The Black Peril
“Here, on the Gold Coast, the people have shown that they do not mean to go under, but in a different way—” this, as the precocious youth produced a sheet of paper with the words neatly written down. “I meant not to forfeit the rest of the story you see, dad, and now for your promise please,’ drawing a low seat close to the paternal chair.
“I see you have forgotten the illustration but not the text, and as other illustrations are easy to find,” said Kwamankra, “I shall redeem my promise. They are scattered over the pages of history. In your historical lessons you have undoubtedly heard of what is called the ‘Eastern Question?”
“Yes, I have, though I forget what it was exactly, and, besides, I learn these things better when you tell them to me your way, dad,” said the lad excitedly.
“Now, if you will compose yourself, and remember that the story is in illustration of the discussion with which we started, namely, the so-called ‘yellow peril,’ you will listen to good purpose, my boy.”
The youth bowed assent, and Kwamankra began: “It was all the doing of the Russians at the start. Years ago they were confined in one corner of Asia Minor, having no access to the North Sea, the Baltic, or the Black Sea. By-andby the Emperor, Peter the Great, conceived the idea of Russian expansion toward the Crimea and northward to the Baltic. After him Catherine II. of Russia sought to carry into effect the dream of Peter the Great, and thenceforth it became the national policy of the Russian Bear.”
“What do you mean by the Russian Bear?”
“It means the Russian in the sense in which we talk of John Bull.”
“Oh! go on dad.”
“Well, in the pursuit of this policy by the Russian Bear, she came in collision with the Turk in the Crimea about the time of the Emperor Nicolas II. in the fifties of the last century; and a casus belli (of course you have been brushing up your Latin) was found in the fact, and I wish you to note this particularly, that the Turks ill-treated the Christians of the Greek Church within the Sultan’s dominions. You perceive the application of the story of the wolf and the lamb here, don’t you?” The youth gave a knowing bow. “Well,’ pursued Kwamankra, “it is a long story; but, in the act of self-preservation by the Turks, although history recordeth it not in so many words, the circumstance constituted in the minds of the Russians of the time a ‘Muslim peril,’ do you understand?”
“Yes, dad,” answered the youth eagerly. “But, surely, the English people have never acted thus toward a weaker race. I can well understand the sneaking bear thus acting, but not straightforward John Bull.”
“Well, let us see, I am not so sure about that. What of the Opium War with China when England coerced China because she insisted upon restricting the sale of opium within the Chinese Empire, and the ‘Lorcha Arrow ’ incident not so many generations ago, where England picked a quarrel with China, because Governor Yen exercised the right of boarding a Chinese vessel which wrongly flew an English flag to cover her piratical practices in Chinese waters? Other instances might be given, but I can assure you, my dear boy, no Christian European nation is free from the error of self-assertiveness—none free from the taunt of crying ‘yellow peril,’ or ‘black peril,’ the moment they are confronted with resistance in one form or another. They seem to carry in the one hand a patent from the Almighty and absolution in the other to snatch away the patrimony of others:
‘Why should they live—Fate has writ large its doom for them.
‘Land for the whites! Let the black fellows die!’
the European nations seem to shout, and reck not offence to God or man in the cry.”
“But how does all this apply to our country?” asked Ekra Kwow.
“How does it?—good! I like to think you are following so closely what the learned books call the argument, that is, the immediate subject under discussion. Well, I will tell you in one word. The Political Officer represents the self-assertiveness of the English in extending power and authority at every nook and corner wherever the thin end of the wedge can be introduced. The sagacious black man offers a point of resistance when he pleads his peculiar customs and institutions, and presto! the cry of the ‘educated native peril’ is raised, as if forsooth, the ‘native’ ceases to be a ‘native ’ the moment he is educated. The genuine cry might be ‘the black peril,’ but that won’t do at present. The wolf and the lamb story again, you see.”
“But why don’t you expose these things, dad? You can write, you can talk, why don’t you let the whole world know of them,” said the lad with some degree of heat.
“Not so fast, my boy,” said Kwamankra, laying his hand on the child’s head, and speaking slowly and deliberately, as was his wont when about to give vent to some utterance from the very recesses of his soul. “I wish you to understand, my dear child, that it is neither the anger of the powerful, nor the hope of favour from the great that has hitherto sealed my lips. I have taught you from your infancy to regard truth as the highest of all virtues, as the apex of character; and he who falls in declaring the truth in his day and generation, is but a humble follower of a Socrates, or if you prefer it, of the Nazarene. I try to follow his example, prepared to suffer if needs be in the cause of country, race, and humanity,’ and drawing the child nearer, he added in suppressed tones—“only the hour is not yet come. Pray for thy father, that when it does come, he may be found strong and faithful.”
On “The Great North Western.”
“I say, boys, what class are you travelling,” shouted Aban to Tandor-Kuma and Kwamankra.
“I go neither first nor second,’ returned Tandor-Kuma; and as the Gold Coast Government Railway boasts of only two classes, Kwamankra said, “Look here, you fellows, I am a man of peace. If you are going to have any larks, I would rather take the down train twenty-four hours hence.”
By this time the bell announcing the hour for the departure of the train had sounded. So Kwamankra rushed to secure a first-class ticket, leaving the “Professor” and Tandor-Kuma to their own devices. When he returned, the two had occupied seats in the first-class compartment and started to make themselves merry with the good things which Kwamankra had provided for the journey.
“Here’s to you and another five hundred a year, as the chaps over the water say”—this as the “Professor” raised his glass in the direction of Kwamankra. Seeing there was no alternative, the latter resigned himself to the situation, and good-humouredly toasted the company round.
“Teekets! teekeets!” shouted the collector from the second-class end of the “composite carriage.’ Of course, you know what a “composite carriage” is? If you don’t, I will enlighten you. It is the kind of thing on this particular railway in which the whites travel at one end, their servants and the black élite at the other end, while the ordinary blacks are packed like sardines in a detached carriage, labelled “second-class.” Not that there is any rule prohibiting black gentlemen from using a first-class carriage, but the fact is the class referred to know better, and have too much self-respect to travel first, except on rare occasions when they can have a carriage all to themselves.
To resume, “teekeets! teekeets!” sounded nearer. By this time the “Professor” was in the middle of a Mississippi story, and his brush with buffaloes and other hair-breadth escapes. After taking a cheap degree, with his usual erratic disposition, Aban had been travelling, often supporting himself by odd jobs, and had included in his experiences an acquaintance with the Japs of whom he was never tired of speaking. The ticket collector eyed the three black gentlemen furtively once or twice, and seemed to have come to a mental resolve not to disturb them for the nonce, nor did the trio disturb him by so much as a momentary notice of his presence.
Just as he was about retreating to the second-class compartment, Kwamankra shouted after him, “I say, collector, won’t you have a drink?” holding out to him some whisky and soda—“the others do it, you know,” and this with a knowing wink.
The collector was human. He hesitated, then made up his mind, took the drink, and went away. Presently he returned and became communicative.
“I don’t know, Sar, if any of you, Sar, be lawyer man, Sar?”
Tandor-Kuma chuckled. “What next,” demanded the “Professor” sternly. Kwamankra held his peace, appearing not to listen.
“I don’t know, Sar, but I bin tink say I da go show you di rules which say di collector mus examin ebery gentman him teekeet.”
Kwamankra began to fumble in his pockets. “My good man,” said the “Professor’ to the collector, “I have made it a rule never to give up my ticket on this line till I have landed safely at my destination, do you understand?”
The emphasis seemed to upset the equilibrium of the collector. He sneaked away, may be, to reflect upon the advantage of an emphasis, and sure enough, he was soon heard letting off steam in the second-class compartment at the expense of an inoffensive Fanti.
By this time the train had passed Mansu. Shortly after leaving that station there was some trouble with one of the vans getting off the rails; and it was a matter of half-an-hour before it was set right. Half-way between Mansu and Ashieme, some timber was taken, and as they steamed away in the twilight, the train with its composite appendages was a full furlong long! Soon they were in thick darkness.
“Light, collector, light!”—this from Kwamankra, for in the detached carriage could be heard yells and shrieks of women and children.
“I say, collector, light! Do you hear? Light!’ and this with an expletive or two from the “Professor.’ The expletive did its work. The collector made his way to the composite carriage amid a scene of much confusion.
“You had better go and fetch the Inspector to see about this mess, or I will report the whole lot of you fellows, white and black alike. It is perfectly disgraceful, this kind of thing,” said Tandor-Kuma.
The Inspector, who had, in the meantime, been hurried to the detached compartment by the shrieks of the women and children, had by this time got into the composite carriage.
“What the deuce are you doing not having yet lighted the carriage,’ he said to the collector with an offended air.
“I no get mach, Sar! Railway no buy me mach, Sar!”
The Inspector made as if he would knock the collector down, but thought better of the matter, and, snatching a borrowed match box, quickly tried to light the lamp. Puff went out the light.
“Try again, Sir,” suggested Kwamankra dryly. “There may be a drop of water in the oil.’ Puff! went out the light the second time.
“Try again! try again!” came from all sides. “Shall I get out and buy you some paraffin, Mr. Inspector? You know this is perfectly disgraceful. Thirteen shillings for thirty-nine miles and no oil,’ said Tandor-Kuma.
“Try again! try again! knock him down, teach him a lesson,’? shouted some roughs. It was getting a bit exciting. The Inspector beat a hasty retreat.
“They call dis di Govmont railway. It is di dirtiest hole I have been in. South Africa, East Africa, North Africa, they be countries. Dis country is disgraceful to the British Govmont,” put in a Frenchman at the corner.
Pu! pu! pu! piyu!! Pu! pu! piyu!! came the heartbreaking snort from the nostrils of the iron horse. It reminded one of an overworked omnibus horse at midnight in Oxford Street. First backwards, then downwards, up the incline, and down the gradient, toyed the iron horse, and as Tandor-Kuma thought of his wife and children waiting dinner in the cosy little room across the bridge, he could not help inwardly bestowing a blessing upon the devil and all his works. It was not until 9.30 p.m. that the terminus was made, the party having left on their 39 miles run at 2.30 p.m. As the trio walked the lonely streets, where black men are scarcely seen after sunset, the Professor, as a parting reminder, said to Kwamankra, “On principle I never pay for a ticket on this line until I have made the terminus, and if you are a wise man, you will take my tip.’”