[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 132.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JULY 10, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
‘CHOP’ WITH KING JA-JA.
Rumours of war came floating down the Bonny river to the traders at
its mouth. The oil-canoes which came sluggishly alongside the towering
black hulks brought whispers of solemn palavers and Egbo meetings in
the recesses of the far river reaches; and the long black war-canoes
of the Bonny chiefs, with their forty or fifty little black slave-boy
rowers, were manœuvring every day with an amount of shrieking and
yelling out of all proportion to the result attained. Will Braid
and Yellow, two mighty black chiefs, were understood to be in open
rebellion against their lawful sovereign, King Amachree of New Calabar.
Forts of mud and wattles had been thrown up on the New Calabar river,
and Gatling guns and other gruesome instruments had been mounted
thereon, and the two recalcitrant niggers were having a high good time
of it challenging the universe at large to mortal combat, and, what was
of much more importance, stopping the all-dominating palm-oil trade on
the New Calabar river. The puissant kingdom of Bonny, too, next door,
was supposed to be mixed up in the quarrel, and was lending more or
less overt assistance to the rebellious chiefs, and things were tending
generally to one of those lingering, little, all-round wars which so
delight the West African nigger, and so sorely afflict the unfortunate
white or rather yellow traders who wear out their few years of life on
hulks at the mouths of the fever-breeding oil-rivers.
At this juncture, the great king-maker, righter of wrongs, and
arbitrator-in-chief, Her Majesty’s Consul-general at Fernando Po, was
invoked; and the result was the convocation of the greatest ‘palaver’
that had taken place for years, on board the big hulk _Adriatic_ in
the Bonny river. One by one the long war-canoes shot alongside, the
glistening brown backs of the long line of rowers bending like one
great machine to the rhythm of their shrill song, and the swish and dig
of their paddles in the green water. One by one the gorgeous beings
who sat on a raised platform in the centre of each canoe emerged from
under the great umbrellas that covered them, and took their places on
the quarter-deck of the hulk. They were a motley lot to look upon,
these owners of thousands of their fellow-men, many of them decked up
for the occasion with gaudy, ill-fitting European garments, but mostly
wearing bright plush waistcoats, high hats, and what is called a fathom
of cloth round their loins, this fathom of cloth being two large-sized,
brilliant-patterned cotton handkerchiefs joined together.
A table covered with the union-jack was placed upon the quarter-deck,
under the penthouse roof of the hulk, at which sat the British consul
in his war-paint, surely the best of good fellows and finest of
officers. Poor fellow! He never wore his war-paint again, as the sequel
will show. On each side of the consul sat a wandering M.P. and myself
as visitors; and next to us, again, sat Captain Barrow, the secretary
of the governor of the Gold Coast, who was down here to prepare for a
Niger recruiting expedition; and Captain Von Donop of Her Majesty’s
ship _Decoy_, whose orders would not allow him to bring his ship into
the pestilent river, but who came in himself, accompanied by two black
Houssa troops. In a semicircle in front of us sat the Bonny chiefs;
and similarly behind us were ranged the New Calabar chiefs, most of
whom carried a large portion of their wealth round their necks in the
form of enormous coral beads, of almost fabulous value, and some of
whom had their arms literally covered with beautiful ivory bangles. In
advance of the Bonny-men sat King George, a fine, tall, well-educated
young negro, well known in London, and a very favourable specimen of
his race, but an utter cipher in his so-called kingdom; a well-dressed
and well-behaved enough young oil-merchant, but, from a regal point of
view, a decided fraud, as his father was before him.
It had been proposed that the neighbouring King Ja-Ja of Opobó should
act as arbitrator in the dispute, which was really between Bonny
and New Calabar, the insurgent Will Braid and Yellow being quite
powerless to resist their sovereign without the Bonny-men’s assistance;
and across the thick yellow haze and sheets of falling rain, which
blurred the endless vista of mangrove swamps, we all stretched our
eyes to watch for the arrival of King Ja-Ja. But Ja-Ja had once, and
not so long ago, been a Bonny chief himself; and after many years of
fierce warfare with his great rival, the mighty Oko Jumbo, had slipped
away one night in the dark with all his people, his wives, and his
riches, and founded a kingdom for himself a few miles away on the
Opobó river, where he had waxed rich and powerful; so the wily old
Ja-Ja thought it wisest to avoid the reaches of the Bonny, even with
the king-making consul as his friend, for who could tell whither the
far-reaching vengeance of the dread Oko might extend? So Ja-Ja sent a
very diplomatic message, saying he had mistaken the day, and hoped to
see the consul next week to talk over the matter at Opobó.
The consul began by stating the case—that he could not allow trade
to be stopped by this war, and severely took the Bonny-men to task
for helping the rebels to withstand King Amachree, their lawful
sovereign—and a great deal more to the same effect, which, being
interpreted by the king of Bonny, produced a very depressing effect
on gentlemen in front of us, and a most liberal display of ivories
and broad smiles from the potentates in our rear. The Bonny-men were
ill at ease, and many and many a time their opal eyeballs strained
across the yellow mist and falling torrents as their king began, sadly
and apologetically, albeit in good English, to reply to the consul’s
scolding; for the greatest of all Bonny-men, before whom King George
is but a puppet—the overpowering Oko Jumbo—had not arrived, and the
Bonny-men saw how hopeless was their case with the great white consul
against them and their own champion absent.
But suddenly, as the king was speaking, came faintly at first, through
the wet sickly air, the shrill song of the paddlers, and a cry went
up from the Bonny-men, and many a dusky finger pointed to where Oko’s
canoe, with its sixty rowers and its ostrich feathers at the prow, came
swiftly gliding over the waters. The king ceased speaking with a sigh
of relief; and soon the master of Bonny stepped on the hulk’s deck. A
grand old pagan of the bygone school is Oko Jumbo, tall and strong,
with a fine handsome face and powerful head, with very little attempt
at European dress, or indeed dress of any sort, although his two sons,
who reside mostly in England, are civilised gentlemen.[1] Oko, in a few
trenchant words, closed the business for the day. He would undertake to
produce the two rebel chiefs on board the hulk on the next Thursday,
if the white consul would guarantee the attendance of King Ja-Ja the
arbitrator, all things in the meantime to remain _in statu quo_. Of
course everybody knew that one promise was as improbable of fulfilment
as the other; but a palaver which comes to a definite conclusion at a
first, second, or even third sitting would be against all precedent, so
both sides were satisfied, and the high contending parties adjourned
for refreshment, amidst much friendly snapping of fingers and other
strange rites.
Early next morning, the little steam launch _Ewaffa_ started from Bonny
to convey the consul, his secretary, and myself to visit the domains
of Ja-Ja. A broad river stretches on either side of us, the waters of
which are thick and green with the rotting slime of myriads of fallen
leaves. The banks are not of land, but a dense jungle of trees growing
down into the water, and dropping long suckers from their outstretched
arms to form fresh trees. The roots of this jungle intercept as in a
net the mud and slime and vegetable débris brought down by the river,
and in course of time the inner parts of the jungle become sufficiently
solid to afford footing for crocodiles and hippopotami, but quite
impenetrable to human beings, the outskirts of the jungle being always
comparatively new trees, growing dense and rank in the water itself,
and interlaced thickly with great, strong, green hanging creepers,
upon which swing and chatter the mangrove monkeys. As we steam up the
river and across its numerous branches, no sound but the shrill chirp
of these monkeys breaks the oppressive stillness. Now and again the
black snout of a hippopotamus shows out of the thick ooze on the banks,
or a motionless crocodile is seen basking in the sun. Occasionally, a
long, low canoe glides noiselessly by; the boat, rower, and paddles
all jet black, and hardly visible against the dark-green background of
impenetrable jungle. The air is soft and sickly, with a whiff now and
then of unutterable nastiness. The great fierce sun casts a yellow,
all-pervading, hazy glare on the thick water, which is covered with a
festering scum of miasmatic air-bubbles.
After some monotonous hours of this unvarying prospect, with a rare
glimpse of the far-away sea through some of the maze of creeks, we
suddenly stick fast in the mud. Oh, those three hours! Our nude crew of
fine stalwart Krooboys up to their waist in water pushing and tugging;
the screw of the launch stirring up the horrors at the bottom, and the
blistering sun on the fetid water, made up an ensemble I shall never
forget. And so we dragged on all the weary day, now sticking fast, now
going on a few miles, the consul’s secretary already down with fever;
past several batteries of Gatling guns mounted upon canoes moored
across the mouths of creeks, and past the river and town of Andony,
with its little mud battery and six-pounder Krupp guns, until, turning
sharply the corner of an island of jungle, we find ourselves in the
Opobó river, with the distant sea and the white men’s hulks on the
horizon. Soon we come to an inlet in the dense mass of verdure, and,
passing the mournful wrecks of two hulks half submerged in the muddy
ooze, we land, carried on the stalwart shoulders of our Krooboys to a
little sandy gully, and are received by about three-quarters of the
population of Ja-Ja’s kingdom, with perhaps a dozen yards of clothing
amongst the lot. Some old muzzle-loading guns, nine and eighteen
pounders, of obsolete pattern, were scattered about, half buried in the
deep white sand, unused and unusable. Inward, following the course of
the gully, was what may be called the main street of the town, although
no attempt was made at uniformity, the houses, such as they were,
merely mud and palm-leaf huts, being scattered at random under and
amidst the great palms and india-rubber trees. Followed at a respectful
distance by the male portion of the crowd, the females being generally
rather shy of white men, and apparently desirous of hiding behind tree
trunks and peeping round at us from afar, we advanced up the gully to
the interior of the town.
Ja-Ja is a most fanatical fetich-man, and signs of his paganism were
to be seen at every few steps in the numerous ju-jus on our way. These
ju-jus may, and do, assume any shape, and the most unlikely objects
may be made sacred by their dedication, although no information is
obtainable with regard to the exact rites practised or the supposed
uses of the ju-jus. Idols in the usually accepted sense of the word
they certainly are not, but rather things set apart for the worship of
unseen spirits, or dedicated to the honour of a certain supposed god.
A very common ju-ju, and, as it happened, the first one that met our
eyes in Opobó, is a white hen cruelly nailed up alive to the top of a
pole and left to starve and flutter to death. Then, in succession, we
saw a grotesque human figure of yellow clay surmounted by an ox-skull,
and covered with a penthouse roof of thatch; a miscellaneous collection
of bones in a suspended grass cradle; a conical mound of yellow clay
daubed and decorated with colour, and stuck all over with cocks’
feathers; a Bass’s beer-bottle on the top of a white pole; and so on
_ad infinitum_. The great ju-ju house itself is much smaller than the
celebrated building of human skulls at Bonny, and is a conical mud
building with a high thatch roof, surmounted by an ox-skull, and lined
with human skulls in the usual artistic, West African fashion.
Wading up to our ankles in mud through the rank dense vegetation, and
passing a primitive forge, where four swart negroes were making nails
on a stone anvil with a stone hammer, their forge bellows being two
sheepskins worked alternately by a man with two short sticks, as if
he were playing on a pair of kettledrums—such a bellows and forge, in
fact, as you may see any day on the Egyptian hieroglyphics—we caught
sight of King Ja-Ja coming to meet us. A brilliant-coloured umbrella
was held over his head by an attendant, and, as usual with African
chiefs, he was followed by quite a crowd of evil-looking rapscallions
of all ages and in all states of undress, carrying a perfect museum
of obsolete arms, the staff of state, like a beadle’s mace, and other
paraphernalia. Ja-Ja is a fine-looking old savage, as black as polished
ebony, with hair like silver, and was in full dress to receive us—a red
flannel shirt, worn as usual with the tails loose, embroidered most
elaborately with the imperial French arms, and plentifully besprinkled
with _N_s and _E_s, the Napoleonic bees, and other emblems of a bygone
dynasty in France. This was the king’s only garment, except the usual
bandana loincloth of two uncut handkerchiefs.
Ja-Ja received his great patron the consul with much finger-snapping
and other signs of friendship, and led the way to his house. The outer
wall of his compound, which incloses some three acres of ground, is
formed by the huts of his slaves and people, the whole place reeking
with filth beyond all European imagination. In the centre of the
compound stands a fetich india-rubber tree, with a ju-ju hut under
it; and near it is built the house inhabited by some of Ja-Ja’s
favourite wives; the palace itself being at the end of the compound,
and overlooking all. It is a gaudily painted wooden building, raised
on piles some eight feet high, and surrounded by a veranda. The house,
a new one, is the pride of old Ja-Ja’s heart, and was constructed by
negro workmen from the British settlement at Accra. It is furnished
with a desperate attempt at European style; but the whole effect
is absurdly incongruous with the nude or semi-nude male and female
servitors, and the evident uneasiness of Ja-Ja himself amongst his
civilised surroundings. In the corner of the principal parlour,
which leads straight from the veranda, is a most gorgeous red and
gold throne, with a liberal allowance of crowns, sceptres, orbs, and
‘King Ja-Jas’ scattered on every coign of vantage; and on its topmost
pinnacle is stuck jauntily an absurd conical hat like a fool’s-cap,
with enormous feather-like ears on each side of it, with which
head-dress the king volunteered the statement that he had been ‘making
ju-ju’—whatever that might mean.
I was trying hard, but unsuccessfully, to make out Ja-Ja’s
extraordinary attempts at pigeon-English, when from the adjoining room
came a female voice, which partly explained the attempts I had noticed
at European furnishing.
‘O yas, sah,’ said the voice, with the comical affectation and
bombastic intonation of the civilised nigger—‘O yas, sah, I’se berry
seedy, sah; I’se miscalkerlated de day, sah!’ and thereupon Miss Sally
Johnson—‘a Barbadian born, sah!’—sailed into the room, positively
_dressed_ in a flowing cotton gown of most approved fashion; evidently
a very superior person, looking down upon poor Ja-Ja and his people
with much commiseration, and not a little contempt. This lady is
prime-minister, secretary of state, and Ja-Ja’s guide, philosopher,
and friend in all that relates to the ways of the white man; and her
experience and knowledge of all civilised matters are too great to
be questioned within the realms of Opobó. Her initiative with regard
to the gown, however, was not followed, for she was the only person
dressed in the place, unless we so consider the eccentric harlequin
suits of dye upon the children of all ages, and even upon Ja-Ja’s
marriageable daughters, who were plentifully scattered about the
compound. The patterns stained upon the bright sleek brown skins are
in some cases very elaborate and brilliant, and had really a pleasing
effect.
Ja-Ja was rather overcome with the responsibility of entertaining the
consul and his friend at so short a notice, and seemed so distressed
that he had no civilised ‘chop’ to offer us, that we proposed to go
on to the mouth of the river and dine with the white traders in
the hulks, and return on the morrow to a grand ‘chop’ or banquet at
Ja-Ja’s. So the old king brought out some calabashes of _mimbo_ or
palm-wine—which tastes like soap-suds and gin—and, what was more
acceptable, a bottle of very drinkable Rudesheimer, and saw us down to
our boat, followed by all his rabble rout of subjects.
The next morning, in a tropical downpour, we were received at Opobó
with due honour. One of the rusty old guns had been turned right
side uppermost, and was being banged away at a great rate, to the
imminent risk of everybody within a hundred yards of it. Ja-Ja, with
a largely reinforced guard of more truculent-looking ragamuffins than
ever, awaited us on the beach. Tom-toms and horns vied in their din
with the shrieks, yells, and howls with which the untutored subjects
of Ja-Ja honoured their monarch’s guests. In the principal room of
the palace we found the table laid for our repast, and Miss Johnson
was continually changing from the languid super-fine importance of
the reception-room to the fierce invective and stern command of the
kitchen, or back again, as circumstances required. It required several
applications of severe corporal punishment to the wretched slaves—to
judge from the howls we heard when any hitch occurred—before what is
termed the ‘chop’ was served. Neither beef nor mutton can be reared
on this pestilent coast, so the choice of viands is not large; but
what was wanting in variety was made up in quantity. Kids stewed and
roasted whole, great fish, and fowls enough for a ship’s company, were
served up, all in great clay bowls, and all made into ‘palm-oil chop,’
the prevailing dish of the coast. This is a sort of greasy curry, made
with many spices and the finer parts of the palm-oil, very trying to
European stomachs unaccustomed to such delicacies. Mimbo, again, was
the principal drink, and Ja-Ja pledged us all in mimbo many a time
and oft; but although I can stand palm-oil _or_ mimbo, I cannot stand
palm-oil _and_ mimbo, so contented myself with a beverage at once less
soap-suddy and less intoxicating. Ancient steel knives and forks were
produced with an air of proud superiority by Miss Johnson for our use;
but Ja-Ja, although he made a timid attempt to use them too, soon gave
it up as a dangerous experiment, and took to his fingers with a sigh of
relief, handing us out the titbits, moreover, by the same medium.
The redoubtable guard flocked round the veranda, and scrambled to
every point where a view of our extraordinary proceedings could be
gained, and an aggregate of acres of ivories saluted each movement of
the wonderful white men who can do everything. Doors and windows were
darkened by grinning happy brown faces, and the crowd of servitors
within the room were envied mortals indeed. Ja-Ja himself was served
by the heir-apparent or heir-presumptive of his swampy kingdom; but it
is wonderful how little difference there is between heirs-apparent and
common clay when there is no tailor to accentuate it. The consul seeing
the king in so good a temper, broached the subject of a mission-school
to be established at Opobó, which Ja-Ja had always refused; but on this
occasion he not only promised to allow it, with effusion, but offered
to build the house at his own expense. All being arranged about the
next palaver at Bonny, which Ja-Ja promised to attend personally or by
proxy, we took our leave with many presents and words of good-will.
Of our tedious, sickly journey back to Bonny, I say nothing here, only
that in it our brave, great-hearted consul, as true an Englishman as
ever breathed, caught the deadly fever he had defied so long. The next
morning, I found him yellow and delirious; and in three days he died,
one more sacrifice of England’s brightest and best to the insatiable
fever-fiend of the West Coast.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] One of these sons died since this was written, and left an English
wife and family.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
That same afternoon, Rosina Fleming met Isaac Pourtalès, hanging about
idly below the shrubbery, and waiting to talk with her, by appointment,
about some important business she had to discuss with him of urgent
necessity.
‘Isaac, me fren’,’ Rosina began in her dawdling tone, as soon as they
had interchanged the first endearments of negro lovers, ‘I send for you
to-day to ax you what all dis talk mean about de naygur risin’? I want
to know when dem gwine to rise, an’ what dem gwine to do when dem done
gone risen?’
Isaac smiled a sardonic smile of superior intelligence. ‘Missy Rosie,
sweetheart,’ he answered evasively, ‘le-ady doan’t understand dem ting
same as men does. Dis is political business, I tell you. Le-ady doan’t
nebber hab no call to go an’ mix himself up along wit politic an’
political business.’
‘But I tellin’ you, Isaac, what I want for to know is about de missy.
Mistah Delgado, him tell me de odder ebenin’, when de great an’
terrible day come, de missy an’ all gwine to be murdered. So I come for
to ax you, me fren’, what for dem want to go an’ kill de poor little
missy? Him doan’t nebber do no harm to nobody. Him is good little
le-ady, kind little le-ady. Why for you doan’t can keep him alive an’
let him go witout hurtin’ him, Isaac?’
Pourtalès smiled again, this time a more diabolical and sinister smile,
as though he were concealing something from Rosina. ‘We doan’t gwine to
kill her,’ he answered hastily, with that horrid light illumining once
more his cold gray eyes. ‘We gwine to keep de women alive, accordin’ to
de word ob de holy prophet: “Have dey not divided de prey? To ebbery
man a damsel or two: to Sisera, a prey ob divers colours.” What dat
mean, de divers colours, Rosie? Dat no mean you an’ de missy? Ha, ha,
ha! you an’ de missy!’
Rosina started back a little surprised at this naive personal effort of
exegetical research. ‘How dat, Isaac?’ she screamed out angrily. ‘You
lub de missy! You doan’t satisfied wit your fren’ Rosie?’
Isaac laughed again. ‘Ho, ho!’ he said; ‘dat make you jealous, Missy
Rosie? Ha, ha, dat good now! Pretty little gal for true, de missy! You
tink me gwine to kill him when him is so pretty?’
Rosina gazed at him open-eyed in blank astonishment. ‘You doan’t must
kill him,’ she answered stoutly. ‘I lub de missy well meself for true,
Isaac. If you kill de missy, I doan’t nebber gwine to speak wit you no
more. I gwine to tell de missy all about dis ting ob Delgado’s, I tink,
to-morrow.’
Isaac stared her hard in the face. ‘You doan’t dare, Rosie,’ he said
doggedly.
The girl trembled and shuddered slightly before his steady gaze. A
negro, like an animal, can never bear to be stared at straight in the
eyes. After a moment’s restless shrinking, she withdrew her glance
uneasily from his, but still muttered to herself slowly: ‘I tell de
missy—I tell de missy!’
‘If you tell de missy,’ Pourtalès answered with rough emphasis, seizing
her by the shoulder with his savage grasp, ‘you know what happen to
you? Delgado send evil one an’ duppy to creep ober you in de dead ob
night, an’ chatter obeah to you, an’ tear de heart out ob you when you
lyin’ sleepin’. If you tell de missy, you know what happen to me? Dem
will take me down to de big court-house in Wes’moreland village, sit on
me so try me for rebel, cut me up into little pieces, burn me dead, an’
trow de ashes for rubbish into de harbour. Den I come, when I is duppy,
sit at de head ob your pillow ebbery ebenin’, grin at you, make you
scream an’ cry an’ wish youself dead, till you dribben to trow youself
down de well, or poison youself for fright wit berry ob manchineel
bush!’
This short recital of penalties to come was simple and ludicrous enough
in its own matter, but duly enforced by Isaac’s horrid shrugs and
hideous grimaces, as well as by the iron clutch with which he dug his
firm-gripped fingers, nails and all, deep into her flesh, to emphasise
his prediction, it affected the superstitious negro girl a thousand
times more than the most deliberately awful civilised imprecation
could possibly have done. ‘You doan’t would do dat, Isaac,’ she cried
all breathless, struggling in vain to free her arm from the fierce
grip that held it resistlessly—‘you doan’t would do dat, me fren’. You
doan’t would come when you is duppy to haunt me an’ to frighten me!’
‘I would!’ Isaac answered firmly, with close-pressed lips, inhuman
mulatto-fashion (for when there is a demon in the mulatto nature, it
is a demon more utterly diabolical than any known to either white men
or black men: it combines the dispassionate intellectual power of the
one with the low cunning and savage moral code of the other). ‘I would
hound you to deat’, Rosie, an’ kill you witout pity. For if you tell de
missy about dis, dem will cut your fren’ all up into little pieces, I
tellin’ you, le-ady.’
‘Doan’t call me le-ady,’ Rosina said, melting at the formal address and
seizing his hand penitently: ‘call me Rosie, call me Rosie. O Isaac, I
doan’t will tell de missy, if you doan’t like; but you promise me for
true you nebber gwine to take missy an’ kill him.’
Isaac smiled again the sinister smile. ‘I promise,’ he said, with a
curious emphasis; ‘I doan’t gwine to _kill_ him, Rosie! When I take
him, I no will _kill_ him!’
Rosina hesitated a moment, then she asked shortly: ‘What day you tink
Delgado gwine at last to hab him risin’?’
The mulatto laughed a scornful little laugh of supreme mockery.
‘Delgado’s risin’!’ he cried, with a sneer—‘Delgado’s risin’! You
tink, den, Rosie, dis is Delgado’s risin’! You tink we gwine to risk
our own life, black men an’ brown men, so make Delgado de king ob
Trinidad! Ha, ha, ha! dat is too good, now. No, no, me fren’; dis
doan’t at all Delgado’s risin’! You tink we gwine to hand ober de whole
island to a pack ob common contemptful naygur fellow! Ha, ha, ha!
Le-ady doan’t nebber understand politic an’ political business. _Hé_,
Rosie, I tell you de trut’; when we kill de buckra clean out ob de
island, I gwine meself to be de chief man in all Trinidad!’ And as he
spoke, he drew himself up proudly to his full height, and put one hand
behind his back in his most distinguished and magnificent attitude.
Rosina looked up at him with profound admiration. ‘You is clebber
gentleman for certain, Isaac,’ she cried in unfeigned reverence for his
mental superiority. ‘You let Delgado make de naygur rise; den, when dem
done gone risen, you gwine to eat de chestnut yourself him pull out ob
de fire witout burn your fingers!’
Isaac nodded sagaciously. ‘Le-ady begin to understand politic a
little,’ he said condescendingly. ‘Dat what for dem begin to ax dis
time for de female suffrage.’
Grotesque, all of it, if you forget that each of these childish
creatures is the possessor of a sharp cutlass and a pair of stout
sinewy arms, as hard as iron, wherewith to wield it: terrible and
horrible beyond belief if only you remember that one awful element
of possible tragedy inclosed within it. The recklessness, the folly,
the infantile misapprehension of mischievous children, incongruously
combined with the strength, the passions, the firm purpose of fierce
and powerful full-grown men. An infant Hercules, with superadded
malevolence—the muscles of a gorilla with the brain of a cruel
schoolboy—that is what the uneducated negro is in his worst and ugliest
moments of vindictive anger.
‘You doan’t tell me yet,’ Rosina said again, pouting, after a short
pause, ‘what day you gwine to begin your war ob de delibberance.’
Isaac pondered. If he told her the whole truth, she would probably
reveal it. On the other hand, if he didn’t mention Wednesday at all,
she would probably hear some vague buzzing rumour about some Wednesday
unfixed, from the other conspirators. So he temporised and conciliated.
‘Well, Rosie,’ he said in a hesitating voice, ‘if I tell you de trut’,
you will not betray me?’—Rosie nodded.—‘Den de great an’ terrible day
is comin’ true on Wednesday week, Rosie!’
‘Wednesday week,’ Rosina echoed. ‘Den, on Wednesday week, I gwine to
make de missy go across to Mistah Hawtorn’s!’
Isaac smiled. His precautions, then, had clearly not been unneeded. You
can’t trust le-ady with high political secrets. He smiled again, and
muttered complacently: ‘Quite right, quite right, Rosie.’
‘When can I see you again, me darlin’?’ Rosie inquired anxiously.
Isaac bethought him in haste of a capital scheme for removing Rosina
to-morrow evening from the scene of operations. ‘You can get away
to-morrow?’ he asked with a cunning leer. ‘About eight o’clock at me
house, Rosie?’
Rosie reflected a moment, and then nodded. ‘Aunt Clemmy will do de
missy hair,’ she answered slowly. ‘I come down at de time, Isaac.’
Isaac laughed again. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I doan’t can get away so
early, me fren’, from de political meetin’—dar is political meetin’
to-morrow ebenin’ down at Delgado’s; but anyhow, you wait till ten
o’clock. Sooner or later, I is sure to come dar.’
Rosina gave him her hand reluctantly, and glided away back to the
house in a stealthy fashion. As soon as she was gone, Pourtalès flung
his head back in a wild paroxysm of savage laughter. ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ he
cried. ‘De missy, de missy! Ha, ha, I get Rosina out ob de road anyhow.
Him doan’t gwine to tell nuffin now, an’ him clean off de scent ob de
fun altogedder to-morrow ebenin’!’
STATION NO. 4.
Standing at the corner of two unimportant streets, in Philadelphia,
U.S., and having no external features to distinguish it from the
numberless stables and coach-houses in its vicinity, except the words
‘Station No. 4’ painted in large black letters on its gray door, its
unpretentious exterior gives no hint of the marvels to be found within.
Yet, for all its modesty and seeming indifference to appearances,
Station No. 4 is no whit behind its more elaborate fellow-stations in
matters of organisation and interior economy, down to the minutest
details of drill and machinery; and the fine stalwart lads, whose
acquaintance we are about to make, have shown their pluck and training
in many of the most destructive fires which from time to time have
ravaged the Quaker City.
As is usual in America, no order or official introduction is requisite
to insure sightseers a welcome and the fullest explanation of
everything of interest; nor is the application of the ‘silver key’
expected; while the mere fact that the visitor is a foreigner, and
more especially if he prove to be an Englishman, is sufficient to
secure him a hospitable reception and a more than ordinarily courteous
escort. Our rap on the door-panel is instantly followed by the
appearance of a sturdy, good-looking young fellow in a plain uniform
of dark-blue cloth, under whose guidance we are soon deep in the
mysteries of electric signalling, self-adjusting harness, and all the
thousand-and-one ingenious contrivances for time-saving, which have
long since made the American fire-brigades the most efficient in the
world.
We find ourselves in a long narrow building, some forty or fifty feet
in length, and ten or twelve in width. On one side is a staircase
leading to the upper floors; on the other, a narrow gangway, kept clear
of encumbrances, runs from end to end of the building. A wide doorway,
like that of a coach-house, opens upon the main street; and at the
farther end, facing the doorway, are three stalls, in each of which
stands a horse, wearing a blind-halter, but otherwise unencumbered,
and not attached in any way to the stall. A single line of rails is
laid in the floor from end to end, on which rest the wheels of the
engine and hosecart; for, unlike our English machines, the engine does
not carry either the hose itself or the men who work it, a separate
two-wheeled vehicle, something of the build of a small wagonette, being
employed for this purpose. This hosecart stands in front of the engine,
and carries, besides the long coil of tube, all the appliances, such as
axes, ropes, &c., which are likely to be needed at a fire; and a couple
of the portable chemical engines, known as _Extincteurs_, packed away
in boxes beneath the seats. Both engine and hosecart are furnished with
large clear-toned bells, and it is the duty of one of the men to keep
these bells ringing during the whole journey to a fire, as a warning
to all other traffic to leave the car-tracks in the centre of the
street clear for the passage of the engine. The clamour of these bells,
as, in the dead of night, engine after engine rushes at full gallop
through the streets, is one of the most impressive accompaniments
of a great fire, and is a far more effectual means of clearing a
crowded thoroughfare than the shouts of the firemen, so familiar to a
Londoner’s ears.
Having exhausted the hosecart, and shown how carefully all its
equipments are packed so as to combine the minimum of space with the
maximum of availability, our guide passes on to the engine itself, for
which he seems to entertain as much affectionate pride as if it were a
living pet. It stands immediately behind the hosecart, allowing a space
of about three feet between the end of its pole and the back of the
cart. The driving-seat is very high, and gives room for one man beside
the driver, all the rest of the force having their allotted seats in
the cart. The engine itself, a powerful steamer, is as handsome an
object as bright paint and brilliantly polished metal can make it; and
no one, judging from its spick-and-span appearance, would credit it
with the yeoman service it has done in many a conflagration. Beneath
the boiler, the fire is already laid, with wood soaked in coal-oil and
a substratum of highly inflammable ‘kindling,’ ready to spring into a
blaze on the smallest conceivable provocation. The boiler is connected
by a tube with a large stationary boiler in the cellar beneath, and
a constant supply of hot water passes from the latter to the former.
This tube being automatically severed from the engine the instant an
alarm is sounded, and the engine-fire kindled at the same moment, a
sufficient pressure of steam for the pumps is generated long before the
scene of the fire is reached, and so again valuable time is saved.
Our attention is next drawn to the harness, which is suspended from the
ceiling exactly over the places occupied by the horses when attached
to the engine and cart. Great ingenuity is displayed both in the
construction of each part of the trappings and in the mathematical
accuracy with which it adjusts itself to the exact spot of the horse’s
anatomy which it is intended to occupy. The collars are of iron, hinged
at the topmost point, and having a clasp like that of a lady’s bracelet
to close them beneath the horse’s neck. When hanging, they are open to
their full extent; and as they descend upon the horse, they close and
snap by their own weight. The polechains are attached by spring snaps
to the collars, and this is the only part of the harnessing which has
to be done by hand after the alarm sounds. The entire harness for each
vehicle is suspended by a single cord, which merely requires a touch of
the driver’s hand, when he reaches his seat, to adjust and liberate the
whole.
Against the wall, close by the door, and well in view from the foot of
the staircase, are a large gong, a clock, and a glass-covered dial, the
last bearing the numbers which indicate all the sections into which
the city is divided for the purposes of the brigade. At the further
end of the building, as already mentioned, are the horses, clever,
well-trained, serviceable-looking animals, of which our guide has much
to say, his anecdotes and manner of speaking of them showing that
they are as great favourites with the brigade as their engine itself.
The big sturdy fellow on our right, as we stand facing them in their
stalls, does duty between the shafts of the hosecart; the others, a
well-matched pair so far as size and strength go, belonging to the
engine.
As yet, our cicerone is the only member of the force whom we have
seen, the rest being ‘off duty,’ and spending their leisure hours in
the comfortable reading-room on the first floor. But now our guide
disappears for a moment, and presently returns with an older man, whom
he introduces as the superintendent of the station. The latter, after a
few minutes’ chat, in the course of which we manage to pay one or two
well-merited compliments to the American system, volunteers to indulge
us with a private view of the working of the station. Placing us so
as to insure fair-play to the men and horses, and assuring us that no
one in the building but ourselves is in the secret of his intention,
he approaches the gong, and touches a spring which sets the electric
current working. The transformation is instantaneous. The gong sounds
sharply; the doors of the stalls fly open; a whiplash, suspended like
the sword of Damocles over the hosecart horse’s flanks, descends
sharply, and sends him off down the narrow gangway at a swinging trot.
His companions follow, and range themselves in place on either side of
the engine-pole. The harness falls into place obedient to the touch of
the driver, who, with the rest of the men, has glided from the floor
above, and has already swung himself to his seat. Two others clasp the
chains to the collars; and in another instant each stands ready to
mount to his place in the cart the moment the word is given to start.
Glancing at our watches, we see that the whole time since the first
stroke of the gong is exactly _eight seconds_—an almost incredible
illustration of what can be done by perfect organisation and careful
drilling.
The private rehearsal being now at an end, the reverse process follows,
with scarcely less despatch and mechanical regularity; and almost
before we have realised the completeness of the preparations, the
horses are once more in their stalls, the men have returned to their
occupations above-stairs, and the usual orderly aspect of things is
restored, _within one minute_ from the sounding of the alarm. The
superintendent is well pleased with the admiration and applause his
little performance elicits, and now proceeds to point out one or two
minor details which had escaped our notice. He shows that the clock has
stopped—registering the exact moment at which the call sounded—explains
the machinery by which the electric current throws open the doors of
the building and of the horses’ stalls—points out how the precise
locality of the fire is shown by the number of beats on the gong and
by the numbered dial; how the tube which supplies hot water to the
boiler has been closed and disconnected; and finally, conducting us
upstairs to the dormitory, how the gas in the chandelier is turned on
and ignited by an electric spark, so as to avoid delay in case of a
night-alarm.
And so at length, rather exhausted by then having exhausted the
wonders of the place, we bid our friendly guide ‘good-day,’ and once
more find ourselves in the street. Station No. 4 has resumed its
unpretentious aspect, and as we turn away, we can hardly credit that
commonplace exterior with such marvellous contents. It is as if we had
been admitted for a brief space to the Palace of Enchantments of some
fairy tale or Arabian Nights’ story, and it is difficult to realise
that we have only been behind the scenes of one of the hardest-worked
departments of a nineteenth-century police.
Each Company is responsible only for attendance upon calls within
certain fixed limits, except in the case of a general call. But as
every summons rings in every station, the organisation is kept in
perfect order by the frequency of the alarms. In connection with the
fire brigade there is also a Patrol or Salvage Corps, whose quarters
are similarly equipped in all respects; while the arrangements for the
comfort and recreation of the staff are rather better, and the number
of hands employed considerably larger than in the individual stations.
The importance of efficiency in both departments may be judged from the
fact that, as our guide informed us, the calls to actual fires, upon
Station No. 4, average about twenty per month during the long winter
season.
WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.
The very next day the office porter at Thurles & Company—I never heard
who the ‘Company’ was—received orders to go to Bristol on some errand
for the firm, and wait for a packet, which he was to bring back with
him. Thurles & Company had two out-of-door porters or messengers;
but this was the man who attended to the head-clerk’s room, to the
counting-house, and, of course, on Mr Thurles. He went, and I suppose
his employers had written to the Bristol people asking them to keep the
man down there for a while, as he was gone a very long time. In his
absence, another person had to be appointed to perform his duties; and
I may as well say at once that I was the temporary porter, and that
the regular party had been purposely sent away to make room for me.
Dressed in plain brown livery, with brass buttons, wearing a false
pair of whiskers—I shaved quite close in those days—with collar and
tie as much unlike my usual style as could be, without anything like a
caricature, I was not easily to be recognised, even if—as was hardly
probable—some of the clerks had ever seen and known Sergeant Holdrey
of the metropolitan police. There were not many clerks at Thurles &
Company’s, so on the first day of my taking office I knew them all.
My inexperience in my duties occasioned me, and others too, some
inconvenience at first, and would have been much worse but for a little
assistance I derived from a clerk who observed it—a young fellow named
Picknell. I had noticed him when I first went in, and did not like his
looks. He was short and thin, very dark-complexioned like a gipsy,
with eyes that you couldn’t fix, and couldn’t say whether they were
watching you or not; and I never could make up my mind from first to
last as to whether he had or had not a cast in his eye. However, he
took compassion on me, and told me several things which were useful,
and from the first seemed to take an interest in me. Well, on this day
I could do but little. I kept my eyes open; noticed the manner and
style of the clerks, and of the porters as well. These latter had not
been suspected; but they were none the less likely to have been in the
job, and of course I noticed thoroughly the window and its position as
regarded the safe.
Mr Thurles had said the robbery must have been committed by some one
whose appearance was familiar to the people in the neighbourhood,
as he would certainly be noticed; but after seeing the premises, I
did not agree with him. The entry was made in just the way a regular
‘tradesman’ would have done it; but this was no guide, if the place had
been prepared for him.
I went home to think over the matter and to decide what my first move
should be. I was going round a crescent which lay in my road home,
when I was startled by seeing two figures cross the farther end, and,
as they passed under the light of a lamp, I could have sworn that one
was my Winny; the other was a man I could not recognise. I laughed
at the fancy, however, as it was impossible that my girl should be
there; and I had turned down a street which led to my place, when, by a
sudden change of mind, I turned sharply round and went in the direction
where I had seen these persons. But just there the crescent joined a
large and busy thoroughfare, in which it was easy to lose any one; at
anyrate, I could see nothing of them, although I walked first on one
side and then the other for several minutes. Once I thought I saw a
couple resembling them enter a shop, and I hurried up, only to find,
when close to them, that these were not in the least like the persons I
thought I had seen.
This incident disturbed me more than I could account for, and do what I
would, I could not help thinking of it all the way home; and as I put
my key in the door, my heart fluttered in such a way as it had never
done with more serious business. It was an immense relief to me to find
Winny there and my tea waiting for me as usual.
‘What has been troubling you, father?’ she said, as I took off my hat
and coat. ‘You look harassed.’
‘Well, I am a little harassed, Winny. I don’t like being taken from
home again.’ I had determined to say nothing about the crescent
incident, of which I began to feel a trifle ashamed.
I made up my mind to have a nice enjoyable Christmas, for the business
of Thurles & Company was not of the kind to demand my running about
without rest, and, in honest truth, I did not see how I was to begin
anywhere, so a day’s consideration would not hurt it.
We had a quiet day enough. My wife’s brother and his wife came to tea
and supper; as also did Dick Berry, an old comrade—pensioned off like
myself—and his wife. We had a cosy evening; but Winny and I had our
dinner alone. When it was over and I got my pipe, I could not help
thinking of very different times—when my poor wife was alive—always
so cheerful!—when the two boys, who died with the scarlet fever, were
still with us, and when Tom, my other boy, had not gone to Australia.
While I was thinking like this, I caught Winny’s eye fixed on my own,
and I supposed something of the same train of fancy was in her mind,
for she rose from her chair, threw her arms round my neck, and—to my
alarm, as well as my surprise, for she was not a girl to give way—burst
out sobbing.
I was upset for the moment; but rallying, I said: ‘Come, Winny, my
dear! We must keep up a better heart than this. I know you are thinking
of the past; but I would rather you, with all your life before you,
thought of the future.’
For the moment she was worse instead of better for this cheering up,
and I really thought was going to be hysterical; but she rallied
herself with a great effort, and after kissing me again and again,
dried her eyes, and laughed at herself for being so foolish.
We had no fresh outbreak; but, for all that, I was glad when my friends
dropped in and things became more generally cheerful. We had our usual
chat, our game at cards; although Winny was a woman grown, she always
looked for the ‘speculation’ at Christmas, just as she had done when a
child. We had our songs too; but over these, I gave my old friend Dick,
who was a beautiful singer—had been better, I know, but was capital
still—a hint not to make the ballads too sentimental, consequently he
left out _Isle of Beauty_, which was his great favourite, and worth
walking a mile to listen to. So the evening passed off pretty well.
On the next day I was at Mr Thurles’ office again. Being Boxing Day,
there was only one clerk there. It was necessary, it appeared, to keep
the office open; but no particular business was expected to be done.
The clerk on duty was the young man Picknell. He was as pleasant as
before, and quite disposed to make the time pass agreeably, so that the
loss of my holiday should not be so bad after all. He sent out for a
bottle of wine, as on such a day, he said, no one ever came after the
morning; and being, it seemed, of an abstemious turn, he meant it all,
or nearly all, for me. Now, that was kind of him; but, as it happens,
I am abstemious also, and do not care for anything in that way until
the evening. However, to show that I appreciated his kindness, I drank
a glass or two. Also—it was a waste of good liquor, I own—I threw a
little under the grate while he was out of the room. I wanted to please
him, and at the same time to keep my head clear.