Читать книгу My Kalulu, Prince, King and Slave - Henry M. Stanley - Страница 7

On the fifteenth day of the sixth month, the members of the last caravan, under the command of Amer bin Osman, were taking farewell of their friends, who had arrived at Bagamoyo from Zanzibar that morning for last words.

It was a most affecting scene, as all such must be when young men are about to sever themselves from their connections for the first time, and fathers and husbands are commending to the care of the good God those whom they are about to leave behind, perhaps for ever.

Who knows how many of these stalwart and stout-hearted people will return to those from whom they are now almost tearfully withdrawing? Will the brave and noble Amer son of Osman, who is now bending over his beautiful wife, in earnest conversation, ever come back? He appears so strong and robust in health; two hundred well-appointed servants of his household are round about him; his Arab companions, with their powerful retinue, who have gone before him to Simbamwenni, we may be sure, will be faithful to him. Yet who can insure his return? And thus doubt, fear, and anxiety alternate in his wife Amina’s eyes, as she raises them appealingly, regretfully, towards his own.

“Yes, Amina, please God, I shall come back within two years, with so much ivory, and so many slaves, as will make me the richest man in Zanzibar. Inshallah! Inshallah!” said Amer, in a sanguine tone.

“Amina, say thy farewell to Selim, the pride of the Beni-Hassan. He will some day return to Oman, a rich and powerful chief. Dost thou not think he looks a warrior in his marching dress? But hasten, or we shall have nothing but women’s tears, which perhaps will drown us before we begin our journey.”

As Amer turned away after a still but fervent embrace, Amina turned to Selim, with a look which revealed the love her maternal heart bore him, and so steadfastly did she regard him, that it seemed she was fixing a life-long picture of his features in her memory which time would in vain attempt to efface.

“Thou, Selim,” she said, drawing him nearer to her, “thou joy of my heart, and jewel of my eyes! Thou art really about to depart! Thou to leave thy mother’s heart desolate! What joy is left for me—my son and lord both going? Wilt thou not let thy mother’s voice plead, and prevail with thee, Selim? Look, Selim, on that dancing sea! Beyond the narrow strait lies the Zanjian isle! Over its fair shores the gentle winds waft the perfumes of citron and orange! The sweet scents of the jasmine flowers, the cinnamon and clove vie with the fragrance of the orange! Bare odours and sweet strains of bulbul lull the senses into perfect felicity! The sweet air is pregnant with fragrance! Where canst thou meet with a land so fair, my Selim? Wilt thou leave thy mother, these delights, these joys, for the cruel heat, and thirst, and jungle-thorn of negro-land? Oh, Selim! Oh, Selim! Wilt thou leave thy mother, the orange-groves, the palms, the cool fountains, for scorching days and arid plains? The road is long—oh, so long—for weeks, months, and years it lies to the west! Stay one moment longer, my Selim, and let thy mother read thee what the Küran’s sacred page, which I’ve divined, reveals. Remember, it is the sure decree of Fate, to which God has affixed his own heavy seal. Hear these words, and stay with me:—

“A day will come, a day of saddest woe,

A day when Arabs meet the savage foe,

And Arabs vainly cry for strength and might,

And vainly strive to save themselves by flight.

“It is a day of woe, a day of doom,

A day surcharg’d with black and bitter gloom;

And sons shall mourn for Arab fathers slain,

And Arab wives shall shed their tears like rain.

“Wilt thou stay with me now? No! Proud boy, shun the death and misery which wait this venture! Despise not the warning of Allah! Why wilt thou, oh Selim, shake thy head so stubbornly? Speak.”

“Dearest mother, it may not be. If Fate decrees my death and misery, then why should I try to escape its sure laws by remaining behind? If death awaits my father, Selim’s place is by Amer’s side, to die as becomes the son of an Arab chief. But these are but trivial fears of thine, my mother. Why shouldst thou fear for me? Am I not with my father, the brave Amer son of Osman? Have I not my gun and long-sword? What can the Pagan dogs do against all the great Arabs, and my father’s kinsmen, when Khamis bin Abdullah, and Amer bin Osman lead? Trust in Allah, mother. Believe me, I shall return to thee, tall and strong, with plenty of ivory and slaves to make thee rich—to hang such jewels on thy neck as befits a chief’s wife. Hark! the horn of the guide sounds the signal of departure. My father is impatient, and I must go to him. Embrace me, mother, and bless me ere I go.”

Amina, seeing persuasion useless, needed no command for such an affectionate duty. A full mother’s love rose responsive to the call of her son, but her son’s impatience rendered the embrace, though fervid, short.

“Allah go with thee, my boy!” cried the mother.

“And with thee also, for ever!” responded Selim.

They were parted at last, one to join his father, who was striding forward with his caravan, the other to turn to a friend’s house, to sob and weep, and think of the loved ones now fast retiring towards the west.

For a long time father and son were silent. Amer strode on quickly, with an impassive countenance, whence all expression was banished save firmness, and a lofty air of determination.

Selim, thorough son of a thorough Arab, with his head bent down mechanically followed his father’s footsteps, and allowed the strange birds to rise, and sing, and fly unheeded about him, the sun to sink unheeded to the west, and the twilight to approach, without seeming to be at all conscious that he was marching to that grand, fabulous, awful heart of Africa, about which he had heard so much, and which he had craved in his heart of hearts to see.

The silence was unbroken until the caravan had halted on the banks of the Kingani, then Selim recovered himself, and a copious flood of tears caused by a feeling of tender melancholy which came over him at the thought that he had really and actually left the pleasant happy home for that sable, ominous, forested land that stretched deathly still across the river.

The father turned as he heard the deep sobs of his boy, and on approaching him laid his hand kindly on his head, and said:

“What! in tears, my son? Art thou sorry thou hast left thy home—eh, Selim?”

“No, father, I am not sorry, but home seemed so beautiful as I thought of it, compared to that still dark land beyond. There are nothing but black-looking forests across the river, even the sky looks black and desolate, and my heart seems to have caught some of its desolation.”

“The forest looks sombrous and dark, my son, because night approaches,” said Amer, tenderly. “That black-looking sky which hastens from the east is but the counterpane earth draws about it before folding its arms to sleep. When we shall have crossed the river we will camp, and in the tent, which thou wilt learn to love as thy home, thou wilt forget thy present misery; and in the morning, when earth is wide awake, and the sun comes out as gay as a bride from the east, and the birds have all left their nests and fill the air with their joyous songs, and the fleet-footed antelope browses in the open glades, thou wilt wonder that thou couldst find it in thy heart to weep.”

“Oh, father, I shall weep no more. See, my eyes are already dry;” and Selim raised a brave face towards his father, which was tenderly kissed.

The caravan was soon across the river, and every man and woman was engaged in cutting down young trees and branches to form a stockade, a duty not to be omitted by well-conducted caravans in Africa.

When this was done the people gathered within the camp and prepared their evening meal. The tents were all disposed in a circle, with their doors open towards the centre, where stood Amer bin Osman’s tent. Close by the master’s tent, on either side, were two or three of the most faithful slaves, who were styled fundis, or overseers, to whom were given the orders for the conduct of the caravan by the chief.

Over these overseers, for their fidelity and peculiar qualities, were placed two men, who are intended to figure conspicuously in this narrative; their names were Simba (Lion) and Moto (Fire). Where Amer bin Osman the chief went Simba and Moto followed. To these two Amer was as dear as their own hearts, and the boy Selim was their delight; his slightest wish was law to these faithful creatures, who looked upon him as though he were something immeasurably superior to them, as though he belonged to some higher world of which they had no comprehension.

Simba was a giant in form, and a lion, as his name denoted, in strength and courage. He was originally from Urundi, a large country bordering the northeastern part of Lake Tanganika. He was the son of a chief, and was captured when a boy in battle when Moeni Khheri’s father sided with the Wasige against Makala, a quarrelsome king living in the northern districts of Urundi. Being a chief’s son he of course belonged to the Wahuma, a superior race of bronze-coloured people who formerly migrated from Ethiopia, and from whom only chiefs are selected in the countries of Urundi, Ruanda, Uganda, and Karagwah.

Simba was now in the prime of manhood, and he had lived in the household of Amer bin Osman for twenty years, for Amer, after his arrival at Zanzibar, within a year of his capture, had purchased him, and seeing him to be docile and good-tempered, though uncommonly strong, had almost adopted him as his son.

Some of Simba’s feats of strength bordered on the marvellous. Taught by the young kinsmen of Amer the use of the long, sharp sword of the Arabs, and being apt, he had acquired a terrible proficiency with it. He had often walked up alongside of a full-grown goat, and had with one well dealt blow halved the animal from head to tail. Many of his negro admirers verily believed he could perform the same feat upon an ass, so extraordinary was his strength, but he had never attempted it, as the experiment was too costly for his means. He had once carried a three-year-old bullock on his back half way around the plantation of his master, Amer. He had often taken one of the large white donkeys of Muscat by the ears and by a sudden movement of his right foot, had prostrated the animal on his back; and once, upon an extraordinary occasion, had actually carried twelve men on his back and shoulders and chest around his master’s house, to the intense wonder of a large crowd of spectators. He could toss an ordinary man ten feet high into the air, and catch him as easily as an ordinary man would catch a small child. But manifold were the stories related with awe of the feats of strength performed by the brave lion-hearted Simba, chief overseer of Amer bin Osman’s caravan. By measurement he stood six feet and five inches in his bare feet, and from shoulder to shoulder he measured thirty-two inches.

Moto, or “fire,” could not have been better designated. His name, which his master had given him, had been bestowed upon him for his peppery, irascible temper. He was from Urori, as almost any one acquainted with the peculiarities of the various tribes in Central Africa would have sworn. A small wiry frame, indicating cat-like activity, strength, indomitability, capable of enduring great fatigue, characterised the form of Moto. He had also been brought to Zanzibar when a child by a slave-trader, and from a mere caprice had been purchased for twenty dollars by Amer. But his master had never regretted the purchase, for next to Simba, Amer bin Osman preferred Moto. To serve his master Moto would have thrown himself into the fire or leaped into the sea. He was a great hunter, he could track the soft velvet foot of the leopard upon a rock, could tell what animal had broken a blade of grass if a single hair but adhered to it, could stalk an elephant and tickle his belly with a straw without letting the enormous brute know what deadly foe intruded on his presence; and a man slightly inclined to exaggeration, and not at all noted for his veracity, declared by this and by that, that Moto had at one time dragged himself into a jungle after a lion, and, finding the lion asleep, had from sheer bravado walked noiselessly up to him and stepped over his body before he shot him through the head.

If you knew Moto as well as his own best friends knew him, you would describe him as being as brave as a lion, active as a cat, keen-eyed as the fish-eagle, hot as pepper, as hardy as an ass, and faithful as a dog. If you will add that he was a little vain, and never disposed to resent any kind friend boasting of his prowess, you will have a perfect picture of Moto the Mrori.

The first night on the road with some caravans is not very lively; the people are engaged either in thinking of the joys they have left behind them, or they are shy, and are sounding one another’s qualities before making advances. But in the camp of Amer bin Osman there was no regret at parting from Zanzibar, since the great master and little master were with them, and every man knew his fellow and mate; thus there was no disruption of friendships, associations, and congenialities. Most of those who were married had their wives with them; those who were not married had their intimate friends and saw time-endeared faces around them. They were all of one household. It was like unto the migration of an entire settlement.

One glance within the huts and at the squatting forms informed you that they were all happy—if not happy, contented. No eyes like the coal-black, the pure well of jet undefiled, of the native African, when the firelight is reflected in their quick sparkles, can so well represent merriness. Those people with those sparkling eyes were merry; they were interesting each other with their trite stories of very trite lives; but when a peal of laughter louder than usual startled the camp and rang through the forest, you may be sure it was either at a story of hearsay or at something that Simba or Moto had been saying.

Such a laugh was heard, and instantly all eyes and mouths were uplifted, and ears seemed to be quickened, to catch a few words of the story that had caused an interested group to so loudly vent their delight.

The interested party of laughers were seated around a miniature bonfire, which Simba and Moto had kindled some thirty feet or so from the chief’s tent. Selim had lately arrived before it, and Simba had rolled a mighty log behind his young master and had asked him to be seated, himself seated on the ground, attentive and alert to please him; and Moto, not to be outdone in assiduity by Simba, had just begun to draw from the recesses of his memory, or from the cells of his imagination, one of his best stories, when a ludicrous incident occurred and Selim had laughed heartily. Their young master had laughed, and of course when he laughed Simba laughed; then seeing Simba laugh Moto laughed; and, as real genuine laughter is contagious, all hands laughed, and the outer circle, the entire caravan, smiled sympathetically.

Moto had commenced his story thus: “One day, when I was in the caravan of Kisesa—(Abdullah bin Nasib—you know Kisesa is a great friend of my master Amer, and if Kisesa liked to have me accompany him, Master Amer would never say ‘No.’ It is in his caravan as fundi I finished my education as a hunter)—travelling through Ukonongo, I—”

“Have you been to Ukonongo, Moto?” asked Selim.

“Oh, yes, and much farther. Well, I was saying, I—”

“But, Moto,” broke in Selim again, “Ukonongo is the best country for shooting, is it not?”

“At certain seasons only. In the dry season, yes. Then all kinds of game travel to the neighbourhood of the Cow River, and shooting is plenty then, but for elephants give me Kawendi. I was just going to say, I—”

“But, Moto,” broke in a naked youngster called Niani, or the Monkey (Niani is a Kisawahili term for monkey), a nephew of Moto, “are there lions in Kawendi? because—”

But he was not permitted to finish, as Moto sprang up furious, with his kurbash (a hippopotamus-hide whip) in hand. Niani noticed the movement, and with the activity of his namesake, took a flying leap over the fire, and alighted in a huge dish half full of rice that was slowly simmering over some hot embers. There was a loud shriek, and clots of hot rice splashed in all directions, several falling on the nude shoulders of the group, which started them all to their feet. Then Selim laughed heartily at the catastrophe. Simba followed, then Moto stayed his hand and laughed, and the laugh was taken by all, and this was the cause of that which startled the camp and drew our attention.

“That is what some people get for interrupting a good story,” said Moto, sententiously addressing unfortunate Niani, who was rubbing his scalded feet and moaning piteously in a low tone; but the words were said as more of a hint to Selim.

“Well, go on, Moto; I will not disturb you another time,” said Selim.

“Ah, I did not mean you, dear master,” replied Moto. “You may disturb me as often as you like.”

“Well, well, go on with your story, and let it be a good one,” urged Selim.

“All right, master. Well, I had just said that I was in the caravan of Kisesa, travelling through Ukonongo, when that little monkey Niani interrupted me, and so got—”

“No, no, Moto, it was I that interrupted you; but go on with your story, and never mind poor Niani; he has got his punishment, and you punish me too by not telling me the story,” asked Selim.

“Yes, yes, Moto, go on!” said the deep-voiced Simba. “Do you not hear the young master ask you? Heh, what is the matter with the man to-night?”

“Oh, well, if you are all going to interrupt me, the story will last from here to Rua,” said Moto in a careless tone.

“Moto,” said Selim, “I will never disturb you any more—there’s my hand on my promise.”

Moto’s pride and vanity being gratified by this ready promise of Selim, cleared his throat, and commenced this time in earnest, as follows:

“We were travelling through Ukonongo, and had reached Sultan Mrera’s village, when Kisesa asked me to go to the forest along the river to look for game, adding that if I brought a Kudu antelope to the camp he would give me four yards of cotton cloth.

“After a good breakfast of rice and carry, which Kisesa sent me from his table to make me strong, I started. It was then about noon, and the sun was very hot, though once in the forest it would be cool enough. In a short time I was by the river, a crooked little stream of delicious and clear water. I walked along, looking to the right and left constantly for hours, when just about two hours before sunset, I heard a hollow sound, as though the earth was shaking; but I knew, after listening, that the sound was caused by a herd of elephants walking in file along the hard-baked road, and that they were approaching the stream to drink.

“In a moment I was down on my face like a dead man. The grass was about two feet high, and very thick, so that I was quite safe, if I did not stir, and I am too old a hunter not to know what to do in the neighbourhood of elephants. As the elephants passed by I lifted my head up cautiously, and counted them. Two—four—six—eight—ten enormous beasts, who tossed their trunks aloft, as if they were masters of the forest, and knew it. Careless and confident, they passed on, and I wriggled out until I was some distance away; then I jumped up and leaped across the stream, and on all fours crept across a deep bend of it; then lying flat along the ground, I moved forward towards a great tree, a baobab, that stood between me and them. If the elephants had all stood in a row drinking from the river I could never have come up to them unseen, but one greedily thirsty fellow was standing in the middle of the stream, almost touching the baobab tree with his side, so that he completely hid me from the others.

“I thought that Kisesa, though he had not told me to shoot elephants, would not mind my bringing him two great ivory tusks, which would be worth at Zanzibar 500 dollars, since he had come to Ukonongo to get ivory, and that if he gave me four yards of cloth for a Kudu antelope, that he would give many more yards of cloth for 500 dollars worth of ivory.

“This thought gave me confidence to proceed, and imperceptibly I was drawing nearer and nearer to the monster near the baobab. After a few minutes, which seemed to me to be hours, I was lifting myself to my feet, girding my loins tighter, and preparing myself for a run for life. But just at the moment I ought to have fired, a mischievous idea came into my head; the hind quarters of the brute were so close to me that I thought it would be great fun, and a good story to tell afterwards if I tickled the brute’s tail. Gutting a long straw, I extended the point towards the tail, and then traced a line across the leg to the belly. It was delicious to watch the flurry of the short tail and the circles it described, and to watch the brute half leaning against the tree, and rubbing it with his ponderous form. When this play had lasted a short time, I brought down my gun, and pointing it about three inches or so behind the left fore leg, on a level with the position of the beast, I fired. The elephant sprang forward, and by doing so disclosed to the astonished eyes of the others my retreating form, which, I assure you, was bounding over the low bushes and grass tops as if I were an antelope.

“The elephants got over their surprise in a second, then a wild snort of rage greeted my ears, and I knew by the crash, of bushes and splash of water that they were after me. Never an antelope bounded over the plains of Ukonongo, when chased by a lion, as I bounded then; never a timid quagga’s fleet feet carried him away from the hunters as my feet carried me over that ground. But it seemed to me for a time as if it were of no use—the awful crashing got nearer and nearer, and as I turned my head to measure the distance the foremost was from me, I saw the lord of the herd was but thirty paces from me. He seemed to tower up to three times his usual height, and to swell out into proportions three times as vast as his natural size; his great ears stood straight out as flat as a board, as if they were wings, and his eyes were like coals of fire; his trunk was lifted up, as you sometimes see the deadly forest snake before it strikes his victim; his head was stretched out, as the head of a giraffe when chased by a beast of prey, and the two long, mighty, gleaming teeth seemed awful just then. His eyes caught a glance of mine as I turned them towards him, and that instant he uttered another snort of rage, which was as fearful as the war-horn of the Watuta. But it gave me greater speed; if I ran before, I now flew; yet closer and closer the monster came. I suppose he was about fifteen feet from me when the tricks of the elephant hunters of Urori came to my mind. I had noticed that though the big elephant was the foremost, he was also the outermost on my right—the other elephants were to my left, and they seemed to be following the lord of the herd rather than any particular object. In an instant after observing this, I shot out straight to the right from the direction I was first going as hard as my feet and legs would take me. The elephants passed on, the rushing sound of their feet going through the grass was like unto the wild pepo of Ugogo, accompanied by thunder, when it comes sweeping over the plain, with a moan and a rush, whirling and tossing bushes, and even small trees about sometimes, and darkening the air with what it tears from the earth.

“I had got fifty yards away before the elephants could turn about. Only an instant, however, they stopped. They caught sight of me again, and with loud, furious snorting again they charged in a mass. I am a pretty swift runner as you all know, but the best of us seem to crawl compared to the speed of an elephant for the first few hundred yards. The elephants, especially one or two of the foremost, were gaining on me rapidly; the stubborn grass whipped my legs severely as I ran, and was a sore distress to me, but the thick hide of my pursuers was proof against it. A little distance off before me, and to the left, was a clump of brushwood. I thought if I could gain it, I would be comparatively safe, as I could find somewhere to hide. In a few moments I reached it, and looking sharply about, I discovered, a little distance off, half hidden by grass and brush, a hole in the ground, which I knew to be that of the wild boar. I thought it would be a capital place to hide, provided the boar was out of his hole, and in a second I was on my face crawling backwards into it. I had barely crawled in when I heard the elephants’ thunder overhead, and at the same instant I heard a deep grunt behind me, and immediately after I was shot out of that hole, like a bullet out of a gun, and I lay on the ground a few paces from it like a dead man. I had just consciousness enough to know that I had been grievously wounded in one of my hams by the furious owner of the underground excavation in which I found shelter; that the boar had darted off in the direction the elephants had taken, then I lost all knowledge of everything for many hours.

“When I recovered it was night. And soon I heard shots in the distance, fired at regular intervals, and thinking perhaps that they were my friends looking for me I fired my gun, which was immediately answered by another. By firing thus every few minutes I succeeded in guiding them to where I lay, for I found myself unable to move.

“When my friends found me, and were acquainted with my condition, they lifted me on their shoulders and bore me to the camp, where I lay unable to move for about three weeks. The marks that savage boar gave me I have yet, and shall have to my dying day. I have spoken.”

“Well, what became of the elephant you shot?” asked Selim, when Moto had concluded his graphic and interesting story.

“He was picked up next day, about two hours’ distance from the place where I had shot him. His trail was easily known by his blood, Kisesa made quite a sum of money from that elephant, as the tusks were as large as any that were ever seen.”

“How many cloths did Kisesa give you?” asked Selim.

“Only forty.”

“Only forty? That was a good deal, was it not?” asked Selim.

“Forty cloths for what brought him three hundred at Zanzibar! Do you call forty cloths a great deal?” asked the offended Moto.

“But you forget, Moto,” said Selim, “that you were a slave in the employ of Kisesa; that the gun you carried was his, that the powder and shot you used to shoot the elephant with were his, that the clothes you then wore were given you by him, that the food which gave you strength was purchased with his money, that the men who carried you from the forest to the camp were his slaves, that the men who looked after you when you were sick and wounded were his men, that the man who found the elephant dead belonged to Kisesa, and that without Kisesa’s aid you would have died in the jungle, perhaps, and never have seen the elephant again. What do you say now, Moto?” asked Selim.

“You are right, young master, as you are always,” said the humiliated Moto, which remark was echoed and applauded by everybody around the camp-fire.

“But, now,” said the hitherto quiet Simba, “tell us about that battle Kisesa had with the Warori—your own people—and how you saved the king’s son.”

“Ay, do tell us that. It must be an interesting story,” said Selim. “I shall sleep all the better for it this first night of my life in Africa.”

“Well, when my friend Simba asks and my young master commands me, Moto is always ready,” said Moto, adding a huge log to the already cheerful fire-pile. “It is not such a long time ago but what I can remember every detail of it. It may have happened three or four years ago; Kisesa was then in Unyanyembe. He was mortally offended with the Arab chief Sayd bin Salim, the Wali of the Sultan of Zanzibar at Unyanyembe, and most of the Arabs took sides with Kisesa, as they knew he was a brave, powerful, and rich chief, who might defy even the Sultan of Zanzibar if he chose to do so.

“When Sayd bin Salim requested the Arabs to assist him in fighting the black chief of Kahama in Ugolo, Kisesa refused to go, and most of the other Arabs did the same, as they said that Kahama was but a small village and that the son of Salim had soldiers enough paid by the Sultan of Zanzibar to do that kind of fighting. Now the son of Salim, though he knows how to govern Arabs and keep the peace with peaceful merchants, has neither head nor heart for fighting. (It takes Kisesa to do that work.) So two or three weeks after Sayd bin Salim had gone to the war we were not at all astonished to see the Wali come back well beaten by Kahama; and Kisesa and the other Arabs had a good laugh at him.

“When soon after the war with Urori broke out, and Sayd bin Salim was requested to call every Arab to the war, Sayd bin Salim refused; but said that if Kisesa desired to go, he, as king’s governor of Unyanyembe, would empower Kisesa to lead the Arabs to war, and make him chief of the army. Kisesa accepted at once, and the principal Arabs at once volunteered to go with him. Within a very few days Kisesa left Unyanyembe with nearly a thousand men for Urori, so that Unyanyembe looked like a deserted place.

“I think it was on the twentieth day—I am not sure—of the march, that after travelling through Unyangwira and Kokoro we came near Kwikuru, the capital of Urori. We slept on our arms that night until about the eighth hour, when at a given signal we all crept through the bushes for about an hour, and by the moonlight we saw just ahead of us the boma (palisade) of the king’s village. I assure you we did not stop long to look at it, for our horns gave the signal and we all ran for the boma. Quick as a flash of powder in the musket-pan, as you may say, the men of Kisesa were at the palisade, and had their guns pointed at the village through the bare; but not a gun was fired, as Kisesa knew how to make war.

“Kisesa blew his horn, and a voice from the village shouted out to ask who we were, and what we wanted.

“Our chief replied, ‘Come out to fight, for Kisesa is at your gates.’

“‘Kisesa!’ said the voice, in an astonished tone. ‘Kisesa! it cannot be Kisesa from Unyanyembe!’

“‘It is Kisesa, and no other man. I am Kisesa, and I have come to kill you.’

“The man said then, ‘Kisesa has been in a hurry to die to come so soon to Kwikuru, the capital of the King of Urori. Does Kisesa usually fight in such a hurry? It has been our custom to talk first before we fight. What does Kisesa mean?’ asked the King, for it was he, though we could not see him, as he took care not to let himself be seen.

“‘Thou art a dog, and a son of a dog!’ answered Kisesa. ‘Hast thou not been making war upon our merchants, killing them in the forest for the sake of their ivory? Hast thou not been mutilating their young sons by cutting off their right hands? Hast thou not been beating the prisoners with sticks until many of them have died under the torture? Hast thou not asked for Kisesa, the great Arab warrior, that thou mightest flay him alive and make clothes of his skin to cover thy nakedness? Lo! Kisesa is here at thy gates; come and take his skin.’

“‘Kisesa, thou hast done well to come to me before I came for thee. Kisesa, thou art a good man, but I will flay thee alive nevertheless, and thou shalt know what it is to come to the gates of Mostana, like a thief at night. They told me thou wert brave. Is it brave to do what thou hast done? My young son Kalulu, who is but a child, is more than a match for thee. Halt where thou art until daylight, that we may at least see him who is said to be brave, but is but a night prowler!’

“‘Mostana, if that be thy name,’ said Kisesa, ‘I will wait for thee until the sun appears in the east. Thou shalt then look on my face and die. I have spoken.’

“So we all laid down close against the palisade outside. Every fifth man was to stand watch while the others slept. As soon as the sun appeared in the east, over the tops of the trees, the horns of Kisesa were heard, calling us all to be ready; and at the same time the drums of Mostana were heard. I had been sleeping soundly, and I now looked in between the posts of the palisade to see what kind of a place we were about to attack. It was a large village, circular, like all in Urori, but the palisades were strong, and but lately put up. There were scores of huts inside, but what struck me as something very uncommon in Urori was an inner enclosure (like, that in the King’s village at Unyanyembe), which surrounded Mostana’s quarters, so that he could from the inside hold out as long as we could outside if we were not more numerous or better armed than he.

“We were not long before we were at it like lions, shooting into one another’s faces, or as near them as the defences would permit. It was evident that Mostana was getting the worst of the fight, for we were far more numerous and had better guns, and farther apart from each other, while Mostana’s people were crowded together, and every bullet that went in through the palisade wounded or killed some one, and the cries of the women and groans of the wounded were frightful.

“After shooting at each other for an hour Kisesa gave notice to have the two gates opened, and into these we poured in crowds, and as fast as we got in we took advantage of the huts that were outside the king’s quarters. Then, working ourselves gradually, shooting as we went, we sprang at the other palisade, and putting our guns through, fired into the crowds. I assure you the scene was horrible; the people dropped to the ground as fast as we could count them, so that in a short time the few that were left began to cry for mercy, shouting ‘Aman! Aman!’ The gates of the inner defences, or the King’s quarters, were broken open at once, and Kisesa’s men bounded in, making such noise that might be heard a day’s march from the village. They fired their guns, they hooted, they shouted, they sang. Were they not victors? I was carried in with the crowd which poured in towards the King’s house. Old Mostana—he was not very old either—was fighting to the last, firing his arrows so fast into the crowd that many of Kisesa’s men, even while they were singing the songs of victory, fell dead, pierced to the marrow with the deadly arrows which flew unerringly from his how. At his side was a young lad, younger by three years than Master Selim is; he was tall, straight, and slender as one of the light assegais he threw so dexterously and quickly into the crowds who were pressing onward towards the King. Kisesa himself was with us, and on seeing the matchless spirit and bearing of the boy, he shouted, ‘Kill Mostana, but save the boy. Fifty cloths to him who brings me Kalulu alive.’ I am a Mrori, and I loved that boy for his bravery the first time I saw him, and I determined to save him, if possible for Kisesa and at the same time get the fifty cloths. A shield belonging to one of Mostana’s men lay on the ground; I snatched it up, and defending my body with it, I cried out to Kalulu in Kirori that I was his friend and wished to save him. The boy, surprised for a moment, desisted, but seeing me advance hurriedly towards him, and fearing that I only wished to do him harm, he hurled another light spear at me. So true was the boy’s aim, he hit the centre of the shield and pinned my hand to it, and at the same moment I saw his father fall across the threshold of his house. I heard the boy give one wild shriek, and then saw him disappear inside; but darting forward, heedless of the pain in my arm, I arrived at the door of the house, only in time, however, to see him escape by another door, that led outside of the royal quarters. I saw him take a hasty look, and, as if the coast was clear and no danger to be apprehended, shoot off like an arrow, and the head-dress of fish-eagle feathers he wore streamed behind him straight, so swift were his feet. I permitted him to spring to the palisade, but before he could well clear himself of its tall posts I laid hold of his feet; but not for long, however. As the fiery lad clung with one hand, he used the other in threatening to strike me, and the spears of the Warori are sometimes dangerous. When I released him, quicker than the black leopard of the jungles of Kawendi, or the ever-jumping monkey of Sowa, he sprang over the posts, and picking himself up, he raced away for liberty as if for life. But I am a Mrori too, and I am not to be outdone by a boy, even though he were sired by Mostana; so snatching the assegai, which hitherto had pinned my hand to the shield, I tossed the shield over to the other side, and sprang after it myself. It did not take long for me to catch the fugitive; he had just entered the belt of wood when I caught hold of his arm and bade him, in the Kirori tongue, not to run away from a friend. He turned round to me with such a look in his large eyes—eyes that truly were like unto those of the young Kalulu, his namesake, which, as it bounds over the low brush or grass clumps in the plains of Urori and Ubena, seems never to touch the ground as it leaps lightly and swiftly away from the cruel hunter. Perhaps it is because I am a Mrori that I was rather partial to the son of Mostana, captive of my bow and of my spear, but when I saw those large, soft, pleading eyes turned up to me, I wept for him who was a king’s son yesterday, and to-day was Moto’s slave.

“‘You are a Mrori,’ said the boy, ‘and will you make Mostana’s son a slave to those robbers?’

“‘My lord, the Arabs are not robbers; they are rich merchants trading for ivory, who, when angered by wrong done to them, band together to fight. Mostana is dead; the Arab chief, Kisesa, wants you for himself. Will you submit?’

“‘You are not a Mrori; no Mrori warrior would talk of submitting to be the slave of an Arab dog, however great or rich he is. Mostana has warned me often how it would all end. But Kalulu, his son, will never be a slave. Listen, my brother. (All strangers are addressed in “Urori” as brothers. All travellers are hailed as brothers.) I was born in that village; I first drew breath within that palisaded enclosure; there I first learned to lisp “baba,” “mama;” there I first learned to distinguish friend from foe, light from darkness, good from evil; there I first learned how to handle the spear and the bow, how to throw the war-hatchet and the knob-stick; under those trees I have sucked at my mother’s paps, and when older have listened to the elders of the village and counsellors of my father relating the traditions of my great warrior tribe; in those fields now green with corn I have played with friends of my own age—with Luhambo, Lotaka, Borata Natona, Kahirigi, and others; in the pleasant stream which is now before us I have bathed and caught the great fat fish; in this forest I have chased the honey-bird, and searched for the sweet treasures the wild bees stored for me; here the antelope and fleet zebra invited me to the chase; even the very trees seem to know me, and recognise me as belonging to this portion of earth. But now Mostana, my father, is dead, my village will be burnt, my kinsmen are either dead or bound captives, the fields will be left desolate, and what I have hitherto known as home will become a wilderness. Yet for all this, when Cruelty would even pause before going farther, I am pleading to a Mrori for the only thing left for me to ask—my liberty! Mrori, speak; must I ask twice for that which was never yours to give? Will you not let me depart to my uncle, to remember the friendly Mrori who scorned to take advantage of a boy?’

“‘Go in peace, my lord, go in peace: I did but try you. Moto is your friend, and if you can remember Moto when you live happily amongst your uncle’s tribe, Moto will ever be grateful.’

“‘Is Moto your name?’ he said delightedly, taking my hand, while his eyes danced with joy. ‘Then let the Warori of my uncle’s tribe ever remember your name with pleasure. Katalambula, my uncle, shall remember your name for future benefit, should we ever meet again. Kalulu has spoken.’

“He embraced me as if I were his father, and then snatching his weapons and the shield which I gave him, he turned away and, light as the jumping antelope (the springbok), bounded away from sight.

“Come, my friends, the night is far spent, let us retire,” said Moto, when he had ended his really interesting story.

“What, Moto! I am surprised that you let the fellow go, when you might have got fifty cloths for him,” said Selim.

“And I am not,” said Simba, “for I know Moto, and it is for that I love him as my brother. Why, he was a king’s son! Should Moto take that from Kalulu which was not his to take? Ah, Moto! thou art good as the yellow metal which all the rich Arabs at Zanzibar love so much, and which the Banyan women love to hang on their yellow breasts. Master Selim, you know not what it is to be a slave; pray Allah that you never will know,” said Simba as he rose and yawned.

“I a slave! you are dreaming, Simba. An Arab cannot be a slave, but a black man was born to be an Arab’s slave,” replied Selim, with some tartness in his tones.

“Well, well, we will talk of this another time,” said Moto quietly, “eh, Simba, my brother? Master, the journey is far to-morrow; before the sun rises, your father has said, we must be on the road to Simbamwenni. It is now late. Good night, young master.”

“I shall go to my father’s tent to dream of Mostana’s son, Kalulu,” said Selim, recovering his temper, saying which, he walked away.