ENEMIES ARE CHANGED INTO FRIENDS--OUR TRAVELLERS PENETRATE INTO THE
INTERIOR OF THE LAND.
To possess the power of looking perfectly calm and unconcerned when you
are in reality considerably agitated and rather anxious, is extremely
useful in any circumstances, but especially so when one happens to be in
the midst of grinning, gesticulating, naked savages.
Our hero, Harold Seadrift possessed that power in an eminent degree, and
his first-mate, Disco Lillihammer, was not a whit behind him. Although
both had started abruptly to their legs at the first alarm, and drawn
their respective revolvers, they no sooner found themselves surrounded
by overwhelming numbers than they lowered their weapons, and, turning
back to back, faced the intruders with calm countenances.
"Sit down, men, every one of you except Antonio," said Harold, in a
quiet, but clear and decided voice.
His men, who, having left their guns in the canoe, were utterly
helpless, quietly obeyed.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" demanded Antonio, by Harold's
order.
To this a tall negro, who was obviously the leader of the band, replied
in the native tongue,--"It matters little who we are; you are in our
power."
"Not quite," said Harold, slightly moving his revolver. "Tell him that
he _may_ overcome us, but before he does so my friend and I carry the
lives of twelve of his men in our pistols."
The negro chief, who quite understood the powers of a revolver,
replied--"Tell your master, that before he could fire two shots, he and
his friend would have each twelve bullets in his body. But I have not
time to palaver here. Who are you, and where are you going?"
"We are Englishmen, travelling to see the country," replied Harold.
The chief looked doubtfully at him, and seemed to waver, then suddenly
making up his mind, he frowned and said sternly--"No; that is a lie.
You are Portuguese scoundrels. You shall all die. You have robbed us
of our liberty, our wives, our children, our homes; you have chained,
and tortured, and flogged us!"--he gnashed his teeth at this point, and
his followers grew excited. "Now we have got free, and you are caught.
We will let you know what it is to be slaves."
As the negro chief stirred up his wrath by thus recounting his wrongs,
and advanced a step, Harold begged Disco, in a low, urgent voice, not to
raise his pistol. Then looking the savage full in the face, without
showing a trace of anxiety, he said--"You are wrong. We are indeed
Englishmen, and you know that the English detest slavery, and would, if
they could, put a stop to it altogether."
"Yes, I know that," said the chief. "We have seen one Englishman here,
and he has made us to know that not all men with white faces are
devils--like the Portuguese and Arabs. But how am I to know you are
English?"
Again the chief wavered a little, as if half-inclined to believe
Harold's statement.
"Here is proof for you," said Harold, pointing to Chimbolo, who, being
scarcely able to move, had remained all this time beside the fire
leaning on his elbow and listening intently to the conversation. "See,"
he continued, "that is a slave. Look at him."
As he said this, Harold stepped quickly forward and removed the blanket,
with which he had covered his lacerated back after dressing it.
A howl of execration burst from the band of negroes, who pointed their
spears and guns at the travellers' breasts, and would have made a speedy
end of the whole party if Antonio had not exclaimed "Speak, Chimbolo,
speak!"
The slave looked up with animation, and told the rebels how his
Portuguese owner had ordered him to be flogged to death, but changed his
mind and doomed him to be drowned,--how that in the nick of time, these
white men had rescued him, and had afterwards treated him with the
greatest kindness.
Chimbolo did not say much, but what he did say was uttered with emphasis
and feeling. This was enough. Those who would have been enemies were
suddenly converted into warm friends, and the desperadoes, who would
have torn their former masters, or any of their race, limb from limb, if
they could have got hold of them, left our adventurers undisturbed in
their bivouac, after wishing them a prosperous journey.
It was nevertheless deemed advisable to keep watch during the night.
This was done faithfully and conscientiously as far as it went. Harold
took the first hour by way of example. He sat over the fire,
alternately gazing into its embers while he meditated of home, and round
upon the dark forest while he thought of Africa. True to time, he
called Disco, who, equally true to his sense of duty, turned out at once
with a deep "Ay, ay, sir." The self-styled first-mate placed his back
against a tree, and, endeavouring to believe it to be a capstan, or
binnacle, or any other object appertaining to the sea, stared at the
ghostly stems of the forest-trees until they began to dance hornpipes
for his special gratification, or glowered at the shadows until they
became instinct with life, and all but induced him to rouse the camp
twenty times in the course of his hour's vigil. True to time also, like
his predecessor, Disco roused Antonio and immediately turned in.
The vivacious _chef de cuisine_ started up at once, took up his position
at the foot of the tree which Disco had just left, leaned his back
against it, and straightway went to sleep, in which condition he
remained till morning, leaving the camp in unprotected felicity and
blissful ignorance.
Fortunately for all parties, Disco awoke in time to catch him napping,
and resolved to punish him. He crept stealthily round to the back of
the tree against which the faithless man leaned, and reached gently
round until his mouth was close to Antonio's cheek, then, collecting all
the air that his vast lungs were capable of containing, he poured into
Antonio's ear a cumulative roar that threw the camp and the denizens of
the wilderness far and near into confusion, and almost drove the whole
marrow in Antonio's body out at his heels. The stricken man sprang up
as if earth had shot him forth, uttered a yell of terror such as seldom
greets the ear, and rushed blindly forward. Repeating the roar, Disco
plunged after him. Antonio tumbled over the fire, recovered himself,
dashed on, and would certainly have plunged into the river, if not into
the jaws of a crocodile, had not Jumbo caught him in his arms, in the
midst of a chorus of laughter from the other men.
"How dare 'ee go to sleep on dooty?" demanded Disco, seizing the culprit
by the collar, "eh! we might have bin all murdered by rebels or eaten by
lions, or had our eyes picked out by gorillas, for all that _you_ would
have done to prevent it--eh?" giving him a shake.
"Oh, pardon, forgif. Nevair doot more again," exclaimed the breathless
and trembling Antonio.
"You'd _better_ not!" said Disco, giving him another shake and releasing
him.
Having done so, he turned on his heel and bestowed a quiet look, in
passing, on Jumbo, which of course threw that unfortunate man into
convulsions.
After this little incident a hasty breakfast was taken, the canoes were
launched, and the voyage was continued.
It is not necessary to trace the course of our explorers day by day as
they ascended the Zambesi, or to recount all the adventures or
misadventures that befell them on their journey into the interior. It
is sufficient for the continuity of our tale to say that many days after
leaving the coast they turned into the Shire river, which flows into the
Zambesi about 150 miles from the coast.
There are many fountain-heads of slavery in Africa. The region of the
interior, which gives birth to the head-waters of the Shire river, is
one of the chief of these. Here lies the great lake Nyassa, which was
discovered and partly explored by Dr Livingstone, and hence flows a
perennial stream of traffic to Kilwa, on the coast--which traffic, at
the present time, consists almost exclusively of the two kinds of ivory,
white and black, the former (elephants' tusks) being carried by the
latter (slaves), by which means the slave-trade is rendered more
profitable.
Towards this populous and fertile region, then, our adventurers directed
their course, when they turned out of the great river Zambesi and began
to ascend the Shire.
And here, at the very outset of this part of the journey, they met with
a Portuguese settler, who did more to open their eyes to the blighting
and withering influence of slavery on the land and on its people than
anything they had yet seen.
Towards the afternoon of the first day on the Shire, they landed near
the encampment of the settler referred to, who turned out to be a
gentleman of a Portuguese town on the Zambesi.
Harold found, to his delight, that he could speak English fluently, and
was, moreover, an exceedingly agreeable and well-informed man. He was
out at the time on a hunting expedition, attended by a party of slaves.
Harold spent the evening in very pleasant intercourse with Senhor Gamba,
and at a later hour than usual returned to his camp, where he
entertained Disco with an account of his new acquaintance.
While thus engaged, he was startled by the most appalling shrieks, which
proceeded from the neighbouring encampment. Under the impression that
something was wrong, both he and Disco leaped up and ran towards it.
There, to his amazement and horror, Harold beheld his agreeable friend
Senhor Gamba thrashing a young slave unmercifully with a whip of the
most formidable character. Only a few lashes from it had been given
when Harold ran up, but these were so powerful that the unhappy victim
dropped down in a state of insensibility just as he reached the spot.
The Portuguese "gentleman" turned away from the prostrate slave with a
scowl, but betrayed a slight touch of confusion on meeting the gaze of
Harold Seadrift.
"Senhor!" exclaimed the latter sternly, with mingled remonstrance and
rebuke in his tone, "how _can_ you be so cruel? What has the boy done
to merit such inhuman chastisement?"
"He has neglected my orders," answered the Portuguese, as though he
resented the tone in which Harold spoke.
"But surely, surely," said Harold, "the punishment is far beyond the
offence. I can scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes and ears
when they tell me that _you_ have been guilty of this."
"Come," returned Senhor Gamba, softening into a smile, "you English
cannot understand our case in this land. Because you do not keep
slaves, you take the philanthropic, the religious view of the question.
We who do keep slaves have a totally different experience. You cannot
understand, you cannot sympathise with us."
"No, truly, we can _not_ understand you," said Harold earnestly, "and
God forbid that we should ever sympathise with you in this matter. We
detest the gross injustice of slavery, and we abhor the fearful
cruelties connected with it."
"That is because, as I said, you are not in our position," rejoined the
Senhor, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is easy for you to take the
philanthropic view, which, however, I admit to be the best, for in the
eyes of God all men are equal, and though the African be a degraded man,
I know enough of him to be sure that he can be raised by kindness and
religion into a position not very inferior to our own; but we who keep
slaves cannot help ourselves we _must_ act as we do."
"Why so?--is cruelty a necessity?" asked Harold.
"Yes, it is," replied the Senhor decidedly.
"Then the abolition of slavery is a needcessity too," growled Disco, who
had hitherto looked on and listened in silent wonder, debating with
himself as to the propriety of giving Senhor Gamba, then and there, a
sound thrashing with his own whip!
"You see," continued the Portuguese, paying no attention to Disco's
growl,--"You see, in order to live out here I must have slaves, and in
order to keep slaves I must have a whip. My whip is no worse than any
other whip that I know of. I don't justify it as right, I simply defend
it as necessary. _Wherever slavery exists, discipline must of necessity
be brutal_. If you keep slaves, and mean that they shall give you the
labour of their bodies, and of their minds also, in so far as you permit
them to have minds, you must degrade them by the whip and by all other
means at your disposal until, like dogs, they become the unhesitating
servants of your will, no matter what that will may be, and live for
your pleasure only. It will never pay me to adopt your philanthropic,
your religious views. I am here. I _must_ be here. What am I to do?
Starve? No, not if I can help it. I do as others do--keep slaves and
act as the master of slaves. I must use the whip. Perhaps you won't
believe me," continued Senhor Gamba, with a sad smile, "but I speak
truth when I say that I was tender-hearted when I first came to this
country, for I had been well nurtured in Lisbon; but that soon passed
away--it could not last. I was the laughing-stock of my companions.
Just to explain my position, I will tell you a circumstance which
happened soon after I came here. The Governor invited me to a party of
pleasure. The party consisted of himself, his daughters, some officers,
and others. We were to go in boats to a favourite island resort,
several miles off. I took one of my slaves with me, a lad that I kept
about my person. As we were going along, this lad fell into the river.
He could not swim, and the tide was carrying him fast away to death.
Dressed as I was, in full uniform, I plunged in after him and saved him.
The wish alone to save the boy's life prompted me to risk my own. And
for this I became the jest of the party; even the ladies tittered at my
folly. Next evening the Governor had a large dinner-party. I was
there. Having caught cold, I coughed slightly; this drew attention to
me. Remarks were made, and the Governor alluded in scoffing terms to my
exploit, which created much mirth. `Were you drunk?' said one. `Had
you lost your senses, to risk your life for a brute of a negro?' said
another. `Rather than spoil my uniform, I would have knocked him on the
head with a pole,' said a third; and it was a long time before what they
termed my folly was forgotten or forgiven. You think I am worse than
others. I am not; but I do not condescend to their hypocrisy. What I
am now, I have been made by this country and its associates." [These
words are not fictitious. The remarks of Senhor Gamba were actually
spoken by a Portuguese slave-owner, and will be found in _The Story of
the Universities' Mission to Central Africa_, pages 64-5-6.]
Senhor Gamba said this with the air of one who thinks that he has
nearly, if not quite, justified himself. "I am no worse than others,"
is an excuse for evil conduct, not altogether unknown in more highly
favoured lands, and is often followed by the illogical conclusion,
"therefore I am not to blame," but although Harold felt pity for his
agreeable chance acquaintance, he could not admit that this explanation
excused him, nor could he get over the shock which his feelings had
sustained; it was, therefore, with comparatively little regret that he
bade him adieu on the following morning, and pursued his onward way.
Everywhere along the Shire they met with a more or less hospitable
reception from the natives, who regarded them with great favour, in
consequence of their belonging to the same nation which had sent forth
men to explore their country, defend them from the slave-dealer, and
teach them about the true God. These men, of whom mention is made in
another chapter, had, some time before this, been sent by the Church of
England to the Manganja highlands, at the suggestion of Dr Livingstone,
and laid, we believe, the foundation-stone of Christian civilisation in
the interior of Africa, though God saw fit to arrest them in the raising
of the superstructure.
Among other pieces of useful knowledge conveyed by them to the negroes
of the Shire, was the fact that Englishmen are not cannibals, and that
they have no special longings after black man steaks!
It may perchance surprise some readers to learn that black men ever
entertain such a preposterous notion. Nevertheless, it is literally
true. The slavers--Arabs and Portuguese--find it in their interest to
instil this falsehood into the minds of the ignorant tribes of the
interior, from whom the slaves are gathered, in order that their
captives may entertain a salutary horror of Englishmen, so that if their
dhows should be chased by our cruisers while creeping northward along
the coast and run the risk of being taken, the slaves may willingly aid
their captors in trying to escape. That the lesson has been well learnt
and thoroughly believed is proved by the fact that when a dhow is
obliged to run ashore to avoid capture, the slaves invariably take to
the woods on the wings of terror, preferring, no doubt to be re-enslaved
rather than to be roasted and eaten by white fiends. Indeed, so
thoroughly has this been engrained into the native mind, that mothers
frequently endeavour to overawe their refractory offspring by
threatening to hand them over to the dreadful white monster who will eat
them up if they don't behave!