Valiant Gentlemen

by Sabina Murray

  Chumbiri would waste his spirit even if he were in good health, not subsisting on a diet of mysterious “custard” that the cook, Hairy Bill, has presented to him two out of three meals since he arrived in early June. Custard. It does have eggs. And perhaps it causes hirsuteness since he and Hairy Bill (whose name must be something else, but whose appearance seals the moniker) are by far the shaggiest men in the region. The knock on the wall at the entrance, since a curtain serves as door, makes him think, More custard!

  “Yes!” says Casement. “Enter!”

  It is Hairy Bill, who looks apologetic, even though he is not bearing the usual bowl.

  “Hello,” says Casement. “Do you need me?”

  “There’s a young man to see you. Loanda. He says he is your friend.”

  “I hope he is.”

  “Loanda?”

  “My friend. I can always use another friend, Hairy Bill. And I could also use some fish.”

  Another apologetic look and a smile. “If there is fish to be bought, I will get it for you. But you know the men around here have to sell all food stuffs to the Force Publique, even at the cheap rate, because if they don’t, their wives are taken.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Just the day before, Casement had volunteered to pay three times the Belgian rate for some goat meat and this suggestion had brought the village chief to him, begging him to stop trying to buy it, as this would tempt his men to sell it, and he wanted his children back—and these were being held hostage. “Forget about the fish. Send me the friend.”

  Hairy Bill nods and excuses himself through the curtain, like a stage actor making his exit. The curtain is pushed aside once more and standing there is a familiar figure, who he at first does not recognize as he must have grown nearly a foot in the last few years.

  “Mayala Swami. Do you not know me?” He is speaking good, missionary English.

  “I do.” Casement’s eyes fill with tears. “You are Mbatchi, son to Luemba.”

  John, sensing Casement’s happiness, raises his head.

  “Maybe you are looking for a cook?”

  “I already have a cook. And there’s no food anyway.”

  “Maybe you need someone to water your dog?”

  “Well, I can always use that.”

  Mbatchi is now twenty-four and Casement admonishes him for coming upstream. He should have stayed in Boma or Kinshasa, where his English and missionary connections might keep him safe. But Mbatchi has come looking for Casement. His immediate family are nearly all dead—the beloved father Luemba, his brothers. Of his mother, he can find no trace. She was last a hostage of the Force Publique while his brothers and father worked the rubber to try to keep her safe, but now they are dead and without them, she has disappeared. He has one sister that he thinks might have escaped north. Mbatchi will act as interpreter, as diplomat. Casement knows some Loanda, which has been helpful, but not nearly enough to get the full story. And people have a hard time believing that he is actually on their side. John’s appearance does not make him a convincing goodwill ambassador.

  “Why are you still here?” asks Mbatchi. “Why are you not farther upriver?”

  “I need a boat that isn’t State owned. I can’t use any of the Free State’s transportation because they just take you to what they want you to see.”

  “You need a missionary boat.”

  “Mbatchi, do you know someone?”

  “I know Jesus.” He smiles. “And some of his friends.”

  The Henry Reed belongs to the American Baptist Missionary Union. Casement’s friends are Loanda and Bolobo natives, and American ­Baptists—strange allies for strange times. Crawling upriver, Casement thinks of Conrad. As Casement puts together a committee of powerful, potentially helpful friends in his head, Conrad is there. He is married now, has a son, and lives on a farm in Sussex. Casement has read Conrad’s Congo story—which, although it includes the stink of hippo meat, somehow remains above the actual rot. Conrad is more concerned with the concepts of civilization and horror, how man is tugged backward as much as forward, how barbarism is contagious. Conrad’s story is Heart of Darkness and it is about the “heart of darkness”—focusing on the atavistic—whereas Casement’s current project works to introduce the possibility of civilization, to bring a little hope into the mix, although there is little hope on display. Casement’s report might be called “Causes of the Heart of Darkness” or “Some Manifestations of Evil” or “Looking Back to the Good Old Days When One’s Biggest Fear Was Cannibals.” He is not looking into the heart of darkness but rather at its face. He takes detailed notes with the help of at least one and sometimes three interpreters—recording depositions. He chronicles the loss of life, the maiming of children. This is not digested material, this is the facts with names and dates, for these are people, not characters: One should not choose to see them or not see them. Regardless, any attention to the Congo, even fictional, is of dire importance.

  Casement outpaces his depression by escaping into profound world pity. He is drowning in sympathy, empathy, sliding into self-loathing, bursting to the surface with anger. He is at sea. He sees Mbatchi’s concern, his calm with which he is hoping to infect his Mayala Swami. Mbatchi stands at the prow and waves to the helmsman, a shout back and forth, a nod to Casement. They have arrived at some destination, some suppurating ulcer on the wall of this intestine that is the Congo.

  “Mayala Swami,” says Mbatchi, “you should take your medicine.”

  “I already have,” says Casement. He manages a smile.

  “Okay,” says Mbatchi. He has just learned this from one of the American Baptists and is inordinately fond of the saying, most likely because it sounds as if it could exist in Loanda.

  By nine o’clock there is a line of people waiting to see him. Mbatchi says that some of them have marched twenty miles to deliver their story, leaving their rubber quotas unfulfilled, risking death at the hands of the Force Publique.

  “Tell them that the line continues over there, in the shade. I’ll make sure that we take their story in the order in which people have arrived, but I don’t want anyone in the sun. And please take a bucket of water and go up and down the line. There are children and they must have a drink in this heat.” Casement, to calm himself, takes several deep breaths.

  “John too needs a drink,” says Mbatchi.

  “And John too,” says Casement, trying to force relaxation.

  A man stands before him, gray at the temples, nervous. “Please sit,” says Casement in Bolobo. There is an upturned bucket provided as a chair and the man glances at it, then looks nervously at Casement. The man will not sit. “Please tell me your name.” The man looks to the Bolobo translator, who nods in the affirmative. This causes a flood of Bolobo from the man, the gist of which is that he thinks it would be reckless to attach his name to what he has to say. He says he has no guarantee that this is not a trap made by the Belgians to determine who these people are who do not want to work for them. There is some heated back-and-forth, some mention of relatives, some mention of something else—is that the word for boat? No, canoe, he thinks. Casement knows the word for canoe, so it must be some part of a canoe.

  The interpreter has been instructed to be patient, not to interrupt, and to let the men and women finish their statements so they know that their voices will be heard. But it takes so long to hear the same argument over and over. Finally, the man turns and lifts the back of his loin covering. Casement has thought himself readied as this action often punctuates the proceedings, but the deep grooves of the chicotte, one of which is a fresh welt, make him dizzy. It’s the blood. Lately he has found himself unable to look at the redness of blood. Even John, his ear cut on thorns, has caused a fainting episode. Casement looks down quickly at the tops of his shoes, his head spinning, and tries to focus on the words in his notebook, which are now swimming on the page in spidery pencil.r />
  “I am so sorry,” says Casement in Bolobo. “Take his statement,” he says to the interpreter. “Where is Mbatchi?”

  Mbatchi sets down the bucket of water that he has been using to water the line of people. He comes quickly to Casement and squats, his hands on Casement’s knees. Casement exhales roughly. He gestures at the man. “This man needs salve.”

  “After he gives his story,” says Mbatchi, “I will give him the medicine.”

  “Thank you, Mbatchi,” says Casement. He nods to the interpreter and the man, still standing, finally begins his story. He has traveled far into the jungle in search of rubber. His companion was taken by a leopard. In fear he returned with less than his quota of rubber. For this he was whipped. He is an old man. His wife is held so that he will bring the rubber in. This is the story of many people. How to make it unique for each one? Originally, Casement had thought the names ought to be withheld for the very reason that these people wish to remain anonymous, but the suffering is unique. The people are unique. He does not want his readers to be fascinated by man’s slide into atavism. His readers should weep, should see themselves in this aging man who has been physically tortured, who cannot see the end of his suffering.

  The man is led away by Mbatchi, who will treat his wounds. “What was that word?” Casement asks the interpreter. “It has something to do with a canoe, I think.”

  “The side of the canoe,” says the interpreter, “for the cutting of hands.”

  His interpreter has taken the Bolobo and turned it to French. Now if there were only an interpreter to take it from the French and into comprehension. The line of people is snaking beyond view, so for now he must move forward.

  The next man appears to be in good health, although his face is vexed in sorrow.

  “What is your story?” asks Casement.

  “My son,” says the man.

  Casement understands these words.

  “Is he dead?” asks Casement. He knows this Bolobo all too well.

  The man beckons at the group of people and a child steps out, nervously making his way to his father. The boy is undernourished but a sweet-faced thing, maybe eight years old.

  Casement smiles in a consciously kind way. “How can I help?”

  “They cut his hands,” says the father.

  Casement sees then that the boy has two stumps in place of hands. No hands. Both hands removed. There is something about this that his mind struggles to not accept, as if his eyes are presenting invalid information. But this is real. He is looking at a child with no hands. He knows how they were removed: with a knife or a machete by a white man or some alien black mercenary. “Brave boy,” says Casement in English. The interpreter steps in quickly with some appropriate response, and unsteadily, Casement gets up. “Cinq minutes,” he says to the interpreter. He catches Mbatchi eyeing him as he stumbles to the hut. He hears that word or words—the term for side of a canoe—and the interpreter explaining to Mbatchi why the boy was brought there, why they cut his hands. Because a man had escaped who was wanted for stealing the rubber and they needed proof of his capture and the boy was found nearby. They put his arms on the side of a canoe to steady him as they took his hands. Why did they take both? Because he struggled. More words follow as Casement manages to make a distance between them and him. Someone has started weeping. Is it the father or Casement?

  Casement pushes into his hut and lets the curtain fall behind him. He sits on the side of his cot. There’s a gentle tap at the door but he knows his privacy will not be respected. Mbatchi enters quietly. “Mayala Swami—”

  “Five minutes is all I need. Is that too much to ask for?”

  Mbatchi considers this. Even if the interpreter is the one taking the story, Casement will need to put it on paper, to get all the necessary details before the interpreter begins to conflate things. “Yes. I know you’re sad, but sadness is useless now. You are also angry.”

  Wise boy. “True.”

  “I am also angry. I can write, but no one will listen.”

  “I’m not sure people will listen to me,” says Casement.

  “Yes, they will,” says Mbatchi. He takes the bottle of malafu and pours a glass. “Take your medicine,” he says.

  XI

  London

  January 1904

  Casement is staying at Ward’s house in London and he has the whole place to himself as the Wards are currently in Paris. There is a manservant, Paulson, a groom by trade, but who is capable of preparing simple meals and keeping the house suitably provisioned. If Paulson were a different sort of chap, this would be a different sort of idle, but he’s not. Casement, free from distraction, has his mind focused on this meeting with Edward Morel and Alice Green.

  Alice Green is a historian, the widow of a historian, and Irish too. Alice, it turns out, is wealthy and very much into supporting radical causes, in this case the publication of the West African Mail, devoted to exposing the use of slavery in the Congo. Morel is to be the editor. So we have publisher, editor, content advisor (that’s him), and now if they can work out the small issue of a readership interested in the fate of Congolese natives, he’ll be doing very, very well. And there is Paulson standing in the doorway of the drawing room.

  “Sir,” says Paulson.

  “Hello, Paulson,” says Casement.

  “I just wanted to inquire whether you would be needing me later this evening?”

  Casement scans the room. “Actually, I’m expecting people. So it would be much appreciated if you could top up the coal, and bring in some glasses and a jug of water. And perhaps some sherry.”

  Paulson slackens his posture and leans in the doorway. “Are you entertaining a lady, sir?”

  “Well, yes,” says Casement, casually, before he processes exactly what Paulson is asking him. “Not that sort of lady.” Casement laughs, and adds, “And a man.” Although not that sort of man.

  “Right,” says Paulson.

  But he’s not entertaining in the strict sense of the word, unless recounting tales of violence has the ability to entertain. And Edward Morel, at least according to Alice Green, is not the sort to be entertained, but rather inspired, as is she. Casement should have told Paulson that he was “inspiring” some people. Would Paulson have asked if he were planning to “inspire” a woman? Is this how the vernacular grows? In current parlance, men like him are referred to as musical. Musical. As in, “He’s a hard-working consul and talented diplomat and we had high hopes for him until he revealed himself as musical.” Of course, no one has said such a thing, but he is conscious of the fact that someone could. He holds off on assignations until he’s in big, anonymous cities. He’s tried to keep his picture out of the English newspapers lest someone recognize him. But his name, as of late, is everywhere.

  Paulson comes into the room with the glasses, sherry, and a crystal water jug. He tops up the coalscuttle. He arranges the fire and places the tongs back on the stand. “To be prepared, sir, what time are you expecting your visitors?”

  Paulson has made plans. “I’m quite capable of receiving them myself.” Ironic, that, to be meeting about slavery and involved in a conversation where two grown men discuss whether or not one can answer a door. “No. You are on your own. Thank you, Paulson.”

  “Well, sir, I will be retiring to my quarters.”

  That Paulson. Casement is certain he’s headed out as he’s changed into a fancy pair of brogues, not the kind of footwear you put on for the final day’s journey down the back stairs. Casement knows the shoes to be Ward’s as he remembers Ward wearing them on several occasions, but he can’t make himself care, and he’s pretty sure Ward would ignore it too—if, in the first place, he remembered that the shoes were his.

  Morel is Ward’s friend, known from the London circuit of people concerned with happenings in Africa. It’s a small group, really, and a strange one. There’s Arthur Conan Doy
le, who was before the mast in his doctoring days, and, of course, Conrad. These two men have certainly introduced Africa, or at least a sense of adventure, into London drawing rooms in very vivid ways. Mary Kingsley was one of this number. Her writings on the Congo were bestsellers, and her lectures standing room only, although some of them were delivered in barns and other such venues where women were permitted. Mary had introduced Casement to Alice, but she is dead three years now, having succumbed to enteric fever while nursing in Simons Town.

  The bell sounds at eight. Casement makes the journey down the hallway and opens the door. Alice Green presents her profile, as she’s looking down the street. Snow has begun its benediction on the coal-streaked buildings.

  “Finally,” says Alice. She stomps her feet and comes inside. “Where’s the butler?”

  “Out.” Casement helps her with her coat.

  “And the maid?”

  “Shows up in the morning as she’s staying with her parents while the Wards are in Paris.” Having divested Alice of her coat, Casement is not sure what to do with it. Alice takes it back and throws it on the chair by the front door.

  “Where’s Morel?”

  “I’m sure he’s on his way.”

  “I should hope so. You have half an hour. I need to get home before I end up stranded here.”

  Morel shows up ten minutes later. He’s walked the five miles from his rooms. “There were no cabs, which was no problem, because I couldn’t have afforded one.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have collected you,” says Alice.

  “I missed the two o’clock post. Besides, I do my best thinking when I’m walking.”

  Alice waves off the sherry as if it’s poison, as she prefers whiskey. Morel sticks to water.

  “No time for chitchat,” says Alice, “I want a budget.”