Читать книгу Black Ivory - Robert Michael Ballantyne - Страница 5

Before proceeding to the Seychelles, the ‘Firefly’ touched at the island of Zanzibar, and there landed our hero Harold Seadrift and his comrade in misfortune, Disco Lillihammer.

Here, one brilliant afternoon, the two friends sat down under a palm-tree to hold what Disco called a palaver. The spot commanded a fine view of the town and harbour of Zanzibar.

We repeat that the afternoon was brilliant, but it is right to add that it required an African body and mind fully to appreciate the pleasures of it. The sun’s rays were blistering, the heat was intense, and the air was stifling. Harold lay down and gasped, Disco followed his example, and sighed. After a few minutes spent in a species of imbecile contemplation of things in general, the latter raised himself to a sitting posture, and proceeded slowly to fill and light his pipe. Harold was no smoker, but he derived a certain dreamy enjoyment from gazing at Disco, and wondering how he could smoke in such hot weather.

“We’ll get used to it I s’pose, like the eels,” observed Disco, when the pipe was in full blast.

“Of course we shall,” replied Harold; “and now that we have come to an anchor, let me explain the project which has been for some days maturing in my mind.”

“All right; fire away, sir,” said the sailor, blowing a long thin cloud from his lips.

“You are aware,” said Harold, “that I came out here as supercargo of my father’s vessel,” (Disco nodded), “but you are not aware that my chief object in coming was to see a little of the world in general, and of the African part of it in particular. Since my arrival you and I have seen a few things, which have opened up my mind in regard to slavery; we have now been a fortnight in this town, and my father’s agent has enlightened me still further on the subject, insomuch that I now feel within me an intense desire to make an excursion into the interior of Africa; indeed, I have resolved to do so, for the purpose of seeing its capabilities in a commercial point of view, of observing how the slave-trade is conducted at its fountain-head, and of enjoying a little of the scenery and the sport peculiar to this land of Ham.”

“W’y, you speaks like a book, sir,” said Disco, emitting a prolonged puff, “an’ it ain’t for the likes me to give an opinion on that there; but if I may make bold to ax, sir, how do you mean to travel—on the back of a elephant or a ry-noceris?—for it seems to me that there ain’t much in the shape o’ locomotives or ’busses hereabouts—not even cabs.”

“I shall go in a canoe,” replied Harold; “but my reason for broaching the subject just now is, that I may ask if you are willing to go with me.”

“There’s no occasion to ax that sir; I’m your man—north or south, east or west, it’s all the same to me. I’ve bin born to roll about the world, and it matters little whether I rolls ashore or afloat—though I prefers the latter.”

“Well, then, that’s settled,” said Harold, with a look of satisfaction; “I have already arranged with our agent here to advance me what I require in the way of funds, and shall hire men and canoes when we get down to the Zambesi—”

“The Zam-wot, sir?”

“The Zambesi; did you never hear of it before?”

“Never, nor don’t know wot it is, sir.”

“It is a river; one of the largest on the east coast, which has been well described by Dr Livingstone, that greatest of travellers, whose chief object in travelling is, as he himself says, to raise the negroes out of their present degraded condition, and free them from the curse of slavery.”

“That’s the man to my mind,” said Disco emphatically; “good luck to him.—But w’en d’you mean to start for the Zambizzy, sir?”

“In a few days. It will take that time to get everything ready, and our money packed.”

“Our money packed!” echoed the sailor, with a look of surprise, “w’y, wot d’ye mean!”

“Just what I say. The money current in the interior of Africa is rather cumbrous, being neither more nor less than goods. You’ll never guess what sort—try.”

“Rum,” said Disco.

“No.”

“Pipes and ’baccy.”

Harold shook his head.

“Never could guess nothin’,” said Disco, replacing the pipe, which he had removed for a few moments from his lips; “I gives it up.”

“What would you say to cotton cloth, and thick brass wire, and glass beads, being the chief currency in Central Africa?” said Harold.

“You don’t mean it, sir?”

“Indeed I do, and as these articles must be carried in large quantities, if we mean to travel far into the land, there will be more bales and coils than you and I could well carry in our waistcoat pockets.”

“That’s true, sir,” replied Disco, looking earnestly at a couple of negro slaves who chanced to pass along the neighbouring footpath at that moment, singing carelessly. “Them poor critters don’t seem to be so miserable after all.”

“That is because the nigger is naturally a jolly, light-hearted fellow,” said Harold, “and when his immediate and more pressing troubles are removed he accommodates himself to circumstances, and sings, as you hear. If these fellows were to annoy their masters and get a thrashing, you’d hear them sing in another key. The evils of most things don’t show on the surface. You must get behind the scenes to understand them. You and I have already had one or two peeps behind the scenes.”

“We have indeed, sir,” replied Disco, frowning, and closing his fists involuntarily, as he thought of Yoosoof and the dhow.

“Now, then,” said Harold, rising, as Disco shook the ashes out of his little black pipe, and placed that beloved implement in the pocket of his coat, “let us return to the harbour, and see what chance there is of getting a passage to the Zambesi, in an honest trading dhow—if there is such a thing in Zanzibar.”

On their way to the harbour they had to pass through the slave-market. This was not the first time they had visited the scene of this iniquitous traffic, but neither Harold nor Disco could accustom themselves to it. Every time they entered the market their feelings of indignation became so intense that it was with the utmost difficulty they could control them. When Disco saw handsome negro men and good-looking girls put up for public sale,—their mouths rudely opened, and their teeth examined by cool, calculating Arabs, just as if they had been domestic cattle—his spirit boiled within him, his fingers tingled, and he felt a terrible inclination to make a wild attack, single-handed, on the entire population of Zanzibar, though he might perish in the execution of vengeance and the relief of his feelings! We need scarcely add that his discretion saved him. They soon reached the small square in which the market was held. Here they saw a fine-looking young woman sold to a grave elderly Arab for a sum equal to about eight pounds sterling. Passing hastily on, they observed another “lot,” a tall stalwart man, having his various “points” examined, and stopped to see the result. His owner, thinking, perhaps, that he seemed a little sluggish in his movements, raised his whip and caused it to fall upon his flank with such vigour that the poor fellow, taken by surprise, leaped high into the air, and uttered a yell of pain. The strength and activity of the man were unquestionable, and he soon found a purchaser.

But all the slaves were not fine-looking or stalwart like the two just referred to. Many of them were most miserable objects. Some stood, others were seated as if incapable of standing, so emaciated were they. Not a few were mere skeletons, with life and skin. Near the middle of the square, groups of children were arranged—some standing up to be inspected, others sitting down. These ranged from five years and upwards, but there was not one that betrayed the slightest tendency to mirth, and Disco came to the conclusion that negro children do not play, but afterwards discovered his mistake, finding that their exuberant jollity “at home” was not less than that of the children of other lands. These little slaves had long ago been terrified, and beaten, and starved into listless, apathetic and silent creatures.

Further on, a row of young women attracted their attention. They were ranged in a semicircle, all nearly in a state of nudity, waiting to be sold. A group of Arabs stood in front of them, conversing. One of these women looked such a picture of woe that Disco felt irresistibly impelled to stop. There were no tears in her eyes; the fountain appeared to have been dried up, but, apparently, without abating the grief which was stamped in deep lines on her young countenance, and which burst frequently from her breast in convulsive sobs. Our Englishmen were not only shocked but surprised at this woman’s aspect, for their experience had hitherto gone to show that the slaves usually became callous under their sufferings. Whatever of humanity might have originally belonged to them seemed to have been entirely driven out of them by the cruelties and indignities they had so long suffered at the hands of their captors. (See Captain Sulivan’s Dhow-chasing in Zanzibar Waters, page 252.)

“Wot’s the matter with her, poor thing?” asked Disco of a half-caste Portuguese, dressed in something like the garb of a sailor.

“Oh, notting,” answered the man in broken English, with a look of indifference, “she have lose her chile, dat all.”

“Lost her child? how—wot d’ee mean?”

“Dey hab sole de chile,” replied the man; “was good fat boy, ’bout two-yer ole. S’pose she hab carry him for months troo de woods, an’ over de hills down to coast, an’ tink she keep him altogether. But she mistake. One trader come here ’bout one hour past. He want boy—not want modder; so he buy de chile. Modder fight a littil at first, but de owner soon make her quiet. Oh, it notting at all. She cry a littil—soon forget her chile, an’ get all right.”

“Come, I can’t stand this,” exclaimed Harold, hastening away.

Disco said nothing, but to the amazement of the half-caste, he grasped him by the collar, and hurled him aside with a degree of force that caused him to stagger and fall with stunning violence to the ground. Disco then strode away after his friend, his face and eyes blazing with various emotions, among which towering indignation predominated.

In a few minutes they reached the harbour, and, while making inquiries as to the starting of trading dhows for the south, they succeeded in calming their feelings down to something like their ordinary condition.

The harbour was crowded with dhows of all shapes and sizes, most of them laden with slaves, some discharging cargoes for the Zanzibar market, others preparing to sail, under protection of a pass from the Sultan, for Lamoo, which is the northern limit of the Zanzibar dominions, and, therefore, of the so-called “domestic” slave-trade.

There would be something particularly humorous in the barefacedness of this august Sultan of Zanzibar, if it were connected with anything less horrible than slavery. For instance, there is something almost amusing in the fact that dhows were sailing every day for Lamoo with hundreds of slaves, although that small town was known to be very much overstocked at the time. It was also quite entertaining to know that the commanders of the French and English war-vessels lying in the harbour at the time were aware of this, and that the Sultan knew it, and that, in short, everybody knew it, but that nobody appeared to have the power to prevent it! Even the Sultan who granted the permits or passes to the owners of the dhows, although he professed to wish to check the slave-trade, could not prevent it. Wasn’t that strange—wasn’t it curious? The Sultan derived by far the largest portion of his revenue from the tax levied on the export of slaves—amounting to somewhere about 10,000 pounds a year—but that had nothing to do with it of course not, oh dear no! Then there was another very ludicrous phase of this oriental, not to say transcendental, potentate’s barefacedness. He knew, and probably admitted, that about 2000, some say 4000, slaves a year were sufficient to meet the home-consumption of that commodity, and he also knew, but probably did not admit, that not fewer than 30,000 slaves were annually exported from Zanzibar to meet this requirement of 4000! These are very curious specimens of miscalculation which this barefaced Sultan seems to have fallen into. Perhaps he was a bad arithmetician. (See Captain Sulivan’s Dhow-chasing in Zanzibar Water; page 111.) We have said that this state of things was so at the time of our story, but we may now add that it still is so in this year of grace 1873. Whether it shall continue to be so remains to be seen!

Having spent some time in fruitless inquiry, Harold and Disco at last to their satisfaction, discovered an Arab dhow of known good character, which was on the point of starting for the Zambesi in the course of a few days, for the purpose of legitimate traffic. It therefore became necessary that our hero should make his purchases and preparations with all possible speed. In this he was entirely guided by his father’s agent, a merchant of the town, who understood thoroughly what was necessary for the intended journey.

It is not needful here to enter into full details, suffice it to say that among the things purchased by Harold, and packed up in portable form, were a number of bales of common unbleached cotton, which is esteemed above everything by the natives of Africa as an article of dress—if we may dignify by the name of dress the little piece, about the size of a moderate petticoat, which is the only clothing of some, or the small scrap round the loins which is the sole covering of other, natives of the interior! There were also several coils of thick brass wire, which is much esteemed by them for making bracelets and anklets; and a large quantity of beads of various colours, shapes, and sizes. Of beads, we are told, between five and six hundred tons are annually manufactured in Great Britain for export to Africa.

Thus supplied, our two friends embarked in the dhow and set sail. Wind and weather were propitious. In few days they reached the mouths of the great river Zambesi, and landed at the port of Quillimane.

Only once on the voyage did they fall in with a British cruiser, which ordered them to lay-to and overhauled them, but on the papers and everything being found correct, they were permitted to pursue their voyage.

The mouths of the river Zambesi are numerous; extending over more than ninety miles of the coast. On the banks of the northern mouth stands—it would be more appropriate to say festers—the dirty little Portuguese town of Quillimane. Its site is low, muddy, fever-haunted, and swarming with mosquitoes. No man in his senses would have built a village thereon were it not for the facilities afforded for slaving. At spring or flood tides the bar may be safely crossed by sailing vessels, but, being far from land, it is always dangerous for boats.

Here, then, Harold and Disco landed, and remained for some time for the purpose of engaging men. Appearing in the character of independent travellers, they were received with some degree of hospitality by the principal inhabitants. Had they gone there as simple and legitimate traders, every possible difficulty would have been thrown in their way, because the worthy people, from the Governor downwards, flourished,—or festered,—by means of the slave-trade, and legitimate commerce is everywhere found to be destructive to the slave-trade.

Dr Livingstone and others tell us that thousands upon thousands of negroes have, of late years, gone out from Quillimane into slavery under the convenient title of “free emigrants,” their freedom being not quite equal to that of a carter’s horse, for while that animal, although enslaved, is usually well fed, the human animal is kept on rather low diet lest his spirit should rouse him to deeds of desperate violence against his masters. All agricultural enterprise is also effectually discouraged here. When a man wants to visit his country farm he has to purchase a permit from the Governor. If he wishes to go up the river to the Portuguese towns of Senna or Tette, a pass must be purchased from the Governor. In fact it would weary the reader were we to enumerate the various modes in which every effort of man to act naturally, legitimately, or progressively, is hampered, unless his business be the buying and selling of human beings.

At first Harold experienced great difficulty in procuring men. The master of the trading dhow in which he sailed from Zanzibar intended to remain as short a time as possible at Quillimane, purposing to visit ports further south, and as Harold had made up his mind not to enter the Zambesi by the Quillimane mouth, but to proceed in the dhow to one of the southern mouths, he felt tempted to give up the idea of procuring men until he had gone further south.

“You see, Disco,” said he, in a somewhat disconsolate tone, “it won’t do to let this dhow start without us, because I want to get down to the East Luavo mouth of this river, that being the mouth which was lately discovered and entered by Dr Livingstone; but I’m not sure that we can procure men or canoes there, and our Arab skipper either can’t or won’t enlighten me.”

“Ah!” observed Disco, with a knowing look, “he won’t—that’s where it is, sir. I’ve not a spark o’ belief in that man, or in any Arab on the coast. He’s a slaver in disguise, he is, an’ so’s every mother’s son of ’em.”

“Well,” continued Harold, “if we must start without them and take our chance, we must; there is no escaping from the inevitable; nevertheless we must exert ourselves to-day, because the dhow does not sail till to-morrow evening, and there is no saying what luck may attend our efforts before that time. Perseverance, you know, is the only sure method of conquering difficulties.”

“That’s so,” said Disco; “them’s my sentiments ’xactly. Never say die—Stick at nothing—Nail yer colours to the mast: them’s the mottoes that I goes in for—always s’posin’ that you’re in the right.”

“But what if you’re in the wrong, and the colours are nailed?” asked Harold, with a smile.

“W’y then, sir, of course I’d have to tear ’em down.”

“So that perhaps, it would be better not to nail them at all, unless you’re very sure—eh?”

“Oh, of course, sir,” replied Disco, with solemn emphasis. “You don’t suppose, sir, that I would nail ’em to the mast except I was sure, wery sure, that I wos right? But, as you wos a sayin’, sir, about the gittin’ of them ’ere men.”

Disco had an easy way of changing a subject when he felt that he was getting out of his depth.

“Well, to return to that. The fact is, I would not mind the men, for it’s likely that men of some sort will turn up somewhere, but I am very anxious about an interpreter. Without an interpreter we shall get on badly, I fear, for I can only speak French, besides a very little Latin and Greek, none of which languages will avail much among niggers.”

Disco assumed a severely thoughtful expression of countenance.

“That’s true,” he said, placing his right fist argumentatively in his left palm, “and I’m afeard I can’t help you there, sir. If it wos to steer a ship or pull a oar or man the fore-tops’l yard in a gale o’ wind, or anything else in the seafarin’ line, Disco Lillihammer’s your man, but I couldn’t come a furrin’ lingo at no price. I knows nothin’ but my mother tongue,—nevertheless, though I says it that shouldn’t, I does profess to be somewhat of a dab at that. Once upon a time I spent six weeks in Dublin, an’ havin’ a quick ear for moosic, I soon managed to get up a strong dash o’ the brogue; but p’raps that wouldn’t go far with the niggers.”

About two hours after the above conversation, while Harold Seadrift was walking on the beach, he observed his faithful ally in the distance grasping a short thickset man by the arm, and endeavouring to induce him to accompany him, with a degree of energy that fell little short of main force. The man was evidently unwilling.

As the pair drew nearer, Harold overheard Disco’s persuasive voice:– “Come now, Antonio, don’t be a fool; it’s the best service you could enter. Good pay and hard work, and all the grub that’s goin’—what could a man want more? It’s true there’s no grog, but we don’t need that in a climate where you’ve only got to go out in the sun without yer hat an’ you’ll be as good as drunk in ten minutes, any day.”

“No, no, not possibil,” remonstrated the man, whose swarthy visage betrayed a mixture of cunning, fun, and annoyance. He was obviously a half-caste of the lowest type, but with more pretensions to wealth than many of his fellows, inasmuch as he wore, besides his loin-cloth, a white cotton shooting-coat, very much soiled, beneath the tails of which his thin black legs protruded ridiculously.

“Here you are, sir,” cried Disco, as he came up; “here’s the man for lingo: knows the native talkee, as well as Portuguese, English, Arabic, and anything else you like, as far as I know. Antonio’s his name. Come, sir, try him with Greek, or somethin’ o’ that sort!”

Harold had much ado to restrain a smile, but, assuming a grave aspect, he addressed the man in French, while Disco listened with a look of profound respect and admiration.

“W’y, wot’s wrong with ’ee, man,” exclaimed Disco, on observing the blank look of Antonio’s countenance; “don’t ’ee savay that?”

“I thought you understood Portuguese?” said Harold in English.

“So me do,” replied Antonio quickly; “but dat no Portigeese—dat Spanaish, me ’spose.”

“What can you speak, then?” demanded Harold sternly.

“Portigeese, Arbik, Fengleesh, an’ two, tree, four, nigger lungwiches.”

It was very obvious that, whatever Antonio spoke, he spoke nothing correctly, but that was of no importance so long as the man could make himself understood. Harold therefore asked if he would join his party as interpreter, but Antonio shook his head.

“Why not man—why not?” asked Harold impatiently, for he became anxious to secure him, just in proportion as he evinced disinclination to engage.

“Speak up, Antonio, don’t be ashamed; you’ve no need to,” said Disco. “The fact is, sir, Antonio tells me that he has just bin married, an’ he don’t want to leave his wife.”

“Very natural,” observed Harold. “How long is it since you were married?”

“Von veek since I did bought her.”

“Bought her!” exclaimed Disco, with a broad grin; “may I ax wot ye paid for her?”

“Paid!” exclaimed the man, starting and opening his eyes very wide, as if the contemplation of the vast sum were too much for him; “lat me zee—me pay me vife’s pairyints sixteen yard ob cottin clothe, an’ for me’s hut four yard morer.”

“Ye don’t say that?” exclaimed Disco, with an extended grin. “Is she young an’ good-lookin’?”

“Yonge!” replied Antonio; “yis, ver’ yonge; not mush more dan baby, an’ exiquitely bootiful.”

“Then, my good feller,” said Disco, with a laugh, “the sooner you leave her the better. A week is a long time, an’ absence, you know, as the old song says, makes the heart grow fonder; besides, Mr Seadrift will give you enough to buy a dozen wives, if ’ee want ’em.”

“Yes, I’ll pay you well,” said Harold; “that is, if you prove to be a good interpreter.”

Antonio pricked up his ears at this.

“How mush vill ’oo gif?” he asked.

“Well, let me think; I shall probably be away three or four months. What would you say, Antonio, to twenty yards of cotton cloth a month, and a gun into the bargain at the end, if you do your work well?”

The pleased expression of Antonio’s face could not have been greater had he been offered twenty pounds sterling a month. The reader may estimate the value of this magnificent offer when we say that a yard of cotton cloth was at that time sevenpence-halfpenny, so that Antonio’s valuable services were obtained for about 12 shillings, 6 pence a month, and a gun which cost Harold less than twenty shillings in Zanzibar.

We may remark here that Antonio afterwards proved to be a stout, able, willing man, and a faithful servant, although a most arrant coward.

From this time Harold’s difficulties in regard to men vanished. With Antonio’s able assistance nine were procured, stout, young, able-bodied fellows they were, and all more or less naked. Two of these were half-caste brothers, named respectively José and Oliveira; two were half-wild negroes of the Somali tribe named Nakoda and Conda; three were negroes of the Makololo tribe, who had accompanied Dr Livingstone on his journey from the far interior of Africa to the East Coast, and were named respectively Jumbo, Zombo, and Masiko; and finally two, named Songolo and Mabruki, were free negroes of Quillimane. Thus the whole band, including Disco and the leader, formed a goodly company of twelve stout men.

Of course Harold armed them all with guns and knives. Himself and Disco carried Enfield rifles; besides which, Harold took with him a spare rifle of heavy calibre, carrying large balls, mingled with tin to harden them. This latter was intended for large game. Landing near the East Luavo mouth of the Zambesi, our hero was fortunate enough to procure two serviceable canoes, into which he transferred himself, his men, and his goods, and, bidding adieu to the Arab skipper of the dhow, commenced his journey into the interior of Africa.