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

If not yet among the martyrs, it was soon evident that Mamba stood a good chance of being among them before long—and that the mother of whom he was so fond, and for the gratification of whose spiritual longings he had risked so much, would probably never receive the Gospel of Peace from his hands.

While in prison under accusation of being a believer in the religion of the white man, he had debated much with himself as to what was his duty in the present distress. Was he bound to confess Christ and take the consequence—which, of course, he knew to be death? To deny Him was out of the question. He at once dismissed that idea as untenable. But was there no other mode of escape? Did not the Word itself advise that when persecuted in one city he was not only entitled but advised to escape to another? “But how am I to escape? Oh God, guide me!” he cried, lifting his clasped hands as he converted the question into a prayer.

The rattling of his chains seemed to bid him dismiss all hope, but he did not lose faith. He continued to pray and meditate. And the longer he meditated the more anxiously did he long to be back in the cave beside his Reni—his humble-minded loving little mother—and beside—yes, he made no attempt to conceal it from himself—beside the beautiful queen-like sister of Laihova. The more he meditated, however, the more hopeless did his case seem to become. To lie he would not—not even to gain Ramatoa. To die he would rather not! To escape he could not!

At last he hit upon an idea. He would refuse to answer. He would take refuge in absolute silence!

As might have been expected, this course of policy did not avail him much. When it was found that he would not say whether he was a Christian or not, it was resolved that the matter should be settled by an appeal to the ordeal of the Tangena.

This used to be a common and much-practised ordeal in Madagascar in days but recently past. It consisted in the administration of poison. Other ordeals existed in the island—such as passing a red-hot iron over the tongue, or plunging the naked arm into a large pot of boiling water and picking out a pebble thrown therein for the purpose of trial. Alas for both innocent and guilty subjected to either trial! But the ordeal most universally in favour was that of the Tangena.

The Tangena is in fact a poisonous nut about the size of a chestnut which derives its name from the tree that bears it. If taken in small doses it acts as an emetic; if in large doses it kills. Many pages would be required to give a full and particular account of all the Malagasy superstitions connected with the ordeal. Let it suffice to say, roughly, that previous to the poison being administered the accused person is obliged to swallow whole, or rather bolt, three pieces of the skin of a fowl, about the size of a dollar. Then the decoction of Tangena in rice-water is administered. If given strong it kills, and the unfortunate is held to have been guilty. If not too strong, and the sufferer be able to bear it, vomiting is the result, and the three pieces of skin are eagerly looked for. The finding of the pieces proves the accused to be innocent. The not finding of them proves him guilty, and at once, if he be a free man, he is killed, if a slave he is sold, and got rid of in some distant market. There was a very complex system of combined profit and superstition surrounding the whole affair which it is difficult as well as useless thoroughly to understand, but which it is easy to see afforded clever scoundrels the means of persecuting, defrauding, or killing any whom they chanced to dislike, or who stood in their way. Of course it was very easy to make the potion strong enough to kill, or to dilute it with rice-water until it became almost harmless.

Now, when Mark Breezy heard that Mamba was condemned to swallow the Tangena he went straight to his friend Rakota.

“Prince Rakota,” he said, earnestly, “if your expressions of gratitude to me are sincere you will save the life of this man.”

“I will try,” returned the Prince, “but the Queen is very angry just now!”

When the Prince pleaded for the man’s life Ranavalona asked of what he was accused.

“Of praying to the Christians’ God.”

“Does he admit the charge?” demanded the Queen sternly.

“No—I believe not.”

“Then, let the Tangena decide. It always speaks the truth. Our ancestors thought so, and I will not change the customs of our ancestors!” said this outrageously conservative queen.

Rakota, however, was a determined man and not easily foiled. Going privately to those who had the management of the matter, he made use of those mysterious arguments with which princes manage to attain their ends, and afterwards told Mark the result, which was, according to Hockins, that, “Mamba’s grog was to be well-watered!” As Mark could do nothing more for his friend he went with his companions to see the result.

There was another man, accused of stealing, who was to be tested at the same time. He was a strong sturdy pugnacious-looking man.

A good deal of ceremonial of course preceded the ordeal. Among other things the poison had to be tested on two fowls. It killed them both and was deemed too strong. Being diluted it was tried on two other fowls, and killed neither. It was therefore considered rather weak. At last, having been reduced to the exact strength which killed one fowl and only sickened the other, the potion was administered to the reputed thief, after a long prayer or invocation. For two hours there was no result, but at the end of that time the pains began, and increased with much violence, yet the man maintained his innocence. His agonies were soon extreme. Amidst his torture he solicited medicine, but this was refused. His bowels, he said, were writhing as if in knots. His groans were awful. His eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets. His countenance assumed a ghastly hue, and his entire frame was convulsed with torture. Then he vomited violently, and, fortunately for him, the three pieces of skin which he had swallowed made their appearance. He was at once pronounced innocent and set free.

Poor Mamba had to witness all this before his own turn came. Once more he was questioned, but continued dumb. Then he was made to swallow his three pieces of skin and to drink the Tangena.

The state of mind of his friends as they watched him after what they had just seen may be conceived but cannot be described. In Mamba’s case the poison acted differently. Being well diluted, its effects, although severe, were not to be compared with those experienced by the first sufferer. Still they were bad enough, and vomiting commenced much sooner. To the great satisfaction of his friends the three pieces of skin were ejected, and Mamba, being pronounced innocent, had his fetters removed and was set free.

But when Mark hastened to congratulate him, what was his surprise to see the poor fellow clasp his hands and raise them to Heaven, while an expression of pain—very different from that resulting from physical suffering—convulsed his features.

“Oh! no, no!” he exclaimed, in a tone of agony, “I am not innocent. I am guilty! guilty! very wicked! I have denied Thee, dear Lord, by my looks, though not with my lips! Forgive me, O God!” Then, turning quickly to the officers of justice, “Here—put on the chains again. I am a praying man! I love the Lord Jesus. He will save you as well as me if you will come to Him!”

As this was spoken in the native language our Englishmen did not understand it, but they had little difficulty in guessing the drift of it when they saw the officers replace the chains and lead Mamba back to prison, where the last words the jailor heard as he left him were, “Mother, mother! Ramatoa! I shall never more see your dear faces in this life—never more!”

But in this Mamba was mistaken, as the sequel will show.

Meanwhile Mark hurried back to the palace and told Rakota what had occurred. The Prince was not surprised. He had mingled much with the Christians, and knew well the spirit by which they were animated. He went at once to the Queen, who was enraged at first by his persistent pleading, vowed that Mamba should die, and gave orders to that effect. But on reconsidering the matter she commuted the sentence into life-long slavery in long chains.

There is usually but brief delay between a sentence and its execution in Madagascar. The very next day heavy chains were riveted on Mamba. These, at one end, were attached to an iron collar round his neck, at the other end to iron rings round his ankles. What sailors would call the slack of these heavy fetters was gathered up in one of the wearer’s hands, and thus carried while he moved about at work.

The poor fellow was first set to work on a piece of road-mending just outside the city gate, with several others—martyrs and criminals—in similar condemnation. And here Mark and his companions met him unexpectedly before they were aware that the fearful punishment had begun.

At the time poor Mamba was toiling with pick and shovel. His heart was almost broken. Death he could have faced without flinching, but to be a life-long slave in galling chains, with the possibility even of seeing his mother and Ramatoa, without being permitted to go near or speak to them, was almost more than he could bear. A deep groan burst from his overcharged breast as he cried, “Oh Lord Jesus, enable me to bear it!”

It was just then that Ebony observed him and uttered a falsetto cry of astonishment.

The Secretary, who was conducting Mark and Hockins on a visit to one of the suburban places of resort, stopped and looked round.

“Dars Mamba, massa!” cried Ebony.

Mark ran to him at once, but was stopped by the guard. A few words from the Secretary, however, sufficed, and Mark was allowed to speak to the slave, which he did through the Secretary.

Despair was in Mamba’s every tone and look, for the crushing calamity was too recent and too tremendous to be borne with equanimity at first. Yet through it all there ran, as it were, a tiny silver thread of hope.

“For is it not true,” he said, “that ‘with God all things are possible?’”

“My friend,” said Mark in reply, and with a burst of enthusiasm, “I will save you somehow! Keep a good heart.”

Mamba smiled faintly, yet gratefully, as he shook his head, gathered up the superfluous links of his chain, and resumed his toil.

“How will you save him?” asked the Secretary, with a peculiar half-amused look, as they walked away.

“I know not,” answered Mark. “But we have a proverb, ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ and I have a determined will to save my poor friend from this slavery. I will not cease to try—as we say in England, ‘I will leave