A SNAP-SHOT FIEND IN TROUBLE
The morning after the events recorded in the last chapter was one of
these sparkling ones that are occasionally to be met with on the
West African coast and was the forerunner of a day of great bustle
and activity for the boys. With the vitality of healthy youth Harry
had completely recovered and was indeed surprised to find himself
feeling so good after what he had been through. Privately he
inspected his hair in the mirror to see if it had turned white and
was secretly much astonished to find it the same color as before.
"I wish mine would turn white or potato color or something," said
Lathrop, to whom Harry confided his expectation, "this red thatch of
mine is a nuisance. At school I was always Brick-top or Red-Head
and out here the natives all look at my carrot-colored top-knot as
if they'd like to scalp me and keep it for a fetish."
Both boys laughed heartily over Lathrop's half-assumed vexation. As
a matter of fact he had been the butt of many jokes in school on
account of his blazing red hair and in Africa the natives with their
love for any gaudy color had already christened him Rwome Mogo or
Red-Top. Of this, however, he was fortunately ignorant, as he might
have been tempted to go out and dispatch half a dozen of them if he
knew of their term for him.
Down at the river bank, cross the evil-smelling lagoon at the back
of the town, Frank and Harry had their hands full directing
shouting, laughing Kroomen how to load up the canoes. From the
canopied steam launch that lay alongside the rickety wharf the black
engineer--an American Negro--watched with great contempt their
labors, which they enlivened with songs from time to time.
"Them's de mos' good fur nuffingest niggahs I ever did see,"
remarked Mr. Rastus Johnson--that was his name--with undisguised
contempt.
Nevertheless by noon the canoes had all been leaded and the
farewells to the kind M. Desplaines and his family said. After a
swift final inspection Frank pronounced everything ship-shape and
even Doctor Wiseman who had been fussing about as Billy said "like a
hen with one chicken--and that a lame duck," over his tin cases and
poisonous looking bottles, announced that he was ready to start.
The twelve chattering Kroomen who were to go as far as the Bambara
country with the expedition were seated two in each canoe. They
were along simply as camp attendants and packers and would by no
means go any further than the borders of the Bambara country which
they said was the dwelling-place of "bery bad man sah."
Just as the little launch, flying the stars and stripes out of
compliment to the boys, was drawing out into the stream with a long
blast of her whistle, a tall, black form came racing along the bank
and with one bound cleared the five feet or so between the launch
and the shore. It was Sikaso.
"So you came after all," said Frank, turning to him, after a bend in
the river had hidden the waving Mr. Desplaines from sight and they
were settling down in the launch.
"Sikaso see in the smoke I come--I come. If I see in smoke I no
come--I no come," remarked the Krooman.
"He's traveling light anyhow," remarked Billy.
Indeed the giant negro's only bit of baggage was a huge axe, the
handle of which was dented and scarred as if by many combats. Billy
was about to run his thumb along its edge when with a gesture the
mighty negro waved him aside. Instead he took Billy's handkerchief
from the young reporter's pocket and drew it gently along the axe
blade.
It fell in two pieces on each side of his blade, severed by its
razor-like edge.
"Sikaso is a good fellow to be friends with when he can make little
ones out of big ones like that," remarked Billy, picking up the two
fragments of his handkerchief, "that's a fine way to cut up a
gentleman's wardrobe."
Bit by bit as the launch drove steadily up the muddy river--from
whose jungle-grown banks arose a warm, moist vapor--Frank drew from
the grim-faced old Krooman some of his history. He had been a
mighty warrior in the old days, he said, and the weapon he carried
was his war axe with which he had killed uncounted enemies. A rival
tribe, however, had killed his father and mother and driven him to
the coast with the few survivors of his village. Here he had
shipped on an American trading brig for New York where he had picked
up the knowledge of English he possessed. He also worshiped America
as "free man's country." But Africa had called to him and some
three years before he had returned on another ship and meant to die
there, he said.
"Why did you wish to go with us?" asked Frank as the native
concluded his story.
"It was written so in the smoke, white boss," replied the veteran
simply. "The ju-ju in the smoke strong ju-ju. He knows many
things."
"Is that the only reason you have for coming?"
"No, boss, I tell you truth," replied the old warrior, "some day I
find the chief who kill my father and my mother and kill my
friends." He glanced significantly at his axe.
"In the Moon Mountains maybe I find him--maybe not. But some day I
shall and then--"
He said no more, but as Frank remarked to Harry when the former
recounted his conversation to his brother later:
"I shouldn't much like to be that man when Sikaso meets him."
The launch and the small flotilla she towed forged steadily up the
stream all that day and at nightfall drew alongside the bank at a
spot where a clearing planted with bananas clearly indicated the
presence thereabouts of a native village. As soon as the launch was
moored to the bank the adventurers scrambled out--not sorry of a
chance to stretch their legs--and looked about them wonderingly.
They were really in equatorial Africa at last, and even as they
looked there was a sound borne to their ears that brought home to
them strongly how very far away they were from old New York. It was
a pulsing, rhythmic beating something like a drum and yet unlike it.
They looked questioningly at Sikaso.
"Tom-tom," said he briefly.
"Is it a friendly village, Sikaso?" inquired Doctor Wiseman.
"Friendly to some--not to all," replied the Krooman, who for some
unaccountable reason had taken a strange dislike to the professor.
"Come," he said, intoning to Frank and Harry, "we go see get
chicken, maybe pork."
"Say, can't we come along, Frank?" asked Billy and Lathrop their
faces falling.
Frank consulted Sikaso who merely said:
"Little fat white boy, with round, glass four-eyes talk too much."
"Well," laughed Frank, "I think I can promise for him that he won't
do any talking that will cause any harm this evening."
"Talk too much, indeed," grumbled Billy highly offended, "why at
home my folks were thinking of having a doctor treat me for
bashfulness I'm so retiring in my disposition."
As soon as the laugh that this remark of the disgruntled reporter
had caused had subsided--even old Sikaso giving a grim smile as he
took in the purport of it--the little party set out down a native
trail toward the village.
As the tom-tom beating increased in loudness as the village drew
near, the boys' hearts began to beat a little faster. At last they
were about to see a real African village--such as they had read
about in Stanley's and Livingstone's books--and other less authentic
volumes. They almost stumbled on the place as they suddenly emerged
into a clearing. It was a strange sight that met their eyes.
Arranged in a circle were fifty huts that resembled nothing so much
as a collection of old-fashioned straw covered beehives, enlarged to
shelter human bees. All about them women and children were
bustling; setting about getting the evening meal. Before one hut
sat a woman, pounding something in a stone pestle--"like the
drugstore men use at home,"--whispered Lathrop to Billy.
The arrival of the little band created a stir. The hideous old man,
with a sort of straw-bonnet, who had been beating on the antelope
skin drum called by Sikaso a "tom-tom" saw them and instantly picked
up his instrument and waddled off with as much dignity as his age
and a much distended stomach would allow him. The younger men,
however, advanced boldly toward the party. Some of them carried,
spears, others held Birmingham matchlocks of the kind the British
and French Governments have in vain tried to keep out of the hands
of the West African natives. These guns are smuggled in by
hundreds, by Arab traders who exchange the "gas-pipe" weapons worth
perhaps two dollars a-piece for priceless ivory, and even human
flesh for the slave dhows.
"Seesanah (peace)," said Sikaso gravely, advancing in his turn.
"Seesanah," echoed the tribesmen, who evidently recognized Sikaso
from their greetings. The boys stood grouped in the background--Billy
Barnes and Lathrop even viewing with some alarm the advance of
the savage-looking natives.
"Well, he seems to have fallen in with several members of his club,"
remarked the irrepressible Billy as old Sikaso and the natives
talked away at a great rate.
"I'm going to get a picture of some of these niggers when they get
through," he continued aside to Lathrop.
"What; you brought a camera?" asked the other boy.
"Sure thing," replied Billy, "and if their ugly mugs don't break the
lens, I mean to get some good snaps."
He drew a small flat folding camera from his pocket as he spoke and
got it ready for action.
"Do you think Frank would stand for it? It might make trouble you
know," said Lathrop.
"Pshaw," retorted the cocksure Billy, "what trouble can it make? I
wish I knew bow to say 'Look pleasant, please,' in Hottentot, or
whatever language these fellows talk."
By this time old Sikaso's 'pow-wow' was over and he motioned Frank
and Harry forward. After they had been introduced to the chiefs and
headmen of the village, the "big chief," a villainous-looking old
party with only one eye and his legs thrust into a red shirt--into
the armholes that is, with the rest of the garment rolled round his
waist--announced he was ready to give fresh provisions for calico,
red and blue, and several sections of the brass rod that passes for
currency on the West Coast. While Frank, Harry and Sikaso were
bargaining behind a hut, over the price to be charged for a
razor-backed porker of suspicious appearance the village suddenly
became filled with an uproar of angry shouts and tumult.
"What can be the matter?" exclaimed Frank, as the boys, followed by
the old chief and Sikaso, rushed from behind the hut to ascertain
the cause of the disturbance.
Standing in the center of a crowd of excited villagers was Billy
Barnes, his helmet knocked off and an arrow sticking through it. He
looked scared to death as well he might, for by his side was a
stalwart young African, brandishing a heavy-bladed spear above his
head. At the young reporter's feet lay the ill-fated camera that
had caused all the trouble.
What had happened was this. As soon as Frank and Harry and their
companions had left him and Lathrop alone, Billy had started to
carry out his determination to take some pictures. The first
subject he selected was a serious-faced little baby, innocent of any
clothing, that sat playing with a ragged dog at, the entrance of one
of the beehive huts. He had just clicked the button and exclaimed:
"This will be a jim-dandy," when he felt something whistle through
the air and the next minute his hat lay at his feet with an arrow in
it. In an instant the child's father--convinced that Billy was
putting Ju-ju medicine on the child--was upon him, armed with his
big hunting spear and followed by half the village. Even
Billy--scared as he was--did not realize how very near to death he
actually came to being. Sikaso's shouted words in a native dialect
caused the tribesmen to fall back but they still muttered angrily.
Stepping swiftly up to the camera Sikaso with a single blow of his
axe smashed it to pieces.
"Here, that's no way to treat my camera!" Billy was indignantly
beginning, when Frank gripped his shoulder in an iron-clutch and
whispered:
"Shut up; if you don't want to make more trouble."
Billy was starting on an angry remonstrance when he caught Frank's
eye. The young leader was really angry and Billy prudently
refrained from saying any more.
As for Sikaso--after demolishing Billy's machine, he turned to the
tribesmen and addressing them in stately tones said--as he afterward
translated it to Frank:
"Village fools. You see there is no magic in the little black box.
It is nothing but a child's plaything for the fat, spectacled
idiot." (This part of the oration Frank did not communicate to
Billy.) "You see I have smashed it. Do I fear? Do I look now like
a man in terror of the white man's medicine. It is nothing. It is
broken and gone like the cloud before the wind, like the shadow on
the mountain side."
The effect of all this was soothing and the boys left the camp, to
order some of their packmen to bring home the provisions, with light
hearts. As for Billy his ears burned by the time Frank got through
reading him a lecture.
"I'm sorry," he said bravely, "and I won't do it again. Gee! talk
about 'press the button and we'll do the rest.'"
"They nearly did it--didn't they," laughed Frank, his good humor
quite restored.