by divine right. He is a figurehead. The real
administrator is M. Vandamme, the Secretaire-General, the
ubiquitous, the mysterious, whose name before you leave Southampton
is in the air, of whom all men, whether they speak in French or
English, speak well. It is from Boma that M. Vandamme sends
collectors of rubber, politely labeled inspecteurs, directeurs,
judges, capitaines, and sous-lieutenants to their posts, and
distributes them over one million square miles.

Boma is the capital of a country which is as large as six nations of
the European continent. For twenty-five years it has been the
capital. Therefore, the reader already guesses that Boma has only
one wharf, and at that wharf there is no custom-house, no warehouse,
not even a canvas awning under which, during the six months of rainy
season, one might seek shelter for himself and his baggage.

Our debarkation reminded me of a landing of filibusters. A wharf
forty yards long led from the steamer to the bank. Down this marched
the officers of the army, the clerks, the bookkeepers, and on the
bank and in the street each dumped his boxes, his sword, his
camp-bed, his full-dress helmet. It looked as though a huge eviction
had taken place, as though a retreating army, having gained the
river's edge, were waiting for a transport. It was not as though to
the government the coming of these gentlemen was a complete
surprise; regularly every three weeks at that exact spot a like
number disembark. But in years the State has not found it worth
while to erect for them even an open zinc shed. The cargo invoiced
to the State is given equal consideration.

"Prisoners of the State," each wearing round his neck a steel ring
from which a chain stretches to the ring of another "prisoner,"
carried the cargo to the open street, where lay the luggage of the
officers, and there dropped it. Mingled with steamer chairs, tin
bathtubs, gun-cases, were great crates of sheet iron, green boxes of
gin, bags of Teneriffe potatoes, boilers of an engine. Upon the
scene the sun beat with vicious, cruel persistence. Those officers
who had already served in the Congo dropped their belongings under
the shadow of a solitary tree. Those who for the first time were
seeing the capital of the country they had sworn to serve sank upon
their boxes and, with dismay in their eyes, mopped their red and
dripping brows.

[Illustration: "Prisoners" of the State in Chains at Matadi.]

Boma is built at th