The Rift

by H Schmidt

  Things had gone well in Bubanza for Jim. He had watched the caravan of porters leaving for Stanleyville with the goods he had purchased. Arrangements had been made with Stephan Onassis to store the goods in his warehouse. Stephan had proved most discrete and reliable in the past. Persons working outside the laws of the Congo Free State could trust the Greek.

  Jim Fleming felt good about things. He could not remember having such good food since Fort Collins. He thought about Jenny. She had probably remarried. Fifteen years. Jenny would be almost forty. He was almost sixty. From where Jim sat, he could see the open door to the kitchen. He had been lost in thought when he spotted the boy. A light went on and then went out again, as the American was drawn back to his thoughts about home. Josiah was right. He wanted to see the plantation where he grew up. As he was trying to remember what it had been like as a boy, it hit him. The picture in the hotel in Bubanza!

  Five thousand German marks in gold. That little boy was worth that much to Jim Fleming. But how would he collect the money? If he went back, he might be arrested. No one had seen him near the mining camp, but the police could have figured it out after they found Harold. It would take some digging all the way back to Stanleyville, but once they’d done that, there’s no question they would arrest him.

  But first things, first. He needed to get the boy to come with him. Did the restaurant owner know? Through the open door he had seen the Belgian slap the boy. Probably not. Somehow the boy had gotten away from his kidnappers and wound up in Bakavu. If old Armand knew he was worth that much gold, he wouldn’t have him working in the kitchen. Jim hung around town for two days, watching the restaurant, trying to get a sense of what the boy was like and what he did. When the owner left at night and went to the hotel where he stayed, he did not take the boy with him. The boy must sleep in the restaurant. He had eaten lunch and dinner in Le Café Liège for two days. The boy was always in the kitchen. Only once, when most of the customers had gone after the midday meal, did the boy come out to help clear the tables.

  While the African waiters and busboys were talking and laughing, Jim noticed the boy did not smile or talk. Once, he observed the owner giving him orders, asking him questions. Still, the boy made no sound. Does he speak? If not, did he ever speak? Did something happen when he was kidnapped or after? He was a good looking boy. He’d be a little over six now. Once, when Jim was watching Little Spirit, the boy looked at him, and then as if satisfied that he had learned what he wanted to know, he turned away.

  He decided he would take the boy. He had picked his porters and guards for the trip. Some of the diamonds he had sewn into his clothing, the tent, some in the bedding. How not to cast suspicion upon himself? If the boy left Bakavu at the same time as he, the owner would guess that Jim had taken him. He would have to confide in the porters to do what needed to be done.

  It was Monday. He would leave on Wednesday. The boy slept in the pantry in the back of the restaurant. A guard walked around the restaurant at night, but never went inside. What the Monsieur Dreyfus did not know was that the guard would go home at two in the morning and return before first light. Jim found it easy to force a side door and find the boy. The boy began to scream. One hand over his mouth, the other around his waist, Little Spirit found himself taken for the fifth time in seventeen months. It was the big man who watched him in the restaurant.

  The next day, Armand watched James Fleming walk into the restaurant. When he found the boy missing in the morning, he thought about the American. He had noticed him looking into the kitchen, but thought nothing about it at the time. Did this amiable man take the boy?

  Armand Dreyfus was angry because the boy was gone. He wondered why anyone would steal him. He was smart and a good worker, but still he wondered. He had never really tried to find out anything about the boy, but perhaps, now that the boy was gone, perhaps he should.

  “Good afternoon, Armand. I would like some of that beef you served yesterday. With the sauce. Glass of beer. Some coffee after.” Fleming seemed relaxed, smiling as he spoke to the restaurateur.

  “Oui, Monsieur. I hope monsieur has enjoyed the food?”

  “Some of the best I ever had. The best in Africa. We could use a restaurant like this in Stanleyville.”

  Armand forgot about his suspicion of the big American. He was pleased to hear about his restaurant. “Perhaps, monsieur, I should open such a café in Stanleyville. What do you think?”

  “I think you would make a lot of people happy. Maybe not the other restaurants, but a lot of the rest. I’ll be your first customer,” he lied.

  ---

  The next day, he met the men who held the young boy ten kilometers up the trail. Once again, Willy’s hands were tied and his legs shackled. Jim looked at the boy.

  “We got twenty days to get to know each other, boy. I know you don’t talk and you don’t understand English, and my French is pretty poor, but I’ll talk to you anyway. It’ll help me along the trail.”

  He looked at the boy. He had never wanted children. Jenny did. She was a young woman when he left. He hoped she remarried, and had children. Like the good-looking boy beside him.

  For the first week, they worked their way through the snow-covered Ruwenzori. On the high passes, the air was cold and the travelers could see their breath. As they worked their way through the rough terrain, Little Spirit did not complain, never had to be urged forward. The second day on the trail, Jim had noticed that the boy had taken an interest in the compass he often stopped to use. When they stopped to rest, he showed the boy how the arrow continued to face north as he turned the compass. Speaking in English, sometimes in small amounts of Swahili and French, he pointed to the sun and tried to get the boy to understand east and sunrise, west and sunset.

  The third day, he let the boy carry the compass around his neck. He would watch as Little Spirit would hold the compass to his eye. Jim looked at the rope around the boy’s neck and thought about taking it off. No, he thought, better wait. They stopped by cool mountain streams to fish for their meals, refusing the offers of fish by the natives on the trail, accepting the fruit, tubers, and beans that were offered. The American watched the porters and the boy work the nets up the streams, and then select the fish for the evening meal. In the cold evening, he talked to the boy about the stars. In the light of the fire they had built, Jim noticed the boy looking at him.

  They had been on the trail five days. The sun was coming up over the mountains to the east. To the west, the white man and white boy could see the hills begin to fall away. With the naked eye, they could see the Lualabo River. Jim watched the band of men with David Housman in the lead working their way down the Lualabo to Stanleyville. The little boy no longer had ropes around his hands or his ankles. He stood free. With Jim, he had climbed the hill above the camp to look at what lay ahead. He was wearing the compass around his neck.

  This morning, Jim pointed toward the river and asked, “which way?” Little Spirit took out the compass and pointed the crosshair toward the river. They had been playing that game for two days. The little boy would point to the closest letter to the compass sight. This time the boy looked at Jim and spoke for the first time;“west,” and pointed at the ribbon of water ahead.

  Jim nodded and said gruffly, “That’s good, boy.” As they stood together, Jim felt the small hand reach over and touch his. He felt a lump in his throat. He cleared it loudly, and without looking at Little Spirit, he said, “It’s time to get movin’. We can be at the river by sunset.”

  Chapter Five

  David Housman felt Christina’s warm hip against his. A cool breeze drifted through the hotel window. He remembered how happy he was that Christina had decided to meet him in Stanleyville. She had come with him when he first came to Africa three years ago, but found the change from the wide, paved streets of Denver with its opera and theatre too much to endure. She had returned home over two years ago. Now she had returned, determined to stay with her husband this time. She did not know that David ha
d contacted the company, recommending that his stay end, and that his answer was waiting for him in Stanleyville.

  When David arrived in Stanleyville, he did not know what to expect from his company. They had been supportive of David, and urged him to continue his explorations, despite the difficulties they knew he was having with the Belgians. Now, the letter he received concurred with his recommendation to end the courtship and return home. They told him they thought it was time for him to spend his time with Christina in Denver, and that they would talk about his future with the company after that. The steamer was leaving tomorrow afternoon.

  David and Christina had been married for ten years. They had been happy but disappointed that they had not been able to have children. In their letters, they had talked to each other about adopting. In the last week, they had talked again about children and decided that one of the first things they would do would be to arrange to see the children that were available at an orphanage in Denver.

  ---

  There was a large crowd waiting to go aboard the steamer. The porters were shouting at each other, vying for the small tips which came with carrying baggage on board. Like any crowd of non-Africans in Africa, it was a tower of Babel. Chinese, Arabic, Russian, German, French, Indian, Greek, English, and on and on drifted from the crowds waiting to board the steamer and to say their goodbyes.

  All families or groups had at least some among them who spoke enough French to get them tickets, to store their baggage, to buy food and tend to basic amenities. It was the dream of all colonial powers that their African colonies would be extensions of the home country, their language the lingua franca of all who lived there. The new Congo Free State was a long way from that dream.

  Christina Housman was prepared for the crush of foul-smelling bodies; surprisingly, David was not. He had grown used to the space he was afforded as an influential ferenji, where his accommodations were separate from the great mass of people. But waiting in front of the steamer with Christina, he found himself irritated at finding his lot the same as the rest of the passengers.

  James Alfred Fleming was about to say goodbye to Stanleyville, his home for the last three years, and to return to a country he had left fifteen years before. Almost thirty years ago, he had left his home in Mississippi. Now, he planned to return. Joshua Bekins seemed content with his decision, but Jim was not. He wondered whether he wanted to return to a place where relatives would ask him to account for each wasted moment of his life. He wondered whether he would be satisfied to live a life where there were things expected of you by others around you.

  Africa could be a dangerous place; he had by a great stroke of luck avoided the bites of the tsetse fly and the malaria-carrying mosquito. He had escaped the river parasites, and survived the parasites in the food and water that can destroy the insides of a white man. But through it all, the rules you lived by were your own, although that was changing fast. But now, he would be returning to a land very different, and he wondered about it.

  As he stood there looking at the two Americans, the tall, well-dressed man and the very attractive lady, he made a decision. The brothel was not open for business this early in the morning, but he knew Francie would be up and about. In the mornings, she left for the St. Marie School for Girls, and helped the teachers by tutoring some of the newer children. Walking with the small boy, who held to his hand tightly, he rang the bell of the brothel. It was Pierre who answered the door.

  “She is just getting ready to leave. She has been crying but she will be disappointed if you ask her why.” Pierre stood aside as the man and boy walked by to the room where Francie lived.

  Jim knocked, then waited. Quickly the door opened and Francie stood there. A huge smile crossed her face. “Hello, Jim. Good morning, young man. My, you are looking so handsome this morning.”

  “He has a name now, Francie. This is Billy. My oldest brother was named William. I told you about him--the one who died in the Yankee prison camp.”

  Francie put her hand out. “Billy, it is a pleasure meeting you.” Little Billy smiled at Francie, and put out his hand to take hers.

  Jim spoke quickly. “Francie, I hate goodbyes like this. At first, when I decided to go, it seemed the right thing to do. But having to leave you and Pierre, it’s not so easy.”

  Francie put her hand on his arm. “You know, Jim, I shall miss you. You have been a good friend and I know you cared about me. It wasn’t just your own loneliness, I know that. But do not worry about me. There is the school and I have been thinking about that. I am not an angel, Jim, but I have been thinking about that. The children make me happy.”

  She looked in his eyes and smiled. They were filled with tears. She put her hand gently on his arm, and turned him toward the docks. “Now go, mon ami. I will not forget you.”

  “So long, Francie. Thanks for lettin’ me bend your ear.” He turned. “Come on, Billy, we better make sure we don’t miss the boat.” Walking away, he turned. Francie was still standing there, watching the two of them. He hoped she would not be offended by what Pierre was holding for her. At least, she could give it to the school.

  ---

  As the passengers came aboard, the first class passengers were led to the upper deck where the steamer was divided into cabins. The Housmans’ cabin was located the next door to one occupied by Jim and little Billy. It was a fiveday trip to Leopoldville, from where they would travel overland to Matadi, the seaport on the Atlantic.

  ---

  Gustav and the sergeant were having a cold beer on the verandah. It had been dry for months and the hillsides were beginning to turn brown, waiting for the small rains of November and December.

  “Any word, Fritz, about the bandits who robbed the mine in Shinyanga?” The sergeant had gotten used to being called by his first name in the von Mecklenburg home. He remembered the amusing incident when Lieutenant Schmidt had come to the house and the sergeant was there. All evening, Gustav called him Fritz and referred to Lieutenant Schmidt as lieutenant. The lieutenant did not address the sergeant, not knowing what to say. He and Gustav had enjoyed reliving that moment, sort of a running joke in the family.

  “It seems there might have been three of them. We found one shortly after the robbery. He had been shot, probably by one of the other two. One of the miners recognized him. His name was Harold Boatwright. The miner remembered him from the year before, shortly before Kurt Mohr had been killed. Mohr was prospecting near the mine site and Boatwright had been seen with him. You know, we always suspected he was killed for diamonds he may have found. We also are almost certain that Boatwright was in Moshi shortly after the murder. He had money to spend and he spent a lot of time in Patel’s whorehouse with the madam. We know he left abruptly but have been unable to find out why. We have been in touch with the Belgian authorities in Stanleyville. They tell us he left there with another man over two months ago. They should be able to find out who the second man is shortly. The third is an American named Josiah Bekins, who has a history in the colony. He was in Shinyanga for over a year before the robbery. Bekins is a very clever man--likely the one who planned the robbery, although we can’t be sure of that. Possibly the other man. Unlikely it was Boatwright.

  “The uncut diamonds we found when we searched Scheuer’s belongings.” The sergeant nodded. “Probably from Shinyanga.”

  Gustav felt the pain when he talked about Scheuer. He blamed Scheuer for Willy.

  ---

  Christina had seen the boy with the big American as she entered their cabin.

  He was standing at the railing watching the steamer pull away from the dock. He was waving at a light-skinned African girl who had separated herself from the crowd on shore and stood at the water’s edge. The little boy’s skin was the color of walnut, and his black eyes flashed as they looked about him, taking everything in. Christina watched as he ran to the stern of the steamer, now watching the great wheel churning the water.

  Fleming saw her watching the boy. “Good morning, ma’am. My
name is Jim Fleming. The boy’s name is Billy.”

  “Christina Housman. Aren’t you worried the boy will fall through the railing?”

  Jim looked embarrassed. He hadn’t even thought about that. I guess it was possible, he decided.

  “Boy’s an orphan,” he lied. “I’m takin’ him back to the States with me.”

  “What happened to the parents?” Christina was looking at Jim, concern on her face. What else did he see?

  “They were killed when their boat capsized on the Lualabo River. The boy’s family were guests of mine in Stanleyville. We had an understandin’ that if anythin’ happened to them, I would take care of little Billy.”

  Christina looked at the American. Well over six feet, thin except for the paunch that hid his belt buckle. The veins on his nose and cheeks revealed a drinking man. His eyes beneath his heavy brows were veined and his faced was deeply etched like a man who had seen a lot he wanted to forget. She thought she saw in his eyes both defiance and defeat, in what measures she could not decide. She decided it was not her place to ask the questions that raced through her mind.

  “He is a handsome young man.” Billy had come up to Jim’s side. He looked suspiciously at Christina for a moment, then seemed to relax and he smiled at her.

  “Hello, Billy.”

  “Bon jour, Madame.” The little boy stepped forward as Francie had done, and reached out his hand.