Samba: A Story of the Rubber Slaves of the Congo

by Herbert Strang

"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.