The Madman and the Pirate by Robert Michael Ballantyne (each kindness read aloud TXT) 📕

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