Part 40 (1/2)
It was in truth a remarkable scene. Arranged in three concentric semicircles stood the throng of a thousand negroes, including representatives of almost every race known to the eastern half of Central Africa. A few steps in advance of the rest stood Mwonga, the young Bahima chief, with the katikiro and a few other of his princ.i.p.al officers. Their black faces were all aglow, their bright eyes fixed on the tall figure of Sir John Burnaby, who stood just within the veranda of the bungalow. By his side lay Tom--the black man's loved Kuboko--thin as a lath, pale and haggard, the head of his couch raised so that he might see the crowd of natives. On one side, a little in advance, for he had offered to interpret the katikiro's speech, stood the tall dignified White Father, his lips parted in a slight smile, his eyes beaming a compa.s.sionate kindliness. With him stood the little doctor, a striking contrast with his short, neat, wiry frame, his twinkling gray eyes, his stubby beard. And on the other side was the stout figure of Mr. Barkworth, his rubicund side-whiskered face cheerful and benevolent as ever; and the fair girl at his elbow, white and radiant, looking alternately at the negroes and at Tom.
The signal being given, the katikiro stepped forward and stood before Sir John. He had never before had the opportunity of addressing a group of white men, and his gait showed that he fully realized the importance of the occasion. Sticking his spear in the ground, so as to have the use of both arms for gesture, he began his oration. The exordium was a long account of himself, his family, his achievements in hunting and war, his importance as katikiro first to Barega and then to Barega's successor, Mwonga. He proceeded to recount with minute circ.u.mstantiality how he found Kuboko in the forest, carried him to the village, and from that time on had been his most devoted friend and disciple. He pa.s.sed on to a chronological narrative of the subsequent events in the village: the contest with Mabruki, the making of big medicine, the protracted siege, the wonderful machines invented by Kuboko for the discomfiture of the enemy, and, finally, the formation of the great confederacy which, by obedience to Kuboko, had succeeded in defeating time after time the enemy who had for many years crushed native Africa beneath his iron heel. All this was narrated with many repet.i.tions, many picturesque adornments, much extravagance of language and gesture, and the padre's translation in French almost did justice to the Muhima's fervour.
But Msala's eloquence was to soar a still higher pitch. So far he had dealt with facts, with just enough embroidery to make the presentment of them artistic. He went on to express the opinions and emotions of his community.
”Never was such a white man seen,” he said. ”We have had nothing to do with white men. We have heard about them,--about the Wa-daki, who live day and night with kiboko; about the white men of the Lualaba, who buy rubber and ivory at their own prices, or for nothing at all. But never such a white man as this. Surely he must be a mighty chief in his own land. Never did he raise his hand to strike us; Kuboko was his name, but kiboko had he none” (he evidently deeply relished the jingle).
”When Mabruki did him wrong, and Barega would have cut off the villain's head, Kuboko said: 'Nay, let him pay back the bulls.' Did he order a thing to be done? He showed how to do it. Was there little food?
Kuboko had no more than the rest. He did justice and showed mercy; he even sported with the little children, teaching them how to smite b.a.l.l.s with a stick, and giving them turns equally, doing favour to none above the others. And what was all this to gain? The Wa-daki, as men tell us, give one and take two; but Kuboko took nothing. He might have been chief, but would not. 'Nay,' he said, 'I will stay with you until the Arabs are destroyed, and then I go to my own people, and Mwonga shall be chief.' In the caverns of Rumaliza lay thousands of tusks, long as a man, the spoils of our hunting and the hunting of our fathers. All this belonged by right to the victor; but did he say: 'It is mine, I will take all of it'? Nay, he said: 'My brothers, it is yours; divide it among yourselves.' We threw ourselves at his feet, and implored him to take this great treasure, but he shook his head, and even waxed angry, and bade us hold our peace. Only at the last, when Mwonga himself offered the two tusks that have come down from chief to chief, and begged Kuboko, if he loved him, to take them for his own,--only then did he yield and say: 'I will take them as a gift from your people, and keep them ever to remind me of you.' That is Kuboko.
”And now he leaves us. Our women and children are wailing, and our hearts are heavy and sad. Who will lead us now in war? Who will guide us in peace? True, we have Kuboko's words, and treasure them in our hearts; but even as water dries up in the sun, even as smoke rises into the sky and is seen no more, so Kuboko's words, as the days pa.s.s, will fade from our memories. Yet how could we keep him? We are black; he is white. He comes from the land of the Great White King, who will a.s.suredly make him his katikiro when he hears what he has done, even as I, Msala, am Mwonga's katikiro. But though he be far away, in the land of big medicine, our thoughts will turn to him. He will be to us as a Good Spirit, to hearten us against Magaso, and Irungo, and all the other evil spirits who blight our crops and steal our cattle. He will be even as the Buchwezi, the spirits of our ancestors, whom we do not see, but who nevertheless see us and watch our doings and maybe help us in our hour of need. We, Bahima and Bairo, Ruanda and Banyoro, bid Kuboko farewell. I, Msala, say it.”
It is impossible to do justice in sober English to the impa.s.sioned eloquence of the katikiro. As he paused at the end of every sentence to allow the missionary to interpret, loud grunts and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of approval burst from the throats of the throng behind him. When the speech was ended, one great voluminous shout rent the air, and every man held out his spear in front of him with the precision of an automaton.
The drums gave forth three solemn rolls, and then Mwonga and the kasegara advanced to the veranda, and twenty bearers laid two great tusks beside Kuboko's litter.
”Thank you, thank you!” said Tom. ”Uncle, will you speak to them for me?”
Sir John stepped forward and, gripping his coat-collar, began:
”My friends, I am touched by the eloquent words of your excellent katikiro. For many months I had mourned my nephew as dead, and now my joy at seeing him again is all the greater because I know that during his long absence he has been doing good things. I thank you, my friends, for bringing him back to me. I thank you, too, for the respect and affection you have shown for him. The story your katikiro has told is a wonderful one. I cannot profess yet to understand it; but I do understand that by your willing obedience, loyalty, and devotion to my nephew you have been able to rid yourselves, once for all as I hope and believe, of the enemy who has oppressed you for so many years.
Men”--here Sir John's right hand left his coat-collar and was stretched out towards his attentive audience--”men, now that you are free, remember the price of your freedom. My nephew owes his life to your late brave chief, whose own life he had saved; since then he has spent himself in your service. Nothing good was ever done except at some cost. You know what Kuboko did for you. The katikiro has spoken of it.
Now in his name I beg you to turn his self-sacrifice to lasting account.
Obey and support your young chief. You have learnt what union means.
Don't quarrel among yourselves and eat your hearts out in miserable little jealousies. Other white men will come to your village. The officers of the Congo State will visit you. Render them willing obedience, and though at times they may be severe, though among white men there are bad as well as good, remember that the great white nations mean nothing but good to their black brethren. My nephew, you tell me, has sought nothing for himself. He takes with him nothing but your good-will and the memory of your common sufferings and common triumphs.
It is what I should have expected of him, and I am proud of it. Now we are going home, and very likely we shall never see you again. But Kuboko will not forget you; nor shall I forget this great throng, come so many miles to do him honour. Men, for him and for myself, I say good-bye, and good luck to you!”
When the shouts with which the natives received Sir John's brief speech had subsided, Tom asked that the princ.i.p.al men might be allowed to come to his litter and bid him a more personal farewell. Accordingly, Mwonga, with Msala, Mwonda, the kasegara, and eight others marched up in single file. They pa.s.sed by the left side of the litter, and as Tom gave them his limp hand in turn, each stooped down, pressed it lightly to his brow, and descended in solemn silence to his place in front of the attentive crowd. The simple scene was too much for Mr. Barkworth's feelings; his handkerchief was diligently employed, and he was unfeignedly glad when, the ceremony being now at an end, the procession re-formed in preparation for starting on the long homeward march. The drums gave out their hollow notes, the mult.i.tude swayed as they marked time, and striking up an improvised song in which Kuboko's uncle and the white lady had the largest mention next to Kuboko himself, they filed off westward towards the forest.
Dr. O'Brien insisted on Tom's having a clear day's rest before his journey was resumed. On the second morning, therefore, the party of seven embarked on the launch, and were conveyed rapidly across the Nyanza to Port Florence. Tom thought of the many things that had happened since he last saw the lake, and laughed with something of his old spirit when the padre reminded him of the fight with the hippopotamus. On reaching the eastern sh.o.r.e they took up their quarters in Sir John's old bungalow, and there Mr. Barkworth pestered Mbutu constantly to tell him again and again of the momentous doings in Mwonga's village.
One day, happening to be at Port Florence, he went down to the quay among other curious spectators to watch the arrival of a German steamer from down the lake. As the pa.s.sengers came off, Mr. Barkworth was puzzled by one face among them, which he seemed to recognize without being able to remember whose it was or where he had seen it. The pa.s.senger was a thick-set, bearded man, wearing gold spectacles, limping badly, and carrying a big leather valise in his left hand. As he stepped off the gangway he stumbled, and would have fallen but for the purser's sustaining arm. He poured out a stream of very warm German, and as he limped away the purser turned to a man standing near and made some remark about the testy pa.s.senger. Mr. Barkworth caught the name.
”Swob! Swob!” he muttered. ”Thought I knew him. It's the German trader I saw last year. And a prisoner in the Arab fort! Hi, Mr. Swob!”
He toddled after the German, who turned as he heard his name thus travestied.
”Glad to see you, Mr. Swob,” said Mr. Barkworth, coming up with him.
”Extremely sorry to hear of your sad experiences. It must have been a terrible time, sir. And but for that fine young fellow--
”Ach ja!” interrupted Herr Schwab; ”I know all zat. I vant to forget it, nozink else.”
”Naturally, my dear sir. I do hope that you will not suffer permanently, and that--”
”Not per-ma-nent-ly! Look at me, look at me, I say. I hafe vun leg qvite caput, goot for nozink. I hafe marks on my body zat vill remain till my death-day. Not suffer! Vy, I suffer vizout end: I suffer in my person, I suffer in my pockett, I suffer in my pride. I suffer allofer.
And vy? I did nozink. I go to sell zinks--nozink more--and zey keep me, vill not let me go. Naturally, I protest. I say I appeal to Berlin, and zen zey chain me opp--yes, to a post--me, a Gairman sobjeck--and so am I chained for veeks and veeks. Himmel, but I grow meagre--vat you call skinny. I lose almost all ze flesh from my bones. Zen come Mr.
Burnaby. By night zere is vun colossal combat. In ze yard of ze chief's house, zink I, I must be secure. But not so. Ofer ze vall come tousand fire-b.a.l.l.s. I call: 'Hafe care, mind me, I am Schwab.' But zere hears none. A fire-ball fall upon my toe, and I am in com-bus-tion. Zen, my goodness! from ze chief's house run hundert shrieking defils.
Portuguese, De Castro, so vas his name, struck me vid his sword as he pa.s.s me by. Zerefore am I lame to-day. Never shall I forget zat most fear-ful night. Efen still I s.h.i.+ver before ze zought. I vas let free; Mr. Burnaby, I must say, vat you call did me vell; but I hafe some grudge against him. Sir, zere vas hundert tousand pound sterling ifory in ze vaults below zat house: hundert tousand, sure as a gun. Now I did expect Mr. Burnaby to gife me at least--at least, vun tousand pound vorth for damages. I lose qvite so much in commission, to say nozink about ze vear and tear of my intellecks. No more is my brain as it vas.