Roi des Belges(#614JMaes)
This twenty-meter sternwheeler features a broad awning that shades the upper deck from the fierce tropical sun, pierced by a single black stack. The light iron hull, rivetted together in sections, draws less than a meter at the centerline. She is outfitted to carry a fair amount of ivory, supplies and men up and down the navigable sections of the river network. The lower deck is mostly open with but a scant meter's height seperating the deck from the water. She uses a crew of fifteen men to keep her boilers stoked, lines free and fuel stores topped.
Contents:
Lucien
Daniel

Currently on this calm, sticky, and hot fall afternoon in the Congo basin, it is 89 degrees Fahrenheit (31.7 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming from the east at 1 mph. The ground is flooded and it last rained hours ago. Skies are partly cloudy with a definite chance of precipitation. The moon is waxing crescent.

Azi stands at side of the boat near the bow, hands on the railing and looking out over the water at the trees. By the gods, what he'd give for a nice juicy impala... but, that doesn't seem like it's going to happen. Thus, the dejected native looks sullen-eyed, but determined to wait out the period of being stuck on a boat in some foreign place.

A thick fog has enveloped the jungle, forcing the steamer to hug the left bank of the river, which at the moment is a long, sandy shoal, unbroken by vegitation for perhaps a dozen meters into the jungle.

A soft groan issues from a pile of luggage. For the past few days, Bellamy'd liked to have crawled under something and quietly die whenever the river's too sloshing for him. Under tables, around crates, under bags, the preacher's gone, like a sick family dog seeking quiet cover.

Azi glances over where the groan came from, quietly rejoicing that at least others are as miserable as he and then some. Releasing his grip from the railing he moves over to the luggage pile and stoops curiously. It's more interesting than watching the fog roll around anyway.

The pile of luggage groans again, shifting slightly. It's several packed bags, a knapsack or two, and beside it, a large crate. Beneath it, Bellamy, somewhere. A shoe protrudes.

Azi looks amused, but quickly regains his pokerface as he watches the crate. He reaches out with a hand and taps the shoe with a finger. Shame he doesn't know the shave-and-a-haircut code.

Mbadiwe is, meanwhile, at work; it's what natives are good for, after all, the menial jobs that keep things moving. He and a few others are working by the furnace, the hot and thankless job of chopping up fuel and feeding it inside. Available fuel is running low. The boat will need to stop soon, so within a day or two Daniel should have dry land under his feet once more.

In fact, it is Lucien, himself who descends from the pilothouse on the upper deck to cross through the menagerie of stowage, passenger and misery that makes up the lower deck.

The shoe remains unresponsive, however shiny, leather that it is. Daniel, humble and shy that he may be, minds his appearance. Perhaps that is why he has chosen to hide under luggage. A quiet, muffled voice asks,"Who's that, that pokes my foot?"

"The one who shared thoughts with you last night, Father Bellamy," Azi riddles back, keeping the chuckle in check. "I imagine your den is more comfortable than the rail of the boat."

Mbadiwe gets a foot on one of the small logs used as fuel and pulls, muscles straining to crack it in two so it can be fed more easily into the furnace. He's been doing this for a while. So have the others. Eventually there comes a point, about the time that exhaustion is starting to tentatively creep about, that the current shift of native labor is replaced with a fresher crew.

A pause. "Monsieur Tremaine... bonjour." The bags rustle. "Ah.. somewhat comfortable, yes, you could say, however pointy. I'm not sure quite what comprises the contents of this bag, the one on my head at present." A groan. "Might I ask your aid in removing such luggage? I was trying to sleep by this crate when it so kindly dumped its cargo upon me, some rocking ago... " An arm appears out of the luggage.

Azi tilts his head and doesn't refrain from his chuckle now, but he does stand up and move towards the source of the voice. He shuffles the bags about, until a bold ray of light shines out from the hole made as the luggage piece is moved and put to the side of the crate. "I wonder why men bring so many things with them. Food and water, yes. Weapons, yes. But what more is needed that the land cannot provide?"

Mbadiwe retreats back from the heat of the furnace, tired and sweat-drenched so that his dark skin almost seems to glisten. He pauses as he draws upon the luggage and, by extension, the good father.

"Shelter, fortification. The tools of civilization ride with us," Lucien comes up behind the Swara, his voice breaking through the fogbank as clearly as the steamwhistle.

For a moment, it almost looked as is Mbadiwe was going to break his customary silence around the Europeans and speak. The arrival of Lucien quickly dissuades the native from the wisdom of such actions, however. He goes from watching those various visible appendages of Daniel to watching the moving deck beneath bare feet. There are other places for him to be, even within the small confines of the boat -- places where chicotte-wielding Europeans aren't quite so prevalent.

"Monsieur De Pre," Daniel greets, squinting slightly as he readjusts his glasses. Freed, he leans back against the very crate that had betrayed him so. "I am inclined to agree with you. Shelter, indeed -- why, I'm quite sure that one contains bricks." His head tips vaguely to a particularly heavy-slouching bag. The young priest has a weary smile, a pale face, and curls of dark hair stuck to his forehead.

Azi half turns at the sound of the captain's voice, offering him a nod of acknowledgement. "Shelter can be made or found. Weapons protect. I do not see any more need for more tools than necessary to survive," he answers back, looking at the priest. "Or maybe you think that as..poverty."

Lucien regards Azi for a long moment. His face is a mixture of disgust and pity. He turns to help the good priest out of his predicament. "I would wish you a pleasant afternoon, if I felt that were a possibility. Since it does not appear to be in the cards, let me at least help you up."

Mbadiwe leaves this immediate area, though the size of the boat doesn't allow far for him to go. There's the night's food rations to be had, though, and water. He could drink buckets of water.

"We are bringing supplies upriver, to those who need them," Daniel replies gently to M. Tremaine, a little twist of his smile still there. He allows M. De Pre to help him to his feet, the tall preacher slouching with his discomfort. "Merci... I wish you a pleasant afternoon nonetheless. Quite foggy, though."

Azi feels the disgust and pity more than anything actually said, but makes no comment about it. Supplies, for who? he wonders. Instead though, he queries the captain. "When does the boat stop, Capitan De Pre?" The Swara affects the title he's heard around the boat so far.

Lucien admits that it is, in fact quite foggy, and thanks the father for his blessing. "Thank you, as well." -- "I only have a moment, I am afraid, but I am pleased to see you have survived at least the last few nights." For the moment, Azi is simply as if he were never there.

Mbadiwe scarfs down rations, and as much water as allowed. Most of the natives who aren't presently working are either sleeping, despite the daylight, or else keeping themselves carefully segregated from the Europeans they share the boat with. Kikongo seems to be the language of choice amongst their private conversations. Mbadiwe speaks with a few others, hushed tones, some furtive conversation.

Azi keeps his growl in check, simply narrowing his gaze momentarily but curling his lip ever so slightly on the side in a smirking show of teeth that may or may not go noticed. The native remains where he is though, determined for an answer.

"Merci, Monsieur De Pre." Daniel's folded arms lower, hugging himself about the middle unconsciously. "I'm stronger than I look, I like to think." His smile is uneasy, yet hopeful as his eyes flick hesitantly to Azi. "A few days, perhaps?" he hazards.

Lucien, quietly to Daniel, "I've a bottle of port, if you have the inclination, later, but for now I must attend to the boat." And he turns, heading towards the engineer's station near the boiler.

"Ah...merci, but that won't be necessary, Monsieur," Daniel replies, wiping his brow with a sleeve. "Good afternoon." He nods his head, then drifts toward the railing. The color seems to have returned to his face.

Azi waits until the captain is far enough to be out of hearing range before he releases that growl just waiting to come out. It sounds nearly perfect in imitation to the spotted runner's growl with just the slightest of accents coming from a human voice. "Men like him, I would not care to have stepping on this land." The native rumbles out, irritatedly. Apparently the combination of being cooped up in the man's form, on a rocking boat and then ignored is not doing this cheetah a service in patience.

"He is not such a bad man, I think... " Daniel soothes quietly, leaning on the rails. "When he is not grumpy." A weary smile goes over his shoulder to Azi.

Mbadiwe speaks a while longer with the other porters, before separating himself from the group. There's something in his hands, plant leaves, relatively thin and a deep green in color. The edges have little ridges. Quietly, he approaches Daniel by the railing, but though he quite definitely is approaching the man his eyes remain focused on the deck, deferentially.

Azi would bristle with the afterthought, but instead the approaching native with leaf in hand gets his eye. "Tell me when he is not grumpy," utters the Swara with a short snort before eyeing Mbadiwe some more.

"Certainly," the young priest replies. His eyes turn intelligently to regard the other man appearing through the fog. "Ah.. Mbadiwe, isn't it?" he greets, hesitating over the name's pronunciation. "What have you there?"

Predictably, Daniel misses some of the subtleties involved with pronouncing the name. Mbadiwe takes no slight from this. Once addressed he speaks, in passable French thick with a Kikongo accent. "You are watersick?"

Azi parses the thick French, but doesn't answer the question as he notices it is directed to the priest. He gives the other native a nod though, politely without the stiff formality he showed Lucien earlier.

[Mbadiwe's desc]
Mbadiwe is a Kongo native, with ebon skin so dark it seems to shine. He makes for good porter material: a solid, muscular build without being large enough to require an abundance of food, the sort that seems well accustomed to the demands of hard physical labor. Scars from the chicotte are visible on his back, on his legs; not only is he strong, but he's apparently experienced as well.
A guess would put the man somewhere in his mid-20s as far as age goes. He's not particularly handsome, with plain facial features that seem at displeasing odds with one another when taken as a whole. When he speaks -- which is seldom enough, unless addressed first -- it's in a surprisingly soft-spoken tone.

"I was.. a bit." Daniel looks a touch sheepish. "A little better now, I think." You paged Mbadiwe with 'How are they forced? Basically held at gunpoint.. and they want to live so they work?'.

Mbadiwe's voice holds a surprisingly mild tone, given his stature. Above all else, he is exceedingly polite when addressing others. "There is plants you chew, they make the watersick away."

Azi looks down at the leaf with interest, before looking back up at the fellow dark man. "What do you call it?" His French is much more fluent though not without accent of some strange origin. Perhaps southern, but definitely not from the Congo.

"For true?" Daniel's dark brows lift, an interested yet hesitant glance dropping to the leaves in the man's hands.

Mbadiwe has a small bunch worth of leaves, which he holds in ready views of the others. Perhaps it's the fact that Azi is native, while Daniel is not, that causes him to slide glances more toward the former than the latter. More often than not, though, his eyes are cast on the wood underfoot. "It is called njama," he explains. "It is to chew, in your teeth."

Azi holds out a hand, asking silently to have a look at the leaf. He doesn't say anything yet, though.

The priest adjusts his glasses. "Njama," he repeats. "Well.. ah, thank you, Mbadiwe. Quite kind of you."

Mbadiwe raises a glance toward Azi, studying this fellow native. As of yet, he's uncertain as to the man's exact standing here. Clearly, he is no porter conscripted into service. And yet, he doesn't seem affiliated with the Force Publique. It's strange. But Mbadiwe doesn't quite dare ask. He hands over the leaves to Azi silently, and for a moment there you'd swear that he hesitated.

Azi examines the man first, then the leaf, lifting it up to sniff. 'Does it really heal watersickness?' he asks, though the words come out in rolling Swahili. For the most part, the Swara doesn't seem to recognize this specific plant, but it looks similar to something else he knows.

Mbadiwe does much better at understanding and speaking Swahili. It's not his native language, but he's more comfortable with it than with French, more linguistic ties. 'It does. It needs to be chewed, not swallowed, so he should know that. No more than a handful of leaves, no more than six or eight, or it may make him sick instead.'

Daniel observes the exchange with curiosity.

Mbadiwe continues studying the wood planks underfoot. By this time, he should have the patterns in the wood grain memorized. Though his manner is easy-going, and nothing but helpful to intial appearances, the particular perceptive or emphatic would pick up something else in his body language.

Azi shrugs after the explanation, handing the plant to Mbadiwe. 'Looks like another plant that causes the mind to have waking dreams,' he replies. To Daniel, he translates. "He says the plant is chewed, not swallowed, and no more than six or eight otherwise it makes a man sick."

"No more than six or eight," the priest echoes. "Chewed only. I can remember that." He smiles, a hopeful look evident on his face. Perhaps this trip won't be so bad after all, he seems to think.

Mbadiwe remains silent, and it's a good thing he's got his visual attention focused downwards, because Azi's first words in Swahili really do cause the native to look guilty. It's almost enough to send him glacing about for sight of Lucien or chicottes. "Chew, and drink water," he advises. "Food also is good."

Azi shrugs and offers the plant instead to Daniel. "It is for you," he says without flourish. Mbadiwe gets an odd look, but the Swara doesn't seem bothered by it.

Daniel cups his hands to accept the leaves. He nods once to Azi, then lifts the handful to sniff, curiously. "Ah... thank you, Mbadiwe. Quite thoughtful of you." He can't help a faint smile of innocent pride; he can too befriend the natives of this land.

[OOC] Azi says, "If God gave cheetahs laughter."

Mbadiwe doesn't seem inclined to linger much longer than this brief visit. He's studied the planks in this section of the boat long enough. "I hope it helps the watersickness," he says, glancing up ever so briefly at Daniel before turning to leave, ever deferential to others. Even Azi is treated as if he might as well be European.

Azi glances over at Mbadiwe before the native leaves. 'Mbadiwe,' he asks in an amiable enough tone, hoping to catch the man before he is inclined to depart. 'How soon before we set foot on land again? It does well to have fresh meat instead of the junk they feed us here.'

"Merci, again, Mbadiwe," Daniel says, lowering his arms. He nods once. "I wish you a pleasant afternoon." His eyes drop to the handful of leaves, and after a moment of scrutinizing them, he slips one into his mouth.

Mbadiwe pauses as he's addressed, nothing but dutiful -- well, and guilty. His expression is that of a small child at dinner, after pawning off all his vegetables to the family pet to eat. 'I think we will land either tonight, or perhaps tomorrow. There is not much fuel left to burn, so we will need to get more. Fuel is more important than food. Without fuel, the boat will not move. It is too difficult to row.'

Azi nods, giving the fellow native a short thank you in Swahili. He looks more..chipper, if that's the word. The prospect of getting something normal to eat is definitely looked forward to. The Swara wonders, however, what the man is so guilty about. 'Why do you not hold your head up, Mbadiwe?' He glances briefly to Daniel, curious to the effect of the leaves.

Mbadiwe remains standing there, well balanced against the occasional rocks and sways of the boat. He looks every bit the obedient servant, so that if Azi wishes him to remain and answer questions, then that's what he'll do. He, however, does not keep an eye on Daniel; he knows well enough what the effects of the leaves are. 'When I talk? It is not necessary.' Though he does look up now, if only briefly. 'When there are men like the Captain around, you learn to look down. It is safer.'

Daniel chews quietly, contemplatively, leaning on the rails. He looks out over the water, squinting slightly as if to pierce the fog. If the leaves taste awful he shows no sign.

Azi looks puzzled, then somewhat annoyed. 'The captain is just another mzungu, like any other paleface who comes to take this land,' replies the Swara. 'You are a slave to him?' He queries, the hint of righteous anger underlying a calm facet.

There's the slight clenching of Mbadiwe's jaw, some hardened expression taken over his face. When he speaks again, the Swahili words are short, clipped, with a dangerous edge of anger behind them -- dangerous to himself, that is. It's precisely the type of attitude such 'porters' should never show in front of Europeans. 'I am working because they tell me I am to work. They look after my wife, my child. They tell me I should work for seven years while my family is with them. Until the railroad is built.'

Azi frowns, visibly. 'Railroad? What is a railroad? Another den for them to live in?' The Swara is disturbed, that much is clear.

Mbadiwe shakes his head, no. 'The railroad is like a boat, like this boat, only it moves through the jungle across the land. That is what they tell me it is to be like. The land must be cleared, so that the railroad can pass. I am paid, but the food I eat, it costs money.'

Azi releases another growl, though shorter in duration. He turns briefly to view the forest, the river, the fog. 'They come and claim land as theirs, clear it with no respect, force another to work...' Azi bristles again, invisible hackles rising before he turns back and regains control. 'There are not so many of them, but they keep coming. Like scouting ants from the queen's nest. Where are your kin now?'

Mbadiwe's anger remains in careful check, despite the subject he's speaking about. It's so seldom that anyone asks him these questions; rarer yet that they seem as upset as he is over the situation. Daniel is, for the moment, forgotten. 'They are back at home, at my village. My daughter, Unguja, is four years old now. When I left her, she was a baby.'

Azi licks the inside of his teeth, thoughtfully. 'So you have three more before you see her again?' His eyes watch Mbadiwe, though it seems he is working more on the mathematics. Daniel isn't forgotten, but the conversation has the cat's mind at the moment.

Mbadiwe shakes his head again. 'It will be four years, come this dry season. I saw her once before, when she was three years old. She was so big, she was walking and running and climbing.' For a moment, he's forgotten his anger. There's a certain parental sense of pride there, a universal emotion across Africans and Europeans both, and he's grown more distant with the memories. 'There was a tree she wanted to climb, but it was too high and her arms too short. But Kpodo picked her up until she could reach it, and held her so she could play like she was climbing, far up in the air. Badriya thought she would fall, but I knew she wouldn't. She was born to climb.'

Azi smiles faintly, perhaps knowing how it must feel from a different perspective. 'I was a swift runner to my mother, and could beat my brothers and sisters in races.' The Swara cuts off there, a pained tightening of his throat coming and going before he looks over at Daniel. "How do you feel?" A cat's attention span, so short, so sweet.

The tall man of God makes no reply, no indication that he has even heard Azi.

Mbadiwe only now remembers about Daniel, and for a second there, his checked anger is replaced with another flash of guilt. After all, Daniel seemed like a nice enough man. He wields no chicotte, commands no natives that can be seen. It's unfortunate that he was the one picked.

Azi arches a brow, asking the priest again with a tilt of his head how he feels. "Father Bellamy?" His eyes slip momentarily to Mbadiwe.

No reply at first. A moment passes. His head turns slowly, no particular look at all on his face. He chews, cow-like. "Yes, M. Tremaine?" he asks, fadingly pleasant.

Mbadiwe is back to studying the planks underfoot, weight shifting from one bare foot to another. Back in hesitant French once again, so that both can understand his words, he says, "I must leave, if there is work to do."

Azi's brow creases a line as his forehead wrinkles. The holyman's condition causes him both curiosity and even a hint of concern, as he turns his eyes to Mbadiwe briefly. The native nods slowly to dismiss his fellow native if he needed it. 'Mother always said chewing grass was a sign of not feeling well,' he notes with some interest before turning a dark gaze back to the priest. "Are you feeling well, Father Bellamy?"

Mbadiwe turns attention back to Daniel now, with a raised glance. It's as if he's seeking permission to leave from the European.

The preacher nods his head slowly, either in confirmation to Azi or in dismissal to Mbadiwe. Tremaine is eventually answered. "Comme un nouvel homme," he drifts, starting to smile. Like a new man.

Mbadiwe will take it as a dismissal, since it's what he was after. The native nods his head lower before turning to leave, and not a backward glance behind him.

Azi tilts his head so his eyes can have a more appraising look at the preacher's own dark eyes. After a brief moment's examination, the Swara looks up for Mbadiwe, only to find the native moving away. Something's not right here...

Mbadiwe was dismissed, and he's obviously only acting on permission received. Assuming no one thinks to stop him -- and certainly, that's probably one of the last things on Daniel's mind at the moment -- he'll disappear back to the top deck. It shouldn't be hard to find him if he's needed later. There are only so many places one can go on a boat.

"Hmmmmm.... " Daniel gazes, his eyes looking straight through the Swara. "You know, Sean.. I've just remembered... absentminded as I am... that that's something I wished to speak to you about. I can call you Sean, can't I?"

Azi seems distracted, but makes no moves to stop Mbadiwe from his work. The priest's words draw his attention back and he blinks with a nod. "Sean, yes," he answers. "What did you wish to speak about?"

Mbadiwe disappears above deck, leaving the two below.

"Why, God of course, Sean, mon ami." Daniel smiles. His white teeth have been slightly greened.

Azi blink with just some more puzzled look. "I think you should... not chew those leaves anymore, Father Bellamy." He looks down at the few leaves in the priest's hands. "What about God?"

"Why not?" Father Bellamy eventually affects a curious look. "They really do help. Je suis tres bien. Oh! Je suis impoli. Would you like some?" He makes an offer.

Azi does take the opportunity to gently remove those leaves from the priest's vicinity. "Later, perhaps," he says quietly while tucking the leaves out of sight somewhere along his being. "Come... we'll sit down on the crate and talk..." The Swara doesn't bother hiding some of the amusement from the priest. Indeed this is funny. Maybe he should make an offer of the leaves to Lucien.

"I don't like that crate," Daniel admits frankly. "It dumped that luggage on me. That wasn't very nice. Tres mechant, if you ask me.. " He immediately looks hurt. And then it fades into an absent-minded smile. "But.. God, yes, yes, let's talk about God. Talk God at me, Sean." The preacher, sensing the other man's amusement, widens his grin. Something's funny to him too.

Azi gives the man another odd look, before shrugging. "What is there to speak of about him?" Indeed, what is there? "You know more about the man you call God than I." He tilts his head at Daniel. "What will you do, if the forest natives do not like your words?"

"Oh, they will." Daniel beams beautifically. "If it's about Jesus. Evvvvvvverybody loves Jesus. Don't you, my tender little heathen?" He starts to chuckle, mild, forgiving, endlessly friendly young man that he is. "Quite all right if you don't. I'll make you love Him."

"Il fait chaud, n'est-ce pas?" he adds, distractedly. Sure is hot, isn't it?

Azi this time edges away slightly, eyeing the priest. "Oui," he answers simply. "Though if you refer to them as 'heathen,' I do not think they will like it." He looks at a loss for what to do about the priest, as they're on a boat and the man doesn't want to lie down anywhere. "Maybe we should find some water to drink?"

Danny sighs, a big I Love Jesus sigh. At the moment there are very few people young Bellamy wouldn't love. He gazes at Azi with the mildness of a puppy dog. "No no no, don't trouble yourself," he says, gesturing vaguely. "I will go fetch you some, Seanny Sean Sean, mon vieux."

And he swings a leg up over the railing.

Azi blinks, first eyes wide then he gathers his wits about him again and grabs for the priest's arm. "Father Bellamy," he replies with some clearing of his throat. "That water is not safe to drink. I do not think you wish to swim, either." Hooboy, what a mess.

The river passes by slowly, a calm section at the moment. Still waters run deep. It's hard to see under what little moonlight there is if there are any animals out there, but there must be. Those crocodiles that have been sunning themselves by day still have to exist at night, after all.

[OOC] Azi | Daniel runs to the bow of the boat, climbs half over the railing and spreadeagles. "Jesus is the King of the World!"

Confusion appears on the preacher's face. "But you said you were thirsty," he explains, jaw muscles pulsing as he chews. "I thought I'd fetch you some water." Mollified, he dismounts the railing as reluctant as a child. "...only kind thing to do in consideration that I have just called you heathen." A pause. "En realite.. non, I have just called you Seanny Sean Sean. Hmmmmm oui. Ca, j'aime. Call me Danny -- you know, like the English." His eyes start to slip away, looking off into the distance.

Azi releases his grip upon the priest's arm, conscious there may be others who might get the wrong impression. "Father Bellamy...I..." The Swara looks lost. "How about some tea?" Tea... yes, yes that's it. These mzungu like their tea.

The priest says nothing for the longest of moments, only staring. "Yes how about some. I think I'll go have a nap. I'm very tired you see." The playful, childlike quality has died from his voice. "Wake me when we get to Tournai won't you. Thank you Tremaine, I'm sorry about the heathen thing. I'm just improvising as I'm going. You understand." With a blank, soulless look at the Swara, the young man drifts away.