morning I took him on deck as usual, but in a little while he asked to be
carried back to bed. All that day and the next he lay quietly repeating
stories from the Gospel, one after another. He was again patient and
loving as before, and his mind was clearer. On Thursday morning, July
19th, about three o’clock he wakened, and I rose and sat beside him. He
was very weak and spoke with effort. But after a while he talked more,
and without difficulty. I had partly raised him in the bed and he lay on
the pillows with his arm around my neck. At last, with eyes dilated and
aglow with the beauty of another world, he said: “I see Mr. Marling; he
comes towards the door; and beyond him I see the City of God; and Jesus
is there. Do you not see, Mr. Milligan?”
“No, Ndong,” I said.
After a while he fell asleep; and some hours later he passed into the
deeper sleep in which there is “no more pain”; for he had gone to be with
Jesus, “which is far better.”
That same day at noon we buried him at sea, two hundred miles west of
Sierra Leone. Only those who have witnessed a burial at sea know how it
affects the mind with a nameless depression and spreads a gloom over
all on board. It is perhaps the awful vastness of the ocean grave that
imparts this sense of desolation. The sailors have many superstitions
regarding death on shipboard. For instance, they say that sharks
invariably follow the ship for twenty-four hours before a death takes
place.
I have several times conducted burial services at sea;—once, on a French
steamer, the burial of a deputy-governor of Senegal. The body wrapped in
canvas, and with heavy weights at the feet, is placed upon a plank at
the open gangway, with the feet towards the sea, ropes being attached to
the inner end of the gangplank. After the service, at the signal of the
captain, the engines are stopped, whose ceaseless beating, night and day,
the ear had not seemed to hear until it stopped. The ensuing stillness
is like the sudden suspension of nature. At this moment the sailors
standing by lift the ropes and draw the gangplank over the ship’s side
until it tilts and the body slides into the sea. A momentary circling of
the water, and nothing more remains to mark the place. Another signal,
the engines again commence the ceaseless beating, and the effect is even
more depressing; it is like the sudden knocking at the gate after the
murder in _Macbeth_. Death is only realized in contrast to the world’s
activity. On these African steamers which so often have the sick on
board, especially on the homeward voyage, deaths are often kept secret
and the burials performed at night, for the sake of the passengers; and
it is a kindly custom.
The bodies of natives dying on board are often flung overboard without
even being wrapped, and there is never any formal service. But the
captain of the _Volta_ to all the rest of his kindness added this also,
that he gave little Ndong a white man’s burial. The boatswain wrapped the
body in its canvas shroud and laid it upon the gangplank with the British
flag thrown over it. As I took my place at the side, the captain stepped
forward and stood beside me. A missionary brother read some verses of
Scripture; another missionary, of Ndong’s own colour, offered a prayer.
The captain gave the signal and the body, wrapped in its “heavy-shotted
hammock-shroud, dropped in its vast and wandering grave.”
I have said little of his passionate love for me; but it will ever be one
of the sweetest memories of my life in Africa. And when my own time comes
and I shall see with unholden eyes the land that is fairer than day, I am
thinking that among those who first shall greet me will be Ndong Mba, the
little scholar.
XVI
A CHURCH
“Ethiopia shall haste to stretch out her hands unto
God.”—_Psalm_ 68:31.
There are many who seem to think that the heathen, the world over, are
reiterating the ancient cry of Macedonia, “Come over and help us,” and
that multitudes are converted to Christianity at the first hearing of
the Gospel; notwithstanding that in our own land those who know its
transcendent import and ample evidence, and those who have even been
trained in Christian households, are not so easily won. Degradation and
ignorance are a poor preparation for Christian faith.
To the cultured heathen of old the Gospel was foolishness, and it is
not less foolish to the uncultured heathen. The inspiring vision of a
nation in a day is more poetic than factual. Neither the nation nor the
individual is won in a day. Evangelism would be a simple process if it
were only to say, as Philip said to Nathanael: “Come and see.” Nathanael,
however, was not a bloodthirsty savage, but a pious Jew. It is certain
that our duty does not end in merely announcing the Gospel to the
heathen, and giving them the opportunity to hear, while we pass the word
on to others; for this does not evangelize, nor accomplish anything else
worth while. The watchword, lifted with battle-cry fervour, that appeals
for the evangelization of the world in this generation, has inspired
the zeal of many and has thereby done good service; but it is liable
to look for geographical rather than moral results, and the policy of
missions, if it respond to this exigent desire, becomes spectacular, the
aim being to cover the utmost territory. New work is begun before the old
is half done, with a consequent waste of the labour already expended. New
stations are opened before the old are half manned for thorough work; and
since only a thorough work can ever become self-sustaining and be left to
take care of itself, it follows that this principle of forced extension
defeats every other principle, and in the end defeats itself.
I know eleven missionary societies working in West Africa, and in most
of those societies there is need of a policy based upon reality versus
romance. In most of them the missionaries agree that the stations are
seriously undermanned. I know one mission station at least which has
been opened for more than sixty-five continuous years, and missionaries
are still there without the least likelihood of their moving on; for the
simple reason that the station has been so undermanned in all these years
that they have not yet trained a native ministry; whereas, if instead
of making haste to open new stations they had concentrated their forces
there in sufficient numbers to do a thorough work, they might have left
it long ago to the care of the natives themselves, and the missionaries
might have opened new fields, with the likelihood that those also would
in a reasonable length of time be sufficiently evangelized to be left to
themselves.
Nothing retards progress like too much haste. The cause of the
undermanned stations and the resultant crippled work is not, as many will
say, that there are not enough missionaries, but that there are too many
stations. The policy cannot make missionaries, but it does make stations,
and a wise policy will adapt the number of stations to the number of
missionaries, instead of so scattering the missionaries that not one
of them can do a work that will remain. In the arithmetic of missions
two men can do not only twice as much but ten times as much as one. The
French Protestant Society, whose work on the Ogowé River in the Congo
Français is without doubt the most successful work in all West Africa,
have only two stations, but have ten missionaries at each station.
Neither can it be said that the crippled force at work in most of the
missions is due to the hostile climate, inasmuch as every year, and
almost every month, the unexpected happens, and missionaries are obliged
to lay down their work suddenly and go home. I reply that _elsewhere_
(as I have said before) it is the unexpected that happens, but in Africa
it is the unexpected that we _expect_. We know the climate. It is one of
the exigencies of the situation, and since the policy cannot change the
climate, the climate ought to change the policy.
A policy of true evangelism must aim to establish a self-sustaining
church, that is, a church which is independent of foreign money, and
which is manned with its own ministry; and this is a slow process. It
involves a threefold work, that of preaching (not on Sunday only, but
daily, probably itinerating) that of teaching (at least in Africa, where
there are no native schools) and the higher training for the ministry.
If any one of these departments is wanting, the work is not progressing
towards a self-sustaining church, and the policy is so far defective. But
here is work for several men, at least, at one mission station. To place
them at several stations means that no thorough or progressive work can
be done at any station. And as such scattering of forces is poor policy
it is also poor economy. For a station is usually an extensive property,
expensive to build and expensive to maintain. The unnecessary multiplying
of stations is extravagance. In our Presbyterian mission these
considerations are being fully realized, and the present policy evinces
a determination to do thorough work in the field already occupied rather
than to enlarge our territory at the expense of crippling the established
work. We have learned by our failures as well as by our successes.
The result of an inadequate force of missionaries at a station is not so
much that the missionary is overworked—most missionaries are not making
any such complaint—but that the work is not adequately done. And this
wears on mind and heart; for the work is one, and if a part of it be
neglected the whole must suffer. It is not the work that the missionary
actually does that wears him out, but that which he does not do and
cannot do, although perhaps his success depends upon it.
The Fang work included itinerating over a field more than a hundred miles
by fifty miles, and the charge of a school in which I had no adequate
assistant for two years. To this was added the Mpongwe work when Mr.
Boppell’s health compelled him to leave the field. The Mpongwe work
included the charge of the church at Baraka with its regular Sunday and
mid-week services, and the pastoral work, a class in the Sunday-school, a
teachers’ meeting, and the instruction of a candidate for the ministry.
At such a station there is also a great deal of secular work; the care
of the premises and the buildings, which are in constant need of repair,
the care of several boats, the buying of building material, the charge of
a store, ordering and receiving our own supplies, the treasurership—the
latter a large work, because all purchases of goods and food were made in
Europe and America. I suffered some under the strain, and the work, of
course, suffered more than I did. My day and evening were laid out by the
hour in a routine that was fixed as far as circumstances would allow.
The arrival of an English steamer, once a month, deranged all plans;
but it was a welcome interruption, chiefly because it brought the mail.
It is a pathetic instance of the white man’s interest that the natives
everywhere, even if they know no other word of English, have learned to
call the steamer, “the mail,” because this is what they hear the white
man say when he sees it. The steamer nearly always came in the morning.
While it was still fifteen miles away we could see the smoke on the
horizon. There was always a strife among the boys and the men for which
of them would be the first to announce it. At the sight of it they all
came running and shouting, “Mail! Mail!” If Toko made the announcement he
would say: “Mr. Milligan, mail live for come; I look him.”
Immediately I call Ndong Koni and tell him to call the crew, get out the
_Evangeline_, and see that they all have their uniforms.
Meanwhile I put on a suit of white drill, such as I have described, a
white helmet, and white shoes. Thus attired in the regulation best I go
aboard and take breakfast with the captain, who gives me all the news of
the coast. If he has cargo for the mission I wait until it is discharged
on the beach, and then go ashore and have it carried up to the mission
storeroom. When this is done I read my letters. But I sometimes carried
the bundle of them around with me full half a day before reading them;
and I always waited until I could close the door of my study and give the
order that I was not to be disturbed.
But an urgent duty awaits me. A technical and minute declaration in
French must be made of any and all the goods that have arrived. In
declaring provisions, for instance, the different provisions in a given
box must be declared separately, with the weight of each. The boxes, of
course, could not be opened under any circumstances until everything
was declared and a permit received. But if the bills of lading should be
delayed, or if they were not made out with all the particular weights,
there was endless trouble. I could not open the boxes until I made the
declaration, and I could not make the declaration until I opened the
boxes. In such a case, after much waiting and annoyance, an officer
would come and I would open the boxes in his presence. Sometimes these
declarations were very troublesome. In one instance there was malted milk
in one of the boxes. I did not know how to declare it; for I could not
imagine under what class it would come. That I might make no mistake,
and run the risk of a fine, I sent some malted milk that I had already
on hand to the _chef_ of the _douanes_ telling him what it was and how
it was made, and asking him how I should declare it. After a day’s
consideration he wrote advising me that malted milk should be declared as
_pain d’épice_—_spiced bread_. But if the rules and regulations bothered
me, I must say that the French custom-officers are, I believe, the most
courteous and obliging in the world, and a striking contrast to American
custom-officers.
But besides the arrival of the steamer there are other interruptions less
welcome. While I am busy preparing my sermon for Sunday, in time stolen
from other duties, a man appears at the door, and without waiting for
recognition asks me to go with him to the mission store and get him a
package of rat-poison—price about five cents. Shall I, or shall I not, go
to the store? We are owing him this amount for produce he has sold us,
and he holds a “bon” for it, which he can negotiate only at our store. He
lives far away, and his friends are waiting for him. Besides, rat-poison
itself is a kind of Gospel in this rat-ridden land. It ranks about next
to soap. I get him his rat-poison. But I do not believe in mission
stores. At some stations, of course, they are a necessity: at some, I
know they are a serious hindrance to the real work of the missionary. It
is vain to answer that some money (a small amount at the most) is thus
turned into the mission treasury. I reply that missionaries are not sent
out to make money; let those who stay at home do that: they are sent to
spend it. I am glad to say that if I accomplished nothing else in Africa
I finally sold out that mission store, and gave our trade to one of the
trading-houses. And I am glad also to add that instead of a financial
loss, we actually gained by dealing with the traders, not to speak of the
great saving of time for the serious work of the missionary.
The work of itinerating I regarded as my chief work, however much
detained from it. For most men it is also the most interesting work,
inasmuch as it brings one into contact with the people in their native
condition. With all their savagery there is really very little danger of
violence at their hands. But a drunken savage is to be feared. Not that
he is much more bloodthirsty; but his greed overmasters him, and he might
easily be tempted to kill for plunder. For if the white man had nothing
but the suit of clothes which he had on him he would still be rich enough
to inspire native cupidity.
One Sunday at Nenge Nenge, a town sixty miles up the river, I left the
launch at anchor and went on up the river several miles in a canoe
borrowed from a trading-house located at Nenge Nenge. It was a very large
canoe; and since the workmen were all idle, the trader gave me a crew of
fifteen men. The West African trader is supremely generous in granting
all such favours. It happened that a short time before this a white
trader of Gaboon, a young man whom I knew very well, who had been in
Africa less than a year, returning one night by boat from Elobey Island
to the mainland, was drowned. The body was never recovered, and indeed,
it is not unlikely that he was immediately seized and devoured by the
sharks. Not one of the crew was lost, and although we could not formulate
a charge against them, we more than suspected foul play on their part. No
one will ever know the tragedy of that young man’s last hour.
The recency of this occurrence made me, perhaps, more suspicious than
usual, or qualified my courage, on the occasion of the canoe ride at
Nenge Nenge. The men had all been drinking, which I did not observe until
we had started, and they were all of one tribe, a distinct disadvantage
to me if they should mean mischief. And what was worse, they were just
fresh from a distant bush town, and never had been in contact with white
men. The river is broad at this place, and the current is very swift.
They first started to sing one of their wild and fascinating boat-songs,
keeping time with the paddles. Then the leader began improvising,
according to their custom, on the theme of the white man and the white
man’s riches, the others responding with a refrain. They were gradually
getting excited, and were swaying their bodies from side to side, so that
I feared continually that the canoe would be capsized. Then the song
became a yelling-match, and they were getting still more excited. I had
never at any time had a more distinct feeling that I was in a dangerous
company of real savages, fifteen to one, and if I had been in their
musical mood I should have been singing Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal
buccaneer song:
“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
Before we reached the most secluded part of the river, and while there
was still a small town to be passed, I ordered the headman to go close
into the bank away from the current until we should pass a turn in the
river. When I came close to the bank I said I would land here. They knew,
of course, that this was not my destination, and they supposed that I
would continue the journey in a few minutes. But as soon as I had landed
I ordered them back to Nenge Nenge, and I proceeded in a small canoe
which I hired at the town near by. Thus I avoided the possibility of
being cut off in the flower of my youth. Or, it may be that I missed an
adventure that I should have been proud to tell afterwards.
I often found the whole town engaged in dancing, of which they are
passionately fond. It is not only their chief amusement, but also serves
for physical culture, and accounts for their well-developed forms and
graceful carriage. A great dancer among them becomes widely known, and
is as highly esteemed as a virtuoso among us. I was one day teaching the
people in a town where there were four Christians, when my attention
was arrested by a good-looking and singularly well-developed man coming
towards us down the street. I had not seen in Africa nearly so fine
a form. He was graceful as he walked, and much more so when he threw
himself down on the ground. He seemed to me a very Apollo Belvidere in
ebony. They told me that he was a famous dancer. He had applied himself
with diligence and extraordinary perseverance to the practice of all the
difficult movements of the native dance until he was the envy of the
men of his tribe. It was probably his persistent application to this
practice, and his constancy of purpose, that gave to his face an unusual
expression of gravity and strength.
I was reminded of the story told by Addison of a shepherd who used
to divert himself by tossing up eggs and catching them again without
breaking them; in which he became so skillful that he could keep up four
at a time for several minutes together; and who, by his perseverance
and application had contracted the utmost severity and gravity of
countenance. “That same attention and perseverance,” says Addison, “had
they been rightly applied, might have made him a greater mathematician
than Archimedes.”
My native friend, for such he became, remained after the service to talk
with me. He had come from his town five miles through the bush on purpose
to meet me. He said he had been in this town frequently, and had heard
those four Christians telling the people about God and the salvation of
Christ, and he desired to be a Christian. He afterwards put away an extra
wife, and he also renounced his dancing, for their dances are associated
with certain immoralities. We never know in what unlikely place the
Shepherd will find His sheep. Our duty is to declare His Word in every
place, and His sheep will hear His voice and follow Him.
But if I frequently found the people engaged in the noisy dance, I
sometimes found the whole town steeped in sleep. One day I entered a
town that was like a city of the dead; absolutely quiet, and no one to
be seen. I walked the length of the town, thrusting my head in at every
door, and asking the people to come out and hear God’s message; but
only one man came. At last I asked this man if he would go and call the
people. He started down the street, calling men and women by name as he
passed, telling individuals in aloud voice their particular need of this
preaching service, because of their personal sins, which he forthwith
enumerated and charged upon them, exposing the private wickedness of men
and women in brief biographical sketches, which it might be interesting
but not edifying to repeat. I need not say that they responded to this
urgent invitation. In a few minutes the whole population was in the
street, eloquent with resentment. One might think that they had the
tenderest reputations to sustain. I would not commend to my fellow
ministers in America this novel method of securing a congregation.
But how would one preach to such an audience? or what would one say? I am
often asked. Well, that day I asked the people what kind of a king they
would choose, if God should give them their choice. After some discussion
they settled upon the idea of power. They would like a king who would be
stronger than all their enemies, and especially stronger than the Mpongwe
people. Then I taught them that Jesus whom God had sent is such a one;
and I told them how He stilled the storm. Next, I asked them whether
power alone would be sufficient. They first thought it would. “But,” I
said, “suppose your king had no sense. Do you put a gun into the hands of
a child? And would you like to see a foolish person armed with power that
none of you could resist?”
“Oh,” they said, looking at one another, “we never thought of that,” and
it was soon agreed that the king of their choice must be wise as well as
powerful. Then I said that Jesus was wise with the wisdom of God, knowing
all our needs and how to supply them. Again I asked if this was all they
would desire in their king, that he be powerful and wise. They were quite
sure.
“But,” I said, “suppose he were bad? that he loved only himself and
robbed and killed you?”
Just at this moment a little child began to cry, and all the child’s
numerous parents, a considerable part of the audience, turned upon it
with such a howl of remonstrance that the frightened child ran for the
bush.
“Suppose,” I continued, when they were again quiet, and looking as if
they had done a good work,—“suppose your king were like yourselves (for
you are cruel as beasts) and that he should howl at you and frighten you
just as you did that child?”
That would be a calamity indeed. They soon agreed that their king ought
also to be good; and that this was the principal thing, although they
had not thought of it before. And again, I told them of the love and
sacrifice of Christ.
But do I really think that they heeded this Gospel? I think that as I
left them talking together some probably laughed at the message,—in
fact I heard them,—some doubted, and some perhaps pondered these things
in their hearts, to whom they may afterwards have become the words of
eternal life.