The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar by R. M. Ballantyne (the giving tree read aloud .TXT) 📕

“Keep ’im—keep—for me,” said Mamba, anxiously.

“I will do so, if I can, but it may not be possible,” answered Mark.

“Yis, keep—safe. Got ’im for me mudder.”

“You’re a brick,” cried Ebony, enthusiastically grasping the man’s hand, for he had a great love for his own mother, and experienced a gush of sympathy.

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the door, and Mark had barely time to slip the Testament into his coat pocket when Hater-of-lies entered with his silver spear and attendants. Seizing hold of poor Mamba, without uttering a word they led him away.

Hockins instantly followed, and Ebony was about to do the same when Mark laid his hand on his shoulder and checked him.

“What would you do, Ebony?”

“Look arter ’Ockins, massa.”

“Hockins is well able to look after himself. No doubt he has gone to see where they take Mamba to. One pair of eyes is enough for that. Your company would only trouble him.”

A few minutes later the seaman returned with the information that the unfortunate man had been cast into the prison from which they had been so recently released.

At this time the Christians in the island possessed numerous entire copies of the Scriptures, besides a large number of Testaments and Psalms, and books of a religious character, which, having been secreted, had escaped the destruction of previous persecutions. Some of these were now given up and destroyed. Many of the more timid among the natives came forward, as commanded, and accused themselves, thus escaping punishment; but there were others who would neither give up their Bibles nor accuse themselves. Some of these were accused by their slaves, others by their so-called friends and kindred—in some cases falsely.

Next day the Prime Minister came to the Queen and reported that one lady, named Rasalama, who had not accused herself, had been accused by some of her slaves of attending religious meetings.

“Is it possible,” exclaimed the Queen, “that there is one so daring as to defy me? Go, let her be put to death at once!”

The intercession of friends of the accused produced no effect on the Queen, and even the pleading of Prince Rakota failed, in this instance, to do more than delay the execution for a few days.

Meanwhile Rasalama was cast into prison and loaded with chains.

“Is it not strange,” she said to her jailors, “that I should be put in chains, and some of my friends should be sent to perpetual slavery and some killed, though we have done no evil? We have neither excited rebellion, nor stolen the property of any, nor spoken ill of any—yet we are treated thus, and our property is confiscated. It will be wise if the persecutors think what they do, lest they bring on themselves the wrath of God. But I do not fear. When Hater-of-lies came to my house I rejoiced that I was counted worthy to suffer affliction for believing in Jesus.”

When this speech was reported to the judges, Rasalama was ordered to be put into heavier irons and severely beaten. This cruel order was carried out; and after her tender limbs had been additionally weighted, her delicate skin was lacerated with terrible stripes. Yet her fortitude never forsook her. Nay more—through the grace bestowed on her she actually sang hymns in the midst of her torment! Sometimes, indeed, her physical strength failed for a brief space. At other times the song of triumph blended with a wail of agony, but she always recovered to renew the hymn of praise.

Her tormentors were confounded. This was something quite beyond their understanding, and their only solution of the mystery was that she must be under the influence of some powerful charm. Others there were, however, who listened to her triumphant songs, and beheld her calm steadfast countenance with widely different thoughts and feelings.

But the sufferings of this poor creature had not yet terminated. The rage of her persecutors was not yet appeased. Next day the ordinary chains she wore were exchanged for others, consisting of rings and bars fastened around her wrists, knees, ankles, and neck, and these, when drawn together, forced her whole body into a position that caused intense agony—something like that which we have described as having been seen by Mark and his comrades in the same prison-house. In this posture it was impossible to use the voice in song, but, doubtless, she was not even then prevented from making melody in her heart to the Lord, for whose name she suffered so much. All night long was this terrific trial endured, but with the dawn of day came relief, for then the chains were relaxed; and so great was the change that poor Rasalama looked forward to the fate which she knew awaited her with feelings of joy.

That fate was not long delayed. Soon they led her out of the prison, and took the road which conducted towards the southern extremity of the hill on which the city stood, where was the tremendous precipice down which many a criminal and many a Christian martyr had already in Ranavalona’s evil reign been hurled out of Time into Eternity. Yet this was not the gate through which Rasalama was to pass into Paradise. See Note 1.

As she walked along, the poor martyr began again to sing a favourite hymn. When passing the place of worship, at that time closed, she exclaimed, “There have I heard the words of the Saviour.” Hundreds of people accompanied her. Some even ventured to whisper words of comfort to her as she went along, although by doing so they imperilled their own lives, and one young man, utterly regardless of consequences, walked boldly by her side, speaking to her of the Saviour, till the place of execution was reached.

To this spot Mark Breezy and his companions in exile had hastened, for the Secretary had told them that some of the Christians were about to be executed, and a fearful suspicion that their friend Mamba might be among the number impelled them to hasten to the spot with some half-defined intention of interfering in his behalf. For they had gradually, and imperceptibly to themselves, acquired a great liking for the young native, whose earnest, straightforward, yet playful spirit, together with his great kindness to his mother, had deeply impressed them during the brief time they had sojourned together in the forest.

“Will we fight for ’im, massa?” asked Ebony, with anxious looks, as they ran to the place of execution, which was not far-off.

“That would be useless,” answered Mark. “If we were thirty Samsons instead of three ordinary men, we could not overcome the Queen’s army.”

“I’ve half a mind to try,” said Hockins, with something unusually fierce in his expression. “Many a man has run a-muck before now. I’ve got to die once at any rate!”

“And what good would that do to Mamba?” asked Mark. “No, I will try another plan. I have fortunately done service to the Queen in saving the life of her son. If Mamba is to be martyred, I will throw my arms round him and ask the Queen in return to spare the life of my friend.”

They had by that time mingled with the dense crowd that stood on the brow of the precipice of Ambohipotsy to witness the execution. Pushing to the front with breathless anxiety, they were just in time to see Rasalama led forward by two men armed with spears. In front of them was a shallow ditch, and a little further on the brow of the precipice, from which was seen a magnificent prospect of the surrounding country. But no prospect, however sublime, could have attracted the eyes of the three friends just then, for in front of them stood two crosses supporting the bodies of two Christians who had been crucified thereon the day before. Even these, however, lost their horrible power of fascination, when they observed the cheerful holy expression of Rasalama’s countenance as she was led to the edge of the ditch which was to be her grave. The bottom of that grave was already strewn with the bloody remains and the bleaching bones of other martyrs who had preceded her.

The crowd, who had followed the procession with imprecations against the Christians, now ceased to shout.

“Will you allow me a short time to pray?” asked Rasalama of the executioners.

Her request being granted, she kneeled on the rocky ground, clasped her hands, and raised to Heaven a look of calm trustfulness, as she held communion for the last time on earth with her Redeemer.

“Where is the God she prays to that he does not save her now?” whispered some. Others held their peace, but laid these things to heart.

While the poor creature was thus engaged, the two executioners, without warning, thrust their spears deep into her body. It was the custom of these men to plunge the spears into the loins of their victims on each side of the back-bone in such a position that they did not produce immediate death, but allowed the martyrs to tumble into the ditch and writhe there in agony for some time with the spears still sticking in them. Happily, in the case of Rasalama, the thrusts were—either intentionally or accidentally—more effective than usual. After a very brief struggle, her happy soul was set free to be “for ever with the Lord.”

In that ditch her poor mangled body was left to be devoured by the wild dogs that frequent all places in Madagascar where criminals suffer. See Note 2.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed Mark, unable to repress a groan. “Let us quit this accursed spot.”

“Stay, sir, stay,” whispered the sailor at his elbow, “you forget Mamba. More are comin’.”

More martyrs were indeed coming, as the singing of hymns proved.

Close on the heels of Rasalama, a band of nine other Christians were carried to the place of execution, each with his feet and hands tied together and slung on a pole, the ends of which were borne by two men. Straw had been stuffed into their mouths to prevent praying or singing, but several of them, managing to get rid of the straw, burst into the triumphal songs which had attracted the attention of our seaman.

Arrived at the ditch, the victims were asked if they would give up praying to Jesus. In every case the answer was a decided “No!” They were then thrust into the ditch, forced down on their knees, and made to bend forward. While this was being done, the shuddering friends of Mamba perceived that he was not among the martyrs. One by one each unfortunate was stabbed in the loins, close on either side of the back-bone, but not one was terrified into recanting, although by so doing he might have been restored at once to life and liberty. The truth of that word, “As thy days thy strength shall be,” was clearly and wonderfully proved in the case of these sufferers. After all had fallen, their heads were cut off and placed in a row on the edge of the ditch. Five of the nine belonged to one family.

One man who had been reserved to the last, for some reason or other that was net explained, was led to the brow of the precipice, and the same question was put to him that had been put to his fellow-martyrs. From the spot on which he stood he could look down into the awful gulf, a sheer descent of sixty feet first to a place where a ledge projected, and then, a further descent of still greater depth to the bottom, where the ground was covered with rocks and débris from the cliffs.

Unfaltering in courage and allegiance to the Master, his “No!” was distinct and decisive. Next moment he was hurled over. With terrific force he struck the ledge, and it must have been a lifeless body that was finally shattered on the plain below.

As the people immediately began to disperse after this, Mark and his friends hastened sway from the place with an