Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: Samba and the crocodile]
SAMBA
A Story of the Rubber Slaves
of the Congo
By
HERBERT STRANG
_Author of "One of Clive's Heroes," "Kobo," "Brown of Moukden," "Tom
Burnaby," etc., etc_
ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I.
"Botofe bo le iwa!--Rubber is Death!"--_Congo Proverb_.
_SECOND EDITION_
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE ------ HODDER & STOUGHTON
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS ------ WARWICK SQUARE, E.C.
1908
Copyright, 1906, by the BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY,
in the United States of America.
_Butler and Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London_
PREFACE
Nearly a generation has passed since King Leopold was entrusted by the
great Powers with the sovereignty of the Congo Free State. The
conscience of Christendom had been shocked by the stories, brought back
by Stanley and other travellers, of Arab slave raids on the Upper
Congo; King Leopold, coming forward with the strongest assurances of
philanthropic motive, was welcomed as the champion of the negro, who
should bring peace and the highest blessings of civilization to the
vast territory thus placed under his sway. For many succeeding years
it was supposed that this work of deliverance, of regeneration, was
being prosecuted with all diligence; the power of the slave traders was
broken, towns were built, roads made, railways opened--none of the
outward signs of material progress were wanting.
But of late the civilized world has been horrified to find that this
imposing structure has been cemented with the life blood of the Congo
races; that the material improvements to which the administrators of
Congoland can point, have been purchased by an appalling amount of
suffering inflicted upon the hapless negroes. The collection of
rubber, on which the whole fabric of Congo finance rests, involves a
disregard of liberty, an indifference to suffering, a destruction of
human life, almost inconceivable. Those who best know the country
estimate that the population is annually reduced, under King Leopold's
rule, by at least a hundred thousand. No great war, no famine, no
pestilence in the world's history has been so merciless a scourge as
civilization in Congoland.
Yet owing to mutual jealousies, the Powers are slow to take action, and
while they hesitate to intervene, the population of this great region,
nearly as large as Europe, is fast disappearing.
It has been my aim in this book to show, within necessary limitations,
what the effect of the white man's rule has been.
If any reader should be tempted to imagine that the picture here drawn
is overcoloured, I would commend him to the publications issued by Mr.
E. D. Morel and his co-workers of the Congo Reform Association, with
every confidence that the cause of the Congo native will thereby gain a
new adherent.
I must express my very great thanks to the Rev. J. H. Harris and Mrs.
Harris, who have spent several years on the Upper Congo, for their
kindness in reading the manuscript and revising the proofs of this
book, and for many most helpful suggestions and criticisms.
HERBERT STRANG.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
The Coming of the White Man
CHAPTER II
"Rubber is Death"
CHAPTER III
Monsieur Elbel
CHAPTER IV
Night Alarms
CHAPTER V
The Order of Merit
CHAPTER VI
Samba is Missing
CHAPTER VII
Blood Brothers
CHAPTER VIII
Jack in Command
CHAPTER IX
Samba Meets the Little Men
CHAPTER X
A Trip with a Crocodile
CHAPTER XI
Bula Matadi Comes to Ilola
CHAPTER XII
Samba comes Back
CHAPTER XIII
"Honour thy Father and thy Mother"
CHAPTER XIV
Lokolobolo's First Fight
CHAPTER XV
A Revolt at Ilola
CHAPTER XVI
The House by the Water
CHAPTER XVII
A Buffalo Hunt
CHAPTER XVIII
Elbel's Barrels
CHAPTER XIX
Breaking the Blockade
CHAPTER XX
David and Goliath
CHAPTER XXI
A Dash and all Together
CHAPTER XXII
A Message and a Meeting
CHAPTER XXIII
Elbel Squares Accounts
CHAPTER XXIV
A Solemn Charge
CHAPTER XXV
A Break for Liberty
CHAPTER XXVI
Turning the Tables
CHAPTER XXVII
The Return of Lokolobolo
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Chicotte
Chapter XXIX
Reaping the Whirlwind
Chapter XXX
Sinews of War
Chapter XXXI
Summons and Surrender
Chapter XXXII
The Dawn of Freedom
Chapter XXXIII
Conclusion
ILLUSTRATIONS
PLATE
I Samba and the Crocodile . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
II The Finding of Samba
III A Midnight Encounter
IV Jack Turns the Tables
V Jack Rushes Elbel's Camp
VI Samba Rescued from the Burning Hut
Ilombekabasi and surrounding Country, showing Elbel's first
camp in foreground
Ilombekabasi and surrounding country, showing the diverted
stream and Elbel's third camp
"Every boy and youth is, in his mind and sentiments, a knight, and
essentially a son of chivalry. Nature is fine in him.... As long as
there have been, or shall be, young men to grow up to maturity; and
until all youthful life shall be dead, and its source withered for
ever; so long must there have been, and must there continue to be, the
spirit of noble chivalry. To understand therefore this first and, as
it were, natural chivalry, we have only to observe the features of the
youthful age, of which examples surround us."
EDWARD FITZGERALD.
CHAPTER I
The Coming of the White Man
Samba lay face downwards upon the yellow sand, amid which his body
shone in the sunlight like polished ebony. Behind, the rising bank was
thick with trees and shrubs ablaze with colour, overspread with the
delicate tracery of lianas and, creeping plants. Here was a spot of
red, there a dash of orange; at intervals the pale yellow flowers of
climbing gourds and the mauve blossoms of convolvuli peeped from the
wall of vivid green. Tiny rills made music as they trickled through
the foliage; and near at hand was a path trodden by herds of antelopes
as they came to drink.
Before, rolled the brown waters of a broad river, rippling over
whitened rocks in the bed, or over the gnarled limbs of fallen trees.
Here, on a sandy islet, flashed the scarlet and blue of little
kingfishers, contrasting with the sober grey of the bittern, or the
black and white of the vulture. A giant heron perched on a low
overhanging branch, gazing solemnly at the ibis standing solitary by a
distant bush.
On a smooth spot at Samba's right sported innumerable butterflies, blue
and green and crimson, amid bees and dragon-flies lazily basking in the
heat. Samba had but to stretch out his hand to make prisoners of what
he chose. But Samba's attention was already occupied. Looking over
the brink into the placid water, his eye was caught by a small round
soft object lying motionless on the surface. A tiny crocodile, only a
few inches long, darted from beneath the leaf of a water-lily, in
pursuit of a tinier fish. The round object suddenly contracted: there
was a ripple on the water, and the baby crocodile found itself in the
grasp of a droll little proboscis that shot out, gripped its hapless
prey, and drew it beneath the surface. Samba smiled: he knew that just
below lay a trionyx, the owner of that little nostrilled proboscis; he
wasted no sympathy on the baby crocodile, which would never grow big to
snap up little negro boys at the waterside.
All around was silence, save for the hum of insects and the gentle
lapping of the water on the sand. Then a slight sound caught Samba's
ear, and turning, he saw a handsome young lizard, pied with yellow and
greenish black, flashing along in chase of a fat frog which it had
marked for its own. A swish of its flexible tail, a snap of its savage
teeth, and ranunculus disappeared--a choice morsel for breakfast.
Such scenes as these gave Samba constant entertainment. He would often
wander alone from his village, as he had done to-day, carrying his
little broad-bladed dagger in case a snake should cross his path, and
spend hours in the forest or by the river bank, listening to the
chatter of the monkeys and the screams of the parrots, watching the
little stingless bees at their work, mocking the hollow note of the
drumbird or the wild pigeon's doleful call, studying the busy doings of
the multitudinous ants. There was not a bird or beast or insect within
range of his village with whose ways Samba was not familiar.
The trionyx steered himself down stream; the lizard, swishing his
pliant tail, went off in search of other prey; and Samba's bright eyes
followed the mazy movements of the myriad flies sporting on the surface
of the sunlit water, and the shining fish darting this way and that in
the clear depths. Suddenly a scream of the fishing eagle caused him to
glance up. Then a shout made him spring to his feet and look
wonderingly in the direction of the sound. He knew no fear. His lithe
dusky body, bare save for a scrap of cloth about his loins and a string
of cowries round his neck, stood erect and alert; his keen intelligent
eyes expressed nothing but surprise and curiosity. Again came the hail.
"W'onkoe!"[1]
"Em'one!"[2] called Samba in reply.
A boat was being slowly paddled up the stream. Ten stalwart Baenga
stood at the paddles, bending forward as they made their strokes. Two
other negroes squatted in the forepart of the boat. Amidships sat
another figure, the sight of which gave Samba a delightful thrill of
expectation. It was a white man, with fair hair and beard, clad all in
white. Could this be Bula Matadi, Samba wondered, the white man whom
his grandfather, the chief Mirambo, had seen long ago at Wanganga? He
waited, standing still as a rock. The boat drew nearer, a few more
strokes of the paddle and it came under the bank. The white man leapt
ashore, followed by the two men who had been seated. They were big
fierce-looking fellows. Each carried a long strangely-shaped stick
with a hollow tube; about his waist dangled a bag of skin. The white
man stepped up to Samba, smiled upon him, patted his woolly head. Then
one of the negroes began to question him. Where was his village? What
was it called? Who was its chief? How many huts did it contain? Was
there much forest about it? To these questions Samba replied frankly;
surely it was a great honour to his grandfather that the white man
should take such interest in him! Then came a question that somewhat
amused him. Did the forest contain _botofe_?[3] He smiled. Of course
it did. Were not the drumsticks in his village made of _botofe_? What
a strange question to ask of a forest boy! The white man smiled in
return, and said something in a strange tongue to the negro who had
spoken. "Take us to your village," said the man; and, nothing loth,
Samba set off like a young deer, the three men following him.
Samba was eleven years old. His home was the village of Banonga, a
street of bamboo huts thatched with palm leaves and shadowed by the
broad foliage of bananas and plantains and tall forest trees. His
grandfather Mirambo was the village chief, a tall, strong, wise old
man, a great fighter in his day, his body scarred with wounds, his
memory stored with the things he had seen and done. Samba's father,
Mboyo (or Isekasamba, "father of Samba," as he was called after his boy
was born), was the old chief's favourite son, a daring hunter, a
skilful fisher, and the most silent man of his tribe. He had several
wives, but Samba's mother was the best loved of them all, and wore
about her ankles the brass rings that betokened her supreme place in
her husband's affections. Grandfather, father, mother, all doted on
Samba, and for eleven years he had lived a happy merry life, the pet of
the village.
Nothing had troubled the peace of the little community. Banonga was a
secluded village, on the outskirts of a dense forest, not far from one
of the innumerable tributaries of the great river Congo. Life passed
easily and pleasantly for these children of Nature. In the morning,
ere the sun was up, the men would spring from their simple bamboo beds,
fling their hunting-nets or fishing-baskets on their shoulders, hang
about their necks the charms that would preserve them from accident and
ensure success in the work of the day, and repair to the old chief,
who, sitting on his forked chair in the middle of the street, gave them
the _bokaku_--the blessing without which they never left the village.
"May you be preserved from accident," he would say; "from wild beasts,
from snags in the path and snakes in the grass, and return with great
plenty." Then they would shout their farewells, and hasten with
light-hearted laughter into the forest or down to the river.
Meanwhile the women had been long astir. Some, babe on one arm,
calabash in the other, went singing to a forest stream, to bathe their
children and fill their vessels with water for the day's cooking.
Others, with baskets slung upon their backs and rude implements upon
their shoulders, sped to the gardens and cultivated fields, to perform
their simple operations of husbandry, and to return by and by with
manioc, plantains, ground-nuts, which they would prepare against their
husbands' return. The morning's work done, they would dress their
hair, carefully, even fastidiously; kindle the fires of three
converging logs, and set upon them well-heaped pots of manioc, covered
with leaves of plantain or nongoti to prevent the escape of steam.
Some would prattle or sing lullabies to their babes, others form little
knots and gossip, laughing and jesting without a thought of care.
All day the village was cheered by the merry antics and joyous shouts
of the children at play. Like children all over the world, the boys
and girls of the Congo delight in mimicking their elders. The boys
made little hunting-nets and ran hither and thither in mock chase, or
spread their fishing-nets in the stream and gleefully boasted of their
tiny catches. The girls wove little baskets and played with beads and
shells. One and all, the children of Banonga were deft with their
fingers, and none so deft as Samba. He was always busy, shaping now a
mortar for his mother, now a chair for his grandfather, now a wicker
basket so close in texture that he could bring in it water from the
stream without spilling a drop.
Most of all Samba loved to squat by his grandfather's chair in the late
afternoon, when the old chief sat alone, chin on hand, waiting for the
return of the men. Then, and on dark nights, Mirambo would recite, in
his deep musical voice, interminable stories and legends, of the
spirits that haunted the woods, of the animals he had hunted and slain,
of narrow escapes from the greedy jaws of crocodiles, of fierce fights
with cannibals, of adventurous journeys by field and flood. Samba
never tired of one story: how, years before, Mirambo had made a long
journey to Wanganga, far, very far away, and had there seen a white
man, who wore cloth all over his body, and had come up the river on a
wonderful smoke-boat, driven by a fiery snorting devil that devoured
insatiably great logs of wood. Bula Matadi, "breaker of rocks," this
wonderful white man was called; but Mirambo had heard that in his own
country he was called Tanalay.[4] Samba would listen with all his ears
to his grandfather's long narratives, inwardly resolving that he too,
when he became a man, would take long journeys and see marvellous
things--white men, and smoke-boats, and all.
Then, as the sun draws towards its setting, out of the forest there
come faint strains of song. Mirambo's monotone ceases: he sits erect,
expectant; the women run out of the huts above which the wreathing
smoke proclaims preparations for the evening meal; the children gather
in a laughing chattering flock at the end of the street. The sound of
singing draws nearer: at length it stops abruptly, but instantly is
followed by a loud prolonged shout; only Lianza's brazen throat can
utter that sonorous cry:--
"I-yo-li-o! I-yo-li-o-o!"
And the long-drawn hail of Lianza is broken in upon by the roar of his
companions. "Yo!" shout eighty men as one. And out of the forest
spring the dusky band, laden with their spoils, which with an exultant
shout they set down before the chief, amid cries and hand-clapping and
slapping of the thighs by the women and children welcoming their
return. The flesh is cut up, the fish divided: the women return to
their huts to cook the supper; the children cling about their fathers'
legs and recount the little adventures of the day. The meal is eaten:
the whole population form a wide circle in the street, and, squatting
on their hams, give themselves up to the joy of watching the gyrations
of the dancing women, who, in their aprons of long grass, decorated
with tinkling bells, whirl around to the barbaric music of drums and
castanets, as the day darkens and the moon throws her silvery beams
upon the scene.
Such were the daily scenes amid which Samba passed his happy boyhood,
in the village of Banonga, whither he was now leading the white
stranger.
The village came in sight, nestling in a glade. The laughing children
ceased their play, and stood finger in mouth shyly contemplating the
new comers. The women, busily grinding manioc with pestle and mortar
in the open, looked up with startled glance and fled into their huts,
where they stood peeping from behind the posts of palm. Mirambo, the
chief, rose from his seat and awaited with dignity the approach of the
white man. Ceremonious greetings were exchanged. Then ensued a long
conversation, the white man speaking, his negroes translating to the
chief. He listened intently, and replied in brief phrases, most often
contenting himself with exclamations of assent--"Inde!" "Ng'oko!" or of
dissent--"Lako!" "O nye!"
_Botofe_! Yes, he knew where _botofe_ could be found. And the white
man, the Son of Heaven, wanted _botofe_; it had some value for him?
Well, he should have it. Who so hospitable as the men of Banonga?
They were not as the men of Kinshassa, who met the white man with cries
of anger, and spears, and knives. Had not he, Mirambo, seen Bula
Matadi, the friend of the black man? "When my sons return from their
hunting," said Mirambo, "they shall provide the stranger with all that
he needs. They shall give him plantains, and fowls, and cakes of
_kwanga_;[5] they shall make ready a hut for him; and _botofe_--yes, if
he needs _botofe_, my young men shall go into the forest and fill their
baskets with _botofe_ for him. No one shall say but that the white man
is welcome in Banonga."
[1] Are you there?
[2] I am here.
[3] Rubber.
[4] H. M. Stanley.
[5] A preparation of manioc.