Samba: A Story of the Rubber Slaves of the Congo Read online

  CHAPTER I

  The Coming of the White Man

  Samba lay face downwards upon the yellow sand, amid which his bodyshone in the sunlight like polished ebony. Behind, the rising bank wasthick with trees and shrubs ablaze with colour, overspread with thedelicate tracery of lianas and, creeping plants. Here was a spot ofred, there a dash of orange; at intervals the pale yellow flowers ofclimbing gourds and the mauve blossoms of convolvuli peeped from thewall of vivid green. Tiny rills made music as they trickled throughthe foliage; and near at hand was a path trodden by herds of antelopesas they came to drink.

  Before, rolled the brown waters of a broad river, rippling overwhitened rocks in the bed, or over the gnarled limbs of fallen trees.Here, on a sandy islet, flashed the scarlet and blue of littlekingfishers, contrasting with the sober grey of the bittern, or theblack and white of the vulture. A giant heron perched on a lowoverhanging branch, gazing solemnly at the ibis standing solitary by adistant bush.

  On a smooth spot at Samba's right sported innumerable butterflies, blueand green and crimson, amid bees and dragon-flies lazily basking in theheat. Samba had but to stretch out his hand to make prisoners of whathe chose. But Samba's attention was already occupied. Looking overthe brink into the placid water, his eye was caught by a small roundsoft object lying motionless on the surface. A tiny crocodile, only afew inches long, darted from beneath the leaf of a water-lily, inpursuit of a tinier fish. The round object suddenly contracted: therewas a ripple on the water, and the baby crocodile found itself in thegrasp of a droll little proboscis that shot out, gripped its haplessprey, and drew it beneath the surface. Samba smiled: he knew that justbelow lay a trionyx, the owner of that little nostrilled proboscis; hewasted no sympathy on the baby crocodile, which would never grow big tosnap up little negro boys at the waterside.

  All around was silence, save for the hum of insects and the gentlelapping of the water on the sand. Then a slight sound caught Samba'sear, and turning, he saw a handsome young lizard, pied with yellow andgreenish black, flashing along in chase of a fat frog which it hadmarked for its own. A swish of its flexible tail, a snap of its savageteeth, and ranunculus disappeared--a choice morsel for breakfast.

  Such scenes as these gave Samba constant entertainment. He would oftenwander alone from his village, as he had done to-day, carrying hislittle broad-bladed dagger in case a snake should cross his path, andspend hours in the forest or by the river bank, listening to thechatter of the monkeys and the screams of the parrots, watching thelittle stingless bees at their work, mocking the hollow note of thedrumbird or the wild pigeon's doleful call, studying the busy doings ofthe multitudinous ants. There was not a bird or beast or insect withinrange of his village with whose ways Samba was not familiar.

  The trionyx steered himself down stream; the lizard, swishing hispliant tail, went off in search of other prey; and Samba's bright eyesfollowed the mazy movements of the myriad flies sporting on the surfaceof the sunlit water, and the shining fish darting this way and that inthe clear depths. Suddenly a scream of the fishing eagle caused him toglance up. Then a shout made him spring to his feet and lookwonderingly in the direction of the sound. He knew no fear. His lithedusky body, bare save for a scrap of cloth about his loins and a stringof cowries round his neck, stood erect and alert; his keen intelligenteyes 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 Baengastood at the paddles, bending forward as they made their strokes. Twoother negroes squatted in the forepart of the boat. Amidships satanother figure, the sight of which gave Samba a delightful thrill ofexpectation. It was a white man, with fair hair and beard, clad all inwhite. Could this be Bula Matadi, Samba wondered, the white man whomhis grandfather, the chief Mirambo, had seen long ago at Wanganga? Hewaited, standing still as a rock. The boat drew nearer, a few morestrokes of the paddle and it came under the bank. The white man leaptashore, followed by the two men who had been seated. They were bigfierce-looking fellows. Each carried a long strangely-shaped stickwith a hollow tube; about his waist dangled a bag of skin. The whiteman stepped up to Samba, smiled upon him, patted his woolly head. Thenone of the negroes began to question him. Where was his village? Whatwas it called? Who was its chief? How many huts did it contain? Wasthere much forest about it? To these questions Samba replied frankly;surely it was a great honour to his grandfather that the white manshould take such interest in him! Then came a question that somewhatamused him. Did the forest contain _botofe_?[3] He smiled. Of courseit did. Were not the drumsticks in his village made of _botofe_? Whata strange question to ask of a forest boy! The white man smiled inreturn, and said something in a strange tongue to the negro who hadspoken. "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, astreet of bamboo huts thatched with palm leaves and shadowed by thebroad foliage of bananas and plantains and tall forest trees. Hisgrandfather Mirambo was the village chief, a tall, strong, wise oldman, a great fighter in his day, his body scarred with wounds, hismemory stored with the things he had seen and done. Samba's father,Mboyo (or Isekasamba, "father of Samba," as he was called after his boywas born), was the old chief's favourite son, a daring hunter, askilful fisher, and the most silent man of his tribe. He had severalwives, but Samba's mother was the best loved of them all, and woreabout her ankles the brass rings that betokened her supreme place inher husband's affections. Grandfather, father, mother, all doted onSamba, and for eleven years he had lived a happy merry life, the pet ofthe village.

  Nothing had troubled the peace of the little community. Banonga was asecluded village, on the outskirts of a dense forest, not far from oneof the innumerable tributaries of the great river Congo. Life passedeasily 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, hangabout their necks the charms that would preserve them from accident andensure 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 themthe _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 greatplenty." Then they would shout their farewells, and hasten withlight-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 theirchildren and fill their vessels with water for the day's cooking.Others, with baskets slung upon their backs and rude implements upontheir shoulders, sped to the gardens and cultivated fields, to performtheir simple operations of husbandry, and to return by and by withmanioc, plantains, ground-nuts, which they would prepare against theirhusbands' return. The morning's work done, they would dress theirhair, carefully, even fastidiously; kindle the fires of threeconverging logs, and set upon them well-heaped pots of manioc, coveredwith leaves of plantain or nongoti to prevent the escape of steam.Some would prattle or sing lullabies to their babes, others form littleknots and gossip, laughing and jesting without a thought of care.

  All day the village was cheered by the merry antics and joyous shoutsof the children at play. Like children all over the world, the boysand girls of the Congo delight in mimicking their elders. The boysmade little hunting-nets and ran hither and thither in mock chase, orspread their fishing-nets in the stream and gleefully boasted of theirtiny catches. The girls wove little baskets and played with beads andshells. One and all, the children of Banonga were deft with theirfingers, and none so deft as Samba. He was always busy, shaping now amortar for his mother, now a chair for his grandfather, now a wickerbasket so cl
ose in texture that he could bring in it water from thestream without spilling a drop.

  Most of all Samba loved to squat by his grandfather's chair in the lateafternoon, when the old chief sat alone, chin on hand, waiting for thereturn of the men. Then, and on dark nights, Mirambo would recite, inhis deep musical voice, interminable stories and legends, of thespirits that haunted the woods, of the animals he had hunted and slain,of narrow escapes from the greedy jaws of crocodiles, of fierce fightswith cannibals, of adventurous journeys by field and flood. Sambanever tired of one story: how, years before, Mirambo had made a longjourney to Wanganga, far, very far away, and had there seen a whiteman, who wore cloth all over his body, and had come up the river on awonderful smoke-boat, driven by a fiery snorting devil that devouredinsatiably great logs of wood. Bula Matadi, "breaker of rocks," thiswonderful white man was called; but Mirambo had heard that in his owncountry he was called Tanalay.[4] Samba would listen with all his earsto his grandfather's long narratives, inwardly resolving that he too,when he became a man, would take long journeys and see marvellousthings--white men, and smoke-boats, and all.

  Then, as the sun draws towards its setting, out of the forest therecome faint strains of song. Mirambo's monotone ceases: he sits erect,expectant; the women run out of the huts above which the wreathingsmoke proclaims preparations for the evening meal; the children gatherin a laughing chattering flock at the end of the street. The sound ofsinging draws nearer: at length it stops abruptly, but instantly isfollowed by a loud prolonged shout; only Lianza's brazen throat canutter 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 hiscompanions. "Yo!" shout eighty men as one. And out of the forestspring the dusky band, laden with their spoils, which with an exultantshout they set down before the chief, amid cries and hand-clapping andslapping of the thighs by the women and children welcoming theirreturn. The flesh is cut up, the fish divided: the women return totheir 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, squattingon their hams, give themselves up to the joy of watching the gyrationsof the dancing women, who, in their aprons of long grass, decoratedwith tinkling bells, whirl around to the barbaric music of drums andcastanets, as the day darkens and the moon throws her silvery beamsupon 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 whitestranger.

  The village came in sight, nestling in a glade. The laughing childrenceased their play, and stood finger in mouth shyly contemplating thenew comers. The women, busily grinding manioc with pestle and mortarin the open, looked up with startled glance and fled into their huts,where they stood peeping from behind the posts of palm. Mirambo, thechief, rose from his seat and awaited with dignity the approach of thewhite man. Ceremonious greetings were exchanged. Then ensued a longconversation, the white man speaking, his negroes translating to thechief. He listened intently, and replied in brief phrases, most oftencontenting himself with exclamations of assent--"Inde!" "Ng'oko!" or ofdissent--"Lako!" "O nye!"

  _Botofe_! Yes, he knew where _botofe_ could be found. And the whiteman, 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 criesof anger, and spears, and knives. Had not he, Mirambo, seen BulaMatadi, the friend of the black man? "When my sons return from theirhunting," said Mirambo, "they shall provide the stranger with all thathe needs. They shall give him plantains, and fowls, and cakes of_kwanga_;[5] they shall make ready a hut for him; and _botofe_--yes, ifhe needs _botofe_, my young men shall go into the forest and fill theirbaskets with _botofe_ for him. No one shall say but that the white manis welcome in Banonga."

  [1] Are you there?

  [2] I am here.

  [3] Rubber.

  [4] H. M. Stanley.

  [5] A preparation of manioc.