How our heroine sailed away to a golden land of sunshine across
the sea; how she found that under all the beauty there were
terrible things which made life a misery to the dark-skinned
natives; how she began to fight their evil ideas and ways and to
rescue little children from death; how, after losing all her
loved ones, she took a little twin-girl to her heart, and how
she grew strong and calm and brave.
On an autumn morning in 1876 Miss Slessor stood on the deck of the
steamer _Ethiopia_ in Liverpool docks and waved good-bye to two
companions from Dundee who had gone to see her off. As the vessel
cleared the land and moved out into the wide spaces of the waters she,
who had always lived in narrow streets, felt as if she were on holiday,
and was in as high spirits as any schoolgirl. She could not help being
kind and helpful to others, and soon made friends with many of the
passengers and crew.
One man drew her like a magnet, for he also was a dreamer of dreams.
This was Mr. Thomson, an architect from Glasgow, who was filled with the
idea that the missionaries in West Africa would do better work and
remain out longer if there were some cool place near at hand to which
they could go for a rest and change. He had been all over the Coast, and
explored the rivers and hills, and had at last found a healthy spot five
thousand feet up on the Cameroon Mountains, where he decided to build a
home. He had given up his business, and was now on his way out, with his
wife and two workmen, to put his dream into shape. Mary's eyes shone as
she listened to his tale of love and sacrifice; but, alas! the plan, so
beautiful, so full of hope for the missionaries, came to nothing, for he
died not long after landing.
It was from Mr. Thomson that she learned most about the strange country
to which she was going. He told her how it was covered with thick bush
and forest; how swift, mud-coloured rivers came out of mysterious lands
which had never been seen by white men; how the sun shone like a
furnace-fire, and how sudden hurricanes of rain and wind came and swept
away huts and uprooted trees. He described the wild animals he had
seen--huge hippopotami and crocodiles in the creeks; elephants,
leopards, and snakes in the forests; and lovely hued birds that flashed
in the sunlight--until her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed as they
had done in the old days when she listened to the stories told by her
mother.
[Illustration: FROM DUNDEE TO CALABAR.]
Within a week the steamer had passed out of the grey north, and was
gliding through a calm sea beneath a blue and sunny sky. By and by Mary
was seeking cool corners under the awning, and listening lazily to the
swish of the waves from the bows and watching golden sunsets and big
bright stars. Sometimes she saw scores of flying-fish hurry-scurrying
over the shining surface, and at night the prow of the vessel went
flashing through water that sparkled like diamonds.
By and by came the hot smell of Africa, long lines of surf rolling on
lonely shores, white fortresses that spoke of the old slave days, and
little port towns, half-hidden amongst trees, where she got her first
glimpses of the natives, and was amused at the din they made as they
came off to the steamer, fearless of the sharks that swarmed in the
water. It was all strange and unreal to the Scottish weaver-girl.
[Illustration]
And when, after a month, the vessel came to the Calabar River and
steamed through waters crowded with white cranes and pelicans, and past
dark mangrove swamps and sand-banks where the crocodiles lay sunning
themselves, and islands gay with parrots and monkeys, up to Duke Town,
the queer huddle of mud huts amongst the palm trees that was to be her
home, she was excited beyond telling. For at last that wonderful dream
of hers, which she had cherished through so many long years, had come
true, and so wonderful was it that it seemed to be still only a dream
and nothing more.
Clear above the river and the town, like a lighthouse on a cliff, stood
the Mission where "Daddy" and "Mammy" Anderson, two of its famous
pioneers, lived, and with them Mary stayed until she knew something
about the natives and her work. She felt very happy; she loved the
glowing sunshine, the gorgeous sunsets, the white moonlight, the shining
river, the flaming blossoms amongst which the humming-birds and
butterflies flitted, and all the sights and sounds that were so
different from those in Scotland. She was so glad that she used to write
poems, and in one of these she sings of the beauty of the land:
... the shimmering, dancing wavelets
And the stately, solemn palms,
The wild, weird chant of the boatmen
And the natives' evening psalms,
The noise of myriad insects
And the firefly's soft bright sheen,
The bush with its thousand terrors
And its never-fading green.
Her spirits, so long bottled up in Dundee, overflowed, and she did
things which amused and sometimes vexed the older and more serious
missionaries. She climbed trees and ran races with the black girls and
boys, and was so often late at meals that Mrs. Anderson, by way of
punishment, left her out nothing to eat. But "Daddy" was fond of the
bright-eyed, warm-hearted lassie, and he always hid some bananas and
other fruit and passed them to her in secret. There was no factory
whistle to warn her in the morning, and sometimes she would start up in
the middle of the night and, seeing her room almost as light as midday,
would hastily put on her clothes, thinking she had slept in, and run
out to ring the first bell, only to find a very quiet world and the
great round moon shining in the sky.
It was not long before all the light and colour and beauty of the land
seemed to fade away, and only the horror of a great darkness remain. She
was taken to the homes and yards of the natives in the town and out into
the bush, and saw a savage heathenism that astonished and shocked her.
She did not think that people could be so wretched and degraded and
ignorant. At some of the places the naked children were so afraid of her
that they ran away screaming. She herself shrank from the fierce men who
thronged round her, but her winning way captured their hearts, and she
was soon quite at home with them.
When she came back she was very thoughtful, and talked to Mrs. Anderson
of the things she had seen.
"My lassie," said "Mammy," "you've seen nothing." And she began to tell
her of the terrible evils that filled the land with misery and sorrow.
"All around us, in the bush and far away into the interior, there are
millions of these black people. In every little village there is a Chief
or Master, and a few free men and women, but the rest are slaves, and
can be sold or flogged or killed at their owner's pleasure. It is all
right when they are treated kindly, but think of the kind of men the
masters are. All the tribes are wild and cruel and cunning, and pass
their days and nights in fighting each other and in dancing and
drinking, and there are some that are cannibals and feast on the bodies
of those they have slain. Their religion is the fear of spirits, one of
blood and sacrifice, in which there is no _love_. When a chief dies, do
you know what happens to his wives and slaves? Their heads are cut off
and they are buried with him to be his companions in the spirit-land."
[Illustration: A POT INTO WHICH TWINS WERE PUT.]
Mary shivered. "It must be awful for the children," she said.
"Ah, yes, nearly all are slaves, and their masters look upon them as if
they were sheep or pigs. They are his wealth. As soon as they are able
to walk they begin to carry loads on their heads, and paddle canoes and
sweep and clean out the yards. Often they are beaten or branded with a
hot iron, or get their ears cut off. They sleep on the ground without
any covering. When the girls grow up they are hidden away in the _uf[:o]k
nkukh[:o]_, or 'house of seclusion,' and made very fat, and then become the
slave-wives of the masters or freemen. And the twins! Poor mites. For
some reason the people fear them worse than death, and they are not
allowed to live; they are killed and crushed into pots and thrown away
for leopards to eat. The mother is hounded into the bush, where she must
live alone. She, too, is afraid of the twin-babies, and she would murder
them if others did not."
Mary cried out in hot rage against so cruel a system.
"Oh," she said, "I want to fight it; I want to save those innocent
babes."
"Right, lassie," replied "Mammy," "and we need a hundred more like you
to help."
Mary jumped to her feet. "The first thing I have to do," she said, "is
to learn the language. I can do nothing until I know it well."
Efik is the chief tongue spoken in this part of Africa, and so quickly
did she pick it up and master it that the people said she was "blessed
with an Efik mouth"; and then her old dream came true, and she began to
teach the black boys and girls in the day school. There were not many,
for the chiefs did not believe in educating them. The bigger ones wore
only a red or white shirt, while the wee ones had nothing on at all, and
they carried their slates on their heads and their pencils in their
woolly hair. In spite of everything they were a happy lot, with bright
eyes and nimble feet, and Mary loved them, and those that were
mischievous most of all. She also went down to the yards out of which
they came, and spoke to their fathers and mothers about Jesus, and
begged them to come to the Mission church.
When she had been out three years she fell ill, and was home-sick for
her mother and friends. Calabar then was like some of the flowers
growing in the bush, very pretty but very poisonous. Mary had fever so
badly and was so weak that she was glad to be put on board the steamer
and taken away.
In Scotland the cool winds and the loving care of her mother soon made
her strong again.
Sometimes she was asked to speak at meetings, but was very shy to face
people. One Sunday morning in Edinburgh she went to a children's church.
The superintendent asked her to come to the platform, but she would not
go. Then he explained to the children who she was, and begged her to
tell them something about Calabar. She blushed and refused. A hymn was
given out, during which the superintendent pled with her to say a few
words. "No, no, I cannot," she replied timidly. He was not to be beaten.
"Let us pray," he said. He prayed that Miss Slessor might be able to
give them a message. When he finished he appealed to her again. After a
pause she rose, and, turning her head half-away, spoke, not about
Calabar, but about the free and glad life which children in a Christian
land enjoyed, and how grateful they ought to be to Jesus, to whom they
owed it all.
When she reached Calabar again she was made very happy, for her dream
was to be a real missionary, and she found that she was to be in charge
of the women's work at Old Town, a place two miles higher up the river,
noted for its wickedness. She could now do as she liked, and save more
money to send home to her mother and sisters, for they were always first
in her thoughts. She lived in a hut built of mud and slips of bamboo,
with a roof of palm leaves, wore old clothes, and ate the cheap food of
the natives, yam and plantain and fish. Many white persons wondered why
she did this, and made remarks, but she did not tell them the reason:
she cared less than ever for the laughter and scorn of others.
[Illustration: TOWNS IN CALABAR.
There are so many winding creeks that the district looks like a jigsaw
puzzle.]
She soon became a power in the district. The men in the town were
selfish and greedy, and would not let the inland natives come with
their palm oil and trade with the factories, and fights often took
place, and blood was shed. "This will never do," Mary said, and she
began to help the country people, allowing them to steal down at night
through the Mission ground, and guiding them past the sentries to the
beach. The townsmen were angry, but they could not browbeat the brave
white woman, and at last they gave in, and so the trading became free.
Then she began to oppose the custom of killing twins, and by and by she
came to be known as "the Ma who loves babies." "Ma" in the Efik tongue
is a title of respect given to women, and ever after she was known to
all, white and black, as "Ma Slessor," or "Ma Akamba," the great Ma, or
just simply "Ma," and we, too, may use the same name for her.
One day a young Scottish trader named Owen came to her with a black baby
in his arms.
"Ma," he said, "I have found this baby thing lying away in the bush.
It's a twin. The other has been killed. It would soon have died if I
hadn't picked it up. I knew you'd like it, and so here it is."
Ma thanked the young man for his kindly act, and took the child, a
bright and attractive girl, to her heart of hearts. "I'll call it
Janie," she said, "after my sister."
She was delighted one day to hear that the British Consul and the
missionaries had at last coaxed the chiefs in the river towns to make a
law after their own fashion against twin-murder. This was done through a
secret society called Egbo, which was very powerful and ruled the land.
Those who belonged to it sent out men with whips and drums, called
runners, who were disguised in masks and strange dresses. When they
appeared all women and children had to fly indoors. If caught they were
flogged. It was these men who came to proclaim the new rules. Ma thus
tells about the scene in a letter to Sunday School children in Dundee:
Just as it became dark one evening I was sitting in my verandah
talking to the children, when we heard the beating of drums and
the singing of men coming near. This was strange, because we are
on a piece of ground which no one in the town has a right to
enter. Taking the wee twin boys in my hands I rushed out, and
what do you think I saw? A crowd of men standing outside the
fence chanting and swaying their bodies. They were proclaiming
that all twins and twin-mothers could now live in the town, and
that if any one murdered the twins or harmed the mothers he
would be hanged by the neck. If you could have heard the
twin-mothers who were there, how they laughed and clapped their
hands and shouted, "Soso[~n]o! Soso[~n]o!" ("Thank you! Thank you!").
You will not wonder that amidst all the noise I turned aside and
wept tears of joy and thankfulness, for it was a glorious day
for Calabar.
A few days later the treaties were signed, and at the same time
a new King was crowned. Twin-mothers were actually sitting with
us on a platform in front of all the people. Such a thing had
never been known before. What a scene it was! How can I describe
it? There were thousands of Africans, each with a voice equal to
ten men at home, and all speaking as loudly as they could. The
women were the worst. I asked a chief to stop the noise. "Ma,"
he said, "how I fit stop them woman mouth?" The Consul told the
King that he _must_ have quiet during the reading of the
treaties, but the King said helplessly, "How can I do? They be
women--best put them away," and many _were_ put away.
And the dresses! As some one said of a hat I trimmed, they were
"overpowering." The women had crimson silks and satins covered
with earrings and brooches and all kinds of finery. The men were
in all sorts of uniform with gold and silver lace and jewelled
hats and caps. Many naked bodies were covered with beadwork,
silks, damask, and even red and green table-cloths trimmed with
gold and silver. Their legs were circled with brass and
beadwork, and unseen bells that tinkled all the time. The hats
were immense affairs with huge feathers of all colours and
brooches.
The Egbo men were the most gorgeous. Some had large
three-cornered hats with long plumes hanging down. Some had
crowns, others wore masks of animals with horns, and all were
looped round with ever so many skirts and trailed tails a yard
or two long with a tuft of feathers at the end. Such splendour
is barbaric, but it is imposing in its own place.
Well, the people have agreed to do away with many of the bad
customs they have that hinder the spread of the Gospel. You must
remember that it is the long and faithful teaching of God's
word that is bringing the people to a state of mind fit for
better things.
Now I am sleepy. Good-bye. May God make us all worthy of what He
has done for us.
The people were good for a time, but soon fell back into the habit of
centuries, and did in secret what they used to do openly. Ma saw that
the struggle was only just beginning, and she threw herself into it with
all her courage and strength.
She was always studying her Bible, and learning more of the love and
power of Jesus, and so much did she lean on Him that she was growing
quite fearless, and would go by herself into the vilest haunts in the
town or far out into lonesome villages. Often she took a canoe and went
up the river and into the creeks and visited places where no white woman
had been before, healing the sick, sitting by the wayside listening to
the tales of the people, and talking to them about the Saviour of the
world. Sometimes there was so much to say and do that she could not get
back the same day, and she slept on straw or leaves in the open air, or
on a bundle of rags in an evil-smelling hut.
Once she took the house-children and went a long river journey to visit
an exiled chief who lived in a district haunted by elephants. They were
to start in the morning, but things are done very leisurely in Africa,
and it was night before they set off by torchlight. Eyo Honesty VII.,
the negro king of Creek Town, who was a Christian and always very kind
to Ma, had sent a State canoe, brightly painted, with the message:
"Ma must not go as a nameless stranger to a strange people, but as a
lady and our Mother, and she can use the canoe as long as she pleases."
There was a crew of thirty-three men dressed only in loin-cloths.
As they dipped the paddles and sped onwards over the quiet water, a
drummer drummed his drum, and the crew chanted a song in her praise:
Ma, our beautiful beloved mother is on board,
Ho, ho, ho!
The motion of the canoe was like a cradle, and the song like a mother's
crooning, and she fell asleep; and all through the night, amongst these
wild black men, she lay in God's keeping like a little child.
At dawn they came to a beach and a village, where she was given a mud
room in the chief's yard, and here for a whole fortnight she lived in
the company of dogs, fowls, rats, lizards, and mosquitoes. Many of the
people had never seen a white person, and were afraid to touch her. She
was very sorry for them, they were so poor and naked and dirty, and she
busied herself making clothes and healing the sick. So many were ill
that a canoe had to be sent to the nearest Mission House for another
supply of medicines.
One day the chief said to her, "Ma, two of my wives have been doing
wrong, and they are to get one hundred stripes each on their bare backs.
It is the custom."
She was horrified. "Why, what have they done?"
"They went into a yard that is not their own. Of course," he added,
"they are young and thoughtless, they are only sixteen years old, but
they must learn."
"Oh, but that is a very cruel punishment for young girls."
"Ma, it is nothing; we shall also rub salt into the wounds and perhaps
cut off their ears. That is the only way to make the women obey us."
"No, no, you must not do that," cried Ma. "Bring all the people together
for a palaver."
The crowd gathered, and the two girls stood in front with sullen faces.
Ma spoke to them.
"You have done wrong according to your law, and you will have to be
punished."
At this, smiles broke over the faces of the men; but Ma turned to them
swiftly and cried, "You are in the wrong too. Shame on you for making a
law that marries girls so early! Why, these are still children who love
fun and mischief. Their fault is a small one, and you must not punish
them so cruelly."
The smiles fled, and the faces grew angry and defiant, and there were
mutterings and threats.
"Who are you to come and spoil our laws," said some of the big men; "the
girls are ours, let us have them."
But Ma was firm, and as she was the guest of the village, and worthy of
honour, they at length agreed to give a lighter punishment. The girls
were handed over to two strong fellows, who flogged them with a whip. Ma
heard their screams amidst the shouts and laughter of those who looked
on, and was ready to attend to their bleeding bodies when they ran into
her room. Then she gave them something which made them sleep and forget
their pain and misery.
"What can you expect?" said she to herself; "they have never heard of
God, they worship human skulls, and they don't know about love and
compassion and mercy"--and she did her best to teach them.
In the quiet nights, when their work in the fields was over, they came
and squatted on the ground, the big men in front, the slaves outside,
and she stood beside a little table on which were a Bible and hymn-book
and a lamp, and in her sweet and earnest voice told them the story of
the gentle Jesus. She could not see anything but the dark mass of their
bodies and the gleaming of their eyes, and they sat so still that when
she stopped she could only hear the sighing of the wind among the palm
tops. It was all very wonderful to them. Sometimes they would ask
questions, chiefly about the life after death, which was such a mystery
to them, and, when they rose, they slipped away softly to their homes to
talk about this strange new religion that was so different from their
own.
It was the time of storms, and one day when Ma was sitting sewing the
sky grew dark, lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and floods fell. The
roof of the hut was blown away, and she was drenched to the skin, and
for a time was ill with fever and nigh to death.
[Illustration: MRS. SLESSOR AND JANIE.]
On the way back at night to Old Town another tornado burst, flooding the
canoe, and tossing it about like a match-box on the raging waves. The
crew lost their wits, and Ma thought they would be upset. But putting
aside her own fear for the sake of others, she made the men paddle into
the mangrove, where they jumped into the branches like monkeys and held
on to the canoe until the danger was passed. All were sitting in water,
and Ma was wet through and shaking with ague. She became so ill that
when Old Town was reached she had to be carried up to the Mission House.
Yet she did not go to bed until she had made hot tea for the children,
and tucked them snugly away for the night.
Soon afterwards another tornado destroyed her house, and she and the
children escaped through the wind and rain to the home of some white
traders who were very kind to her. But she was so ill after all she had
gone through that she was ordered to Scotland, and had again to be
carried on board the steamer. She would not leave Janie behind her, as
she was afraid the people would murder her, and so the girl-twin also
sailed with her across the sea.
Ma soon grew strong in her native air, and one Sunday she went to her
old church in Dundee with Janie, and there that morning the little black
child was given the name that had been chosen for her. With her black
skin and her solemn eyes she was a curious sight to the boys and girls,
and they came crowding round and begged to be allowed to hold her for a
little. She appeared at many of the meetings to which Ma went, and
during the address would sit on the platform munching biscuits, which
she was always ready to share with every one near her.
One night Ma travelled to Falkirk to speak to a large class of girls
taught by Miss Bessie Wilson, a well-known lady in the Church. She had a
message that night, and her face shone and her words fell like stirring
music on the young hearts before her. Janie was passed round from one
to another, and helped to make her story more real. So delighted were
the girls with the black baby that they begged to be allowed to give
something every month for her support.
Perhaps all this had nothing to do with what happened afterwards, but
was it not strange that out of that class by and by no fewer than six
members gave themselves to the work in Calabar, including Miss Wright
and Miss Peacock, two of Ma's dearest friends and best helpers?
Ma had a wonderful power of drawing other people to her and of
influencing them for good. On this visit one girl, Miss Hogg, was no
sooner in her company than she decided to go to Calabar, and she went,
and was for many years a much-loved missionary, whose name was familiar
to the children of the Church at home.
Ma was anxious to be back at her work, but her sister Janie, who was
delicate like her brothers, needed all her care, and was at last ordered
by the doctor to live in a warmer climate. This set Ma dreaming again.
"If only I could take her out to Calabar with me," she mused, "we could
live cheaply in a native hut, and it might save her life." But the
Mission Board did not think this would be right, and Mary, who had a
quick brain as well as a warm heart, at once carried Janie off to
Devonshire, that lovely county in the south of England, where she
rented a house with a garden and nursed and cared for the invalid. Very
sorrowfully she gave up the work in Calabar she loved so much, but she
felt that her sister needed her most. Then she brought down her mother,
and they lived happily together, and Janie grew strong in the sunshine
and fresh air. After a time Ma thought they could be left, and, after
getting an old companion down from Dundee to look after them, she went
out again to Africa.
Her new station was Creek Town, a little farther away, where the
missionary was her dear friend Mr. Goldie, the _etubom akamba_, the "big
master." Here she lived more plainly than ever, for she needed now to
send a larger sum of money in order to keep the home in Devonshire. But
she had not long to do this loving service, for first her mother, and
then her sister, died. All the rest of the family of seven had now
passed away, and Ma was alone in the world. She never quite got over her
grief and her longing for them all, and to the end of her life was
dreaming a sweet dream of the time when she would meet them again in
heaven.
With no home-hearts to love she began to lavish her affection on the
black children, and was specially fond of Janie, who trotted at her side
all day and slept in her bed at night. She was a lively thing, full of
fun and tricks, and it was curious that the people should be so afraid
of her. They would not touch her even if Ma was there.
One day a man came to the Mission House who said he was her father.
"Then," said Ma, "you will come and see her."
"Oh, no," he replied, with fear in his eyes, "I could not."
Ma looked at him with scorn. "What harm can a wee girlie do you?" she
asked. "Come along."
"Well, I'll look from a distance."
"Hoots," she cried, and seizing him by the arm dragged him close to the
child, who was alarmed and clung to Ma.
"My lassie, this is your father, give him a hug."
The child put her arms round the man's neck and he did not mind, and
indeed his fierce face grew soft, and he sat down and took her gently on
his knee and petted her, and was so delighted with her pretty ways that
he would hardly give her up. After that he came often and brought her
gifts of food. Thus Ma tried to show the people that there was nothing
wrong with twins, and that it was a cruel and senseless thing to kill
them.
There were other children, both boys and girls, in the home, whom Ma had
saved from sickness or death, and these she trained to do housework and
bake and go to market, and when their work was done she taught them from
their Efik lesson books, and by and by they were able to help her in
school and church by looking after all the little things that needed to
be done. The oldest was a girl of thirteen, a kind of Cinderella, who
was always in the kitchen, but who was very honest and truthful and
loved her Ma.
Besides these there were always a number of refugees in the yard-rooms
outside, a woman, perhaps, who had been ill-used by her masters and had
run away, or girls broken in body and mind, who had been brought down
from the country to be sold as slaves and whom Ma had rescued, or sick
people who came from far distances to get the white woman's medicine to
be healed.
It was a busy life which Ma lived in and out amongst the huts and
villages of the Creek; but she was happy, like all busy people who love
their work and are doing good.
[Illustration: THE LANDING BEACH AT EKENGE.]