I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
A couple of days more saw me back at Quittáh with all my plans
practically complete, for in the interval I had seen Annan and had
settled to meet him at Cape Coast in a month, by which time (the end
of September) the rainy season would be fairly over. I had also laid
down a general plan of action, but this was of so audacious and
extraordinary a character that I did not dare to finally adopt it
until I had discussed it with my level-headed friend Pereira.
My reception by that gentleman, on my return, was somewhat of a
surprise to me. We had been very friendly together during my stay at
his house, and had got on with one another as comfortably as two
people well could, but this was all, as far as I knew; so when the old
gentleman met me at the compound gate and, seizing both my hands,
almost wept over me, I was not a little affected, and for the first
time realised how lonely was the life that he led. For Pereira, though
only a trader, was in all essentials a gentleman, not only by training
and education, but in manners and feeling, and was, moreover, a man of
very superior intelligence; and it was easy to understand that he
found the society of Quittáh--a handful of German traders and
missionaries and a couple of English officials at the fort--neither
sufficient nor congenial.
Still, I was a little surprised at the affectionate effusiveness of
his manner, and at a certain exhilaration and excitement that he
displayed as he fidgetted round while I superintended the unloading of
my little caravan.
“Englefield,” said he suddenly, as I was rummaging amongst the raffle
in my hammock, “I’ve got something to show you upstairs.”
“Curio?” I asked, still groping.
“No, not a curio,” he laughed, “certainly not a curio. Something very
pretty; it came out from England by the last steamer.”
“Indeed? What is it?” I inquired.
“Come up with me and you shall see,” said the old man, rubbing his
hands and smiling mysteriously.
“I am coming in a moment,” I said, “but I can’t find my flask. Here
you, headman, you look dem small rum bottle?”
“Dis ting he live for hammock,” replied the headman, coming forward
with the flask in one hand and wiping his mouth with the back of the
other. “His lid no good; no fit proper; all de rum fall out.”
I snatched the empty flask, and shaking my fist at the grinning
barbarian, turned to follow Pereira who had already vanished up the
stairs. As I reached the top I saw my host standing, holding the door
open, his face wreathed in smiles; and I strode forward with no little
curiosity as to the treasure that he had to show me. But at the
threshold I fell back in utter amazement, for there advanced to meet
me the very handsomest and most stately lady that I had ever seen.
“This is my daughter Isabel,” said the beaming Pereira. “Isabel, this
is Mr. Englefield.”
I am afraid that Miss Pereira’s first impression of me could hardly
have been a favourable one, for between my astonishment and admiration
I could do nothing but stand in the doorway gaping and mumbling like a
fool, until I was recalled to consciousness by becoming aware that she
had shaken my hand and was speaking to me.
“It seems quite like meeting an old friend,” she was saying. “For
although I have only been here a week or so, my father has talked so
much about you that I seem to have known you for years. I assure you
that your manners and customs are as an open book to me.”
“I am glad to know that,” I replied, “for your worthy father has been
pleased to present me at a great disadvantage. On the stage an
astonished man may be picturesque and even dignified; in real life he
is apt to rather resemble an imbecile.”
“There, now,” said Miss Pereira, smiling mischievously, “see, my
father, to what frightful danger you have exposed Mr. Englefield
through your babyish desire to spring a surprise on him. He might have
looked like an imbecile. But it wouldn’t have mattered,” she added
thoughtfully. “I should have known it was an optical illusion.”
“I am everlastingly obliged to your father,” said I, “for having
explained my merits so clearly beforehand. Perhaps with the artful aid
of a little soap and water I may endeavour to live up to my
reputation.”
“Yes, a hammock journey does certainly create a necessity for
grooming, as I discovered a day or two ago, when I travelled to
Amutinu and back. My hair has hardly recovered yet. When I got out of
the hammock, it was like a mass of cocoa-nut fibre, and you will
hardly believe me, I am sure, when I tell you on my pointing this out
to my father, he actually forgot himself so far as to make an unseemly
and most obvious joke on the subject. You will find your room as you
left it, only, perhaps, a little more tidy. _Au revoir_,” and she
curtseyed majestically as I departed, followed by Pereira.
“Well, what do you think of my girl, Englefield?” the old man asked,
as he made a pretence of helping me to unpack my portmanteau.
“I think she is an extraordinarily handsome girl,” I replied, “and
much too good for Quittáh. She is not going to stay here, I suppose?”
“It’s not my doing,” said Pereira quickly. “I wished her to stay in
England, but she had always said she was coming to me and she came.
She is a young lady with a will of her own, but she is a really good
girl and a most loving and dutiful daughter. You see, she was born out
here--I was living at Elmina then--and she stayed with me, after my
poor wife died, until she was quite a big girl, getting what education
she could from the nuns at Elmina. Then I sent her to a school in
England, where she has been ever since, at first as a pupil and then
as a governess; but she has always said that she would come and keep
house for me when she was grown up and--here she is and here she says
she means to stay, so what can I do? After all, I am the only relative
she has in the world. But I mustn’t stay here chattering to you or we
shall both get into trouble.”
Left to myself I will not deny that I bestowed an unusual amount of
attention upon my toilet, and tested the resources of my very limited
outfit to the utmost, even to the extent of putting on a white collar
and necktie; and after three separate and fruitless attempts to
produce a parting in hair which averaged one-eighth of an inch in
length, I made my way back to the sitting-room, where the table was
already laid for supper.
My projected discussion with Pereira concerning my journey into the
interior was for the time forgotten as I sat at the table facing his
daughter, for the beauty of this girl was so remarkable as to entirely
absorb my attention. I have said that she was the handsomest woman I
had ever seen. My experience of women, beautiful or otherwise, had
indeed not been great, but there is a certain degree of beauty which
is independent of comparison and which secures instant recognition by
all but the most æsthetically obtuse.
Of this kind was the beauty of Isabel Pereira. Totally free from the
paltry prettiness of the fashion-plate model, entirely without those
conventional graces so esteemed by the modiste, she was quite in the
“grand style”--a rather large woman, and in spite of the supple grace
of youth, showing evidence of muscular strength and physique. In
keeping with her splendid proportions was her small and shapely head
and her symmetrical face with its firm straight eyebrows, clear cut
nose, short full mouth, and bold well-rounded chin. As I scanned her
features--which I am afraid I did with rather more enthusiasm than
good manners, and somewhat to our mutual embarrassment when I was
detected--I could not perceive one detail that would not, in a more
common-place setting, have been an object of admiration. In the matter
of mere line and form she recalled those masterpieces that, in the
Golden Age of art, came forth from the workshops of the sculptors of
Hellas to delight and amaze mankind for all time. But in the living
face there was that which even the genius of Pheidias could not give;
the sparkle of the eye, the silken softness of hair that rippled back
from the rounded forehead, and above all, the gorgeous colouring of
the south, the warm glow like the blush of a ripe pomegranate.
“My impression is,” said Miss Pereira, as she caught my eye for the
fiftieth time, “that Mr. Englefield contemplates offering me for sale
by private treaty to some well-to-do chiefs of his acquaintance. He
has been engaged during the whole of dinner in constructing an
attractive prospectus, and is now about to consider the question of
title deeds.”
“I am afraid I _have_ been staring a good deal,” I replied,
considerably out of countenance, “but you must forgive me if you can.
You don’t realise what a rare and curious creature you are. Do you
know that I have only seen one white woman since I left England, and
she was an elderly German missioner?”
“And pray, Miss,” interposed Pereira, “how did you know that Mr.
Englefield was staring at you?”
“My dear father, I saw him with my own eyes,” exclaimed Miss Pereira,
at which we all laughed, and I felt that the reproof was cancelled.
“Well, well,” said the old man, “you need not stare one another out of
countenance now, for I expect you will each see enough of the other
for the next month or so. But perhaps you are going back with Bithery,
Englefield? I hear he has sold out and is just filling up for the
homeward voyage.”
“He will be sailing for England in about a fortnight, but I am not
going with him this voyage.”
“Indeed! and what are you going to do? Is the store to be
replenished?”
“I shall have done with the store in a few days I expect, and then I
shall be paid off.”
“And after that?”
“After that I have a scheme which I want to talk over with you when
you have a little time to spare.”
“I am not excessively busy at the present moment,” said Pereira; “so,
as we seem to have finished eating, you might commence your
discourse.”
“Won’t you go and sit in the verandah to talk over your business?”
interposed Miss Pereira. “I will bring your wine and see you
comfortably settled before I go.”
“I was hoping,” said I, “to number you among my audience, Miss
Pereira. If you will stay, I can promise you some amusement, for my
scheme is of the most wildly original kind.”
“Oh, if the matter is not confidential, I should like to stay,
especially if you are going to be amusing. Besides, I am really
bursting with curiosity.”
“Then I will go and get my documents,” I replied, and with this I
retired to fetch from my portmanteau the journal of Captain Barnabas
Hogg.
When I returned, a paper lantern was swinging from the roof of the
verandah, and a small hurricane lamp, for me to read by, stood on the
table. Three Madeira chairs had been brought out from the room, and as
my host and his daughter had already taken their seats with an air of
expectation, I took possession of the empty chair and unfolded my
project.
“You may remember,” said I, addressing my host, “a conversation we had
one evening soon after I came here, on the subject of the wealth of
the native kings, in which you told me of certain traditions relating
to a great fetish hoard near the source of the River Tano.”
“I remember,” replied Pereira.
“You may remember also how on a certain Sunday at Anyáko we met an
old woman leading her blind son.”
“I recollect it perfectly.”
“Well, my story and my project are both connected with that tradition
and that meeting.”
Pereira made no comment on this statement beyond a barely perceptible
lift of his eyebrows.
I then went on to give a detailed account of my discovery of the
ancient desk at Adena, and the finding of the old ship-master’s
journal; and as I proceeded I could see that the curiosity of my
auditors became more and more acute, and their attention more close;
and when, at the close of my narration, I produced the aged volume and
placed it in Pereira’s hands, the old man turned over its musty leaves
with the keenest interest and enjoyment.
“It’s a most curious and interesting find,” said he, at last, handing
the volume to his daughter, “but I don’t quite see its connection with
our blind friend nor with your plans for the future.”
“Of course you do not,” I replied, “but when Miss Pereira has examined
the book sufficiently I will read you the riddle.”
Miss Pereira at once handed the journal back to me, and opening it at
the now familiar page, I read to them Captain Hogg’s account of the
Portuguese mulatto and his strange adventures.
“What a marvellous and terrible story!” exclaimed Miss Pereira, as I
finished and passed the open book to my host. “It reads like some
weird legend of adventure in the under-world. It isn’t possible that
it can be true.”
“Of its truth I feel no doubt whatever,” replied Pereira, who was
poring, with the deepest fascination, over the crabbed writing; “nor
do I feel any doubt that this gruesome cavern still exists and is
still tenanted by its terrific band of workers. But still, I do not
see what this has to do with your plans for the future, Englefield.”
“My dear Pereira,” I rejoined. “You have answered that question
yourself. You say you are sure that the cavern still exists with all
its infernal machinery in full swing. So am I. And do you suppose that
I can ever rest until I have seen its marvels with my own eyes, or, at
least, ascertained the existence of the golden pool that feeds the
crucibles on its furnaces?”
“If ever you do see it with your own eyes, it will be the last thing
that you _will_ see,” said Pereira.
His daughter shuddered.
“Come, Mr. Englefield,” she said, “you have not told us everything
yet. You have something more to say, I am sure, haven’t you? Some
scheme that you have worked out in connection with this story. Isn’t
it so?”
“Yes, I have a scheme,” I replied rather shyly, “but it is such a wild
and apparently impracticable one that I am ashamed to mention it to
you.”
“Oh, don’t be afraid,” said she, smiling. “We are prepared for
anything now; I defy you to astonish us.”
“Then I will tell you my plan, and you can scoff if you please. It
arose from my meeting at Adena with a Fulah merchant from, I think,
Sókoto. When I first saw this man I was at once struck by his
extraordinarily European appearance. He was scarcely as dark as I am,
his features were quite of the European type--perhaps a trifle
Jewish--and, in fact, I could not help seeing that if he and I had
exchanged clothing, neither of us would have appeared at all
inappropriately apparelled. Reflecting upon this, it occurred to me
that it might, perhaps, not be impossible for me to assume the dress
and style of a Fulah, and so make my journey to Aboási without
exciting remark or attracting much attention. It sounds a pretty mad
scheme, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does seem a little--well, a little romantic, I think,”
said Miss Pereira; “but then I have never seen a Fulah, and to me an
African is a black man, so I am unable to imagine you effectively
disguised as a native.”
“Yet it is not so mad as it sounds,” put in Pereira meditatively,
stroking his beard. “Englefield is perfectly correct so far in what he
says. Dress him up in a _riga_ and _wondo_, shave his head, wrap his
face in a _litham_, stain his finger nails red, and put a streak of
antimony under his eyes, and he might walk through any native market
without even the Fulahs themselves suspecting him. But, my dear boy,”
he continued, turning to me, “there are other difficulties, as you
must have seen. There is the language, for instance. You are not going
to pose as a deaf mute, I suppose?”
“I know a little Hausa,” I said modestly.
“A little!” he exclaimed. “You must know a great deal if you would not
be detected at once. But let us see what you _do_ know.” He bustled
away, and presently returned with a copy of Schön’s “Maganan Hausa”
in his hand. Opening the book at the “Story of the Prophet Jesus and
the Skull,” he directed me to read a passage aloud and translate it.
This I did with an ease that surprised myself and filled Pereira with
astonishment.
“Why, my dear fellow,” said he, “you have quite an excellent working
knowledge of the language, and, it seems to me, a very good accent
too, although quite different from that which is spoken by the Hausas
down here. With a little practice your Hausa might do. But there are
yet other things--the habits of the Fulahs and Hausas, which would be
quite strange to you, and your ignorance of which would betray you.
Then there is Arabic; every high-class Fulah knows a little Arabic and
can spell out a verse or so of the Koran. Do you know any Arabic?”
“Not a word.”
“Well, I do. I lived for a year at Tripoli, and picked up a fair
knowledge of it, and, as you seem to be naturally a good linguist, I
daresay I can put you in the way of as much as you are likely to want.
But the habits and customs seem to me the real stumbling-block. You
know nothing of the ways of these people, and so would be detected as
a stranger before you had been in their company five minutes.”
I was silent for awhile.
Pereira had put his finger upon what I had seen from the first was the
really weak spot in my plan, and I was left without a reply. But I had
no intention of giving up my scheme.
“I admit the force of your objection,” I said presently, “but I must
try to get over the difficulty by learning as much of the domestic
habits of the Fulahs as I can before starting, and trust to acquiring
the real hallmark in the course of my travels.”
“Trust in Providence, in fact. Well, you are young and hopeful. But
have you settled any details as to making the start on this wonderful
Sindbad voyage?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I have arranged with a certain David Annan that I
shall accompany him on a monkey-skin expedition into North Ashánti.”
“You know that Annan is a consummate rascal, I suppose?”
“I guessed it. I imagine that he will probably try to rob me and make
off as soon as we are fairly in the bush, which is just what I want
him to do. I shall thus disappear in a graceful and natural manner,
and shall not be baulked by well-meant endeavours to discover my
whereabouts.”
Pereira laughed. “You are an ingenious lunatic, Englefield, and
deserve to succeed, but you’ve not the least chance of doing so. You
had much better give up this hare-brained scheme, at least for the
present, and either go home with Bithery or stay here with me and make
your little pile in a sane manner.”
“I tell you, Pereira,” said I, irritably, “that my mind is made up. I
have arranged to go with Annan, and I am going.”
Pereira shrugged his shoulders. “It is something for a man to know his
own mind,” said he drily, “even if that mind is none of the soundest.”
But he made no further objections, and we spent the remainder of the
evening discussing the mysterious cavern and considering the details
of the great wild goose chase. It was nearly midnight when we rose to
retire, and, as Pereira shook hands with me and wished me
“good-night,” he said with sudden warmth, “You are a romantic young
idiot, Englefield, there is no doubt, but, all the same, if I were
twenty years younger, you should not go on your quest alone.”
“And I,” said his daughter, “if I were only a man, would be proud to
go with him and share his perils and adventures.”
“And so there would be three of us,” said Pereira, “a most glorious
and undivided trinity of fools.” He laughed again, and waving his hand
to me went off to bed.