To their superior bodily development they added the worst qualities of

heathenism: there was not a phase of African devilry in which they did

not indulge. They were openly addicted to witchcraft and the sacrifice

of animals. They were utterly lawless and contemptuous of authority.

Among themselves slave-stealing, plunder of property, theft of every

kind, went on indiscriminately. To survive in the struggle of life a

man required to possess wives and children and slaves--in the abundance

of these lay his power. But if, through incompetence or sickness or

misfortune, he failed he was regarded as the lawful prey of the chief

nearest him. To weaken the House of a neighbour was as clear a duty as

to strengthen one's own. Oppression and outrage were of common

occurrence. So suspicious were they even of each other that the chiefs

and their retainers lived in isolated clearings with armed scouts

constantly on the watch on all the pathways, and they ate and worked

with their weapons ready to their hands. Even Egbo law with all its

power was often resisted by the slaves and women regardless of the

consequences. No free Egbo man would submit to be dictated to by the

Egbo drum sent by another. A fine might be imposed, but he would sit

unsubdued and sullen, and then obtain his revenge by seizing or

murdering some passing victim. But all combined in a common enmity

against other tribes, and the region was enclosed with a fence of

terrorism as impenetrable as a ring of steel. The Calabar people were

hated because of the favoured position they enjoyed on the coast, and

their wealth and power; and a state of chronic war existed with them.

Each sought to outrival the other in the number of heads captured or

the number of slaves stolen or harboured, and naturally there was no

end to the fighting. All efforts to bring them together in the

interests of trade had been in vain. Even British authority was defied,

and messages from the Consul were ignored or treated with contempt.

They had their own idea of justice and judicial methods, and trials by

ordeal formed the test of innocence or guilt, the two commonest being

by burning oil and poison. In the one case a pot was filled with palm

oil which was brought to the boil. The stuff was poured over the hands

of the prisoner, and if the skin became blistered he was adjudged to be

guilty and punished. In the other case the eséré bean--the product of a

vine--was pounded and mixed with water and drunk: if the body ejected

the poison it was a sign of innocence. This method was the surest and

least troublesome--for the investigation, sentence, and punishment were

carried out simultaneously--unless the witch-doctor had been

influenced, which sometimes happened, for there were various means of

manipulating the test.

These tests were applied when it was desired to discover a thief, or

when a village wanted to know whose spirit dwelt in the leopard that

slew a goat, or when a chief wished to prove that his wife was faithful

to him in her heart, but chiefly in cases of sickness or death. They

believed that sickness was unnatural, and that death never occurred

except from extreme old age. When a freeman became ill or died, sorcery

would be alleged. The witchdoctor would be called in, and he would name

one individual after another, and all, bond and free, were chained and

tried, and there would be much grim merriment as the victims writhed in

agony and their heads were chopped off. The skulls would be kept in the

family as trophies. Occasionally the relations of the victims would be

powerful enough to take exception to the summary procedure and seek

redress by force of arms, and a vendetta would reign for years.

If a man or woman were blamed for some evil deed an appeal could be

made to the law of substitution, and a sufficient number of slaves

could be furnished as would be equivalent for themselves, and these

would be killed in their stead. The eldest son of a free House, for

instance, would be spared by the sacrifice of the life of a younger

brother.

The fact that a man's position in the spirit-world was determined by

his rank and wealth in this one, demanded the sacrifice of much life

when chiefs died. A few months before Miss Slessor went up amongst them

a chief of moderate means died, and with him were buried eight slave

men, eight slave women, ten girls, ten boys, and four free wives. These

were in addition to the men and women who died as a result of taking

the poison ordeal. Even when death was due to natural decay the retinue

provided was the same. After her settlement she made careful enquiry,

and found that the number of lives sacrificed annually at the instance

of this custom could not have averaged fewer than 150 within a radius

of twenty miles, while the same number must have died from ordeals and

decapitation on charges of causing sickness. To these had to be added

the number killed in the constant warfare.

Infanticide was also responsible for much destruction of life. Twin

murder was practised with an even fiercer zeal than it had been in

Calabar. Child life in general was of little value.

It was significant of the state of the district that gin, guns, and

chains were practically the only articles of commerce that entered it.

Gin or rum was in every home. It was given to every babe: all work was

paid for in it: every fine and debt could be redeemed with it: every

visitor had to be treated to it: every one drank it, and many drank it

all the time. Quarrels were the outcome of it. Then the guns came into

play. After that the chains and padlocks.

Women were often the worst where drink was concerned, There were

certain bands formed of those born in the same year who were allowed

freer action than others: they could handle gun and sword, and were

used for patrol and fighting purposes, and were so powerful that they

compelled concessions from Egbo. They exacted fines for breach of their

rules, and feasted and drank and danced for days and nights at a time

at the expense of the offenders.

Such lawlessness and degradation at the very doors had long caused the

Calabar Presbytery much thought. Efforts had been made to enter the

district both from the Cross and the Calabar Rivers. In one of his

tours of exploration Mr. Edgerley was seized, with the object of being

held for a ransom of rum, and it was only with difficulty that he

escaped. Others were received less violently, though every member of

the tribe was going about with guns on full cock. Asked why, they said,

"Inside or outside, speaking, eating, or sleeping, we must have them

ready for use. We trust no man." When they learned of the new laws in

Calabar their amazement was unbounded. "Killing for witchcraft

prohibited!" they exclaimed. "What steps have been taken to prevent

witchcraft from killing?" "Widows not compelled to sit for more than a

month in seclusion and filth!--outrageous!" "Twins and their mothers

taken to Duke Town--horrible! Has no calamity happened?"

Very little result was achieved from these tours of observation. A

Calabar teacher was ultimately induced to settle amongst them, but

after a shooting affray was compelled to fly for his life.

Missionaries, however, are never daunted by difficulties, nor do they

acquiesce in defeat. Ever, like their Master, they stand at the door

and knock. Once again the challenge was taken up, and this time by a

woman. So difficult was the position, that the negotiations for Miss

Slessor's settlement lasted a year. Three times parties from the

Mission went up, she accompanying them, only to find the people--every

man, woman, and child--armed and sullen, and disinclined to promise

anything. "I had often a lump in my throat," she wrote, "and my courage

repeatedly threatened to take wings and fly away--though nobody guessed

it!"

At last, in June 1888, in spite of her fears, she resolved to go up and

make final arrangements for her sojourn.

II. IN THE ROYAL CANOE

She went up the river in state. Ever ready to do her a kindness, King

Eyo had provided her with the Royal canoe, a hollow tree-trunk twenty

feet long, and she lay in comfort under the cool cover of a framework

of palm leaves, freshly lopped from the tree, and shut off from the

crew by a gaudy curtain. Beneath was a piece of Brussels carpet, and

about her were arranged no fewer than six pillows, for the well-to-do

natives of Calabar made larger and more skilful use of these than the

Europeans.

The scene was one of quiet beauty; there was a clear sky and a windless

air; the banks of the river--high and dense masses of vegetation--

glowed with colour; the broad sweep of water was like a sheet of molten

silver and shimmered and eddied to the play of the gleaming paddles. As

they moved easily and swiftly along, the paddlemen, dressed in loin-

cloth and singlet, improvised blithe song in her praise. Strange and

primitive as were the conditions, she felt she would not have exchanged

them for all the luxuries of civilisation.

She needed sustenance, for there was trying work before her, and this a

paraffin stove, a pot of tea, a tin of stewed steak, and a loaf of

home-made bread gave her. Wise mental preparation also she needed, for

there were elements of uncertainty and danger in the situation. The

Okoyong might be on the war-path: her paddlers were their sworn

enemies: a tactless word or act might ruin the expedition. As the canoe

glided along the river she communed with God, and in the end left the

issue with Him. "Man," she thought, "can do nothing with such a

people."

Arriving at the landing beach she made her way by a forest track to a

village of mud huts called Ekenge, four miles inland. Her reception was

a noisy one; men, women, and children thronged about her, and called

her "Mother," and seemed pleased at her courage at coming alone. The

chief, Edem, one of the aristocrats of Okoyong, was sober, but his

neighbour at Ifako, two miles farther on, whom she wished to meet, was

unfit for human company, and she was not allowed to proceed. She stayed

the night at Ekenge, where she gathered the King's boys about her to

hold family worship. The crowd of semi-naked people standing curiously

watching the proceedings exclaimed in wonder as they heard the words

repeated in unison: "God so loved the world," and so on. At ten o'clock

the women were still holding her fast in talk. One, the chiefs sister,

called Ma Eme, attracted her. "I think," she said, "she will be my

friend, and be an attentive hearer of the Gospel." Wearied at last with

the strain she was forced to retire into the hut set apart for her.

A shot next morning startled the village. Two women on going outside

had been fired at from the bush. In a moment every man had his gun and

sword and was searching for the assailant. Mary went with one of the

parties, but to find any one in such a labyrinth was impossible, and

the task was given up. Going to Ifako she interviewed the chiefs. The

charm of her personality, her frankness, her fearlessness, won them

over, and they promised her ground for a schoolhouse. Would, she asked,

the same privilege be extended to it as to the Mission buildings in

Calabar? Would it be a place of refuge for criminals, those charged

with witchcraft, or those liable to be killed for the dead, until their

case could be taken into consideration? They assented. And the house

she would build for herself--would it also be a harbour of refuge?

Again they assented. She thanked them and promptly went and chose two

sites, one at Ekenge and one at Ifako, about twenty to thirty minutes'

walk apart, according to the state of the track, in order that the

benefits of the concession might operate over as wide an area as

possible. She foresaw, however, that as they were an agricultural and

shifting people, and spread over a large extent of territory, she would

require to be constantly travelling, and to sleep as often in her

hammock as in her bed.

Rejoicing over the improved prospects, she set out on the return

journey to Creek Town. It was the rainy season, and ere long the canoe

ran into a deluge and she was soaked. Then the tide was so strong that

they had to lie in a cove for two hours. The carcase of a huge snake

drifted past, followed by a human body. She was on the outlook for

alligators, but only saw crowds of crabs on the rotten tree-stumps and

black mud fighting as fiercely as the Okoyong people. She was too

watchful to sleep, but she heard the boys say softly, "Don't shake the

canoe and wake Ma," or "Speak lower and let Ma sleep." When they were

once more out on the river she slumbered, and awoke to find the lights

of Creek Town shining through the darkness.

When her friends saw her packing her belongings they looked at her in

wonder and pity. They said she was going on a forlorn hope, and that no

power on earth could subdue the Okoyong save a Consul and a gunboat.

But she smiled and went on with her preparations. King Eyo again

offered his canoe and paddlers and a number of bearers for her baggage.

By Friday evening, August 3, 1888, all was ready, and she lay down to

rest but not to sleep. On the morrow she would enter on the great

adventure of her life, and the strangeness of it, the seriousness of

it, the possibilities it might hold for her, kept her awake and

thoughtful throughout the night.

III. THE ADVENTURE OF TAKING POSSESSION

The dawn came to Creek Town grey and wet. The rain fell in torrents,

and the negroes, moving about with the packages, grumbled and

quarrelled. Wearied and unrefreshed after her sleepless night, Mary was

not in the best of spirits, and she was glad to see King Eyo, who had

come to supervise the loading and packing of the canoe: his kind eyes,

cheery smile, and sympathetic words did her good, and her courage

revived. Few of the natives wished her God-speed. One young man said

with a sob in his voice, "I will constantly pray for you, but you are

courting death." Not great faith for a Christian perhaps, but her own

faith at the moment was not so strong that she could afford to cast a

stone at him. As the hours wore on, the air of depression became

general, and when the party was about to start Mr. Goldie suddenly

decided to send one of the Mission staff to accompany her on the

journey. Mr. Bishop, the printer, who was standing by, volunteered, and

there and then stepped into the canoe. Mary and her retinue of five

children stowed themselves into a corner, the paddlers pushed off, and

the canoe swept up the river and disappeared in the rain.

The light was fading ere they reached the landing beach for Ekenge, and

there was yet the journey of four miles through the dripping forest to

be overtaken. It was decided that she should go on ahead with the

children in order to get them food and put them to sleep, and that Mr.

Bishop and one or two men should follow with dry clothes, cooking

utensils, and the door and window needed for the hut, whilst the

carriers would come on later with the loads. As Mary faced the forest,

now dark and mysterious, and filled with the noises of night, a feeling

of helplessness and fear came over her. What unseen perils might she

not meet? What would she find at the end? How would she be received on

this occasion? Would the natives be fighting or drinking or dancing?

Her heart played the coward; she felt a desire to turn and flee. But

she remembered that never in her life had God failed her, not once had

there been cause to doubt the reality of His guidance and care. Still

the shrinking was there; she could not even move her lips in prayer;

she could only look up and utter inwardly one appealing word, "Father!"

Surely no stranger procession had footed it through the African forest.

First came a boy, about eleven years of age, tired and afraid, a box

containing tea, sugar, and bread upon his head, his garments, soaked

with the rain, clinging to his body, his feet slipping in the black

mud. Behind him was another boy, eight years old, in tears, bearing a

kettle and pots. With these a little fellow of three, weeping loudly,

tried hard to keep up, and close at his heels trotted a maiden of five,

also shaken with sobs. Their white mother formed the rear. On one arm

was slung a bundle, and astride her shoulders sat a baby girl, no light

burden, so that she had to pull herself along with the aid of branches

and twigs. She was singing nonsense--snatches to lighten the way for

the little ones, but the tears were perilously near her own eyes. Had

ever such a company marched out against the entrenched forces of evil?

Surely God had made a mistake in going to Okoyong in such a guise? And

yet He often chooses the weakest things of this world to confound and

defeat the mighty.

The village was reached at last, but instead of the noise and confusion

that form a bush welcome there was absolute stillness. Mary called out

and two slaves appeared. They stated that the chief's mother at Ifako

had died that morning, and all the people had gone to the carnival. One

obtained fire and a little water, while the other made off to carry the

news that the white woman had arrived. She undressed the children and

hushed them to sleep, and sat in her wet garments and waited. When Mr.

Bishop appeared it was to say that the men were exhausted and refused

to bring up anything that night. A woman of weaker fibre and feebler

faith would have been in despair: Mary acted with her usual decision.

The glow of the fire was cheerful and the singing of the kettle

tempting, but the morrow was Sunday, there was no food, the children

were naked, and she herself wet to the skin. She gave one of the lads

who had arrived with Mr. Bishop a lantern, and despatched him to the

beach with a peremptory message that the mea must come at once and

bring what they could. But knowing their character she asked Mr. Bishop

to collect some of the slaves who had been left to watch the farms, and

send them after her as carriers, and then, bootless and hatless, she

plunged back into the forest.

She had not gone far before one of the other lads came running after

her to keep her company; a touch of chivalry which, pleased and

comforted her. So dense was the darkness that she often lost sight of

her companion's white clothes, and was constantly stumbling and

falling. The shrilling of the insects, the pulsation of the fire-flies,

the screams of the night-birds and the flapping of their wings, the

cries of wild animals, the rush of dark objects, the falling of decayed

branches all intensified the weirdness and mystery of the forest gloom.

Even the echo of their own voices as they called aloud to frighten the

beasts of prey struck on their ears with peculiar strangeness.

By and by came an answer to their cries, and a glimmer of light showed

in the darkness. It was the lad with the lantern. As she had surmised,

he had failed in his mission. She moved swiftly to the river, splashed

into the water, and, reaching the canoe, threw back the cover under

which the men were sleeping, and routed them out, dazed and shamefaced.

So skilful, however, was she in managing these dusky giants that in a

short time, weary as they were, they were working good-humouredly at

the boxes. With the assistance of the slaves who came on the scene they

transferred what was needed to Ekenge, and by midnight she felt that

the worst was over.

Sunday did not find her in more cheerful mood. Her tired limbs refused

to move, and wounds she had been unconscious of in the excitement of

the journey made themselves felt, while her feet were in such a state

that for six weeks afterwards she was unable to wear boots. Whether it

was the persistent rain and the mud and the weariness and the squalid

surroundings, or the fact that the tribe she had come to civilise and

evangelise were given over to the service of the devil, or that her

faith had weakened, or whether it was all of these together, her first

Sunday in Okoyong was one of the saddest she ever experienced. More

than once she was on the verge of tears.

And yet she was eager to begin work. Prudence, however, held her back

from visiting the scene of debauchery at Ifako. A few women had come

home with fractious babies, or to procure more food for the revellers,

and gathering these about her she held a little service, telling them

in her simple and direct way the story of the Christ who came from the

Unseen to make their lives sweeter and happier.

It was the first faint gleam of a better day for Okoyong.

IV. FACING AN ANGRY MOB

The room allotted to Mary was one of those in the women's yard or harem

of Edem the chief, and had been previously used by a free wife, who had

left its mud floor and mud walls in a filthy state. At one entrance she

caused a door to be hung, while a hole was made in the wall and a

window frame fitted in. The work was rude and gaps yawned round the

sides, but she ensured sufficient privacy by draping them with

bedcovers. The absence of the villagers at Ifako gave her time to

complete the work, and with her own hands she filled in the spaces with

mud. She also cleared a portion of the ground set apart for her and

circled it with a fence, and within this did her washing. But soon

there were calls upon her.

"_He took a little child and set him in the midst_." Her work began

with a child. In a fight between Okoyong and Calabar a man of Ekenge

had been beheaded. His head was recovered and sent home, thus removing

the disgrace, but his wife did not survive the shock, and left a baby

girl, which was now brought to Mary. It had been fed on a little water,

palm oil, and cane juice, and looked less like an infant than a half-

boiled chicken. Its appearance provoked mirth in the yard, but she

stooped down and lifted it and took it to her heart, resolving to give

it a double share of the care and comfort of which it had been

defrauded. As she carried it about in her arms, or sat with it in her

lap, she was regarded with a kind of amused astonishment. But the old

grandmother came and blessed her. At first the child rallied to the new

treatment: it grew human-like: sometimes Mary thought it looked bonnie:

but in a few days it drooped and died.

The bodies of children were usually placed anywhere in the earth near

the huts or under the bush by the wayside, but she dressed the tiny

form in white and laid it in a provision box and covered it with

flowers. A native carried the box to a spot which she had reserved in

her ground: here a grave was dug, and she stood beside it and prayed.

The grandmother knelt at her feet, sobbing. Looking on at a distance,

curious and scornful, were the revellers from Ifako; they had heard of

the proceedings, and had come to witness the white woman's

"witchcraft." All that they said in effect when they saw the good box

and the white robe was, "Why this waste?" And so the work in Okoyong

was consecrated by the death and Christian burial of a little child.

When the people came crowding back from the devil-making they sought

out a young lad who had detached himself from the orgies and remained

in the village, where he had been very attentive to Mary. They accused

him of deserting their ancient customs. She saw him standing in their

midst near a pot of oil which was being heated over a fire, and noticed

the chief, in front going through some movements and the lad holding

out his arms, but was unaware of what was taking place until she saw a

man seize a ladle, plunge it into the boiling oil, and advance to the

boy. In a moment the truth flashed upon her and she darted forward, but

was too late. The stuff was poured over the lad's hands, and he

shuddered in agony. It was doubtful whether her intervention at that

early period would have done any good. They were following the law of

the country, and if she had managed to prevent the act they would

probably have resorted to the ordeal thereafter in secret; and her

object was to show them a better way.

Immediately after this the men of the village left on an expedition of

revenge against a number of mourners with whom they had quarrelled. A

week of rioting followed. Then a freeman died in the neighbourhood, and

once more the village was deserted. Mary, meanwhile, moved hither and

thither, making friends with the women, healing the sick, tending the

children, and doing any little service that came in her way.

The return to normal conditions brought her into active conflict with

the powers of evil. The mistress of a harem in the vicinity bought a

good-looking young woman whom the master coveted, and she became a

slave-wife. She appeared sullen and unhappy. One afternoon Mary saw her

mudding a house that was being built for a new free-born wife, and

spoke to her kindly in passing. A few minutes later the girl made her

way to one of her master's farms, and sat down in the hut of a slave.

The latter was alarmed, knowing well what the consequences would be,

but she refused to move. The man went off to his work, and she walked

into the forest and hanged herself. Next morning the slave was brought

in heavily ironed, and at a palaver the master and his relatives

decreed he must die; they had been degraded by being associated in this

way with a common slave.

Mary, who was present, protested against the injustice of the sentence;

the man, she argued, had done no wrong; it was not his fault that the

girl had gone to his hut. "But," was the reply, "he has used sorcery

and put the thought into the girl's mind, and the witch-doctor has

pronounced him guilty." She persisted. The crowd became angry and

excited; they surged round her demanding why a stranger who was there

on sufferance should interfere with the dignity and power of free-born

people, and clamoured for the instant death of the prisoner. Threats

were shouted, guns and swords were waved, and the position grew

critical, but she stood her ground, quiet and cool and patient. Her

tact, her good humour, that spiritual force which seemed to emanate

from her in times of peril, at last prevailed. The noise and confusion

calmed down, and ultimately it was decided to spare the man's life. She

had won her first victory.

But the victim was loaded with chains, placed in the women's yard,

starved, and then flogged, and his body cruelly cut in order to

exorcise the powers of sorcery that were in him. When Mary went to him

he was a bruised and bleeding heap of flesh lying unconscious by the

post to which he was fastened. The women in the yard were sitting about

indifferent to his plight.

V. LIFE IN HAREM

For many weeks she was an inmate of the harem, a witness of its

degraded intimacies, enduring the pollution of its moral and physical

atmosphere, with no other support than hallowed memories and the

companionship of her Bible. Her room was next that of the chief and his

head wife: the quarters of five lesser wives were close by; other wives

whose work and huts were at the farms shared the yard with the slaves,

visitors, and children; two cows--small native animals that do not

produce milk--occupied the apartment on the other side of the

partition; goats, fowls, cats, rats, cockroaches, and centipedes were

everywhere. In her own room the three boys slept behind an erection of

boxes and furniture, and the two girls shared her portion. Every night

her belongings had to be taken outside in order to provide sufficient

accommodation for them all, and as it was the wet season they had

usually to undergo a process of drying in the sun each day before being

replaced.

There was a ceaseless coming and going in the yard, a perpetual

chattering of raucous voices. The wives were always bickering and

scolding, the tongue of one of them going day and night, her chief butt

being a naked and sickly slave, who was for ever being flogged. There

was no sleep for Mary when this woman had any grievance, real or

imaginary, on her mind.

Both wives and visitors conceived it their duty to sit and entertain

their white guest. To an African woman the idea of loneliness is

terrible, and good manners made it incumbent that as large a gathering

as possible should keep a stranger company. All is implied in the word

"home," its sacredness and freedom, its privacy, lies outside the

knowledge and experience of polygamists. Kind and neighbourly as the

women were, they could not understand the desire of Mary to be

sometimes by herself. She needed silence and solitude; her spirit

craved for communion with her Father, and she longed for a place in

which to pour out her heart aloud to Him. As often as politeness

permitted, she fled to the ground reserved for her, but they followed

her there, and in desperation she would take a machete and hack at the

bush, praying the while, so that her voice was lost in the noise she

made.

One woman of mark was Eme Ete--Ma Eme as she was usually called--a

sister of the master, the same who had attracted her attention on the

previous visit. She was the widow of a big chief, and had just returned

from the ceremonies in connection with her husband's death, where she

had undergone a terrible ordeal. All his wives lay under suspicion, and

each brought to the place of trial a white fowl, and from the way in

which it fluttered after its head was cut off the judgment was

pronounced. The strain was such that when the witch-doctor announced Ma

Eme free from guilt she fainted. Big-boned and big-featured, she had

been fattened to immensity. One day Mary pointed to some marks on her

arms and said, "White people have marks like these," showing the

vaccination cicatrice on her own arm. Ma Eme simply said, "These are

the marks of the teeth of my husband." In that land a man could do as

he liked with his free-born wife--bite her, beat her, kill her, and

nobody cared. When consorting with the others Ma Eme had the coarse

tone common to all, but as she spoke to Mary or the children her voice

softened and her instincts and manners were refined and gentle. A

mother to every one, she scolded, encouraged, and advised in turn, and

when the chief was drunk or peevish she was always between him and his

wives as intercessor and peacemaker. She watched over Mary, brought her

food, looked after her comfort, and helped her in every way, and did it

with the delicacy and reserve of a well-bred lady. Unknown to all she

constituted herself Mary's ally, becoming a sort of secret intelligence

department, and, at the risk of her life, keeping her informed of all

the underground doings of the tribe. "A noble woman," Mary called her,

"according to her lights and knowledge."

The wives appeared to have less liberty than the slaves. How carefully

guarded their position was by unwritten law Mary had reason to know. A

girl-wife employed a slave-man to do work for a day. His master

unexpectedly sent for him, and he asked the girl for the food which was

part of his wage. She at first declined; her husband was absent, and it

was against the law of the harem, but as he insisted she yielded and

handed him a piece of yam. When this became known she was seized,

bound, and condemned to undergo the ordeal of the burning oil. It was

an occasion for feasting and merriment, and as the fun progressed the

cords were gradually tightened until she screamed piteously with the

pain. Mary went and faced the crowd and pled for her release. There was

the usual uproar, but she succeeded in carrying off the victim, who was

kept chained to her verandah until the dancing and rioting ended with

the dawn.

Conditions in the harem were not favourable to child life. The mothers

were ignorant and superstitious, and there was no discipline or

training. Infants were often given intoxicating drink in order that fun

might be made of their antics and foolish talk. As they grew up they

learned nothing but what was vile. The slave children became thieves--

they had to steal in order to live. But if caught they would be chained

to a post and starved or branded with fire-sticks. They became

deceitful--they had to lie in order to gain favour. In this they simply

followed the instinctive impulses of their nature and of the lower

nature about them. As the insects mimicked inanimate objects to escape

injury or death, so they simulated the truth to save themselves a

beating or mutilation. The free-born children did not require to steal,

but lying was in the air like a contagion, and none could avoid its

influence. Of the older boys and girls Mary wrote: "They are such a

pest to every one that it is almost impossible to love them." Yet with

a divine pity she gathered them to her and mothered them.

Her earlier observations of the character of the African women were

confirmed by her sojourn in the harem. Hard and callous, as a result of

centuries of bush law and outrage, their patience and self-repression

under the most terrible indignities were to her a marvel. They were not

devoid of fine feeling, and beneath the surface of their nature the

flow of affection and pity often ran pure and sweet. On one occasion a

large number of prisoners were chained previous to undergoing the

ordeal of the poison bean. There were mothers with infants in their

arms, who throughout a hot day lay on the ground in torture and terror.

At dusk the guards left them for a time, and seizing the chance a few

of the older women stole tremblingly towards them with water, which

they gave to the children and divided the remainder among the mothers.

Anticipating such an opportunity Mary had had some rice cooked, and

this also the women smuggled to the prisoners. Had they been discovered

their lives would have been forfeited.

Bands of women of the special class already described came from a

distance to see the white "Ma," always more or less under the influence

of drink; loose in speech, and destitute of modesty, these Amazons made

her angry. They would appear at night and demand admittance to the yard

in the hope of obtaining rum and other good things from the wealthy

white woman. When barred out they threatened reprisals. The chief, who

never allowed his wives to go out of the yard to dance even with his

own relatives, stood on guard all night before his guest's room, and it

was only after sunrise, when all were astir, that they were admitted.

Haggard after their night's debauch, they presented a sorry sight,

their bare bodies painted and decked with beads, coloured wools, and

scraps of red and yellow silk, and many with babies at their side. Mary

regarded them with pity, but all they could extract from her was

disapproval and rebuke, and they left with threats to make her position

untenable.

Some of the scenes she witnessed in the harem cannot be described. "Had

I not felt my Saviour close beside me," she said, "I would have lost my

reason." When at home the memory of these would make her wince and

flush with indignation and shame. She had no patience with people who

expounded the theory of the innocence of man outside the pale of

civilisation--she would tell them to go and live for a month in a West

African harem.

VI. STRANGE DOINGS

The sound of native voices chanting came through the brooding stillness

of the hot afternoon. With the wild war-song of Okoyong the forest

familiar, but words were strange and wonderful;

_Jesus the Son of God came down to earth

He came to save us from our sins.

He was born poor that He might feel for us.

Wicked men killed Him and hanged Him on a tree,

He rose and went to heaven to prepare a place for us_....

They were sung with a tremendous force, and as each voice fell into the

part which suited it, the result was a harmony that thrilled the heart

of the white woman who listened.

It was Mary Slessor's day school.

For a people possessing no written language, no literature, no

knowledge beyond that handed down from father to son, the first step

towards right living, apart from the preaching of the Gospel, is

education. Schools go hand in hand with churches in missionary effort.

Mary began hers before she had the buildings in which to teach, one at

Ekenge and the other at Ifako. The latter was held in the afternoon in

order that she might be back in her yard by sunset. The schoolroom was

the verandah of a house by the wayside; the seats were pieces of

firewood; the equipment an alphabet card hung on one of the posts.

At first the entire population turned out and conned the letters, but

as novelty wore off and the men and women returned to their work the

attendance dropped to thirty. Good progress was made, and ere long the

dark-skinned pupils were spelling out words of one and two syllables.

The lesson ended with a scripture lesson, a short prayer, and the

singing of the sentences she taught. The last was so much enjoyed that

it was often dark before she could get away.

The school at Ekenge was held in the outer yard of the chief's house in

the evening, when all the wives and slaves were at leisure. Men and

women, old and young, bond and free, crowded and hustled into the yard,

amidst much noise and fun. After a lesson on the alphabet and the

multiplication-table she conducted worship. It was a weird scene--the

white woman, slim and slight, standing bareheaded and barefooted beside

a little table on which were a lamp and the Book; in front, squatting

on the ground, the mass of half-naked people as dark as the night,

their shining faces here and there catching the gleam of the light; the

earnest singing that drowned the voices of the forest, and the strange

hush that fell, as in grave sweet tones the speaker prayed to what was

to them the Unknown God.

The tale of such doings was carried to every corner of Okoyong, and

invitations began to arrive from chiefs in other parts. Some, who were

known as "the terror of Calabar," came personally to ask her to visit

their villages, and all laid down their arms at the entrance to her

yard before entering into her presence. But her own chief warned her

against acting too hastily, and she would probably have followed his

advice and sought to strengthen her position at Ekenge and Ifako had

the matter not been taken out of her hands.

VII. FIGHTING A GRIM FOE

The principal wife of a harem in close neighbourhood to Mary went to

pay a visit to her son and daughter at a village in the vicinity of the

Cross River, some eight hours distant from Ekenge. She found the chief

so near death that the head man and the people were waiting outside,

ready for the event. Hastening into the harem she spoke of the power of

the white "Ma" at Ekenge. Had she not cured her grandchild who had bees

very ill? Had she not saved many others? Let them send for her and the

chief would not die. Her advice was acted upon, and a deputation was

despatched with a bottle and four rods--about the value of a shilling--

to secure Mary's aid. She was called to the private room of her chief,

where she found the messengers. "What is the matter with him?" she

asked. As no one knew she decided to go and see for herself. Edem and

Ma Eme objected--the length of the journey, the deep streams to be

crossed, the heavy rains, made the task impossible. "I am going to get

ready," was her reply. Finding her immovable, the chief turned with a

face of gloom to the deputation and sent, them back with a demand for

an escort of freewomen and armed men. Mary imagined he was merely

endeavouring to mark time until the death took place: in reality he saw

the district given over to violence and murder, and she in the midst

and her life imperilled.

She passed a sleepless night. Was she right, after all, in taking so

great a risk? She laid the matter where she laid all her problems, and

came to the conclusion that she was. With the morning appeared the

guard of women, who intimated that the armed men would join them

outside the village. The rain was falling as they set out later came

down in torrents, continuous, and pitiless. Her boots were soon

abandoned; then her stockings; next her umbrella, broken in battle with

the vegetation, was thrown aside. Bit by bit her clothes, too heavy to

be endured, were transferred to the calabashes carried by the women on

their heads, and in the lightest of garments she struggled on through

the steaming bush.

Three hours of trudging brought her to a market-place where, in the

clearing atmosphere, hundreds of natives were gathering. They gazed at

her in amazement. Feeling humiliated at her appearance, she slunk shyly

and swiftly through their midst and went on, wondering if she had "lost

face" and their respect. Afterwards she learnt that the self-denial and

courage which that walk in the rain exhibited had done more than

anything else to win their hearts. Others, however, were not so well-

disposed. At one town the old chief was anything but courtly, and only

with reluctance allowed her to pass.

When she reached the sick man's village and looked into the grim

expectant faces of the armed crowd, she felt as if she were walking

into a den of wild beasts. At any moment the signal might be given, and

the slaughter of the retinue for the spirit-land begin. The women,

silent and fear-stricken, carried off her wet clothes to dry. She was

cold and feverish, but went straight to the patient and tended him as

well as she could. Then she turned to the pile of odds and ends of

garments which had been collected for her, and looked at them with a

shudder. But there was no alternative, and, arraying herself in the

rags, she went forth to meet the critical gaze of the crowd.

The medicine she had brought had proved insufficient, and more must be

obtained; many lives, she knew, depended upon it. To go back to Ekenge

was out of the question. Was there, she asked the people about her, a

way to Ikorofiong? The Rev. Alexander Cruickshank was stationed there,

and he would supply what was needed. They confessed that there was a

road to the river and a canoe could be got to cross, but they dared not

go there, they would never come back, they would be seized and killed.

Some one told her that a Calabar man, whose mother was an Okoyong woman

and who came to trade, was living in his canoe not far off. "Seek him,"

said she. He was found, but would not land until assured that it was a

white woman who wanted him. Mary prevailed upon him to undertake the

journey; and he returned with all she required and more. With the

thoughtfulness and kindliness of pioneer missionaries Mr. and Mrs.

Cruickshank sent over tea and sugar and other comforts and, what she

valued not less, a letter of cheer and sympathy. Hot with fever, racked

with headache, she brewed the tea in a basin, and it seemed to her a

royal feast. The world of friends had drawn nearer, she felt less

lonely, her spirits revived.

The patient drew back from the valley of death, regained consciousness,

and gathered strength; and the women looking on in wonder, became

obedient and reliable nurses; the freemen thought no more of sacrifice

and blood; the whole community had visions of peace; they expressed a

wish to make terms with Calabar and to trade with the Europeans and

learn "book." She was engaged all day in answering questions. Morning

and evening she held a simple service, and seldom had a more reverent

audience. Much worn out, she left them at last with regret, promising

to be always their mother, to try and secure a teacher, and to come

again and see them.

Her faith and fearlessness had been justified, and she had her reward,

for from that time forward Okoyong was free to her.

VIII. THE POWER OF WITCHCRAFT

The belief in witchcraft dominated the lives of the people like a dark

shadow more menacing than the shadow of death. Taking advantage of

their superstition and fear the witch-doctors--some of the cunningest

rogues the world has produced--held them in abject bondage, and Mary

was constantly at battle with the results of their handiwork.

The chief of Ekenge was lying ill. Since she had taken up residence in

his yard he had treated her with consideration, and guarded her

interests and well-being, and now came the opportunity to reciprocate

his kindness. She found him suffering from an abscess in his back, and

gave herself up to the task of nursing and curing him. All was going

well, when one morning, as she entered with his tea and bread, she saw

a living fowl impaled on a stick. Scattered about were palm branches

and eggs, and round the neck and limbs of the patient were placed

various charms. The brightness of her greeting died away. Edem was

suspiciously voluble and frank, flattered the goodness and ability of

the white people, but said they could not understand the malignity of

the black man's heart. "Ma, it has been made known to us that some one

is to blame for this sickness, and here is proof of it--all these have

been taken out of my back." He held out a parcel which, on opening, she

found to contain shot, powder, teeth, bones, seeds, egg-shells, and

other odds and ends.

On seeing the collection the natives standing around shook with terror,

and frantically denounced the wickedness of the persons who had sought

to compass the death of the chief. Mary's heart sank, she knew what the

accusation meant. At once, before her eyes, men and women were singled

out, and seized and chained and fastened to posts in the yard.

Remonstrance, rebuke, argument were in vain. The chief at last became

irritated with her importunity, and ordered his retainers to carry him

to one of his farms, whither he was accompanied by his wives, those of

note belonging to his house, and the prisoners. He forbade "Ma" to

follow, and enjoined secrecy upon all, in order that no tales might be

carried back to her. But she had her own means of obtaining

intelligence of what was going on, and she heard that many others were

being chained, as they were denounced by the witch-doctors.

The chief became worse, and stronger measures were decided on: all the

suspected must die. Mary was powerless to do more than send a message

of stern warning. Days of suspense and prayer followed. On the last

night of the year she was lying awake thinking of the old days and the

old friends, her heart homesick, and the hot tears in her eyes, when

the sound of voices and the flash of a lantern made her start up. It

was a deputation from the farm. They had learnt that the native pastor,

the Rev. Esien Ukpabio, at Adiabo--the first native convert in Calabar

--was skilled in this form of disease, and would "Ma" give them a letter

asking him to come over and see the chief? The letter was quickly

given, and she returned to her rest and her memories.

When the native pastor asked what was the matter, the reply was that

"Some one's soul was troubling the chief." "In that case," he said, "I

can do nothing," and no persuasion or bribe could move him from his

position. His sister, however, thought it might be well for her to go

and see what she could do, and he consented. Under her care the abscess

broke and the chief recovered, and all the prisoners were released with

the exception of one woman, who was put to death.

Aware of the uncanny way in which his guest heard of things the chief

sent his son to forestall any tale-bearer. "No one has been injured,"

she was assured. "Only one worthless slave woman has been sold to the

Inokon." As it was the custom to dispose of slaves who were criminals

and incorrigible to this cannibal section of the Aros for food at their

high feasts the story was plausible, but she knew better, and when the

son added that the three children of the victim had been "quite

agreeable," she thought of the misery she had witnessed on their faces.

She pretended to believe the message, however, for to have shown

knowledge of the murder would have been to condemn scores to the poison

ordeal, in order that her informant might be discovered.

When the chief was convalescent it was announced by drum that he would

emerge on a certain day from his filth--for the natives do not wash

during illness--and that gifts would be received. His wives and friends

and slaves brought rum, rods, clothes, goats, and fowls, and there

ensued a week of drinking, dancing, and fighting, worse than Mary had

yet seen.

In the midst of it all she moved, helpless and lonely, and somewhat

sad, yet not without faith in a better time,

IX. SORCERY IN THE PATH

A more extraordinary instance of superstition occurred soon after. A

chief in the vicinity, noted far and wide for his ferocity, intimated

that he was coming to Ekenge on a visit. It meant trouble for the

women, and she prayed earnestly that he might be deterred from his

purpose. But he duly appeared, and throwing all her anxiety upon God,

she faced him calm and unafraid. Days and nights of wild licence

followed, accompanied by an outcrop of disputes, most of which were

brought to her to settle.

One morning she found the guest drunk to excess, but determined to

return at once to his village. His freemen and slaves were beyond

control, and soon the place was in an uproar: swords were drawn, guns

were fired, the excitement reached fever heat. With a courage that

seemed reckless she hustled them into order and hurried them off and

accompanied them for the protection of the villages through which they

must pass. She was able to prevent more drink being supplied to them,

and all went well until, at one point on the bush track, they came upon

a plantain sucker stuck in the ground, and, lying about, a cocoanut

shell, palm leaves, and nuts. The fierce warriors who had been

challenging each other and every one they came across to fight to the

death, were paralysed at the sight of the rubbish, and turning with a

yell of terror rushed back the way they had come. Mary sought forcibly

to restrain them, but, frantic with fright, they eluded her grasp, and

ran shrieking towards the last town they had passed to wreak vengeance

on the sorcerers. She ran with them, praying for swiftness and

strength: she passed them one by one, and breathlessly threw herself

into the middle of the path, and dared them to advance. She felt she

was almost as mad as they were, but she relied on a Power Who had never

failed her, and He did not fail her now. Her audacity awed them: they

stopped, protested, argued, and gradually their hot anger, resentment,

and fear died down, and eventually they retraced their steps. She took

up the "medicine" they dreaded, and pitched it into the bush,

ironically invoking the sorcery to pass into her body if it wanted a

victim. But nobody could persuade them to proceed that way, and they

made a long detour.

Unfortunately drink was smuggled to the band, and fighting began. She

induced the more sober to assist her to tie a few of the desperadoes to

trees. Leaving these, the company went on dancing, brandishing arms,

embracing each other, and committing such folly that she felt that she

could bear it no longer. As the swift twilight fell she called her few

followers and returned, releasing on the way the delinquents bound to

the trees, but sending them homewards with their hands fastened behind

their backs. On passing the scene of the sorcery she picked up the

plantain sucker, laughingly remarking that she would plant it in her

yard, and give the witchcraft it possessed an opportunity of proving

its powers.

Nothing is hidden in an African community, news travels swiftly. Next

morning came a messenger from the chief she had escorted home. It had

been a terrible night, he said; the native doctor had come to his

master and had taken teeth, shot, hair, seeds, fish-bones, salt, and

what not, out of his leg, If they had been left in the body they would

have killed him. It was the plantain sucker that was to blame, and his

master demanded it back. Mary read the menace in the request: the plant

was to be used as evidence against some victim. Argument and sarcasm

alike failed, and she was obliged to hand it over, Edem was standing

by. "That," he grimly remarked, "means the death of some one."

On the arrival of the sucker native oaths were administered to all in

the village accused of the sorcery, ordeals of various kinds were

imposed on young and old, slave and free, and the life-blood of a man

was demanded by way of settlement of the matter. Strong in their

innocence the people resisted the claim, but by guile the chief's

myrmidons caught and handcuffed a fine-looking young man belonging to

one of the best families and dragged him into hiding. Any attempt to

effect a rescue would have meant his murder, and in their dilemma the

people thought of the white "Ma" and sent and begged her to come and

plead with the chief for the life and liberty of the prisoner.

She had never a more unpleasant task, for she detested the callous

savage, but there was nothing else to do; and she went depending less

upon herself than upon God. She walked tremblingly into the man's

presence, but her fear soon passed into disgust and indignation. He was

the personification of brutality, selfishness, and cowardice. Laughing

at her entreaties he told her to bring the villagers and let them fight

it out. She pointed out that neither he nor his House had suffered by

what had happened; that the accused people had taken every oath and

ordeal prescribed by their laws; and that his procedure was therefore

unjust and unlawful, "It is due to your presence alone that I escaped,"

he retorted; "they murdered, me in intention if not in fact." His head

wile backed him up, and both became so rude and offensive to Mary that

it took all her grace to keep her temper and her ground. As she would

not leave the house the chief said he would, and walked out, remarking

that he was going to his farm on business. Swallowing her pride she

followed him and begged him humbly as an act of clemency to free the

young man. He turned, elated at her suppliant attitude, laughed loudly,

and said that no violence would be used until all his demands had been

complied with.

She returned to her yard, and days of strain followed. The situation

developed into a quarrel between the truculent chief and Edem, and

every man went armed, women crept about in fear, scouts arrived hourly

with the latest tidings. Her life was a long prayer....

One day the young man was set free, without reason or apology being

given or condition exacted, and told to go to his people. With his

safety all desire for revenge was stilled, and matters resumed their

normal course. The heart of Mary once more overflowed with gratitude

and joy.

X. HOW HOUSE AND HALL WERE BUILT

She was impatient to have a house of her own, but the natives were slow

to come to her assistance. They thought the haste she exhibited was

undignified, and smiled compassionately upon her. There was no hurry--

there never is in Africa. If she would but wait all would be well. When

argument failed, they went off and left her to cut down the bush and

dig out the roots herself. Lounging about in the village they

commiserated a Mother who was so strongheaded and wilful, and consoled

themselves with the thought of the work they would do when once they

began. She could make no progress, and there was nothing for it but to

tend the sick, receive visitors, mend the rags of the village, cut out

clothing for those who developed a desire for it, and look after her

family of bairns.

One day, however, the spirit moved the people and they flocked to the

ground. She constituted herself architect, clerk of works, and chief

labourer. Her idea was to construct a number of small mud-huts and

sheds, which would eventually form the back buildings of the Mission

House proper. Four tree-trunks with forked tops were driven into the

ground, and upon them were laid other logs. Bamboos, crossed and

recrossed, and covered with palm mats, formed the roof and verandah.

Upright sticks, interlaced and daubed with red clay, made the walls.

Two rooms, each eleven feet by six with a shaded verandah, thus came

into existence. Then a shed was added to each end, making three sides

of a square. Fires were kept blazing day and night, in order to dry the

material and to smoke it as a protection against vermin. Drains were

dug and the surrounding bush cleared.

In one of the rooms she put a fireplace of red clay, and close to it a

sideboard and dresser of the same material. Holes were cut out for

bowls, cups, and other dishes, and rubbed with a stone until the

surface was smooth. The top had a cornice to keep the plates from

falling off, and was polished with a native black dye. Her next

achievement was a mud-sofa where she could recline, and a seat near the

fireside where the cook could sit and attend to her duties.

In the other room she deposited her boxes, books, and furniture.

Hanging upon the posts were pots and pans and jugs, and her alphabet

and reading-sheets. In front stood her sewing-machine, rusty and

useless after its exposure in the damp air. There also at night was a

small organ, which during the day occupied her bed.

Such was the "caravan," as Mary called it, which was her dwelling for a

year: a wonderful house it seemed to the people of Okoyong, who

regarded it with astonishment and awe. To herself it was a delight.

Never had the building of a home been watched with such loving

interest. And when it was finished no palace held a merrier family. At

meals all sat round one pot, spoons were a luxury none required, and

never had food tasted so sweet. There were drawbacks--all the cows,

goats, and fowls in the neighbourhood, for instance, seemed to think

the little open yard was the finest rendezvous in the village.

Her next thought was for the church and schoolhouse. A mistress of

missionary strategy, she wished to build this at Ifako, in order that

she might control a larger area, but the chiefs for long showed no

interest in the matter. One morning, however, an Ifako boy sought her

with the message, "My master wants you." She thought the command

somewhat peremptory, but went. To her surprise she found the ground

cleared; posts, sticks, and mud ready, and the chiefs waiting her

orders. She designed a hall thirty feet by twenty-five, with two rooms

at the end for her own use, in case storm or sickness or palaver should

prevent her going home. Work was started; and not a single slave was

employed in the carrying of the material or in the construction. King

Eyo sent the mats, some thousands in number, for the roof, and free

women carried them the four miles from the beach, plastered the walls,

moulded the mud-seats, beat the floor, and cleared up, and all

cheerfully, and without thought of reward. Doors and windows were still

awanting, but she asked for the services of a carpenter from Calabar to

do this bit of work; and meanwhile the humble building, the first ever

erected for the worship of God in Okoyong, was formally opened.

It was a day of days for the people. Mary had prepared them for it, and

all appeared in their new Sunday attire, which, in many cases,

consisted of nothing more than a clean skin. But the contents of

various Mission boxes had been kept for the occasion, and the children,

after being washed, were decked for the first time in garments of many

shapes and colour--"the wearing of a garment," said Mary, "never fails

to create self-respect." It was a radiant and excited company that

gathered in the hall. There was perhaps little depth in their emotion,

but she regarded the event as a step towards better things. Her idea

was to separate the day from the rest, and to make it a means of

bringing about cleanliness and personal dignity, while it also imposed

upon the people a little of that discipline which they so much needed.

The chiefs were present, and they voluntarily made the promise before

all that the house would be kept sacred to God and His service, that

the slave-women and children would be sent to it for instruction, that

no weapon of warfare would be carried into it, and that it would be a

sanctuary for those who fled to it for refuge.

Services and day school were now held regularly in the hall. The latter

was well attended, all the pupils showing eagerness to learn "book,"

and many making rapid progress.

The larger Mission House, which Mary intended to occupy the space in

front of the yard at Ekenge, was a stiffer problem for the people, and

for a time they hung back from the attempt to build it.

XI. A PALAYER AT THE PALACE

Perhaps the greatest obstacle to Christian truth and progress was not

superstition or custom, but drink. She had seen something of the

traffic in rum and gin at the coast, but she was amazed at what went on

in Okoyong. All in the community, old and young, drank, and often she

lay down to rest at night knowing that not a sober man and hardly a

sober woman was within miles of her. When the villagers came home from

a drunken bout the chief men would rouse her up and demand why she had

not risen to receive them. At all hours of the day and night they would

stagger into the hut, and lie down and fall asleep. Her power, then,

was not strong enough to prevent them--but the time came.

The spirit came up from Calabar and was the chief article of trade.

When a supply arrived processions of girls carrying demijohns trooped

in from all quarters, as if they were going to the spring for water. At

the funeral of one big man seven casks of liquor were consumed, in

addition to that bought in small quantities by the poorer classes. A

refugee of good birth and conduct remarked to Mary once that he had

been three days in the yard and had not tasted the white man's rum.

"Three days!" she replied, "and you think that long!" "Ma," he said, in

evident astonishment, "three whole days! I have never passed a day

without drinking since I was a boy."

She fought this evil with all her energy and skill. Her persuasion so

wrought on the chiefs that on several occasions they agreed to put away

the drink at palavers, with the result that those who had come from a

distance departed, sober and in peace, to the wonderment of all around.

She saw that the people were tempted and fell because of their idleness

and isolation; for they still maintained their aloofness from all their

neighbours, and there was yet no free communication with Calabar. If a

missionary happened to pay her a visit he would be stopped on the

forest track by sentries who, after satisfying themselves as to his

identity, "cooeed" to other watchers farther on. Dr. Livingstone

believed that the opening up of Central Africa to trade would help to

stamp out the slave traffic, and in the same way she was convinced that

more legitimate commerce and the development of wants among the people

would to some extent undermine the power of drink. All the ordinary

trade she had seen done so far was the sale of five shillings' worth of

handkerchiefs and a sixpenny looking-glass. She urged the chiefs to

take the initiative, and was never tired of showing them her

possessions, in order to incite within them a desire to own similar

articles. They were greatly taken with the glass windows and doors, and

one determined to procure wood and "shut himself in." Her clock,

sewing-machine, and organ were always a source of wonder, and people

came from far and near to see them. The women quickly became envious of

her household goods, and she could have sold her bedcovers, curtains,

meat-safe, bedstead, chest of drawers, and other objects a score of

times. More promising still was their desire to have clean dresses like

their "Ma," and she spent a large portion of her time cutting out and

shaping the long simple garment that served to hide their nakedness.

She also sent down to Calabar and asked some of the native trading

people whom she knew to come up with cloth, pots, and dishes, and other

useful articles, guaranteeing them her protection; but so great was

their fear of the Okoyong warriors and so poor their faith in her

power, that they refused point blank--they would as soon have thought

of going-to the moon. "Well," said Mary, "if they won't come to us we

must go to them." She had been seeking to familiarise the minds of the

chiefs with the idea of settling their disputes by means of arbitration

instead of by fighting, and had been cherishing the hope that she might

persuade some of them to proceed to Creek Town and discuss the subject

with King Eyo. She now proposed to the King that he should invite them

to a palaver at his house, and at the same time she would endeavour to

have some produce sent down direct to the traders.

The King had never ceased to take an interest in her work: he

frequently sent up special messengers to enquire if all was well, and

always reminded her that he was willing to be of service to the Okoyong

people. A grandson of the first King Eyo also sent men occasionally,

with instructions to do anything they could for the white Mother, and

to bring down her messages to Calabar. Such kindly thought often took

the edge off her loneliness.

The King at once sent the invitation, and, trusting more in the word of

Mary than in that of the King, all the chiefs in her neighbourhood

accepted the offer and an expedition to Creek Town was organised. A

canoe was obtained, and heaped with yams and plantains, gifts for the

King, and with bags of palm-kernels and a barrel of oil, the first

instalment of trade with the Europeans. Alas! the natives know nothing

about a load-line, and as the tide rose the canoe sank. It was not an

unmixed pleasure setting out with men who were ignorant of the

management of canoes, but another day was fixed and another canoe was

found. The whole of Okoyong seemed to be at the beach, and every man,

woman, and child was uttering counsel and heartening the intrepid

voyagers. Several of the chiefs drew back and disappeared, and of the

half-dozen who remained only two could be persuaded to embark when they

learnt that guns and swords must be left behind.

"Ma, you make women of us! Did ever a man go to a strange place without

his arms?" "Ma" was inexorable. She sat down and waited, and after a

two hours' palaver swords were ungirt and handed with the guns to the

women. Those who still declined to go were received back with

rejoicing, and farewells were made with those who went, amidst wailings

and tears. A start was made, but the craft proved to be ill-balanced,

and the cargo had to be shifted. As this was being done she detected a

number of swords hidden below the bags of kernels. Her eyes flashed,

and the people scattered out of the way as she pitched the arms out on

the beach. With a meekness that was amusing the men scrambled into

their places and the canoe shot into the river, Mary taking a paddle

and wielding it with the best of the men. The journey was made through

dense darkness and drizzling rain, and occupied twelve hours.

But she was rewarded by the result. Nothing could exceed the kindness

of King Eyo. He bore himself as a Christian gentleman, listened

courteously to the passionate and foolish speech of the Okoyong

representatives, reminded the supercilious Calabar chiefs that the

Gospel which had made them what they were had only just been taken to

Okoyong, and in giving the verdict which went against them, he gently

made it the finding of righteousness, according to the laws of God.

When all had been settled he asked Mary to take the chiefs over his

palace, and invited them to a meeting in the church in the evening,

where he spoke words of cheer and counsel from the words, "To give

light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide

our feet into the way of peace."

This experience made a great impression upon the chiefs: they left with

a profound reverence for the King and a determination to abide by his

decisions in the future, whilst Mary had added much to her dignity and

position. This was proved the morning after they returned to Ekenge.

She was awakened by a confused noise, and on looking out was astonished

to find several chiefs directing slaves, who were working with building

material. "What is the matter?" she asked in wonder. Instead of

answering her one of the chiefs who had accompanied her to Calabar

turned to the crowd and, in a burst of eloquence, described all he had

seen at Creek Town, how the Europeans lived, and how King Eyo and every

chief and gentleman had treated their Mother as a person superior to

them, and given her all honour. They in Okoyong must now treat her as

befitted her rank and station, and must build her a proper house to

live in, Mary was hard put to it to preserve her gravity. Soon

afterwards a young slave, for whom she had often pled, began to wash

his hands in some dirty water in a dish outside: his master ran at him

with a whip, and it was all she could do to prevent him being lashed.

Opening out again and again he called the lad a fool for daring to

touch a dish used by their Great White Mother.

But what was more important than all was the fact that the way had at

last been opened up for trade relations with Calabar. The people began

to make oil and buy and sell kernels, and to send the produce down the

river direct to the factories. As she had foreseen, they had now less

time for palavers, and less inclination for useless drinking, and still

more useless quarrelling and fighting.

XII. THE SCOTTISH CARPENTER

The story of the settlement in Okoyong and of the building of the hut

and hall was related by Miss Slessor in the _Missionary Record_ of the

Church for March 1889. The hall she described as "a beautiful building,

though neither doors nor windows are yet put in, as we are waiting for

a carpenter. And," she added, "if there were only a house built, any

other agent could come and take up the work if I fail." In the same

number of the _Record_ there appeared an appeal by the Foreign Mission

Committee for "a practical carpenter, with an interest in Christian

work," for Calabar.

There happened to be in Edinburgh at this time a carpenter named Mr.

Charles Ovens, belonging to the Free Church, who was keenly interested

in foreign missions. As a boy he had wished to be a missionary, but

believing that only ministers could hold such a post he relinquished

the idea. He was an experienced tradesman of the fine old type, a Scot

of Scots, with the happy knack of looking on the bright side of things.

Having been in America on a prolonged visit he was about to return

there, and had gone to say good-bye to an old lady friend, a United

Presbyterian. The latter remarked to him, "I see Miss Slessor wants a

man to put in her doors and windows--why don't you go to Calabar?" He

had never heard of Miss Slessor, but the suggestion struck him as good,

and he straightway saw the Foreign Mission Secretary, and then went and

changed the address on his baggage. He left in May, and on his arrival

in Calabar was sent up to finish the work Mary had begun. All his

speech at Duke Town was of America and its wonders, but when he

returned some months later he could talk of nothing but Okoyong.

He found Mary attired in a simple dress, without hat or shoes, dining

at a table in the yard in the company of goats and hens. She sprang up

with delight on hearing the Scots tongue, and welcomed him warmly. The

conditions were most primitive, and his room was only eight feet long

and five feet wide, but he possessed much of her Spartan spirit.

Although ignorant of the native language he was of great assistance to

her during his stay, while his humour and irresistible laugh lightened

many a weary day. As he worked he sang "auld Scots sangs," like the

"Rowan Tree" and "The Auld Hoose." When she heard the latter tears came

into her eyes at the memories it recalled. Even Tom, his native

assistant, was affected. "I don't like these songs," he said, "they

make my heart big and my eyes water!"

The Mission House had progressed well under Mary's superintendence. She

had aimed at making it equal to any at the big stations, and had

planned an "upstairs" building with a verandah six feet above the

ground, and a kitchen and dispensary. She had mudded the walls, and the

mat roof was being tied on, and now that Mr. Ovens was at work all was

promising well, when an event occurred which put a stop to operations

for months.

XIII. HER GREATEST BATTLE AND VICTORY

One morning, when nature was as lovely as a dream, Mr. Ovens was

working at the new house, and Miss Slessor was sitting on the verandah

watching him. Suddenly, from far away in the forest, there came a

strange, eerie sound. Ever on the alert for danger, Mary rose and

listened.

"There is something wrong," she exclaimed.

For a moment she stood in the tense attitude of a hunter seeking to

locate the quarry, and then, swiftly moving into the forest, vanished

from sight. Mr. Ovens sent Tom, his boy, off after her to find out what

was the matter. He returned with a message that there had been an

accident, and that Mr. Ovens was to come at once and bring

restoratives. As the ominous news became known to the natives standing

around a look of fear came into their faces.

Mr. Ovens found her sitting beside the unconscious body of a young man.

"It is Etim, the eldest son of our chief, Edem," she explained. "He was

about to be married, and had been building a house. He came here to

lift and bring a tree; when handling the log it slipped and struck him

on the back of the neck, and paralysis has ensued."

He glanced at her face as if surprised at its gravity. She divined what

he thought, and speaking out of her intimate knowledge of the people

and their ways she said, "There's going to be trouble; no death of a

violent character comes apart from witchcraft.... Can you make some

sort of a litter to carry him?"

Divesting himself of part of his clothing, and obtaining some strong

sticks, he made a rough stretcher, on which the inert form was laid

conveyed to Ekenge.

For a fortnight Mary tended the patient in his mother's house, hoping

against hope that he would recover, and that the crisis she dreaded

would be averted, but he was beyond human help. One Sunday morning he

lay dying, and the news sent a spasm of terror throughout the district.

Hearing the sound of wailing Mary rushed to the yard and found the lad

being held up, some natives blowing smoke into his nostrils, some

rubbing ground pepper into his eyes, others pressing Ms mouth open, and

his uncle, Ekpenyong, shouting into his ears. Such treatment naturally

hastened the end. When life was fled, the chief dropped the body into

her arms and shouted, "Sorcerers have killed and they must die. Bring

the witch-doctor."

At the words every man and woman disappeared, leaving only the mother,

who, in an agony of grief, cast herself down beside the body. When the

medicine-man arrived he laid the blame of the tragedy upon a certain

village, to which the armed freemen at once marched. They seized over a

dozen men and women, the others escaping into the forest, and after

sacking all the houses returned with the prisoners loaded with chains,

and fastened them to posts in the yard, which had only one entrance.

Anxious to pacify the rage of the chiefs, father and uncle, Mary

undertook to do honour to the dead lad by dressing him in the style

befitting his rank. Fine silk cloth was wound round his body, shirts

and vests were put on, over these went a suit of clothes which she had

made for his father, the head was shaved into patterns and painted

yellow, and round it was wound a silk turban, all being crowned with a

tall black and scarlet hat with plumes of brilliant feathers. Thus

attired the body was carried out into a booth in the women's yard,

where it was fastened, seated in an arm-chair, under a large umbrella.

To the hands were tied the whip and silver-headed stick that denoted

his position, while a mirror was arranged in front of him, in order

that he might enjoy the reflection of his grandeur. Beside him was a

table, upon which were set out all the treasures of the house,

including the skulls taken in war, and a few candles begged from Mary.

When the people were admitted and saw the weird spectacle they became

frenzied with delight, danced and capered, and started on a course of

drinking and wantonness.

"You'll have to stop all work," Mary said to Mr. Ovens, who felt as if

he were moving in some grotesque fantasy of sleep; "this is going to be

a serious business. We can't leave these prisoners for a moment. I'll

watch beside them all night and you'll take the day."

And time and time about in that filthy yard, through the heat of the

day and the chill of the night, these two brave souls kept guard

opposite the wretched band of prisoners, with the half-naked people,

armed with guns and machetes, dancing drinking about them. As one

barrel of rum was finished another was brought in, and the supply

seemed endless. The days went by, and Mr. Ovens lost patience, and

declared he would go and get a chisel and hammer and free the prisoners

at all costs. "Na, na," replied Mary wisely, "we'll have a little more

patience."

One day she went to Mr. Ovens and said, "They want a coffin."

"They'll have to make one," he retorted.

"I think you'd better do it," she rejoined; "the boy's father has some

wood of his own, of which he was going to make a door like mine, and he

is willing to use it for the purpose."

They proceeded to the yard to obtain measurements, and as they entered

Mary caught sight of some eséré beans lying on the pounding stone. She

shivered. What could she do! She returned to her hut. Prayer had been

her solace and strength during all these days and nights, and now with

passionate entreaty she beseeched God for guidance and help in the

struggle that was to come. When she rose from her knees her fear had

vanished, and she was tranquil and confident. Reaching the yard she

took the two brother chiefs aside, and told them that there must be no

sacrifice of life. They did not deny that the poison ordeal was about

to take place, but they argued that only those guilty of causing the

death would suffer. She did not reply, but went to the door of the

compound and sat down: from there she was determined not to move until

the issue was decided. The chiefs were angry. To have a white woman--

and such a woman--amongst them was good, but she must not interfere

with their customs and laws. The mother of the dead lad became violent.

Even the slaves were openly hostile and threatening. The crowd;

maddened by drink, ran wildly about, flourishing their guns and swords.

"Raise our master from the dead," they cried, "and you shall have the

prisoners."

Night fell. Mr. Ovens gathered up the children and put them to bed.

Mary scribbled a note to Duke Town and gave it to the two native

assistant carpenters, and directed them in English to steal in the

darkness to the beach and make their way down the river. There was

distraction within the yard as well as without. Three of the women were

mothers with babies, who were crying incessantly from hunger and fear.

Another, who had chains round her neck and bare limbs, had an only

daughter about fifteen years of age, who was a cousin of the dead lad,

and the betrothed wife of his father. The girl clung to her mother,

weeping piteously. Sometimes she would come and clasp "Ma's" feet,

beseeching her to help her, or waylay the chiefs, and offer herself in

servitude for life in exchange for her mother's freedom.

Mr. Ovens had gone to the hut, and Mary was keeping vigil when a stir

warned her of danger. Several men came and unlocked the chains on one

of the women--a mother--and ordered her to the front of the corpse to

take the bean. Mary was in a dilemma. Was it a ruse to get her out of

the yard? If she followed, would they bar the entrance and wreak their

vengeance on the others who remained? "Do not go," they cried, and

gazed at her pleadingly. But she could not see a woman walk straight to

death.

One swift appeal to God and she was after the woman. The table was

covered with a white cloth, and upon it stood a glass of water

containing the poison. As the victim was in the act of lifting the

glass she touched her on the shoulder and whispered, "_'Ifehe!_" (run).

She gave a quick glance of intelligence into the compelling eyes and

off both bounded, and were in the bush before any one realised they

were gone. They reached the hut. "Quick," Mary cried to Mr. Ovens,

"take the woman and hide her." In a moment he had drawn her in and

locked the door, and Mary flew back to the yard. "Where is she?" the

prisoners cried. "Safe in my house," she answered. They were amazed.

She herself wondered at her immunity from harm. It might be that the

natives were stupefied with drink--but she thought of her prayer.

Finding that she was not to be moved, the chiefs endeavoured to cajole

and deceive her. "God will not let anybody die of the bean if they are

not guilty," they said. They released two of the prisoners,

substituting imbiam, the native oath, for the poison ordeal, and later,

five others. She still stood firm, and two more obtained their freedom.

There they stopped. "We have done more for you than we have ever done

for any one, and we will die before we go further." Three remained. One

woman, with a baby, they would not release. "Akpo, the chief of her

house, escaped into the bush, and the fact of his flight proves his

guilt," they argued; "we cannot ransom her." The other two, a freeman

and the woman named Inyam with the daughter, were relatives of the

bereaved mother, and also specially implicated, and they were seized

and led away. Mary hesitated to follow, but hoping that the girl might

be able to keep her informed of what was going on she decided to remain

with the woman with the infant.

Another dawn brought visitors from a distance, who only added to the

rioting and her perplexity. They told her that Egbo was coming, and

advised her to fly to Calabar. She replied that he could come and play

the fool as much as he pleased, but she would not desert her post. The

father stormed and threatened, and declared he would burn down the

house. "You are welcome," she said, "it is not mine." In a blazing

passion he cried that the woman would die. So terrified and exhausted

was the victim that she begged "Ma" to give in. At this point Ma Eme

came to the rescue: kneeling to her brother she besought him to allow

Mary to have the prisoner in the meantime--she could be chained to the

verandah of the hut, and could not possibly escape with such a weight

of irons. Mary caught at the plan, and declared that she would give a

fair hearing to the charges against the house which she represented.

To her infinite surprise the chiefs gave in. "But," said they, "if she

is sent out of the way to Calabar, you pay a heavy fine, and leave here

for ever." Fearing they would repent, she hastily called for the keys

to unlock the chain, but the slaves pretended ignorance, said they

could not find them, and denounced the liberation of the murderers.

Patience and firmness again succeeded, the keys were produced, the

locks were opened. Mary gathered up the long folds of chain, and Ma

Eme, also trembling with eagerness, pushed them out in order that they

might escape the crowd. They ran through the scrub to the hut, and here

the mother and child were housed in a large packing-case, while a

barricade was put up to make the position more secure.

During the afternoon two of the Calabar missionaries arrived, and added

the weight of their influence to Mary's, giving a magic-lantern

exhibition in the open, and in other ways endeavouring to lend prestige

to the funeral, in order to compensate for the lack of human sacrifice.

A quieter night followed, though the vigil was unbroken. In the morning

the father of the dead lad called her aside, and in a long harangue

justified his desire to do his son honour by giving him a retinue in

the spirit-land. Then calling to his retainers he ordered them to bring

the freeman. Dragging him forward, limping and dazed, he presented him

formally to "Ma," saying, "This further act of clemency must satisfy

you. The woman who is left must take the poison: you cannot object--she

will recover if she is innocent."

She thanked him warmly, but renewed her entreaties for the release of

the woman also. The chief turned away in anger and disgust, and the

battle went on. As the missionaries were obliged to return to Calabar

she and Mr. Ovens were again left alone. All day she followed the

chief, coaxing and pleading. Sometimes he ignored her; sometimes he

brusquely showed his annoyance; sometimes he looked at her in pity, as

if he thought she were crazed. But he gave her no hope. When a whisper

came to her ears that the burial would take place that night in the

house of the chief she was heart-sick with dread.

Late in the evening, as she was busy with her household, she heard a

faint cry at the barricade:

"Ma, Ma, make haste, let me in."

Noiselessly she pulled aside the planks, and Inyam, heavily ironed,

crawled on her hands and knees into the room. Her story was that she

had managed by friction to cut one of the links of the chain which

bound her, and had escaped by climbing the roof. Mary looked at the

thick chain hanging about her, and guessed whose were the kindly black

hands that had given her aid, but she kept her thought to herself. The

last of the prisoners was now safe, the funeral in the house of the

chief had taken place, and only a cow had been placed in the coffin,

and her joy was great. But her troubles were not over.

A party of natives coming to the funeral met another party returning

drunk with excitement and rum. Recalling some old quarrel the latter

killed one of the men they met, cut off his head, and carried it away

as a trophy. Fighting became general between the factions, and many

were seriously wounded.

One afternoon the village went suddenly mad with panic. All the women

and children and all the men without arms rushed frantically about.

Mothers clutched their babies, wives and slaves seized what belongings

they could carry, children screamed and held on to the first person

they met. They had heard sounds that heralded the advance of the

dreaded Egbo. Then, by a common impulse, all rushed for the protection

of the white woman's yard. She pulled down the barricade, packed as

many children and women into her room as it could hold, and ordered the

others into the bush at the back. The women were almost insane with

terror, and the manacled prisoner begged to be killed. As the beating

of the drum and the shouting of the mob drew near Mary trembled, but

again prayer restored her to calm. Even when the village was invaded

and shouting began, she was without fear. And, strange to say, the mob

remained but a short time, and not a shot went home. They had set fire

to every house in the village from which the prisoners had been taken,

and wrecked another and burned the stock alive. As no powerful chief

submitted to Egbo sent out by another House, Edem's village also ran

amok, and for over a week the population haunted the forest, shooting

down indiscriminately every man and woman who passed. It was not until

much blood had been shed that the various bands became tired of the

struggle and returned to their dwellings.

For three weeks the prisoners were kept in the hut, and then "Ma's"

pressure on the chiefs succeeded, and the chained woman was released on

condition that if her chief Akpo were caught he would take the poison

ordeal, whilst Inyam, taking advantage of all the people being drunk

one night, stole out into the forest and escaped. What became of her

Mary never knew, until one day, months after, when travelling, she

passed a number of huts in the bush, and was accosted by name and found

herself face to face with the refugee.

This was the longest and severest strain to which she was subjected; it

was her worst encounter with the passions of the natives, her greatest

conflict with the most terrible of their customs, and she came out of

it victorious. For the first time in the dark history of the tribe the

death and funeral of one of the rank of a chief had occurred without

the sacrifice of life. In some mysterious way she had been able to

subdue these wild people and bend them to her will. Her fame went far

and wide throughout Okoyong and beyond into regions still unexplored,

and many thought of her with a kind of awe as one possessing superhuman

power. There were, indeed, some amongst those who knew her who had a

lurking suspicion that she was more than woman.

XIV. THE AFTERMATH

Various incidents came as an aftermath to these happenings. One

afternoon the women came running to "Ma" saying that the elder chief,

Ekpenyong, was bent on taking the poison ordeal. When she reached his

yard she found him in a fury, shouting and threatening, the women

remonstrating, the slaves weeping. It was some time ere she could learn

the cause of the uproar. A man from a neighbouring village had been

about whispering that Ekpenyong had slain his nephew, in order that his

own son might absorb the inheritance. Ekpenyong was determined to

undergo the test, and in accordance with native law, which gave the

right to a freeman to call others of equal rank to share the trial with

him, he demanded that his brother Edem--who it was alleged had

instigated the man to make the accusation--should also take the poison.

When Mary had grasped the situation she ridiculed the attitude of the

chief, scolded him unmercifully, and at last secured his promise not to

carry out his threat. As a guarantee of his good faith she claimed

possession of the eséré beans. He denied that he had any. With the help

of his womenkind she made a secret search, and found eleven beans at

the bottom of a basket, which she conveyed in the darkness to her hut.

As more beans could not be obtained until the morning she felt that all

was well for the night. Shouting, however, made her run back. Mad with

drink the chief was clinging to a bag which the women were endeavouring

to seize. He was hitting out at them with his heavy hand, and most of

them were bleeding. "There is poison in that bag," they cried. "No, Ma,

only my palm-nuts and cartridges." Quietly, firmly, persistently, she

demanded the bag. He threw it at her. Opening it she found palm-nuts

and cartridges. For a moment she looked foolish, but diving deeper she

pulled out no fewer than forty of the deadly beans. "I'll take the

liberty of keeping these," she said coolly, but with a swiftly beating

heart. "No, no," he shouted, and his followers joined him in protest.

Outwardly calm she walked between the lines of armed men, ironically

bidding them take the bag from her. But their hands were held, and she

passed safely through, reached her hut, handed the beans to Mr. Ovens,

and returned to the scene to pacify the crowd.

Next morning she learnt to her consternation that Ekpenyong had risen

stealthily during the night and gone off on his errand of death.

Fortunately a chief some miles off detained him by force until she

arrived. She stuck resolutely to him, and as all the more powerful

chiefs came over to her side from sheer admiration of her pluck, he had

eventually to abandon his purpose. After taking the native oath he

betook himself to another part of the forest, where he built up a new

settlement.

One more episode remained to round off the sequence of events. The

murderer of the young man in the funeral party was the oldest son of a

House noted for bloody deeds, and the act roused the slumbering fury of

its neighbours. War was declared and fighting began. Mary interfered

and pressed for arbitration, and both sides at last acceded to her

request, and asked her to conduct the palaver. Aware that the man was a

triple murderer and the penalty death, she shrank from the duty, and

begged them to put the matter into the hands of a Calabar chief. This

they did, and went to Ikunetu on the Cross River, where "blood for

blood" was the verdict. Fines and death by substitution of slaves were

offered and refused; the youngest son, a mere baby, was sent in

atonement and rejected; then the second son, a lad of twenty, was

despatched, and it was agreed that his death would redeem his brother.

Mary's distress was acute, especially as she had declined to act as

judge, but she was relieved on learning that the prisoner had escaped,

and was being sheltered by one of the slave-traders across the river.

She wished to get him into her own yard, but the weeping mother said it

was too dangerously near home.

One morning, early, she heard the sound of rapid firing, and in alarm

she sent messengers to enquire the cause. The lad had been betrayed,

brought back, filled with gin, and amidst discharge of guns, beating of

drums, singing and dancing, had been strangled and hung in the presence

of his mother and sister. These two alone mourned the dead, the others

were glad that the matter had been so easily settled, and for a week

the loafers and drunkards in the district held high carnival.

As time passed and the heat of the persecution cooled, Mary made

tentative proposals that Akpo, the escaped chief, and his family,

should be allowed to return. "I will go and fetch them myself if their

safety be guaranteed," she said. Edem, the father of the dead lad,

replied, "Very well, Ma, you can say that all thought of vengeance is

gone from our heart, and if he wishes to come to his own village or

live in your home or go anywhere in Okoyong he is at liberty to do so."

But trust is rare in Africa, and suspicion dies hard, and Akpo could

not bring himself to believe that Edem wished him well, and he elected

to remain where he was. Again she paid the exile a visit, taking with

her an elderly man, who was betrothed to his daughter, but he could not

overcome his fears. In his heart he and his friends were incredulous

that the chiefs of Okoyong would listen to a woman. A third time the

patient Mary went to him, and succeeded in bringing him and his son

back with her, the women remaining behind until a new house could be

built.

The home-coming was fall of pathos. House, farm, clothing, seed-corn,

yams, goats, fowls, all had vanished. But as the chief stood amidst the

familiar surroundings his gloom and silence fell away, and he knelt and

clasped "Ma's" feet, and with eyes filled with tears vowed that he and

his house would be under yoke to her for ever, and that they would

never rebel against any commands she gave or do anything contrary to

her wishes. Most people, white and black, occasionally felt disposed to

dispute her rulings, and more than once her will and that of the chief

clashed, but he stood to his word, and there was no family in the

district who gave her message a more loyal hearing.

Edem acted nobly. He not only arranged for the housing of the two men,

but gave them a piece of ground and seed for food plants. When she went

to tell him all had been done, he simply said, "Thank you, Ma." But in

the evening he came alone to her, knelt and held her feet, and thanked

her again and again for her wonderful love and courage, for her action,

in forbidding them to take life at his son's death, and for all the

peaceful ways which she was introducing. "We are all weary of the old

customs," he said, "but no single person or House among us has power to

break them off, because they are part of the Egbo system."

And one by one, secretly and unknown to each other, the free people

came to her and thanked her gratefully for the state of safety she was

bringing about, and charged her to keep a stout heart and to go forward

and do away with all the old fashions, the end of which was always

death.

XV. THE SWEET AND THE STRONG

Meanwhile the Mission House had evolved into what was in her eyes a

thing of beauty. She could at any rate boast that it was the finest

dwelling in Okoyong, and it was a happy day when she removed

"upstairs." Nor was the house all that was accomplished during these

troublous times. Mr. Goldie had made her a gift of a canoe; but without

a boathouse it was exposed to rain and ants and thieves, and she

planned a shelter at the beach that would do both for it and for

herself. Ma Eme brought her people to the spot, the men cut down trees

and erected the framework, and the women dug the mud and filled in the

walls, and Mr. Ovens made a door and provided a padlock.

Thus, in the course of a short time, she had built a hut; a good house

with accommodation for children, servants, and visitors; a dispensary;

a church; and a double-roomed boathouse. All the native labour had been

given cheerfully and without idea of money, but from time to time she

distributed amongst the workers a few gifts from the Mission boxes, or

a goat or a bag of rice. In addition to her house at Ekenge she had a

room in several of the villages, where she put up on her journeys; and

it was characteristic of her that she secured these not for her own

convenience but for the sake of the people, in order that they might

feel that they were being looked after.

It was, indeed, for the people she lived. Mr. Ovens states that she was

at their beck and call day and night; she taught in the schools,

preached in the church, and, as he puts it, "washed the wee bairnies

herself," and dressed the most loathsome diseases, all with tenderness

and gay humour. "I never saw a frown on her face," he says. She was

always ready for anything and equal to any emergency. "One morning," he

recalls, "she came to me. 'Twins,' she said, 'and we have to go.' When

we arrived at the spot we found that the bairns had been murdered by

the grandmother, and the mother was lying on the bare ground in a hut

some distance away. Miss Slessor sent her a bed and pillow, and told

her husband to be kind to her. The man took her back into the house--

such a thing had never been known before."

It was at this time that the plump and pretty infant referred to by

Miss Kingsley in her _Travels in West Africa_ was saved. The mother

died a few days after the birth, and as there was a quarrel between her

family and that of the father the child was thrown into the bush by the

side of the road leading to the market, and lay there for five days and

six nights.

This particular market is held every ninth day, and on the succeeding

market-day, some women from the village by the side of Miss Slessor's

house happened to pass along the path and heard the child feebly

crying: they came into Miss Slessor's yard in the evening, and sat

chatting over the day's shopping, and casually mentioned in the way of

conversation that they had heard the child crying, and that it was

rather remarkable that it should be still alive. Needless to say Miss

Slessor was off, and had that waif home. It was truly in an awful

state, but just alive. In a marvellous way it had been left by leopards

and snakes, with which this bit of forest abounds, and, more marvellous

still, the driver ants had not scented it. Other ants had considerably

eaten into it one way and another; nose, eyes, etc., were swarming with

them and flies; the cartilage of the nose and part of the upper lip had

been absolutely eaten into, but in spite of this she is now one of the

prettiest black children I have ever seen, which is saying a good deal,

for negro children are very pretty with their round faces, their large

mouths not yet coarsened by heavy lips, their beautifully-shaped flat

little ears, and their immense melancholy deer-like eyes, and above

these charms they possess that of being fairly quiet. This child is not

an object of terror, like the twin children; it was just thrown away

because no one would be bothered to rear it--but when Miss Slessor had

had all the trouble of it the natives had no objection to pet and play

with it, calling it "the child of wonder," because of its survival.

This child was named Mary after the house mother, and completed the

number of those who for long constituted the inner circle of the

family. The others were Janie, Alice--a rescued twin of "royal" blood,

and Annie--the child of the woman who took a native oath to prove that

she did not help her husband to eat a stolen dog. These four were to

grow up and become a comfort to their white "Mother," and will reappear

from time to time in the course of the story. Another helper in the

house at this time was Mana, a faithful girl, who had been caught by

two men when going home from a spring, and brought to Okoyong and sold

to Ma Erne. Other children there were, all with more or less tragic

histories, and all were looked after and trained and loved.

But Mary could be as stern and strong as her native granite when

combating evil. Mr. Ovens saw her repeatedly thrust brawny negroes away

from the drink, taking them round the neck, and throwing them back to

the ground. An intoxicated man, carrying a loaded gun, once came to see

her. She ordered him to put the weapon in a corner of the verandah. He

declined. She went up, wrested the gun from him, placed it in a corner,

and defied him to touch it. He went away, and came back every day for a

week before she gave it up. Another man came to her for medicine, and

after he had described his symptoms she brought a bottle of castor oil

and told him to open his mouth. Fearful that it might be some sort of

witchcraft, he demurred. "Ma" simply gave him a smart box on the ear

and repeated the order, whereupon he meekly took the stuff and went

ruefully away. About this time, also, she went and prevented two tribes

from fighting: although her heart was beating wildly she stood between

them and made each pile their guns on opposite sides of her, until the

heaps were five feet high. On another occasion she stopped and

impounded a canoe-load of machetes that were going up-river to be used

in a war.

Mr. Ovens was struck by her mental power and wide outlook. Despite her

incessant preoccupation with matters about her she never ceased the

cultivation of intellectual interests. She was a loving student of the

Bible, a wide and discriminating reader, and she followed with a

brooding mind the development of world affairs throughout the world.

Before his work was finished Mr. Ovens began to suffer from the

exposure, and she nursed him day and night through a serious illness.

When he returned to Duke Town she missed his cheery company; her

isolation and loneliness seemed intensified, and she was only sustained

by her faith in the efficacy of prayer and by her communion with the

Father, "My one great consolation and rest," she wrote, "is in prayer."

So invariably was she comforted: so invariably was she preserved from

harm and hurt, that her reliance upon a higher strength became an

instinctive habit. It conquered her natural nervousness and

apprehension. She had frequently to take journeys through the forest

with the leopards swarming around her. "I did not use to believe the

story of Daniel in the lions dens" she often said, "until I had to take

some of these awful marches, and then I knew it was true, and that it

was written for my comfort. Many a time I walked along praying, 'O God

of Daniel shut their mouths,' and He did." If she happened to be

travelling with bearers or paddlers, she would make them sing and keep

them singing; "And, _Etubom_" (Sir, Chief, or White Man), she would

say, when telling her experiences, "ye ken what like their singing is--

it would frighten any decent respectable leopard." And yet in some

things she was as timid as a child. When travelling in the Mission

steam-launch she would bury her head in her hands and cry out in fear

if the engine gave a screech or if the vessel bumped on a sandbank. She

was in terror all the time she was on board.

It was not possible for her to go on expending so much nervous force

without a breakdown, and as attacks of fever were coming with

increasing frequency she began to think of her furlough. The difficulty

was to fill her place. In 1890 Mr. Goldie reported that only she or a

man could fill it; no native agent could go from. Calabar on account of

tribal unfriendliness. But she thought otherwise. "No person connected

with me need fear to come to Okoyong, or suffer from lack of

hospitality." Okoyong was a very different place from what it had been

in 1888. There was greater order and security, and much less drinking

among the younger people, many of whom were at school; none dared to

use the slightest freedom with, her; they might come as far as the

verandah but no farther. The people were becoming ashamed of their

superstition, and were ready to inform her secretly when palavers and

sacrifices were in contemplation. Chiefs came voluntarily and requested

her to sit in the seat of judgment and adjudge their disputes. The

tribe, as a whole, was also working better, and developing a regular

trade with the Europeans. The problem was solved by another woman with

a stout heart, who voluntarily agreed to occupy the station during her

absence. This was Miss Dunlop. The Home Board were anxious as to her

safety, and recommended frequent communications with her; and later,

Miss Hutton, who had just arrived from Scotland, was appointed to keep

her company. When Miss Dunlop went up before "Ma" left, she was met by

what she thought was a crowd of peaceful, cheerful--people, eager only

to greet her and to help her. She modified her opinion later: a "wild

and lawless class," she called them, "boasting of their wildness," and

who came to the services drunk. When she spoke of God's love they would

say, "Yes, Ma Slessor tell us that plenty times." But she bravely held

the fort.

XVI. WAR IN THE GATES

At the last moment she was busy packing when messengers arrived from a

far-off township with intelligence that a young freeman had

accidentally shot his hand while hunting, and a request that she would

come to him with medicine. She was weak and ill: she was expecting

tidings of the steamer; she was beset with visitors from all parts who

had come to bid her farewell. Telling them what to do, and asking them

to let her know only if serious symptoms set in, she gave them what was

needed. Almost immediately came secret news that the man had died, that

his brother had wounded one of the chiefs, and that all the warriors of

the latter had been ordered to prepare for fighting on the morrow. She

never knew how this message had come or who had brought it. She made up

her mind to proceed to the spot, but the chief people about her opposed

the idea. They pointed to her weakness, and the probability of her

missing the steamer. They enlarged on the savage character of those

concerned. "They own no authority"; "They will insult you in their

drunken rage"; "The bush will be full of armed men, and they will fire

indiscriminately;" "The darkness will prevent them recognising you."

But they could not prevail upon her to relinquish what she thought was

a duty to those who had sought her aid. She, however, compromised by

consenting to take two armed attendants with lanterns, and to call at a

chief's place some eight miles distant, and secure a freeman to beat

the Egbo drum before her, thus letting the people in the fighting area

know that a free protected person was coming.

She reached their village about midnight. The chief was reported to be

at his farm, and she was urged to lie down until the morning, She

suspected that he was not many yards away, and she persuaded a

messenger to carry an urgent request to him for an escort and drum. The

reply was in the language of diplomacy all the world over:

"I have heard of no war, but will enquire regarding it in the morning.

If, in the event of there being war, you persist in going on you prove

your ignorance of the people, who from all time have been a war-loving

people, are not likely to be helped by a woman."

This put her on her mettle.

"In measuring the woman's power," she responded, "you have evidently

forgotten to take into account the woman's God."

She decided to go on. The people were astonished, not so much at her

folly in risking her life as in daring to disobey the despot, who held

their fate in the hollow of his hand. Somewhat chilled by her

unsympathetic reception she started, without much enthusiasm, on her

journey, but with her faith in God as strong as ever.

Reaching the first town belonging to the belligerents she found it so

silent and dark that she began to imagine the chief was right, and she

had come on a wild-goose chase. She crept quietly up to the house of an

old freewoman whose granddaughter had once lived with her: there was a

cautious movement within and a whispered, "Who's there?" She had barely

answered, when she was surrounded by a band of armed men, whose dark

bodies were like shadows in the night. In a few moments they were

joined by scores of others, and the greatest confusion prevailed. She

was asked what her business was and who were her informants, but

ultimately the chiefs permitted her to remain, and the women saw to her

comfort.

After conferring together the chiefs thanked her for coming at such

discomfort to herself, and promised that no fighting, so far as they

were concerned, would take place until she heard the whole story.

"All the same," they averred, "we must fight to wipe out the disgrace

that has been put on us-see here are men badly wounded. Now, Ma, go to

bed, and we shall wake you at cock-crow, and you can accompany us."

This meant an hour's rest, which she urgently needed. At second cock-

crow she was called, but before she was steady on her feet they were

off and away down the steep hillside and through the stream at the foot

like a herd of wild goats. The women were at every house.

"Run, Ma!" they cried.

Run! Was she not running as fast as her weak and breathless state

allowed her? But she soon lost sight of the warriors, and could only

fall back upon prayer.

A hundred yards from the village of the enemy she came upon the band in

the bush making preparations for attack: the war-fever was at its

height, and the air resounded with wild yells. Walking quietly forward

she addressed them as one would speak to schoolboys, telling them to

hold their peace and behave like men and not like fools. Passing on to

the village she encountered a solid wall of armed men. Giving them

greeting, she got no reply. The silence was ominous. Twitting them on

their perfect manners she went up to them, and was about to force a

passage. Then a strange thing happened.

From out of the sullen line of dark-skinned warriors there stepped an

old man, who came and knelt at her feet.

"Ma, we thank you for coming. We admit the wounding of the chief, but

it was the act of one man and not the fault of the town. We beg you to

use your influence with the injured party in the interests of peace."

It was the chief whom she had travelled in the rain to see and heal

when she first came to Okoyong. Her act of self-sacrifice and courage

had borne fruit after many days.

She was so thankful that her impulse was to run back to their opponents

in the forest and arrange matters there and then; but she restrained

herself, and, instead, purposely told the men with an air of authority

to remain where they were while her wants were attended to.

"I am not going to starve while you fight," she said, "and meanwhile

you can find a comfortable seat In the bush where I can confer with the

two sides; choose two or three men of good address and good judgment

for the purpose."

They obeyed her like children.

When the two deputies from the other side came forward, two chiefs laid

down their arms and went and knelt before them and held their feet

saying it was foolish and unjust to punish the whole district for the

action of a drunken boy, begging them to place the matter before the

White Ma, and expressing their willingness to pay whatever fine might

be imposed. She, too, knelt and begged that magnanimity might be shown,

and that arbitration might be substituted for war. So novel a proposal

was not agreed to at once. The next few hours witnessed scenes of wild

excitement, rising sometimes to frenzy. Bands of men kept advancing

from both sides and joining in the palaver, and every arrival increased

the indignation and the resolution to abide by the old, manlier way of

war. She was well-nigh worn out, but her wonderful patience and tact,

coupled with her knowledge of all the outs and ins of their character,

again won her the victory. It was agreed that a fine should settle the

quarrel, and one was imposed which she thought exorbitant In the

extreme, but the delinquents accepted it, and promptly paid part in

trade gin.

Here was another peril. As the boxes and demijohns were brought forward

and put down the mob began to grow excited at the thought of the drink.

She foresaw trouble and disaster, but though her voice was now too

feeble to be heard in the babel of sound, she was not yet at the end of

her resources. Divesting herself of as many of her garments as was

possible, she threw them over the stuff, thus giving it the protection

of her own body, according to Egbo law.

It was a custom for providers of spirits which might have been tampered

with on the way from the boat, to taste the liquor in order to prove

that neither sorcery nor poison had been placed in it, and every man

wanted to be the taster on this occasion. As soon as the test had been

applied, every man on the other side likewise demanded the gin, and for

a time it seemed as if all had gone mad.

Mary seized the one glass which they held, and as each bottle was

opened she dealt out to the older and chief men one glass only,

resolutely refusing to give more, and placed the bottle under the cover

of her garments. No one dared to touch the stuff. There was some

jostling around her, but a few of the men constituted themselves into a

bodyguard, and by whip and drum kept the mob off. Amidst much tumult

and grumbling and laughter at her sallies she got them to agree to

leave the spirit in her charge on her declaring that she would be

surety for it arriving in their several villages in good time, and

untampered with.

She made them promise to go straight home and remain at peace during

her furlough (a promise that was loyally kept); but there was one party

she was obliged to accompany for a mile or two. They had--declared that

they were ashamed to return "like women," without having fought. They

begged her to allow them to have a "small scrap," in order to prove

they were not cowards. Not till they were safely past the danger zone

did she leave them. She remained till night at the village. The feeling

was still too disturbed to permit of a regular service, but she spoke

to them quietly of Christ as a Saviour: and then ordering all to their

rest she set out, tired as she was, on her lonely tramp through the

long miles of forest path.

She found her baggage had gone, and that messengers had arrived to take

her down to Duke Town.

XVII. AMONG THE CHURCHES

Arriving in England la January 1891 with Janie, who proved a great

comfort and help, she went straight to Topsham to view the graves of

her mother and sister. She was anxious to spend as much of her furlough

as possible amongst the scenes and with the friends associated with her

loved ones, and she secured and furnished a house. It possessed a fine

garden, and there, with the little black girl, she passed a quiet and

restful time until the autumn, when she went to Scotland, making her

headquarters at the home of her friend, Mrs. M'Crindle, now at Joppa.

For many months she was engaged on the deputation work which

missionaries on furlough undertake for the stimulation of the home

congregations. She had less liking than ever for addressing meetings,

but she did not shirk the duty. "It is a trial to speak," she said;

"but He has asked me to, and it is an honour to be allowed to testify

for Him in any way, and I wish to do it cheerfully." She wanted also to

persuade the women in the Church to give themselves up more whole-

heartedly to Christ, and to consecrate themselves to His cause. No

trouble was too great if it served that purpose. As a halo of romance

was beginning to gather about her she was in great request; wherever

she went the interest of the meeting centred in her, and her visits

were often followed by the formation of a Zenana Mission Committee.

Not always, however, did she satisfy expectations. She would talk

freely at the manse tea-table, especially if children were present, and

be led on to give vivid pictures of her life in the bush, so that the

company would be still sitting entranced when the bell rang for the

meeting. Then a rush would be made to the hall, where impatient people

would be waiting to be thrilled by stories of heroic service. And what

they heard was an evangelistic address! The minister would look

disappointed, feeling that he could have done as well himself. But she

sometimes deprecated surface interest, and said that if the heart was

right and the life consecrated, mission work would be well supported

without any adventitious aid.

After addressing a meeting at Slateford near Edinburgh she was on the

way to the station when a woman who had been in the audience took Janie

and kissed her and pressed some money into her hand. Next day the

minister received a letter inscribed:

_"For the lady who gave Janie the money and the kiss on the way to the

station.-M. M. Slessor."_

Enclosed was a photograph of Janie and a letter in which she wrote:

MY DEAR FRIEND--For such I must call you. Such a true womanly Christian

spirit as you showed yesterday is one of the fruits of our holy

Christianity--I thank you for loving and kissing the child--God bless

you, my dear sister. I may yet see you in the flesh. I will if I go

back to Slateford. But I may be sure of meeting you in the Father's

house when the shadows flee away and the everlasting glory has dawned.

The recipient kept the photograph and letter and still treasures them

as mementoes of one of whom she never ceased to think and for whom she

always prayed. It was in such ways that she knit hearts to her.

She made many friends in the manses and in the homes of the members of

the Church, and greatly increased the interest in her work in Calabar,

with the result that after she returned a larger stream of

correspondence and Mission boxes began to flow to Okoyong.

XVIII. LOVE OF LOVER

Aware of her singleness of mind and aim in the service of Christ, and

her whole-hearted devotion to the interests of the people of Okoyong,

it came as a surprise to her friends to learn that she was engaged to

be married. The hidden romance was disclosed at a meeting of the

Mission Board in September.

The suitor for her hand was Mr. Charles W. Morrison, one of the

teachers on the Mission staff, a young man from Kirkintilloch,

Scotland, then in his twenty-fifth year. His career at home had been a

successful one; he had been an active Christian worker, and when he

applied to the Board for an appointment in Calabar he was accepted at

once and sent out to Duke Town. He was a man of fine feeling, with a

distinct literary gift. On the few occasions that he had seen Mary he

was attracted by the brilliant, unconventional little woman, and when

she was ill was very attentive and kind to her. Before she left on

furlough they had become engaged on the understanding that he would

come and live at Okoyong.

She made it clear to the Board that she had pledged her word to her

people not to leave them, and that she would not, even for her personal

happiness, break her promise, Mr. Morrison, she believed, would make a

very good missionary, and they would be able to relieve each other, as

she would remain at Okoyong when he was at home. The Board took time to

consider the proposal, and meanwhile Mary received the congratulations

of her friends. Her replies indicate that there was no uncertainty in

her own mind on the subject:

I lay it all in God's hands, and will take from Him whatever He sees

best for His work in Okoyong. My life was laid on His altar for that

people long ago, and I would not take one jot or tittle of it back. If

it be for His glory and the advantage of His cause there to let another

join in it I will be grateful. If not I will still try to be grateful,

as He knows best.

Both were a little doubtful as to the action of the Board, and Mr.

Morrison asked her whether, in the event of a refusal, she would

consent to return to Duke Town, Such a project, however, she would not

entertain:

"It is out of the question," she explained to a friend. "1 would never

take the idea into consideration, I could not leave my work for such a

reason. To leave a field like Okoyong without a worker and go to one of

ten or a dozen where the people have an open Bible and plenty of

privilege! It is absurd. If God does not send him up here then he must

do his work and I must do mine where we have been placed. If he does

not come I must ask the Committee to give me some one, for it is

impossible for me to work the station alone."

The Board, seemingly, were not sure of the wisdom of the arrangement,

and their decision was a qualified refusal. The work which Mr. Morrison

was doing at Duke Town, they said, was important, and they could not

sanction his transference to Okoyong until full provision was made for

carrying it on effectively and to the satisfaction of the Calabar

Committee.

When Mary was told the result she merely said, "What the Lord ordains

is right," and, apparently, dismissed the subject from her mind.

Mr. Morrison was, shortly afterwards, compelled to return to Scotland

on account of his health. A medical specialist advised him against

resuming work in Calabar, and he offered for service in Kaffraria, but

there was no opening in that field, and to the regret and

disappointment of the Committee, who regarded him as an able and valued

worker, he resigned. He went later to America and was living in a hut

among the balsam woods of North Carolina when a fire took place in

which his much-treasured literary papers were consumed. The loss

affected him greatly, and hastened his death, which occurred shortly

afterwards.

Amongst the few treasured books which Mary left at the end were

battered copies of _Eugene Aram_ and _Sketches by Boz._ On the fly-leaf

of one in her handwriting are the letters:

_C. W. M.

M. M. S._

On the other are signatures in their respective hands:

_C. MORRISON.

M. M. SLESSOR._

Love of mother and sister had been lost to her long since, and now love

of lover and husband was denied, and again she turned her face, alone,

towards the future.

_Yes, without cheer of sister or of daughter,

Yes, without stay of father or of son,

Lone on the land and homeless on the water,

Pass I in patience till my work be done._

XIX. A LETTER AND ITS RESULT

A sharp attack of influenza followed by

bronchitis cut short her engagements. During her convalescence she one

day took up the Missionary Record, and read a letter by the Rev. James

Luke entitled "An Appeal for Lay Missionaries for Old Calabar." Like

her own writing it had a touch of style and originality, and her

comment was "Splendid!" But there was one incidental statement with

which she did not agree. Mr. Luke called for two more artisan

missionaries--"not to teach the trades; we haven't sufficient men for

that, even were Calabar ripe for such instruction." As the result of

her own observation and experience she had often felt that something

ought to be done to develop the industrial capabilities of the natives.

The subject had not been lost sight of by the missionaries and the

Mission Board, and the latter had sought, by sending out competent

artisans, to attend not only to the work required in connection with

the Mission but to train some of the native youths in the various

departments of labour. There had, however, been no attempt to establish

the work on organised lines, and the remark which Mr. Luke made induced

her to place the whole matter before the Church. She penned a long

letter, the writing of which so exhausted her that she scarcely knew

whether or not the words were rightly spelled. It went to Dr. George

Robson, then beginning his long and honourable editorship of the

_Record_, and appeared in the next issue under the signature of "One of

the Zenana Staff."