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.

"Botofé 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

II 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 botofé?[3] He smiled. Of course it did. Were not the drumsticks in his village made of botofé? 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!"

Botofé! Yes, he knew where botofé could be found. And the white man, the Son of Heaven, wanted botofé; 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 botofé—yes, if he needs botofé, my young men shall go into the forest and fill their baskets with botofé 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.

CHAPTER II

"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?"