Kitabı oku: «The Madman and the Pirate», sayfa 4
Chapter Five
We left the poor madman, Antonio Zeppa, wandering aimlessly up into the mountains of Sugar-loaf Island. Whether it was the loss of his beloved Orley alone that had turned his brain, or that loss coupled with the injury to his head, we cannot tell, but certain it is that the outward and visible violence of his great sorrow seemed to depart from him after he had entered the rugged defiles of the mountain range. His mental malady appeared to take the form of simple indifference and inactivity. Sometimes he muttered to himself as he went slowly and wearily along, but generally he was silent with his chin sunk upon his breast as he gazed upon the ground with lack-lustre eyes.
At other times he started and looked around him with a sharp, inquiring, almost timid, glance; but the gleam of memory—if such it was—soon passed away, and his handsome face resumed the gentle, almost childish, look which had settled down on it. But never again did he give vent to the heart-broken cries and wails which had marked the first stage of his derangement.
The mutterings to which we have referred were seldom coherent; but the disjointed utterances sufficed to indicate the natural character of the man. As the ruling passion is said to become dominant in death, so, in this death of reason which appeared to have passed upon Zeppa, love of his wife and child and the natives of Ratinga, as well as profound reverence and love to his God, became conspicuous in the broken sentences that occasionally dropped from his lips.
At first he had been like some grand instrument thrown wildly out of tune and swept by a reckless hand. Now he resembled the same instrument with the framework shattered, the strings hanging loose, and the music of discord as well as harmony gone for ever.
Oh it was sad, inexpressibly sad, to see the grand and good man—the image of himself, yet not himself, with bowed head and bent form, the very personification of humility—wandering forth on that lonely island of the southern seas!
After quitting the shore he continued slowly to ascend the mountain until he gained the summit. Here, seating himself on a rock, he lifted his eyes and looked slowly around him.
It was a glorious sight that met his unintelligent gaze. On the side which he had ascended, the mountain sloped abruptly into the sea, yet its precipices were not forbidding or gloomy, for they were clothed with the luxuriant and lovely vegetation of those favoured regions.
The rocks were fringed with grasses and wild flowers; the cliffs were softened by palmated leaves and gorgeous shrubs. Wild fruits in abundance grew on every side; in short, the land presented the appearance of a terrestrial paradise.
On the other side of the range similar, but softer, scenery rolled away for several miles in easy slopes, until it terminated in a plain, the farther end of which was bounded by the white sands of the shore.
Around all lay the great sea, like a transparent blue shield, on which the sun glinted in myriad ripples of burnished gold. Everywhere God’s work was glorious, but God’s image in man was not there, for poor Zeppa looked upon it all with total indifference.
The schooner was still visible from that lofty outlook, like a snowflake on the sea; but Zeppa saw it, or regarded it, not. On the shore of the island furthest from the mountain, the clustering huts of a native village could be seen; but Zeppa looked at it without a gleam of interest, and passed it over as if it were a group of ant-hills.
Hunger, however, soon claimed attention. After remaining motionless for more than an hour, he arose and plucked some fruit from a neighbouring tree.
“God is good—has always been good to me and mine,” he murmured, as he placed the fruit on the grass and sat down beside it.
Then, clasping his hands and closing his eyes, he asked a blessing on his food in the same words and tone which he had been wont to use when at home.
After his hunger was appeased, he again wandered about apparently without aim; but as night began to descend, he sought and found a slightly hollowed part of a cliff with an overhanging ledge.
It was scarcely deep enough to be styled a cave, but appeared to be a sufficient shelter in the maniac’s eyes, for he busied himself in gathering ferns and dried grass, until he had made himself a comfortable couch at the inner end of it.
Before lying down he knelt, clasped his hands, and poured out his soul in fervent prayer.
His words were now no longer incoherent and the burthen of his petition was—a blessing on the dear ones at home, and forgiveness of all his sins through Jesus Christ. It seemed evident judging by his words, that he had forgotten the recent past, and imagined that Orlando was still alive.
Then he lay down and fell asleep.
Thus days and weeks and months rolled on, and still the madman wandered aimlessly among the mountain peaks.
The savages at the other end of the island never molested him, for, having no occasion to clamber up these rocky heights, they did not become aware of his existence until a considerable time had elapsed.
His discovery at last was the result of a crime.
One of the savages committed a theft in the native village, and fled for refuge to the mountains. Wapoota, being a funny fellow, was a favourite with his chief Ongoloo, and occupied a position somewhat analogous to the court jester of old. Moreover, he was often consulted in serious matters by his chief—in short, was a sort of humorous prime minister.
But he could not resist the tendency to steal, and one day pilfered something or other from Ongoloo, who finally lost patience with him, for he was an old offender.
Ongoloo, though neither a warlike nor ferocious fellow, vowed to cut out the heart and liver of Wapoota, and expose them to public gaze.
Disliking publicity after this fashion, the thief fled, purposing to abide in the mountains until his chief’s wrath should have evaporated.
Rambling one day in his mountain refuge, the dishonest savage turned a jutting point of rock, and suddenly stood face to face with Zeppa. His jaw dropped, his eyes glared, his knees smote together, and lemon-yellow took the place of brown-ochre on his cheeks. It was an awkward place of meeting, for the path, if we may so style it, was a mere ledge, with a perpendicular cliff on one side, a precipice on the other.
And well might the savage by overcome with fear, on such a spot with such a man before him, for, in addition to his commanding stature, Zeppa had now the wild appearance resulting from long untrimmed locks and a shaggy beard.
Both locks and beard had also changed from black to iron-grey during these months of lonely wandering. His dress, too, had become much disordered and ragged, so that altogether his appearance and fierce aspect were eminently fitted to strike terror to the heart of a more courageous man than Wapoota, who happened to be rather mild in disposition.
After the first stare of astonishment he sank on his knees and held up his hands as if supplicating mercy. But he had nothing to fear from the maniac.
“My poor fellow,” said Zeppa, in English, laying his hand on the native’s head and patting it, “do not fear. I will not harm you.”
Of course Wapoota did not understand the words but he fully appreciated the action, and the lemon-yellow began to fade while the brown-ochre returned.
Without uttering another word, Zeppa took Wapoota by the hand and led him to his cave, where he set before him such fruits as remained over from his last meal, and then, sitting down, gazed abstractedly on the ground. Wapoota ate from fear of offending his host, rather than hunger.
When he had finished, Zeppa rose, pointed to his couch at the inner part of the cave, nodded to him with a kindly smile, and left him.
At first the savage seemed disposed to make off when Zeppa’s back was turned, but when he saw him slowly ascend the hill with his head bowed down he changed his mind, made some significant grimaces—which we will not attempt to explain—and lay down to sleep.
On his return, Wapoota tried to enter into conversation with his host but Zeppa only smiled, patted him gently on the head and shoulder, and paid no further attention to him. The savage was somewhat overawed by such treatment.
Observing his host more closely, it soon began to dawn upon him that he was in the power of a madman, and some tinges of the lemon-yellow reappeared; but when he perceived that Zeppa was not merely a harmless but an exceedingly gentle madman, his confidence and the brown-ochre reasserted themselves.
Thus, for several days, the madman and the savage dwelt amicably together, and slept side by side during the night; but Zeppa made it very apparent that he did not wish for his visitor’s society during the day-time, and the visitor had the sense to let him wander forth alone.
Wapoota was mistaken when he calculated on the cooling of Ongoloo’s wrath. That angry chief, bent on the fulfilment of his anatomical vow, set forth with a small party of picked men to explore the Sugar-loaf in quest of the runaway. He found him one day gathering fruits for Zeppa’s supper—for Wapoota had already become a sort of attached Friday to this unfortunate Crusoe.
On beholding his countrymen, the thief’s visage underwent a series of remarkable changes, for he knew that escape was impossible, and the expression of his chief’s face forbade him to hope for mercy.
“I have found you, mine enemy,” growled Ongoloo—of course in the native tongue.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Wapoota, in a piteous tone. “Mercy no longer dwells in my breast,” returned the chief.
In proof of the truth of this assertion he ordered his men to seize and bind Wapoota, and proceed at once with the execution of his cruel purpose.
The unfortunate wretch, unable to face the appalling prospect gave vent to a series of terrible shrieks, and struggled fiercely while they bound him. But in vain would he have struggled if his cries for mercy had not reached other ears than those of his countrymen.
Not far from the spot where the thief had been captured, Zeppa chanced to be sitting, idly toying with the branch of a tree which he had fashioned into a rude staff wherewith to climb the mountain more easily.
When the first shriek ran among the cliffs, it seemed to startle the maniac out of the depressing lethargy under which he had laboured so long. He sprang up and listened, with dilated eyes and partly open mouth.
Again and again the shrieks rang out, and were echoed from cliff to cliff.
As a tigress bounds to the rescue of her young, so sprang Zeppa down the hillside in the direction of the cries. He came suddenly to the edge of a cliff which overlooked the scene, and beheld a savage just about to plunge a knife into Wapoota’s breast.
Zeppa gave vent to a tremendous roar, which terminated in a wild laugh. Then he wrenched a mass of rock from the cliffs and hurled it down.
The height was greater than any sane man would have ventured to leap even to save his life; but the maniac gave no time to thought.
He followed the mass of rock with another wild laugh, and next moment stood in the midst of the savage group.
These men were no cowards. They were Ongoloo’s picked warriors, and would have scorned to fly before a single foe, however large or fierce.
But when they saw plainly that Zeppa was a white man and a maniac, they turned, with one consent, and fled as if a visitant from the nether realms had assailed them.
Zeppa did not follow. All his sudden wrath vanished with the enemy. He turned calmly to the prostrate man, cut his bonds, and set him free. Then, without saying a word, he patted him on the shoulder, and wandered listlessly away with his head dropped as of old.
You may be sure that Wapoota did not hesitate to make good use of his freedom. He fled on the wings—or legs—of fear to the most inaccessible recesses of the mountains, from which he did not emerge till night had enshrouded land and sea. Then he crept stealthily back to Zeppa’s cave, and laid himself quietly down beside his friend.
The inherent tendency of Zeppa’s nature was towards peace and goodwill. Even in his madness and misery his spirit trickled, if it did not run, in the customary direction. His dethroned reason began, occasionally, to make fitful efforts after some plan which it sought to evolve. But before the plan could be arranged, much less carried out, the dull sense of a leaden grief overwhelmed it again, and he relapsed into the old condition of quiet apathy.
Chance, however, brought about that which the enfeebled intellect could not compass.
One day—whether inadvertently or not we cannot tell—Zeppa wandered down in the direction of the native settlement. That same day Ongoloo wandered towards the mountain, and the two men suddenly met so close to each other that there was no possibility of escape to either.
But, sooth to say, there was no thought of escape in the breast of either. Ongoloo, being a brave savage, was ashamed of having given way to panic at his first meeting with the madman. Besides, he carried his huge war-club, while his opponent was absolutely unarmed—having forgotten to take his usual staff with him that day.
As for Zeppa, he had never at any time feared the face of man, and, in his then condition, would have faced man or fiend with equal indifference. But the sight of the savage chief seemed to recall something to his mind. He stood with his arms crossed, and an expression of perplexity on his countenance, while Ongoloo assumed an attitude of defence.
Suddenly a beaming smile overspread Zeppa’s face. We have already said that his smile had fascination in it. The effect on the savage was to paralyse him for the moment. Zeppa advanced, took Ongoloo’s face between both hands, and, placing his nose against that of the chief, gently rubbed it.
For the benefit of the ignorant, we may explain that this is the usual salutation of friendship among some of the South Sea Islanders.
Ongoloo returned the rub, and dropped his club. He was obviously glad of this peaceful termination to the rencontre.
Then, for the first time, it occurred to Zeppa to use the language of Ratinga. The chief evidently understood it.
“God is love,” said Zeppa solemnly, pointing upward with his finger. “God forgives. You will forgive, and so be like God.”
The chief was completely overawed by Zeppa’s grandeur and gentleness. He had never before seen the two qualities combined.
Zeppa took him by the hand, as he had previously taken Wapoota, and led him up into the mountains. The chief submitted meekly, as if he thought a being from the better world were guiding him. On reaching the cave they found Wapoota arranging the supper-table—if we may so express it—for he had been in the habit of doing this for some time past, about sunset, at which time his protector had invariably returned home—alas! it was a poor home!
To say that Wapoota was transfixed, or petrified, on beholding Ongoloo, would not convey the full idea of his condition. It is useless to say that he glared; that his knees smote, or that lemon-yellow supplanted brown-ochre on his visage. Words can do much, but they cannot describe the state of that savage on that occasion. The reader’s imagination is much more likely to do justice to the situation. To that we leave it.
But who, or what language, shall describe the state of mind into which both Ongoloo and Wapoota were thrown when Zeppa, having brought them close to each other, grasped them firmly by their necks and rubbed their noses forcibly together. There was no resisting the smile with which this was dune. The chief and the thief first glanced at each other, then at their captor, and then they laughed—absolutely roared—after which they rubbed noses of their own accord, and “made it up.”
We may remark, in passing, that Ongoloo was not sorry for the reconciliation, because Wapoota had become necessary to him both in council and during relaxation, and of late he had come to feel low-spirited for want of his humourist.
But both of them were much concerned to observe that after this reconciliation, the reconciler relapsed into his pensive mood and refused to be interested in anything.
They tried in vain to rouse him from his strange apathy—which neither of them could at all understand. Next day Ongoloo took occasion to give him the slip, and returned to his village.
Zeppa cared nothing for that. He did not even ask Wapoota what had become of him.
At this time a new idea occurred to Wapoota, who had been ordered by his chief to induce Zeppa to visit the native village. It struck him that as he had been led, so he might lead. Therefore one morning he waited until Zeppa had finished breakfast, and when he rose, as was his wont, to go off for the day, Wapoota took him gently by the hand and led him forth. To his surprise—and comfort, for he had had strong misgivings—Zeppa submitted. He did not seem to think that the act was peculiar.
Wapoota led him quietly and slowly down the mountain side, and so, by degrees, right into the native village, where Ongoloo was, of course, prepared to meet and welcome him.
He was received by the head men of the tribe with deep respect and conducted to a tent which had been prepared for him, where Wapoota, who had constituted himself his servant—or lieutenant—made him comfortable for the night.
Zeppa at first expressed some surprise at all the fuss that was made regarding him, but soon ceased to trouble himself about the matter, and gradually relapsed into his old condition. He was content to remain with the natives, though he did not cease his lonely wanderings among the hills, absenting himself for days at a time, but always returning, sooner or later, to the tent that had been provided for him in the village.
Now, in Sugar-loaf Island, there was a tribe that had, for years past, been at war with the tribe into whose hands Zeppa had thus fallen, and, not long after the events just narrated, it chanced that the Ratura tribe, as it was named, resolved to have another brush with their old enemies, the subjects of Ongoloo. What they did, and how they did it, shall be seen in another chapter.
Chapter Six
After Zeppa had remained a short time in his new quarters, he began to take an interest in the children of his savage friends. At first the mothers of the village were alarmed when they saw their little ones in his strong arms, playing with his beard, which had by that time grown long and shaggy, as well as grey like his curly locks; but soon perceiving that the children had nothing to fear from the strange white man, they gave themselves no further concern on the subject.
If Zeppa had been in his right mind when the savages first found him, it is probable that they would have hunted him down and slain him without remorse—for it is well known that many of the South Sea Islanders regard shipwrecked persons as victims who have no claim on their hospitality, but are a sort of windfall to be killed and devoured. Their treatment of Zeppa, therefore, must have been owing to some feeling of respect or awe, inspired by his obvious insanity, coupled, no doubt, with his commanding size and presence as well as his singular conduct on the occasion of their first meeting.
Whatever the reason, it is certain that the natives amongst whom the poor madman’s lot had thus been cast, treated him in an exceptional manner, and with an amount of respect that almost amounted to reverence. At first Ongoloo made a slight attempt to ascertain where his guest had come from, and what was his previous history, but as Zeppa always met such inquiries with one of his sweetest smiles, and with no verbal reply whatever, the chief felt unusually perplexed, dropped the subject, and began to regard the madman as a species of demigod. Of course no one else dared to question him, so that ever afterwards he remained in the eyes of his entertainers as a “Great Mystery.”
By degrees Zeppa became intimately acquainted with the little boys and girls of the village, and took much pleasure in watching them at play. They soon found out that he was fond of them, and might have become rather troublesome in their attentions to him, if he had been a busy man, but as he had nothing whatever to do except follow his own inclinations, and as his inclinations led him to sympathise with childhood, he was never ruffled by their familiarities or by their wild doings around his tent. He even suffered a few of the very smallest of the brown troop to take liberties with him, and pull his beard.
One brown mite in particular—a female baby of the smallest conceivable dimensions, and the wildest possible spirit—became an immense favourite with him. Her name was Lippy, or some sound which that combination of letters produces.
Lippy’s mother, a large-eyed, good-looking young woman, with insufficient clothing—at least in the estimate of a Ratingaite—was transfixed the first time she saw her little one practise her familiarities on their demigod.
Zeppa was lying on his back at the time, in front of his hut, when Lippy prowled cautiously towards him, like a very small and sly kitten about to pounce on a very huge dog. She sprang, just as her mother caught sight of her, and was on his broad chest in a moment. The mother was, as we have said, transfixed with alarm. The human kitten seized Zeppa by the beard and laughed immoderately. Zeppa replied with a gentle smile—he never laughed out now—and remained quite still.
Having finished her laugh, Lippy drew herself forward until she was close to her human dog’s chin. At this point her mother would have rushed to the rescue, but she was still paralysed! Having reached the chin Lippy became more audacious, stretched forth one of her little hands, and seized Zeppa’s nose. Still he did not move, but when the little brown kitten proceeded to thrust a thumb into one of his eyes, he roused himself, seized the child in his powerful hands, and raised her high above his head; then, lowering her until her little mouth was within reach, he kissed her.
This sufficed to relieve the mother’s fears, so she retired quietly from the scene.
She was not so easily quieted, however, some weeks later, when she beheld Zeppa, after amusing himself one day with Lippy for half an hour, start up, place her on his shoulder, and stalk off towards the mountains. He absented himself for three days on that occasion. Lippy’s mother at first became anxious, then terrified, then desperate. She roused Ongoloo to such a pitch that he at last called a council of war. Some of the head men were for immediate pursuit of the madman; others were of opinion that the little brat was not worth so much trouble; a few wretches even expressed the opinion that they were well rid of her—there being already too many female babies in the community!
While the conflict of opinions was at its fiercest, Zeppa stalked into the midst of them with Lippy on his shoulder, looked round with a benignant expression of countenance, delivered the child to her mother, and went off to his hut without uttering a word. The council immediately dissolved itself and retired humiliated.
It was during one of Zeppa’s occasional absences that the Ratura tribe of natives, as before mentioned, decided to have another brush with the Mountain-men, as they styled their foes.
We are not sure that the word used in the Ratura language was the exact counterpart of the words “brush” and “scrimmage” in ours, but it meant the same thing, namely, the cutting of a number of throats, or the battering in of a number of human skulls unnecessarily.
Of course there was a casus belli. There always is among savage as well as civilised nations, and it is a curious coincidence that the reasons given for the necessity for war are about as comprehensible among the civilised as the savage. Of course among civilised nations these reasons for war are said to be always good. Christians, you know, could not kill each other without good reasons; but is it not strange that among educated people, the reasons given for going to war are often very much the reverse of clear?
The origin of the war which was about to be revived, besides being involved in the mists of antiquity, was somewhat shrouded in the clouds of confusion. Cleared of these clouds, and delivered from those mists, it would have been obviously a just—nay, even a holy war—so both parties said, for they both wanted to fight. Unfortunately no living man could clear away the clouds or mists; nevertheless, as they all saw plainly the exceeding righteousness of the war, they could not in honour, in justice, or in common sense, do otherwise than go at it.
At some remote period of antiquity—probably soon after the dispersion at Babel—it was said that the Mountain-men had said to the Raturans, that it had been reported to them that a rumour had gone abroad that they, the men of Ratura, were casting covetous eyes on the summit of their mountain. The Raturans replied that it had never entered into their heads either to covet or to look at the summit of their mountain, but that, if they had any doubts on the subject, they might send over a deputation to meet a Ratura deputation, and hold a palaver to clear the matter up.
The deputations were sent. They met. They palavered for about half-an-hour with an air of sententious sincerity, then the leading chief of the mountaineer deputation cracked the crown of the leading chief of the Raturan deputation, and the two deputations spent the remainder of that day in fighting. Reinforcements came up on both sides. The skirmish became a pitched battle. Blood was shed lavishly, heads were broken beyond repair, and women, coming to the help of the men with the baskets of stones, were slain in considerable numbers, as well as little children who had an inconvenient but not uncommon habit of getting in the way of the combatants. At last the Raturans were driven into the impregnable swamps that bordered part of their country; their villages and crops were burned, and those of their women and children who had not escaped to the swamps were carried into slavery, while the aged of both sexes were slaughtered in cold blood.
It was a complete victory. We are inclined to think that the Mountain-men called it a “glorious” victory. Judging from the world’s history they probably did, and the mountain women ever afterwards were wont to tell their little ones of the prowess of their forefathers—of the skulls battered in and other deeds of heroism done—in that just and reasonable war!
As centuries rolled on, the old story came to be repeated again, and over again, with slight variations to suit the varying ages. In particular it came to be well understood, and asserted, that that unconquerable desire of the Raturans to take possession of the mountain-top was growing apace and had to be jealously watched and curbed.
In one of the centuries—we are not sure which—the Raturan savages made some advances into their swampy grounds and began to improve them. This region lay very remote from the Mountain-men’s villages, but, as it approached the mountain base in a round-about manner, and as the mountain-tops could be distinctly seen from the region, although well-nigh impassable swamps still lay between the reclaimed lands and the mountain base, these advances were regarded as another casus belli, and another war was waged, with practically the same results—damage to everybody concerned, and good to no one.
Thus was the game kept up until the chief Ongoloo began to strut his little hour upon the stage of time.
There are always men, savage as well as civilised, in every region and age, who march in advance of their fellows, either because of intellectual capacity or moral rectitude or both. Ongoloo was one of these. He did not believe in “war at any price.” He thought it probable that God lived in a state of peace, and argued that what was best for the Creator must naturally be best for the creature.
He therefore tried to introduce a peace-policy into Sugar-loaf Island. His efforts were not successful. The war-party was too strong for him. At last he felt constrained to give in to the force of public opinion and agreed to hold an unarmed palaver with the men of Ratura. The war-at-any-price party would have preferred an armed palaver, but they were overruled.
The Raturans chanced at this time to be in somewhat depressed circumstances, owing to a sickness which had carried off many of their best warriors and left their lands partly waste, so that their finances, if we may so express it were in a bad condition.
“Now is our chance—now or never,” thought the war-party, and pushed matters to extremity.
On the day appointed for the palaver, one of the most pugnacious of the Mountain-men got leave to open the deliberations.
“You’re a low-minded, sneaking son of an ignorant father,” he said to the spokesman of the Raturans.
“You’re another,” retorted his foe.
Having disposed of these preliminary compliments, the speakers paused, glared, and breathed hard.
Of course we give the nearest equivalent in English that we can find for the vernacular used.
“You and your greedy forefathers,” resumed the Mountain-man, “have always kept your false eyes on our mountain-top, and you are looking at it still.”
“That’s a lie,” returned the man of Ratura with savage simplicity.
Had they been armed, it is probable that the palaver would have closed abruptly at this point.
Seeing that the relations between the parties were “strained” almost to the breaking-point, one of the less warlike among the Ratura chiefs caught his own spokesman by the nape of the neck, and hurled him back among his comrades.
“We have not, O valiant men of the Mountain,” he said, in a gentle tone, “looked upon your hill-tops with desire. We only wish to improve our swamps, increase our sweet-potato grounds, and live at peace.”
“That is not true,” retorted the fiery Mountain-man, “and we must have a promise from you that you will let the swamps alone, and not advance one step nearer to the top of our mountain.”
