by John Buchan
“What value can there be in the attitude of some canting rascal of an employer who grinds down his workpeople and protests piously all the while against what he calls ‘servile conditions’ of labour in some other place?” Sir Edward sat on the bulwarks with a broad Panama hat on his head and a cigar in his mouth, his air suggestive of anything but nonconformity or conscience.
“No value in the man, who will certainly lose his soul, but much in what he stands for. The mere fact that a rogue pretends to a conviction is a sign that there is a preponderating majority of honest men who sincerely hold it. Cancel all the hypocrisy, and you will still find an immense deal of sound moral instinct. I grant you it is often wrong, hopelessly wrong; but the instinct is right, it is only the application that is faulty. The remedy is to educate and persuade, not to sneer and override. The truth will always prevail, if we can only put it with sufficient clearness.”
Lady Amysfort’s eyebrows had gone up during these words. “Is Saul also among the prophets?” she asked in that cool voice with the tinkle of ice in it, which was the despair of her enemies. “I little thought I should live to hear Lord Launceston defend Nonconformist ethics. To me the notion that any conviction must be respected merely because it happens to be honest is one of the many Whig superstitions that have been long ago exploded. Another is that you cannot kill a heresy by persecution, but must only encourage it. The truth is that you can stamp out a heresy for ever if you persecute it with sufficient vigour, provided it has none of the stuff of life in it. And equally our business is to ignore utterly convictions, however honest, unless they happen to be also intelligent. I am bound to say that in my researches in the dark place of Dissent I have rarely found the conjunction.”
Lord Launceston laughed. “You give away your case, Caroline, by admitting that the heresy you are going to stamp out must not have the stuff of life in it. I agree. Crush out all the trumpery crazes as relentlessly as you please. Only beware of a living conviction, for it will be too much for you. I am wholly against the childishness that would flatter and cringe before fads which should be knocked on the head. All the more reason, therefore, why one should be respectful to the things that matter. If you were faithful to your Tory principles, you would recognise in this ‘conscience’ one of the abiding instincts of our race, which statesmanship, on your own admission, must reckon with. A very good working test, whether a conviction is living or not, is the number of people who share it. It is not an infallible rule, but if you find any large proportion of reasonable average men holding a view, it is worth while taking it seriously. And remember that this much criticised moral anxiety is a weapon which may be used on our own side. If your opponent has a sharp sword, it is wiser to annex it for your own use than to destroy it. Our business is to enlist this moral fervour on behalf of what we regard as truth and righteousness.”
The luncheon - bell began to ring as Lord Launceston ceased speaking. As the heat of the sun was now very great, the afternoon found the company indisposed to exertion, physical or mental, and inclined to long deck-chairs in the shade and the lightest of romances. Towards five o’clock, however, there was a general awakening when it became clear that the yacht was approaching the farther shore. Lady Warcliff sat in the bows with a Zeiss glass, staring with eagle eye, like Cortes, at a wooded hill which began to loom out of the haze. A crowd of land birds — flamingoes, cranes, herons, and brilliant-backed ducks — played the part of sea-gulls, and thronged around the yacht. Land odours, chiefly the smell of wood-smoke, were drifted out to the travellers.
Carey, who had disappeared all afternoon on some private business, now came on deck and stood by the bulwarks looking at the sunset. Hugh joined him, and together they watched the riot of crimson and saffron in the sky kindle the olive-green forests till the tree-tops glowed like jewels. The marshes which fringed the lake were caught up into the pageant and smouldered with strange fires of tawny gold.
Carey drew a long breath. “It is Antony’s dream come true,” he said. “See, there are all the elements — the fantastic clouds,
‘The forkéd mountain and blue promontory.’
Look, now, for you will see the colours wiped clean out of the world as the sun dips.”
It happened as he said, for it seemed as if a great curtain were suddenly let down upon the landscape. The light and colour ran out of the foreground. Soon the waters were dull grey, though the forests still burned. Then the forests were quenched, though the highest trees had gold crowns and the far ridge of hills. These faded in turn, and in a grey world the yacht came to her moorings in the little bay of Entoro. The dinghies were lowered and the company went ashore.
They were met on the beach by the whole population of the place, led by a tall oldish man with grey whiskers, whom Carey introduced as the Reverend Alexander Macdowall, in charge of the Scotch Mission. He led them to a low, white, barrack-like building, which was an appendage to the mission-house, and which Carey used as a lodge on the occasion of his visits. It was found to be severely but comfortably furnished, and the yacht’s servants having brought up plate and linen and some of the minor comforts of civilisation, the company were soon installed in quarters which might be regarded as luxurious in any tropical town. The mosquito-nets and the absence of fireplaces spoke of a climate very different to Musuru: but the night, as it chanced, was not unduly warm Save for the humming of insects and that faint musty smell which is inseparable from houses on which for most of the year the sun beats hotly, the dinner, cooked by the yacht’s servants, might have been served in some old-fashioned Scotch shooting-box.
To the meal came Mr Macdowall, splendidly habited in an antique suit of broadcloth. His weathered face, his sharp and kindly blue eyes set in a maze of wrinkles, and his spare, straight figure made up a picture which took the eye as something clean-cut and virile. His manner had the spacious ease which the wilds give to those who are not enslaved by them. He called Carey “Francis,” and adopted the company at once into the circle of his friendship.
“I come from your own countryside, Lord Appin,” he said, in answer to a question; “I have not been back for ten years, and I question if I could return. I have made my own place here, and I could not endure interference very readily again. I daresay at home I should even be falling out with the police. Besides, there’s no need to go back. I have no near relations, and the thing I most cared for in Scotland was the fishing. But I can get that here now, and I’m quite content.”
“What was the place like when you came?” Hugh asked.
“A den of cut-throats,” said the missionary. “Tribe warring against tribe, the land raided by Arab slave-dealers, and no man knowing when he woke in the morning if he should see another. I lived through three massacres of Christians and half-a-dozen native wars, and by-and-by the place settled down. England began to hear about the lakes, and we had travellers and hunters visiting us, and things began to get a little better. Our work had been much blessed — not in the ordinary sense, ye understand, for there were few converts of the real sort, but we had driven some habits of industry and decency into the people. It was a hard life in those days, for we had little but native food, and our medicines often ran short. I had a good deal of blackwater fever, and several times I was nearly dead with it. I remember all those days I could not get the thought of the Ochils out of my head — yon fine, green, clean country with a well-head in every howe. Out on the knoll where I had my hut I could see on clear days the long blue line of the Mau, where Musuru stands now. It used to comfort me to look at it. I knew there was a cool blessed country up there, and many a time I said over the psalm to myself, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.’ I was convinced that the regeneration of this place could only come from the heights.”
“And did it?” some one asked.
“To be sure. Francis came, and at last we had a man in this feckless country. I am not going to bring the blushes to the cheek of my old friend, but you will believe me when
I tell you that he put new life into the whole land. All the industries here are his starting. He has more influence among natives than any man since Livingstone. And then he has Musuru, that city set upon a hill-top, to which we can all go for advice and rest.”
“The rainbow trout will be ready for you next month,” said Carey.
“I’ll be there,” said the old man, chuckling. “This is Central Africa. And yet in two days I can get up to a Scotch glen, with bracken to catch your flies in, and I can get as good trout out of the pools with a black hackle as ever I got in the Devon. It is all the refreshment I ask for. Give me a day now and then with my rod, and I’m prepared to bide in this vineyard till my call comes.”
Now it chanced that nearest Mr Wakefield’s heart lay a passion for fly-fishing, and when the meal was over he claimed Mr Macdowall for a highly technical conversation. The party broke into groups: two rubbers of bridge were organised, and the others wandered into the verandah, beneath which the lake gleamed faintly under a young moon. Marjory Haystoun, fired with a sudden zeal for adventure, started with Mrs Wilbraham for the shore, regardless of a heavy dew and the thinness of her evening shoes; but the pair were summarily recalled by Mr Astbury, who spoke darkly of fever. By - and - by the bridge ended, and Mr Macdowall, tearing himself from a discourse on tiger-fish, made his farewells.
“I’ve done what you told me, Francis,” he said to Carey. “The chiefs will come in early in the morning, and you can hold your palaver with them after breakfast. The white folk will be at the kirk at eleven to hear what you have got to say. I daresay I’m breaking my ordination vows — resigning my pulpit to a notorious heretic like you, but a little heresy once in a way does the world good. It’s like an artificial flee, and excites the appetite if it does not satisfy the hunger.”
The Duchess, who was a pillar of the Establishment, was relieved to learn next morning at breakfast that the whole party proposed to attend church, but she was a little dismayed to hear that the service was to consist of an address from their host. Her dismay was not lessened by the discovery that it was to be preceded by a gathering of native chiefs to present their respects to Carey.
“Surely it is scarcely work for a Sunday morning,” she complained. “I dislike mixing up politics and religion. Besides, Francis is not in orders, he is not even a lay reader, and I know that he holds the most terrible opinions about the bishops. One of them told me that he always felt that Francis might pat him on the head if he said anything he agreed with, and tell him he was a good boy. I am not in the least afraid of natives, but I object to sit in the midst of a circle of hundreds. I shall feel too like an early Christian.”
“Some time ago, Susan,” said Carey, “I believe you occupied a conspicuous position on a platform at the Albert Hall. You were then in the midst of a circle not of hundreds but of thousands, and you showed no anxiety. You will find very little difference in the spectators to-day except that they have better manners, and are on the whole better to look at. I ought to say, however, that they will all be armed. I will not have these people meet me except as free men, and in this country it is the badge of a free man to carry spear and shield.”
The ordeal turned out to be of the mildest kind. The party were conducted to a spot a few hundred yards from the beach, where they found a semicircle of black warriors gathered around a little green hill. The chiefs stood to attention as they approached, and saluted in silence. But when Carey, who came a little later, ascended the mound he was greeted with a shout of welcome and a raising of spear-points skywards, which made the women shiver and flushed Lady Flora’s cheek with excitement.
“That is the royal salute,” Hugh whispered. “I wonder how many tribes in the continent give him that. He once told me he thought he had over thirty native names, and they are all flattering.”
Carey sat down on a tree trunk, and the spokesman of the chiefs approached him. In the main he spoke their own tongue, but for those who used a special dialect he had a boy from the Mission to interpret. So far as the party could follow, the discussion was mainly about crops and stock diseases. There was some talk of a tribal disturbance on the western border, and once when a decision seemed to be questioned, Carey’s slow, quiet tones changed to a sharp command, and the watchers saw his mouth harden. Sitting there among his own people, his massive figure and brooding face had a superb air of authority. All the men — Wakefield, Lord Appin, Lord Launceston, even Sir Edward — seemed to shrivel in the contrast, like beings out of their proper sphere.
“I never realised before how handsome he was,” Lady Flora said to Hugh. “He came to dine with us in London in July, and I remember thinking that his clothes did not fit and that he carried himself badly. I could not help comparing him with a colonel in the Guards, who was also dining and who had the most beautiful straight figure. But out here he looks like a king. No one could be afraid of my Guardsman, but I cannot imagine any one disobeying Mr Carey. It is that massive head of his which overawes one like a mountain.”
The business did not take long. Carey spoke a few final words slowly and impressively in a native tongue, there was a low murmur of applause, and the indaba was over. The party walked back silently to the mission-house, where they found the whole population of the settlement assembling. Besides the Mission staff there were a number of teachers from the industrial school, a contingent of local traders and planters, and a few Government officials. Carey knew every one by name, and was full of kindly inquiries. Most of them had been his guests at Musuru, and his greetings were those of a popular country squire with his neighbours at meet or market.
The little whitewashed mission church was filled to overflowing. The Duchess had rarely in her life felt at a loss, but the air of the gathering made her nervous. There was a Sabbatical hush in the audience, which suggested a religious service, but none of the accessories of church were present. Mr Macdowall entered and sat down on the chair commonly reserved for the choirmaster, where he proceeded to take snuff and gaze at the audience through benevolent spectacles. Then came Carey, who ascended the small pulpit, cleared away a Bible and a water-bottle which stood on the book-board, and, standing erect with his hands in his pockets, thus addressed his hearers —
“This is not a service, so we need waste no time in preliminaries. I have asked you to come here to-day because I wanted to meet you face to face and say certain things to you. We are all fellow-workers in one cause, though we call it by different names. I am older than most of you, and I have had a wider experience than most of you, so my views on the things which most deeply concern you may possibly be of some little assistance. I am not going to talk to you about theology, but what I have to say is vitally concerned with religion. Whatever our creeds — and I daresay Macdowall would scarcely credit me with any — we are all serious men, and in our various ways, as far as our imperfect light allows, we may claim to be seeking the kingdom of God and His righteousness.”
“Ye’re mistaken, Francis,” Mr Macdowall interrupted; “ye’re lamentably unsound in the faith, but I never denied that ye were a profoundly religious man.”
Carey’s face relaxed into a smile. “Well, then, I will take advantage of this testimonial, and talk to you in this church about secular things. Every country and every group of men have some special problem of their own. They have dozens of problems, of course, but there is always one which may be considered the centre of gravity, and on this it is their business to concentrate their attention, for on its settlement depends the settlement of all the others. Your business, on which everything else depends, is the wise management of the native peoples that live round about you. For every white man there are forty or fifty natives, and yet in your hands lies the administration and on your head is the responsibility for the future of the country. You have to fight against ignorance, stupidity, and barbarism. So has all the world; but you have the tremendous advantage that you have your foes in concrete shape before your eyes and know exactly what you have to get to grips with. In En
gland we have the same enemies, but we cannot see them, and we have first of all to go and hunt for them; and there is a perpetual difference of opinion as to which is which — some calling ignorance honesty and stupidity wisdom. You are spared all this fuss. You know what brutality is and what decency is. You have got to convert the one into the other.
“I am going to talk to you to-day about the two extremes we have to avoid. The first is the danger of underrating the status of the black man, and the second is the still greater danger of overrating it. As to the first, I know that most of you feel strongly about certain recent changes which have been made in the criminal law. Well, I was largely responsible for these changes, and I am here to defend and explain them. You argue, some of you, that the native is a child and must be treated as a child and punished at the discretion of his master, who stands to him in loco parentis. You maintain that to make native discipline depend upon the cumbersome machinery of a court of law is to make it a farce.
Who, you ask, when his servant offends will be at the pains to take him before a magistrate? He will either take the law into his own hands, which will be bad for the discipline of the State, or he will let the matter pass, which will ruin the discipline of his household. That may be so, but if he follows the latter course he will have only himself to thank, and if he follows the first he will be punished. And the reason is that we dare not underrate the status of the native. You may repeat that he is a child, but the law must look upon him not as a potential but as an actual citizen, and must give him the dignity of such. He must stand before it as an equal with the white man — not a social equal or a political equal, but a legal equal. It is the State and not the individual that has the main interest in his development, and therefore to the State must be left the responsibility. To place it with the private citizen is to give him a burden more heavy than he can bear, and to expose him to those temptations towards brutality and injustice and caprice which may end in his own degradation. The State rightly refuses to allow such risks. With it rests the sole duty of punishment. But — and here I speak to practical men who will not, I think, misunderstand me — what after all is the meaning of law? It is the norm of conduct framed to suit average circumstances. A man must comply with it or pay the penalty, but sometimes it may be right to pay the penalty and break it. I may prevent a man in a public street from doing something disgraceful but not criminal, and I may be guilty of assault in the process. I am justified in breaking the law, and the law is right in fining me. There are a thousand conceivable cases when legal docility is a moral disgrace or a practical folly. Every man must have clearly before him his duty as a citizen. If he breaks the law he must be clear that his warrant is sound both as regards his own conscience and the State to which he owes obedience. Especially is this the case with the new law as to the rights of natives. It does not prevent a white man in emergencies from making a law for himself, but by its prohibition it compels him to be very certain about his justification. It will, I trust, put an end to caprice and encourage fair dealing, for he who breaks it can only appeal to the last and most rigorous of tribunals.
