"Rubber is Death"
"Whew! This is a warm country, Jack. There'll soon be nothing left of
us."
"There's plenty at present, uncle," replied Jack Challoner with a
smile. "Barney can spare less, after all."
"Sure an' that's the truth's truth, sorr. 'Twas the sorrow uv me
mother's heart that I ran to length instid uv breadth. Whin I was a
bhoy she had to buy breeches always a size too long for me, and me
bones grew so fast they almost made holes in me skin--they did."
"Confound it, man, that's where you score. The mosquitoes leave you
alone: can't find enough juice in you to make it worth their while to
worry you. Whereas they suck at me till I'm all ulcers. Hi! Nando,
when shall we get to this Banonga we've heard so much about?"
"Berrah soon, sah. Paddle small small, sah, den Banonga."
Mr. Martindale mopped his brow and drew his white umbrella closer down
upon his head. He was lying under a grass shelter amidships a dug-out,
with his nephew Jack at his side and his man Barney O'Dowd at his feet.
The clumsy native craft rocked to and fro under the paddles of twelve
stalwart Baenga, who stood, their bodies bent slightly forward, singing
in time with their strokes. They were paddling against the current of
a stream that forced its brown waters into one of the tributaries of
the Congo. It was a broiling day. A rainstorm in the night had
cleared the sky of the haze that commonly covered it, and the sun beat
down out of a dome of fleckless blue, irradiating the crimsons and
purples, the golds and whites, of the rich vegetation on the banks.
"I tell you, Jack," continued Mr. Martindale, "I shall grumble if this
talk of Banonga turns out to be wind. I don't see what the Congo State
has to gain by exterminating the natives; and we know what liars these
blacks can be."
"Suppose the talk of gold turns out to be wind, uncle?"
"Eh? What's that? Wind! Rubbish! The difference is that we hear of
Banonga from the blacks; but 'twas Barnard told me of the gold, and
Barnard hasn't got enough imagination to say more than he knows. No,
the gold is there safe enough; and I tell you I shall be glad when we
get through this Banonga and can proceed to business."
John Martindale was a florid well-preserved man of fifty-five years.
Born in New York, he had early gone west, rapidly made his pile in
California, and retired from the direction of his mines. But meeting
one day in San Francisco an old friend of his, a queer stick of a
fellow named Barnard, who spent his life in roaming over the world and
making discoveries that laid the foundation of other men's fortunes,
not his own, he learnt from him that clear signs of gold had been
observed in the Maranga district on the Upper Congo. Mr. Martindale
was very rich; but, like many another man, he found after his
retirement that time hung somewhat heavy on his hands. He was still
full of energy, and Barnard's story of gold in a new country stirred
the imagination of the old miner. He decided to take a trip to Africa
and test his friend's information. As a matter of course he invited
Barnard to accompany him.
"No, no, John," replied his friend. "I scratched the soil; I know gold
is there; I've no further interest in the stuff. I'm off to the
Philippines next week. Go and dig, old fellow, and take plenty of
quinine with you."
It happened that Mr. Martindale's only nephew, Jack Challoner, a lad of
seventeen, was just home from school. He was an orphan. His mother,
Mr. Martindale's sister, had married an English barrister of great
ability, who had already made a name at the Parliamentary Bar. But he
died when his boy was only six years old; two years later his wife
followed him to the grave, and the guardianship of Jack fell to his
uncle, who, being a bachelor without other ties, readily assumed the
charge. He surprised his friends by the course he took with the boy.
Instead of bringing him to America, he entered him at Bilton and
afterwards at Rugby, declaring that as the boy was English it was only
fair he should receive an English education. "I read _Tom Brown_ years
ago," he would say, "and if they turn 'em out now as they did
then--well, we can't do better this side of the herring pond." Jack
spent his holidays either in America, or in travelling about Europe
with his uncle, and the two became great chums.
But when Jack reached his seventeenth birthday Mr. Martindale again
surprised his friends. "Send him to Oxford?" he said. "Not much! He
has had nearly four years at Rugby, he's in the fifth form, and I guess
he's enough book learning to serve his turn. He's tip-top at sports:
he's a notion of holding his own and helping lame dogs; and I don't
want his nose to turn up, as I believe noses have a trick of doing at
Oxford. No: the boy'll come home. I don't know what he's to be; but
I'll soon find out what he's fit for, and then he'll have to work at
it. The least I could do for his father's sake was to give him an
English education; he'll come back to America for a smartening up."
It was not long after Jack's return that Mr. Martindale met his friend
Barnard. Since Barnard would not be his companion, Jack should. "It
will do you no harm to see a little travel off the beaten track," he
said, "and I'm not going to work the gold myself: my mining days are
done. You may tumble to it; in that case you'll stay in Africa and
take care not to waste my capital. You may not: that'll be one thing
settled, anyway."
Accordingly, when Mr. Martindale sailed for Europe he took Jack with
him. With characteristic energy he very quickly settled the
preliminaries. He obtained for a comparatively small sum from a
Belgian trading company, the holders of a large concession on the Upper
Congo, the mining rights in the Maranga district, on condition of the
company receiving a percentage of the profits. The first practical
step having been taken, Mr. Martindale's interest in his project became
keen. He had never travelled out of America or Europe; there was a
certain glamour about an adventure in the heart of Africa; and he was
rich enough to indulge his humour, even if the results of Barnard's
discovery should prove disappointing.
Uncle and nephew sailed for Africa, spent a few days at Boma, travelled
over the cataract railway from Matadi to Leopoldville, and thence went
in a steamer for nearly three weeks up the Congo. Then, leaving the
main river, they embarked on a smaller steamer, plying on a tributary
stream. In about a week they arrived at a "head post," whence they
continued their journey, up a tributary of a tributary, by canoe. This
last stream was quite a considerable river as the term would be
understood in Europe, though neither so broad nor so deep as the one
they had just left. But this again was insignificant by comparison
with the mighty Congo itself, fed by a thousand tributaries in its
course of fifteen hundred miles from the heart of Africa to the sea.
Mr. Martindale became more and more impressed as the journey
lengthened, and at last burst out: "Well, now, this licks even the
Mississippi!"
But not the Shannon! Barney O'Dowd was a true Irishman. Mr.
Martindale had engaged him in London as handy-man to the expedition.
He had been in the army; he had been a gentleman's servant, wardroom
attendant at a hospital, drill-sergeant at a boys' school, 'bus
conductor, cabman, and chauffeur; but in none of these numerous
vocations, he said with a sigh, had he ever grown fat. He was long,
lean, strong as a horse; with honest merry blue eyes, and curly lips
that seemed made for smiling. He drove the travellers in a hansom
during the week they stayed in London, and looked so sorrowful when Mr.
Martindale announced his departure that the American, on the spur of
the moment, with bluff impulsiveness, invited him to join the
expedition.
"Sure an' 'tis me last chance, sorr," cried Barney, cheerfully
consenting. "A sea voyage does wonders for some. There was Terence
O'Bally, now, as thin as a lath in the ould counthry; he went to
Australia, and by the powers! when he came back to say 'God bless you'
to his ould mother, she did not know him at all at all, he was so full
in the flesh, sorr. Sure an' I'll come wid ye wid the greatest
pleasure in the world, and plase the pigs I'll fatten like Terence.
Only wan thing, sorr; ye would not have any inshuperable objection to
Pat, sorr?"
"Who on earth's Pat?"
"Just a dog, sorr; a little darlint uv a terrier no fatter than me,
sorr; as kind an' gentle as wan uv the blessed angels. He has as poor
appetite, sorr, an' sleeps on my coat, so he will not cost ye much for
board and lodging. And I would thank ye kindly, sorr, if I might but
go home to 'm an' say, 'Pat, me darlint, times is changed. We are in
luck, Pat. There's a nice, kind, fat, jolly American gentleman that
takes very kindly to dogs an' Irishmen, an'----'"
"There then, that'll do," said Mr. Martindale, laughing. "Bring Pat,
if you like. But he'll have to go if he proves a nuisance."
And so Pat became a member of the party. And he lay curled up now in
the bottom of the canoe, and cocked an eye as Barney declared with
emphasis that the Congo was a "mighty foine river, sure an' 'tis only
fair to say so; but by all the holy powers 'tis not to be compared wid
the Shannon, blessed be its name!"
It was Pat that sprang first ashore when the paddlers with a resounding
"Yo!" drove the canoe alongside a turfy platform by the bank, worn
level by the treading of innumerable feet. The dog uttered one sharp
bark, faced round to the river, and stood with ears pricked and stumpy
tail wagging, to watch his master step to land.
"Now, Nando," said Mr. Martindale, when all were ashore, "lead the way.
Not too fast: and not too near skeeters or jiggers."
"Berrah well, sah; me go fust; frighten skeeters all away."
Leaving ten of the crew in the canoe, the rest of the party set off
under Nando's guidance. He led them through the mass of tall grass
that lined the river bank, across a swampy stretch of heath, where a
narrow path wound in and out among trees large and small, beset by
dense undergrowth and climbing plants. Insects innumerable flitted and
buzzed around the travellers, provoking lively exclamations from Mr.
Martindale and Jack, and many a vicious snap from the terrier, but
leaving Barney almost untouched. Once a wild pig dashed across the
path and plunged into the thicket, with Pat barking frantically at its
heels. Here and there Mr. Martindale caught sight of red-legged
partridge and quail, and sighed for his rifle. Parrots squawked
overhead; once, from the far distance, muffled by the foliage, came the
trumpet of an elephant; but signs of humanity there were none, save the
meandering track.
At length, however, they came to a clear open space amid the trees,
where, on a low hill, stood a crude open hut, consisting of upright
supports surmounted by a roof of bamboos and leaves, and partly walled
by cloth.
"Berrah nice place, sah," said Nando cheerfully. "Chief him missis
buried dah."
The travellers approached with curiosity. Inside the shed they saw a
small image, roughly carved in semblance of a human figure, set upright
in the ground. At one side lay two or three wicker baskets, at the
other a bottle; in front a big iron spoon stuck out of the soil, and
all around were strewed hundreds of small beads. Nando explained that
these had been the property of the deceased lady.
"And is she buried under them?" asked Mr. Martindale, stepping back a
pace.
"Bit of her, sah."
"What do you mean--a bit of her?"
"All dey find, sah. Bula Matadi come, make big bobbery; bang! chief
him missis lib for[1] dead, sah. Bad man cut up, put in pot, only
little bit left, sah."
Mr. Martindale shivered, then waxed indignant.
"I don't believe it," he declared stoutly. "Such things aren't done in
these days. There are no cannibals in these days--eh, Jack?"
"I hope not, uncle. But are we near Banonga, Nando?"
"Small small, sah, den Banonga."
"Lead on, then," cried Mr. Martindale; "I want to see with my own eyes
whether those fellows were telling the truth."
Some distance down the river, just after camping for the night, Mr.
Martindale's rest had been disturbed by a loud and excited conversation
between his own party and a group of newcomers who had halted to
exchange greetings. Inquiring the cause of the commotion, he learnt
that the men had brought news of a terrible massacre that had taken
place at Banonga, a village in the forest many miles up stream. The
villagers had been remiss in their collection of rubber; the agents of
Bula Matadi (which, originally the native name for Sir H. M. Stanley,
had become the name for the Congo Free State) had appeared at the
village with a force of native soldiers, and, according to the
informant, who had received the news from an up-country man, the whole
population had been annihilated. Mr. Martindale had heard, in America
and England as well as in Africa, strange stories of the administration
of the Congo State; but, like many others, he had been inclined to
pooh-pooh the rumours of cruelty and atrocity as the vapourings of
sentimentalists. But the stories imperfectly interpreted by Nando on
that pleasant evening by the river made a new impression on him. He
was a hard-headed man of business, as little inclined to sentimentality
as any man could be; he hated any appeal to the emotions, and unasked
gave large subscriptions to hospitals and philanthropic societies so as
to avoid the harrowing of his feelings by collectors and other
importunate folk; but beneath his rough husk lay a very warm heart, as
none knew better than his nephew Jack; and the stories of cruelty told
by the lips of these natives made him feel very uncomfortable. At a
distance he could shut his eyes to things--open his purse to deserving
objects and believe that his duty was done; but here, on the spot, this
easy course was not possible. He did not like discomfort, bodily or
mental; it annoyed him when any external cause ruffled the serenity of
his life; and he made up his mind to pay a visit to Banonga on his way
up the river, test the negroes' story, and prove to his own
satisfaction, as he believed he would do, that it was exaggerated if
not untrue. That done, he would dismiss the matter from his thoughts,
and proceed to the proper business of his journey without anything to
disturb his peace of mind.
The party left the grave on the hill and followed the same path through
another stretch of forest until they came, almost unawares, upon a
large clearing.
"Banonga, massa," said Nando, stretching out his hand, and looking into
Mr. Martindale's eyes with a glance as of some frightened animal.
"Banonga! But where are the huts?" said Mr. Martindale.
No one answered him. The party of five stood at the edge of the
clearing, looking straight before them. Pat the terrier trotted
around, wagging his stump, and blinking up into their faces as if to
ask a question. What did they see? A long broad track, leading
between palms and plantains away into the impenetrable forest. These
leafy walls were vivid green, but the road itself was black. A smell
of charred wood and burnt vegetation filled the air. There was not a
complete hut to be seen. The space once thronged with a joyous
chattering crowd was now empty, save for ashes, half-burnt logs,
shattered utensils. Here and there a bird hopped and pecked, flying up
into the trees with shrill scream as Pat sprang barking towards it.
But for these sounds, the silence was as of death.
"Come," said Mr. Martindale, stepping forward. It was he who led the
way now as the party left the ring of forest and walked into the
clearing. Barney, coming behind with Nando, groaned aloud.
"Stop that noise!" cried Mr. Martindale, swinging round irritably.
"What's the matter with you, man?"
"Sorrow a bit the matter wid me, sorr; but it just brought into me
mimory a sight I saw in the ould counthry whin I was a bhoy; sure there
was nothing to see there either, and that's the pity uv it."
Mr. Martindale walked on without speaking, poking with his stick into
the black dust of the road. Nando went to his side, and pointed out
such traces of former habitations as remained: here a cooking pot,
there a half-consumed wicker basket, a broken knife, a blackened
bead-necklace. And among the other scattered evidences of rapine there
were the remains of human beings--skeletons, separate bones.
"Whoever did this did it thoroughly," remarked Mr. Martindale with
darkening brow. "But who did it? I won't believe it was Europeans
till 'tis proved. There are cannibals here; Nando said so: a cannibal
tribe may have raided the place. Eh? But where are the people?"
In the thick undergrowth, beyond the desolated village, crouched a
negro boy. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes unnaturally bright. His
left arm hung limp and nerveless; in his right hand he clutched a
broad-pointed dagger. He had been lying in a stupor until roused by a
sharp sound, the cry of some animal strange to him. Then he raised
himself slowly and with difficulty to his knees, and peered cautiously,
apprehensively, through the foliage amid which he was ensconced.
He glared and shrank back when he saw that among the strangers moving
about were two white men. But what was this animal they had brought
with them? he wondered. Goats he knew, and pigs, and the wild animals
of the forest; he knew the native dog, with its foxy head, smooth
yellowish coat, and bushy tail; but this creature was new to him.
True, it was like a dog, though its brown coat was rough and its tail
stumpy; but he had never seen the dogs of his village trot round their
masters as this was doing, never heard them speaking, as it seemed, to
the men with this quick sharp cry. The dogs he had known never barked;
their only utterance was a long howl, when they were hungry or in pain.
He hated white men, but loved animals; and, weak as he was, he raised
himself once more, and bent forward, to look at this active dog-like
creature that came and went in apparent joyousness.
A bird flew down from a tree, and alighted hardily within a couple of
yards of the terrier. This was too much for Pat. He darted at the
audacious bird, pursued it into the thicket, then came to a sudden
surprised stop when he descried a black form among the leaves. He
stood contemplating the boy with his honest brown eyes, and his tail
was very active. Then with one short bark he trotted back to his
master, and looked up at him as if to say: "I have made a discovery;
come and see." But man's intelligence is very limited. Barney did not
understand.
"And did the cratur' give ye the slip, then?" he said, patting the
dog's head.
"That's not the point," said Pat's barks; "I want you to come and see
what I have found," and he ran off again towards the thicket, turning
once or twice to see if his master was following. But Barney paid
little attention to him, and Pat, giving him up as hopeless, went on
alone to scrape acquaintance. He stood before the boy at a distance of
a yard, blinking at him between the tendrils of a creeper. Then he
advanced slowly, wagging his stump, poked his nose through the leaves,
and after a moment's sniffing deliberation put out his tongue and
licked the black knee he found there. The boy made with his closed
lips the humming sound with which the negro of the Congo expresses
pleasure, and next moment the dog's paws were in his hands, and the
two, dog and boy, were friends.
But whoever was a friend of Pat's must also be a friend of Barney
O'Dowd. It was not long before Pat awoke to a sense of his duty. He
tried with the negro the plan that had just failed with his master. He
retreated a little way, cocked his head round and barked, and waited
for the boy to follow. The latter understood at once; but he shook his
head, and said, "O nye! O nye!" under his breath, and lay still. Pat
began to see that there was something keeping the white man and the
black boy apart. It was very foolish, he thought; they were both such
good fellows: it was quite clear that they ought to be friends; but
what was a dog to do? He trotted slowly back to Barney, and began to
speak to him seriously, with a bark of very different intonation from
that he had previously employed.
"Well, and what is it wid ye thin?" said Barney.
"He has caught the bird, I expect," said Jack, amused at the dog's
manner, "and wants you to go and see it."
"Sure thin I will," said Barney, "and mutton being scarce, we will have
a new kind uv Irish stew, Pat me bhoy. But why did ye not bring it, me
darlint?"
He made to follow the dog, whose tail was now beating the air with
frantic delight. But he had no sooner reached the edge of the
plantation than there was a rustle among the leaves: the boy was
leaving his hiding-place and trying to crawl away into the forest.
"Begorra!" quoth Barney, "'tis a living cratur', and a bhoy, black as
the peat on me father's bog, and not knowing a word uv Irish, to be
sure."
Pat was rubbing his nose on the boy's flank, wondering why he had taken
to going on all fours. But the negro did not crawl far. Faint with
weakness, moaning with pain, he sank to the ground. Pat gave one bark
of sympathy and stood watching him. Meanwhile Jack had come up.
"A boy, did you say, Barney? What is he doing here?"
"Sure I would like to know that same, sorr, but niver a word uv his
spache did I learn. Perhaps he has niver seen a white man, not to say
an Irishman, before, and thinks 'tis a ghost."
"Nando, come here!" called Jack.
The paddler hurried up, followed quickly by Mr. Martindale.
"What's this? What's this? A boy! They're not all killed then."
"I think he's hurt, uncle, and scared. He tried to crawl away from us,
but seemed too weak."
"Well, lift him up, Barney; we'll see."
Barney approached, but the instant he stretched forth his hands the boy
uttered a piercing shriek, and made to thrust at him with his dagger.
"Come, this will never do," said Mr. Martindale. "Speak to him, Nando;
tell him we are friends, and will do him no harm."
Nando went up to the boy, and Pat stood by, wagging his tail and
looking inquiringly from one to the other as the negro talked in his
rapid staccato. A few minutes passed; then Nando turned round and with
a beaming smile said:
"He understan' all same now, sah. I say massa Inglesa ginleman, blood
brudder Tanalay, oh yes. He know 'bout Tanalay: he no 'fraid dis time;
he come along along. He Samba, sah."
[1] i.e. _live for_, an expression commonly used in all kinds of
circumstances by the natives, practically an intensive for various
forms of the verb _to be_.