Black Ivory, R. M. Ballantyne [reading like a writer txt] 📗

“I’m terribly worried and perplexed,” said Lieutenant Lindsay one afternoon to Midshipman Midgley, as they were creeping along the coast in the neighbourhood of Cape Dalgado.

“Why so?” inquired the middy.

“Because I can learn nothing whatever about the movements of Marizano,” replied the Lieutenant. “I have not spoken to you about this man hitherto, because—because—that is to say—the fact is, it wasn’t worth while, seeing that you know no more about him than I do, perhaps not so much. But I can’t help thinking that we might have learned something about him by this time, only our interpreter is such an unmitigated ass, he seems to understand nothing—to pick up nothing.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the midshipman; “I’m surprised to hear you say so, because I heard Suliman whispering last night with that half-caste fellow whom we captured along with the other niggers, and I am confident that he mentioned the name of Marizano several times.”

“Did he? Well now, the rascal invariably looks quite blank when I mention Marizano’s name, and shakes his head, as if he had never heard of it before.”

“Couldn’t you intimidate him into disgorging a little of his knowledge?” suggested Midgley, with an arch look.

“I have thought of that,” replied Lindsay, with a frown. “Come, it’s not a bad idea; I’ll try! Hallo! Suliman, come aft, I want you.”

Lieutenant Lindsay was one of those men who are apt to surprise people by the precipitancy of their actions. He was not, indeed, hasty; but when his mind was made up he was not slow in proceeding to action. It was so on the present occasion, to the consternation of Suliman, who had hitherto conceived him to be rather a soft easy-going man.

“Suliman,” he said, in a low but remarkably firm tone of voice, “you know more about Marizano than you choose to tell me. Now,” he continued, gazing into the Arab’s cold grey eyes, while he pulled a revolver from his coat-pocket and cocked it, “I intend to make you tell me all you know about him, or to blow your brains out.”

He moved the pistol gently as he spoke, and placed his forefinger on the trigger.

“I not know,” began Suliman, who evidently did not believe him to be quite in earnest; but before the words had well left his lips the drum of his left ear was almost split by the report of the pistol, and a part of his turban was blown away.

“You don’t know? very well,” said Lindsay, recocking the pistol, and placing the cold muzzle of it against the Arab’s yellow nose.

This was too much for Suliman. He grew pale, and suddenly fell on his knees.

“Oh! stop! no—no! not fire! me tell you ’bout ’im.”

“Good, get up and do so,” said the Lieutenant, uncocking the revolver, and returning it to his pocket; “and be sure that you tell me all, else your life won’t be worth the value of the damaged turban on your head.”

With a good deal of trepidation the alarmed interpreter thereupon gave Lindsay all the information he possessed in regard to the slaver, which amounted to this, that he had gone to Kilwa, where he had collected a band of slaves sufficient to fill a large dhow, with which he intended, in two days more, to sail, in company with a fleet of slavers, for the north.

“Does he intend to touch at Zanzibar?” inquired Lindsay.

“Me tink no,” replied the interpreter; “got many pritty garls—go straight for Persia.”

On hearing this the Lieutenant put the cutter about, and sailed out to sea in search of the ‘Firefly,’ which he knew could not at that time be at any great distance from the shore.

He found her sooner than he had expected; and, to his immense astonishment as well as joy, one of the first persons he beheld on stepping over the side of his ship was Azinté.

“You have captured Marizano, sir, I see,” he said to Captain Romer.

“Not the scoundrel himself, but one of his dhows,” replied the Captain. “He had started for the northern ports with two heavily-laden vessels. We discovered him five days ago, and, fortunately, just beyond the protected water, so that he was a fair and lawful prize. The first of his dhows, being farthest out from shore, we captured, but the other, commanded by himself, succeeded in running ashore, and he escaped; with nearly all his slaves—only a few of the women and children being drowned in the surf. And now, as our cargo of poor wretches is pretty large, I shall run for the Seychelles. After landing them I shall return as fast as possible, to intercept a few more of these pirates.”

“To the Seychelles!” muttered the Lieutenant to himself as he went below, with an expression on his countenance something between surprise and despair.

Poor Lindsay! His mind was so taken up with, and confused by, the constant and obtrusive presence of the Senhorina Maraquita that the particular turn which affairs had taken had not occurred to him, although that turn was quite natural, and by no means improbable. Marizano, with Azinté on board of one of his piratical dhows, was proceeding to the north. Captain Romer, with his war-steamer, was on the look-out for piratical dhows. What more natural than that the Captain should fall in with the pirate? But Lieutenant Lindsay’s mind had been so filled with Maraquita that it seemed to be, for the time, incapable of holding more than one other idea—that idea was the fulfilment of Maraquita’s commands to obtain information as to her lost Azinté. To this he had of late devoted all his powers, happy in the thought that it fell in with and formed part of his duty, to his Queen and country, as well as to the “Queen of his soul.” To rescue Azinté from Marizano seemed to the bold Lieutenant an easy enough matter; but to rescue her from his own Captain, and send her back into slavery! “Ass! that I am,” he exclaimed, “not to have thought of this before. Of course she can never be returned to Maraquita, and small comfort it will be to the Senhorina to be told that her favourite is free in the Seychelles Islands, and utterly beyond her reach, unless she chooses to go there and stay with her.”

Overwhelmed with disgust at his own stupidity, and at the utter impossibility of doing anything to mend matters, the unfortunate Lieutenant sat down to think, and the result of his thinking was that he resolved at all events to look well after Azinté, and see that she should be cared for on her arrival at the Seychelles.

Among the poor creatures who had been rescued from Marizano’s dhow were nearly a hundred children, in such a deplorable condition that small hopes were entertained of their reaching the island alive. Their young lives, however, proved to be tenacious. Experienced though their hardy rescuers were in rough and tumble work, they had no conception what these poor creatures had already gone through, and, therefore, formed a mistaken estimate of their powers of endurance. Eighty-three of them reached the Seychelles alive. They were placed under the care of a warm-hearted missionary, who spared no pains for their restoration to health; but despite his utmost efforts, forty of these eventually died—their little frames had been whipped, and starved, and tried to such an extent, that recovery was impossible.

To the care of this missionary Lieutenant Lindsay committed Azinté, telling him as much of her sad story as he was acquainted with. The missionary willingly took charge of her, and placed her as a nurse in the temporary hospital which he had instituted for the little ones above referred to. Here Azinté proved herself to be a most tender, affectionate, and intelligent nurse to the poor children, for whom she appeared to entertain particular regard, and here, on the departure of the ‘Firefly’ shortly afterwards, Lindsay left her in a state of comfort, usefulness, and comparative felicity.