Black Ivory
Thus supplied, our two friends embarked in the dhow and set sail. Wind and weather were propitious. In few days they reached the mouths of the great river Zambesi, and landed at the port of Quillimane.
Only once on the voyage did they fall in with a British cruiser, which ordered them to lay-to and overhauled them, but on the papers and everything being found correct, they were permitted to pursue their voyage.
The mouths of the river Zambesi are numerous; extending over more than ninety miles of the coast. On the banks of the northern mouth stands—it would be more appropriate to say festers—the dirty little Portuguese town of Quillimane. Its site is low, muddy, fever-haunted, and swarming with mosquitoes. No man in his senses would have built a village thereon were it not for the facilities afforded for slaving. At spring or flood tides the bar may be safely crossed by sailing vessels, but, being far from land, it is always dangerous for boats.
Here, then, Harold and Disco landed, and remained for some time for the purpose of engaging men. Appearing in the character of independent travellers, they were received with some degree of hospitality by the principal inhabitants. Had they gone there as simple and legitimate traders, every possible difficulty would have been thrown in their way, because the worthy people, from the Governor downwards, flourished,—or festered,—by means of the slave-trade, and legitimate commerce is everywhere found to be destructive to the slave-trade.
Dr Livingstone and others tell us that thousands upon thousands of negroes have, of late years, gone out from Quillimane into slavery under the convenient title of “free emigrants,” their freedom being not quite equal to that of a carter’s horse, for while that animal, although enslaved, is usually well fed, the human animal is kept on rather low diet lest his spirit should rouse him to deeds of desperate violence against his masters. All agricultural enterprise is also effectually discouraged here. When a man wants to visit his country farm he has to purchase a permit from the Governor. If he wishes to go up the river to the Portuguese towns of Senna or Tette, a pass must be purchased from the Governor. In fact it would weary the reader were we to enumerate the various modes in which every effort of man to act naturally, legitimately, or progressively, is hampered, unless his business be the buying and selling of human beings.
At first Harold experienced great difficulty in procuring men. The master of the trading dhow in which he sailed from Zanzibar intended to remain as short a time as possible at Quillimane, purposing to visit ports further south, and as Harold had made up his mind not to enter the Zambesi by the Quillimane mouth, but to proceed in the dhow to one of the southern mouths, he felt tempted to give up the idea of procuring men until he had gone further south.
“You see, Disco,” said he, in a somewhat disconsolate tone, “it won’t do to let this dhow start without us, because I want to get down to the East Luavo mouth of this river, that being the mouth which was lately discovered and entered by Dr Livingstone; but I’m not sure that we can procure men or canoes there, and our Arab skipper either can’t or won’t enlighten me.”
“Ah!” observed Disco, with a knowing look, “he won’t—that’s where it is, sir. I’ve not a spark o’ belief in that man, or in any Arab on the coast. He’s a slaver in disguise, he is, an’ so’s every mother’s son of ’em.”
“Well,” continued Harold, “if we must start without them and take our chance, we must; there is no escaping from the inevitable; nevertheless we must exert ourselves to-day, because the dhow does not sail till to-morrow evening, and there is no saying what luck may attend our efforts before that time. Perseverance, you know, is the only sure method of conquering difficulties.”
“That’s so,” said Disco; “them’s my sentiments ’xactly. Never say die—Stick at nothing—Nail yer colours to the mast: them’s the mottoes that I goes in for—always s’posin’ that you’re in the right.”
“But what if you’re in the wrong, and the colours are nailed?” asked Harold, with a smile.
“W’y then, sir, of course I’d have to tear ’em down.”
“So that perhaps, it would be better not to nail them at all, unless you’re very sure—eh?”
“Oh, of course, sir,” replied Disco, with solemn emphasis. “You don’t suppose, sir, that I would nail ’em to the mast except I was sure, wery sure, that I wos right? But, as you wos a sayin’, sir, about the gittin’ of them ’ere men.”
Disco had an easy way of changing a subject when he felt that he was getting out of his depth.
“Well, to return to that. The fact is, I would not mind the men, for it’s likely that men of some sort will turn up somewhere, but I am very anxious about an interpreter. Without an interpreter we shall get on badly, I fear, for I can only speak French, besides a very little Latin and Greek, none of which languages will avail much among niggers.”
Disco assumed a severely thoughtful expression of countenance.
“That’s true,” he said, placing his right fist argumentatively in his left palm, “and I’m afeard I can’t help you there, sir. If it wos to steer a ship or pull a oar or man the fore-tops’l yard in a gale o’ wind, or anything else in the seafarin’ line, Disco Lillihammer’s your man, but I couldn’t come a furrin’ lingo at no price. I knows nothin’ but my mother tongue,—nevertheless, though I says it that shouldn’t, I does profess to be somewhat of a dab at that. Once upon a time I spent six weeks in Dublin, an’ havin’ a quick ear for moosic, I soon managed to get up a strong dash o’ the brogue; but p’raps that wouldn’t go far with the niggers.”
About two hours after the above conversation, while Harold Seadrift was walking on the beach, he observed his faithful ally in the distance grasping a short thickset man by the arm, and endeavouring to induce him to accompany him, with a degree of energy that fell little short of main force. The man was evidently unwilling.
As the pair drew nearer, Harold overheard Disco’s persuasive voice:– “Come now, Antonio, don’t be a fool; it’s the best service you could enter. Good pay and hard work, and all the grub that’s goin’—what could a man want more? It’s true there’s no grog, but we don’t need that in a climate where you’ve only got to go out in the sun without yer hat an’ you’ll be as good as drunk in ten minutes, any day.”
“No, no, not possibil,” remonstrated the man, whose swarthy visage betrayed a mixture of cunning, fun, and annoyance. He was obviously a half-caste of the lowest type, but with more pretensions to wealth than many of his fellows, inasmuch as he wore, besides his loin-cloth, a white cotton shooting-coat, very much soiled, beneath the tails of which his thin black legs protruded ridiculously.
“Here you are, sir,” cried Disco, as he came up; “here’s the man for lingo: knows the native talkee, as well as Portuguese, English, Arabic, and anything else you like, as far as I know. Antonio’s his name. Come, sir, try him with Greek, or somethin’ o’ that sort!”
Harold had much ado to restrain a smile, but, assuming a grave aspect, he addressed the man in French, while Disco listened with a look of profound respect and admiration.
“W’y, wot’s wrong with ’ee, man,” exclaimed Disco, on observing the blank look of Antonio’s countenance; “don’t ’ee savay that?”
“I thought you understood Portuguese?” said Harold in English.
“So me do,” replied Antonio quickly; “but dat no Portigeese—dat Spanaish, me ’spose.”
“What can you speak, then?” demanded Harold sternly.
“Portigeese, Arbik, Fengleesh, an’ two, tree, four, nigger lungwiches.”
It was very obvious that, whatever Antonio spoke, he spoke nothing correctly, but that was of no importance so long as the man could make himself understood. Harold therefore asked if he would join his party as interpreter, but Antonio shook his head.
“Why not man—why not?” asked Harold impatiently, for he became anxious to secure him, just in proportion as he evinced disinclination to engage.
“Speak up, Antonio, don’t be ashamed; you’ve no need to,” said Disco. “The fact is, sir, Antonio tells me that he has just bin married, an’ he don’t want to leave his wife.”
“Very natural,” observed Harold. “How long is it since you were married?”
“Von veek since I did bought her.”
“Bought her!” exclaimed Disco, with a broad grin; “may I ax wot ye paid for her?”
“Paid!” exclaimed the man, starting and opening his eyes very wide, as if the contemplation of the vast sum were too much for him; “lat me zee—me pay me vife’s pairyints sixteen yard ob cottin clothe, an’ for me’s hut four yard morer.”
“Ye don’t say that?” exclaimed Disco, with an extended grin. “Is she young an’ good-lookin’?”
“Yonge!” replied Antonio; “yis, ver’ yonge; not mush more dan baby, an’ exiquitely bootiful.”
“Then, my good feller,” said Disco, with a laugh, “the sooner you leave her the better. A week is a long time, an’ absence, you know, as the old song says, makes the heart grow fonder; besides, Mr Seadrift will give you enough to buy a dozen wives, if ’ee want ’em.”
“Yes, I’ll pay you well,” said Harold; “that is, if you prove to be a good interpreter.”
Antonio pricked up his ears at this.
“How mush vill ’oo gif?” he asked.
“Well, let me think; I shall probably be away three or four months. What would you say, Antonio, to twenty yards of cotton cloth a month, and a gun into the bargain at the end, if you do your work well?”
The pleased expression of Antonio’s face could not have been greater had he been offered twenty pounds sterling a month. The reader may estimate the value of this magnificent offer when we say that a yard of cotton cloth was at that time sevenpence-halfpenny, so that Antonio’s valuable services were obtained for about 12 shillings, 6 pence a month, and a gun which cost Harold less than twenty shillings in Zanzibar.
We may remark here that Antonio afterwards proved to be a stout, able, willing man, and a faithful servant, although a most arrant coward.
From this time Harold’s difficulties in regard to men vanished. With Antonio’s able assistance nine were procured, stout, young, able-bodied fellows they were, and all more or less naked. Two of these were half-caste brothers, named respectively José and Oliveira; two were half-wild negroes of the Somali tribe named Nakoda and Conda; three were negroes of the Makololo tribe, who had accompanied Dr Livingstone on his journey from the far interior of Africa to the East Coast, and were named respectively Jumbo, Zombo, and Masiko; and finally two, named Songolo and Mabruki, were free negroes of Quillimane. Thus the whole band, including Disco and the leader, formed a goodly company of twelve stout men.
Of course Harold armed them all with guns and knives. Himself and Disco carried Enfield rifles; besides which, Harold took with him a spare rifle of heavy calibre, carrying large balls, mingled with tin to harden them. This latter was intended for large game. Landing near the East Luavo mouth of the Zambesi, our hero was fortunate enough to procure two serviceable canoes, into which he transferred himself, his men, and his goods, and, bidding adieu to the Arab skipper of the dhow, commenced his journey into the interior of Africa.
Chapter Five.
In which the Travellers Enjoy Themselves Extremely, and Disco Lillihammer Sees Several Astonishing Sights
Behold our travellers, then, fairly embarked on the waters of the great African river Zambesi, in two canoes, one of which is commanded by Harold Seadrift, the other by Disco Lillihammer.
Of course these enterprising chiefs were modest enough at first to allow two of the Makololo men, Jumbo and Zombo, to wield the steering-oars, but after a few days’ practice they became sufficiently expert, as Disco said, to take the helm, except when strong currents rendered the navigation difficult, or when the weather became so “piping hot” that none but men clad in black skins could work.
We must however guard the reader here from supposing that it is always piping hot in Africa. There are occasional days when the air may be styled lukewarm, when the sky is serene, and when all nature seems joyful and enjoyable,—days in which a man opens his mouth wide and swallows down the atmosphere; when he feels his health and strength, and rejoices in them, and when, if he be not an infidel, he also feels a sensation of gratitude to the Giver of all good.
On such a day, soon after entering the East Luavo mouth of the Zambesi, the explorers, for such we may almost venture to style them, ascended the smooth stream close to the left bank, Harold leading, Disco following closely in his wake.
The men rowed gently, as if they enjoyed the sweet calm of early morning, and were unwilling to disturb the innumerable flocks of wild-fowl that chuckled among the reeds and sedges everywhere. Harold sat in the stern, leaning back, and only dipping the steering-oar lazily now and then to keep the canoe from running on the bank, or plunging into a forest of gigantic rushes. Disco, having resolved to solace himself with a whiff of his darling pipe, had resigned “the helm” to Jumbo, and laid himself in a position of comfort which admitted of his resting his head on the gunwale in such a manner that, out of the corners of his eyes, he could gaze down into the water.
The part of the river they had reached was so perfectly still that every cloud in the sky, every mangrove, root and spray, and every bending bulrush, was perfectly reproduced in the reflected world below. Plaintive cries of wild-fowl formed appropriate melody, to which chattering groups of monkeys and croaking bull-frogs contributed a fine tenor and bass.
“Hallo, Disco!” exclaimed Harold in a subdued key, looking over his shoulder.
“Ay, ay, sir?” sighed the seaman, without moving his position.
“Range up alongside; I want to speak to you.”
“Ay, ay, sir.—Jumbo, you black-faced villain, d’ee hear that? give way and go ’longside.”
Good-humoured Jumbo spoke very little English, but had come to understand a good deal during his travels with Dr Livingstone. He wrinkled his visage and showed his brilliant teeth on receiving the order. Muttering a word to the men, and giving a vigorous stroke, he shot up alongside of the leader’s canoe.
“You seem comfortable,” said Harold, with a laugh, as Disco’s vast visage appeared at his elbow.
“I is.”
“Isn’t this jolly?” continued Harold.
“No, sir, ’taint.”
“Why, what d’you mean?”
“I means that jolly ain’t the word, by a long way, for to express the natur’ o’ my feelin’s. There ain’t no word as I knows on as ’ud come up to it. If I wor a fylosipher, now, I’d coin a word for the occasion. P’raps,” continued Disco, drawing an unusually long whiff from his pipe, “p’raps, not bein’ a fylosipher, I might nevertheless try to coin one. Wot’s the Latin, now, for heaven?”
“Caelum,” replied Harold.
“Sailum, eh? An’ wot’s the ’arth?”
“Terra.”
“Terra? well now, wot rediklous names to give to ’em,” said Disco, shaking his head gravely, “I can’t see why the ancients couldn’t ha’ bin satisfied with the names that we’d given ’em. Hows’ever, that’s neither here nor there. My notion o’ the state o’ things that we’ve got into here, as they now stand, is, that they are sailumterracious, which means heaven-upon-earth, d’ee see?”
As Disco pronounced the word with a powerful emphasis on the u-m part of it the sound was rather effective, and seemed to please him.
“Right; you’re right, or nearly so,” replied Harold; “but don’t you think the word savours too much of perfection, seeing that breakfast would add to the pleasure of the present delightful state of things, and make them even more sailumterracious than they are?”
“No, sir, no; the word ain’t too parfect,” replied Disco, with a look of critical severity; “part of it is ’arth, and ’arth is imparfect, bein’ susceptible of a many improvements, among which undoubtedly is breakfast, likewise dinner an’ supper, to say nothin’ of lunch an’ tea, which is suitable only for babbies an’ wimen; so I agrees with you, sir, that the state o’ things will be sailumterraciouser if we goes ashore an’ has breakfast.”
He tapped the head of his very black little pipe on the edge of the canoe, and heaved a sigh of contentment as he watched the ash-ball that floated away on the stream; then, rousing himself, he seized the steering-oar and followed Harold into a small creek, which was pleasantly overshadowed by the rich tropical foliage of that region.
While breakfast was being prepared by Antonio, whose talents as chef-de-cuisine were of the highest order, Harold took his rifle and rambled into the bush in search of game—any kind of game, for at that time he had had no experience whatever of the sport afforded by the woods of tropical Africa, and, having gathered only a few vague ideas from books, he went forth with all the pleasurable excitement and expectation that we may suppose peculiar to discoverers.
Disco Lillihammer having only consumed his first pipe of tobacco, and holding it to be a duty which he owed to himself to consume two before breakfast, remained at the camp-fire to smoke and chaff Antonio, whose good-nature was only equalled by his activity.
“Wot have ’ee got there?” inquired Disco, as Antonio poured a quantity of seed into a large pot.
“Dis? vy, hims be mapira,” replied the interpreter, with a benignant smile. “Hims de cheef food ob dis konterie.”
It must be remarked here that Antonio’s English, having been acquired from all sorts of persons, in nearly every tropical part of the globe, was somewhat of a jumble, being a compound of the broken English spoken by individuals among the Germans, French, Portuguese, Arabs, and Negroes, with whom he had at various times associated, modified by his own ignorance, and seasoned with a dash of his own inventive fancy.
“Is it good?” asked Disco.
“Goot!” exclaimed Antonio. Being unable to find words to express himself, the enthusiastic cook placed his hand on the region which was destined ere long to become a receptacle for the mapira, and rolled his eyes upwards in rapture. “Hah! oo sall see behind long.”
“Before long, you mean,” observed the seaman.
“Dat all same ting, s’long’s you onerstand him,” replied Antonio complacently.—“Bring vatter now, Jumbo. Put him in careful. Not spill on de fire—zo—goot.”
Jumbo filled up the kettle carefully, and a broad grin overspread his black visage, partly because he was easily tickled into a condition of risibility by the cool off-hand remarks of Disco Lillihammer, and partly because, having acquired his own small smattering of English from Dr Livingstone, he was intelligent enough to perceive that in regard to Antonio’s language there was something peculiar.
“Now, go fitch noder kittle—queek.”
“Yis, sar—zo—goot,” replied Jumbo, mimicking the interpreter, and going off with a vociferous laugh at his little joke, in which he was joined by his sable clansmen, Masiko and Zombo.
“Hims got ’nuff of impoodidence,” said the interpreter, as he bustled about his avocations.
“He’s not the only one that’s got more than enough impoodidence,” said Disco, pushing a fine straw down the stem of his “cutty,” to make it draw better. “I say, Tony,” (our regardless seaman had already thus mutilated his name), “you seem to have plenty live stock in them parts.”
“Plenty vat?” inquired the interpreter, with a perplexed expression.
“Why, plenty birds and beasts,—live stock we calls it, meanin’ thereby livin’ creeturs.” He pointed towards an opening in the mangroves, through which were visible the neighbouring mud and sand flats, swarming with wild-fowl, and conspicuous among which were large flocks of pelicans, who seemed to be gorging themselves comfortably from an apparently inexhaustible supply of fish in the pools left by the receding tide.
“Ho, yis, me perceive; yis, plenty bird and beast—fishes too, and crawbs—look dare.”
He pointed to a part of the sands nearest to their encampment which appeared to be alive with some small creatures.
“That’s coorious,” said Disco, removing his pipe, and regarding the phenomenon with some interest.
“No, ’taint koorous, it’s crawbs,” replied Antonio.
“Crabs, is it?” said Disco, rising and sauntering down to the sands; for he possessed an inquiring mind, with a special tendency to investigate the habits (pranks, as he called them) of the lower animals, which, in other circumstances, might have made him a naturalist.
Muttering to himself—he was fond of muttering to himself, it felt companionable,—“coorious, very coorious, quite ’stroanary,” he crept stealthily to the edge of the mangroves, and there discovered that the sands were literally alive with myriads of minute crabs, which were actively engaged—it was supposed by those who ought to know best—in gathering their food. The moment the tide ebbed from any part of the sands, out came these crablets in swarms, and set to work, busy as bees, ploughing up the sand, and sifting it, apparently for food, until the whole flat was rendered rough by their incessant labours. Approaching cautiously, Disco observed that each crab, as he went along sidewise, gathered a round bit of moist sand at his mouth, which was quickly brushed away by one of his claws, and replaced by another, and another, as fast as they could be brushed aside.
“Eatin’ sand they are!” muttered Disco in surprise; but presently the improbability of sand being very nutritious food, even for crabs, forced itself on him, and he muttered his conviction that they “was scrapin’ for wittles.”
Having watched the crabs a considerable time, and observed that they frequently interrupted their labours to dart suddenly into their holes and out again—for the purpose, he conjectured, of “havin’ a drop o’ summat to wet their whistles,”—Disco thrust the cutty into his vest pocket, and walked a little further out on the flat in the hope of discovering some new objects of interest. Nor was he disappointed. Besides finding that the pools left by the tide swarmed with varieties of little fish—many of them being “coorious,”—he was fortunate enough to witness a most surprising combat.
It happened thus:– Perceiving, a little to his right, some small creature hopping about on the sand near to a little pool, he turned aside to observe it more closely. On his drawing near, the creature jumped into the pool. Disco advanced to the edge, gazed intently into the water, and saw nothing except his own reflected image at the bottom. Presently the creature reappeared. It was a small fish—a familiar fish, too—which he had known in the pools of his native land by the name of blenny. As the blenny appeared to wish to approach the edge of the pool, Disco retired, and, placing a hand on each knee, stooped, in order to make himself as small as possible. He failed, the diminution in his height being fully counterbalanced by the latitudinal extension of his elbows!
Presently the blenny put its head out of the water, and looked about. We speak advisedly. The blenny is altogether a singular, an exceptional fish. It can, and does, look sidewise, upwards and downwards, with its protruding eyes, as knowingly, and with as much vivacity, as if it were a human being. This power in a fish has something of the same awesome effect on an observer that might possibly result were a horse to raise its head and smile at him.
Seeing that the coast was clear, for Disco stood as motionless as a mangrove tree, blenny hopped upon the dry land. The African blenny is a sort of amphibious animal, living nearly as much out of the water as in it. Indeed its busiest time, we are told, (See Dr Livingstone’s Zambesi and its Tributaries, page 843.) is at low water, when, by means of its pectoral fins it crawls out on the sand and raises itself into something of a standing attitude, with its bright eyes keeping a sharp look-out for the light-coloured flies on which it feeds.
For several seconds Disco gazed at the fish, and the fish gazed around, even turning its head a little, as well as its eyes, on this side and on that. Presently a small fly, with that giddy heedlessness which characterises the race, alighted about two inches in front of blenny’s nose. Instantly the fish leaped that vast space, alighted with its underset mouth just over the fly, which immediately rose into it and was entombed.