as they are usually supposed to have a latent desire for it. As a matter
of fact they are very skillful in the use of the deadly poisons which
abound in Africa, and which they often administer in food. Much of the
witchcraft in Africa is straight poison. A native offering you drink
or food always tastes it first himself in your presence to show that it
is not poisoned. It is an unsavoury custom, but it is wise to observe
it strictly. The use of poison is a peculiarly unpleasant habit on the
part of a wife since she has a constant opportunity. Slaves also, and
sometimes white men’s servants, contract this same habit. Truly, life
in Africa, in its every aspect, is a fight with death. It is possible,
as some say, that the practice of killing wives at the death of their
husbands has this origin; in any case it serves to restrict the use of
poison and to induce wives to try to keep their husbands alive.
Wives accused of having caused the death of a husband by witchcraft, are
often buried alive with his dead body. A Bulu chief near Efulen died
leaving seven wives. They were charged with having bewitched him and were
about to be buried alive with him when Dr. Good reached the town and
saved their lives. A very large grave was already dug in the street and
the body was laid in the middle. The women lay naked and trembling upon
the ground. But the people would not perform the atrocious deed in the
presence of the white man. Dr. Good stayed in the town even against their
protest, and would not leave it until they had filled the grave, and
he knew that the women were safe. In one of the Bulu towns, ten women,
wives of one husband, were buried alive with the body of the husband. In
another town twenty women were buried thus with the body of the husband.
A large grave was dug and the body placed in the middle; the women’s legs
were broken with clubs and then they were flung into the grave.
The belief in witchcraft has been more prolific of cruelty than any
other in the history of the world. It dehumanizes men with fear. The
story of the power which a remnant belief in witchcraft has exercised
in civilized and even Christian communities is the darkest page in
their history, and we will need to remember that in Africa there is no
restraint of civilization and no light of Christianity. I am always
afraid that the depiction of the diabolical cruelty incident to the
belief in witchcraft may cause the civilized to recoil from the African
as if he were less than human, and hopelessly brutal. It is therefore
well that we should insistently remember the facts of history and the
slow emancipation of civilization from this same belief with its horror
of cruelty. Between the promulgation of the bull of Pope Innocent VIII
against sorcery, in 1484, and the last judicial execution for witchcraft,
in 1782, it is estimated that 300,000 women perished in Europe on this
charge. The last execution in England was that of Mrs. Hickes and her
nine-year-old daughter, in 1716.
Since a particular incident makes a more adequate impression than a
general statement, I quote entire a brief story told by Froude in one of
his historical essays, _The Influence of the Reformation on the Scottish
Character_, which he takes from the official report of the proceedings in
the case:
“Towards the end of 1593 there was trouble in the family of the Earl
of Orkney. His brother laid a plot to murder him, and was said to have
sought the help of a ‘notorious witch,’ Alison Balfour. When Alison
Balfour’s life was looked into, no evidence could be found connecting her
either with the particular offense or with witchcraft in general; but it
was enough in these matters to be accused. She swore she was innocent;
but her guilt was only held to be aggravated by perjury. She was tortured
again and again. Her legs were put in caschilaws—an iron frame which was
gradually heated till it burned into the flesh—but no confession could
be wrung from her. The caschilaws failed utterly, and something else
had to be tried. She had a husband, a son, and a daughter, a child seven
years old. As her own sufferings did not work upon her, she might be
touched, perhaps, by the sufferings of those who were dear to her. They
were brought into court and placed at her side; and the husband first
was placed in the ‘lang irons’—some accursed, I know not what. Still the
devil did not yield. She bore this; and her son was next operated on. The
boy’s legs were set in ‘the boot’—the iron boot you may have heard of.
The wedges were driven in, which, when forced home, crushed the very bone
and marrow. Fifty-seven mallet strokes were delivered upon the wedges.
Yet this, too, failed. There was no confession yet. So, last of all, the
little daughter was taken. There was a machine called the piniwinkies,—a
kind of thumb-screw, which brought blood from under the finger-nails,
with a pain successfully terrible. These things were applied to the
poor child’s hands, and the mother’s constancy broke down, and she said
she would admit anything they wished. She confessed her witchcraft—so
tried, she would have confessed to the seven deadly sins—and then she was
burned, recalling her confession, and with her last breath protesting her
innocence.”
We civilized folk have a way of forgetting our own history, and the pit
from which we have been digged.
XIII
A BOAT CREW
The following is the beginning of a letter written to a circle of friends
in America while I was in Africa.
“Seated within the open door of my study I look down the hillside,
through a vista of gorgeous oleander and orange trees, of graceful,
waving palms and the soft cascade foliage of the bamboo tossing and
tumbling in the breeze, to the blue expanse where the Gaboon rolls out
to the boundless ocean. The early afternoon is quiet, and the hazy
atmosphere, peculiar to Africa, blends together in gentle harmony things
most diverse in form and colour. But there is one object to which the
mind and eye turn back yet again, and which by associations variously
tender, pathetic, or amusing, lead memory off for a while to wander
in the dreamy mazes of the past. It is the mission boat _Evangeline_,
which lies at anchor on the bay, rising and falling with the successive
waves. The _Evangeline_ came to Africa many years ago. Some of those
who commanded her are now infirm with age, and the voices of some
are heard on earth no more. Her special work has always been that of
itinerating,—carrying the Gospel of light and peace to those who sit in
darkness and sorrow, by many waters. Like her namesake, the lonely maiden
of Acadia, she has followed the rivers of a strange land and streams
unknown that wind and wander through ‘forests primeval.’
“The _Evangeline_ is a gig, twenty-two feet long, having four oars and
requiring four oarsmen. Her lines are perfect, and for her size she is
a remarkably fine sailing-boat, riding a rough sea with a steadiness
and lightness that have drawn praise from old seamen. Before the strong
sea-breeze she seems fairly animate and impelled by motive and purpose
as she spreads her wings to the wind and speeds forward on her errand
of mercy. I can think also of sultry days when her sails hung loose and
heavy through the whole day while tired men pulled wearily at the oars,
whistling vainly for the wind, which ever ‘bloweth where it listeth.’ I
can think of toils long and hard when we wound wearily through mangrove
swamps, by fetid banks, under the relentless heat of a tropical sun. But
these experiences belong to the past and I can forget them now. For it is
one of the touching frailties of human nature that as the past recedes
into the obscure distance we magnify its fond and pleasant memories and
forget the evils that we no longer feel.
“My long journeys in the _Evangeline_ are probably past; for a naphtha
launch, the _Dorothy_, has arrived, dispensing with the toil of oars and
the aid of the fickle wind, perfectly protected from sun and rain and
fitted with every comfort for day and night. But the _Evangeline_, though
her name designates her as feminine, belongs to the ordained clergy of
the Presbyterian Church and has not yet passed the dead-line. We will
find for her some field in which a few years longer she may exercise her
talents.
“This afternoon as I look at her I seem to see the faces of faithful
boat-boys who journeyed with me by day and by night, and my mind is
filled with recollections of experiences and incidents by the way. There
are none in Africa whom I know better than those boat-boys; and through
them I probably know all Africans better and love them more. For when
sails are set before a good wind and the bow tosses the waves aside,
the music of the plashing water, the mutual dependence and isolation
from others,—the delight of it all makes social freedom and comradeship
peculiar to such life; and again, when they toil at the oars hour after
hour without complaint, sympathy breaks down all barriers. If you should
laugh at these boys let your laughter be sympathetic; they are worthy
of sympathy. Life is so hard for the African, so bare and comfortless!
And when he would fain seek the road to the Better Land so many forces
conspire against him that, apart for our faith in God and the love of
God, one might think that the world around him was contrived for his
defeat. In this dark land one catches only an occasional glimpse of the
all-ruling and kindly Providence in which we believe. It would seem
rather that the fabled goddess of fortune, blind and turning her wheel in
the darkness, dispenses at random the destinies of men.”
The captain of the _Evangeline_ was Makuba, a man of Benito, one hundred
miles north, one of the Kombi tribe, the remnant of a proud and capable
people who for many years have been in contact with the civilization of
the coast. The Kombi know the sea and are excellent boatmen, strong and
daring. In travelling in their own canoes even on the sea, they commonly
stand up in the canoe, using long paddles. When there are five or six
men in the canoe, or the sea is rough, it is interesting to watch them.
Makuba was a man of splendid physique and very strong, and as bold as a
lion. Shortly after I went to Africa, when for a while I lived entirely
alone, at Angom Station, seventy miles up the Gaboon River, a serious
palaver occurred in which Makuba took a prominent part.
The Fang of the adjacent village stole some goods from him. He and
several other workmen, being coast men, were regarded by the interior
Fang as natural enemies. I was morally responsible for the safety of
these coast men and I regarded myself as responsible also for the stolen
goods. Moreover there was a mission store at that station and the sight
of our goods was a continual challenge to the passionate greed of the
Fang, who therefore must not be allowed to think that they could steal
anything from the premises with impunity. Indeed, our very reputation and
evangelistic success were involved; for it was plain that the Fang had
been mistaking forbearance for cowardice, and in their esteem there is
nothing so contemptible as a coward.
On this occasion I followed strictly the native mode of obtaining
justice, and that which the native, with his idea of the solidarity of a
community, recognizes as fair. A few minutes after the theft a man from
the same town to which the thief belonged passed through the mission
premises. I gave the order to the workmen to capture him and take his
gun. Makuba, without assistance, executed the order. The man fought him
violently, but being overcome was at length reduced to cursing him and
predicting the various horrible deaths by which he would die, not to
speak of everlasting torment that would be sure to follow. The indignant
Makuba in reply tore open the front of his shirt and exposed an ugly scar
upon his breast.
“Am I afraid of the Fang?” he cried. “Do you see that scar? A Fang knife
did that in an attack upon my tribe, and I alone killed the man who
carried it and two of his friends.”
I then took charge of the gun and told the man that I would return it as
soon as his people would bring me the stolen goods, and then I released
him.
[Illustration: MAKUBA, CAPTAIN OF THE BOAT-CREW.
_In a tornado his chief anxiety was always for the white man, that
he might not get wet, and it was a part of politeness not to protect
himself._]
An hour later some thirty or forty very angry men, armed with knives and
guns, and shouting their war-cry, rushed into the yard. They did not yet
realize that I was going to take up the palaver, but thought they had
only to deal with the workmen, who were unarmed. Their intention was to
kill Makuba and take the gun, which they supposed was in his possession.
They ran past the end of my house towards the workmen’s house shouting
the name of Makuba. But it chanced that he was at the other end of my
house, so they missed him. Immediately returning they saw him but before
they reached him I pushed him into the house and closing the door myself
confronted them and addressed them from the porch, explaining that since
Makuba was in my employ I was bound to protect him; that the palaver
was therefore mine, and they would have to fight me first. They first
demanded that Makuba be delivered to them, but at length proposed to
accept the gun as a compromise. I of course declined the compromise and
demanded the stolen goods for the gun.
Finally one of them raised the cry: “Let us kill the white man and take
the store.”
This may have been a mere bluff. I am disposed to think that it was;
but I did not think so that day, and one cannot be sure. It was in a
Fang town much nearer to the coast and to the French government that Mr.
Marling was once robbed of his very clothing and left naked in the street
of the village.
The idea of killing the white man for the goods in the store became
uncomfortably popular. They recounted all the grievous wrongs they had
suffered at the hands of white men, and missionaries in particular, from
the discovery of Africa down to the present moment. They had at various
times respectfully advised that the church be closed and the store kept
open all the time, and had been told in reply that the church was more
important than the store, and that preaching the Gospel was our chief
work. They had come to buy goods and had found the store closed and the
missionaries holding prayers with the people. They had advised that we
must sell goods only to them and not to their enemies and had been told
that we loved their enemies. They had advised that we lower our prices on
all articles except those that they did not want and we had seen fit to
fix our own prices regardless of their feelings. They had frequently come
to the station to beg a little present and the missionaries had affronted
them by offering them work. They had requested tobacco of this present
white man and in reply he had invited them to Sunday-school.
The situation had become intolerable and they proposed to recompense
full vengeance upon the aforesaid white man. The older men, however,
advised that if they should attack the white man and the mission it ought
not to be done by one town, but that all the adjacent towns ought to be
engaged in it so as to spread the responsibility. This advice prevailed
and they decided upon an attack that night, and sent messengers to two
large towns some distance in the forest, telling them to come armed for
an attack on the mission. I did not suppose at the time that we had a
single weapon of defense except the old gun that we had captured. It was
already loaded, but as far as I knew we had no ammunition. I immediately
set out to search the premises, and to my great joy found a rifle, which
had accidentally been left there. We found plenty of ammunition both for
the rifle and the gun which we had seized. I also ordered the men to
catch any native that might come near the premises and to take his gun.
They were greatly surprised when they heard the report of the rifle and
immediately recognized it as “a white man’s gun,” of which they have a
wholesome dread, believing also that the white man has medicine which
will make his gun shoot straight and absolutely sure. I was very careful
to conceal the fact that I had only one rifle, and they were quite
deceived, supposing that I had a sufficient number for all of us. They
dispatched messengers a second time to the forest towns to tell them of
our preparations. They all came together that night armed for war, and
shots were fired continually during the night, but no attack was made.
When I afterwards learned how prone they are to experimentation with a
new comer, I realized that it might have been a mere bluff. No one can
tell; but I had no such thought at the time. Neither did Makuba nor any
of the workmen regard it as a bluff.
All the workmen excepting Makuba besought me to give back the captured
gun and stop the palaver. I brought them into my house that night; but
Makuba with the rifle in his hand insisted upon keeping watch, and walked
before my door the whole night. The matter of his stolen goods and his
personal danger were quite forgotten in absorbing anxiety for the white
man’s safety. I may add that I cut off all communication with the people,
refusing to buy their supplies of food, or to open the store, until after
several days they returned the stolen goods, and the palaver was finished.
A short time after this I made Makuba the captain of the boat crew. He
knew the sea, and everything about boats and was perfectly trustworthy.
But these qualifications are more common in Africa than the faculty
of discipline and command which is by no means common. Makuba was not
altogether wanting in talent for discipline, but when this proved
insufficient he procured obedience to his orders by diplomacy and
argument; and for that matter, the greatest sea-captain dispenses with
argument only because he is given authority to punish and to put in
irons, which requires no talent at all.
But all Makuba’s resources of discipline and diplomacy were taxed when I
hired Obianga, a young man of the Fang, whose home was near Angom. Poor
Obianga is dead; and I would not make cheap jokes at his expense. He was
like a wild unbroken colt, full of life, willing to work, and not lazy,
but resentful of the bit and reins of authority. For any man, especially
one of another tribe, to give him an order was equivalent to calling him
a slave; and, representative of his tribe, he seemed ever to be saying:
“We were never in bondage to any man.”
When Makuba would shout an order to him, however urgent, even if a
tempest were approaching, Obianga would perhaps tell him to “shut up.”
Then we usually improvised a little tempest on our own account, Makuba’s
indignation being the turbulent factor. But in milder weather he would
try persuasion and various expedients, old and new, always prevailing in
the end.
I never interfered in these altercations, though I sometimes reckoned
with the offender when the journey was over. More than once Makuba asked
me to dismiss Obianga, but I would not; for I liked him and felt that
there was in him the raw material for an excellent man. Then, too, I
remembered that I once dismissed another man upon Makuba’s urgent and
repeated request, and no sooner did Makuba hear of it than he came to
me begging me to take the man on again, saying that he himself had been
too impatient, reminding me also that the man had a wife and child, and
promising that if I would take him back he would not complain of him
again. Of course I took him back; and Makuba kept his word.
The worst disputes between Obianga and Makuba took place when they
supposed that I was asleep. The native when he lies down anywhere sleeps
immediately. Whenever I was lying in the bottom of the boat they always
supposed that I was asleep and that no conceivable noise could waken me.
During one of their quarrels Makuba, with a voice like a thunderbolt,
roars: “If you don’t do what I say I will tell Mr. Milligan that you
have two wives.”
“Sh—sh! Makuba,” says Obianga. “What did you tell me to do?”
Such altercations as the following were not uncommon: Captain Makuba
orders Obianga to “haul away on the peak halliards”; to which Obianga
promptly replies:
“Do it yourself.”
“I won’t do it: you will do it,” says Makuba in a threatening tone.
“Are you my father?” says Obianga.
“No,” answers Makuba with infinite scorn. “How could a Kombi man be the
father of an animal like you?”
“Then stop giving me orders,” says Obianga with rising wrath. “It is not
the first time you have tried it, and one of these days you will find out
that it won’t do.”
“One of these days you will find out that I am the captain of this boat
and that you will have to obey me,” says Makuba.
“Not as long as I can carry a gun,” answers Obianga.
By this time they are standing up and looking hard at each other. But
Makuba would not think of striking a man in a mission boat. He therefore
becomes diplomatic. Suddenly in a tone altogether different he says:
“Obianga, the trouble with you is that you are just a bush man; you don’t
know anything about civilization. On every big ocean-steamer there is
a captain, and every man on board, no matter what tribe he belongs to,
obeys the captain.”
Obianga becomes instantly curious and asks: “Is he rich!”
“Yes,” says Makuba, “he gets big pay, and so do I get big pay.”
“How much do you get, Makuba?”
“How much do you think?”
Obianga thinks, as well as he knows how, his countenance distorted with
the effort, and at length answers reflectively: “Two dollars a mouth.”—He
himself gets a dollar and a half.
A broad smile engages Makuba’s features as he slowly answers: “Five
dollars a month.”
Obianga gives expression to his surprise in a long, low whistle. It is
quite evident to him that no ordinary person could command such wages;
and in a tone of utmost compliance he says: “What was it you told me to
do, Makuba? I forget.”
“I forget too,” says Makuba. “O, yes,” he adds, “I told you to haul on
the peak halliards.”
Again, it is night, dark and stormy: a tornado seems to be approaching.
Captain Makuba shouts the order to Obianga, to “make fast the jib-sheet.”
Obianga, who is no more afraid of a tornado than anything else, and whose
head is nodding with sleep, tells him to mind his own business.
Makuba, losing his patience, of which he has not a large stock, calls him
a cannibal—the worst insult he could offer him, and adds: “You especially
like to eat us Kombi people: you say our flesh is the best.”
“You lie,” says Obianga (the current form of polite contradiction), “we
like the Bekeli people better than the Kombi; there is more salt in the
Bekeli.”
Do not conclude from this that Obianga himself is a cannibal. He probably
never tasted human flesh; but it is not so long since his fathers emerged
from cannibalism but that tradition still distinguishes between the flesh
of the surrounding tribes; nor was Obianga at this moment disposed to
admit that Makuba would make a more savoury dish than any of the rest of
us.
In spite of Makuba’s anger it strikes him as very funny that his
intended insult should fall so wide of the mark, and he laughs “in linked
thunder long drawn out.” There is nothing more contagious in Africa than
laughter, and Obianga joins in it; and then of course he obeys the order.
Soon after this, the storm having passed, they are singing together “I
have a Father in the Promised Land,” singing it well, too; and while they
sing I fall asleep.
But if a tornado should swoop down upon us, as it happens so often, or
a drenching rain should catch us, the half child nature in Makuba would
disappear immediately and reveal a whole man, strong, fearless and
resourceful. In a tornado no man knew better than he just what to do for
safety; and in a rain-storm his only anxiety seemed to be for the health
of the white man—lest he should get wet, while at such times it was
almost a matter of politeness with him not to protect himself.
Once on a journey of three days on the open sea, from Benito to Gaboon,
I was miserably sick the second day and could not eat. Neither would
Makuba eat, because I did not. The wind was contrary, and he sat at the
stroke oar pulling hard until two o’clock in the afternoon without food.
At last almost in tears (speaking in Kru English in which he and I always
conversed) he said: “Mr. Milligan, hunger no catch you? All this day I
look you and you never chop. Suppose you no chop you go die.”
Observing for the first time that his own food had not been touched, I
said in surprise: “What for all them chop live same as morning-time?
Yourself you never chop all this day?”
He replied: “Suppose you no be fit for chop then I no chop; I wait you,
Mr. Milligan.”
“But Makuba,” I said, “suppose me and you, all two, be sick, then what
man go take care of me? I no want other man; I want you.”
“Ah, Mr. Milligan,” he replied with a smile, “white man have plenty sense
all same as God; black man be same as piccaninny.” Thereupon he took food
and ate heartily, for he was very hungry.