The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar

“Well now,” said Hockins, gasping forth his morning yawn in spite of circumstances, “I’ve many a time read and heard it of other folk, but I never did think I should live to hear my own chains rattle.”

“Right you are, ’Ockins; ob course I’s got de same sentiments zactly,” said the negro, lifting up his strong arm and ruefully surveying the heavy iron links of native manufacture that descended from his wrist.

Mark only sighed. It was the first time he had ever been restrained, even by bolt or bar, much less by manacles, and the effect on his young mind was at first overwhelming.

Bright though the sun was outside, very little of its light found a passage through the chinks of their all but windowless prison-house, so that they could scarcely see the size or character of the place. But this mattered little. They were too much crushed by their misfortune to care. For some time they sat without speaking, each feeling quite incapable of uttering a word of cheer to his fellows.

The silence was suddenly but softly broken by the sound of song. It seemed to come from a very dark corner of the prison in which nothing could be seen. To the startled prisoners it sounded like heavenly music—and indeed such it was, for in that corner sat two Christian captives who were spending the first minutes of the new day in singing praise to God.

The three comrades listened with rapt attention, for although the words were unintelligible, with the exception of the name of Jesus, the air was quite familiar, being one of those in which English-speaking Christians are wont to sing praise all the world over.

When the hymn ceased one of the voices was raised in a reverent and continuous tone, which was obviously the voice of prayer.

Just as the petition was concluded the sun found a loop-hole in the prison, and poured a flood of light into it which partly illumined the dark corner, and revealed two men seated on the ground with their backs against the wall. They were fine-looking men, nearly naked, and joined together by means of a ponderous piece of iron above two feet long, with a heavy ring at either end which encircled their necks. The rings were so thick that their ends must have been forced together with sledge-hammer and anvil after being put round the men’s necks, and then overlapped and riveted. Thus it became impossible to free them from their fetters except by the slow and laborious process of cutting them through with a file. Several old and healed-up sores on the necks and collar-bones of both men indicated that they and their harsh couplings had been acquainted for a long time, and one or two inflamed spots told all too clearly that they had not yet become quite reconciled.2

“Now isn’t that awful,” said John Hockins in a low voice with a sort of choke in it, “to think that these poor fellows—wi’ that horrible thing that can’t be much under thirty pounds weight on their necks, an’ that must ha’ bin there for months if not for years—are singin’ an’ prayin’ to the Almighty, an’ here am I, John Hockins, with little or nothin’ to complain of as yet, haven’t given so much as a thought to—”

The choke got the better of our sailor at this point, and he became suddenly silent.

“Das so!” burst in Ebony, with extreme energy. “I’s wid you dere! I tell you what it is, ’Ockins, dem brown niggers is true Kistians, an’ we white folks is nuffin but hipperkrits.”

“I hope we’re not quite so bad as that, Ebony,” said Mark, with a sad smile. “Nevertheless, Hockins is right—we are far behind these poor fellows in submission and gratitude to our Maker.”

While he spoke the heavy door of the prison opened, and a jailor entered with two large basins of boiled rice. The largest he put on the ground before our three travellers, the other in front of the coupled men, and then retired without a word.

“Well, thank God for this, anyhow,” said Mark, taking up one of the three spoons which lay on the rice and going to work with a will.

“Just so,” responded the seaman. “I’m thankful too, and quite ready for grub.”

“Curious ting, ’Ockins,” remarked Ebony, “dat your happytite an’ mine seems to be allers in de same state—sharp!”

The seaman’s appetite was indeed so sharp that he did not vouchsafe a reply. The prisoners in the dark corner seemed much in the same condition, but their anxiety to begin did not prevent their shutting their eyes for a few seconds and obviously asking a blessing on their meal. Hockins observed the act, and there passed over his soul another wave of self-condemnation, which was indicated by a deprecatory shake of his rugged head.

Observing it, Ebony paused a moment and said—

“You’s an awrful sinner, ’Ockins!”

“True, Ebony.”

“Das jist what I is too. Quite as bad as you. P’r’aps wuss!”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you are,” rejoined the seaman, recovering his spirits somewhat under the stimulating influence of rice. The recovery was not, however, sufficient to induce further conversation at the time, for they continued after that to eat in silence.

They had scarcely finished when the jailor returned to remove the dish, which he did without word or ceremony, and so quickly that Ebony had to make a sudden scoop at the last mouthful; he secured it, filled his mouth with it, and then flung the spoon at the retiring jailor.

“That was not wise,” said Mark, smiling in spite of himself at the tremendous pout of indignation on the negro’s face; “the man has us in his power, and may make us very uncomfortable if we insult him.”

“Das true, massa,” said Ebony, in sudden penitence, “but if dere’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s havin’ my wittles took away afore I’m done wid ’em.”

“You’ll have to larn to stand it, boy,” said Hockins, “else you’ll have your life took away, which’ll be wuss.”

The probability of this latter event occurring was so great that it checked the rise of spirits which the rice had caused to set in.

“What d’ee think they’ll do to us, sir?” asked the sailor, in a tone which showed that he looked up to the young doctor for counsel in difficulty. The feeling that, in virtue of his education and training, he ought to be in some sort an example and guide to his comrades in misfortune, did much to make Mark shake off his despondency and pluck up heart.

“God knows, Hockins, what they will do,” he said. “If they were a more civilised people we might expect to be let off easily for so slight an offence as rescuing a supposed criminal, but you remember that Ravonino once said, when telling us stories round the camp-fire, that interference with what they call the course of justice is considered a very serious offence. Besides, the Queen being in a very bad mood just now, and we being Christians, it is likely we shall be peculiarly offensive to her. I fear that banishment is the least we may count on.”

“It’s a hard case to be punished for bein’ Christians, when we hardly deserve the name. I can’t help wonderin’,” said the seaman, “that Lovey should have bolted as he did an’ left us in the lurch. He might at least have taken his risk along with us. Anyhow, he could have spoke up for us, knowin’ both lingos. Of course it was nat’ral that, poor Mamba should look after number one, seem that he was in no way beholden to us; but Lovey was our guide, an’ pledged to stand by us.”

“I can’t help thinking,” said Mark, “that you do injustice to Laihova. He is not the man to forsake a comrade in distress.”

“That was my own opinion,” returned the sailor, “till I seed him go slap through yon port-hole like a harlequin.”

“P’r’aps he tink he kin do us more service w’en free dan as a prisoner,” suggested Ebony.

“There’s somethin’ in that,” returned Hockins, lifting his hand to stroke his beard, as was his wont when thoughtful. He lifted it, however, with some difficulty, owing to the heavy chain.

They were still engaged in conversation about their prospects when the prison-door again opened, and two men were ushered in. Both wore white lambas over their other garments. One was tall and very dark. The other was comparatively slender, and not so tall as his companion. For a moment the strangers stood contemplating the prisoners, and Mark’s attention was riveted on the smaller man, for he felt that his somewhat light-coloured and pleasant features were not unfamiliar to him, though he could not call to mind where or when he had seen him. Suddenly it flashed across him that this was the very man to whose assistance he had gone, and whose wounds he had bound up, soon after his arrival in the island.

With a smile of recognition, Mark rose and extended his hand as far as his chain permitted. The young native stepped forward, grasped the hand, and pressed it warmly. Then he looked round at his tall companion, and spoke to him in his own tongue, whereupon the tall man advanced a step, and said in remarkably bad English—

“You save me frind life one taime ago. Ver’ good—him now you save.”

“Thank him for that promise,” said Mark, greatly relieved to find at least one friend among the natives in his hour of need.

“But,” continued the Interpreter, “you muss not nottice me frind nowhar. Unerstand?”

“Oh yes, I think I do,” returned Mark, with an intelligent look. “I suppose he does not wish people to think that he is helping or favouring us?”

“That’s him! you’s got it!” replied the Interpreter, quite pleased apparently with his success in the use of English.

“My!” murmured Ebony to Hockins in an undertone, “if I couldn’t spoke better English dan dat I’d swaller my tongue!”

“Well—good-boy,” said the Interpreter, holding out his hand, which Mark grasped and shook smilingly, as he replied, “Thank you, I’m glad you think I’m a good-boy.”

“No, no—not that!” exclaimed the Interpreter, “good day, not good boy; good-night, good morning! We goes out, me an’ me frind. Him’s name Ravèlo.”

Again Ravèlo shook hands with Mark, despite the rattling chain, nodded pleasantly to him, after the English fashion, and took his departure with his tall friend.

“Well now, I do think,” remarked Hockins, when the door had closed behind them, “that Rav—Ravè-what’s-his-name might have took notice of me too as an old friend that helped to do him service.”

“Hm! he seemed to forgit me altogidder,” remarked the negro, pathetically. “Dere’s nuffin so bad as ingratitood—’cept lockjaw: das a little wuss.”

“What d’ee mean by lockjaw bein’ wuss?” demanded Hockins.

“W’y, don’t you see? Ingratitood don’t feel ‘thankee,’ w’ereas lockjaw not on’y don’t feel but don’t even say ‘thankee.’”

A sudden tumult outside the prison here interrupted them. Evidently a crowd approached. In a few minutes it halted before the door, which was flung open, and four prisoners were thrust in, followed by several strong guards and the execrations of the crowd. The door was smartly slammed in the faces of the yelling people, and the guards proceeded to chain the prisoners.

They were all young men, and Mark Breezy and his friends had no doubt, from their gentle expression and upright bearing, that they were not criminals but condemned Christians.

Three of them were quickly chained to the wall, but the third was thrown on his back, and a complex chain was put on his neck and limbs, in such a way that, when drawn tight, it forced his body into a position that must have caused him severe pain. No word or cry escaped him, however, only an irrepressible groan when he was thrust into a corner and left in that state of torture.

The horror of Mark and his comrades on seeing this done in cold blood cannot be described. To hear or read of torture is bad enough, but to see it actually applied is immeasurably worse—to note the glance of terror and to hear the slight sound of the wrenched joints and stretched sinews, followed by the deep groan and the upward glare of agony!

With a bursting cry of rage, Hockins, forgetting his situation, sprang towards the torturers, was checked by his fetters, and fell with a heavy clang and clatter on the floor. Even the cruel guards started aside in momentary alarm, and then with a contemptuous laugh passed out.

Hockins had barely recovered his footing, and managed to restrain his feelings a little, when the door was again opened and the Interpreter re-entered with the jailor.

“I come—break chains,” said the former.

He pointed to the chains which bound our travellers. They were quickly removed by two under-jailors and their chief.

“Now—com vis me.”

To the surprise of the Interpreter, Mark Breezy crossed his arms over his breast, and firmly said— “No!” Swiftly understanding his motive, our seaman and Ebony followed suit with an equally emphatic, “No!”

The Interpreter looked at them in puzzled surprise.

“See,” said Mark, pointing to the tortured man in the corner, “we refuse to move a step till that poor fellow’s chains are eased off.”

For a moment the Interpreter’s look of surprise increased; then an indescribable smile lit up his swarthy features as he turned to the jailor and spoke a few words. The man went immediately to the curled-up wretch in the corner and relaxed his chains so that he was enabled to give vent to a great sigh of relief. Hockins and Ebony uttered sighs of sympathy almost as loud, and Mark, turning to the Interpreter, said, with some emotion, “Thank you! God bless you! Now we will follow.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Mamba is Succoured by one of the “Ancient Soot,” and fulfils his Mysterious Mission

When Laihova and Mamba took the reckless “headers” which we have described in a former chapter, they tumbled into a court-yard which was used as a sort of workshop. Fortunately for them the owner of the house was not a man of orderly habits. He was rather addicted to let rubbish lie till stern necessity forced him to clear it away. Hence he left heaps of dust, shavings, and other things to accumulate in heaps. One such heap happened to lie directly under the window through which the adventurous men plunged, so that, to their immense satisfaction, and even surprise, they came down soft and arose unhurt.

Instantly they slipped into an outhouse, and there held hurried converse in low tones.

“What will you do now?” asked Laihova.

“I will remain where I am till night-fall, for I dare not show myself all bruised like this. When it is dark I will slip out and continue my journey to the coast.”

“To Tamatave?” asked Laihova, naming the chief seaport on the eastern side of Madagascar.

“Yes, to Tamatave.”

“Do you go there to trade?”

“No. I go on important business.”

It was evident that, whatever his business might be, Mamba, for reasons best known to himself, resolved to keep his own counsel. Seeing this, his friend said—

“Well, I go to the eastward also, for Ravoninohitriniony awaits me there; but I fear that our English friends will be thrown into prison.”

“Do you think so?” asked Mamba, anxiously. “If you think I can be helpful I will give up my important business and remain with you.”

“You cannot help us much, I think. Perhaps your presence may be a danger instead of a help. Besides, I have friends here who have power. And have we not God to direct us in all things? No, brother, as your business is important, go.”

Mamba was evidently much relieved by this reply, and his friend saw clearly that he had intended to make a great personal sacrifice when he offered to remain.

“But now I must myself go forth without delay,” continued Laihova. “I am not well-known here, and, once clear of this house, can walk openly and without much risk out of the city. Whatever befalls the Englishmen, Ravoninohitriniony and I will help and pray for them.”

Another minute and he was gone. Passing the gates without arousing suspicion, he was soon walking rapidly towards the forest in which his friend Ravonino lay concealed.

Meanwhile, Mamba hid himself behind some bags of grain in the outhouse until night-fall, when he sallied boldly forth and made his way to the house of a friend, who, although not a Christian, was too fond of him to refuse him shelter.

This friend was a man of rank and ancient family. The soot hung in long strings from his roof-tree. He was one of “the ancient soot!”

The houses in the city are usually without ceiling—open to the ridge-pole, though there is sometimes an upper chamber occupying part of the space, which is reached by a ladder. There are no chimneys, therefore, and smoke from the wood and grass fires settles upon the rafters in great quantities inside. As it is never cleared away, the soot of course accumulates in course of time and hangs down in long pendants. So far from considering this objectionable, the Malagasy have come to regard it with pride; for, as each man owns his own house, the great accumulations of soot have come to be regarded as evidence of the family having occupied the dwelling from ancient times. Hence the “old families” are sometimes complimented by the sovereign, in proclamations, by being styled “the ancient soot!”

The particular Ancient Soot who accorded hospitality that night to Mamba was much surprised, but very glad, to see him. “Have you arrived?” he asked, with a good deal of ceremonial gesticulation.

“I have arrived,” answered Mamba.

“Safely and well, I hope.”

“Safely and well,” replied Mamba—ceremonially of course, for in reality he had barely arrived with life, and certainly not with a sound skin.

“Come in, then,” said the Ancient Soot. “And how are you? I hope it is well with you. Behold, spread a mat for him, there, one of you. And is it well with you?”

“Well indeed,” said Mamba once again, falsely but ceremonially.

“May you live to grow old!” resumed Soot. “And you have arrived safely? Come in. Where are you going?”

“I’m going yonder—westward,” replied Mamba, with charming conventional vagueness, as he sat down on the mat.

“But it appears to me,” said Ancient Soot, passing from the region of compliment into that of fact, and looking somewhat closely at his friend, “it seems to me that you have been hurt.”

Mamba now explained the exact state of the case, said that he required a good long rest, after that a hearty meal, then a lamba and a little money, for he had been despoiled of everything he had possessed by the furious crowd that so nearly killed him.

His kind host was quite ready to assist him in every way. In a few minutes he was sound asleep in a little chamber on the rafters, where he could rest without much risk of disturbance or discovery.

All next day he remained in hiding. When it began to grow dusk his host walked with him through the streets and through the gates, thus rendering his passage less likely to be observed—for this particular Ancient Soot was well-known in the town.

“I will turn now. What go you to the coast for?” asked his friend, when about to part.

“You would laugh at me if I told you,” said Mamba.

“Then tell me not,” returned his friend, with much delicacy of feeling, “for I would be sorry to laugh at my friend.”

Thus they parted. Ancient Soot returned to the home of his forefathers, and Mamba walked smartly along the road that leads to the seaport of Tamatave.

He spent that night in the residence of a friend; the next in the hut of a government wood-cutter.

Felling timber, as might be supposed, was, and still is, an important branch of industry in Madagascar. Forests of varied extent abound in different parts of the country, and an immense belt of forest of two or three days’ journey in width covers the interior of the island. These forests yield abundance of timber of different colour and texture, and of various degrees of hardness and durability.

The wood-cutter, an old man, was busy splitting a large tree into planks by means of wedges when our traveller came up. This wasteful method of obtaining planks is still practised by some natives of the South Sea Islands. Formerly the Malagasy never thought of obtaining more than two planks out of a single tree, however large the tree might be. They merely split the tree down the middle, and then chopped away the outside of each half until it was reduced to the thickness required. The advent of the English missionaries, however, in the early part of this century, introduced light in regard to the things of time as well as those of eternity-among other things, the pit-saw, which has taught the natives to “gather up the fragments so that nothing be lost.” Thick planks are still however sometimes procured in the old fashion.

The wood-cutter belonged to “The Seven Hundred” which constituted the government corps. The members of this corps felled timber for the use of the sovereign. They also dragged it to the capital, for oxen were never employed as beasts of burden or trained to the yoke. The whole population around the capital was liable to be employed on this timber-hauling work—and indeed on any government work—without remuneration and for any length of time! After the usual exhaustive questions and replies as to health, etcetera, the old man conducted his visitor to his hut and set food before him. He was a solitary old fellow, but imbued with that virtue of hospitality which is inculcated so much among the people.

Having replied to the wood-cutter’s first inquiry that he was “going yonder,” Mamba now saw fit to explain that “yonder” meant Tamatave.

“I want to see the great Missionary Ellis before he leaves the country.”

The wood-cutter shook his head. “You are too late, I fear. He passed down to the coast some weeks ago. The Queen has ordered him to depart. She is mad against all the praying people.”

“Are you one of the praying people?” asked Mamba, with direct simplicity.

“Yes, and I know that you are,” answered the wood-cutter with a smile.

“How know you that?”

“Did I not see your lips move and your eyes look up when you approached me on arriving?”

“True, I prayed to Jesus,” said Mamba, “that I might be made use of to help you, or you to help me.”

“Then your prayer is doubly answered,” returned the old man, “for we can each help the other. I can give you food and lodging. You can carry a message to Tamatave for me.”

“That is well. I shall be glad to help you. What is your message?”

“It is a message to the missionary, Ellis, if you find him still there; but even if he is gone you will find a praying one who can help me. Long have I prayed to the lord that he would send one of his people here to take my message. Some came who looked like praying people, but I was afraid to ask them, and perhaps they were afraid to speak; for, as you know, the Queen’s spies are abroad everywhere now, and if they find one whom they suspect of praying to Jesus they seize him and drag him away to the ordeal of ‘tangena’—perhaps to torture and death. But now you have come, and my prayer is answered. ‘He is faithful who has promised.’ Look here.”

The old man went to a corner of the hut, and returned with two soiled pieces of paper in his hand.

Sitting down, he spread them carefully on his knees. Mamba recognised them at once as being two leaves out of a Malagasy Bible. Soiled, worn, and slightly torn they were, from long and frequent use, but still readable. On one of them was the twenty-third Psalm, which the old wood-cutter began to read with slow and intense interest.

“Is it not grand,” he said, looking up at his young guest with a flush of joy in his care-worn old face, “to think that after this weary wood-cutting is over we shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever? No more toiling and hauling and splitting; above all, no more sin—nothing but praise and work for Him. And how hard I could work for Him!”

“Strange!” said Mamba, while the old man gazed at the two soiled leaves as if lost in meditation, “strange that you should show this to me. I have come—but tell me,” he said, breaking off abruptly, “what do you wish me to do?”

“This,” said the old man, pointing to the leaves, as though he had not heard the question, “is all that I possess of the Word of God. Ah! well do I remember the time—many years past now—when I had the whole Bible. It was such a happy time then—when good King Radama reigned, and the missionaries had schools and churches and meetings—when we prayed and sang to our heart’s content, and the Bible was printed, by the wonderful machines brought by the white men, in our own language, and we learned to read it. I was young then, and strong; but I don’t think my heart was so warm as it is now! Learning to read was hard—hard; but the Lord made me able, and when I got a Bible all to myself I thought there was nothing more to wish for. But the good Radama died, and Ranavalona sits upon his throne. You know she has burned many Bibles. Mine was found and burned, but she did not suspect me. I suppose I am too poor and worthless for her to care about! Perhaps we did not think enough of the happy times when we had them! A brother gave me these two leaves. They are all that I have left now.”