After Zeppa had remained a short time in his new quarters, he began to
take an interest in the children of his savage friends. At first the
mothers of the village were alarmed when they saw their little ones in
his strong arms, playing with his beard, which had by that time grown
long and shaggy, as well as grey like his curly locks; but soon
perceiving that the children had nothing to fear from the strange white
man, they gave themselves no further concern on the subject.
If Zeppa had been in his right mind when the savages first found him, it
is probable that they would have hunted him down and slain him without
remorse--for it is well known that many of the South Sea Islanders
regard shipwrecked persons as victims who have no claim on their
hospitality, but are a sort of windfall to be killed and devoured.
Their treatment of Zeppa, therefore, must have been owing to some
feeling of respect or awe, inspired by his obvious insanity, coupled, no
doubt, with his commanding size and presence as well as his singular
conduct on the occasion of their first meeting.
Whatever the reason, it is certain that the natives amongst whom the
poor madman's lot had thus been cast, treated him in an exceptional
manner, and with an amount of respect that almost amounted to reverence.
At first Ongoloo made a slight attempt to ascertain where his guest had
come from, and what was his previous history, but as Zeppa always met
such inquiries with one of his sweetest smiles, and with no verbal reply
whatever, the chief felt unusually perplexed, dropped the subject, and
began to regard the madman as a species of demigod. Of course no one
else dared to question him, so that ever afterwards he remained in the
eyes of his entertainers as a "Great Mystery."
By degrees Zeppa became intimately acquainted with the little boys and
girls of the village, and took much pleasure in watching them at play.
They soon found out that he was fond of them, and might have become
rather troublesome in their attentions to him, if he had been a busy
man, but as he had nothing whatever to do except follow his own
inclinations, and as his inclinations led him to sympathise with
childhood, he was never ruffled by their familiarities or by their wild
doings around his tent. He even suffered a few of the very smallest of
the brown troop to take liberties with him, and pull his beard.
One brown mite in particular--a female baby of the smallest conceivable
dimensions, and the wildest possible spirit--became an immense favourite
with him. Her name was Lippy, or some sound which that combination of
letters produces.
Lippy's mother, a large-eyed, good-looking young woman, with
insufficient clothing--at least in the estimate of a Ratingaite--was
transfixed the first time she saw her little one practise her
familiarities on their demigod.
Zeppa was lying on his back at the time, in front of his hut, when Lippy
prowled cautiously towards him, like a very small and sly kitten about
to pounce on a very huge dog. She sprang, just as her mother caught
sight of her, and was on his broad chest in a moment. The mother was,
as we have said, transfixed with alarm. The human kitten seized Zeppa
by the beard and laughed immoderately. Zeppa replied with a gentle
smile--he never laughed out now--and remained quite still.
Having finished her laugh, Lippy drew herself forward until she was
close to her human dog's chin. At this point her mother would have
rushed to the rescue, but she was still paralysed! Having reached the
chin Lippy became more audacious, stretched forth one of her little
hands, and seized Zeppa's nose. Still he did not move, but when the
little brown kitten proceeded to thrust a thumb into one of his eyes, he
roused himself, seized the child in his powerful hands, and raised her
high above his head; then, lowering her until her little mouth was
within reach, he kissed her.
This sufficed to relieve the mother's fears, so she retired quietly from
the scene.
She was not so easily quieted, however, some weeks later, when she
beheld Zeppa, after amusing himself one day with Lippy for half an hour,
start up, place her on his shoulder, and stalk off towards the
mountains. He absented himself for three days on that occasion.
Lippy's mother at first became anxious, then terrified, then desperate.
She roused Ongoloo to such a pitch that he at last called a council of
war. Some of the head men were for immediate pursuit of the madman;
others were of opinion that the little brat was not worth so much
trouble; a few wretches even expressed the opinion that they were well
rid of her--there being already too many female babies in the community!
While the conflict of opinions was at its fiercest, Zeppa stalked into
the midst of them with Lippy on his shoulder, looked round with a
benignant expression of countenance, delivered the child to her mother,
and went off to his hut without uttering a word. The council
immediately dissolved itself and retired humiliated.
It was during one of Zeppa's occasional absences that the Ratura tribe
of natives, as before mentioned, decided to have another brush with the
Mountain-men, as they styled their foes.
We are not sure that the word used in the Ratura language was the exact
counterpart of the words "brush" and "scrimmage" in ours, but it meant
the same thing, namely, the cutting of a number of throats, or the
battering in of a number of human skulls unnecessarily.
Of course there was a _casus belli_. There always is among savage as
well as civilised nations, and it is a curious coincidence that the
reasons given for the necessity for war are about as comprehensible
among the civilised as the savage. Of course among civilised nations
these reasons for war are said to be always good. Christians, you know,
could not kill each other without _good_ reasons; but is it not strange
that among educated people, the reasons given for going to war are often
very much the reverse of clear?
The origin of the war which was about to be revived, besides being
involved in the mists of antiquity, was somewhat shrouded in the clouds
of confusion. Cleared of these clouds, and delivered from those mists,
it would have been obviously a just--nay, even a holy war--so both
parties said, for they both wanted to fight. Unfortunately no living
man could clear away the clouds or mists; nevertheless, as they all saw
plainly the exceeding righteousness of the war, they could not in
honour, in justice, or in common sense, do otherwise than go at it.
At some remote period of antiquity--probably soon after the dispersion
at Babel--it was said that the Mountain-men had said to the Raturans,
that it had been reported to them that a rumour had gone abroad that
they, the men of Ratura, were casting covetous eyes on the summit of
their mountain. The Raturans replied that it had never entered into
their heads either to covet or to look at the summit of their mountain,
but that, if they had any doubts on the subject, they might send over a
deputation to meet a Ratura deputation, and hold a palaver to clear the
matter up.
The deputations were sent. They met. They palavered for about
half-an-hour with an air of sententious sincerity, then the leading
chief of the mountaineer deputation cracked the crown of the leading
chief of the Raturan deputation, and the two deputations spent the
remainder of that day in fighting. Reinforcements came up on both
sides. The skirmish became a pitched battle. Blood was shed lavishly,
heads were broken beyond repair, and women, coming to the help of the
men with the baskets of stones, were slain in considerable numbers, as
well as little children who had an inconvenient but not uncommon habit
of getting in the way of the combatants. At last the Raturans were
driven into the impregnable swamps that bordered part of their country;
their villages and crops were burned, and those of their women and
children who had not escaped to the swamps were carried into slavery,
while the aged of both sexes were slaughtered in cold blood.
It was a complete victory. We are inclined to think that the
Mountain-men called it a "glorious" victory. Judging from the world's
history they probably did, and the mountain women ever afterwards were
wont to tell their little ones of the prowess of their forefathers--of
the skulls battered in and other deeds of heroism done--in that just and
reasonable war!
As centuries rolled on, the old story came to be repeated again, and
over again, with slight variations to suit the varying ages. In
particular it came to be well understood, and asserted, that that
unconquerable desire of the Raturans to take possession of the
mountain-top was growing apace and had to be jealously watched and
curbed.
In one of the centuries--we are not sure which--the Raturan savages made
some advances into their swampy grounds and began to improve them. This
region lay very remote from the Mountain-men's villages, but, as it
approached the mountain base in a round-about manner, and as the
mountain-tops could be distinctly seen from the region, although
well-nigh impassable swamps still lay between the reclaimed lands and
the mountain base, these advances were regarded as another _casus
belli_, and another war was waged, with practically the same results--
damage to everybody concerned, and good to no one.
Thus was the game kept up until the chief Ongoloo began to strut his
little hour upon the stage of time.
There are always men, savage as well as civilised, in every region and
age, who march in advance of their fellows, either because of
intellectual capacity or moral rectitude or both. Ongoloo was one of
these. He did not believe in "war at any price." He thought it
probable that God lived in a state of peace, and argued that what was
best for the Creator must naturally be best for the creature.
He therefore tried to introduce a peace-policy into Sugar-loaf Island.
His efforts were not successful. The war-party was too strong for him.
At last he felt constrained to give in to the force of public opinion
and agreed to hold an unarmed palaver with the men of Ratura. The
war-at-any-price party would have preferred an armed palaver, but they
were overruled.
The Raturans chanced at this time to be in somewhat depressed
circumstances, owing to a sickness which had carried off many of their
best warriors and left their lands partly waste, so that their finances,
if we may so express it were in a bad condition.
"Now is our chance--now or never," thought the war-party, and pushed
matters to extremity.
On the day appointed for the palaver, one of the most pugnacious of the
Mountain-men got leave to open the deliberations.
"You're a low-minded, sneaking son of an ignorant father," he said to
the spokesman of the Raturans.
"You're another," retorted his foe.
Having disposed of these preliminary compliments, the speakers paused,
glared, and breathed hard.
Of course we give the nearest equivalent in English that we can find for
the vernacular used.
"You and your greedy forefathers," resumed the Mountain-man, "have
always kept your false eyes on our mountain-top, and you are looking at
it still."
"That's a lie," returned the man of Ratura with savage simplicity.
Had they been armed, it is probable that the palaver would have closed
abruptly at this point.
Seeing that the relations between the parties were "strained" almost to
the breaking-point, one of the less warlike among the Ratura chiefs
caught his own spokesman by the nape of the neck, and hurled him back
among his comrades.
"We have _not_, O valiant men of the Mountain," he said, in a gentle
tone, "looked upon your hill-tops with desire. We only wish to improve
our swamps, increase our sweet-potato grounds, and live at peace."
"That is not true," retorted the fiery Mountain-man, "and we must have a
promise from you that you will let the swamps alone, and not advance one
step nearer to the top of our mountain."
"But the swamps are not yours," objected the other.
"No matter--they are not yours. They are neutral ground, and must not
be touched."
"Well, we will not touch them," said the peaceful Raturan.
This reply disconcerted the fiery mountaineer, for he was anxious to
fight.
"But that is not enough," he resumed, as a bright idea struck him, "you
must promise not even to _look_ at our mountain."
The man of Ratura reflecting how ill able his tribe was to go to war
just then, agreed not even to _look_ at the mountain!
"More than that" resumed the mountaineer, "you must not even wink at
it."
"We will not even wink at it," replied his foe. "Still further,"
continued the warlike mountaineer in sheer desperation, "you must not
even _think_ of it."
"We will not _think_ of it" answered the accommodating man of Ratura.
"Bah! you may go--you peace-loving cowards," said the disappointed
mountaineer, turning on his heel in bitter disappointment.
"Yes, you may go--in peace!" said Ongoloo with sententious gravity,
waving his band grandly to the retiring men of Ratura, and walking off
with an air of profound solemnity, though he could not help laughing--in
his arm, somewhere, as he had not a sleeve to do it in.
But the Raturans did not go in peace. They went away with bitter
animosity in their hearts, and some of them resolved to have a brush
with their old foes, come what might.
Savages do not, as a rule, go through the formality of declaring war by
withdrawing ambassadors. They are much more prone to begin war with
that deceptive act styled "a surprise."
Smarting under the taunts of their foes, the Raturans resolved to make
an attack on the enemy's village that very night, but Ongoloo was more
than a match for them. Suspecting their intentions, he stalked them
when the shades of evening fell, heard all their plans while concealed
among the long grass, and then, hastening home, collected his warriors.
It chanced that Zeppa had returned from one of his rambles at the time
and was lying in his hut.
"Will you come out with us and fight?" demanded Ongoloo, entering
abruptly.
The mention of fighting seemed to stir some chord which jarred in
Zeppa's mind, for he shook his head and frowned. It is possible that,
if the savage had explained how matters stood, the poor madman might
have consented, but the chief had not the time, perhaps not the will,
for that. Turning quickly round, therefore, he went off as abruptly as
he had entered.
Zeppa cared nothing for that. Indeed he soon forgot the circumstance,
and, feeling tired, lay down to sleep.
Meanwhile Ongoloo marched away with a body of picked men to station
himself in a narrow pass through which he knew that the invading foe
would have to enter. He was hugely disgusted to be thus compelled to
fight, after he had congratulated himself on having brought the recent
palaver to so peaceful an issue. He resolved, however, only to give his
enemies a serious fright, for he knew full well that if blood should
flow, the old war-spirit would return, and the ancient suspicion and
hatred be revived and intensified. Arranging his plans therefore, with
this end in view, he resolved to take that peaceful, though thieving,
humorist Wapoota, into his secret councils.
Summoning him, after the ambush had been properly arranged and the men
placed, he said,--"Come here, you villain."
Wapoota knew that Ongoloo was not displeased with him by the nature of
his address. He therefore followed, without anxiety, to a retired spot
among the bush-covered rocks.
"You can screech, Wapoota?"
"Yes, chief," answered the ex-thief in some surprise, "I can screech
like a parrot the size of a whale."
"That will do. And you love peace, like me, Wapoota, and hate
bloodshed, though you love thieving."
"True, chief," returned the other, modestly.
"Well then, listen--and if you tell any one what I say to you, I will
squeeze the eyes out of your head, punch the teeth from your jaws, and
extract the oil from your backbone."
Wapoota thought that this was pretty strong for a man who had just
declared his hatred of bloodshed, but he said nothing.
"You know the rock, something in shape like your own nose, at the foot
of this pass?" said Ongoloo.
"I know it, chief."
"Well, go there; hide yourself, and get ready for a screech. When you
see the Ratura dogs come in sight, give it out--once--only once,--and if
you don't screech well, I'll teach you how to do it better afterwards.
Wait then till you hear and see me and my men come rushing down the
track, and _then_ screech a second time. Only once, mind! but let it be
long and strong. You understand? Now--away!"
Like a bolt from a crossbow Wapoota sped. He had not been in hiding two
minutes when the Ratura party came stealthily towards the rock before
mentioned. Wapoota gathered himself up for a supreme effort. The head
of the enemy's column appeared in view--then there burst, as if from the
bosom of silent night, a yell such as no earthly parrot ever uttered or
whale conceived. The very blood in the veins of all stood still. Their
limbs refused to move. Away over the rolling plain went the horrid
sound till it gained the mountain where, after being buffeted from cliff
to crag, it finally died out far up among the rocky heights.
"A device of the Ratura dogs to frighten us," growled Ongoloo to those
nearest him. "Come, follow me, and remember, not a sound till I shout."
The whole party sprang up and followed their chief at full gallop down
the pass. The still petrified Raturans heard the sound of rushing feet.
When Wapoota saw the dark forms of his comrades appear, he filled his
chest and opened his mouth, and the awful skirl arose once again, as if
to pollute the night-air. Then Ongoloo roared. With mingled surprise
and ferocity his men took up the strain, as they rushed towards the now
dimly visible foe.
Savage nerves could stand no more. The Raturans turned and fled as one
man. They descended the pass as they had never before descended it;
they coursed over the plains like grey-hounds; they passed through their
own villages like a whirlwind; drew most of the inhabitants after them
like the living tail of a mad comet, and only stopped when they fell
exhausted on the damp ground in the remotest depths of their own dismal
swamps.