sooner or later reversed. The white trader sends native sub-traders into
the interior to buy produce as directly as possible from the original
owners. This cuts off the people of the intermediate stages from what
they regard as their exclusive right of participation as middlemen. The
dissatisfaction usually grows until it ends in war. Germany in her
various colonies is frequently engaged in this one-sided war; and she
wages it ruthlessly.
Meantime the Fang of the lower Gaboon and some other tribes similarly
situated have found far better employment. The Fang raise food—cassava
and plantains—for the market at Libreville. For there are usually about
seventy-five white men in Gaboon, all of whom eat plantains; and there
are throngs of natives, servants of the white men, and others employed
by the government. Besides, the Mpongwe women, except the Christians,
are mostly unwilling to care for gardens and they must buy food for
themselves and their families. The Fang therefore can easily sell all
the food they can raise. In the morning looking from the mission-house
one may see the bay covered with white sails like a flock of
sea-gulls—the sails of the Fang canoes bringing food to the market. This
is surely the best fortune that can fall to any people in West Africa.
While it still gives opportunity for their trade instinct, it turns them
to agriculture, the most wholesome of all occupations for such a people.
It keeps them at home, provides healthful work, extends opportunity to
all and distributes prosperity.
[Illustration:
FANG TRADERS WITH IVORY.
]
The white man in setting out for Africa divests himself of every
superfluous possession and provides only for the bare necessities of
life. If he is bound for the interior he must feel that he has
consecrated himself to poverty. It is strange, therefore, and surprising
to find the natives regarding his meagre stock of goods as fabulous
wealth and himself as a sort of multi-millionaire. But it is stranger
still that he himself should gradually accept their judgment and regard
himself as rich. For the sense of wealth depends upon having more than
one’s neighbours; and there is no feeling of privation in not being able
to procure those things that nobody else has. The white man’s privations
may be many, but they are inevitable; he has all that is procurable in
his situation, and far more than those around him. He therefore has a
comfortable feeling of wealth, the more pleasant because unexpected.
But this attitude of the natives towards the white man, especially in
new tribes, forebodes trouble. There is not much danger of robbery or
violence, but there is danger to his moral influence. A kind of
communism obtains among them. A man having our “abundance” would divide
with the men of his town, all of whom are related to him. If a man
hunting in the forest should kill a monkey or a python he will bring it
to his town before he cuts it up and it will be divided equally. For
this reason it is very hard to buy any game from them; no one person has
authority to sell it. Even at the coast and in the old semi-civilized
settlements, when a native, after being employed by a white man, returns
to his town with his wages he will be expected to assist everybody in
the town who happens to want anything and has not the price—and there
are always some of them who want to get married and have not succeeded
in raising the dowry. So the wages of a hard year’s work are dissipated
in less than a month. It is hard, but it is custom. It cannot be denied
that the custom fosters an easy-going content and precludes the
unhappiness and cruelty of worldly ambition. But, with ambition, energy
also and industry are discouraged and a premium is put upon laziness.
The tyranny of custom in Africa and other uncivilized lands is not easy
for those to realize who have not witnessed it. It is “the only
infallible rule of faith and practice.”
The people of the interior, when the white man first goes among them,
invariably expect him to divide his goods with them just as soon as they
understand that he professes to be their friend. Such a profession seems
hypocrisy while he keeps his goods. They can yield intellectual assent
when he reasons that the white man has a right to his own customs; but
in the consideration of a particular custom it still remains that theirs
is right and his is wrong; and when they actually see the goods, greed
masters reason and they are often enraged.
All worldly prosperity in Africa depends upon the possession of proper
fetishes. They are therefore quick to conclude that we have very
powerful fetishes; and it is inevitable that before long they should
conclude that the Bible is the missionary’s fetish. At Efulen, among the
Bulu, when we had been there but a short time, a band of men, setting
out upon the war-path with their guns upon their shoulders, marched up
to our hill and asked if we would give them a Bible to take with them to
make their guns shoot straight and procure their success. One day Dr.
Good missed a Bible. It had been stolen. He heard nothing of it for a
month; after which he was one day walking through a native village where
the people, expecting to go to war next day, were preparing a very
powerful fetish or “war-medicine” by boiling together in a pot several
of their most reliable fetishes; and in the boiling pot he found his
Bible.
Perhaps it is the frequency of war between towns that keeps the people
within a town, or in a company, generally at peace among themselves. It
is surprising how one can trust workmen or carriers or schoolboys to
divide their food without quarrelling. In this respect they far surpass
white workmen, or white schoolboys. Where we would expect a quarrel no
quarrel occurs.
And then again, just when one has declared that “Africans never
quarrel,” a scandalous quarrel breaks out over some infinitesimal
matter. Individuals, especially women, often have a reputation for
quarrelling. Some towns are notorious. I once visited such a town, where
no white man had been before. I found the stormiest people I ever met in
the jungles. During the two days that I remained in the town there
occurred an almost continuous succession of palavers, each of which
seemed to involve the whole population of the town—men, women and
children. Long after they went into their houses for the night some of
them continued yelling their anger loud enough to be heard by all whom
it concerned. The occasion of a general quarrel the day that I arrived
was this: A certain man’s hen had laid an egg in another man’s house,
and the latter man had kept the egg. The town was rent in twain over the
ownership of that egg. Forcible arguments were presented on either side
but without avail. Before it was settled something else had happened
that required a vigorous exercise of lungs for its adjustment, and the
egg palaver was laid on the table. There was not a spare moment in which
to resume it before I left, and it may be undecided to this day. Even
while I was preaching, a woman in the congregation, sitting immediately
in front of me, continued the palaver, occasionally yelling unladylike
remarks to some other woman whom she evidently supposed to be at the end
of the universe. In all such quarrels there is much of bluff and
bluster, but not so much anger as one might suppose. Such a quarrel, if
anything should appeal to their keen sense of the ridiculous during its
progress, might break up in a laugh.
When two Fang women engage in a prolonged quarrel—usually sitting
immediately within the door of their respective houses and cursing each
other in shrill tones, heard all over the town—the people sometimes
become impatient and demand that they shall come out into the street and
fight. I have witnessed such a fight. They prepare for it by throwing
off even the shred of clothing that they wear. They fight more like men
than women—if it be true that women usually scratch and pull each
other’s hair when they fight. When one of them is repeatedly thrown to
the ground she confesses defeat. At least it may be said to their credit
that this usually ends the matter; and the next day they may be as
friendly as ever.
The marriage relation, of course, dominates all customs and is the
foundation of the whole social structure. With the Africans love is not
so closely linked with sex as among most modern races. Friendship is
deemed nobler than romantic love. This of course is due to the
inequality of the sexes; woman is not regarded as fit for companionship
with men. A wife is expected to love her own people more than her
husband. A man loves his brothers and his friends at least as much as
his wife; his children he loves far more, and his mother he loves most
of all. Indeed, his love of his mother is the deepest emotion of his
heart and his best moral quality. The African young and old thinks he
has fully justified the most violent assault upon another when he says:
“He cursed my mother.” Any uncomplimentary reflection more or less
serious is a “curse.”
A wife is bought with a price and is part of a man’s wealth. A man’s
wealth is always reckoned by the number of his wives. The chief of the
town is the man who has the most wives. But most men have only one wife
and some have none, because they cannot procure a dowry. The size of the
dowry differs in different tribes. Among the Fang it is enormous,
considering their very primitive condition. The following dowry was paid
by a Fang near the coast: ten goats, five sheep, five guns, twenty
trade-boxes (plain wooden chests of imported material), one hundred
heads of tobacco, ten hats, ten looking-glasses, five blankets, five
pairs of trousers, two dozen plates, fifty dollars’ worth of calico,
fifty dollars’ worth of rum, one chair (with one leg missing) and one
cat.
In addition to such a dowry a man is required to make frequent presents
to his wife’s relations, who may be expected to arrive at any time, and
in any number, for an indefinite visit. If he should fail in this they
will induce his wife to run away and return to her town, and it will
cost him many presents and perhaps a war to get her back again.
A dowry is often kept intact so as to do service repeatedly. A man is
fortunate if he have one or several sisters; for with the dowry which he
procures for them he will get himself as many wives. Children are
frequently betrothed to each other by their parents. A girl thus
betrothed is taken to her husband’s town and raised by his mother.
Little girls, even infants, are sometimes betrothed to old men. I knew
of an instance where a child was betrothed before it was born, the dowry
being kept intact so that it could be returned in case the child should
not be a girl. The frequent betrothal of little girls is partly due to
the fact that less dowry is paid for a child than for “a whole woman,”
as the Fang would say.
For those who are not so fortunate as to inherit a dowry or to have a
sister the proper thing is to steal a woman from some adjoining town.
Most women are glad to be stolen and the affair is often an elopement.
This will precipitate a war between the two towns. At least nine out of
ten wars among the Fang begin this way. After several or many have been
killed the “palaver” is settled by the whole town paying the dowry.
If a man have many wives it is regarded as magnanimous for him to take
little notice of infidelity. Seldom, however, does he rise to this level
of magnanimity and many wives mean constant palavers. In either case it
means boundless immorality.
The aggrieved husband, in a case of adultery, may punish with terrible
severity, if he feel so disposed. In some tribes it is punishable with
death. In a tribe immediately south of the Fang the injured husband
frequently cuts off the ears and even the nose of the guilty woman. In
one instance that I knew of, on the Ogowè River, a man cut off his
wife’s nose and lips. Among the Fang I have never seen such mutilations,
but in the far interior the practice is probably not unknown. A man
suspecting his wife of wrong-doing, especially after a prolonged absence
from town, may upon the impulse of his own suspicion and without a shred
of evidence resort to torture to compel a confession. And this recalls
to my mind an occasion upon which I administered physical chastisement.
I may say that there were three such occurrences during more than twice
so many years, and that in each instance the occasion of my wrath was
the outrageous treatment of a woman.
One Sunday morning in a town named Angon Nzok, on a branch of the upper
Gaboon, I was about to hold a religious service when I heard, in the
other end of the town, a woman crying. For a long time she had been
moaning and crying in a low tone which had escaped my attention, though
I heard it. But now there followed an outburst of piteous cries. I
sprang to my feet and ran quickly in the direction of the cries and to
the house from which they seemed to issue, but the door was closed as if
no one were within.
At first I thought that I had not rightly located the sound, but I was
told that a man and his wife were within the closed house, the man
torturing his wife to extort a confession of unfaithfulness, and the
name of the partner in the wrong. The closed door was a sign, almost
sacred to the Fang, that no man must enter, but I disregarded it. The
man had returned from a journey, and without the least evidence had
accused the woman and had then resorted to torture to extort a
confession.
He bound the woman’s hands together, palm to palm, by means of two
bamboo sticks, which passed across the back of the hands, the ends being
tightly bound together. Her hands were then raised above her head and
kept there by a cord which was attached to the roof. This mode of
torture may not seem horrible as one tells it; but it really is
exceedingly painful, and if long continued is enough to drive a woman
mad. The man at the moment when I entered was probably tightening the
cords or making them more secure; wherefore the screams of the poor
woman. In the animated exercise which followed the revelation of what
was occurring behind that closed door my mind retains a vivid
recollection of three prominent and important movements. The first
movement was a kick that broke the door in and landed me in the middle
of the cabin; the second was another kick that carried the man to the
door; the third was another kick that lifted him into the street, where
he stood paralyzed with astonishment and rubbing his injuries. It took
only a moment to cut the cords and set the woman free. I then went out
and found the man, who of course was not much hurt but was greatly
humiliated.
“Now,” I said to him, “if you will solemnly promise never to do this
again, the palaver will be finished and you and I will be friends.”
After a brief conversation we vowed eternal friendship and he came to
the service. But long after the service the woman was still crying with
the pain, while other women poured warm water upon her tortured hands,
and murmured their sympathy.
It may be supposed that this man would carry out his purpose when I had
left the town, and perhaps with increased severity. But this he would
not do. The African is peculiarly superstitious in regard to
interruptions. And an interruption so extraordinary in the performance
of such an act would be regarded by him as a sign that the act would be
attended by misfortune to himself, and he would not repeat it.
Nevertheless I thought it well to keep myself carefully informed for
some time, so that in case he should act in defiance of superstition he
might not be disappointed in his expectation of misfortune.
A man may punish his wife for any misdemeanour or neglect of duty; and
many of them bear upon their backs ugly scars and wounds inflicted by
the sword of an enraged husband. However abused, it is vain for her to
appeal to the town; for it is the town of the husband’s family, and she
is the stranger. And, besides, the saying among them is that you must
never tell a woman that she is right, lest she despise her husband.
A source of injustice, in the case of polygamy, is the influence of the
head-wife; for every man who has several wives recognizes one of them as
the favourite, and head over the others. Not that she sits in idleness
while the others work; for it is more likely that she is the favourite
because she works well and cooks well. But she has every opportunity to
tyrannize over the other wives and make their lives a bitter bondage. If
they desire anything from the husband there is but little chance of
obtaining it unless the head-wife favours the request. In a dispute
between two of them the husband’s judgment would depend upon the
head-wife. She exercises authority over all his children, even the
children of other wives.
Yet, not to leave an exaggerated impression, it must be said that there
is much less quarrelling than one would expect between wives of the same
husband. The African wife also has far more independence in actual life
than their theories allow. She owns the garden, and her husband is
dependent upon her for his food. If she runs away she leaves him much
the poorer; at least there is always a risk that he will not recover
either her or the dowry. And, then, he is mortally afraid of her tongue,
her chief resource; and well he may be; for in an outburst of passion it
is the tongue of a fiend, and scorches like hell fire. Frequent storms
of unrestrained passion give to the face of the woman of middle age a
permanent expression of weakness and dissipation. She is the victim of
so much oppression and cruel wrong that one would like to depict her as
innocent; for it is human nature to attribute virtue to those who
suffer. But it most be confessed that the African woman is at least as
degraded as the man. He is more cruel; but she is more licentious.
It is exceedingly difficult to learn the attitude of the African woman
towards polygamy. Still, I believe it is contrary to her natural
instinct. I have known instances of heathen women cursing Christian
husbands because they would not marry other wives, and it happens—though
infrequently—that women leave their husbands for this reason. But in all
such cases I believe that the woman acts upon the impulse of some lower
motive and at the expense of her better self. In civilized lands are
there not those who marry for wealth or social position, even without
love? In Africa, wealth and social position are represented by a
plurality of wives. The wife of a monogamist is a “nobody,” and,
besides, has an unusual amount of work to do. But I believe that the
majority of women in Africa have in them enough of the true woman to
hate polygamy. Their fables and folk-lore are full of this hatred.
Certain phases of polygamy one cannot discuss frankly. Children are not
weaned until the age of two or three years. During this period of
lactation the husband and wife observe absolute continence in regard to
each other. But he has other wives and this continence imposes no
restraint upon him. And to the woman it is a source of so much
unhappiness and jealousy that she frequently refuses to bear children,
and resorts to abortion. This practice of abortion, and its relation to
polygamy, is curiously overlooked by those who advocate polygamy for
Africa. It is doubtless more common in some tribes than in others.
But while polygamy is obnoxious to the woman’s instinct, it is impressed
upon her that the instinct is selfish and ought to be suppressed, and
that it is right to be willing to share her husband with other wives. It
is just at this point that the teaching of Christianity makes so strong
an appeal to the African woman; and her response is whole-hearted. It
truly “finds” her. I know women in Gaboon who have suffered
inexpressible humiliation and grief when their husbands took other
wives, and who immediately separated from them and lived their remaining
years in widowhood.
The Orungu tribe, immediately south of Gaboon, from whom I often
obtained workmen, have a peculiarly large body of stories and legends,
which form a kind of commentary on all their customs. The following is
an example:
Once upon a time there was a very great king, Ra-Nyambia, who had many
sons and daughters, and whose servant was Wind. Now, one of this king’s
daughters, Ogula, had an _ngalo_. The ngalo is a very powerful fetish.
Some favoured persons are born with it. It is never acquired by others.
Ogula, when she became a “whole” woman, declared that she was not
willing to have a husband who would have other wives, but must have one
who would be all her own. She waited a long time, but found no man who
was fit to be her husband. Then she consulted her ngalo, who told her
what to do. One day shortly after this, when her father’s people were
going hunting, she said to them: “Find for me a wild goat, and do not
kill it, but bring it to me alive.”
So the hunters brought her a wild goat; and when Ogula saw it she said:
“It is well.”
She then requested one of the hunters to kill the wild goat and skin it
most carefully. She also requested another hunter to fill her canoe with
water. The skin she burned in the fire till all that was left was ashes,
and the ashes she carefully wrapped in plantain leaves and put away in a
safe place. Then she commanded that the entire body of the wild goat
should be placed in the canoe, which was full of water. There she left
it for three days. On the third day, standing beside the canoe, she
addressed her ngalo and said: “Oh, ngalo mine, turn this goat into a
handsome and stylish man.”
Immediately there leaped out of the canoe a very handsome and stylish
man.
Then Ogula sent her servants to her father, Ra-Nyambia, and bade them
say to him that she had procured a husband and that she was coming to
present him to her father. Ra-Nyambia made ready to receive them
properly. He called his servant, Wind, and told him to clean up the
street; whereupon Wind got busy and swept the street clean. And
Ra-Nyambia put on his best ornaments. Soon Ogula appeared with her new
husband walking by her side, while all the people followed in
astonishment and admiration, saying to one another: “Where did Ogula get
this handsome and stylish husband?”
Ra-Nyambia was greatly pleased; and Ogula and her husband returned to
her house. But everywhere, through all the towns, there went out a
report of Ogula’s handsome and stylish husband.
Now there lived in a town not far away a beautiful woman, named
Ogondaga, the daughter of a king; and Ogondaga had no husband. At length
Ogondaga said: “I am tired of hearing of Ogula’s handsome and stylish
husband. This day I shall go and see him for myself.”
She ordered her father’s servants to take her in a canoe to Ogula’s
town, saying also to her father that she would return that same day.
This, however, she did not intend to do; for she had determined to win
the love of Ogula’s husband. Ogula received Ogondaga very kindly, and
when her husband returned from the forest she said to him: “This is my
friend Ogondaga.”
In the evening Ogondaga’s servants came and said to her: “It is time to
go home.”
But she replied: “You must go without me; for I am going to visit my
friend Ogula.”
Then they asked her when they should return for her, and she said: “You
need not come for me at all. I shall go home when I please.”
Ogula treated Ogondaga very kindly, and gave her plenty to eat and a
good bed. The next day Ogula’s husband said to her: “I love Ogondaga;
you must speak to her for me. Will you do so?”
And Ogula, though her heart was sore, said: “I shall speak to her.”
This she did; and her husband went with Ogondaga and neglected her. The
next day they had work to do together and she called him; but he was
angry. And so it was the next day, and the next.
Now this continued for four days; whereupon Ogula, taking some of the
ashes of the goatskin, which she had so carefully kept, came upon her
husband while he was washing, and suddenly rubbed the ashes upon his
feet. Instantly his feet were changed to hoofs. He stamped upon the
ground and cried out: “What is this? What is this?”
His wife replied: “It is nothing at all. Why don’t you go out on the
street?”
Then he pleaded with Ogula until she relented and by the power of her
ngalo changed his hoofs again into feet. But again he abandoned her.
Then Ogula, taking all the ashes of the goatskin, and watching her
opportunity, while he was washing threw the ashes over her husband’s
body, saying: “Go back where you came from.”
Immediately her handsome and stylish husband was changed into a wild
goat and began leaping around the room. Ogula opened the door, outside
of which Ogondaga was sitting, and the goat sprang through the door into
the street and scampered off into the forest, while all the people
laughed and shouted, saying one to another: “So, Ogula’s handsome and
stylish husband was only the wild goat which Ra-Nyambia’s people caught
in the forest.”
But Ogula turned to Ogondaga and said: “Do you see your man? Call him to
you. He always comes when you call.”
Then Ogula called Ogondaga’s people to her town. She also told her
father, Ra-Nyambia, to prepare for a big palaver. So Ra-Nyambia called
Wind and told him to sweep the town clean. When Ogondaga’s people came
Ogula brought them before Ra-Nyambia, together with all Ra-Nyambia’s own
people. Then Ogula told the whole story: How she had got a handsome and
stylish husband for herself; how Ogondaga came; how kindly she had
received her; how she was even willing that Ogondaga should share her
husband’s heart; and how Ogondaga had taken, not a part, but his whole
heart.
Finally she said to her visitors: “You may go back now to your town; but
Ogondaga is not going with you. She must stay here and be my slave as
long as she lives.”
And Ra-Nyambia and all the people said that the judgment was just. So
Ogondaga became Ogula’s slave.
And that’s the end of the story.
The African woman is not cynical enough to mean that the difference
between a man and a goat is chiefly a matter of the skin. But the wild
goat of the story reminds one inevitably of the ancient _satyr_, which
was half man and half goat; which men also imitated in pagan festivals,
covering themselves with goatskins, and singing and dancing. Hence the
origin of the word _tragedy_, which means a _goatsong_, and which came
to us by way of the Greek drama, which was developed from those early
religious festivals.
The Fang have a variety of amusements to which they are devoted. They
have many games. A few of these are always associated with gambling. But
their chief and constant amusements are music, dancing and
story-telling. Of music I have already said enough.
The tom-tom supplies the rhythm for dancing, but the melodies are vocal.
The songs are solos with responsive chants sung in chorus. They dance
with the whole body, setting in motion the limbs, head, shoulders,
thighs and stomach. In many of their dances they simulate love-making or
hunting, and the various animals they pursue. Sometimes the movements of
the dance are very obscene. Among the women there are professional
dancers; and these are nearly always women of low reputation. Men and
women sometimes—not often—dance simultaneously, but never in couples,
nor is there any physical contact between them. There are solitary
dancers, men and women, who dance themselves into a frenzy, leaping into
the air or whirling round and round until they fall in a swoon, or a
trance, during which, or immediately upon recovering, they name persons
who are guilty of witchcraft.
But no person is more popular among the Africans than a good
story-teller. There are professional story-tellers whose performances
correspond to those of the theatre among civilized people. One of these
takes his place in the middle of the street with the whole population of
the town sitting on the ground before him.
“Shall we tell a story?” he says.
“A story!” they respond in chorus.
“Then let us away!”
“Away!”
In such a story as that of “Ogula and her Ngalo,” already told in this
chapter, the story-teller would occasionally break into song or
chanting; whereupon the audience will take up the chant as a refrain and
repeat it over and over, until he is ready to proceed with the story.
The African is a born story-teller. And we should expect this from the
fact that he is the most sociable man in the world. He cannot easily be
killed with work; but isolation will kill him quickly. The old men sit
in the palaver-house all their spare time (that is, all the time between
naps and meals) entertaining and amazing the younger generation with the
narration of their past exploits—how many women have gladly eloped with
them, how many others they have captured, how many enemies they have
killed in war, and how they have fought wild animals with unheard-of
bravery. The conversation is often a lying-match. But they turn out
interesting tales.
An old man—a famous hunter in former days, according to his own
story—tells at great length of a fierce fight between a leopard and a
gorilla which he witnessed; and having at last exhausted his resources
of invention, but utterly unwilling that the story should end in an
anticlimax, he tells how the gorilla, watching an opportunity, suddenly
seized the leopard’s tail and swung him around his head so swiftly that
the leopard was hurled into space leaving his tail in the gorilla’s
hand. Observing the look of incredulity in the faces of his audience, he
gravely adds:
“And this I saw with my own eyes. And when both the leopard and the
gorilla had gone I picked up the tail and brought it home to my town,
thinking that I would use it to keep the flies off my back. Many people
of the town saw this tail; but all those who saw it are dead. For, you
see, it was a human leopard (a leopard that was formerly a man) and it
haunted the town so long as the tail was there, and inflicted a plague
upon the people, so that every one who saw the tail died. And at length,
for the sake of the town and the health of the people, I carried the
tail to the forest and left it where the leopard would find it.
“And that’s the end of the story.”
IX
FUNERAL CUSTOMS
A Kru workman died at an English trading-house, it is said—or was
supposed to have died—and his uncoffined form was being borne to the
grave upon an open bier by his fellow workmen, when he suddenly
embarrassed the funeral cortège by addressing the bearers and demanding
that he be instantly informed of what they were intending to do—and why.
The affrighted bearers hastily dropped their load and set out for the
interior of Africa. Encountering a body of water on the way they plunged
into it and submerged themselves as long as nature would allow, in order
to effect a disconnection with talking spirits—which are supposed to
have an aversion to water—and their fear being thus quenched, they
returned. The corpse meanwhile got off the bier and went home.
Premature burials are common enough in Africa, for reasons which I shall
mention later. But the African might offer an easier explanation and say
that the Kruman was really dead and came to life again. For the African
lives in a world of confusion and disorder, where there is scarcely any
such thing as a “course of nature”; but, rather, a succession of
unrelated wonders. Elsewhere every effect has a cause; but Africa is run
by magic, and things happen without a cause. Elsewhere, as some sage has
remarked, every beginning has an _end_—implying that the end bears a
logical relation to the beginning and may even be foreseen; but in
Africa a beginning is just a beginning, and affords no clue to the
end—if there should be any end. One goes to a wedding, and it turns out
that the groom is a leopard in the form of a man, who in the midst of
the ceremony carries off the bride. One goes to a funeral and the corpse
sits up and talks or breaks loose and runs away. This is the atmosphere
in which the African lives.
Among the semi-civilized Mpongwe of Gaboon, when sickness seems likely
to prove fatal, the friends and relations from far and near gather into
the house of the sick, as many as can crowd inside, and sit about on the
floor, quietly expectorating, or smoking and expectorating, but always
expectorating. The effect of sympathy upon the salivary glands has not
been duly considered by physiologists. There is more than one reason for
their hastening to the bedside of the sick. It is, of course, expected
as an expression of sympathy; and if the sick one should recover he will
resent the omission of this customary courtesy. But if he should die
there are sure to be charges of witchcraft, and suspicion is likely to
fall first on any who did not come to sympathize, the supposition being
that they were kept away by a sense of guilt.
The low wail of mourning starts as soon as it appears that the sick one
is dying, although he may still be conscious. Then when the death is
announced there is a great outburst of cries and shrieks, accompanied by
frantic actions of grief and protest. But this wild outburst soon
subsides into the regular wail of the mourning dirge.
The mother is always the chief mourner. However formal the mourning of
others, hers is a poignant anguish that rends the hearer’s heart. As she
chants she breaks forth into a rhapsody in which she recites the story
of her loved one’s life, dwelling upon those incidents the memory of
which only a mother cherishes. She sings because she must. No other
expression would be adequate; and certainly no other would be so
affecting to the hearer. One reflects that the strongest emotions
naturally resort to music for their expression, and that singing is as
natural as laughter or tears; and one understands how that ancient
orators—accounted the world’s greatest—chanted, or intoned their
orations without lessening, but rather deepening the impression of
sincerity and passionate conviction.
The mourning continues without interruption until the burial, except
while the coffin is being made—for the Mpongwe use coffins. The coffin
is made in the street, in front of the house. If there should be any
wailing at that time the departed spirit will not like his new house,
and some of those who helped to make it will surely die before the year
is over. I have seen a man, who heard the least sound of a wail while he
was working on the coffin, fling his hammer on the ground in great anger
and refuse to continue the work. The mourning is also suspended during
the digging of the grave, if it is near by. The making of the grave must
not be interrupted, but continued until it is finished. Upon its
completion a stick or other object is thrown into it to keep other
spirits from taking possession before its proper resident comes to
occupy it.
The corpse, having been prepared for burial by being dressed in its best
robe, is laid upon the floor, the mother or nearest relation taking the
head upon her lap and leading in the mourning. But, before this, all the
relations put on their oldest rags and as few of them as decency will
allow. The most civilized among them, unwilling to disrobe, often turn
their dresses inside out. Owing to the peculiar climate bodies are not
usually kept long. The funeral sometimes takes place within twelve or
even eight hours after death.
From the stories of natives one must conclude that premature burial is
far from uncommon. The short interval which custom allows between death
and burial is a partial explanation. And it may also be accounted for
among many tribes by the frequency of religious trance, mistaken for
death. The trance is usually self-induced, for the purpose of reading
the future, or when they commune with the spirit of the moon; but the
practice would probably make them subject to involuntary trance. They
have abundant opportunity of proving the fact of premature burial, since
they so frequently exhume the bodies of the dead; sometimes they find
the body in an altered position. There are various reasons for exhuming
the bodies of the dead. Sometimes the spirit of the departed is
dissatisfied with the grave and becomes troublesome to the living,
subjecting them to annoyance and injury until the body is placed in
another grave. If the departed was a person of small importance the
people may resent these posthumous activities and seek to disable the
spirit by exhuming the body and throwing it into the sea, after cutting
off the head. Among the interior tribes the body is frequently exhumed
in order to obtain the brains or the skull for fetish purposes. Thus the
evidences are found of premature burial.
But, besides the haste with which they bury their dead, and the
frequency of the trance, there is still another explanation of premature
burial. They are disposed to regard a person as dead as soon as he
becomes unconscious, although the heart may still be perceptibly
beating. They cannot dissociate the personal spirit from seeing, hearing
and feeling. They will therefore say of the unconscious one that he, the
person, is gone, and that only the life of the body is left; and they
will lose no time in preparing for the funeral.
The spirit of the deceased knows all that is going on and is supposed to
be very sensitive in regard to the amount of mourning and the details of
the funeral. Among the Fang, the wives of a man who has died, when they
are not put to death, are often beaten severely to augment their sorrow,
and they are compelled to go entirely naked for a length of
time—sometimes a whole year. No one must speak to them, nor give them
food.
It is especially respectful to the dead to manifest reluctance in
burying the body. And to act unreasonably at such a time, or to seem a
little foolish, is very pleasing to the departed. The bearers usually
belong half to the father’s family and half to the family of the mother.
The coffin is of plain boards covered with blue cotton. There are no
handles: the bearers carry it on their heads. The practice in former
times, but not so common now, was for some of the bearers on the way to
the grave to refuse to go further, as if unwilling to bury the body of
their friend and relation. The others would insist upon burial, and a
strange altercation would take place, with some pushing, the bearers
halting and starting, and halting again, but at last yielding to
necessity and mastering their feelings.
A short time before I left Gaboon there was a peculiar revival of this
custom. A woman had died who was a member of the church. According to
our custom, they were allowed to bury her in the mission cemetery. The
cemetery is on the back part of the premises and it is necessary to pass
through the front yard to reach it. The family of this particular woman
were all heathen, and I presume they had been drinking; for rum is now
regarded as a necessity at an Mpongwe funeral, except among the
Christians. During the procession of the funeral, as they were entering
the cemetery, some of the bearers objected to going further, and began
to push the other bearers back, according to the good old custom. But in
this instance custom was outdone. The two parental families to whom the
bearers belonged had not been friendly. The pushing of some was resented
by the others, and soon each party, under the guise of conventionality
and revered custom, delivered real blows upon the other and paid off
some old scores. In the ensuing fight the coffin was precipitated to the
ground. Leaving it where it fell, the whole funeral procession started
for the police court. And experience with French justice having taught
them that much depends upon getting there first, each party tried to
outrun the other. Some of the mourners, however, fearing trouble with
the officials if the body were not buried immediately, dissuaded them
from their purpose before they reached the court, and they all came back
together and buried the body.
The coast tribes have regular burying places. But most interior tribes
bury in the street, or in the garden, and sometimes even beneath the
earthen floor of the house. A prominent man in Batanga, whom I knew,
buried his favourite wife under his door-step. In such burials probably
something more is sought than merely to honour the dead. They may also
intend to procure health and protection for the household. This idea is
borne out by the customs of certain far-interior tribes, among whom when
a great chief would build a house he first kills a number of slaves and
buries them beneath the foundation.
Among the Fang, back from the coast, who have not been influenced by
contact with the white man, all the funeral customs are more rude and
barbarous, and often revolting. The dead are buried without coffins,
usually in a sitting posture, and in very shallow graves. Some of the
tribes adjacent to the Fang on the south do not bury at all. They have
regular cemeteries in which they leave the bodies above the ground and
cover them with palm branches or woven mats. In most tribes offerings of
food and drink are placed beside the grave. As the drink evaporates and
the food wastes they say the spirit is consuming it. Fire-wood is left
on the grave that the body may be kept warm. In the case of those
accused of witchcraft they often seek to disable the spirit by burning
the body. For the spirits of the dead still retain some connection with
the body. For this same reason when slaves die, or others whom they have
especial reason to fear, they sometimes beat the body with heavy clubs
until they break every bone and reduce it to a shapeless mass.
Wives charged with witchcraft are usually buried alive with the dead
body of the husband. In one instance, in a certain town that I knew
well, a very large grave was dug in the middle of the street, and the
body of the man—a chief—was placed in the middle of it. Then his seven
wives, charged with having bewitched him, were brought forward, and they
were about to break their legs and throw them into the grave, when the
timely arrival of the missionary prevented the deed and saved the
women’s lives. He interposed no physical force; but, knowing his
feelings, they were not willing to commit such an atrocity in his
presence.
The human shrinking from the dead with them takes the form of fear that
the dead will harm them, even their own nearest relations. No matter how
they may have loved one while he was alive, yet they will not desire
that his spirit should linger; but rather in their mourning they often
entreat the dead one to depart. It is heartrending to hear a mother in
the midst of her grief entreat her child to stay far from her and not to
touch her. They resort to various expedients to get rid of the spirits
of the dead. Sometimes, upon the announcement of a death, while the
women indulge in frantic shrieks, or the mourning wail, the men beat
drums or fire off their guns to frighten the spirit away. Nevertheless,
the spirit remains in the house as long as the body is there and
accompanies it to the grave. Therefore the bed that the deceased lay
upon is occupied continually between death and burial to the supposed
discomfort of the spirit. After the burial they hurry home, sometimes
running, in order to escape from the spirit, which may not be able to
find its way back to the town alone. On the way home it is advisable, if
possible, to plunge into water. If one should fall while thus running he
will die within a year. Sickness and other troubles are often attributed
to the spirits of those who have recently died. Little children whose
mothers have died often die themselves soon after; it is because the
dead mother cannot resist the temptation to embrace them.
Among the Mpongwe blue is worn as mourning. The men also shave their
heads. The mourning chant is continued at night, usually for a month
after the funeral. Near relations remain as visitors in the town during
the period of mourning. The usual activities are suspended and children
are neglected. The white man’s rum is now regarded as a necessary factor
in relieving hearts surcharged with sorrow. As time passes gossip
becomes incessant and engenders estrangements and hatreds. There are
also criminal intimacies. Indeed, a period of mourning is perhaps the
most demoralizing experience through which a community can pass.
With most of the mourners the mourning wail itself is purely
conventional, serving only for the assumption of a sham grief rather
than the relief of a real one. But no one forgets the possible charges
of witchcraft; and to avert suspicion it is wise to be prompt and eager
in the mourning, especially on the part of those who were known to be
estranged from the deceased. A certain Mpongwe woman, entering a house
of mourning where a friend had just died, asked the husband of the
deceased to excuse her from mourning because she had a sore ear and it
hurt her to mourn.
Grief, however, is often very deep and real among the Africans; and it
can never in any land be measured by conventionalities. The grief of
parents for the loss of children is, as I have said, the most poignant
grief of the African heart. Again and again, when I have asked a father
or mother to explain to the session of the church their long absence
from its services, they have confessed in tears that they had been
unable to believe in the Christian’s God since He had taken away their
little child—sometimes an only child—and had left the parent heart cold
and joyless.
One day, walking across the lonely _grass-field_ of Gaboon, the
stillness broken only by the rustle of the long grass around me and the
distant boom of the sea beyond the horizon, I met a man of Gaboon who
was returning home after a trading expedition into the forest. He was a
shrewd man who had traded successfully both with white and black and who
seemed to care for nothing else but trade, a man of materialistic mind
and peculiarly inaccessible to any spiritual message. We sat down and
talked for some time, first of course about trade; but gradually the
conversation became more intimate and he talked about himself, at length
revealing a great sorrow that years ago had darkened his life and left
it dark, like the setting of the sun. He had lost in succession three
little children—all he had. He tried to tell me about it, but he had not
accustomed himself to speaking of it, and the story ended half-way in a
flood of tears. I told him that little story that every minister tells
more than once in the course of his ministry—the story of the kind
shepherd, and the willful mother sheep that would not cross the stream
to the good pasture and the safe fold on the other side; and how the
shepherd took the lamb in his arms and carried it across, and how the
mother sheep stood a while and looked after it with longing and then
followed her lamb to the other side. It was a familiar incident to
him—some such thing he had done himself—and the simple story moved him
deeply. I never saw him again; for I left Africa shortly afterwards. But
I have not forgotten the human tenderness that was revealed beneath the
surface hardness of the man’s heathen heart; and I hope that if he be
still alive he may not have forgotten the vision of the “sweet fields
beyond the swelling floods,” and the message of God’s love and kindness
which he heard that day, like a still, small voice sounding across the
storms that had wrecked his life.
The tribes north of the Calabar River—the real Negro tribes—are more
cruel in all their customs than the tribes further south. Even apart
from any accusation of witchcraft, when a man dies a number of persons
are frequently put to death to accompany his spirit to the other world.
When a great chief dies wives and slaves are killed that the chief may
enter the spirit world as a person of consequence. For it is supposed
that slaves sent with him will still be his slaves and wives will still
be wives. I have known an instance of a native dying on shipboard, and
when the body was cast into the sea, the female relations actually tried
to leap after it in order to accompany the spirit of the deceased to the
other world.
Among some of the tribes of the Niger it was the custom (until the
English government suppressed it) that when a chief died a number of
persons, perhaps twelve or more, usually women and slaves, were buried
alive with him, and without any accusation against them. An enormous
grave was dug; and all these persons were lowered into it together with
the dead body of the chief. Then the grave was covered over with a roof,
a small opening being left, upon which a stone was placed. Each day the
stone was removed and the question was asked of those below whether they
had yet followed the chief—each day until at last no voice replied.
Among the Fang I have not known of any such practice. The only persons
put to death on such occasions are those who have been charged with
witchcraft. But multitudes die daily on this charge.
My first contact with death in Africa was among the Bulu, at a little
town called Mon Nlam (if I remember correctly) close to Efulen. One
afternoon when I was alone at Efulen I was startled by the firing of
guns in the little village at the foot of our hill. There were cries
also and shrieks such as I had never before heard. Several of the many
natives around me belonged to Mon Nlam; and these started for home as
fast as they could run. I caught something of their alarm and ran after
them to the town. Following the lead of the natives I ran through the
town into the banana garden immediately beyond, where all the people
were gathered. There in the midst were a number of women (I forget how
many) shrieking frantically and throwing themselves madly upon the
ground. They were entirely naked and their bodies were smeared with
white clay, even their faces and their hair. Other women were vainly
trying to restrain them, while the crowd looked on.
Such a scene was quite new to me in those days, and the horror of it I
have never forgotten. I had only the slightest knowledge of the language
and it took me some time to find out what had happened. Several men, the
husbands of these women, had gone hunting in the forest. Two other towns
near by were at war with each other; but this town had nothing whatever
to do with the war. A number of men from one of the two towns were
hiding in the forest, lying in wait for the enemy, when they espied
these men who were hunting. In the dim light of the forest they mistook
their friends for their enemies and fired upon them. An African would
rather kill ten friends then let one enemy escape. They killed all the
men of the hunting-party. This was the news that had just reached the
town. It was the more pitiable because the town was small, and the loss
of several of its strongest men seriously weakened its defense.
There were the usual charges of witchcraft against the women; and when I
in amazement pointed out to them that in this instance there was no
mystery whatever; that those men, as they knew, had been killed by the
bullets of those who had fired upon them, they replied that while this
was doubtless true it was only half the truth; for those men wore
protecting charms that would have made it impossible for bullets to
injure them, and that the spell of witchcraft must have destroyed the
power of the charms. I only convinced them that while I knew
considerable about bullets I knew nothing about witchcraft and nothing
about wives. The doubt, however, which had been thus suggested, was
sufficient to enable us to protect the women from any fatal violence;
although the restraints and sufferings imposed upon widows during their
period of mourning is almost intolerable.
In contrast with that scene, where the elemental passions of fear, grief
and rage fairly made demons of men and women, I think of another death
that was not in any way horrible or revolting; it was the death of a
Fang chief named _Ndong_, one of the first of the Fang Christians. Ndong
and his people had come recently from the far interior and had settled
on one of the branches of the Gaboon. He had lived all his life among
such death scenes as I have just described, and himself had taken a
leading part in punishing witchcraft. When I first knew him he had more
fetishes than any man in his town; for he was in ill health and of
course supposed that somebody was bewitching him. The fetishes were an
attempt to protect himself; but they were a failure, and he was in
terror of everybody around him. After several conversations with him he
boldly renounced fetishism and threw away all his fetishes. He told the
people that if God desired that he should live He would defend and
protect him; and that if God was calling him he was ready to go. He
lived six months to proclaim this new faith, and then died, having been
sorely tried by constant suffering. I reached the town just as he died.
There was not a fetish in his house. But it was more surprising that
there was no heathen mourning. The town was strangely quiet when I
arrived. An elderly woman said to me:
“Ndong has died. He died as one goes to sleep, without fear, and without
blaming anybody. We never saw a death like this before. A new day is
dawning.”
X
THE _DOROTHY_
In response to my urgent appeal, a gasoline launch, the _Dorothy_, was
given for the work on the Gaboon River, by a friend of missions living
in Orange, New Jersey. The gift was a memorial to a little daughter,
_Dorothy_, who had died.
The arrival of the _Dorothy_ was the most joyful event of all my years
in Africa. Hitherto I had reached the Fang only by canoe or small
sailboat, the latter depending upon oars more than sails. The area of
the work was therefore circumscribed and the incidental exposure
dreadful. But now we no longer regarded the heat by day nor the rains by
night; for there was a large cabin provided with every comfort,
including good beds. And this latter was a main consideration. After the
arrival of the _Dorothy_ I seldom stayed in a town over night nor slept
in a native bed—a few straight poles laid side by side, sometimes with
the additional luxury of a grass mat. Besides a bed of poles, I escaped
stifling heat, infinite noise, rats, roaches, lizards, scorpions,
centipedes, ants, fleas, lice and a staggering combination of odours. In
the lower rivers that flow through the mangrove swamps I also escaped
the vile atmosphere and the mosquitoes by running out to the bay at
night. Added to these considerations, its speed was such that I could
travel against wind and tide; and by means of it the former work was
multiplied many times, and spread over the whole area of the Gaboon
basin.
[Illustration:
THE _DOROTHY_.
]
The _Dorothy_ was a house-launch, and was intended only for the rivers.
The walls of the cabin presented such an area to the wind that on the
bay or at sea, unless in the calmest weather, it rolled as nothing else
ever rolled; and in a storm it was dangerous.
Ndong Koni, who had been long in my service, was captain of the
_Dorothy_; the rest of the crew I had to choose with greater care than
in former days, and it was difficult to find men who were qualified both
by intelligence and trustworthiness. I discharged one man for
disobedience in smoking a pipe over an open tank from which they were
drawing gasoline.
On one occasion when I was preparing for a long trip up the river, Ndong
Koni was absent; and not having time myself to look after every detail
of the preparation, I entrusted to one of the crew, a boy named _Toko_,
the work of filling the tank with gasoline. Toko was not a Fang, but a
coastman. He was so black that he seemed to radiate darkness and create
a kind of twilight in his neighbourhood. The Fang were like mulattoes
beside him. He had worked some time for an English trader and had picked
up a smattering of very original English. On this occasion Toko assured
me that he “done fill the tank proper full.” But on the return trip the
engine suddenly stopped one morning at daylight: the gasoline was
exhausted. We were thirty miles from home: and it was the rough bay, not
the river, that stretched between. There was only one thing to do; and
in a few minutes we had anchored the _Dorothy_, and had started for
Gaboon in a canoe, our purpose being to get the gasoline we required and
return immediately.
The canoe was large and there were plenty of paddles, so I took with me
every man on board except Toko, whom I left in charge of the _Dorothy_,
to spend what I supposed would be the longest and most miserable day of
his life. For I knew that we would not be back before midnight; and
although the bay was now like glass the sea-breeze would rise about ten
o’clock and increase all day long. The _Dorothy_ was anchored in a very
bad place and it was enough to make one sick in anticipation. But it was
necessary that some one should remain in charge, and I was so indignant
at Toko for his neglect that I had no compunction of conscience, but
inwardly gloated like a cannibal over a feast. We are all cannibals by
instinct when it comes to eating our enemies.
The sea-breeze later in the day became almost a gale, and was directly
against us; the waves were soon crested with whitecaps and grew bigger
and bigger. It took the combined strength of six men with paddles to
make any headway in the last several hours. I felt quite safe, for Ndong
Koni whom we had picked up along the way was steersman. The skill of the
natives in canoeing—their instinctive balancing, their knowledge of the
waves, and the proper way to receive each wave is marvellous; for of a
hundred waves no two may be alike. The degree of tendency to careen at
the stroke of each wave, or (if the sea is abeam) as the peak of the
wave passes under the canoe, must be met by a dexterous stroke of the
paddle of the steersman, or the counterpoise of the body. It is very
exhilarating. Mind and muscle must act instantly. No sooner is one wave
passed than the mind, dismissing it, leaps to the next encounter. One
finds himself personifying the waves and regarding them as personal
enemies whom he must fight or die. But our canoe was large, and strength
as much as skill kept us from being swamped.
We reached Gaboon late in the afternoon and having procured gasoline and
rigged our largest sailboat, the _Lafayette_, we immediately started
back to the _Dorothy_. It was a wild night and very dark; but the wind
was favourable, and there was not on all the coast of West Africa a
better sailing boat of its size than the _Lafayette_. Many a night I
have sailed in her on the open sea, to Corisco and Benito, sometimes
when the night was pitch dark and the wind howling. Such a situation is
far from conducive to sleep. But I had great confidence in the
_Lafayette_. She combined speed and daring with amiability and was a
boat to admire and love.
But we are now on our way back to the _Dorothy_ and to the rescue of
poor Toko. We reached the _Dorothy_ at midnight. Long before this I had
relented towards Toko. Indeed, soon after the sea-breeze arose in the
morning, and I knew the _Dorothy_ was rolling in the trough of the sea,
I was disappointed to find that I was not really enjoying his
discomfiture as much as I had anticipated. As the wind blew harder I
experienced an emotional reaction, and I felt more and more sorry for
him. When night came on the loneliness of his situation, far from land,
on a rough sea, added another appealing element, and it would have been
the easiest thing in the world to have obtained a promise from me to
raise his wages if we should succeed in rescuing him from his miserable
plight. Many hours before we reached him we saw the dim solitary light,
indicating that the _Dorothy_ was at least afloat. Then we could see the
light swaying from side to side with the rolling and plunging of the
vessel. On we sped, while the light seemed far away as ever; then, all
at once, it flashed with sudden nearness, and in a few minutes we were
at the gangway.
I called to Toko as we approached, but received no answer. Even as we
came alongside there was no response to our united call. I sprang on
board and rushed into the cabin only to stumble over some unwonted
obstacle that nearly pitched me on my head. The obstacle was the living
body of Toko, who to my question replied: “Mastah, I done pass fine day.
I been sleep all time. All this day and all this night I no wake, only
for eat and for make them head-light.”
I muttered in reply: “You incorrigible rascal! You ought to have been
sick. You know you ought.”
Several times I ascended the upper Gaboon, called the _Como_; further
than any launch had ever gone, to a town thirty miles above Angom, and
one hundred miles from the sea. The Como on its way to the sea cuts
through the Sierra del Crystal Mountains. The course of the river
through the mountains is tortuous and through deep gorges. The current
is exceedingly swift; and the channel, which is deep but narrow, is
filled with projecting rocks and hidden snags. The water pours through
these gorges in a succession of rapids, or waltzes down in whirling
eddies, or, again, coils and twists like an angry serpent. In contrast
to the repulsive and evil-smelling mangrove swamps of the lower river,
the scenery of the upper river is magnificent and exquisitely beautiful.
The hills part before us as if by magic; while with each short curve the
scene is changed. The high banks, from the tops of the trees even to the
water, are draped with a veil of delicate vines, covered with flowers of
white and lavender, and festooned upon the banks with long, drooping
ferns, all swinging in the wind. A picturesque native town, perched upon
a high summit, is named _Home of the Moon_.
Navigation through this channel is difficult and dangerous. Ndong Koni
had charge of the wheel, and no white man could have surpassed him. A
momentary glance at the surface of the water was sufficient to tell him
what was beneath. He knew exactly the allowance to make for the strength
of a whirlpool, or the force of the current in a short curve. An error
of judgment, or a moment’s hesitation, in some places might have been
our destruction.
The first time I ascended this dangerous part of the river I engaged a
pilot from one of the oldest towns; a man who had known the river all
his life, who had seen it frequently at the lowest, and was therefore
familiar with the channel; for the native does not forget a channel, but
has a peculiarly tenacious memory for each snag and boulder that has
occasionally been exposed to view. This pilot was picturesque, being
dressed in a nondescript felt hat and scarcely anything else. We haggled
for some time over the price of his services, but at last he agreed to
come for a bar of soap and a dose of salts.
As we ascended the river Ndong Koni stood at the wheel, in the bow,
while the pilot stood immediately behind him, indicating with
outstretched arms the channel and the dangers on either side. I stood
bending over the engine, with one hand on the lever and the other on the
throttle, in an attitude of strained attention. Several times we touched
hidden snags that sent a shiver through the launch and strangely
affected my own vertebræ; and once or twice we struck with such force as
to disconnect the propeller. Suddenly the pilot began to “take on” like
a maniac, yelling and calling to his ancestors, throwing his precious
hat and pursuing it from one end of the cabin to the other, as if his
mind had given way under the weight of responsibility. I left the engine
long enough to rush forward, seize him by the neck and throw him into a
corner. Then the truth dawned upon me: he had seen a fly and was trying
to kill it. I have already said that this disposition towards the fly is
an obsession with the native. In no other matter is he such a fool. But
if he were engaged in a life-and-death combat with an enemy a sudden
opportunity to kill a fly might prove his undoing.
Upon our return we were sweeping down the river with the speed of a
locomotive when I chanced to look out and found that we were passing
Atakama, where we were intending to call. I shouted to the mate to stand
by, and added some ungentle words of remonstrance at his stupidity in
not observing that we had reached Atakama, where I had told him we were
going to stop. I probably overdid the matter of remonstrance, for the
mate got excited. He sprang to the anchor, and without a moment’s
hesitation threw it overboard, while we were still going at nearly full
speed with the swift current. The ensuing jar was such that it took me
some time to realize that we were still afloat, and I could never
afterwards pass the place without emotion.
Further down the river we were enlivened by the presence of several
passengers going to the coast to work, or perhaps to visit. Visiting is
a passion with the African. It is regulated by custom, which prescribes
a limit (though a very generous one) beyond which it is not lawful to
extend a visit. More than once I have known of a long-suffering host
speeding the departing guest by an appeal to this law. Upon every
journey with the _Dorothy_ we were besieged with applications for a
passage. No tickets were issued, but the fare was always a chicken,
regardless of distance or destination. Ndong Koni was purser and looked
after the chickens, collecting them before we started and feeding them
on the journey. The people would not sell chickens to me, but would give
them in pay for passage, since I would not accept anything else. I was
therefore glad enough to have a few passengers, as it meant that I ate
chicken instead of sardines or Armour’s sausage. Toko, who often
officiated as cook, was always glad when he could make the announcement:
“Mr. Milligan, I go burn a chicken for your chop.” When there were no
chickens he had to “kill a tin.”
The basin of the Gaboon with its network of small rivers filled by the
tide, as I have said, is a contrast to the scenery of the upper river.
When the tide is high the foliage of the mangrove lies upon the water
and the appearance is not displeasing except for its unapproachable
monotony. But when the tide is out these streams are empty or nearly so
and the receding water leaves the mangroves standing up six or eight
feet out of the water on their mass of vertical roots as if on tiptoe.
The dripping roots are usually covered with small oysters. Below this
lies the deep, black, slimy mud, sometimes only half seen through the
brooding vapour and stretches forth uncanny fingers and creeps from root
to root. The ugliness of it is only equalled by the smell. There is
nothing more hideous in the world, and I am sure that the Styx itself
flows through a mangrove swamp. Sometimes the receding tide left us
stranded in this black batter for several hours, and the night consigned
us to mosquitoes. But as soon as the rising tide floated us we sped to
the bay, leaving mosquitoes and heat and fœtid banks behind us, and
blessing the _Dorothy_.
On several occasions I ventured out upon the open sea with the
_Dorothy_. Twice I went to Benito, one hundred miles north of Gaboon. On
the first of these journeys my old captain, Makuba, was with me instead
of Ndong Koni. But Makuba’s home was at Benito, and he decided to remain
there. I hired an intelligent coast man in his place, one who had had
years of experience in sailing-craft and knew the intervening coast
perfectly. The sea was so heavy that we kept as close to the shore as we
dared, although it was fringed with rocks and reefs. The night we chose
for our return was exceedingly dark and the sea rough. The engine was in
an obstinate mood and my entire attention was occupied with it.
Suddenly I became conscious that the sea was abeam, instead of on our
starboard bow. Leaving the engine, I ran forward, and looked at the
compass. We were going directly towards the shore. I actually heard the
sound of the breakers on the reef. My intelligent wheelman, in order to
render me the best possible service, had thought to stimulate his mind
and muscle with a few swags from a bottle of rum, which he had
thoughtfully brought with him. But, owing perhaps to the lurching of the
vessel, he swallowed more than he intended, with the result that he was
soon comfortably sleeping while the _Dorothy_ sped towards destruction.
“Be ye angry, and sin not,” is the twofold injunction of Scripture. I
may as well confess that I concentrated upon the first part of the
injunction and clean forgot the second part.
The wind blew harder, and we realized that we were out on a stormy sea
with a house-launch. On this occasion a friend, Mr. Northam, was with
me. The rough sea made very hard work at the wheel, but the erstwhile
pilot lay on the floor in a somnolent drunk. Mr. Northam and I took the
wheel alternately an hour at a time, all that night. For a while it was
not a matter of making progress but of weathering the gale. We were
seventeen hours running fifty miles, from Hanje to Corisco, and when at
last, next morning, we reached shelter and dropped anchor, we all three,
Mr. Northam, myself and the _Dorothy_ were about done out.
On one occasion the _Dorothy_, in the interest of humanity, played the
part of a man-of-war. We were out on the bay, at least a mile from the
shore, when our attention was attracted by the strange manœuvres of a
large number of canoes all equipped with sails. They were far from us,
and were between us and the shore. We soon saw that it was a case of
piracy. In all, there were six canoes. Five of them were sailing in a
wide circle around the other; but the circle became narrower, and still
narrower, as they closed in upon their victim like white-winged birds of
prey. The poor canoe in the centre turned first one way, then another,
only each time to find its escape cut off by the revolving circle of
canoes. Ndong Koni understood every move they made and explained it to
me. He begged me to interfere. I consented, and he sprang to the wheel
with a shout. It was necessary at first to conceal our intention lest
the canoes should escape to the shore. So he took a course towards a
point beyond them, going towards the shore, but at such an angle that
they supposed we were passing on. Then suddenly he turned towards them
and at full speed bore down upon them.
By the time we had reached them they had closed in upon the central
canoe and had taken everything that was in it. There were thirty men
against five. The five men in the single canoe had been to Gaboon with
their garden produce, or perhaps a raft of mahogany logs, for which they
had bought several guns, one or two whole bolts of calico, a web of
sail-cloth, and a heap of sundry cheap ornaments for their wives, which
might have been sold by the pound or bushel. The robbers took all these
goods and even took some of the paddles the men were using. I was now at
the wheel. I kept the _Dorothy_ under way and cut a circle around them,
while I ordered them to return all the stolen goods. They resented it as
much as if the goods were actually their own and I the plunderer. But
while they hesitated I ran against their largest canoe, in which sat the
chief, striking it at an angle, near the bow, so as not to break it, but
to send a shiver through it that showed them how completely they were at
my mercy. They were willing to do anything in the world if I would only
agree not to repeat that last manœuvre. They restored all the stolen
goods; and since the single canoe was going my way, I took it in tow to
the delight of the occupants.
One day, calling at a town seventy miles from the coast, I found it
almost torn down and the people in great distress. They had decided,
months before, to move the entire town to the coast, and therefore had
not planted their gardens that season. A month previous to my visit the
people of the town, with all their goods and chattels, including
chickens, goats and sheep, and in some cases even the material of their
houses, had been loaded in a fleet of canoes of every size—some so small
that a single man sitting in one of them found it necessary to straddle
it and let his legs hang in the water, and some large enough for a chief
and half a dozen wives and twice as many children, besides a few goats,
and a few bunches of plantains and bananas. When they were ready to
start a messenger arrived telling them that the people of Alum, a large
town thirty miles down the river, were lying in wait for them, intending
to kill some of them or take them prisoners. These two towns had been
friendly of late; but the people down the river, knowing that the
up-river people with their families and possessions would be at an
extreme disadvantage, knowing also that they could not long delay their
journey because of their limited supply of food, bethought them of some
old score resulting from a former war, and resolved to lie in wait and
take several prisoners in the hope of extorting a ransom. So they kept
men watching day and night on the river.
The unfortunate people of the upper town proved their resourcefulness by
proposing to me that I should tow the whole town down the river behind
the _Dorothy_—and do it at night. I, for some reason, was fascinated
with the idea, and it took only twelve chickens to persuade me.
Taking the entire town in tow, I started down the river about nine
o’clock at night. Shortly after midnight I realized that we were
approaching the enemy because of the extraordinary silence of those in
the canoes, who hitherto had maintained a deafening noise, but now were
hushed, having put out their torches, and were lying down flat in their
canoes for safety. The enemy was on the watch; many canoes were on the
river. It was pitch dark, not a single light or sign of life visible.
The _Dorothy_ as she suddenly burst upon their sight with all her
lights, and going full speed, must have looked very formidable to people
who had never seen anything of the kind, for she had not before passed
at night. They may have supposed that a whole battalion of spirits of
all kinds and colours were coming against them. The effect was an
immediate panic. Calling loudly to each other and to their ancestors
they hastened to the bank. It was only after we had passed that they
discovered the canoes in tow and suspected that their enemies had
outwitted them.
I visited the town soon afterwards for the purpose of laughing at them.
And they laughed with me; laughed as only Africans can laugh.
One morning just at the break of day Toko burst into my bedroom all out
of breath and cried: “Oh, Mr. Milligan, _Doroty_ done loss! _Doroty_
done loss! I look him: he live for beach. I fear he never be good no
more.”
Before he had finished I had jumped out of bed, and in pajamas and bare
feet was running to the beach where I discovered the _Dorothy_ nearly a
mile down the beach, stranded and lying on her side. It was the worst
part of the whole beach, full of rocks, a place where no one would think
of beaching even a small boat. It was a mystery how she ever got there
without breaking to pieces. There had been a violent tornado during the
night and her cable had parted. Very fortunately she was first carried
out to sea. A calm followed and the sea gradually became very quiet.
With the turning tide she drifted towards the shore. By the time she was
near the beach there was neither wind nor wave and she drifted with the
current which of course was strongest where it was deepest and unimpeded
by rocks. So she wound in and out, where no human pilot could have
glided her, until she stranded. Then the tide receded before the wind
again arose; else she would have pounded on the beach. When I found her
she was high and dry. I could not tell how much damage she had received
and wondered whether she would ever float again. It was a day of
suspense as well as hard work.
It took until three o’clock in the afternoon to get her straightened up
and ready for the incoming tide to float her. I stayed there all day,
having sent a boy to the house to fetch my breakfast and a pair of
trousers. When the tide was low we carefully marked the channel; and
when she floated we towed her until we were past the last rock and then
I sprang to the engine, started her up and she was soon going full
speed, nothing the worse for her visit ashore and evidently glad to get
back to sea.
It was a trying day. I was standing in water most of the time. But the
suspense was the hardest of all. It is not easy to imagine all that the
launch meant to me. Every part of my work depended upon it. I gathered
the schoolboys from many towns, some of them far away, and at the end of
term returned them to their homes. I visited regularly the various
groups of Christians scattered in widely separated towns, and by means
of the launch was preaching in all the towns on the Gaboon and its
tributaries. Its loss would have undone my work. And besides, there was
a sentimental attachment which I can hardly explain. In that prolonged
exile, this commodious, and almost luxurious, launch represented
civilization—fine buildings, libraries, music, hotels, porterhouse
steak, ice-cream and so forth, besides friends, home and all that. Well,
when the suspense was completely relieved and the _Dorothy_ was going at
full speed back to her anchorage—but no one could understand who has not
been an exile from home and civilization.
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