‘Biran,’ he reported, after a brief exchange with Chrysostome, ‘our new colleague wishes to retire to his hut to rest. I don’t know whether I should allow him to do so or not. Traditionally, he should come down to the club and buy a round of drinks for all the officers.’
‘Tell me, Chrysostome, are you in the habit of drinking?’ asked the Captain.
Chrysostome replied in the negative.
‘And what about gambling, do you like that?’
Chrysostome again said ‘No’.
Lalande Biran turned to his two colleagues:
‘I thought as much, gentlemen. Our new comrade is something of a rara avis.’
Van Thiegel grabbed Chrysostome’s arm.
‘Did you understand what the Captain said? He means that you’re a rare bird and that we’re going to have to do all your drinking for you.’
Richardson laughed loudly, but no one else joined in. Lalande Biran pointed to Chrysostome’s rifle.
‘Even if it gets wet, it will still fire, you know. It’s not like a musket.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
As the name of the square would suggest, an enormous palm tree stood in the centre of the Place du Grand Palmier, and scattered around it were a few white benches that would not have looked out of place in a Paris park. Donatien, Lopes and a few other young officers were standing chatting near one of them.
‘Ask Donatien to show you to your hut,’ said Lalande Biran, looking at Chrysostome with his gold-flecked blue eyes — d’or et d’azur. ‘If you want to stay there, do so, but tomorrow morning I want to see you in the jungle. We have work to do in the rubber plantation. Is that clear, Chrysostome? Reveille is at seven.’
This time Chrysostome replied vehemently: ‘Yes, Captain!’
Lalande Biran remained silent until Chrysostome and Donatien had left the square. Then he took a glass of Veuve Clicquot from a tray proffered by a servant and set out his views on the new arrival to Van Thiegel and Richardson.
‘He’ll be a good soldier, possibly an excellent one. You saw what he did with the musket. He shot a monkey from a hundred yards off. He’ll make a good guard for the rubber-tappers.’
It started to rain, and the three men went into Government House to finish their drinks in the vestibule.
‘Well, if he does turn out to be a good soldier, that will be wonderful. We’ll all be very pleased indeed,’ said Richardson.
He did not mean what he said. His long years in the Congo had taught him to value cheerful companions, friends who enjoyed drinking and gambling. He didn’t care if they made mediocre soldiers.
From the window, Richardson could see the rain, the heavy sky, the blackened trunks of mahogany and teak, the water pouring from the leaves of the palm trees, and the mud forming in the square. His heart told him he was right. Better a happy soldier than a disciplined one.
The officers in the Place du Grand Palmier ran for shelter. A few headed towards the beach and the Club Royal, the cosiest place to be in the rainy season.
Van Thiegel put his empty glass down on a table and walked towards the door, intending to join the other officers at the club.
‘He may be a good soldier,’ he said, ‘but time will tell. As you know, Biran, it’s one thing to shoot a monkey and quite another to track down one of those rebels hiding in the jungle. You need more than good marksmanship for that.’
Lalande Biran’s gold-flecked eyes smiled. ‘He’ll be a good soldier, Cocó, I’m sure of it. Do you want to bet on it?’
‘Ten francs, Captain. As you know, that’s the maximum permitted in Yangambi.’
Van Thiegel had been campaigning for some time for the gambling rules at the garrison to be relaxed to allow them to place bets larger than ten francs. He was convinced that the atmosphere in the Club Royal would be much improved if the limit was raised to one hundred francs, a move that would please both losers and winners. Like drink, gambling — real gambling — helped you forget.
‘I’ve no idea whether he’ll be a good soldier or a bad one, but he’ll certainly be a miserable one. As miserable as a mandrill. I’ll bet you ten francs on that!’
And the three men all laughed with military good humour.
II
THE TASK ASSIGNED to Chrysostome of guarding the workers was not an easy one, because the rubbertappers, all native to the area, wandered about in the jungle at will and often made use of their superior knowledge of the terrain to escape. Nevertheless, to use the words of Captain Lalande Biran, the new arrival immediately proved himself to be another Chiron — the centaur who loved hunting — or perhaps an improved version of Chiron, given that Chrysostome was armed not with a bow and arrow, but with an Albini-Braendlin rifle. Very few workers tried to escape on his watch, and those who did never got very far. With his agility, youth and slight physique, Chrysostome could make his way through even the densest jungle and his aim never faltered. Lalande Biran had more than enough reason to be pleased that such a remarkable officer should have been posted to Yangambi.
‘What he did with the musket on that first day was no fluke,’ he told the other officers during an after-dinner conversation. ‘He’s an excellent shot, a real champion. I doubt there’s a better shot in the whole Upper Congo, or indeed in the whole country. He has, I have to say, exceeded all my hopes.’
There were other notable marksmen in Yangambi, among them young Lopes and Lieutenant Van Thiegel, but Chrysostome achieved with one bullet what they could only have achieved with three or more.
Chrysostome’s reputation soon reached the mugini in the region, as if a hundred drums had spread the news of his marksmanship throughout the dark jungle and along the damp shores of the river Congo and the river Lomami, and from then on, the workers under his supervision lost all desire to escape and devoted themselves to the collection of rubber with a determination and a will that made them run from tree to tree and from liana to liana even when they had already fulfilled the minimum quota set for each group by King Léopold. Two months passed, and Captain Lalande Biran — reminded once more of Chiron the centaur huntsman and of how he had taught the other demigods and heroes to hunt — appointed Chrysostome shooting instructor, encouraging the askaris and the black NCOs to go to Chrysostome in order to learn how to get the best out of their rifles.
One Sunday morning, Biran repeated this advice in a speech intended for the white officers:
‘A soldier, my friends, must not only be brave in the face of the enemy, he must be equally brave when facing up to himself. After all, it’s not so very hard to shout “Attack!” when confronted by the enemy, it’s far harder to struggle with one’s own pride. Even Napoleon, having triumphed at the battle of Borodino, which cost the lives of 50,000 Russian and 30,000 French soldiers, was capable of recognising his mistake, saying: “I cannot be that good a general, for if I were, the sacrifice of a mere 20,000 heroes should have been enough to gain victory.” It was this humility that made Napoleon great, as well, of course, as his many victories at Borodino, Marengo and elsewhere. Today, I want to encourage you to act in the same spirit. I know it wounds your pride to ask a mere novice for advice on how to handle the Albini-Braendlin, but fight against that feeling!’
On each of the following days, before sunset and once the work in the rubber plantation and the marches through the jungle were over, the firing range at Yangambi was the scene of some unusual activity. The askaris in their red fezes, the black NCOs, and the white officers all gathered round Chrysostome, who advised each of his pupils, one by one, on the correct position of arm, neck and foot. Lalande Biran, Van Thiegel and Richardson, the chiefs of Yangambi, watched the classes from a platform in the firing range. Presiding over the scene was the blue flag of the Force Publique with its single yellow star.