Fighting on the Congo; the story of an American boy among the rubber slaves

Front matter

CjQE£RIGHT DEPOSnV

L

I ft

Conclusion

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

Jack turned to grapple with the negro Frontispiece

See page 36

The boy made to thrust at him with his dagger 20

Samba watched the glassy stare of the hideous reptile 1 10 The sight of Jack cowed him 134

Yells and rifle-shots aroused the lethargic garrison 250 Lifting the body he staggered with it to the entrance 348

Preface

Nearly a generation has passed since King Leopold was intrusted by the Great Powers with the sovereignty of the Congo Free State, The conscience of Christendom had been shocked by the stories brought back by Stanley and other travelers of Arab slave raids on the Uj^^er Congo, King Leopold coming forward with the strongest assurance of philanthropic motive,, was welcomed as the champion of the negro,, who should bring peace and the highest blessings of civilization to the vast territory thus placed under his sway. For many succeeding years it was supposed that this work of deliverance,, of regeneration,, was being prosecuted with all diligence; the power of the slave-traders was broken,, towns were built,, roads made,, railways opened — none of the outward signs of material progress was wanting.

But of late the civilized world has been horrified to find that this imposing structure has been cemented with the life-blood of the Congo races; that the material improvements to which the administrators of Congo-land can point,, have been purchased by an appalling amount of suffering inflicted upon the hapless negroes. The collection of rubber,, on which the whole fabric of Congo finance rests, involves a disregard of liberty,, an indifference to suffering,, a destruction of human life almost inconceivable. Those who best know the country estimate that the population is annually reduced,, under King Leopold^ s rule,, by at least a hundred thousand. No great war,, no famine,, no pestilence in the world* s history has been so merciless a scourge as civilization in Congo-land, Yet,, owing to mutual jealousies, the Powers are slow to take action, and while they hesitate to intervene, the negroes are perishing by the thousands.

It has been my aim in this book to show^ within necessary limitations^ what the effect of the white man’s rule has been. If any reader should be tempted to hope that the picture here drawn is overcolored^ I would commend him to the publications issued by Mr. E. D. Morel and his co-workers of the Congo Reform Association.^ with every confidence that the cause of the Congo native would thereby have gained a new adherent.

I must express my very great thanks to the Reverend f. H. Harris and Mrs. H arris y who have spent several years on the Upper Congo., for their kindness in reading the 7nanuscript and revising the proofs of this book, and for many most helpful suggestions and criticisms.

HERBERT STRANG.

Chapter I

Samba lay face downwards on the yellow sand, amid which his body shone in the sunlight like polished ebony. Behind, the rising bank was thick with trees and shrubs ablaze with color, overspread with the delicate tracery of liana and creeping plants. Here was a spot of red, there a dash of orange; at intervals the pale yellow flowers of climbing gourds and the mauve blossoms of convolvuli peeped from the wall of vivid green. Tiny rills made music as they trickled through the foliage; and near at hand was a path trodden by herds of antelope as they came to drink.

Before, rolled the brown waters of a broad river, rippling over whitened snags in the bed, or over the gnarled limbs of fallen trees. Here, on a sandy islet, flashed the scarlet and blue of little kingfishers, contrasting with the sober gray of the bittern, or the black and white of the vulture. A giant heron perched on a low overhanging branch, gazing solemnly at the ibis standing solitary by a distant bush.

I

On a smooth spot at Samba’s right sported innumerable butterflies, blue and green and crimson, and bees and dragonflies lazily basked in the heat. Samba had but to stretch out his hand to make prisoners of what he chose. But Samba’s attention was already occupied. Looking over the brink into the placid water, his eye was caught by a small, round, soft object lying motionless on the surface. A tiny crocodile only a few inches long darted from underneath the leaf of a water-lily, in pursuit of a tinier fish. The round object suddenly contracted: there was a ripple on the water, — and the baby crocodile found itself in the grasp of a droll little proboscis that shot out and dragged its hapless prey down. Samba smiled: he knew that just below the surface lay a trionyx, the owner of that little nostriled proboscis. He wasted no sympathy on the baby crocodile, which would never grow big to snap up little negro boys at the waterside.

There was silence all around, save for the hum of insects and the gentle lapping of the water on the sand. Then a slight sound caught Samba’s ear, and, turning, he saw a handsome young lizard, pied with yellow and greenish black, flashing along in chase of a fat frog which it had marked for its own. A swish of its flexible tail, a snap of its savage teeth, and Ranunculus disappeared — a choice morsel for breakfast.

Such scenes as these gave Samba constant amusement. He would often wander alone from his village, as he had done to-day, carrying his little broad-bladed dagger, in case a snake should cross his path, and spend hours in the forest by the river-bank, listening to the chatter of the monkeys and the screams of the parrots, watching the little stingless bees at their work, mocking the hollow note of the drumbird or the wild pigeon’s doleful call, studying the busy doings of the multitudinous ants.

There was not a bird or- beast or insect within range of his village with whose ways Samba was not familiar.

The trionyx steered himself down stream; the lizard swishing his pliant tail, went off in search of other prey ; and Samba’s bright eyes followed the mazy movements of the myriad flies sporting on the surface of the sunlit water, and the shining flsh darting this way and that in the clear depths. Suddenly a scream of the fishing eagle caused him to look up. Then a shout made him spring to his feet and look wonderingly in the direction of the sound. He knew no fear. His lithe, dusky body, bare save for a scrap of cloth about his loins and a string of cowries around his neck, stood erect and alert; his keen, intelligent eyes expressed nothing but surprise and curiosity. Again came the hail.

‘Wonkoen

''Em' one called Samba in reply.

A boat was being slowly paddled up the stream; ten stalwart Baenga stood at the paddles, bending forward as they made their strokes. Two other negroes squatted in the fore part of the boat. Amidships sat another figure, the sight of which gave Samba a delightful thrill of expectation. It was a white man, clad all in white, with fair hair and beard. Could this be Bula Matadi, Samba wondered, the white man whom his grandfather, the chief Mirambo, had seen long ago at Wanganga? He waited, standing still as a rock. The boat drew nearer, a few more strokes of the paddles and it came under the bank. The white man leaped ashore, followed by the two men who had been seated. They were big, fiercelooking fellows. Each carried a long, strangely-shaped stick with a hollow tube ; about their waists dangled bags of skin. The white man stepped up to Samba, smiled

1 “Are you there ?” ^ “I am here,”

upon him, patted his woolly head. Then one of the negroes began to question him. Where was his village? What was it called? Who was its chief? How many huts did it contain? Was there much forest about it? To these questions Samba replied frankly; surely it was a great honor to his grandfather that the white man should take such interest in him ! Then came a question that somewhat amused him. Did the forest contain hotofef^ He smiled. Of course it did. Were not the drumsticks in his village made of botofef What a strange question to ask of a forest boy ! The white man smiled in return, and said something in a strange tongue to the negro who had spoken.

‘‘Take us to your village,” said the man, and, nothing loath. Samba set off like a young deer, the three men following him.

Samba was eleven years old. His home was the village of Banonga, a street of bamboo huts thatched with palm leaves and shadowed by the broad foliage of bananas and plantains and tall forest trees. His grandfather Mirambo was the village chief, a tall, strong, wise old man, a great fighter in his day, his body scarred with wounds, his memory stored with the things he had seen and done. Samba’s father, Mboyo (or Isekasamba, “father of Samba,” as he was called after his boy was born), was the old chief’s favorite son, a daring hunter, a skilful fisher, and the most silent man of his tribe. He had several wives, but Samba’s mother was the best loved of them all, and wore about her ankles the brass rings that betokened her supreme place in her husband’s affections. Grandfather, father, mother, all doted on Samba, and for eleven years he had lived a happy, merry life, the pet of the village.

1 Rubber.

Nothing had troubled the peace of the little community. Banonga was a secluded village, on the outskirts of dense forests, not far from one of the innumerable tributaries of the great river Congo. Life passed easily and pleasantly for these children of nature. In the morning, ere the sun was up, the men would spring from their simple bamboo beds, fling their hunting-nets or fishingbaskets on their shoulders, hang about their necks the charms that would preserve them from accident and insure success in the work of the day, and repair to the old chief, who, sitting in his forked chair in the middle of the street, gave them the bokaku — the blessing without which they never left the village. ‘‘May you be preserved from accident,’’ he would say; “from wild beasts, from snags in the path and snakes in the grass, and return with great plenty.” Then they would shout their farewells, and hasten with light-hearted laughter into the forest or down to the river.

Meanwhile the women had been long astir. Some, a babe on one arm, a calabash on the other, went singing to a forest stream, to bathe their children and fill their vessels with water for the day’s cooking. Others, with baskets slung upon their backs and rude implements upon their shoulders, sped to the gardens and cultivated fields to perform their simple operations of husbandry, and to return by and by with manioc, plantains, ground-nuts, which they would prepare against their husbands’ return. The morning’s work done, they would dress their hair carefully, even fastidiously; kindle the fires of three converging logs ; and set upon them well-heaped pots of manioc, covered with leaves of plantain or nongoti to prevent the escape of steam. Some would prattle or sing lullabies to their babes, others form little knots and gossip, laughing and jesting without a thought of care.

All day the village was cheered by the merry antics and joyous shouts of the children at play. Like children all over the world, the boys and girls of the Congo delight in mimicking their elders. The boys made little hunting-nets and ran hither and thither in mock chase, or spread their fishing-nets in the stream and gleefully boasted of their tiny catches. The girls wove little baskets, and played with beads and shells. One and all, the children of Banonga were deft with their fingers, but none was so deft as Samba. He was always busy, shaping now a mortar for his mother, now a chair for his grandfather, now a wicker basket so close in texture that he could bring in it water from the stream without spilling a drop.

Most of all Samba loved to squat by his grandfather’s chair late in the afternoon, when the old chief sat alone, chin on hand, waiting for the return of the men. Then, and on dark nights, Mirambo would recite, in his deep musical voice, interminable stories and legends, of the spirits that haunted the woods, of the animals he had hunted and slain, of narrow escapes from the greedy jaws of crocodiles, or fierce fights with cannibals, of adventurous journeys by field and flood. Samba never tired of one story : how, years before, Mirambo had made a long journey to Wanganga, far, very far away, and had there seen a white man, who wore cloth all over his body, and had come up the river on a wonderful smoke boat, driven by a fiery, snorting devil that devoured insatiably great logs of wood. Bula Matadi, ‘"breaker of rocks,” this wonderful white man was called, but Mi^ rambo had heard that in his own country he was called Tanalay.^ Samba would listen with all his ears to his grandfather’s long narratives, inwardly resolving that he,

Henry M. Stanley.

too, when he became a man, would take long journeys and see marvelous things — white men, and smoke-boats, and all.

Then, as the sun drew toward its setting, out of the forest would come faint strains of song. Mirambo’s monotone would cease; he would sit erect expectant; the women would run out of the huts, above which the wreathing smoke proclaimed preparations for the evening meal ; the children would gather in a laughing, chattering flock at the end of the street. The sound of singing would draw nearer ; at length it would stop abruptly, but instantly would be followed by a loud, prolonged shout; only Lianza’s brazen throat could utter such a sonorous cry: ”I-yo-li-o! I-yo-li-o-o !” And the long-drawn hail of Lianza would be broken in upon by the roar of his companions. ‘Wo!” eighty men would shout as one. And out of the forest would spring the dusky band, laden with their spoils, which with an exultant shout they would set down before the chief, amid cries and hand-clapping and slapping of the thighs by the women and children welcoming their return. The flesh would be cut up, the fish divided, the women would return to their huts to cook the supper, while the children clung about their fathers^ legs and recounted the little adventures of the day. The meal eaten, the whole population would form a wide circle in the street, and, squatting on the ground, would give themselves up to the joy of watching the gyrations of the dancing women, who, in their aprons of long grass, decorated v/ith tinkling bells, whirled around to the barbaric music of drums and castanets, as the day darkened and the moon threw her silvery beams upon the scene.

Such were the daily scenes amid which Samba passed his happy boyhood, in the village of Banonga, whither he was now leading the white stranger.

The village came in sight, nestling in a glade. The laughing children ceased their play, and stood finger in mouth looking shyly at the strangers. The women, busily grinding manioc with pestle and mortar in the open, looked up with startled glance and fled into their huts, where they stood peeping from behind the posts of palm. Mirambo, the chief, rose from his seat and awaited with dignity the approach of the white man. Ceremonious greetings were exchanged. Then ensued a long conversation, the white man speaking, his negroes translating to the chief. He listened intently, and replied in brief phrases, most often contenting himself with exclamations of assent — “IndeT '^Ng'oko!” or of dissent — "Lako!” “0 nye!”

Botofe! Yes, he knew where botofe could be found. And the white man, the Son of Heaven, wanted botofe; it had some value for him. Well, he should have it. Who so hospitable as the men of Banonga? They were not as the men of Kinshassa, who met the white man with cries of anger, and spears, and knives. Had not he, Mirambo, seen Bula Matadi, the friend of the black man? *‘When my sons return from their hunting,^ said Mirambo, ‘'they shall provide the stranger with all that he needs. They shall give him plantains, and fowls, and cakes of kwanga they shall make ready a hut for him ; and botofe — ^yes, if he needs botofe, my young men shall go into the forest and fill their baskets with botofe for him. No one shall say but that the white man is welcome in Banonga.’^ preparation of manioc.

Chapter II

"Whew! This is a warm country. Jack. There’ll soon be nothing left of us.”

“There’s plenty at present, Uncle,” replied Jack Challoner with a smile. “Barney can spare less, after all.”

“Sure an’ that’s the truth’s truth, sorr. ’Twas the sorrow uv me mother’s heart that I ran to length instid uv breadth. Whin I was a bhoy she had to buy breeches always a size too long for me, and me bones grew so fast they almost made holes in me skin — they did.”

“Confound it, man, that’s where you score. The mosquitoes leave you alone: can’t find enough juice in you to make it worth their while to worry 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 down upon his head. He was lying under a grass shelter amidships of a dugout, 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 twelve stalwart Baenga, who stood, their bodies bent slightly forward, singing in time with their strokes. They were paddling against the current of a stream that forced its brown waters into one of the tributaries of the Congo. It was a broiling day. A rain storm in the night had cleared the sky of the haze that commonly covered it, and the sun beat down out of a dome of fleckless blue, irradiating the crimsons and purples, the golds and whites of the rich vegetation on the banks.

“I tell you. Jack,*’ continued Mr. Martindale, *T shall grumble if this talk of Banonga turns out to be wind. I don’t see what the Congo State has to gain by exterminating the natives ; and we know what liars these blacks 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 of Banonga from the blacks; but ’twas Barnard told me of the gold, and Barnard hasn’t got enough imagination to say more than he knows. No, the gold is safe enough; and I tell you I shall be glad when we get 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 in California, and retired from the direction of his mines. But meeting one day in San Francisco an old friend of his, a queer stick of a fellow named Barnard, who spent his life in roaming over the world and making discoveries that laid the foundation of other men’s fortunes, not his own, he learned from him that clear signs of gold had been observed in the Maranga district on the Upper Congo. Mr. Martindale was very rich; but, like many another man, he found after his retirement that time hung somewhat heavy on his hands. He was still full of energy, and Barnard’s story of gold in a new country stirred the imagination of the old miner. He decided to take a trip to Africa and test his friend’s information. As a matter of course he gave Barnard an invitation to accompany him.

“No, no, John,’’ replied his friend. “I scratched the soil; I know gold is there; I’ve no further interest in the stuff. I’m off to the Philippines next week. Go and dig, old fellow, and take plenty of quinine with you.”

It happened that Mr. Martindale’s only nephew. Jack Challoner, a lad of seventeen, was just home from school. He was an orphan. His mother, Mr. Martindale’s sister, had married an English barrister of great ability who had already made a name at the Parliamentary Bar. But he died when his boy was only six years old; two years later his wife followed him to the grave, and the guardianship of Jack fell to his uncle, who, being a bachelor without other ties, readily assumed the charge. He surprised his friends by the course he took with the boy. Instead of bringing him to America, he entered him at Bilton and afterwards at Rugby, declaring that as the boy was English it was only fair he should receive an English education. “I read Tom Brown years ago,” he would say, “and if they turn ’em out now as they did then — well, we can’t do better this side of the herring pond.” Jack spent his holidays either in America, or in traveling about Europe with his uncle, and the two became great chums.

But when Jack reached his seventeenth birthday Mr. Martindale again surprised his friends. “Send him to Oxford?” he said. “Not much! He has had nearly four years at Rugby, he’s in the fifth form, and I guess he’s enough book learning to serve his turn. He’s tiptop at sports : he’s a notion of holding his own and helping lame dogs; and I don’t want his nose to turn up, as I believe noses have a trick of doing at Oxford. No; the boy’ll come home. I don’t know what he’s to be, but I’ll soon find out what he’s fit for, and then we’ll

II have to work at it. The least I could do for his father’s sake was to give him an English education; he’ll come back to America for a smartening up.”

It was not long after Jack’s return that Mr. Martindale met his friend Barnard. Since Barnard would not be his companion, Jack should. “It will do you no harm to see a little travel off the beaten track,” he said, “and I’m not going to work the gold myself ; my mining days are done. You may tumble to it; in that case you’ll stay in Africa and take care not to waste my capital. You may not: that’ll be one thing settled, anyway.”

Accordingly, when Mr. Martindale sailed for Europe, he took Jack with him. With characteristic energy he very quickly settled the preliminaries. He obtained for a comparatively small sum from a Belgian trading company, the holders of a large concession on the Upper Congo, the mining rights in the Maranga district, on condition of the company’s receiving a percentage of the profits. The first practical step having been taken, Mr. Martindale’s interest in his project became keen. He had never traveled out of Europe; there was a certain glamour about an adventure in the heart of Africa; and he was rich enough to indulge his humor, even if the results of Barnard’s discovery should prove disappointing.

Uncle and nephew sailed for Africa, spent a few days at Boma, traveled on the cataract railway from Katadi to Leopoldville, and thence for nearly three weeks up the Congo. Then, leaving the main river, they embarked on a smaller steamer, plying on a tributary stream. In about a week they arrived at a head “port,” whence they continued their journey up a tributary of a tributary, by canoe. This last stream was a fairly large river as rivers are understood in Europe, though neither so broad nor so deep as the one they had just left. But this again was insignificant by comparison with the mighty Congo itself, fed by a thousand tributaries in its course of several thousand miles. Mr. Martindale became more and more impressed as the journey lengthened, and at last burst out:

“Well, now, this licks even the Mississippi!”

But not the Shannon! Barney O’Dowd was a true Irishman. Mr. Martindale had engaged him in London as handy man to the expedition. Barney had been in the army; he had been a gentleman’s servant, ward-room attendant at a hospital, drill-sergeant at a boys’ school, ’bus conductor, cabman, and chauffeur; but in none of these numerous vocations, 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 lips that seemed made for smiling. He drove the travelers in a hansom during the week they stayed in London, and looked so sorrowful when Mr. Martindale announced his departure that the American, on the spur of the moment, with bluff impulsiveness, invited him to join the expedition.

“Sure an’ ’tis me last chance, sorr,” cried Barney, cheerfully consenting. “A sea voyage does wonders for some. There was Terence O’Bally, now, as thin as a lath in the ould country; he went to Australia, and, by the powers ! when he came back to say *God bless you’ to his ould mother, she did not know ’m at all, at all, he was so full in the flesh, sorr. Sure an’ I’ll come wid ye wid the greatest pleasure in the world, and plase the pigs, I’ll fatten like Terence. Only wan thing, sorr; ye would not have any inshuperable objection to Pat, 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 of the blessed angels. He has a poor appetite, sorr, an’ sleeps on my coat, so he will not cost ye much for board and lodging.

And I would thank ye kindly, sorr, if I might but go home to ’m an’ say, Tat, me darlint, times is changed. We are in luck, Pat. There’s a nice, kind, fat, jolly American gentleman that takes very kindly to dogs and 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 in the bottom of the canoe, and cocked an eye as Barney declared with emphasis that the Congo was a "mighty foine river, sure an’ ’tis only fair to say so; but, by all the holy powers, ’tis not to be compared wid the 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, worn level by the treading of innumerable feet. The dog uttered one sharp bark, faced round to the river, and stood with ears pricked and stumpy tail 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 off under Nando’s guidance. He led them through the mass of tall grass that lined the river-bank, across a swampy stretch of heath, where a narrow path wound in and out among trees large and small, beset by dense undergrowth and climbing plants. Insects innumerable flitted and buzzed around the travelers, provoking lively exclamations from Mr. Martindale and Jack, and many a vicious snap from the terrier, but leaving Barney almost untouched. Once a wild pig dashed 14

“RUBBER IS DEATH”

across the path and plunged into the thicket, with Pat barking frantically at its heels. Here and there Mr. Martindale caught sight of red-legged partridge and quail, and sighed for his rifle. Parrots squawked overhead; once from the far distance, muffled by the foliage, came the trumpet of an elephant; but signs of humanity there was none, save the meandering 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 upright supports surmounted by a roof of bamboo and leaves, and partly walled by cloth.

“Berrah nice place, sah,” said Nando cheerfully. “Chief him missis buried dah.”

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

“And is she buried under them?” asked Mr. Martindale, stepping back a pace.

“Bit of her, sah.”

“What do you mean — a bit of her?”

“All dey find, sah. Bula Matadi come, make big bobbery ; bang ! chief him missis lib for dead, sah. Bad man cut up, put in pot, only little bit left, sah.”

Mr. Martindale shivered, then waxed indignant.

“I don’t believe it,” he declared stoutly. “Such things aren’t done in these 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.”