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diff --git a/1817-h/1817-h.htm b/1817-h/1817-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07ba822 --- /dev/null +++ b/1817-h/1817-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1248 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Question of Latitude, by Richard Harding Davis + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's A Question of Latitude, by Richard Harding Davis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Question of Latitude + +Author: Richard Harding Davis + +Release Date: May 12, 2006 [EBook #1817] +Last Updated: September 25, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A QUESTION OF LATITUDE *** + + + + +Produced by Don Lainson; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + A QUESTION OF LATITUDE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Richard Harding Davis + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + Of the school of earnest young writers at whom the word muckraker had been + thrown in opprobrium, and by whom it had been caught up as a title of + honor, Everett was among the younger and less conspicuous. But, if in his + skirmishes with graft and corruption he had failed to correct the evils he + attacked, from the contests he himself had always emerged with credit. His + sincerity and his methods were above suspicion. No one had caught him in + misstatement, or exaggeration. Even those whom he attacked, admitted he + fought fair. For these reasons, the editors of magazines, with the fear of + libel before their eyes, regarded him as a “safe” man, the public, feeling + that the evils he exposed were due to its own indifference, with + uncomfortable approval, and those he attacked, with impotent anger. Their + anger was impotent because, in the case of Everett, the weapons used by + their class in “striking back” were denied them. They could not say that + for money he sold sensations, because it was known that a proud and + wealthy parent supplied him with all the money he wanted. Nor in his + private life could they find anything to offset his attacks upon the + misconduct of others. Men had been sent to spy upon him, and women to lay + traps. But the men reported that his evenings were spent at his club, and, + from the women, those who sent them learned only that Everett “treats a + lady just as though she IS a lady.” + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, when, with much trumpeting, he departed to investigate + conditions in the Congo, there were some who rejoiced. + </p> + <p> + The standard of life to which Everett was accustomed was high. In his home + in Boston it had been set for him by a father and mother who, though + critics rather than workers in the world, had taught him to despise what + was mean and ungenerous, to write the truth and abhor a compromise. At + Harvard he had interested himself in municipal reform, and when later he + moved to New York, he transferred his interest to the problems of that + city. His attack upon Tammany Hall did not utterly destroy that + organization, but at once brought him to the notice of the editors. By + them he was invited to tilt his lance at evils in other parts of the + United States, at “systems,” trusts, convict camps, municipal misrule. His + work had met with a measure of success that seemed to justify Lowell’s + Weekly in sending him further afield, and he now was on his way to tell + the truth about the Congo. Personally, Everett was a healthy, clean-minded + enthusiast. He possessed all of the advantages of youth, and all of its + intolerance. He was supposed to be engaged to Florence Carey, but he was + not. There was, however, between them an “understanding,” which + understanding, as Everett understood it, meant that until she was ready to + say, “I am ready,” he was to think of her, dream of her, write + love-letters to her, and keep himself only for her. He loved her very + dearly, and, having no choice, was content to wait. His content was + fortunate, as Miss Carey seemed inclined to keep him waiting indefinitely. + </p> + <p> + Except in Europe, Everett had never travelled outside the limits of his + own country. But the new land toward which he was advancing held no + terrors. As he understood it, the Congo was at the mercy of a corrupt + “ring.” In every part of the United States he had found a city in the + clutch of a corrupt ring. The conditions would be the same, the methods he + would use to get at the truth would be the same, the result for reform + would be the same. + </p> + <p> + The English steamer on which he sailed for Southampton was one leased by + the Independent State of the Congo, and, with a few exceptions, her + passengers were subjects of King Leopold. On board, the language was + French, at table the men sat according to the rank they held in the + administration of the jungle, and each in his buttonhole wore the tiny + silver star that showed that for three years, to fill the storehouses of + the King of the Belgians, he had gathered rubber and ivory. In the + smoking-room Everett soon discovered that passengers not in the service of + that king, the English and German officers and traders, held aloof from + the Belgians. Their attitude toward them seemed to be one partly of + contempt, partly of pity. + </p> + <p> + “Are your English protectorates on the coast, then, so much better + administered?” Everett asked. + </p> + <p> + The English Coaster, who for ten years in Nigeria had escaped fever and + sudden death, laughed evasively. + </p> + <p> + “I have never been in the Congo,” he said. “Only know what they tell one. + But you’ll see for yourself. That is,” he added, “you’ll see what they + want you to see.” + </p> + <p> + They were leaning on the rail, with their eyes turned toward the coast of + Liberia, a gloomy green line against which the waves cast up fountains of + foam as high as the cocoanut palms. As a subject of discussion, the + coaster seemed anxious to avoid the Congo. + </p> + <p> + “It was there,” he said, pointing, “the Three Castles struck on the rocks. + She was a total loss. So were her passengers,” he added. “They ate them.” + </p> + <p> + Everett gazed suspiciously at the unmoved face of the veteran. + </p> + <p> + “WHO ate them?” he asked guardedly. “Sharks?” + </p> + <p> + “The natives that live back of that shore-line in the lagoons.” + </p> + <p> + Everett laughed with the assurance of one for whom a trap had been laid + and who had cleverly avoided it. + </p> + <p> + “Cannibals,” he mocked. “Cannibals went out of date with pirates. But + perhaps,” he added apologetically, “this happened some years ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Happened last month,” said the trader. + </p> + <p> + “But Liberia is a perfectly good republic,” protested Everett. “The blacks + there may not be as far advanced as in your colonies, but they’re not + cannibals.” + </p> + <p> + “Monrovia is a very small part of Liberia,” said the trader dryly. “And + none of these protectorates, or crown colonies, on this coast pretends to + control much of the Hinterland. There is Sierra Leone, for instance, about + the oldest of them. Last year the governor celebrated the hundredth + anniversary of the year the British abolished slavery. They had parades + and tea-fights, and all the blacks were in the street in straw hats with + cricket ribbons, thanking God they were not as other men are, not slaves + like their grandfathers. Well, just at the height of the jubilation, the + tribes within twenty miles of the town sent in to say that they, also, + were holding a palaver, and it was to mark the fact that they NEVER had + been slaves and never would be, and, if the governor doubted it, to send + out his fighting men and they’d prove it. It cast quite a gloom over the + celebration.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that only twenty miles from the coast—” began Everett. + </p> + <p> + “TEN miles,” said the Coaster, “wait till you see Calabar. That’s our + Exhibit A. The cleanest, best administered. Everything there is model: + hospitals, barracks, golf links. Last year, ten miles from Calabar, Dr. + Stewart rode his bicycle into a native village. The king tortured him six + days, cut him up, and sent pieces of him to fifty villages with the + message: ‘You eat each other. WE eat white chop.’ That was ten miles from + our model barracks.” + </p> + <p> + For some moments the muckraker considered the statement thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” he inquired, “that the atrocities are not all on the side of + the white men?” + </p> + <p> + “Atrocities?” exclaimed the trader. “I wasn’t talking of atrocities. Are + you looking for them?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not running away from them,” laughed Everett. “Lowell’s Weekly is + sending me to the Congo to find out the truth, and to try to help put an + end to them.” + </p> + <p> + In his turn the trader considered the statement carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Among the natives,” he explained, painstakingly picking each word, “what + you call ‘atrocities’ are customs of warfare, forms of punishment. When + they go to war they EXPECT to be tortured; they KNOW, if they’re killed, + they’ll be eaten. The white man comes here and finds these customs have + existed for centuries. He adopts them, because—” + </p> + <p> + “One moment!” interrupted Everett warmly. “That does not excuse HIM. The + point is, that with him they have NOT existed. To him they should be + against his conscience, indecent, horrible! He has a greater knowledge, a + much higher intelligence; he should lift the native, not sink to him.” + </p> + <p> + The Coaster took his pipe from his mouth, and twice opened his lips to + speak. Finally, he blew the smoke into the air, and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Try,” laughed Everett. “Maybe I’m not as unintelligent as I talk.” + </p> + <p> + “You must get this right,” protested the Coaster. “It doesn’t matter a + damn what a man BRINGS here, what his training WAS, what HE IS. The thing + is too strong for him.” + </p> + <p> + “What thing?” + </p> + <p> + “That!” said the Coaster. He threw out his arm at the brooding mountains, + the dark lagoons, the glaring coast-line against which the waves shot into + the air with the shock and roar of twelve-inch guns. + </p> + <p> + “The first white man came to Sierra Leone five hundred years before + Christ,” said the Coaster. “And, in twenty-two hundred years, he’s got + just twenty miles inland. The native didn’t need forts, or a navy, to stop + him. He had three allies: those waves, the fever, and the sun. Especially + the sun. The black man goes bare-headed, and the sun lets him pass. The + white man covers his head with an inch of cork, and the sun strikes + through it and kills him. When Jameson came down the river from Yambuya, + the natives fired on his boat. He waved his helmet at them for three + minutes, to show them there was a white man in the canoe. Three minutes + was all the sun wanted. Jameson died in two days. Where you are going, the + sun does worse things to a man than kill him: it drives him mad. It keeps + the fear of death in his heart; and THAT takes away his nerve and his + sense of proportion. He flies into murderous fits, over silly, imaginary + slights; he grows morbid, suspicious, he becomes a coward, and because he + is a coward with authority, he becomes a bully. + </p> + <p> + “He is alone, we will suppose, at a station three hundred miles from any + other white man. One morning his house-boy spills a cup of coffee on him, + and in a rage he half kills the boy. He broods over that, until he + discovers, or his crazy mind makes him think he has discovered, that in + revenge the boy is plotting to poison him. So he punishes him again. Only + this time he punishes him as the black man has taught him to punish, in + the only way the black man seems to understand; that is, he tortures him. + From that moment the fall of that man is rapid. The heat, the loneliness, + the fever, the fear of the black faces, keep him on edge, rob him of + sleep, rob him of his physical strength, of his moral strength. He loses + shame, loses reason; becomes cruel, weak, degenerate. He invents new, + bestial tortures; commits new, unspeakable ‘atrocities,’ until, one day, + the natives turn and kill him, or he sticks his gun in his mouth and blows + the top of his head off.” + </p> + <p> + The Coaster smiled tolerantly at the wide-eyed eager young man at his + side. + </p> + <p> + “And you,” he mocked, “think you can reform that man, and that hell above + ground called the Congo, with an article in Lowell’s Weekly?” + </p> + <p> + Undismayed, Everett grinned cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I’m here for!” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Across the street, on his balcony, Upsher, in pajamas and mosquito boots, + was shivering with fever and stifling a yawn. “You lose!” he called. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 naked haunches, + crowding close together, they muttered apparently interminable criticisms + of Everett. Their eyes never left him. He resented this unceasing + scrutiny. It got upon his nerves. He was sure they were evolving some + scheme to rob him of his tinned sausages, or, possibly, to kill him. It + was then he began to dislike them. In reality, they were discussing the + watch strapped to his wrist. They believed it was a powerful juju, to ward + off evil spirits. They were afraid of it. + </p> + <p> + One day, to pay the chief wood-boy for a carved paddle, Everett was + measuring a bras of cloth. As he had been taught, he held the cloth in his + teeth and stretched it to the ends of his finger-tips. The wood-boy + thought the white man was giving him short measure. White men always HAD + given him short measure, and, at a glance, he could not recognize that + this one was an Everett of Boston. + </p> + <p> + So he opened Everett’s fingers. + </p> + <p> + All the blood in Everett’s body leaped to his head. That he, a white man, + an Everett, who had come so far to set these people free, should be + accused by one of them of petty theft! + </p> + <p> + He caught up a log of fire wood and laid open the scalp of the black boy, + from the eye to the crown of his head. The boy dropped, and Everett, + seeing the blood creeping through his kinky wool, turned ill with nausea. + Drunkenly, through a red cloud of mist, he heard himself shouting, “The + BLACK nigger! The BLACK NIGGER! He touched me! I TELL you, he touched me!” + Captain Nansen led Everett to his cot and gave him fizzy salts, but it was + not until sundown that the trembling and nausea ceased. + </p> + <p> + Then, partly in shame, partly as a bribe, he sought out the injured boy + and gave him the entire roll of cloth. It had cost Everett ten francs. To + the wood-boy it meant a year’s wages. The boy hugged it in his arms, as he + might a baby, and crooned over it. From under the blood-stained bandage, + humbly, without resentment, he lifted his tired eyes to those of the white + man. Still, dumbly, they begged the answer to the same question. + </p> + <p> + During the five months Everett spent up the river he stopped at many + missions, stations, one-man wood posts. He talked to Jesuit fathers, to + inspecteurs, to collectors for the State of rubber, taxes, elephant tusks, + in time, even in Bangalese, to chiefs of the native villages. According to + the point of view, he was told tales of oppression, of avarice, of hideous + crimes, of cruelties committed in the name of trade that were abnormal, + unthinkable. The note never was of hope, never of cheer, never inspiring. + There was always the grievance, the spirit of unrest, of rebellion that + ranged from dislike to a primitive, hot hate. Of his own land and life he + heard nothing, not even when his face was again turned toward the east. + Nor did he think of it. As now he saw them, the rules and principles and + standards of his former existence were petty and credulous. But he assured + himself he had not abandoned those standards. He had only temporarily laid + them aside, as he had left behind him in London his frock-coat and silk + hat. Not because he would not use them again, but because in the Congo + they were ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + For weeks, with a missionary as a guide, he walked through forests into + which the sun never penetrated, or, on the river, moved between banks + where no white man had placed his foot; where, at night, the elephants + came trooping to the water, and, seeing the lights of the boat, fled + crashing through the jungle; where the great hippos, puffing and blowing, + rose so close to his elbow that he could have tossed his cigarette and hit + them. The vastness of the Congo, toward which he had so jauntily set + forth, now weighed upon his soul. The immeasurable distances; the + slumbering disregard of time; the brooding, interminable silences; the + efforts to conquer the land that were so futile, so puny, and so cruel, at + first appalled and, later, left him unnerved, rebellious, childishly + defiant. + </p> + <p> + What health was there, he demanded hotly, in holding in a dripping jungle + to morals, to etiquette, to fashions of conduct? Was he, the white man, + intelligent, trained, disciplined in mind and body, to be judged by naked + cannibals, by chattering monkeys, by mammoth primeval beasts? His code of + conduct was his own. He was a law unto himself. + </p> + <p> + He came down the river on one of the larger steamers of the State, and, on + this voyage, with many fellow-passengers. He was now on his way home, but + in the fact he felt no elation. Each day the fever ran tingling through + his veins, and left him listless, frightened, or choleric. One night at + dinner, in one of these moods of irritation, he took offence at the act of + a lieutenant who, in lack of vegetables, drank from the vinegar bottle. + Everett protested that such table manners were unbecoming an officer, even + an officer of the Congo; and on the lieutenant resenting his criticism, + Everett drew his revolver. The others at the table took it from him, and + locked him in his cabin. In the morning, when he tried to recall what had + occurred, he could remember only that, for some excellent reason, he had + hated some one with a hatred that could be served only with death. He knew + it could not have been drink, as each day the State allowed him but one + half-bottle of claret. That but for the interference of strangers he might + have shot a man, did not interest him. In the outcome of what he regarded + merely as an incident, he saw cause neither for congratulation or + self-reproach. For his conduct he laid the blame upon the sun, and doubled + his dose of fruit salts. + </p> + <p> + Everett was again at Matadi, waiting for the Nigeria to take on cargo + before returning to Liverpool. During the few days that must intervene + before she sailed, he lived on board. Although now actually bound north, + the thought afforded him no satisfaction. His spirits were depressed, his + mind gloomy; a feeling of rebellion, of outlawry, filled him with unrest. + </p> + <p> + While the ship lay at the wharf, Hardy, her English captain, Cuthbert, the + purser, and Everett ate on deck under the awning, assailed by electric + fans. Each was clad in nothing more intricate than pajamas. + </p> + <p> + “To-night,” announced Hardy, with a sigh, “we got to dress ship. Mr. + Ducret and his wife are coming on board. We carry his trade goods, and I + got to stand him a dinner and champagne. You boys,” he commanded, “must + wear ‘whites,’ and talk French.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll dine on shore,” growled Everett. + </p> + <p> + “Better meet them,” advised Cuthbert. The purser was a pink-cheeked, + clear-eyed young man, who spoke the many languages of the coast glibly, + and his own in the soft, detached voice of a well-bred Englishman. He was + in training to enter the consular service. Something in his poise, in the + assured manner in which he handled his white stewards and the black Kroo + boys, seemed to Everett a constant reproach, and he resented him. + </p> + <p> + “They’re a picturesque couple,” explained Cuthbert. “Ducret was originally + a wrestler. Used to challenge all comers from the front of a booth. He + served his time in the army in Senegal, and when he was mustered out moved + to the French Congo and began to trade, in a small way, in ivory. Now he’s + the biggest merchant, physically and every other way, from Stanley Pool to + Lake Chad. He has a house at Brazzaville built of mahogany, and a grand + piano, and his own ice-plant. His wife was a supper-girl at Maxim’s. He + brought her down here and married her. Every rainy season they go back to + Paris and run race-horses, and they say the best table in every all-night + restaurant is reserved for him. In Paris they call her the Ivory Queen. + She’s killed seventeen elephants with her own rifle.” + </p> + <p> + In the Upper Congo, Everett had seen four white women. They were pallid, + washed-out, bloodless; even the youngest looked past middle-age. For him + women of any other type had ceased to exist. He had come to think of every + white woman as past middle-age, with a face wrinkled by the sun, with hair + bleached white by the sun, with eyes from which, through gazing at the + sun, all light and lustre had departed. He thought of them as always + wearing boots to protect their ankles from mosquitoes, and army helmets. + </p> + <p> + When he came on deck for dinner, he saw a woman who looked as though she + was posing for a photograph by Reutlinger. She appeared to have stepped to + the deck directly from her electric victoria, and the Rue de la Paix. She + was tall, lithe, gracefully erect, with eyes of great loveliness, and her + hair brilliantly black, drawn, a la Merode, across a broad, fair forehead. + She wore a gown and long coat of white lace, as delicate as a bridal veil, + and a hat with a flapping brim from which, in a curtain, hung more lace. + When she was pleased, she lifted her head and the curtain rose, unmasking + her lovely eyes. Around the white, bare throat was a string of pearls. + They had cost the lives of many elephants. + </p> + <p> + Cuthbert, only a month from home, saw Madame Ducret just as she was—a + Parisienne, elegant, smart, soigne. He knew that on any night at Madrid or + d’Armenonville he might look upon twenty women of the same charming type. + They might lack that something this girl from Maxim’s possessed—the + spirit that had caused her to follow her husband into the depths of + darkness. But outwardly, for show purposes, they were even as she. + </p> + <p> + But to Everett she was no messenger from another world. She was unique. To + his famished eyes, starved senses, and fever-driven brain, she was her + entire sex personified. She was the one woman for whom he had always + sought, alluring, soothing, maddening; if need be, to be fought for; the + one thing to be desired. Opposite, across the table, her husband, the + ex-wrestler, chasseur d’Afrique, elephant poacher, bulked large as an ox. + Men felt as well as saw his bigness. Captain Hardy deferred to him on + matters of trade. The purser deferred to him on questions of + administration. He answered them in his big way, with big thoughts, in big + figures. He was fifty years ahead of his time. He beheld the Congo open to + the world; in the forests where he had hunted elephants he foresaw great + “factories,” mining camps, railroads, feeding gold and copper ore to the + trunk line, from the Cape to Cairo. His ideas were the ideas of an + empire-builder. But, while the others listened, fascinated, hypnotized, + Everett saw only the woman, her eyes fixed on her husband, her fingers + turning and twisting her diamond rings. Every now and again she raised her + eyes to Everett almost reproachfully, as though to say, “Why do you not + listen to him? It is much better for you than to look at me.” + </p> + <p> + When they had gone, all through the sultry night, until the sun drove him + to his cabin, like a caged animal Everett paced and repaced the deck. The + woman possessed his mind and he could not drive her out. He did not wish + to drive her out. What the consequences might be he did not care. So long + as he might see her again, he jeered at the consequences. Of one thing he + was positive. He could not now leave the Congo. He would follow her to + Brazzaville. If he were discreet, Ducret might invite him to make himself + their guest. Once established in her home, she MUST listen to him. No man + ever before had felt for any woman the need he felt for her. It was too + big for him to conquer. It would be too big for her to resist. + </p> + <p> + In the morning a note from Ducret invited Everett and Cuthbert to join him + in an all-day excursion to the water-fall beyond Matadi. Everett answered + the note in person. The thought of seeing the woman calmed and steadied + him like a dose of morphine. So much more violent than the fever in his + veins was the fever in his brain that, when again he was with her, he + laughed happily, and was grandly at peace. So different was he from the + man they had met the night before, that the Frenchman and his wife glanced + at each other in surprise and approval. They found him witty, eager, a + most charming companion; and when he announced his intention of visiting + Brazzaville, they insisted he should make their home his own. + </p> + <p> + His admiration, as outwardly it appeared to be, for Madame Ducret, was + evident to the others, but her husband accepted it. It was her due. And, + on the Congo, to grudge to another man the sight of a pretty woman was as + cruel as to withhold the few grains of quinine that might save his reason. + But before the day passed, Madame Ducret was aware that the American could + not be lightly dismissed as an admirer. The fact neither flattered nor + offended. For her it was no novel or disturbing experience. Other men, + whipped on by loneliness, by fever, by primitive savage instincts, had + told her what she meant to them. She did not hold them responsible. Some, + worth curing, she had nursed through the illness. Others, who refused to + be cured, she had turned over, with a shrug, to her husband. This one was + more difficult. Of men of Everett’s traditions and education she had known + but few; but she recognized the type. This young man was no failure in + life, no derelict, no outcast flying the law, or a scandal, to hide in the + jungle. He was what, in her Maxim days, she had laughed at as an + aristocrat. He knew her Paris as she did not know it: its history, its + art. Even her language he spoke more correctly than her husband or + herself. She knew that at his home there must be many women infinitely + more attractive, more suited to him, than herself: women of birth, of + position; young girls and great ladies of the other world. And she knew, + also, that, in his present state, at a nod from her he would cast these + behind him and carry her into the wilderness. More quickly than she + anticipated, Everett proved she did not overrate the forces that compelled + him. + </p> + <p> + The excursion to the rapids was followed by a second dinner on board the + Nigeria. But now, as on the previous night, Everett fell into sullen + silence. He ate nothing, drank continually, and with his eyes devoured the + woman. When coffee had been served, he left the others at table, and with + Madame Ducret slowly paced the deck. As they passed out of the reach of + the lights, he drew her to the rail, and stood in front of her. + </p> + <p> + “I am not quite mad,” he said, “but you have got to come with me.” + </p> + <p> + To Everett all he added to this sounded sane and final. He told her that + this was one of those miracles when the one woman and the one man who were + predestined to meet had met. He told her he had wished to marry a girl at + home, but that he now saw that the desire was the fancy of a school-boy. + He told her he was rich, and offered her the choice of returning to the + Paris she loved, or of going deeper into the jungle. There he would set up + for her a principality, a state within the State. He would defend her + against all comers. He would make her the Queen of the Congo. + </p> + <p> + “I have waited for you thousands of years!” he told her. His voice was + hoarse, shaken, and thick. “I love you as men loved women in the Stone Age—fiercely, + entirely. I will not be denied. Down here we are cave people; if you fight + me, I will club you and drag you to my cave. If others fight for you, I + will KILL them. I love you,” he panted, “with all my soul, my mind, my + body, I love you! I will not let you go!” + </p> + <p> + Madame Ducret did not say she was insulted, because she did not feel + insulted. She did not call to her husband for help, because she did not + need his help, and because she knew that the ex-wrestler could break + Everett across his knee. She did not even withdraw her hands, although + Everett drove the diamonds deep into her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “You frighten me!” she pleaded. She was not in the least frightened. She + only was sorry that this one must be discarded among the incurables. + </p> + <p> + In apparent agitation, she whispered, “To-morrow! To-morrow I will give + you your answer.” + </p> + <p> + Everett did not trust her, did not release her. He regarded her jealously, + with quick suspicion. To warn her that he knew she could not escape from + Matadi, or from him, he said, “The train to Leopoldville does not leave + for two days!” + </p> + <p> + “I know!” whispered Madame Ducret soothingly. “I will give you your answer + to-morrow at ten.” She emphasized the hour, because she knew at sunrise a + special train would carry her husband and herself to Leopoldville, and + that there one of her husband’s steamers would bear them across the Pool + to French Congo. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then!” whispered Everett, grudgingly. “But I must kiss you + now!” + </p> + <p> + Only an instant did Madame Ducret hesitate. Then she turned her cheek. + “Yes,” she assented. “You must kiss me now.” + </p> + <p> + Everett did not rejoin the others. He led her back into the circle of + light, and locked himself in his cabin. + </p> + <p> + At ten the next morning, when Ducret and his wife were well advanced + toward Stanley Pool, Cuthbert handed Everett a note. Having been told what + it contained, he did not move away, but, with his back turned, leaned upon + the rail. + </p> + <p> + Everett, his eyes on fire with triumph, his fingers trembling, tore open + the envelope. + </p> + <p> + Madame Ducret wrote that her husband and herself felt that Mr. Everett was + suffering more severely from the climate than he knew. With regret they + cancelled their invitation to visit them, and urged him, for his health’s + sake, to continue as he had planned, to northern latitudes. They hoped to + meet in Paris. They extended assurances of their distinguished + consideration. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, savagely, as though wreaking his suffering on some human thing, + Everett tore the note into minute fragments. Moving unsteadily to the + ship’s side, he flung them into the river, and then hung limply upon the + rail. + </p> + <p> + Above him, from a sky of brass, the sun stabbed at his eyeballs. Below + him, the rush of the Congo, churning in muddy whirlpools, echoed against + the hills of naked rock that met the naked sky. + </p> + <p> + To Everett, the roar of the great river, and the echoes from the land he + had set out to reform, carried the sound of gigantic, hideous laughter. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s A Question of Latitude, by Richard Harding Davis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A QUESTION OF LATITUDE *** + +***** This file should be named 1817-h.htm or 1817-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/1/1817/ + +Produced by Don Lainson; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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