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

the hearts of the rebellious. Well did the poor people know what all this foreshadowed. One who was an eye-witness of the scene said, “there was a general howling and wailing, a rushing and running through the streets, as if the town had been attacked by a hostile army.” At last the great square of the city was crowded, as full as it could hold, with hundreds of thousands of people, who were overawed by the presence of a body of troops fifteen thousand strong as they awaited the announcement of the Queen’s pleasure.

Mark Breezy was there, along with his comrades, on an elevated spot near to the place where the Queen’s messenger was to make the proclamation.

“We are utterly helpless here,” said Mark in a low voice, as he gazed in pity on the groaning and swaying multitude. “The Queen’s countenance is changed to me. I feel sure that either we have been betrayed in the matter of Rafaravavy, or we are suspected. Indeed, if it were not that she is ill, and needs my aid, she would certainly banish us all from her dominions.”

“I wish I was well out of ’em,” growled Hockins. “The country is well enough, no doubt, but a woman like that makes it a hell-upon-earth!”

“Has you hear, massa, whar dey hab put Ravonino an’ our oder friends?” asked Ebony.

“No, I did not dare to ask. And even if we knew we could do nothing!”

The youth spoke bitterly, for he had become so much attached to their former guide, and the natives with whom they had sojourned and travelled, that he would have fought for them to the death if that could have availed them. Strong and active young men are apt to become bitter when they find that superabundant energy and physical force are in some circumstances utterly useless. To be compelled to stand by inactive and see injustice done—cruelty and death dealt out, while the blood boils, the nerves quiver, and the violated feelings revolt, is a sore trial to manhood! And such was the position of our three adventurers at that time.

Presently the highest civil and military officers came forth, one of whom, in a loud sonorous voice, delivered the message of his terrible mistress.

After a number of complimentary and adulatory phrases to the Queen herself, and many ceremonial bowings towards the palace, as if she actually heard him, the messenger spoke as follows—

“I announce to you, O people, that I am not a Sovereign that deceives. I find that, in spite of my commands, many of my people revile the idols and treat divination as a trifle, and worship the Christians’ God, and pray, and baptize, and sing—which things I abhor. They are unlawful. I detest them, and they are not to be done, saith Ranavàlo-Manjàka. I will not suffer it. Those who dare to disobey my commands shall die. Now, I order that all who are guilty shall come in classes according to their offences, and accuse themselves of being baptized, of being members of the Church, of having taught slaves to read, and that all books shall be given up.”

As on a previous occasion, many came forward at once and accused themselves, or gave up their Bibles and Testaments; but, as before, others concealed their treasures and held their tongue, although it was evident that on this occasion the Queen uttered no vain threat, but was terribly in earnest.

The proclamation ended, the people dispersed, and Mark and his friends were returning to their quarters when they were arrested by a party of soldiers. As usual, their first impulse was to resist violently, but wisdom was given them in time, and they went quietly along. Of course Mark protested vehemently both in English and in broken Malagasy, but no attention whatever was paid to his words. They were led to a prison which they had not before seen. As they approached the door the sound of singing was heard. Another moment and they were thrust into the room whence the sounds issued, and the door was locked upon them.

At first they could only see dimly, the place was so dark; but in a few seconds, their eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, they could see that a number of other prisoners—both men and women—were seated round the walls singing a hymn. When the hymn ceased an exclamation from a familiar voice made them turn round, and there they saw their friend Ravonino seated on the floor with his back against the wall and chained to Laihova and to the floor. Beside him were several well-remembered natives, and on the opposite side of the room, also chained, were the women of the party, among whom were Ramatoa, Ra-Ruth, Rafaravavy, her maid Sarah, and the poor mother of Mamba.

“Ravonino!” exclaimed Mark, in tones of profound sorrow, as he sat down beside his old guide, “I little thought to find you in such a strait.”

“Even so, sir,” returned the man in a gentle voice, “for so it seems good in His eyes! But still less did I expect to find you in prison—for the way they thrust you in shows me that you are no mere visitor. I fear me, the cruel woman has found out how kind you were in helping me.”

“But surely dar some hope for you! Dey nebber kill you all!” said the negro, waving his hand round as if to indicate the whole party.

“No hope, no hope,” returned Ravonino, sadly, “Not even for you, Ebony, because you are only a black man. But they won’t kill you, sir, or Hockins. They know better than to risk the consequences of putting a British subject to death. For the rest of us—our doom is sealed.”

“If the Lord wills it so,” remarked Laihova, quietly.

“How do you know that the Lord wills it so?” demanded a voice fiercely, and a man who had hitherto sat still with his face buried in his hands looked up. It was the stout chief Voalavo, all whose fun of disposition seemed to have been turned to fury. “You all speak as if you were already dead men! Are we not alive? Have we not stout hearts and strong limbs? While life remains there is hope!”

He leaped up as he spoke and began to wrench at his chain like a maddened tiger, until blood spurted from his wrists and the swollen veins stood out like cords from his neck and forehead. But iron proved tougher than flesh. He sank down, exhausted, with a deep groan—yet even in his agony of rage the strong man murmured as he fell, “Lord forgive me!”

While the men conversed, and Ebony sought to soothe Voalavo, with whom he had strong sympathy most of the poor women opposite were seated in a state of quiet resignation. Some there were, however, who could not bring their minds to contemplate with calmness the horrible fate that they knew too well awaited them, while others seemed to forget themselves in their desire to comfort their companions. Among the timid ones was pretty little Ra-Ruth. Perhaps her vivid imagination enabled her to realise more powerfully the terrors of martyrdom. It may be that her delicately-strung nerves shrank more sensitively from the prospect, but in spite of her utmost efforts to be brave she trembled violently and was pale as death. Yet she did not murmur, she only laid her head on the sympathetic bosom of her queen-like friend Ramatoa, who seemed to her a miracle of strength and resignation.

In a short time the door of the prison opened, and a party of armed men entered with Silver Spear, or Hater of Lies, at their head. An involuntary shudder ran through the group of captives as the man advanced and looked round.

“Which is Razafil?” demanded Hater of Lies.

The poet rose promptly. “Here I am,” he said, looking boldly at the officer. Then, glancing upwards, and in a voice of extreme tenderness, he said, “Now, my sweet Raniva, I will soon join you!”

“Ramatoa—which is she?” said the officer, as his men removed the fetters from the poet and fastened his wrists with a cord.

Ramatoa at once rose up. “I am ready,” she said, calmly. “Now, Ra-Ruth, the Master calls me. Fear not what man can do unto thee.”

“Oh! no, no! do not go yet,” exclaimed Ra-Ruth in an agony of grief, as she clung to her friend. “The good Lord cannot mean this—oh! take me! take me! and let her stay!”

The sentence ended in a low wail, for at the moment two soldiers forced the girls asunder, and Ra-Ruth sank upon the floor, while Ramatoa was led away.

Poor Laihova had watched every movement of Ra-Ruth. It was, no doubt, the fiercest part of the fiery trial he had to undergo; and when the soldier grasped her arms to tear her from her friend he could restrain himself no longer. He sprang up and made a wild leap towards her, but the chain arrested him effectually, and three bayonets were quickly pointed at his breast. His head fell forward, and he sank down like one who had been shot.

Meanwhile Hater of Lies selected Ra-Ruth and twelve others from the group of prisoners, but only the three whom we have mentioned are known to the reader. They were led into an outer room, where they were further pinioned. Some of them had their feet and hands tied together, so that, by thrusting a pole between the legs and arms of each, they could be suspended and carried by two men. Others were allowed to walk to the place of execution. The rage of Ranavalona, however, was so great on finding that the Christians would not submit to her that she had given orders to the soldiers to torture the martyrs with their spears as they marched along the road. This was done to all except Ramatoa and Ra-Ruth, as the blood-stained road bore witness. The comfort of being together was not allowed to the two ladies. They were placed in different parts of the procession.

Mats were thrust into the mouths of the suspended victims to prevent them from speaking, but some of them managed to free their mouths and prayed aloud, while others sang hymns or addressed the crowd. Thus they passed along the road that led to the Place of Hurling Down.

This was a tremendous precipice of granite, 150 feet high. Thither the multitude streamed—some influenced by hatred of the Christians, some by deep sympathy with them, but the majority, doubtless, prompted by mere excitement and curiosity. And there they crowded as near as they dared venture to the edge of the precipice and gazed into the awful gulf.

Slowly the procession moved, as if to prolong the agony of the martyrs. Suddenly a young man pushed through the crowd, advanced to the side of Ramatoa, and grasped one of her hands, exclaiming in a loud voice, “Dearest! I will go with you and stay by you to the end.”

For a moment the calm serenity that had settled on the girl’s fine countenance was disturbed.

“Mamba!” she said, “this is not wise. You cannot save me. It is God’s will that I should now glorify the dear name of Jesus by laying down my life. But you are not yet condemned, and your mother needs your help.”

“Full well do I know that,” returned the youth, fervently. “Were it not for my dear mother’s love and claim on me, I would now have gone with you to heaven. As it is, I will stay by you, dear one, to the end.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” returned the girl, earnestly. “I think it will not be long till we meet where there are no more sufferings or tears.”

Soon the procession reached the brow of the terrible cliff. Here the martyrs were ranged in such a way that, while they were cast over one by one, the rest could see their companions fall.

The first to perish was the poet Razafil. After the Queen’s messenger had pronounced the