Arriving on the Upper River you find also that all riverine peoples speak of the interior folk—those living away from the river—as “bush-people,” and utterly beneath their notice. There is no more opprobrious phrase that can be flung at a native than to call him a “bush-man” in a language that he understands. He will resent it, and if there is the slightest chance of success he will fight over it.
In June, 1890, after having lived on the Lower Congo at San Salvador and Matadi for nine years, I started for the Upper Congo for the purpose of seeking out a new site for missionary effort amongst the natives of a new tribe and language. Between the last navigable point on the Lower Congo, Matadi, and the commencement of the navigable water on the Upper Congo, Stanley Pool, there were 240 miles of very bad, rough road.
Since those days a Belgian company has built a narrow-gauge railway running between Matadi and Stanley Pool. I cannot pay too high a tribute to the splendid courage, persistency and engineering skill exhibited by the Belgians who surveyed the land for the lines at the cost of many lives; and built the railway, conquering immense difficulties, and thus achieving for themselves a great and deserved financial success. If the Congo Free State had sent men of the same kind and class to govern the country that the railway company sent, and are sending, to build and control the railway, we should never have heard about the terrible atrocities that have taken place, nor should we have heard of mal-administration, cruel oppression, and the mutilation of wretched, unprotected natives.
The railway officials treat their native employees honourably and honestly; and although hundreds of our native Christians work on the railway as stokers, guards, brakesmen, storekeepers, and stationmasters, I have never heard a single complaint from them against their white masters. They have to work hard, but they are treated justly, and they are sure of their pay; and our native Christians are always ready to sign contracts with the railway authorities for one or more years.
In the early eighties the road from Matadi to Stanley Pool was thickly populated, and every hour or two brought the traveller to a large, decently-kept town; but in 1890 the people were mostly gone, and the few villages left on that long stretch of road were small and neglected, and the few remaining people had a wretched, poverty-stricken appearance. Why this change?
In the meantime the country had become the possession of the African International Association, which quickly changed into the Congo Free State with King Leopold II of Belgium as its ruler. Zanzibaris were imported during this period, armed with rifles, and sent up-country to found and occupy the State stations on the Upper Congo. These soldiers no doubt were liberally provided with brass rods to buy native food on their march to Stanley Pool; but they found a people practically unarmed, for what were flint-lock guns in the hands of natives—who depended more on the magic of their “medicine men” for straight shooting than on the accuracy of their aim—against weapons of precision in the hands of a trained and unscrupulous soldiery such as were the Zanzibaris? The results were constant raiding on the part of the Zanzibaris; looting of unprotected native huts; taking twenty rods’ worth of food and throwing down only two or three rods in payment; and often when there was a white officer in charge, and he was appealed to, no redress was obtained by the defrauded native, nor punishment meted out to the offender; but frequently the accuser was beaten from the white man’s presence, thus adding physical suffering and insult to the loss of goods.
There is a probability that the natives were turbulent and swaggering in their attitude; but it was not until after the first outrages had been committed by the Zanzibaris that the natives retaliated on every favourable occasion. From what I know of the folk from thirty years’ experience of them, I feel sure they were not the first aggressors—they had, and still have, too wholesome a fear of rifles to be that. It was only when they had been treated like rats, having no rights in their own country, that at last, like rats, they turned at bay with hearts inflamed by hatred and revenge. But flint-lock guns could not compete with rifles; and small, untrained bodies of men lacking leaders and cohesion could not contend against drilled soldiers who fired bullets that penetrated two or three men, so there was nothing for them but to leave their towns on the road, and build away in the forests and valleys at some distance from the main track running through the country.
Hence what was once a populous trade route, humming with life in the early eighties, had become by 1890 a desolate track that by its lack of people disappointed the new-comer, who in Europe had heard of the teeming millions of the Congo, but could not now in 240 miles of road find enough people to fill a decent-sized English village. “Where are the people?” was the frequent question on his lips.
“They have left the trade route, and have rebuilt their towns and villages in the woods, the valleys, and the bush-lands for peace and security,” was the repeated answer.
“Why?” was invariably the next question.