RELATES ADVENTURES IN THE SHIRE VALLEY, AND TOUCHES ON ONE OR TWO PHASES
OF SLAVERY.
Everything depends upon taste, as the monkey remarked when it took to
nibbling the end of its own tail! If you like a thing, you take one
view of it; if you don't like it, you take another view. Either view,
if detailed, would be totally irreconcilable with the other.
The lower part of the river Shire, into which our travellers had now
entered, is a vast swamp. There are at least two opinions in regard to
that region. To do justice to those with whom we don't sympathise, we
give our opponent's view first. Our opponent, observe, is an honest and
competent man; he speaks truly; he only looks at it in another light
from Harold Seadrift and Disco Lillihammer.
He says of the river Shire, "It drains a low and exceedingly fertile
valley of from fifteen to twenty miles in breadth. Ranges of wooded
hills bound this valley on both sides. After the first twenty miles you
come to Mount Morambala, which rises with steep sides to 4000 feet in
height. It is wooded to the top, and very beautiful. A small village
peeps out about half-way up the mountain. It has a pure, bracing
atmosphere, and is perched above mosquito range. The people on the
summit have a very different climate and vegetation from those on the
plains, and they live amidst luxuriant vegetation. There are many
species of ferns, some so large as to deserve the name of trees. There
are also lemon and orange trees growing wild, and birds and animals of
all kinds." Thus far we agree with our opponent but listen to him as he
goes on:--
"The view from Morambala is extensive, but cheerless past description.
Swamp, swamp-reeking, festering, rotting, malaria-pregnant swamp, where
poisonous vapours for several months in the year are ever bulging up and
out into the air,--lies before you as far as the eye can reach, and
farther. If you enter the river at the worst seasons of the year, the
chances are you will take the worst type of fever. If, on the other
hand, you enter it during the best season, when the swamps are fairly
dried up, you have everything in your favour."
Now, our opponent gives a true statement of facts undoubtedly, but his
view of them is not cheering.
Contrast them with the view of Disco Lillihammer. That sagacious seaman
had entered the Shire neither in the "best" nor the "worst" of the
season. He had chanced upon it somewhere between the two.
"Git up your steam an' go 'longside," he said to Jumbo one afternoon, as
the two canoes were proceeding quietly among magnificent giant-reeds,
sedges, and bulrushes, which towered high above them--in some places
overhung them.
"I say, Mister Harold, ain't it splendid?"
"Magnificent!" replied Harold with a look of quiet enthusiasm.
"I _does_ enjoy a swamp," continued the seaman, allowing a thin cloud to
trickle from his lips.
"So do I, Disco."
"There's such a many outs and ins an' roundabouts in it. And such
powerful reflections o' them reeds in the quiet water. W'y, sir, I do
declare w'en I looks through 'em in a dreamy sort of way for a long time
I get to fancy they're palm-trees, an' that we're sailin' through a
forest without no end to it; an' when I looks over the side an' sees
every reed standin' on its other self, so to speak, an' follers the
under one down till my eyes git lost in the blue sky an' clouds _below_
us, I do sometimes feel as if we'd got into the middle of fairy-land,--
was fairly afloat on the air, an' off on a voyage through the univarse!
But it's them reflections as I like most. Every leaf, an' stalk, an'
flag is just as good an' real _in_ the water as out of it. An' just
look at that there frog, sir, that one on the big leaf which has swelled
hisself up as if he wanted to bust, with his head looking up hopefully
to the--ah! he's down with a plop like lead, but he wos sittin' on his
own image which wos as clear as his own self. Then there's so much
variety, sir--that's where it is. You never know wot you're comin' to
in them swamps. It may be a openin' like a pretty lake, with islands of
reeds everywhere; or it may be a narrow bit like a canal, or a river; or
a bit so close that you go scrapin' the gun'les on both sides. An' the
life, too, is most amazin'. Never saw nothin' like it nowhere. All
kinds, big an' little, plain an' pritty, queer an' 'orrible, swarms here
to sitch an extent that I've got it into my head that this Shire valley
must be the great original nursery of animated nature."
"It looks like it, Disco."
The last idea appeared to furnish food for reflection, as the two
friends here relapsed into silence.
Although Disco's description was quaint, it could scarcely be styled
exaggerated, for the swamp was absolutely alive with animal life. The
principal occupant of these marshes is the elephant, and hundreds of
these monster animals may be seen in one herd, feeding like cattle in a
meadow. Owing to the almost impenetrable nature of the reedy jungle,
however, it is impossible to follow them, and anxious though Disco was
to kill one, he failed to obtain a single shot. Buffaloes and other
large game were also numerous in this region, and in the water
crocodiles and hippopotami sported about everywhere, while aquatic birds
of every shape and size rendered the air vocal with their cries.
Sometimes these feathered denizens of the swamp arose, when startled, in
a dense cloud so vast that the mighty rush of their wings was almost
thunderous in character.
The crocodiles were not only numerous but dangerous because of their
audacity. They used to watch at the places where native women were in
the habit of going down to the river for water, and not unfrequently
succeeded in seizing a victim. This, however, only happened at those
periods when the Shire was in flood, when fish were driven from their
wonted haunts, and the crocodiles were reduced to a state of starvation
and consequent ferocity.
One evening, while our travellers were proceeding slowly up stream, they
observed the corpse of a negro boy floating past the canoe; just then a
monstrous crocodile rushed at it with the speed of a greyhound, caught
it and shook it as a terrier does a rat. Others dashed at the prey,
each with his powerful tail causing the water to churn and froth as he
tore off a piece. In a few seconds all was gone. [Livingstone's
_Zambesi and its Tributaries_, page 452.] That same evening Zombo had a
narrow escape. After dusk he ran down to the river to drink. He
chanced to go to a spot where a crocodile was watching. It lay settled
down in the mud with its head on a level with the water, so that in the
feeble light it could not be seen. While Zombo was busy laving the
water into his mouth it suddenly rushed at him and caught him by the
hand. The limb of a bush was fortunately within reach, and he laid hold
of it. There was a brief struggle. The crocodile tugged hard, but the
man tugged harder; at the same time he uttered a yell which brought
Jumbo to his side with an oar, a blow from which drove the hideous
reptile away. Poor Zombo was too glad to have escaped with his life to
care much about the torn hand, which rendered him _hors de combat_ for
some time after that.
Although Disco failed to get a shot at an elephant, his hopeful spirit
was gratified by the catching of a baby elephant alive. It happened
thus:--
One morning, not very long after Zombo's tussle with the crocodile,
Disco's canoe, which chanced to be in advance, suddenly ran almost into
the midst of a herd of elephants which were busy feeding on palm-nuts,
of which they are very fond. Instantly the whole troop scattered and
fled. Disco, taken completely by surprise, omitted his wonted "Hallo!"
as he made an awkward plunge at his rifle, but before he could bring it
to bear, the animals were over the bank of the river and lost in the
dense jungle. But a fine little elephant, at that period of life which,
in human beings, might be styled the toddling age, was observed to
stumble while attempting to follow its mother up the bank. It fell and
rolled backwards.
"Give way for your lives!" roared Disco.
The boat shot its bow on the bank, and the seaman flew rather than
leaped upon the baby elephant!
The instant it was laid hold of it began to scream with incessant and
piercing energy after the fashion of a pig.
"Queek! come in canoe! Modder come back for 'im," cried Jumbo in some
anxiety.
Disco at once appreciated the danger of the enraged mother returning to
the rescue, but, resolved not to resign his advantage, he seized the
vicious little creature by the proboscis and dragged it by main force to
the canoe, into which he tumbled, hauled the proboscis inboard, as
though it had been the bite of a cable, and held on.
"Shove off! shove off! and give way, lads! Look alive!"
The order was promptly obeyed, and in a few minutes the baby was dragged
into the boat and secured.
This prize, however, was found to be more of a nuisance than an
amusement and it was soon decided that it must be disposed of.
Accordingly, that very night, much to the regret of the men who wanted
to make a meal of it, Disco led his baby squealing into the jungle and
set it free with a hearty slap on the flank, and an earnest
recommendation to make all sail after its venerable mother, which it did
forthwith, cocking its ears and tail, and shrieking as it went.
Two days after this event they made a brief halt at a poor village where
they were hospitably received by the chief, who was much gratified by
the liberal quantity of calico with which the travellers paid for their
entertainment. Here they met with a Portuguese half-caste who was
reputed one of the greatest monsters of cruelty in that part of the
country. He was, however, not much more villainous in aspect than many
other half-castes whom they saw. He was on his way to the coast in a
canoe manned by slaves. If Harold and Disco had known that this was his
last journey to the coast they would have regarded him with greater
interest. As it was, having learned his history from the chief through
their interpreter, they turned from him with loathing.
As this half-caste's career illustrates the depths to which humanity may
fall in the hot-bed of slavery, as well as, to some extent, the state of
things existing under Portuguese rule on the east coast of Africa, we
give the particulars briefly.
Instead of the whip, this man used the gun, which he facetiously styled
his "minister of justice," and, in mere wantonness, he was known to have
committed murder again and again, yet no steps were taken by the
authorities to restrain, much less to punish him. Men heard of his
murders, but they shrugged their shoulders and did nothing. It was only
a wild beast of a negro that was killed, they said, and what was that!
They seemed to think less of it than if he had shot a hippopotamus. One
of his murders was painfully notorious, even to its minutest
particulars. Over the female slaves employed in a house and adjacent
lands there is usually placed a head-woman, a slave also, chosen for
such an office for her blind fidelity to her master. This man had one
such woman, one who had ever been faithful to him and his interests, who
had never provoked him by disobedience or ill-conduct, and against whom,
therefore, he could have no cause of complaint. One day when half drunk
he was lying on a couch in his house; his forewoman entered and made
herself busy with some domestic work. As her master lay watching her,
his savage disposition found vent in a characteristic joke: "Woman,"
said he, "I think I will shoot you." The woman turned round and said,
"Master, I am your slave; you can do what you will with me. You can
kill me if you like; I can do nothing. But don't kill me, master, for
if you do, who is there to look after your other women? they will all
run away from you."
She did not mean to irritate her master, but instantly the man's brutal
egotism was aroused. The savage jest became a fearful reality, and he
shouted with rage:--
"Say you that! say you that! fetch me my gun. I will see if my women
will run away after I have killed you."
Trained to implicit obedience, the poor woman did as she was bid. She
brought the gun and handed him powder and ball. At his command she
knelt down before him, and the wretch fired at her breast. In his
drunken rage he missed his mark--the ball went through her shoulder.
She besought him to spare her. Deaf to her entreaties, he ordered her
to fetch more powder and ball. Though wounded and in agony, she obeyed
him. Again the gun was loaded, again levelled and fired, and the woman
fell dead at his feet. [The above narrative is quoted almost _verbatim_
from _The Story of the Universities' Mission to Central Africa_, pages
78 and 79, the author of which vouches for its accuracy.]
The facts of this case were known far and wide. The Portuguese Governor
was acquainted with them, as well as the ministers of justice, but no
one put forth a hand to punish the monster, or to protect his slaves.
But vengeance overtook him at last. On his way down the Zambesi he shot
one of his men. The others, roused to irresistible fury, sprang upon
him and strangled him.
_Then_, indeed, the Governor and Magistrates were roused to administer
"justice!" They had allowed this fiend to murder slaves at his will,
but no sooner had the slaves turned on and killed their master than
ceaseless energy and resolution were displayed in punishing those who
slew him. Soldiers were sent out in all directions; some of the
canoe-men were shot down like wild beasts, the rest were recaptured and
publicly whipped to death!
Reader, this is "domestic slavery." This is what Portugal and Zanzibar
claim the right to practise. This is what Great Britain has for many
years declined to interfere with. This is the curse with which Africa
is blighted at the present day in some of her fairest lands, and this is
what Portugal has decreed shall not terminate in what she calls her
African dominions for some years to come. In other words, it has been
coolly decreed by that weakest of all the European nations, that
slavery, murder, injustice, and every other conceivable and
unmentionable vice and villainy shall still, for some considerable time,
continue to be practised on the men, women, and children of Africa!
Higher up the Shire river, the travellers saw symptoms of recent
distress among the people, which caused them much concern. Chimbolo, in
particular, was rendered very anxious by the account given of the famine
which prevailed still farther up the river, and the numerous deaths that
had taken place in consequence.
The cause of the distress was a common one, and easily explained.
Slave-dealers had induced the Ajawa, a warlike tribe, to declare war
against the people of the Manganja highlands. The Ajawa had done this
before, and were but too ready to do it again. They invaded the land,
captured many of the young people, and slew the aged. Those who escaped
to the jungle found on their return that their crops were destroyed.
Little seed remained in their possession, and before that was planted
and grown, famine began to reduce the ranks, already thinned by war.
Indications of this sad state of things became more numerous as the
travellers advanced. Few natives appeared to greet them on the banks of
the river as they went along, and these few resembled living skeletons.
In many places they found dead bodies lying on the ground in various
stages of decomposition, and everywhere they beheld an aspect of settled
unutterable despair on the faces of the scattered remnant of the
bereaved and starving people.
It was impossible, in the circumstances, for Harold Seadrift to give
these wretched people more than very slight relief. He gave them as
much of his stock of provisions as he could spare, and was glad when the
necessity of continuing the journey on foot relieved him from such
mournful scenes by taking him away from the river's bank.
Hiring a party of the strongest men that he could find among them, he at
length left his canoes, made up his goods, food, and camp-equipage into
bundles of a shape and size suitable to being carried on the heads of
men, and started on foot for the Manganja highlands.
"Seems to me, sir," observed Disco, as they plodded along together on
the first morning of the land journey--"seems to me, sir, that Chimbolo
don't stand much chance of findin' his wife alive."
"Poor fellow," replied Harold, glancing back at the object of their
remarks, "I fear not."
Chimbolo had by that time recovered much of his natural vigour, and
although not yet able to carry a man's load, was nevertheless quite
capable of following the party. He walked in silence, with his eyes on
the ground, a few paces behind Antonio, who was a step or two in rear of
his leader, and who, in virtue of his position as "bo's'n" to the party,
was privileged to walk hampered by no greater burden than his gun.
"We must keep up his sperrits, tho', poor chap," said Disco, in the
hoarse whisper with which he was wont to convey secret remarks, and
which was much more fitted to attract attention than his ordinary voice.
"It 'ud never do to let his sperrits down; 'cause w'y? he's weak, an'
if he know'd that his wife was dead, or took off as a slave, he'd never
be able to go along with us, and we couldn't leave him to starve here,
you know."
"Certainly not, Disco," returned Harold. "Besides, his wife _may_ be
alive, for all we know to the contrary.--How far did he say the village
was from where we landed, Antonio?"
"'Bout two, t'ree days," answered the bo's'n.
That night the party encamped beside the ruins of a small hamlet where
charred sticks and fragments of an African household's goods and
chattels lay scattered on the ground.
Chimbolo sat down here on the ground, and, resting his chin on his
knees, gazed in silence at the ruin around him.
"Come, cheer up, old fellow," cried Disco, with rather an awkward effort
at heartiness, as he slapped the negro gently on the shoulder; "tell
him, Antonio, not to let his heart go down. Didn't he say that
what-dee-call-the-place--his village--was a strong place, and could be
easily held by a few brave men?"
"True," replied Chimbolo, through the interpreter, "but the Manganja men
are not very brave."
"Well, well, never mind," rejoined the sympathetic tar, repeating his
pat on the back, "there's no sayin'. P'raps they got courage w'en it
came to the scratch. P'raps it never came to the scratch at all up
there. Mayhap you'll find 'em all right after all. Come, never say die
s'long as there's a shot in the locker. That's a good motto for 'ee,
Chimbolo, and ought to keep up your heart even tho' ye _are_ a nigger,
'cause it wos inwented by the great Nelson, and shouted by him, or his
bo's'n, just before he got knocked over at the glorious battle of
Trafalgar. Tell him that, Antonio."
Whether Antonio told him all that, is extremely doubtful, although he
complied at once with the order, for Antonio never by any chance
declined at least to attempt the duties of his station, but the only
effect of his speech was that Chimbolo shook his head and continued to
stare at the ruins.
Next morning they started early, and towards evening drew near to Zomba.
The country through which, during the previous two days, they had
travelled, was very beautiful, and as wild as even Disco could desire--
and, by the way, it was no small degree of wildness that could slake the
thirst for the marvellous which had been awakened in the breast of our
tar, by his recent experiences in Africa. It was, he said--and said
truly--a real out-and-out wilderness. There were villages everywhere,
no doubt but these were so thickly concealed by trees and jungle that
they were not easily seen, and most of them were at that time almost
depopulated. The grass was higher than the heads of the travellers, and
the vegetation everywhere was rankly luxuriant. Here and there open
glades allowed the eye to penetrate into otherwise impenetrable bush.
Elsewhere, large trees abounded in the midst of overwhelmingly
affectionate parasites, whose gnarled lower limbs and twining tendrils
and pendant foliage gave a softness to the landscape, which contrasted
well with the wild passes and rugged rocks of the middle distance, and
the towering mountains which rose, range beyond range, in the far
distance.
But as the party approached the neighbourhood of Zomba mountains, few of
them were disposed to give much heed to the beauties of nature. All
being interested in Chimbolo, they became more or less anxious as to
news that awaited him.
On turning a spur of one of the mountains which had hitherto barred
their vision, they found themselves suddenly face to face with a small
band of Manganja men, whose woe-begone countenances told too eloquently
that the hand of the destroyer had been heavy upon them.
Of course they were questioned by Chimbolo, and the replies they gave
him were such as to confirm the fears he had previously entertained.
The Ajawa, they said, had, just the day before, burnt their villages,
stolen or destroyed their property, killed many of their kinsmen, and
carried off their wives and children for slaves. They themselves had
escaped, and were now on their way to visit their chief, who was at that
time on the banks of the Zambesi, to beg of him to return, in order that
he might bewitch the guns of the Ajawa, and so render them harmless!
"Has a woman of your tribe, named Marunga, been slain or captured?"
asked Chimbolo eagerly.
To this the men replied that they could not tell. Marunga, they said,
was known well to them by name and sight. They did not think she was
among the captives, but could not tell what had become of her, as the
village where she and her little boy lived had been burnt, and all who
had not been killed or captured had taken to the bush. Marunga's
husband, they added, was a man named Chimbolo--not a Manganja man, but a
friend of the tribe--who had been taken by the slavers, under command of
a Portuguese half-caste named Marizano, about two years before that
time.
Chimbolo winced as though he had been stung when Marizano's name was
mentioned, and a dark frown contracted his brows when he told the
Manganja men that _he_ was Chimbolo, and that he was even then in search
of Marunga and her little boy.
When all this had been explained to Harold Seadrift he told the men that
it was a pity to waste time in travelling such a long way to see their
chief, who could not, even if he wished, bewitch the guns of the Ajawa,
and advised them to turn back and guide him and his men to the place
where the attack had been made on the Manganja, so that a search might
be made in the bush for those of the people who had escaped.
This was agreed to, and the whole party proceeded on their way with
increased speed, Chimbolo and Harold hoping they might yet find that
Marunga had escaped, and Disco earnestly desiring that they might only
fall in with the Ajawa and have a brush with them, in which case he
assured the negroes he would show them a way of bewitching their guns
that would beat their chief's bewitchment all to sticks and stivers!
The village in which Marunga had dwelt was soon reached. It was, as
they had been told by their new friends, a heap of still smouldering
ashes; but it was not altogether destitute of signs of life. A dog was
observed to slink away into the bush as they approached.
The moment Chimbolo observed it he darted into the bush after it.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Disco in surprise; "that nigger seems to have took a
sudden fancy to the cur?--Eh, Antonio, wot's the reason of that, think
'ee?"
"Dunno; s'pose where dog be mans be?"
"Ah! or womans," suggested Disco.
"Or womans," assented Antonio.
Just then they heard Chimbolo's shout, which was instantly followed by a
succession of female shrieks. These latter were repeated several times,
and sounded as though the fugitives were scattering.
"Hims find a nest of womins!" exclaimed Jumbo, throwing down his load
and dashing away into the bush.
Every individual of the party followed his example, not excepting Harold
and Disco, the latter of whom was caught by the leg, the moment he left
the track, by a wait-a-bit thorn--most appropriately so-called, because
its powerful spikes are always ready to seize and detain the unwary
passer-by. In the present instance it checked the seaman's career for a
few seconds, and rent his nether garments sadly; while Harold, profiting
by his friend's misfortune, leaped over the bush, and passed on. Disco
quickly extricated himself, and followed.
They were not left far behind, and overtook their comrades just as they
emerged on an open space, or glade, at the extremity of which a sight
met their eyes that filled them with astonishment, for there a troop of
women and one or two boys were seen walking towards them, with Chimbolo
in front, having a child on his left shoulder, and performing a sort of
insane war-dance round one of the women.
"He's catched her!" exclaimed Disco, with excited looks, just as if
Chimbolo had been angling unsuccessfully for a considerable time, and
had hooked a stupendous fish at last.
And Disco was right. A few of the poor creatures who were so recently
burnt out of their homes, and had lost most of those dearest to them,
had ventured, as if drawn by an irresistible spell, to return with timid
steps to the scene of their former happiness, but only to have their
worst fears confirmed. Their homes, their protectors, their children,
their hopes, all were gone at one fell swoop. Only one among them--one
who, having managed to save her only child, had none to mourn over, and
no one to hope to meet with--only one returned to a joyful meeting. We
need scarcely say that this was Marunga.
The fact was instantly made plain to the travellers by the wild manner
in which Chimbolo shouted her name, pointed to her, and danced round
her, while he showed all his glistening teeth and as much of the whites
of his eyes as was consistent with these members remaining in their
orbits.
Really it was quite touching, in spite of its being ludicrous, the way
in which the poor fellow poured forth his joy like a very child,--which
he was in everything except years; and Harold could not help
remembering, and recalling to Disco's memory, Yoosoof's observations
touching the hardness of negroes' hearts, and their want of natural
affection, on the morning when his dhow was captured by the boat of the
"Firefly."
The way in which, ever and anon, Chimbolo kissed his poor but now happy
wife, was wondrously similar to the mode in which white men perform that
little operation, except that there was more of an unrefined smack in
it. The tears which _would_ hop over his sable cheeks now and then
sparkled to the full as brightly as European tears, and were perhaps
somewhat bigger; and the pride with which he regarded his little son,
holding him in both hands out at arms'-length, was only excelled by the
joy and the tremendous laugh with which he received a kick on the nose
from that undutiful son's black little toes.
But Yoosoof never chanced to be present when such exhibitions of negro
feeling and susceptibility took place. How could he, seeing that men
and women and children--if black--fled from him, and such as he, in
abject terror? Neither did Yoosoof ever chance to be present when women
sat down beside their blackened hearths, as they did that night, and
quietly wept as though their hearts would burst at the memory of little
voices and manly tones--not silent in death, but worse than that--gone,
gone _for ever_! Doubtless they felt though they never heard of, and
could not in words express, the sentiment--
"Oh for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still."
Yoosoof knew not of, and cared nothing for, such feelings as these. We
ask again, how could he? His only experience of the negro was when
cowering before him as a slave, or when yelling in agony under his
terrible lash, or when brutalised and rendered utterly apathetic by
inhuman cruelty.
Harold learned, that night on further conversation with the Manganja
men, that a raid had recently been made into those regions by more than
one band of slavers, sent out to capture men and women by the Portuguese
half-castes of the towns of Senna and Tette, on the Zambesi, and that
they had been carrying the inhabitants out of the country at the rate of
about two hundred a week.
This however was but a small speck, so to speak, of the mighty work of
kidnapping human beings that was going on--that is _still_ going on in
those regions. Yoosoof would have smiled--he never laughed--if you had
mentioned such a number as being large.
But in truth he cared nothing about such facts, except in so far as they
represented a large amount of profit accrueing to himself.
The result of Harold Seadrift's cogitations on these matters was that he
resolved to pass through as much of the land as he could within a
reasonable time, and agreed to accompany Chimbolo on a visit to his
tribe, which dwelt at some distance to the north of the Manganja
highlands.