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

to the adults along the line. Their comparatively short legs were not well adapted for such ground, and not a few of them perished there; but although the losses here were terribly numerous in one sense, they after all bore but a small proportion to those whose native vigour carried them through in safety.

Among the men there were some whose strength of frame and fierce expression indicated untameable spirits—men who might have been, probably were, heroes among their fellows. It was for men of this stamp that the goree, or slave-stick, had been invented, and most effectually did that instrument serve its purpose. Samson himself would have been a mere child in it.

There were men in the gang quite as bold, if not as strong, as Samson. One of these, a very tall and powerful negro, on drawing near to the place where Marizano stood superintending the passage, turned suddenly aside, and, although coupled by the neck to a fellow-slave, and securely bound at the wrists with a cord, which was evidently cutting into his swelled flesh, made a desperate kick at the half-caste leader.

Although the slave failed to reach him, Marizano was so enraged that he drew a hatchet from his belt and instantly dashed out the man’s brains. He fell dead without even a groan. Terrified by this, the rest passed on more rapidly, and there was no further check till a woman in the line, with an infant on her back, stumbled, and, falling down, appeared unable to rise.

“Get up!” shouted Marizano, whose rage had rather been increased than abated by the murder he had just committed.

The woman rose and attempted to advance, but seemed ready to fall again. Seeing this, Marizano plucked the infant from her back, dashed it against a tree, and flung its quivering body into the jungle, while a terrible application of the lash sent the mother shrieking into the swamp. (See Livingstone’s Zambesi and its Tributaries, page 857; and for a record of cruelties too horrible to be set down in a book like this, we refer the reader to McLeod’s Travels in Eastern Africa, volume two page 26. Also to the Appendix of Captain Sulivan’s Dhow-Chasing in Zanzibar Waters, which contains copious and interesting extracts from evidence taken before the Select Committee of the House of Commons.)

Harold and Disco did not witness this, though they heard the shriek of despair, for at the moment the negro they were tending was breathing his last. When his eyes had closed and the spirit had been set free, they rose, and, purposely refraining from looking back, hurried away from the dreadful scene, intending to plunge into the swamp at some distance from the place, and push on until they should regain the head of the column.

“Better if we’d never fallen behind, sir,” said Disco, in a deep, tremulous voice.

“True,” replied Harold. “We should have been spared these sights, and the pain of knowing that we cannot prevent this appalling misery and cruelty.”

“But surely it is to be prevented somehow,” cried Disco, almost fiercely. “Many a war that has cost mints o’ money has been carried on for causes that ain’t worth mentionin’ in the same breath with this!”

As Harold knew not what to say, and was toiling knee-deep in the swamp at the moment he made no reply.

After marching about half an hour he stopped abruptly and said, with a heavy sigh,—“I hope we haven’t missed our way?”

“Hope not sir, but it looks like as if we had.”

“I’ve bin so took up thinkin’ o’ that accursed traffic in human bein’s that I’ve lost my reckonin’. Howsever, we can’t be far out, an’, with the sun to guide us, we’ll—”

He was stopped by a loud halloo in the woods, on the belt of the swamp.

It was repeated in a few seconds, and Antonio, who, with Jumbo, had followed his master, cried in an excited tone—

“Me knows dat sound!”

“Wot may it be, Tony?” asked Disco.

There was neither time nor need for an answer, for at that moment a ringing cry, something like a bad imitation of a British cheer, was heard, and a band of men sprang out of the woods and ran at full speed towards our Englishmen.

“Why, Zombo!” exclaimed Disco, wildly.

“Oliveira!” cried Harold.

“Masiko! Songolo!” shouted Antonio and Jumbo.

“An’ José, Nakoda, Chimbolo, Mabruki!—the whole bun’ of ’em,” cried Disco, as one after another these worthies emerged from the wood and rushed in a state of frantic excitement towards their friends—“Hooray!”

“Hooroo-hay!” replied the runners.

In another minute our adventurous party of travellers was re-united, and for some time nothing but wild excitement, congratulations, queries that got no replies, and replies that ran tilt at irrelevant queries, with confusion worse confounded by explosions of unbounded and irrepressible laughter not unmingled with tears, was the order of the hour.

“But wat! yoos ill?” cried Zombo suddenly, looking into Disco’s face with an anxious expression.

“Well, I ain’t ’xac’ly ill, nor I ain’t ’xac’ly well neither, but I’m hearty all the same, and werry glad to see your black face, Zombo.”

“Ho! hooroo-hay! so’s me for see you,” cried the excitable Zombo; “but come, not good for talkee in de knees to watter. Fall in boy, ho! sholler ’ums—queek mash!”

That Zombo had assumed command of his party was made evident by the pat way in which he trolled off the words of command formerly taught to him by Harold, as well as by the prompt obedience that was accorded to his orders. He led the party out of the swamp, and, on reaching a dry spot, halted, in order to make further inquiries and answer questions.

“How did you find us, Zombo?” asked Harold, throwing himself wearily on the ground.

“Yoos ill,” said Zombo, holding up a finger by way of rebuke.

“So I am, though not so ill as I look. But come, answer me. How came you to discover us? You could not have found us by mere chance in this wilderness?”

“Chanz; wat am chanz?” asked the Makololo.

There was some difficulty in getting Antonio to explain the word, from the circumstance of himself being ignorant of it, therefore Harold put the question in a more direct form.

“Oh! ve comes here look for yoo, ’cause peepils d’reck ’ums—show de way. Ve’s been veeks, monts, oh! days look for yoo. Travil far—g’rong road—turin bak—try agin—fin’ yoo now—hooroo-hay!”

“You may say that, indeed. I’d have it in my heart,” said Disco, “to give three good rousin’ British cheers if it warn’t for the thoughts o’ that black-hearted villain, Marizano, an’ his poor, miserable slaves.”

“Marizano!” shouted Chimbolo, glaring at Harold.

“Marizano!” echoed Zombo, glaring at Disco.

Harold now explained to his friends that the slave-hunter was close at hand—a piece of news which visibly excited them,—and described the cruelties of which he had recently been a witness. Zombo showed his teeth like a savage mastiff, and grasped his musket as though he longed to use it, but he uttered no word until the narrative reached that point in which the death of the poor captive was described. Then he suddenly started forward and said something to his followers in the native tongue, which caused each to fling down the small bundle that was strapped to his shoulders.

“Yoo stop here,” he cried, earnestly, as he turned to Harold and Disco. “Ve’s com bak soon. Ho! boys, sholler ’ums! queek mash!”

No trained band of Britons ever obeyed with more ready alacrity. No attention was paid to Harold’s questions. The “queek mash” carried them out of sight in a few minutes, and when the Englishmen, who had run after them a few paces, halted, under the conviction that in their weak condition they might as well endeavour to keep up with race-horses as with their old friends, they found that Antonio alone remained to keep them company.

“Where’s Jumbo?” inquired Harold.

“Gon’ ’way wid oders,” replied the interpreter.

Examining the bundles of their friends, they found that their contents were powder, ball, and food. It was therefore resolved that a fire should be kindled, and food prepared, to be ready for their friends on their return.

“I’m not so sure about their return,” said Harold gravely. “They will have to fight against fearful odds if they find the slavers. Foolish fellows; I wish they had not rushed away so madly without consulting us.”

The day passed; night came and passed also, and another day dawned, but there was no appearance of Zombo and his men, until the sun had been up for some hours. Then they came back, wending their way slowly—very slowly—through the woods, with the whole of the slave-gang, men, women, and children, at their heels!

“Where is Marizano?” inquired Harold, almost breathless with surprise.

“Dead!” said Zombo.

“Dead?”

“Ay, dead, couldn’t be deader.”

“And his armed followers?”

“Dead, too—some ob ums. Ve got at um in de night. Shotted Marizano all to hatoms. Shotted mos’ ob um follerers too. De res’ all scatter like leaves in de wind. Me giv’ up now,” added Zombo, handing his musket to Harold. “Boys! orrer ums! mees Capitin not no more. Now, Capitin Harol’, yoos once more look afer us, an’ take care ob all ums peepil.”

Having thus demitted his charge, the faithful Zombo stepped back and left our hero in the unenviable position of a half broken-down man with the responsibility of conducting an expedition, and disposing of a large gang of slaves in some unknown part of equatorial Africa!

Leaving him there, we will proceed at once to the coast and follow, for a time, the fortunes of that archvillain, Yoosoof.