a question of latitude-第2章

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above　ground　called　the　Congo；　with　an　article　in　Lowell's　Weekly？〃

Undismayed；　Everett　grinned　cheerfully。

〃That's　what　I'm　here　for！〃　he　said。

By　the　time　Everett　reached　the　mouth　of　the　Congo；　he　had　learned
that　in　everything　he　must　depend　upon　himself；　that　he　would　be
accepted　only　as　the　kind　of　man　that；　at　the　moment；　he　showed
himself　to　be。　　This　attitude　of　independence　was　not　chosen；　but
forced　on　him　by　the　men　with　whom　he　came　in　contact。
Associations　and　traditions；　that　in　every　part　of　the　United
States　had　served　as　letters　of　introduction；　and　enabled　strangers
to　identify　and　label　him；　were　to　the　white　men　on　the　steamer　and
at　the　ports　of　call　without　meaning　or　value。　　That　he　was　an
Everett　of　Boston　conveyed　little　to　those　who　had　not　heard　even
of　Boston。　　That　he　was　the　correspondent　of　Lowell's　Weekly　meant
less　to　those　who　did　not　know　that　Lowell's　Weekly　existed。　　And
when；　in　confusion；　he　proffered　his　letter　of　credit；　the　very
fact　that　it　called　for　a　thousand　pounds　was；　in　the　eyes　of　a
〃Palm　Oil　Ruffian；〃　sufficient　evidence　that　it　had　been　forged　or
stolen。　　He　soon　saw　that　solely　as　a　white　man　was　he　accepted　and
made　welcome。　　That　he　was　respectable；　few　believed；　and　no　one
cared。　　To　be　taken　at　his　face　value；　to　be　refused　at　the　start
the　benefit　of　the　doubt；　was　a　novel　sensation；　and　yet　not
unpleasant。　　It　was　a　relief　not　to　be　accepted　only　as　Everett　the
Muckraker；　as　a　professional　reformer；　as　one　holier　than　others。
It　afforded　his　soul　the　same　relaxation　that　his　body　received
when；　in　his　shirt…sleeves　in　the　sweltering　smoking…room；　he　drank
beer　with　a　chef　de　poste　who　had　been　thrice　tried　for　murder。

Not　only　to　every　one　was　he　a　stranger；　but　to　him　everything　was
strange；　so　strange　as　to　appear　unreal。　　This　did　not　prevent　him
from　at　once　recognizing　those　things　that　were　not　strange；　such
as　corrupt　officials；　incompetence；　mismanagement。　　He　did　not　need
the　missionaries　to　point　out　to　him　that　the　Independent　State　of
the　Congo　was　not　a　colony　administered　for　the　benefit　of　many；
but　a　vast　rubber　plantation　worked　by　slaves　to　fill　the　pockets
of　one　man。　　It　was　not　in　his　work　that　Everett　found　himself
confused。　　It　was　in　his　attitude　of　mind　toward　almost　every　other
question。

At　first；　when　he　could　not　make　everything　fit　his　rule　of　thumb；
he　excused　the　country　tolerantly　as　a　〃topsy…turvy〃　land。　　He
wished　to　move　and　act　quickly；　to　make　others　move　quickly。　　He
did　not　understand　that　men　who　had　sentenced　themselves　to　exile
for　the　official　term　of　three　years；　or　for　life；　measured　time
only　by　the　date　of　their　release。　　When　he　learned　that　even　a
cablegram　could　not　reach　his　home　in　less　than　eighteen　days；　that
the　missionaries　to　whom　he　brought　letters　were　a　three　months'
journey　from　the　coast　and　from　each　other；　his　impatience　was
chastened　to　wonder；　and；　later；　to　awe。

His　education　began　at　Matadi；　where　he　waited　until　the　river
steamer　was　ready　to　start　for　Leopoldville。　　Of　the　two　places　he
was　assured　Matadi　was　the　better；　for　the　reason　that　if　you　still
were　in　favor　with　the　steward　of　the　ship　that　brought　you　south；
he　might　sell　you　a　piece　of　ice。

Matadi　was　a　great　rock；　blazing　with　heat。　　Its　narrow；
perpendicular　paths　seemed　to　run　with　burning　lava。　　Its　top；　the
main　square　of　the　settlement；　was　of　baked　clay；　beaten　hard　by
thousands　of　naked　feet。　　Crossing　it　by　day　was　an　adventure。　　The
air　that　swept　it　was　the　breath　of　a　blast…furnace。

Everett　found　a　room　over　the　shop　of　a　Portuguese　trader。　　It　was
caked　with　dirt；　and　smelled　of　unnamed　diseases　and　chloride　of
lime。　　In　it　was　a　canvas　cot；　a　roll　of　evil…looking　bedding；　a
wash…basin　filled　with　the　stumps　of　cigarettes。　　In　a　corner　was　a
tin　chop…box；　which　Everett　asked　to　have　removed。　　It　belonged；
the　landlord　told　him；　to　the　man　who；　two　nights　before；　had
occupied　the　cot　and　who　had　died　in　it。　　Everett　was　anxious　to
learn　of　what　he　had　died。　　Apparently　surprised　at　the　question；
the　Portuguese　shrugged　his　shoulders。

〃Who　knows？〃　he　exclaimed。　　The　next　morning　the　English　trader
across　the　street　assured　Everett　there　was　no　occasion　for　alarm。
〃He　didn't　die　of　any　disease；〃　he　explained。　　〃Somebody　got　at　him
from　the　balcony；　while　he　was　in　his　cot；　and　knifed　him。〃

The　English　trader　was　a　young　man；　a　cockney；　named　Upsher。　　At
home　he　had　been　a　steward　on　the　Channel　steamers。　　Everett　made
him　his　most　intimate　friend。　　He　had　a　black　wife；　who　spent　most
of　her　day　in　a　four…post　bed；　hung　with　lace　curtains　and　blue
ribbon；　in　which　she　resembled　a　baby　hippopotamus　wallowing　in　a
bank　of　white　sand。

At　first　the　black　woman　was　a　shock　to　Everett；　but　after　Upsher
dismissed　her　indifferently　as　a　〃good　old　sort；〃　and　spent　one
evening　blubbering　over　a　photograph　of　his　wife　and　〃kiddie〃　at
home；　Everett　accepted　her。　　His　excuse　for　this　was　that　men　who
knew　they　might　die　on　the　morrow　must　not　be　judged　by　what　they
do　to…day。　　The　excuse　did　not　ring　sound；　but　he　dismissed　the
doubt　by　deciding　that　in　such　heat　it　was　not　possible　to　take
serious　questions　seriously。　　In　the　fact　that；　to　those　about　him；
the　thought　of　death　was　ever　present；　he　found　further　excuse　for
much　else　that　puzzled　and　shocked　him。　　At　home；　death　had　been　a
contingency　so　remote　that　he　had　put　it　aside　as　something　he　need
not　consider　until　he　was　a　grandfather。　　At　Matadi；　at　every
moment　of　the　day；　in　each　trifling　act；　he　found　death　must　be
faced；　conciliated；　conquered。　　At　home　he　might　ask　himself；　〃If　I
eat　this　will　it　give　me　indigestion？〃　　At　Matadi　he　asked；　〃If　I
drink　this　will　I　die？〃

Upsher　told　him　of　a　feud　then　existing　between　the　chief　of　police
and　an　Italian　doctor　in　the　State　service。　　Interested　in　the
outcome　only　as　a　sporting　proposition；　Upsher　declared　the　odds
were　unfair；　because　the　Belgian　was　using　his　black　police　to　act
as　his　body…guard　while　for　protection　the　Italian　could　depend
only　upon　his　sword…cane。　　Each　night；　with　the　other　white　exiles
of　Matadi；　the　two　adversaries　met　in　the　Cafe　Franco…Belge。
There；　with　puzzled　interest；　Everett　watched　them　sitting　at
separate　tables；　surrounded　by　mutual　friends；　excitedly　playing
dominoes。　　Outside　the　cafe；　Matadi　lay　smothered　and　sweltering　in
a　black；　living　darkness；　and；　save　for　the　rush　of　the　river；　in　a
silence　that　continued　unbroken　across　a　jungle　as　wide　as　Europe。
Inside　the　dominoes　clicked；　the　glasses　rang　on　the　iron　tables；
the　oil　lamps　glared　upon　the　pallid；　sweating　faces　of　clerks；
upon　the　tanned；　sweating　skins　of　officers；　and　the　Italian　doctor
and　the　Belgian　lieutenant；　each　with　murder　in　his　heart；　laughed；
shrugged；　gesticulated；　waiting　for　the　moment　to　strike。

〃But　why　doesn't　some　one　DO　something？〃　demanded　Everett。　　〃Arrest
them；　or　reason　with　them。　　Everybody　knows　about　it。　　It　seems　a
pity　not　to　DO　something。〃

Upsher　nodded　his　head。　　Dimly　he　recognized　a　language　with　which
he　once　had　been　familiar。　　〃I　know　what　you　mean；〃　he　agreed。
〃Bind　'em　over　to　keep　the　peace。　　And　a　good　job；　too！　　But　who？〃
he　demanded　vaguely。　　〃That's　what　I　say！　　Who？〃　　From　the
confusion　into　which　Everett's　appeal　to　forgotten　memories　had
thrown　it；　his　mind　suddenly　emerged。　　〃But　what's　the　use！〃　he
demanded。　　〃Don't　you　see；〃　he　explained　triumphantly；　〃if　those
two　crazy　men　were　fit　to　listen　to　SENSE；　they'd　have　sense　enough
not　to　kill　each　other！〃

Each　succeeding　evening　Everett　watched　the　two　potential　murderers
with　lessening　interest。　　He　even　made　a　bet　with　Upsher；　of　a
bottle　of　fruit　salt；　that　the　chief　of　police　would　be　the　one　to
die。

A　few　nights　later　a　man；　groaning　beneath　his　balcony；　disturbed
his　slumbers。　　He　cursed　the　man；　and　turned　his　pillow　to　find　the
cooler　side。　　But　all　through　the　night　the　groans；　though　fainter；
broke　into　his　dreams。　　At　intervals　some　traditions　of　past
conduct　tugged　at　Everett's　sleeve；　and　bade　him　rise　and　play　the
good　Samaritan。　　But；　indignantly；　he　repulsed　them。　　Were　there
not　many　others　within　hearing？　　Were　there　not　the　police？　　Was　it
HIS　place　to　bind　the　wounds　of　drunken　stokers？　　The　groans　were
probably　a　trick；　to　entice　him；　unarmed；　into　the　night。　　And　so；
just　before　the　dawn；　when　the　mists　rose；　and　the　groans　ceased；
Everett；　still　arguing；　sank　with　a　contented　sigh　into
forgetfulness。

When　he　woke；　there　was　beneath　his　window　much　monkey…like
chattering；　and　he　looked　down　into　the　white　face　and　glazed　eyes
of　the　Italian　doctor；　lying　in　the　gutter　and　staring　up　at　him。
Below　his　shoulder…blades　a　pool　of　blood　shone　evilly　in　the
blatant　sunlight。

Across　the　street；　on　his　balcony；　Upsher；　in　pajamas　and　mosquito
boots；　was　shivering　with　fever　and　stifling　a　yawn。　　〃You　lose！〃
he　called。

Later　in　the　day；　Everett　analyzed　his　conduct　of　the　night
previous。　　〃At　home；〃　he　told　Upsher；　〃I　would　have　been
telephoning　for　an　ambulance；　or　been　out　in　the　street　giving　the
man　the　'first…aid'　drill。　　But　living　as　we　do　here；　so　close　to
death；　we　see　things　more　clearly。　　Death　loses　its　importance。
It's　a　bromide；〃　he　added。　　〃But　travel　certainly　broadens　one。
Every　day　I　have　been　in　the　Congo；　I　have　been　assimilating　new
ideas。〃　　Upsher　nodded　vigorously　in　assent。　　An　older　man　could
have　told　Everett　that　he　was　assimilating　just　as　much　of　the
Congo　as　the　rabbit　assimilates　of　the　boa…constrictor；　that　first
smothers　it　with　saliva　and　then　swallows　it。

Everett　started　up　the　Congo　in　a　small　steamer　open　on　all　sides
to　the　sun　and　rain；　and　with　a　paddle…wheel　astern　that　kicked　her
forward　at　the　rate　of　four　miles　an　hour。　　Once　every　day；　the
boat　tied　up　to　a　tree　and　took　on　wood　to　feed　her　furnace；　and
Everett　talked　to　the　white　man　in　charge　of　the　wood　post；　or；　if；
as　it　generally　happened；　the　white　man　was　on　his　back　with　fever；
dosed　him　with　quinine。　　On　board；　except　for　her　captain；　and　a
Finn　who　acted　as　engineer；　Everett　was　the　only　other　white　man。
The　black　crew　and　〃wood…boys〃　he　soon　disliked　intensely。　　At
first；　when　Nansen；　the　Danish　captain；　and　the　Finn　struck　them；
because　they　were　in　the　way；　or　because　they　were　not；　Everett
winced；　and　made　a　note　of　it。　　But　later　he　decided　the　blacks
were　insolent；　sullen；　ungrateful；　that　a　blow　did　them　no　harm。

According　to　the　unprejudiced　testimony　of　those　who；　before　the
war；　in　his　own　country；　had　owned　slaves；　those　of　the　〃Southland〃
were　always　content；　always　happy。　　When　not　singing　close　harmony
in　the　cotton…fields；　they　danced　upon　the　levee；　they　twanged　the
old　banjo。　　But　these　slaves　of　the　Upper　Congo　were　not　happy。
They　did　not　dance。　　They　did　not　sing。　　At　times　their　eyes；　dull；
gloomy；　despairing；　lighted　with　a　sudden　sombre　fire；　and　searched
the　eyes　of　the　white　man。　　They　seemed　to　beg　of　him　the　answer　to
a　terrible　question。　　It　was　always　the　same　question。　　It　had　been
asked　of　Pharaoh。　　They　asked　it　of　Leopold。　　For　hours；　squatting
on　the　iron　deck…plates；　humped　on　their　nak