THE SLACKENING OF RESTRAINT
A half moon had just sailed up above the shoulder of a hill, and its
pale light streamed into the veranda of the little mission house which
stood in a rift of the great scarp where the high inland plateau
breaks down to the levels of the sun-scorched littoral. The barren
hillslopes round about it were streaked with belts of gleaming sand,
and above them scrubby forests, destitute of anything that man or
beast could eat, rolled back to the vast marshes of the western
watershed, but the bottom of the deep valley was green and fertile as
a garden. It had, however, only been made so by patient labor, for
even in the tropics there is no escape from the primeval ban. It is by
somebody's tense effort that man is provided with his daily bread, and
where he labors least he lives most like the animals, for nature
unsubdued is very rarely bountiful. She sends thorns and creepers to
choke the young plantations, and the forest invades the clearing when
the planter stays his hand. But in Western Africa the white man sees
that the negro fights the ceaseless battle for him. It is, in his
opinion, what the black man was made for, and those who know by what
methods he obtains and controls his dusky laborers in certain tracts
of the dark land wonder now and then why such things are permitted
and if there will never be a reckoning. That is, however, only one
aspect of a very old question, and it is admittedly difficult to be an
optimist in Africa.
Still, there was, for the time being, at least, quietness and good
will in that lonely rift among the hills, and Nares, sitting on the
mission house veranda in the moonlight, felt its beneficent influence,
though he was suffering from that most exasperating thing the prickly
heat, which had, as it frequently does, followed a slight attack of
fever. Two patient men from his own country sat with him, and it was
clear that their toil had not been in vain. He could see the
sprinkling of white blossom on the trees beneath him that bore green
limes, and beyond these were rows of mangoes, coffee plants, and sweet
potato vines, but the huts of the dusky converts were silent and
hidden among the leaves. There was no sound but the soft murmur of
running water. A deep serenity brooded over it all.
"A garden!" he said. "In this country one could call it a garden of
the Lord."
The elder of his two companions smiled, for he had shrewdness as well
as faith.
"Thanks in part, at least, to our mountain wall," he said. "We lie
several leagues from the only road, and that is not a much frequented
one. There is, most fortunately, little commerce in this strip of
country, and the great roads lie as you know far to the south of us.
Still, I sometimes wonder how we have been left alone so long, and we
have had our warnings."
"Herrero now and then comes up this way?"
The missionary nodded. "He is the thorn in our side," he said.
"Domingo, his associate, as of course you know, rambles through the
back country. There is no one else to cause us anxiety, but Herrero
has an old grudge against us. There were villages in these valleys
when he first came here, and he swept them almost clean. We gathered
up the remnant of the people, and now they will not buy his rum from
him."
"If the news we got with our last supplies is correct he can not be
more than a few days' march away," the younger man broke in. "I have
been wondering how often he will pass us by. Some day he will come
down on us. It's a sure thing."
Nares straightened himself a trifle. He had for several years borne
almost all a man could bear and live through in that land, and after
he left Ormsgill had fled inland, proscribed, finding no safety
anywhere until his countrymen at their peril had offered him shelter
at the mission. Besides, he had fever and prickly heat, which tries
the meekest white man's patience, and it was New England stock he
sprang from. He was a Puritan by birth as well as training, of the old
grim Calvinistic strain, and his forbears had believed that the sword
of the Lord is now and then entrusted to human hands. In that faith
they had faced their king at Naseby, and in later days and another
land held their own at Bunker Hill, and again crushed the Southern
slave-owners' riflemen. It awoke once more deep down in the heart of
their descendant as he sat on the mission veranda that night.
"What will you do then?" he said. "It sometimes seems to me that we
have borne enough. One could almost wonder if there is anything more
than prudence in our non-resistance. That alone seldom carries one
very far."
A faint sparkle crept into the eyes of the younger man, for there was
also a capacity for righteous wrath in him, but his elder companion
raised a restraining hand.
"What can we do that will not bring down trouble on our followers'
heads?" he asked.
Nares had not slept for several nights, and that coming on top of his
other troubles had its effect on him, for he was, after all, very
human, and the white man's self-restraint is apt to grow feeble in
that land where his passions usually grow strong. Now and then,
indeed, it breaks down altogether suddenly.
"Somebody must suffer for every reform," he said. "It seems that a
sacrifice is demanded, and the ban is upon us still. Here, at least,
the cost of man's progress is the shedding of blood." Then he made a
little forceful gesture. "They are arming in the bush. In another
month or two there will be very grim doings at San Roque."
The older man changed the subject abruptly. "You have your own course
to consider. Have you come to a decision yet? I almost think if you
surrendered to a responsible officer the Society has influence enough
to secure your acquittal. After all, there are a few honest men upon
the coast."
Nares looked at him with a curious little smile. "It is possible that
I might escape with my liberty, but not until those who hate us had
blackened my character and flung discredit upon the aims and methods
of the men who sent me here. Is my acquittal worth what it would cost
your Society? Would the folks down yonder miss such an opportunity as
my trial would afford them of making us out political intriguers and
destroyers of authority?"
He broke off for a moment, and laughed softly. "Still, they can't very
well have a trial without a prisoner, and I shall wait in the bush
until Ormsgill overtakes me. I have left word for him here and there
with men who I think will not betray me."
"Why shouldn't you stay here?" asked the younger man.
"And bring the authorities down upon you? You know the cost of
harboring me. Still, I will wait a day or two. Ormsgill must go inland
by the road through the next valley, and if he has escaped the troops,
there should be news of him any hour now."
The others said nothing further. They knew those in authority had,
perhaps, naturally little love for them, and would make the most of
the opportunity if it became evident that they had sheltered a
proscribed man. After all, they had a duty to their flock and the men
who had sent them out. Nares, who guessed their thoughts, smiled at
them.
"It is all decided," he said. "When Ormsgill comes up I, believing as
I do in the straitest teaching of the Geneva fathers, am going into
the interior with him to accomplish the work he has undertaken for
the repose of the soul of the rum trader Lamartine."
Again his companions made no answer. After all, the creeds now and
then grow vague in Africa, or, perhaps, in the anguish of life in the
dark land they are purged of their narrowness and amplified. Besides
this, it was evident that Nares was a trifle off his balance. There
was silence for the next half hour. One of the men had toiled with the
hoe among his flock that day, and the other had come back from a long
march to a native village. The night was clear and cool and
wonderfully still, and the peace of the garden valley crept in on
them. One could almost have fancied the mission had been translated
far from Africa, where tranquillity that is not tempered with
apprehension seldom lasts very long. Then a sharp cry, harsh with
human pain and terror, rang out of the soft darkness, and the man in
charge of the station rose quietly from his chair.
"Herrero's men are here. Our time has come at last," he said.
The others rose with him, and stood very still for a moment or two
listening until the cry arose again more shrilly, and there was a
clamor among the unseen huts. The crash of a long flintlock gun broke
through it, and in the midst of the uproar they heard a patter of
naked feet. Half-seen shadowy figures swept past among the leaves, and
a red glare that grew momentarily brighter leapt up behind the mango
trees.
"Herrero's men," said the older man again, as though in the bitterness
of the moment that was all that occurred to him.
They followed him down the stairway, though none of them knew what
they meant to do, and, while now and then a half-naked figure dashed
past them, down a narrow path between the trees, until the thatched
roofs of the village rose close in front of them. One of them was
blazing fiercely, and in another few minutes they saw a little group
of dusky figures scurrying to and fro with burdens in the glare. A man
among the latter also saw the newcomers, for apparently in drunken
bravado he flung up a long gun, and there was a flash and a detonation
as he fired at random. Nares saw him clearly, a big, brawny man
swaying half-naked on his feet with short cotton draperies hanging
from his waist, and his truculence was a guide to his profession. He
was one of the hired ruffians who escort the labor recruits to the
coast, and the African has no more grievous oppressor than the negro
who acts as the white man's deputy.
Still, the missionaries saw very little more just then, for at the
flash of the gun a swarm of terror-stricken boys who had been lurking
there broke out from the shadow of the outlying huts, and swept madly
up the path. Nares ran forward to meet them, calling to them in a
native tongue, but it was not evident that they understood him, for
they ran on. He felt one of his comrade's hands upon his shoulder, but
he shook it off, and clutched at one of the flying men nearest him. He
was overwrought that night, and his patience had gone. An unreasoning
fury of indignation came upon him, and in the midst of it he
remembered that it was most unlikely Herrero's boys would do more
than attempt to overawe any one who might venture to resist them with
their guns. Yet here was a flock of sturdy men flying in wild panic
from a handful of ruffians. Perhaps this was natural. The men had seen
what came of resistance, and had been taught drastically that it was
wisest to submit to the white man and those whom he permitted to
persecute them.
In any case, Nares's efforts availed him nothing, for the crowd of
fugitives surged about him and his companions and bore them along.
They could neither make head against it nor struggle clear, and were
jostled against each other and driven forward until the crowd grew
thinner abreast of the mission house where several paths that led to
the hillslopes and the bush branched off. Then at last they reeled out
from among the negroes, and while they stood gasping, Nares looked at
the man in charge of the station with a question in his eyes. The
latter made a little gesture of resignation.
"That is certainly Herrero's work, and I think he has given them rum,
but there is nothing we can do," he said. "They may burn a hut or two,
but they can be built again, and the boys--I am thankful--have taken
to the bush. We will go back to the house."
This was not exactly to Nares' mind, but he recognized that there was
wisdom in it, and they went up the little stairway and sat down once
more upon the veranda. Now and then a hoarse shouting reached them,
and the glare of burning thatch grew brighter, but nobody came near to
trouble them. After all, a missionary's color counted for something,
and it was a perilous thing for a negro who had not direct authority
to meddle with him. Still, the older man's face was troubled.
"They will go away by and by, and there is, fortunately, very little
in the huts," he said. "There is only one thing I am anxious about.
Our store shed stands in a thicket among the trees yonder close
beneath us. We built it there not to be conspicuous, and they may not
notice it, but it is only a few weeks since our supplies came
in--drugs and cloth, besides tools, and goods that we could not
replace."
Nares made a little gesture of comprehension. He knew that the
finances of the stations in that country are usually somewhat
strained, and that when supplies went missing on the journey from the
coast, as they sometimes did, the efforts of those they were intended
for were apt to be crippled for many months.
"The place is locked?" he said.
"It is," said the younger man with a little smile. "After all, the
boys are human. The door and building are strong enough, and the roof
is iron. They can not burn it."
Nares glanced at his older companion and saw that there was still
concern in his face. Half an hour dragged by, and they sat still
struggling with the uneasiness that grew upon them. There was less
shouting in the village, and the fire was evidently dying down, but
now and then a hoarse clamor reached them. Nares felt that to sit
there and do nothing was a very hard thing. At last the younger man
pushed his chair back sharply.
"I think they have found where the store shed is. They are coming
here," he said.
"I wonder who has told them," said his companion.
A patter of feet grew nearer, and Nares felt his mouth grow dry as he
forced himself to sit still and listen, until several shadowy figures
flitted out from among the trees. Then the older man's question was
answered, for one of them dragged a Mission boy along with him. He
carried a hide whip in one hand, and turned towards the veranda with a
truculent laugh as he brought it down on his captive's quivering
limbs.
"Ah," said the younger man with sharp incisiveness, "I do not think
one could blame that boy."
More figures appeared behind the others, and they flitted across the
strip of open space towards the store shed, after which there were
hoarse shouts and a sound of hammering which ceased again. Then
Herrero's boys came back by twos and threes, big, muscular negroes
with short draperies fluttering from their hips, some of them lurching
drunkenly. Three or four also carried long flintlock guns, and the one
who had the whip still dragged the Mission boy along. They stopped in
the clear space beneath the house, and Nares, who felt his heart beat,
set his lips tight as one of them strode forward to the foot of the
short veranda stairway. He was almost naked, and for a moment or two
the white men sat still, and looked at him. It was, they felt, just
possible that at the last moment his assurance would fail him.
Perhaps, he understood what they were thinking, for he made a little
contemptuous gesture.
"We want the key to the store," he said in halting Portuguese.
Then Nares turned to the head of the station. "You mean to give it
him?"
"No," said the older man simply. "If they are able to break into the
shed I can not help it, but, at least, I will do nothing to make it
easier for them. I am the Society's steward and these goods are
entrusted to me."
Nares looked at his younger companion, and saw a little smile in his
eyes. It was clear that force would be useless, even if they had been
willing to resort to it, but passive resistance was not forbidden
them, and while apt to prove perilous it might avail, since it was
scarcely probable that Herrero's boys could find the key. Then the
younger man turned to the negro.
"We will never give you the key," he said.
"Then we will come and take it," said the man below.
He signed to his companions, and when three or four of them gathered
about him clamoring excitedly Nares felt his blood tingle and his face
grow hot. Perhaps it was the fever working in him, and he was
certainly overwrought, and, perhaps, it was a subconscious awakening
of the white man's pride. After all, the men of his color held
dominion, and it was an intolerable thing that one of them should
submit to personal indignity at a negro's hand. A little quiver ran
through him, but his restraint did not break down until the big
truculent negro came up the stairway and laid a greasy black hand upon
the shoulder of the worn and haggard man who ruled the station. He
shook him roughly, grinning as he did it, and then Nares' self-control
suddenly left him. Swinging forward on his left foot he struck at the
middle of the heavy, animal face, and the negro staggering went
backwards down the stairway. Then with the sting of his knuckles a
change came over Nares, for the passions he had long held in stern
subjection were suddenly unloosed. At last he had broken down under a
tension that had been steadily growing intolerable, and he turned on
his persecutors as other men of his faith have done. When men of that
kind strike they strike shrewdly.
There was also a change in the negroes' attitude. They had maltreated
their own countrymen at their will, but they had as yet never laid
hands upon a white man. Perhaps, it was the rum Herrero had given them
which had stirred their courage, and, perhaps, they regarded a
missionary as a good-humored fool who had for some inconceivable
reason flung the white man's prerogative away. In any case, they were
coming up the stairway, three or four of them, and now the first man
carried a matchet, an instrument which resembles an old-fashioned
cutlass. Nares, who asked for no directions, sprang into the room
behind him where one of the trestle cots not unusual in that country
stood. It had a stout wooden frame, and he rent one bar from the
canvas laced to it. In another moment he was back at the head of the
stairway where the man in charge of the station stood, frail, and
haggard, but very quiet, with his thin jacket rent open where the
negro had seized him. A foot or two below him the man with the matchet
was coming up, naked to the waist, and half-crazed with rum. Nares
could see his eyes in the moonlight, and that was enough.
He swung the bar high with both hands, and it descended on the negro's
crown. The man went backwards, but another who carried a long gun
sprang over him, and the heavy bar came crashing down on his naked
arm. Then it whirled again, and there was a curious thud as it left
its mark upon a dusky face. There was a clamor from the men below, a
gasp behind Nares, and a folded canvas chair struck the next negro on
the breast. He, too, lost his balance, and in another moment the
stairway was empty except for one of the dusky men who lay still upon
the lower steps of it. Nares stood on the veranda, with a suffused
face, and the perspiration dripping from him, and smiled curiously
when the man in charge of the station glanced at him with wonder and a
vague reproof in his eyes.
"I am not sure that I have anything to regret," he said. "They are
coming back again."
Herrero's boys were once more at the foot of the stairway, trampling
on their comrade as they scrambled over him, but there were now two
men with extemporized weapons at the head of it who stood above them
and had them at a disadvantage. Nares was, however, never quite clear
as to what happened during the next few minutes, for an unreasoning
fury came upon him, and he saw only the woolly heads and dusky faces
as he gasped and smote, though he was vaguely conscious that now and
then a shattered chair somebody whirled by the legs swung above his
head. Then a long gun flashed, and the detonation was answered by a
sharper, ringing crash. One of Herrero's boys screamed shrilly, and
the half-naked figures went scrambling down the stairway. They had
scarcely floundered clear of it when a man in white duck appeared in
the space below, and flung up a rifle, and another of the boys who
went down headlong lay writhing horribly in the sand. After that there
was a shouting and a patter of flying feet, and further dusky men with
matchets and Snider rifles poured out of the path that wound down the
hillside. Nares quietly laid the bar he held against the wall, and
turned to the others with a gasp.
"It's Ormsgill," he said.