Kitabı oku: «Harry Milvaine: or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy», sayfa 11
Harry was carelessly walking one evening – he was waiting for dinner – in a grove of rugged euphorbias. The evening was very beautiful, the sun declining in the west towards a range of high hills which they had that day passed. There was a great bank of purple-grey clouds loftier than the hills; these were fringed with pale gold, else you could not have told which was mountain and which was cloud. There was also a breeze blowing, just enough to make a rustling sound among the cactuses and scrub. This it was probably that prevented Harry from hearing the stealthy footsteps of an enormous lion, until startled by a roar that made the blood tingle in his very shoes.
There he was – the African king of beasts – not twenty yards away – crouched, swishing his tail on the grass, and preparing for a spring.
Harry stood spellbound.
Then he tried to raise his rifle.
“No, you don’t,” the lion must have thought. For at that very moment he sprang, and next Harry was down under him.
He remembered a confused shout, and the sharp ring of a rifle. Then all was a mist of oblivion till he found himself lying near the camp-fire, with Jack kneeling by his side holding his arm.
“I’m not hurt, am I?” said Harry.
“Oh, massa, you am dun killed completely,” sobbed little Raggy. “All de blood in you body hab run out. You quite killed. You not lib. What den will poor Raggy do?”
It was not so bad as Raggy made out, however. But Harry’s wounds were dreadful enough, back and shoulder lacerated and arm bitten through.
Harry had made it a point all the journey since leaving the hill he called Mount Andrew to camp each night on the same place Mahmoud had left days before, and to build the fire in the self-same spot, and on departing in the morning to leave nothing behind that could tell the Arab’s sharp-eyed Somalis the ground had been used.
It was well he had taken this precaution, for now he was wounded and ill, and must remain near this place for weeks at least.
Jack, the Somali, was equal to the occasion.
He went away to the forest, and was not long in finding a site for the invalid’s camp.
Like that upon Mount Andrew, it was on a hill or eminence, from which the country eastwards could be seen for many, many miles. And here also was a shelter under a rock from the direct rays of the sun.
Next day, and for several days, poor Harry tossed about on his couch in a raging fever.
But Jack proved an excellent surgeon, and Raggy the best of nurses. The former applied cooling and healing antiseptic leaves to Harry’s wounds, and bound them tenderly up with bundles of grass, while the latter hardly ever left his master’s couch, except to seek for and bring him the most luscious fruit the forest could afford.
Long, long weary weeks passed away, but still Harry lay there in his cave on the hillside too weak to stand, too ill to move.
Between them his two faithful servants had built him a hut of branches and grass, which not only defended him against the sun, but against the rain as well – for the wet season had now set in. Thunders rolled over the plains and reverberated from the mountain sides, and at times the rain came down in terrible “spatters” that in volume far exceeded anything Harry could ever have dreamt of.
But the rain cooled and purified the atmosphere, and seemed to so revive Harry, that his wounds took on what surgeons call the healing intention.
Raggy was a joyful boy then, and honest Jack, the Somali – for he had proved himself honest by this time – was doubly assiduous in his endeavours to perfect a cure.
One afternoon, while Jack was talking to his master, Raggy, who had been in the forest, ran in breathless and scared.
“Golly-mussy!” he cried, “dey come, dey come. Where shall we hide poor massa? Dey come, dey come.”
Book Three – Chapter Five.
The Return of the Caravans – Night in the Forest – The Dying Slave Boy
Mahmoud had not found the slave-dealing king in quite so good a temper on this journey. The reason was not far to seek. A brother potentate, who dwelt just beyond a range of mountains to the east of him, had by some means or other possessed himself of two white slaves – Greeks they were, and had been brought from very far north. This king was his greatest enemy – near neighbours though they were – and many and deadly were the combats that used to rage among the hills. In fact, their two imperial highnesses lived in a state of continual warfare. Sentinels of both parties were placed day and night on the highest mountains, to spy out the actions of the opposite kingdoms. It was no unusual thing for these sentinels to get to lighting on their own account, and when they did they never failed to chew each other up, though not quite so much so as the Kilkenny cats, of which, as you know, nothing was left but two little morsels of fluff, one tooth and one toe-nail – but very nearly as bad as that. The rival kings did not care a bit; they looked upon the affair as a natural dénouement, and set more sentinels, while the vultures gobbled up whatsoever remained of the last.
But this rival king beyond the hills owned those white slaves, and the king, who loved rum, was very jealous and greatly incensed in consequence. Thrice he had made war upon him with a view of possessing himself of the coveted Greeks, and thrice had he been hurled back with infinite slaughter.
Then Mahmoud had come to him, and the king stated his case while he drank some rum, and Mahmoud promised that next time he returned he would bring him one or more white slaves, that would far outshine those possessed by the king beyond the hills, whose name, by the way, was King Kara-Kara.
But behold Mahmoud had returned, and no white slave with him! Harry, as we know, having escaped.
No wonder, then, that King ’Ngaloo had raged and stormed. This he did despite the fact that the Somalis were called to witness that it was no fault of Mahmoud’s, and that their prisoner had really and truly escaped. King ’Ngaloo had serious thoughts of ordering the priest Mahmoud to instant execution, but was so mollified at the sight of the other gifts brought him that he forgave him.
These gifts were many and varied. Rum came first, then beads, blue, crimson, white and black, and of various sizes, then jack-knives and daggers, white-iron whistles, a drum of large dimensions, a concertina, and a pair of brass lacquered tongs. These last two gifts were the best fun of all, for King ’Ngaloo, squatting in the middle of his tent floor with his wives all round him or near him, would sip rum and play the concertina time about. His playing was peculiar. After he had finished about half a bottle of the fire-water he began to feel his heart warm enough to have some fun, on which he would jump up and with his brass tongs seize one of his wives by the nose, drawing her round and round the tent, she screaming with pain, he with laughter, till one would have thought all bedlam was let loose.
Yes, the king was pacified, and Mahmoud was allowed to depart, with an addition to his caravan of one hundred poor victims who were to be dragged away into slavery.
He went away much sooner than he had intended had he been successful in getting more slaves. And besides, the truth is, Mahmoud was a little afraid that the king might take it into his head to pull him round the tent with the tongs, and Mahmoud had a profound respect for his nose.
I really think it was a pity the king did not do so.
Only it was evident the king had other thoughts in his head, for one day he jumped up, and after practising the tongs exercise on his prime minister for five minutes, he held the instrument of torture aloft and snapped it wildly in the air.
“Teiah roota Kara-Kara yalla golla,” he shouted, or some such words, “I’ll never be content till I seize Kara-Kara by the nose, and the tongs shall be made red-hot for the purpose.”
“I’d send and tell him so,” that is what Mahmoud had suggested.
“Dee a beeseeta – I’ll do so,” said the king.
And away the messenger was sent to King Kara-Kara.
The messenger obeyed his instructions, and King Kara-Kara took much pleasure in cutting off his head, but as this was no more than the messenger had expected there was not much harm done.
But, and it is a big “but,” had King ’Ngaloo only known that at the very time Mahmoud was in his camp or village, his “brother” Suliemon was in that of the rival potentate, and that he had sold him the unfortunate men of the Bunting, Mahmoud would not have been allowed to depart, unless he could have done so without his head. For both Mahmoud and his “brother” were excellent business men, and were not at all averse to playing into each other’s hands.
Before Mahmoud had left the town of this African potentate he was allowed to choose his slaves. He chose, to begin with, a day on which King Kara-Kara had imbibed even more rum than usual. Indeed, he was so absurdly tipsy that he could not hold the tongs.
He was determined to see that he was not cheated for all that, and so, supported on one side by his prime minister, and on the other by one of his priests, the chief executioner, sword in hand, coming up behind, he waddled out to the great square in which the poor unhappy souls, men and women, from whom Mahmoud was to make his choice were drawn up.
The first thing the king did after getting outside was to give vent to an uncontrollable fit of laughing. Nobody knew what he was laughing at, nor, I dare say, did he himself. But he suddenly grew serious, hit his prime minister on the face with his open palm, and asked why he dared laugh in his august presence.
Though his nose bled a little, the minister said nothing; he was used to all the king’s little eccentricities, and this was one of them.
After he had got into the square, the king desired to be informed what the meeting was all about.
“Execution, isn’t it?” That is what he said in his own language.
“That fellow Mahmoud’s white head is coming off, isn’t it? Turban and all? Turban and all, ha! ha! ha! I told him I would do it. And I will.”
No wonder Mahmoud had trembled in his sandals.
But King ’Ngaloo was soon put right.
Then Mahmoud made his choice.
He hesitated not to tear asunder mother and child, husband and wife, sister and brother. It was merely a case of youth and strength with him.
When he had finished, the slaves were at once chained together, and soon after, having bidden farewell to this pretty king, the march was commenced.
There was weeping and wailing among the new-made slaves, and there was weeping and wailing among those left behind.
But what cared Mahmoud?
As they marched away, while ’Ngaloo’s warlike tom-toms were beating, and his chanters sounding, a music that was almost demoniacal, the poor captives as with one accord cast a glance around them at the village – which, savage though it was, had been their home – but which they would never, never see again. Just one wild despairing glance, nothing more. Then heavily fell the lash on the naked shoulders of the last pairs, and on they went.
“Dey come, dey come!” cried Raggy, in despair.
Yes, they were coming – Mahmoud’s caravan and his wretched slaves. They were soon in sight, looking just the same as when last seen, only with that dark and mournful chained line between the swarthy spear-armed Somalis.
Harry prayed inwardly that they might pass on. They did not, but stopped to bivouac on the old camping ground.
And yet our hero could not help admitting to himself that his adventure with the lion that had delayed his journey had really been meant for his good. It had saved his life to all appearance, for Mahmoud had returned far sooner than even Jack – who knew the road and the work before his old master – could have dreamed of.
This only proves, I think, reader, that we are shortsighted mortals, and that our prayers may truly be answered, although things may not turn out just as we would have desired them.
In the morning Mahmoud seemed in no hurry to leave, and the day wore on without very much stir in his camp. It was an anxious day for Harry and his companions, just as it had been a long and anxious night. They never knew the moment the sharp-sighted Somalis might find their trail and track them to their cave on the hill.
The recent rains alone probably prevented so great a catastrophe, else beside that camp-fire a scene of blood would have been enacted that makes one shudder even to think about.
In the afternoon there rushed into Mahmoud’s camp, wildly waving his spear aloft, one of the Somali spies. Then the commotion in the camp grew intense. Mahmoud shortly after left the place all alone, and in less than twenty minutes returned with his so-called brother Suliemon.
This very spot there was the rendezvous for these slave-dealers on their return from their expedition. Behind Suliemon came a vast crowd of chained slaves. There could not have been less than a thousand. How tired they appeared! No sooner was the order to halt given, than they threw themselves on the grass, just as weary sheep would have done returning from a fair.
There was no movement that night, so Harry and his merry men had to lie close like foxes in their lair.
Next morning, however, as early as daybreak, the whole camp was astir, and for nearly two hours the shouting and howling, the firing of guns and cracking of whips were hideous to hear. The scene near the camp-fire was like some awful pandemonium.
But by ten o’clock, as nearly as Harry could judge, every one had gone, and silence once more reigned over forest and plain.
Our hero breathed more freely now, yet it would have been madness for any of them to have ventured forth even yet. Some loitering Somali might have seen him and given instant alarm.
Strange to say, the excitement appeared to have almost restored Harry to health. He no longer felt weak, and he longed to be away on the road again.
He knew enough of the climate, however, not to venture for a week or two longer, for a man needs all the nerve and strength that the human frame can possess to battle against the odds presented to him on such a journey as that which he was now making.
The day wore away, the sun set in a cloudscape of indescribable glory, the short twilight succeeded, then the stars peeped out through the blue rifts in the sky.
After a supper of fruit and roasted yams, Harry lay down on his couch of grass and fell into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, the stars were still shining and the sky was far more clear. A brightly burning scimitar of a moon was declining towards the horizon, and not far from it, to the west and north, the well-known constellation of Orion. Yonder also, blinking red and green, was the great Mars himself.
But it was not to study the stars that Harry had crept out of the tent, but to breathe fresher air, for there was no wind to-night. Not a branch stirred in the forest, not a leaf moved. The wild beasts had been scared far away, only now and then a lion roared, and the screams of the wild birds filled up the intervals. Dreadfully eerie they are to listen to on a night like this, and in such a lonely scene.
“Eeah – eee – ah – eeah – eeah – ah!” screamed one bird.
“Tak – tak – tak – tak!” – cried another.
“Willikin, willikin, willikin, willikin?” shrieked a third.
Then there are mournful unearthly yells and groans that would make the heart of a novice stand still with dread. He would feel convinced foul murder was being done in the gloomy depths of the forest. (It is possible the monkeys take their part in producing the cries one hears by night in forests of the tropics.)
But Harry could sleep no more.
The sentries were being relieved. Raggy had just turned up, and Somali Jack was about to turn in.
“Let us take a stroll down by the camp-fire,” said Harry. “I feel I must stretch my legs, night though it be.”
Together they went as far as the old camping ground, and were about to leave when a pained and weary groan fell on Harry’s ear.
He soon discovered whence it issued. From the lips of a poor half-naked dark figure, lying stabbed and dying on the grass.
All this he could see by the light of moon and stars. He sat down beside the poor creature and took his head on his lap. The white eyes rolled up towards him, the lips were parted in a grateful smile.
One word was all he said or could say.
“What is it, Jack?” asked Harry. “Interpret, please.”
“It only says thanks, sahib.”
“Run for water, Raggy.”
The dying slave boy drinks just one gulp of the water. Again the white eyes are turned towards Harry, again the lips are parted in a smile – and then he is still.
For ever still.
Perhaps it is because Harry was nervous and ill; but he cannot prevent a gush of tears to his eyes as he bends over this murdered boy.
“What a demon’s heart the man must have to commit a sin like this!”
Book Three – Chapter Six.
The Land of Depopulation – In a Beast-Haunted Wilderness – A Mystery – A Strange King
Three months have elapsed since the night Harry found the dying slave lad on the grass, near the old camp-fire Harry is as strong now as ever. Nay, he is even stronger. He has had a birthday since then, and now in his own mind calls himself a man.
He is a man in heart at all events, a man in pluck and a man in manliness.
The trio – Somali Jack, Raggy, and Harry – are very friendly now.
Only once did Jack allude to that night when they fled from Mahmoud’s camp. It is in terms of admiration and in broken English.
“You give me proper trashing that night. I think I feel your shut hand on my nose now. Wah-ee! he do make him smart, and my eyes all fill with water hat hat ha!”
Yes, Jack could afford to laugh now, for Harry was not a bad master to him.
Somali Jack is happier, and, to use his own words —
“I have one stake in de world now. I all same as one Arab, I have a soul. You, master, have said so. I believe what my master says. Of course I believe what he tell me. I not all same as one koodoo – die on de hill and rot. No, I float away, away, away, past de clouds, and past de stars to de bright land of love, where Jesu reigns. Oh yes, Somali Jack is happy and proud.”
The trio are now in an unknown land.
It might be called the Land of Depopulation, for long ago the few natives that slavery left have died or fled away. There is hardly a vestige of the remains of their villages, only here and there a kind of clearing with what appears to be a hedge around it. But if you pulled away the creepers on top of this you would find old rotten palisades – indication enough that those poor creatures had made some vain attempts at defending themselves against the inroads of the Arab invader.
Harry had not long continued in the caravan route that led to the land of the drunken king. The sights he came upon every now and then while following it were sickening. It was quite evident that of the hundred slaves whom Mahmoud had chosen, at least twenty had fallen by the way, in rather less than three weeks, and been left to perish in the bush or on the grass beneath a blazing sun.
He would have followed the more southern route, and endeavour to find out the whereabouts of his fellows, but such a proceeding would have been absurdly impracticable. A white slave is thought worth a thousand black at some of the courts of African kings. He could not have redeemed his men, and to have attempted to rescue them in any other way would have only ended in failure, and in slavery to himself and companions. No, there was at present no hope. But he had more than one plan which he meant to try when a chance should occur.
For the three months past they had had plenty of sport, and a world of adventures far too numerous to mention. Harry, however, had only a very scant supply of ammunition, and but little likelihood of obtaining any further supply. Every cartridge was therefore carefully hoarded, and only used either for the purpose of protection against wild beasts or to secure themselves food.
As to this latter they managed in a great measure without firing a shot. For, first and foremost, Somali Jack had a most nimble way of catching fish. He did it by getting into shallow streams, sometimes diving in under the water and dragging a fish out from under bank or rock where it had sought shelter.
Then he could twine grass ropes; these were stretched along in certain likely places, near which Jack concealed himself, spear in hand, all alert and ready. The other part of this peculiar hunt was performed by Harry and the boy Raggy. They managed, and that very successfully, as a rule, to chase wild deer, of which there were so many different sorts and sizes, down towards the clever Somali. In their headlong hurry one at least was almost sure to trip over the rope and fall. In a moment Jack was up and on him, and next minute – there was something good for dinner.
I wish I could describe to you one-thousandth part of all the curious things Harry noticed in natural history, not only among the larger animals, but among the smaller, namely, the birds, and among the smallest – the creeping creatures of the earth.
I wish I could describe to you a few of the lovely scenes he witnessed in this beast-haunted wilderness: the landscapes, the cloudscapes, the lovely sunsets, the wilderies of fruit and flower, and the scenes among the mountains, some of which, high, high up in the air, were even snow-capped, and ever at sunrise assumed that pearl-pink hue with purple shadow which once witnessed can never be forgotten in life. The scenes by river and lake were also most enchanting at times.
But do not think these wanderers had it all their own way. No, they went with their lives in their hands, and these lives were very often in jeopardy.
Poor little Raggy was once tossed by a herd of buffaloes. I say a herd of buffaloes advisedly, for really they seemed nearly all to have a fling at him. The last one pitched him up into a tree, where, for a time, he was an object of the most profound interest to a band of chattering apes. They could not conceive who or what the new arrival was, nor where he had come from.
Well, then, Somali Jack had to climb up and shake the branch to dislodge Raggy’s apparently dead body, while Harry stood under to catch it and break the fall.
But Raggy was not dead. Not a bit of him; and presently he got up and scratched his poll and gazed about him like a somnambulist.
“Am de buffaloes all gone, massa?” he inquired.
“The buffaloes, Rag? Yes, and it seems to me you are made of indiarubber; why, they played lawn tennis with you.”
“Well, massa,” said Raggy, “it was some fun to de buffaloes anyhow, and it not hurt Raggy much.”
Another day Harry had narrowly escaped being killed by a rhinoceros. Quiet enough these animals are at times, but whatever other travellers may say, I advise you to keep out of their track when they lose temper.
Somali Jack was one day posted behind his rope when down thundered a small herd of giraffes. Over went number three. Out came Jack and attacked him, but, like the witch in Tam o’ Shanter —
“Little wist he that beast’s mettle.”
One kick sent Jack flying yards and yards away; the blow alighted on his chest, and, strange to say, the blood sprang from his nose and mouth.
Jack said nobody could hit so hard as a giraffe unless his master, and he never tried again to spear a —
“Roebuck run to seed.”
They had now many rivers to cross and miles on miles to walk sometimes before they could find a ford. But the current seldom ran very strong. The worst of it was that often, even after they found the ford and got over, there was a marsh to cross, worse than any bog in old Ireland.
Many of these marshes were infested with crocodiles. Oh, how innocent these brutes can appear, basking in the sunshine on the banks, or lying in shallow streams with nothing out and up except their hideous heads!
Yonder, for example, is one immense skull, not far from the bank. He is asleep, is he not? Go a little closer. He never moves. You feel sure he is good-natured, and that the crocodile is a much-libelled reptile. Go closer still and look at him. Ugly enough he is, but so innocent-looking! You would like to smoothe him, wouldn’t you, little boy?
Snap! Where are you now? It is sincerely to be hoped that your mamma has another good little boy like you to supply your place, for you will never be seen again.
And your great “good-natured” crocodile is very playful now, and goes away swishing through the water to tell all the other crocodiles how very happy he feels, because he has a little boy in his stomach.
They came, at length, to a range of rugged hills which it took them a whole day to get across. They encamped at night in a dreary glen, and had to keep a great fire burning until the sun rose over the mountains, for this glen seemed to be the home par excellence of the lions. These monsters, many of which they saw, were the largest they had yet fallen in with.
They were evidently filled with resentment at the daring invasion of their territory, and made not only night hideous with their threatening and growling, but sleep quite impossible.
Harry was glad enough to continue the journey next day as early as possible, but they had not got far before a terrible thunderstorm made all pedal progression quite impossible for the time being. It was well they were pretty high up among the hills, for with the thunder and lightning came a wind of hurricane force; they could hear the great trees smashing in the forest beneath them, and noticed scores of wild beasts seeking sheltered corners in which to hide till the violence of the storm should abate.
Another night in this mountain forest; another night among the wild beasts.
Next day was bright and fine, but not for hours after did the sun appear, owing to the mists that were rising all over the land.
On the evening of that same day they came to the margin of what appeared at first to be a broad rolling river. There were a few native canoes on it.
One immensely large dug-out was soon observed coming towards them, so it was evident they were already seen. In the stern sheets, when it came near enough, Harry could descry a single figure sitting under the broad canopy of an umbrella.
No one else in the boat, and the figure astern not moving a muscle!
“How is it done?” said Harry to himself. “It is a mystery. Can these savages have invented electricity as a motor power?”
Nearer and nearer came the boat, but the mystery was as far from being explained as ever.
The individual who sat in the boat was a portly negro, very black, very comely and jolly-looking. He was dressed from the shoulders to the knees in a loose blue robe of cotton cloth. This appeared to be simply rolled round the loins and then carried over the shoulder. On his head he wore a skin hat with the hairy side out and a long tail hanging down behind it. Round his neck was a string of lions’ tusks, in his ears immense copper rings, in one hand a broad-bladed spear, and in the other a long shield of hide studded with copper nails.
The umbrella was a fixture behind him.
While Harry and his companions were still gazing at this singular being with a good deal of curiosity, not unmixed with apprehension, the prow of the boat touched land, and immediately the motor power was explained. This was, after all, only a big hulking negro who had been wading behind and pushing with his head. He had not come here unguarded, however. For dozens of armed canoes now made an appearance, and took up a position in two rows, one at each side of what was undoubtedly the royal barge.
The king stepped boldly on shore, and nodded and smiled to Harry in the most friendly way.
“Good morning,” said Harry, nodding and smiling in turn; “fine day, isn’t it?”
Of course the king could not reply, but leaning on his spear he walked three times round Harry and his companions, then three times round Harry alone. It was pretty evident he had never seen a white man before.
Then he touched Harry’s clothes, and felt all along them as one smoothes a dog. Then he said:
“Lobo! Lobo!” (Strange, or wonderful.)
He next proceeded to an examination of Harry’s face. He wetted the end of his blue robe in the lake and tried to rub the bloom off Harry’s cheeks.
“I don’t paint,” Harry said, quietly.
“Lobo!” said the king again.
Harry’s buttons now fixed the king’s attention.
He pulled the jacket towards him and tried to cut one off with the end of his spear.
Then Harry smacked his fingers for him, and the king started back with a fierce look in his eye.
“Lobo! Lobo!” he cried, excitedly.
“Keep your fingers to yourself, then,” said Harry.
But thinking he had gone too far, he immediately cut two buttons off and presented them to this queer king.
His majesty was all smiles again in a moment. He intimated his pleasure and gratitude in a neat little speech that Harry could make neither head nor tail of, but was glad to find that little Raggy could translate it even more freely than Somali Jack.
For from somewhere near these regions Raggy had originally come. So he told Harry; he also said, “I ’spect I has a mudder livin’ hereabouts some-wheres.”
“Would you know her, Raggy, if you saw her?”
“I not know her from any oder black lady,” replied Raggy, grandly; “’sides,” he added, “dis chile Raggy hab no wish to renew de ’quaintance.”
The warriors in the king’s canoes sat as motionless as if they had been made out of wood, and then tarred over and glued to their seats. They looked friendly, but it was quite evident they would take their cue from his majesty, and were just as ready to drown Harry in the lake as to give him a welcome.
“Peace at any price is the best policy in this case,” said Harry. “Eh, Raggy, what say you?”
“Suppose massa want to fight, den Raggy fight; suppose we fight, dey gobble us all up plenty quick; suppose we not fight, den dey make much of us and give us curry and chicken.”
“All right, Raggy, we’ll go in for the curried chicken. Tell this sable king that we have come a long long way to see him, and to give him some presents, and that we then want to pass through his country and go on our way in peace.”
