Martindale, swinging round irritably."What's the matter with you, man?"

  "Sorrow a bit the matter wid me, sorr; but it just brought into memimory a sight I saw in the ould counthry whin I was a bhoy; sure therewas nothing to see there either, and that's the pity uv it."

  Mr. Martindale walked on without speaking, poking with his stick intothe black dust of the road. Nando went to his side, and pointed outsuch traces of former habitations as remained: here a cooking pot,there a half-consumed wicker basket, a broken knife, a blackenedbead-necklace. And among the other scattered evidences of rapine therewere the remains of human beings--skeletons, separate bones.

  "Whoever did this did it thoroughly," remarked Mr. Martindale withdarkening brow. "But who did it? I won't believe it was Europeanstill 'tis proved. There are cannibals here; Nando said so: a cannibaltribe may have raided the place. Eh? But where are the people?"

  In the thick undergrowth, beyond the desolated village, crouched anegro boy. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes unnaturally bright. Hisleft arm hung limp and nerveless; in his right hand he clutched abroad-pointed dagger. He had been lying in a stupor until roused by asharp sound, the cry of some animal strange to him. Then he raisedhimself slowly and with difficulty to his knees, and peered cautiously,apprehensively, through the foliage amid which he was ensconced.

  H
e glared and shrank back when he saw that among the strangers movingabout were two white men. But what was this animal they had broughtwith them? he wondered. Goats he knew, and pigs, and the wild animalsof the forest; he knew the native dog, with its foxy head, smoothyellowish coat, and bushy tail; but this creature was new to him.True, it was like a dog, though its brown coat was rough and its tailstumpy; but he had never seen the dogs of his village trot round theirmasters as this was doing, never heard them speaking, as it seemed, tothe men with this quick sharp cry. The dogs he had known never barked;their only utterance was a long howl, when they were hungry or in pain.He hated white men, but loved animals; and, weak as he was, he raisedhimself once more, and bent forward, to look at this active dog-likecreature that came and went in apparent joyousness.

  A bird flew down from a tree, and alighted hardily within a couple ofyards of the terrier. This was too much for Pat. He darted at theaudacious bird, pursued it into the thicket, then came to a suddensurprised stop when he descried a black form among the leaves. Hestood contemplating the boy with his honest brown eyes, and his tailwas very active. Then with one short bark he trotted back to hismaster, and looked up at him as if to say: "I have made a discovery;come and see." But man's intelligence is very limited. Barney did notunderstand.

  "And did the cratur' give ye the slip, then?" he said, patting thedog's head.

  "That's not the point," said Pat's barks; "I want you to come and seewhat I have found," and he ran off again towards the thicket, turningonce or twice to see if his master was following. But Barney paidlittle attention to him, and Pat, giving him up as hopeless, went onalone to scrape acquaintance. He stood before the boy at a distance ofa yard, blinking at him between the tendrils of a creeper. Then headvanced slowly, wagging his stump, poked his nose through the leaves,and after a moment's sniffing deliberation put out his tongue andlicked the black knee he found there. The boy made with his closedlips the humming sound with which the negro of the Congo expressespleasure, and next moment the dog's paws were in his hands, and thetwo, dog and boy, were friends.

  But whoever was a friend of Pat's must also be a friend of BarneyO'Dowd. It was not long before Pat awoke to a sense of his duty. Hetried with the negro the plan that had just failed with his master. Heretreated a little way, cocked his head round and barked, and waitedfor the boy to follow. The latter understood at once; but he shook hishead, and said, "O nye! O nye!" under his breath, and lay still. Patbegan to see that there was something keeping the white man and theblack boy apart. It was very foolish, he thought; they were both suchgood fellows: it was quite clear that they ought to be friends; butwhat was a dog to do? He trotted slowly back to Barney, and began tospeak to him seriously, with a bark of very different intonation fromthat he had previously employed.

  "Well, and what is it wid ye thin?" said Barney.

  "He has caught the bird, I expect," said Jack, amused at the dog'smanner, "and wants you to go and see it."

  "Sure thin I will," said Barney, "and mutton being scarce, we will havea new kind uv Irish stew, Pat me bhoy. But why did ye not bring it, medarlint?"

  He made to follow the dog, whose tail was now beating the air withfrantic delight. But he had no sooner reached the edge of theplantation than there was a rustle among the leaves: the boy wasleaving his hiding-place and trying to crawl away into the forest.

  "Begorra!" quoth Barney, "'tis a living cratur', and a bhoy, black asthe peat on me father's bog, and not knowing a word uv Irish, to besure."

  Pat was rubbing his nose on the boy's flank, wondering why he had takento going on all fours. But the negro did not crawl far. Faint withweakness, moaning with pain, he sank to the ground. Pat gave one barkof sympathy and stood watching him. Meanwhile Jack had come up.

  "A boy, did you say, Barney? What is he doing here?"

  "Sure I would like to know that same, sorr, but niver a word uv hisspache did I learn. Perhaps he has niver seen a white man, not to sayan Irishman, before, and thinks 'tis a ghost."

  "Nando, come here!" called Jack.

  The paddler hurried up, followed quickly by Mr. Martindale.

  "What's this? What's this? A boy! They're not all killed then."

  "I think he's hurt, uncle, and scared. He tried to crawl away from us,but seemed too weak."

  "Well, lift him up, Barney; we'll see."

  Barney approached, but the instant he stretched forth his hands the boyuttered a piercing shriek, and made to thrust at him with his dagger.

  "Come, this will never do," said Mr. Martindale. "Speak to him, Nando;tell him we are friends, and will do him no harm."

  Nando went up to the boy, and Pat stood by, wagging his tail andlooking inquiringly from one to the other as the negro talked in hisrapid staccato. A few minutes passed; then Nando turned round and witha beaming smile said:

  "He understan' all same now, sah. I say massa Inglesa ginleman, bloodbrudder Tanalay, oh yes. He know 'bout Tanalay: he no 'fraid dis time;he come along along. He Samba, sah."

  [1] i.e. _live for_, an expression commonly used in all kinds ofcircumstances by the natives, practically an intensive for variousforms of the verb _to be_.