Samba Part 2

"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 sc.r.a.pe 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, c.o.c.ked 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 s.p.a.che 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 pa.s.sed; then Nando turned round and with a beaming smile said:

"He understan' all same now, sah. I say ma.s.sa Inglesa ginleman, blood brudder Ta.n.a.lay, oh yes. He know 'bout Ta.n.a.lay: 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 circ.u.mstances by the natives, practically an intensive for various forms of the verb _to be_.

CHAPTER III

Monsieur Elbel

Samba made no resistance when Nando lifted him and carried him to the centre of the clearing. He moaned once or twice as the Baenga pressed his wounded arm, and almost fainted when he was laid on the ground before Mr. Martindale. But a sip from the traveller's flask revived him, and he smiled.

"That's better," said Mr. Martindale. "Poor boy! He looks half starved. Have you any food about you, Nando?"

"No, sah: get some one time."[1]

He went off into the thicket, and soon returned with a couple of scorched bananas. These Samba devoured ravenously.

"Now I wonder if he could tell us all about it?" said Mr. Martindale.

"Ask him, Nando."

Samba told his story. His dialect was different from Nando's, but there is a freemasonry of speech among the tribes of the Congo, and Nando understood. It was not so easy for the others to get at the meaning of Nando's strange jargon as he interpreted, but they listened patiently, and missed little of the narrative. Mr. Martindale sat on an upturned pot, Jack and Barney on charred logs. Nando squatted beside Samba on the ground, and Pat thrust his muzzle contentedly between the boy's knees and seemed to sleep.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The finding of Samba]

One night, when the moon was at the full, a messenger had come into Banonga village. The time was at hand when the agent of Bula Matadi would attend to collect the tax--the weight of rubber exacted by the Congo State from every able-bodied man. The messenger reminded the chief that Banonga had several times been in default. Only a few men had hitherto been punished, only a few women carried away as hostages for the diligence of their husbands. But the patience of Bula Matadi was exhausted. If on this occasion the due measure of rubber was not forthcoming, the anger of Bula Matadi would blaze, the soldiers would come, and the men of Banonga would have cause to rue their idleness.

The chief listened in silence. He was old; his body was bowed, his spirit broken. Life in Banonga was no longer the same since the white man came. All the joy of life was gone; the people spent their days in unremitting toil, endeavouring to satisfy the cry of their rulers for rubber, always rubber, more rubber. When the messenger arrived the men were away hunting for rubber, but Mirambo knew that, were they doubled in number, they could not gather the quant.i.ty required. The vines in their district were exhausted; the men had not been taught how to tap them; they destroyed as they went, and now the whole district around Banonga would not yield half of what was demanded of them. The poor old chief trembled when he thought of the woe that was coming to Banonga, for he now knew from the fate of other villages on the river what the messenger of Bula Matadi foreshadowed. Unless his men could achieve the impossible, find rubber where there was none, the blow would fall. And when it fell Banonga would be no more. The village a little while ago so happy and prosperous would be destroyed, its people killed or scattered. So it had happened to other villages: how could he hope that Banonga would be spared? The messenger indeed had spoken of the leniency of Bula Matadi, but the chief might have reminded him of the outrages the people had suffered; of the rapacity, the ruthless brutalities, of the forest guards. But he said no word of provocation; only, when the man had gone, Samba heard him mutter the terrible sentence now too often on his lips: "Botofe bo le iwa: rubber is death!"

The day came: the agent of Bula Matadi appeared, with an armed escort.

The men of Banonga had not returned. They came dropping in by ones and twos and threes, worn out with their long quest. The rubber was weighed: in many cases it was short; excuses were rejected, entreaties scoffed at. The hapless victims suffered taunts, abuse, the terrible whip. One, less enduring than the rest, resisted. This was the signal. A dozen rifles were raised--a dozen shots rang out, strong forms lay writhing in the agony of death. A brief, sharp struggle; another fusillade; and the terrified survivors, men, women and children, fled helter-skelter to the forest, pursued by the shots of the soldiery, ruthless of age or s.e.x. A raid was made upon their deserted huts: everything that had value for the native levies was seized; then the match was applied, and soon what had once been a prosperous happy village was a heap of smouldering ruins.

Samba saw it all. He remained dauntless by his grandfather's side until a bullet put an end to the old chief's life; then he too fled into the forest, to find his father and mother, his brothers and sisters. But he had delayed too long; one of the sentinels fired at him as he ran: his left arm was struck. He struggled on, but his friends were now out of reach: he could not find them. For several days he wandered about, supporting his life on roots and herbs in the vain search for his people. Then, growing hourly weaker, he crept back to his village, hoping that by and by the survivors would return to their desolated homes, to rebuild their huts, and sow new crops. But none came. He was alone! And he had lain down among the trees--as he thought, to die.

"Poor little fellow!" said Mr. Martindale. "How old is he, Nando?"

"He say ten three years, sah," replied Nando after consulting the boy.

"Thirteen. He looks older. This is a pretty kettle of fish. What can we do with him?"

"We must take him with us, uncle!" said Jack.

"Take him with us, indeed! What can we do with him? We can't hunt for his father and mother: he'd be of no use to us in our job. He wants doctoring: he might die on our hands."