Conrad says that England is the most civilizing place on earth. He finds the presence of red across the earth’s maps symbolic of an improving influence, and Casement has to agree that the English in the Congo would be infinitely preferable to the Belgians, people like Rohm with the skulls circling his flower bed, and Van Kerkhoven, who thinks abandoning the corpses of fallen porters to the elements to be a force for good, a way of keeping order, although how this functions—or why other officers believe this too—is a mystery to Casement. He has tried with the Belgians, and the French. A few years ago, he had actually attempted to lodge a complaint against one of the State men, Francqui, who had beaten some poor servant within an inch of his life. Casement had put the man in his own hammock and in a state of outrage—one that he maintained for the entire fifty-mile trek to Boma—had fully expected to exact retribution for the groaning man, whose back, stripped to pieces, called to mind convict ballads and the Irish rebels whose backs were reduced to gore on the triangles of Morton Bay. And here, as then, no justice had been served. Casement was laughed at. He’d recalled his father—who was not consistently gentle—splinting the wing of a blackbird and the derision this tenderness had earned him, although when his back was turned, from the man delivering the coal. But that was a bird and this was a man.
Casement does not believe that England is always right and, in a later, quiet moment when he has stepped outside the hut into the dark where the night’s stillness bows beneath a blanket of deafening frogs, he thinks that perhaps Conrad does not himself believe it, but rather in the conviction itself.
Casement rolls out his most recent map, one provided by the Société, one onto which he has added various things, places he knows about, sources of water, wild banana groves. He sets a bottle on one corner of the map, a book on another, and he and Conrad look down at Africa, which is in a struggle to return to its rolled, uncommunicative, obscured state. Casement indicates, his finger jabbing godlike.
“Here’s the section of river,” he says, “I’m not sure of the distance—it’s somewhere just shy of two hundred miles. But you’ll have to walk it. It’s slow going. We’ll have some porters to serve as hammock bearers.”
“I think I’d rather walk,” says Conrad.
“Wouldn’t we all, but if you get hit with a fever, you’ll be down for days, and as you just arrived here—”
“I have been hit by fevers.”
“Far Eastern fevers. Different set of bugs.” Casement squints along the map, his finger moving up the Congo. “No doubt, you’ve looked at this. There were villages all along here, but between the Arabs and Belgians, people have found good reason to relocate. And here’s Stanley Pool. God willing, your boat is waiting, in good shape, and ready to go.”
“You make it sound unlikely.”
“Honestly, it is. But once that’s figured out, you’re on the river all the way to the Falls. Unless you rip out the hull, which can happen, and does. If you think it’s a hippo and it’s taking its time getting out of the way, it might not be a hippo.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Equatoria here was a good a place to stop, but there have been all kinds of skirmishes with the Arabs. We lose it, and then we get it back, but the news is slow and so you don’t really know what you’re steaming into.” Casement skids his callused finger up and down the Congo. “Bangala is probably all right, a good place to stop in. And then you’re just playing it by ear, all the way to Stanley Falls.”
“Upriver,” says Conrad. He returns his attention to the map. “What’s this?” he asks.
“Ah, Yambuya, right at the mouth of the Aruwimi. Have you heard of the Rear Guard of the Emin Pasha Relief?”
“A little,” says Conrad.
“It’s blowing into a major scandal,” says Casement, rolling his map and returning the two men to the limits of Matadi.
“So it would seem.”
“What have you heard?” says Casement. He stows the map and goes about packing his pipe. He lowers himself into the desk chair.
“Starving natives, poor management, people’s sanity slipping away.” Conrad’s face settles into a hard smile. “To retell it from this vantage point seems to have robbed the situation of all its remarkability.”
“But it is remarkable, because Stanley’s involved and it makes him look bad. And certainly, sanity is a rare commodity around here, but Barttelot stands out because he was so immoderate that he was killed by one of the natives. Shot. That is not so common. The natives fear retaliation more than anything.”
“Was it in self-defense?”
“Of a sort.” Casement takes the bottle of gin and pours a glass for Conrad. “There was a woman engaged in some sort of ceremonial drumming, which happened to be performed at dawn. This woke Barttelot up and he, in a foul mood, was going to deliver some variety of excessive punishment when her husband shot him.”
“Why did the native have a gun?”
“I’m not sure. The natives do trade for rifles, but usually they only have predictable sorts of weapons—knives and spears and clubs.” Casement takes a thoughtful slug of gin. “Barttelot was mad. There’s a saying around here that the definition of insane is whoever is crazier than you are. But Barttelot was unhinged from the start.”
“The climate—”
“This place attracts the worst of Europe. It doesn’t create monsters,” but as he says that, Casement becomes unsure.
Conrad is quiet. Casement leaves him to that silence and, after a search, finds his pencil beneath a sheaf of loose papers. He moves on to the list he’s been compiling. Conrad has four crates, so that’s probably four porters just for him. And there are provisions that need to be purchased—tinned meat, coffee, sugar. Conrad says he’s brought ample tobacco and his own medicines, foul-weather gear, and ammunition, but he might not have all the right pills. And he’ll need cartridges for the Martini rifle. He wonders what they have stockpiled at Stanley Pool. The man who is traveling with Conrad to Kinshasa—Casement forgets the name—is also new to the area, so everything needs to be double-checked. Casement predicts that Conrad will end up in charge of the column by default, by his proven constitution if not his rank. No doubt, this new company man has lost some of his bulk due to the regular upsets and exotic diet, but still he is somewhere north of fourteen stone, which means, should some misfortune befall him, he will require—amusingly—three-and-a-half porters. Not his problem, Casement decides. But he should attend to Conrad’s goods for bartering. “Conrad, do you have your cloth and rum yet?”
“No.” All of this second-nature calculation is being reflected—by Conrad’s bemused responses—as a curiosity. “How much rum do I need?”
“That depends on you,” says Casement. “This is local currency. A bottle of rum is . . . I don’t know if exchange rates are worth exploring, but it’s as solid for trading here as the pound sterling is back home. And better than rods. Bring a combination of rum and cloth. Most transactions involve both. And if the station chief tries to push the yellow Manchester on you, don’t take it. The natives don’t like it. A fine check in blue or black is probably safest, although my last time out, I had a bolt of red damask and it was very popular. The villagers do check that the dye does not run, so you should too.”
Casement teaches Conrad that most often, it is better to trade with the men than the women because the women tend to bargain harder and are difficult to read. Many transactions take several days. Ivory is sold by weight and one must probe into the larger tusks with a sharp object because the natives have figured out how to load the tusks with lead. One good-sized tusk—a forty-five pounder—brings to the native trader a hundred gallons of rum, ten cases of gin, 400 yards of Manchester cloth, twenty kegs of gunpowder, four guns, and a bushel of other nonsense: buttons, beads, and baubles. Of course, the amount of these rubbishy goods required to purchase just one tusk of ivory surprises Conrad.
He wants to know if every trader has to track such exchanges in specific detail, but Casement assures him that once he is up in the interior, the quantities of ivory will require a different manner of transaction.
“Here in Matadi, there is business like that—natives wandering in with a couple of tusks. And I’ve gone hunting on occasion, supplemented my income, picked up my own supply of rum and whatnot to use to trade for other goods. But where you’re headed, well. As you know, I’m not a trader and when you get deep enough into the country, it’s hard to get a sense of the business. The climate doesn’t agree with people. Equipment rusts out. Everything’s in a state of corruption.” Casement manages a smile for Conrad, reminds himself that all of the preparations and caveats are useless when presented with the reality that is the Congo Free State. “All good stuff to add to your already full trunk of experience.”
Casement has his own trip to worry about. He’s running a caravan of ivory to Boma—he’ll be gone just a few days—and Conrad will be on his own. Casement’s arranged for one of the local agents to include him in meals, but beyond that he is pretty sure that Captain Conrad, or Konrad Korseniewski, will be fine alone. It occurs to Casement, as he rolls an extra shirt and puts it in his rucksack, that instead of having many names, this Conrad has only one—that when Casement addresses him “Conrad” the name falls upon the captain’s ears as that same name used by his long-deceased and still-mourned parents—that everything about this Conrad can be read two ways. And also, that Conrad has wondered about Casement, is curious about his reticence, and seems to think that, like his own, it springs from an inability to communicate what he does not know about himself. Conrad is made of one element in a constant state of flux—as if Conrad is the ocean itself—whereas he, Casement, like most men, is built of a tough exterior and a tender middle, his constitution only remarkable by the extent to which his inner self is kept secret. He ponders these differences as he checks the baskets, as he makes the final arrangements with the barges for crossing the Congo.
“Mayala Swami,” says Mbatchi.
“What now, little friend?”
“You will buy me ice in Boma.”
“Where did you hear about ice?”
Mbatchi, for obvious reasons, used the English word and at first Casement had thought the boy had wanted eyes.
“From Msa,” says Mbatchi.
“Msa?”
“He was with Mayala Mbemba.”
Of course. Msa had nursed Ward through the ulcers. “I’m not sure if there is ice in Boma. Maybe your friend meant down on the coast. They have it in Banana.”
Mbatchi’s face falls.
“If there is ice in Boma, I will get you some. And if there’s not, I’ll find some other small magic, and buy you that.” Casement whistles for the dogs, but as he’s about to step onto the track—the first of many stages for such a short journey—he feels the weight of eyes on his back and turns under this certainty. And there is Conrad, watchful, his gaze fixed, focused both on Casement and Mbatchi and the dogs, and on something else—something not visible—at the same time.
There has been traffic on this path. What was once wilderness has succumbed to some influence, although it is hard to call the snapped branches and muddy ruts, the denuded leaves and occasional corpses evidence of progress. The monkey population has all but disappeared. Casement remembers a ridiculous discussion he’d had with Glave and Ward back in San Francisco, when they were they staying in that decrepit hotel near the piers, where the wind blew in through the cracks and the traffic up and down the stairs just outside the door—back and forth, light-footed women leading stumbling men—had underscored the Wild West exoticism of their present location. Exotic, and just that morning, at a barbershop, Casement and Glave had been shaved by a Chinaman, his sloping forehead plucked bare, a long braid falling down his back. And Glave’s comment, If he goes for my hairline, I’m screaming, and the man’s laughing response, You no think I’m handsome? Such jovial fun. After a good-natured blunder around the city and a phenomenal steak-and-potato meal, the three young men had returned for bed but decided that they were not quite ready for sleep.
After a couple of drinks—the creaking stairs in call-and-response with a creaking iron bedframe in the next room—Ward had found the courage to say something that had apparently bothered him for quite some time.
“Once,” he said, “I saw two monkeys and they were, well, face to face.” He looked at Glave and then at Casement, waiting for some variety of shock to set in.
“I imagine,” started Glave, “that monkeys are often face to face.”
Which was, of course, highly amusing.
Glave leaned back into his chair. “Maybe they were chatting about the weather, or making introductions—”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Ward. “They were, you know,” he nodded, “you know,” and he gestured to the wall where the previously creaking bed was now slamming hard against it, threatening to break through, “face to face.”
“Are you sure they weren’t villagers?” Glave had asked. “Maybe it was dark?”
“Broad daylight,” said Ward.
And the conversation had continued like that, Ward swearing vigorously that he had seen the two large monkeys copulating like people and that it had so disturbed him that he had been unable to comfortably—but here Ward stopped himself, not obliging with details. And of course this had raised questions about what opportunities for intimacy presented themselves in the jungle. Glave had peppered him with possibilities, progressively outrageous—cannibals, elephants, gourds—until Ward had lost patience, saying loudly, Hold on! Hold on! Hold on! And then an occupant of the slamming bed had yelled, Can you not shut up?
After they’d recovered from their laughter, Glave admitted—in a considerately soft voice—that he’d heard of these monkeys, and their face-to-face. They were a kind of chimpanzee. But why had Glave withheld his knowledge of this, Ward wanted to know, and pummeled him so mercilessly, played him for a fool? Of course, it was because of Ward’s reaction, hilarious, and Ward is a good sport, and Glave always teases him as if they are brothers.
Ward had connected with his mother and younger sister there in San Francisco, but it was less than what Ward had hoped for. His mother—in letters—had not changed because her script and affection and youthfulness all remained intact in writing, but to see her, although Ward would not go into much detail, was to witness her decline. Ward’s sister was a pretty thing, poorly educated and rough-mannered, wearing a too-big dress that was threadbare in places. His father had been unable to attend the lecture. Ward had thought his father unwilling to witness his success. Ward had wondered what had become of his family, and now he knew.
One evening, fortified by whiskey and the comfort of feeling foreign, Casement had excused himself to take a stroll down on the docks. Along the piers, dark figures mobilized the shadows, ducked into view and retreated. He was at first nervous, but realized that this was a place where courage wasn’t required. A voice called, “Hallo, hallo,” and he smiled back. Casement wondered if he should shake hands, but a quick grip on his shoulder let him know that it was not necessary. He followed to a tangle of nets thrown against a wall, offering his name, although the man was not interested. Casement felt curiously alive.
He knows to practice regret and remorse, but he doesn’t really feel it. Regret will be an intellectual thing, like Christianity: a fine religion, but a practice, because one can only believe that the generous Bangala and the gentle, sweet-faced Loanda—despite their feathered idols—are loved by God. Why create such people if there is not hope for them? And why create him?
The track is dry here. The sun parts the leaves and—from the difference in terrain—Casement knows that he is coming close to the limits of Boma. He is wondering if this is a good place to rest the porters and distribute water when he hears one of his dogs, and then the other, barking angri
ly. He listens, but they do not stop and then he hears a yelp and a high-pitched bark—attacked?—and then the two dogs barking again. Casement pushes past a couple of porters, across to the left perimeter of the track, and breaks into a jog. The dogs do not let up, but now he is closer.
There is a European, tall and blond, and he’s struggling, although Casement, because of the angle and the distraction of the dogs, does not first see what is causing this. And then Paddy, teeth bared, goes for the man’s leg and a kick—the man’s boots reach to his knees—sends the dog flying.
“Hey!” Casement shouts. “Hey!”
The man turns and Casement sees that he has Mbatchi, that he’s struggling with him, but why?
“Are these your dogs?” the man shouts in French. His accent is Belgian.
“Yes. More importantly, that is my boy.”
“Your boy?”
Although Mbatchi has stopped struggling, the man still has his forearm around the boy’s neck. The dogs crouch, jaws ready, growling low.
“Call off your dogs,” says the man.
“If you let my boy go, they will have no issue with you.”
The man lets out a derisive laugh and releases Mbatchi, who takes careful, quick steps towards Casement.
“What would you want with a child?” Casement is shouting. “You’ve scared him half to death.”
“He is a liar.” The man’s expression shows that he does not find that surprising. “He says he has no family around here.”
“And he does not. This boy is Loanda, from Leopoldville.”
The man shrugs. This is of no importance.
“And what would you want from his family?”
“You have been here a long time?” asks the man.
To him, Casement must look like a prophet with his long beard and torn pants, his burnt skin and now—as the porters begin to gather behind him, their loads set down along the track—as some sort of native himself. “What is it to you?”
Valiant Gentlemen Page 17
