Sunday, the 24th of February 1895.
At sunset, evening descends. We have travelled sixty miles along the mighty Congo, hemmed in by its impenetrable mangrove forests. The journey proved surprisingly arduous, for the current is so violent that often we advanced no faster than a man’s walking pace, even with the engines at full power. I should not like to fall into these waters, for even the strongest swimmer would soon be vanquished by the treacherous eddies of this giant river. At last, however, we reach Boma, the capital and the first stage of our voyage.
Here, only a few metres below where I stand, lies another continent. One senses it instantly in its pungent, peculiar odour: a mixture of earth, sweat, and blood that clings to the skin and stings the nose. It intrigues me, and I confess it actually makes me glad. It's the scent of the great adventure, the smell of an
untouched continent and the promise of a future yet to be forged. I
can hear the chaotic din of the port below, a cacophony of voices
shouting in strange languages mixed with the low hum of the ship's
engine. From the deck, I watch as the teeming crowd moves busily
about their affairs, a sea of colour in a world I have never seen.
Boma is the only true town in the land, founded four centuries ago by the first Portuguese explorers. Yet from the deck of the Léopoldville I see little of its long and storied past because all the buildings are recent, wooden structures in the colonial style. Even the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption was built in Belgium and transported here only nine years ago. It is small yet picturesque, with its red roof and white octagonal tower barely rising above the lush greenery of the gardens.
Most of the passengers disembark here. The family who kept me company yesterday, when Central Africa first appeared before our bow, have just crossed the gangway. For them, the adventure already begins. The little girl in the oversized hat hesitates, turns back for one last look at the ship, but her father tugs her hand and leads her deeper into this new continent until they vanish into the crowd.
Never in my life have I seen so many black men and women! Dressed in astonishingly colourful garments, they provide sharp contrast to the stories of horror that Commander Rom told me. I long to step ashore myself and explore this new world, but the Major has forbidden it. We must remain on board as soon General Wahis and his staff will arrive. He is the Governor of the Congo Free State and has resided for three years already in his vast palace at the centre of the city. Thus it surprises me that he should come to dine aboard the Léopoldville, rather than we being summoned to him.
"There he is, he’s coming," Louis whispers.
The crowd parts respectfully before the high company of authorities. The Governor-General strides at their head, the white plumes of his hat swaying in rhythm with his firm steps. His cropped white hair, long moustache, and steely eyes are sterner still than those of the Major, whose gaze at times betrays a trace of humanity. His chest bristles with medals, thrust forward with the pride of a conqueror. At his side walks a gentleman in civilian dress, younger, unknown to me, yet clearly of importance. He's tall, elegant in a fine suit, his beard short and neatly trimmed. Together they ascend the gangway, followed by their staff.
‘Atten... tion!’ barks Commander Rom.
We snap our heads up and bring our heels together. Backs rigid, arms stiff at our sides.
‘Sa... lute!’
We raise our right hands to the peaks of our caps. The Major salutes the General, who returns the gesture. They shake hands, a courtesy but no more. There is tension between them. The Commander orders us back to rest position, and we obey.
"Glad to see you, General," the Major says.
"The pleasure is mine, Major," replies the General. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"
"Indeed, very pleasant, General, thank you, the Léopoldville is a fine ship."
The General gestures at the elegant man by his side.
"May I present Sir Roger Casement, His Britannic Majesty’s Consul."
"Delighted, sir," the Major offers tersely, as ever sparing with words. "The King sends his distinguished regards."
"I am honoured indeed, Major," the Englishman replies in respectable French. "How fares His Majesty? It is already a year since we last met."
"His Majesty is well, sir. He remains most grateful for the support he has always received from your government."
"We are happy to lend our hand in the exploration of this marvellous land, Major."
"Gentlemen," the Major cuts in, steering his guests towards us, "permit me to present my company. Commander Rom you know already, of course."
"Commander," the General acknowledges him with a dryness bordering on disdain. The Consul too shakes his hand with scant enthusiasm.
"And here are Lieutenants Mertens and Deghendt," the Major continues, introducing Louis and myself. We in turn shake hands with the General and the Consul. "Lieutenant Deghendt is our engineer, who shall help us complete the railway to Léopoldville in short order."
"Ah, an engineer!" exclaims the General. "About time! After five years of inefficiency..."
I can hardly believe my ears. A direct insult to the Major!
"Remind me, Major, how many kilometres have you built so far?" the General asks, twirling his moustache.
"Eighty, as far as Songololo, General," the Major answers calmly.
"Five years... I said from the start your plan was folly, yet you would not listen."
"With all due respect, General, it was His Majesty himself who ordered the railway built. Do you suggest it was a poor idea?"
"Of course not! I long for the day it is finished... if I live to see it. And you, Lieutenant, will you ensure I may take the train to Léopoldville before I die?"
"I shall do everything in my power, General!" I reply fervently.
"There you have it, Major," the General laughs, "you have brought not only an engineer, but a politician as well!"
The Major ignores the jibe and presents Mr. Harris, who explains his mission to document the development of the Congo. The General seems little interested. He nods politely but asks not a single question. The Consul, however, is pleased to encounter a compatriot and engages him in a brief English conversation.
Then the Major leads us to the dining room, ceding his seat of honour to the General. Another courtesy, nothing more. The tension mounts. Dishes and wine arrive.
"Ah! What a joy to taste Belgian food again!" the General exclaims. "That is what I miss most, you know. Chips... meat... had you brought me our mussels as well, I should be truly content!"
The Major lets him ramble. Both men know perfectly well who truly commands here.
"Alors, what is the state of affairs in the country, General?" the Major suddenly asks.
The General lays down his fork, his eyes meeting the Major’s. He would rather have spoken of business after dinner, or not at all. He dabs his lips with his napkin.
"Well then... The bands of Tippu Tip have ceased to assail us as before. I hear rumours of scattered clashes further inland, but I dare say we now hold the territory firmly under control."
"His Majesty will be glad to hear it," the Major replies icily. "But he will be yet more concerned to know how the rubber harvest proceeds. From the figures I have received, I can only conclude the objectives have not been met. And by a long way."
An uneasy silence falls upon the table. The Major has just levelled a direct charge of misgovernment at the Governor-General.
“Really? And who determined these figures you are referring to?” the General bristles. “From what I know, the harvest is proceeding in line with expectations.”
The major gives a sign to a servant, who hands him a large folder. He calmly sets it down on the table and unfastens the cord that binds it with deliberate indifference. Opening the cover, he perches his spectacles on his nose and begins leafing through the papers. The General is baffled by such arrogance but keeps silent, his eyes fixed on the folder. His eyes narrow as he watches the Major's painstakingly slow movements, his face a mask of baffled rage. Then the Major draws out a sheet of paper and tosses it in front of the General’s face.
“Would you do me the courtesy of reading this, General?”
“What is this? Who has…” the General barks, but the Major interrupts him.
“It is the official record from the port of Antwerp on the landings of rubber barrels. Please read. At the bottom, the total for last year.”
“Monthly figures… shipments… conclusion… total for the year 1894… three hundred and twenty-five tonnes. But this is absurd!”
The general flings the document aside; it lands in the centre of the table. The Major continues.
“As you know, the King’s demand was to raise production to five hundred. How do you explain this discrepancy?”
“Explain, explain…” the General snaps, “these figures are wrong! My administrative office has confirmed that the target was reached!”
“Then you have a problem with your office,” the Major replies, not even raising his voice.
At first, I would have thought the general the harder man, but I'm mistaken. General Wahis is sweating and a tremor has taken control of his fingers. The situation's slipping from his grasp, and as the ranking officer that displeases him greatly. To be publicly reprimanded by a mere Major… But this particular Major carries not only the King’s will, but the backing of the entire commercial enterprise behind the Congo’s exploitation. A crowd of very powerful men who do not wish to hear the word ‘no’. Meanwhile the British Consul's shifting uneasily in his chair. The Major's noticed.
“Do you agree with the General, Mr. Casement?” he suddenly asks, his gaze unblinking.
For a brief moment, the Consul’s eyes meet mine across the table. In that instant, I feel a glimmer of a shared understanding. His expression is one of calm disapproval, the expression of a man who knows the truth and, unlike the others, is not afraid of it. But he too is a politician.
“From what the Manchester syndicate has conveyed to me…” the consul answers reluctantly, “deliveries remain markedly below the promises made to us.”
“Absurd!” the General shouts. The Major doesn't even blink. On the contrary, he's going for the kill.
“General, can you explain what you have done in recent years to encourage trade? To train the natives? To ensure that the Crown, and businessmen such as myself, receive what they desire?”
“What… what are you implying? That…”
“I am implying nothing, General. I only want to hear your version of events, that is all.”
The general's now trembling in every fibre of his body. His head's getting all red and swollen.
“Do you truly believe I have sat here on my lazy backside all these years? How dare you!” he explodes.
“I did not say that. I merely wish to know what you have done. That is all.”
“You want to know what I have done? Then I shall tell you!" the General lashes out. "Firstly, I personally established the colonial army. Secondly, I created the entire civil administration, which you, in your arrogance, come here to criticise. I fought the slave traders and the sleeping sickness which, as you know, still afflicts the whole country. I ensured that all the land, save for existing villages, belongs to the Crown. It is thanks to me, my dear Major, that there is now a guaranteed rubber harvest which we reinforce every day with new laws!”
“My compliments," the Major replies, totally unaffected by the General's outburst. "But returning to my earlier question, why does your system not function properly?”
“I tell you it does function!”
“General, either the Antwerp port records are in error, something I very much doubt, or your office’s figures have been falsified. In my opinion the latter seems the more likely.”
“So what would you have me do? Dismiss my entire staff? Begin a witch-hunt?”
“I want you to raise the quotas. That is all. It is not much to ask, is it?”
The general falls silent.
“Not much?” he then roars even louder. His head's about to burst. “And this is what you call gratitude for all I have done? It was I — me, remember it — who saved Princess Charlotte, the King’s sister, from the hands of the Mexican revolutionaries! I have always loyally obeyed orders! It is only under my rule — mine, do you hear — that the Congo has become a colony worthy of His Majesty! His Majesty, who has written to me that he considers me a friend. So you, Major, are not the only one with influence at Laeken Palace!”
“Perhaps not. But for the present the King gives more credit to me than to your letters. The quotas must be doubled within six months. And this is only the beginning.”
“Doubled?" The General's perplexed. His mouth falls open wide and for a brief moment he doesn't utter a sound. "Major, I have remained at my post for years, even when you returned to Belgium to organise your ventures for extracting the greatest profit from this colony. And you now believe yourself more capable than I, indeed that you can realise your deranged quotas?”
“I most certainly do, General. A firmer hand is required.”
“Then I wish you every success! I shall not hinder you, and I hope you may satisfy commercial demands better than I.”
He throws his napkin on the table, rises and walks out in a steaming rage, leaving everyone stunned. The man with the leonine gaze, his hair slicked so firmly back as though resisting a storm, has been gravely humiliated, and by an inferior no less. And there is nothing he can do. He realises he is but a puppet, with the great businessmen of Brussels, and above all the King himself, holding the strings.
“Problem number one solved,” the major remarks with satisfaction.
I know not what to make of this scene. The General called me a politician, but nothing could be further from the truth. I gladly leave this dangerous game to others, since it leads inevitably to duplicity, an insatiable lust for power and, in the end, corruption. Or else one becomes an iceman like the major. I do not know which fate is worse.
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