The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar by R. M. Ballantyne (the giving tree read aloud .TXT) 📕
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“It’s a hard case to be punished for bein’ Christians, when we hardly deserve the name. I can’t help wonderin’,” said the seaman, “that Lovey should have bolted as he did an’ left us in the lurch. He might at least have taken his risk along with us. Anyhow, he could have spoke up for us, knowin’ both lingos. Of course it was nat’ral that, poor Mamba should look after number one, seem that he was in no way beholden to us; but Lovey was our guide, an’ pledged to stand by us.”
“I can’t help thinking,” said Mark, “that you do injustice to Laihova. He is not the man to forsake a comrade in distress.”
“That was my own opinion,” returned the sailor, “till I seed him go slap through yon port-hole like a harlequin.”
“P’r’aps he tink he kin do us more service w’en free dan as a prisoner,” suggested Ebony.
“There’s somethin’ in that,” returned Hockins, lifting his hand to stroke his beard, as was his wont when thoughtful. He lifted it, however, with some difficulty, owing to the heavy chain.
They were still engaged in conversation about their prospects when the prison-door again opened, and two men were ushered in. Both wore white lambas over their other garments. One was tall and very dark. The other was comparatively slender, and not so tall as his companion. For a moment the strangers stood contemplating the prisoners, and Mark’s attention was riveted on the smaller man, for he felt that his somewhat light-coloured and pleasant features were not unfamiliar to him, though he could not call to mind where or when he had seen him. Suddenly it flashed across him that this was the very man to whose assistance he had gone, and whose wounds he had bound up, soon after his arrival in the island.
With a smile of recognition, Mark rose and extended his hand as far as his chain permitted. The young native stepped forward, grasped the hand, and pressed it warmly. Then he looked round at his tall companion, and spoke to him in his own tongue, whereupon the tall man advanced a step, and said in remarkably bad English—
“You save me frind life one taime ago. Ver’ good—him now you save.”
“Thank him for that promise,” said Mark, greatly relieved to find at least one friend among the natives in his hour of need.
“But,” continued the Interpreter, “you muss not nottice me frind nowhar. Unerstand?”
“Oh yes, I think I do,” returned Mark, with an intelligent look. “I suppose he does not wish people to think that he is helping or favouring us?”
“That’s him! you’s got it!” replied the Interpreter, quite pleased apparently with his success in the use of English.
“My!” murmured Ebony to Hockins in an undertone, “if I couldn’t spoke better English dan dat I’d swaller my tongue!”
“Well—good-boy,” said the Interpreter, holding out his hand, which Mark grasped and shook smilingly, as he replied, “Thank you, I’m glad you think I’m a good-boy.”
“No, no—not that!” exclaimed the Interpreter, “good day, not good boy; good-night, good morning! We goes out, me an’ me frind. Him’s name Ravèlo.”
Again Ravèlo shook hands with Mark, despite the rattling chain, nodded pleasantly to him, after the English fashion, and took his departure with his tall friend.
“Well now, I do think,” remarked Hockins, when the door had closed behind them, “that Rav—Ravè-what’s-his-name might have took notice of me too as an old friend that helped to do him service.”
“Hm! he seemed to forgit me altogidder,” remarked the negro, pathetically. “Dere’s nuffin so bad as ingratitood—’cept lockjaw: das a little wuss.”
“What d’ee mean by lockjaw bein’ wuss?” demanded Hockins.
“W’y, don’t you see? Ingratitood don’t feel ‘thankee,’ w’ereas lockjaw not on’y don’t feel but don’t even say ‘thankee.’”
A sudden tumult outside the prison here interrupted them. Evidently a crowd approached. In a few minutes it halted before the door, which was flung open, and four prisoners were thrust in, followed by several strong guards and the execrations of the crowd. The door was smartly slammed in the faces of the yelling people, and the guards proceeded to chain the prisoners.
They were all young men, and Mark Breezy and his friends had no doubt, from their gentle expression and upright bearing, that they were not criminals but condemned Christians.
Three of them were quickly chained to the wall, but the third was thrown on his back, and a complex chain was put on his neck and limbs, in such a way that, when drawn tight, it forced his body into a position that must have caused him severe pain. No word or cry escaped him, however, only an irrepressible groan when he was thrust into a corner and left in that state of torture.
The horror of Mark and his comrades on seeing this done in cold blood cannot be described. To hear or read of torture is bad enough, but to see it actually applied is immeasurably worse—to note the glance of terror and to hear the slight sound of the wrenched joints and stretched sinews, followed by the deep groan and the upward glare of agony!
With a bursting cry of rage, Hockins, forgetting his situation, sprang towards the torturers, was checked by his fetters, and fell with a heavy clang and clatter on the floor. Even the cruel guards started aside in momentary alarm, and then with a contemptuous laugh passed out.
Hockins had barely recovered his footing, and managed to restrain his feelings a little, when the door was again opened and the Interpreter re-entered with the jailor.
“I come—break chains,” said the former.
He pointed to the chains which bound our travellers. They were quickly removed by two under-jailors and their chief.
“Now—com vis me.”
To the surprise of the Interpreter, Mark Breezy crossed his arms over his breast, and firmly said— “No!” Swiftly understanding his motive, our seaman and Ebony followed suit with an equally emphatic, “No!”
The Interpreter looked at them in puzzled surprise.
“See,” said Mark, pointing to the tortured man in the corner, “we refuse to move a step till that poor fellow’s chains are eased off.”
For a moment the Interpreter’s look of surprise increased; then an indescribable smile lit up his swarthy features as he turned to the jailor and spoke a few words. The man went immediately to the curled-up wretch in the corner and relaxed his chains so that he was enabled to give vent to a great sigh of relief. Hockins and Ebony uttered sighs of sympathy almost as loud, and Mark, turning to the Interpreter, said, with some emotion, “Thank you! God bless you! Now we will follow.”
Note 1. The fetters here described may be seen in the Museum of the London Missionary Society in Blomfield Street, London, along with an interesting collection of Malagasy relics.
When Laihova and Mamba took the reckless “headers” which we have described in a former chapter, they tumbled into a court-yard which was used as a sort of workshop. Fortunately for them the owner of the house was not a man of orderly habits. He was rather addicted to let rubbish lie till stern necessity forced him to clear it away. Hence he left heaps of dust, shavings, and other things to accumulate in heaps. One such heap happened to lie directly under the window through which the adventurous men plunged, so that, to their immense satisfaction, and even surprise, they came down soft and arose unhurt.
Instantly they slipped into an outhouse, and there held hurried converse in low tones.
“What will you do now?” asked Laihova.
“I will remain where I am till night-fall, for I dare not show myself all bruised like this. When it is dark I will slip out and continue my journey to the coast.”
“To Tamatave?” asked Laihova, naming the chief seaport on the eastern side of Madagascar.
“Yes, to Tamatave.”
“Do you go there to trade?”
“No. I go on important business.”
It was evident that, whatever his business might be, Mamba, for reasons best known to himself, resolved to keep his own counsel. Seeing this, his friend said—
“Well, I go to the eastward also, for Ravoninohitriniony awaits me there; but I fear that our English friends will be thrown into prison.”
“Do you think so?” asked Mamba, anxiously. “If you think I can be helpful I will give up my important business and remain with you.”
“You cannot help us much, I think. Perhaps your presence may be a danger instead of a help. Besides, I have friends here who have power. And have we not God to direct us in all things? No, brother, as your business is important, go.”
Mamba was evidently much relieved by this reply, and his friend saw clearly that he had intended to make a great personal sacrifice when he offered to remain.
“But now I must myself go forth without delay,” continued Laihova. “I am not well-known here, and, once clear of this house, can walk openly and without much risk out of the city. Whatever befalls the Englishmen, Ravoninohitriniony and I will help and pray for them.”
Another minute and he was gone. Passing the gates without arousing suspicion, he was soon walking rapidly towards the forest in which his friend Ravonino lay concealed.
Meanwhile, Mamba hid himself behind some bags of grain in the outhouse until night-fall, when he sallied boldly forth and made his way to the house of a friend, who, although not a Christian, was too fond of him to refuse him shelter.
This friend was a man of rank and ancient family. The soot hung in long strings from his roof-tree. He was one of “the ancient soot!”
The houses in the city are usually without ceiling—open to the ridge-pole, though there is sometimes an upper chamber occupying part of the space, which is reached by a ladder. There are no chimneys, therefore, and smoke from the wood and grass fires settles upon the rafters in great quantities inside. As it is never cleared away, the soot of course accumulates in course of time and hangs down in long pendants. So far from considering this objectionable, the Malagasy have come to regard it with pride; for, as each man owns his own house, the great accumulations of soot have come to be regarded as evidence of the family having occupied the dwelling from ancient times. Hence the “old families” are sometimes complimented by the sovereign, in proclamations, by being styled “the ancient soot!”
The particular Ancient Soot who accorded hospitality that night to Mamba was much surprised, but very glad, to see him. “Have you arrived?” he asked, with a good deal of ceremonial gesticulation.
“I have arrived,” answered Mamba.
“Safely and well, I hope.”
“Safely and well,” replied Mamba—ceremonially of course, for in reality he had barely arrived with life, and certainly not with a sound skin.
“Come in, then,” said the Ancient Soot. “And how are you? I hope it is well with you. Behold, spread a mat for him, there, one of you. And is it well with you?”
“Well indeed,” said Mamba once again, falsely but ceremonially.
“May you live to grow old!” resumed Soot. “And you have arrived safely? Come in. Where are you going?”
“I’m going yonder—westward,” replied Mamba, with charming conventional vagueness, as he sat down on the mat.
“But it appears to me,” said Ancient Soot, passing from the region of compliment into that of fact, and looking somewhat closely at his friend, “it seems to me that you have been hurt.”
Mamba now explained the exact state of the case,
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