Valiant Gentlemen

by Sabina Murray

  “I thought you slept in the cook’s tent.”

  “I didn’t like the smoke.”

  “Did you want to sleep here?”

  Mbatchi clearly does, but he casts a nervous look over at Tom.

  “Tom’s all right. Come here, pat his head. He likes it when you scratch behind his ears.”

  Mbatchi comes over nervously but scratches the dog’s head. The dog smiles.

  “You can set up your bed in the corner,” says Casement. “And Tom will make sure that no snakes come in.” Casement raises his eyebrows. “You’ll be very safe with Tom around.”

  Mbatchi takes his bedroll over to the corner and lays it out.

  “Go to sleep now, good night.”

  Mbatchi is lying down but still not ready for sleep. “Mayala Swami, what will I do now?”

  “Well, I can send you back to your parents with the next messenger. I’m sure you miss them.”

  Silence stands briefly as the boy thinks. “Can I work for you?” There’s a nervous sadness in the voice, as if he fears that he’s not wanted.

  More silence. What is best? “All right,” says Casement, “you can carry my surveying tools, but most important of all, you must make sure that Tom has water. He needs to drink several times a day, and I do forget. You will be very useful.”

  “Good,” says Mbatchi. Casement hears the boy roll over and almost instantly a whistling snore can be heard from the corner of the tent.

  Well, that’s settled, thinks Casement. He’ll take care of Mbatchi, make sure he is well fed and in good health, that he is always happy and feels safe, that he rests when he needs to and is protected from those that might harm him. And he’ll work and perform all the tasks required of him, one after the other, until his life is wasted or there’s nothing left to do.

  III

  Yambuya

  June 1887

  The camp hovers on the side of a river and is enclosed by a fence of sticks that—when observed all at once—resemble nothing more than the teeth of a comb. There are several huts made of tree limbs, planks, scrap metal, whatever was available during construction, and these are thatched with grass. Three months have passed since Ward signed on for the venture, and he has yet to do anything beyond presenting himself in various locations to little purpose. And now he is presenting himself here. Stanley and half the officers and the available porters have already left, their drums but a distant memory. Stanley is in a hurry to rescue Emin Pasha while he still needs rescuing, before the situation resolves itself.

  Ward has been made a fool and he knows it. He and four other ­officers—Stanley’s less desirables—are to wait in Yambuya until they have sufficient porters to join the expedition. They are to guard the supplies deemed unnecessary at this juncture. A Major Barttelot is the top-ranking officer. Ward explains that he has experience with porters, that he speaks local languages and is a good shot. Barttelot finds none of this interesting. Barttelot doesn’t want to look Ward in the eye but rather keeps ­swiveling—as Ward moves to face him—so that Ward remains sighted over his left shoulder. Ward asks, “Where ought I put my things?”

  “Why should I care?” says Barttelot.

  Which actually makes sense, but someone should care, shouldn’t they? Ward ducks his head into a large hut and sees various bundles and crates of ammunition piled into a pyramid in the corner. On the cot Ward sees fragile nets, pens, and a series of leather-bound notebooks, folded clothes—someone else’s traps, as they call personal belongings here, as if everything possesses a potential danger.

  The next hut has a bare cot and no ammunition. It’s very small, which seems about right for how Ward feels and is, at least, unoccupied. There are several empty sacks folded on the floor and these he’ll fashion into crude curtains. Ward sets his bag down and sits, the cot responding with a creak. He takes his sketchbook from his bag.

  There’s a series of slaps on the doorjamb and Ward looks up.

  “Herbert Ward, I presume,” says the man, leaning in the entrance, “unless you are Selim ben Mohammed, who is also expected.”

  Ward stands and shakes hands. “I’m Herbert Ward.”

  “James Jameson,” he says. “Perhaps I can scare up some sort of meal for you. Would you be interested in that?”

  “I could eat,” says Ward, following him out.

  They sit on crates in the shadow cast by Jameson’s hut, which is the large one with the ammunition. Ward starts on his bowl of goat stew. Jameson looks frail for this climate. He wears his mustaches long and has a dreamy, faraway look that seems better suited to less-obscuring landscapes. “I’m really not sure what the purpose is of my being here,” says Ward.

  “I’m thinking you’re here to keep me company.”

  “How are the others?”

  “Well, you’ve met them. Troup is all right, if you don’t mind ­hearing—again—that this isn’t Egypt. He’s a soldier and is really only happy when he’s killing for King and Country. And Bonny, well, was a sentimental addition for Stanley. He came along for romance and adventure. Obviously, the man’s an idiot, but you still feel bad for him.”

  Bonny had punned on Ward’s name, “to-Ward, and for-Ward,” and Ward had chuckled to be generous but didn’t really understand the joke. “Good for a laugh?”

  “If you feel like making the effort.” Jameson raises an eyebrow. “We’ve been here six weeks now. Barttelot is already mad, the first of us to lose his mind. He is, after all, our fearless leader.”

  Jameson might be the sort who quickly calls people mad, not realizing what it means in Africa.

  “We could be here for months,” says Ward. “Why would Stanley put Barttelot in charge?”

  “Because Barttelot’s ill-tempered, which can masquerade as having a sense of purpose. And he served in China.”

  “This isn’t China,” says Ward. He’s tired of serving under people less knowledgeable than himself, but that’s written into the running of Africa. People from home slide right into the highest positions, while those with actual experience have to fight for what’s left over. “Why’d they leave you behind?” asks Ward.

  “You’re very direct,” says Jameson. There’s a Scottish purr to his accent, one that is carefully controlled. “The doctor thought I looked less sturdy than the others, although they brought Stairs along in a stretcher.”

  “Clearly, you think it’s something else.”

  Jameson shrugs. “They’re a bad lot anyway. Jephson bought a dog in Cape Town and one night, deciding he didn’t like the look of it, tied a bar around its neck and threw it overboard into a black sea. I had its brother, until it ran off a week ago.” From Jameson’s expression, one would conclude that “running off” had been a wise decision. “Jephson and I tossed coins and I got the better-looking animal. If I’d known that Jephson would be so cruel, I would have taken the other.”

  “You’re Scottish?” asks Ward.

  “Actually, Irish, but raised in Scotland.”

  “Jameson, like the whiskey?”

  “Oh, yes.” Jameson looks at Ward from the corner of his eye. “Deceptively charming, but capable of knocking you off your feet when you least expect it.”

  “I meant—”

  “Yes, that’s my family.” Jameson, holding very still, looks over Ward. His eyes stop on the sketchbook. “May I see?”

  Ward hands the sketchbook over.

  “These are very nice. You have talent.” Jameson, someone who is accustomed to having his opinion matter, raises his eyes and nods at Ward. “I too am someone who draws, but I lack your vigorous line.”

  “I say, it will be good to have another artist—”

  “Artist?” Jameson shakes his head. “Drawing is a gentleman’s pursuit.”

  “Really?” asks Ward and regrets it.

  Jameson’s eyes twinkle. “Unless you’re planning on t
aking up drawing as a profession?”

  “No,” says Ward. “That’s not really my thing.” He glances about him—at Africa, he supposes—which is currently what interests him.

  “What has brought you here?” asks Jameson.

  “Now you’re being direct!” says Ward, on his toes. “I’m a bit of an adventurer, you know. I’ve traveled a lot. I’ve been to Australia and New Zealand. I lived in Borneo—”

  “I’ve been to Borneo,” says Jameson. “Do you hunt?”

  “There’s nothing I like better.”

  “This might work out,” says Jameson. “Any interest in insects?”

  “Well, not really. Insects, you mean scientifically?”

  “Of course.” Jameson laughs and notices Ward’s ears, which are turning red with embarrassment. “Also butterflies. I collect them.”

  Ward doesn’t know how to respond to this at all.

  “And birds. I’ve been skinning them to stuff later—”

  “There I can help you!” says Ward.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. My father was a taxidermist at the Museum of Natural History.” Of course, his father is now living in America, but he’ll not mention this just yet.

  “Oh?” Jameson is pleased.

  “And my grandfather traveled with Audubon in America.” This last fact is true, but always sounds as though Ward is making it up. And Ward isn’t sure if this pedigree really recommends him: He comes from a long line of bird-skinners.

  “Jolly good,” says Jameson, whiskey heir, as if he’s produced the phrase as a gift to the “jolly” Ward. “We should make out all right on this muddy strip, even if it does edge onto the abyss of hell and is very, very slippery.”

  Ward has been at Yambuya three long, empty months. He has given up shaving and, possibly as a result of this, avoids looking in the mirror. Jameson occupies himself collecting butterflies and beetles, finding the wriggling, scuttling, fluttering things and quickly—with pins, chemicals, whatever—introducing stillness. Even with the sun shining, there is something gloomy about this reach of the Aruwimi River. Kingfishers hunt over the black surface of the river, their jeweled feathers catching the sun; they hover and hover, then drop, dividing their reflections with a narrow splash. The manioc plants, when stirred by the wind, flutter their hand-like leaves.

  Casement had warned Ward that he risked being treated as second class because surely Stanley was recruiting in London from a pool of hundreds, mostly gentlemen. And that, because the finances on this venture were not clear, wealthy people who had interests beyond the rescue of Emin Pasha and other vaguely heroic undertakings would fill out the roster, and here was Jameson with his whiskey fortune and butterflies. Down to the last detail, Casement had seen it. He had pointed out the press clause in Ward’s contract: I undertake not to publish anything connected with the Expedition, or to send any account to the newspapers for six months after the issue of the official Expedition by the leader or his representative. “If something goes wrong,” Casement had said, “you’ll have no way to defend yourself.” Ward has begun to wait for that thing to go wrong.

  A shadow falls across the doorway of his hut. It is Jameson, back from tending his snares. Jameson presents a pair of dead warblers: limp creatures with closed eyes and gentle beaks, their claws curled tenderly. Jameson and Ward will flay the birds and pack the skins carefully, so that their being can be reconstituted in England—stuffed with wood shavings and fiber.

  “Ward,” says Jameson, “you look tired.”

  “I’m all right,” says Ward, “but I feel the ghost of a fever in my joints.”

  Ward flips the bird onto its back and slices vertically from the base of its head down the length of its abdomen. Ward left home at fifteen years, a boy, but already committed to being an artist. His father had laughed at him, although there were artists in the family. Uncle Rowland was very successful; King Edward VII had commissioned his bronze animals, which led to recognition. Ward is not a gentleman, never wanted to be. When he threatened to become a sailor, to journey to New Zealand, his father had told him, Go. Go kill yourself, sealing the deal. And, what Ward recalled most clearly, Don’t you know what happens to little golden boys like you on long voyages? He remembers his father’s growling laughter, his own fear. There is a little blood along the incision and carefully he peels back the warbler’s skin. Ward was suffocating in London, amid the reek of chemicals from his father’s work, his mother’s wide-eyed, stupid beauty, his own furtive sketching, the cold corridors of the Mill School, where he excelled at boxing. And gymnastics. His pride at taking first prize for the horizontal bars and his father saying, Go join a circus then. The low, growling laugh. His father’s glee as all the elements of failure fell in place for his golden, pretty son. Ward gently snaps the wings from the warbler’s sockets. Somehow, it was all about the mother, who loved her son blindly and this blind love for Ward, after all love had died for her husband, infuriated the father. If she had really wanted to protect him, his mother should have loved him less. And now his father has taken all the family money, some of which should have been Ward’s, and bought huge tracts of land in California. This is where his parents and sister now live, so far as to almost be beyond the reach of memory.

  “Now if the rain will hold off,” says Jameson, “maybe these skins will dry.”

  Ward skillfully scrapes all traces of fat from the skin. The work is soothing, an escape. “Why do you really think Stanley left you here, James?”

  “To the point,” says Jameson.

  “You always say that,” says Ward, “as if there’s some other way of speaking.”

  “There is.”

  “Not if you want to be understood,” says Ward.

  “All right,” Jameson demurs. “I think Stanley left me to Yambuya because he found me intimidating. He’s a brute, old Stanley, has the worst manners, and is threatened by just about everyone, which is why he loves his Manyema savages so much. On a continuum, he’s actually closer to them than he is to me.”

  “And where would you put me,” says Ward, “on this continuum?”

  “An artist?”

  “It’s a hobby,” Ward protests.

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  Ward scrapes at his bird skin, looking over at Jameson, who isn’t often serious.

  “Artists are more angels than men,” Jameson declares.

  “What if I told you I used to be a circus performer?”

  “No!” Feigned horror.

  “I was. Even worse, it was in an Australian circus, in Sydney. I used to walk along this beam over everyone’s heads. I’d get up there and stand on my hands.” Ward regards his hands, dirty with bird blood. “Was I with the angels up there?”

  “Closer to God? I think not,” says Jameson. “You’re demoted, back among the Manyema, with Stanley.” Jameson smiles indulgently.

  Ward is something of a pet, and he knows this, but that is all right. Better Jameson than Casement, who is clearheaded and fair to a fault. Judgmental. Noble. Arrogant. Blind.

  Bonny sticks his head into the hut and lets Ward and Jameson know that Barttelot would like to speak to them. They make their way to Barttelot’s tent. They stand awkwardly before Barttelot, who—spread across a makeshift couch, his legs splayed—reports that Tippo Tib sent 400 porters, but nearly all are lost. An Arab half-caste, Abddallah, is happy to escort the representatives of Stanley back to Tib’s camp at Stanley Falls, suggesting they bring partial payment, so they can sort it out.

  “I think Tippo Tib is lying,” says Ward. “There were never any porters. He says this so that we will send rifles as payment.”

  “We haven’t talked to him yet, have we? Have we?” Barttelot props himself higher on his elbow. “If we don’t talk to him, he cannot lie. It is the Manyema that lie. The black man lies.”

  Ward holds steady. He sees Ba
rttelot’s fingers grasping the handle of his steel-tipped staff. Ward is careful not to look at Jameson, as careful as Jameson is not to catch Ward’s eye.

  “You must go to Tippo Tib and tell him where we are and tell him to send the porters again.”

  “It will take us at least three days to get to Stanley Falls,” says Ward.

  Barttelot waves him off with the back of his hand.

  “We will need supplies and arms and men to accompany us. It’s straight through Opongo territory and they are known cannibals.”

  “Of course they are!” Barttelot twitches and forces himself into a seated position, which he seems to resent having to do. “Take some of these ­savages—arm them, and good luck to you.”

  Ward, as a safety measure, has the escort made up half of Arabs and half of natives from around the Stanley Falls area. The Arab interpreter, Assad Farran, is accompanying them, no doubt lured by the promise of good food at the court of Tippo Tib. The path is narrow and leads through abandoned villages where formerly cultivated manioc blocks one’s path. For dinner, one moldy biscuit each, since they had counted on purchasing food from the villagers, but there are no more villagers—nor villages, as all have moved to avoid Arab slavers and conscription as porters.

  Jameson has folded in upon himself like a clenching fist. Ward attempts some cheer, pointing out birds through the scrim of drizzle, although they present themselves robbed of color and slightly out of focus.

  “Tell me a story,” says Jameson.

  “What about?” says Ward.

  “About your Congo cannibals,” says Jameson.

  “I’ve spent most of my time among the Bakongo,” says Ward. “They would no sooner eat a man than I would. They are a gentle people.”

  “Then it is a boring story.” Jameson is depressed at this. They are walking the length of a creek, ankle-deep in water.

  “Unfortunately for the Bakongo, their gentleness puts them further down the food chain.”

  “Really?”

  “The Bangala—mostly north side of the Congo—are quite fierce and unrepentant cannibals.”