The Red Eric

“Oh, what a funny beast,” said Ailie, sitting down on a stone, and drying her eyes, which had filled with tears from excessive laughter.

“Indeed it was,” said Glynn. “It’s my opinion that a monkey is the funniest beast in the world.”

“No, Glynn; a kitten’s funnier,” said Ailie, with a degree of emphasis that showed she had considered the subject well, and had fully made up her mind in regard to it long ago. “I think a kitten’s the very funniest beast in all the whole world.”

“Well, perhaps it is,” said Glynn thoughtfully.

“Did you ever see three kittens together?” asked Ailie.

“No; I don’t think I ever did. I doubt if I have seen even two together. Why?”

“Oh! because they are so very, very funny. Sit down beside me, and I’ll tell you about three kittens I once had. They were very little—at least they were little before they got big.”

Glynn laughed.

“Oh, you know what I mean. They were able to play when they were very little, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Go on.”

“Well, two were grey, and one was white and grey, but most of it was white; and when they went to play, one always hid itself to watch, and then the other two began, and came up to each other with little jumps, and their backs up and tails curved, and hair all on end, glaring at each other, and pretending that they were so angry. Do you know, Glynn, I really believe they sometimes forgot it was pretence, and actually became angry. But the fun was, that, when the two were just going to fly at each other, the third one, who had been watching, used to dart out and give them such a fright—a real fright, you know—which made them jump, oh! three times their own height up into the air, and they came down again with a fuff that put the third one in a fright too; so that they all scattered away from each other as if they had gone quite mad. What’s that?”

“It’s a fish, I think,” said Glynn, rising and going towards the river, to look at the object that had attracted his companion’s attention. “It’s a shark, I do believe.”

In a few seconds the creature came so close that they could see it quite distinctly; and on a more careful inspection, they observed that the mouth of the river was full of these ravenous monsters. Soon after they saw monsters of a still more ferocious aspect; for while they were watching the sharks, two crocodiles put up their snouts, and crawled sluggishly out of the water upon a mud-bank, where they lay down, apparently with the intention of taking a nap in the sunshine. They were too far off, however, to be well seen.

“Isn’t it strange, Glynn, that there are such ugly beasts in the world?” said Ailie. “I wonder why God made them?”

“So do I,” said Glynn, looking at the child’s thoughtful face in some surprise. “I suppose they must be of some sort of use.”

“Oh! yes, of course they are,” rejoined Ailie quickly. “Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane used to tell me that every creature was made by God for some good purpose; and when I came to the crocodile in my book, they said it was certainly of use too, though they did not know what. I remember it very well, because I was so surprised to hear that Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane did not know everything.”

“No doubt Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane were right,” said Glynn, with a smile. “I confess, however, that crocodiles seem to me to be of no other use than to kill and eat up everything that comes within the reach of their terrible jaws. But, indeed, now I think of it, the very same may be said of man, for he kills and eats up at least everything that he wants to put into his jaws.”

“So he does,” said Ailie; “isn’t it funny?”

“Isn’t what funny?” asked Glynn.

“That we should be no better than crocodiles—at least, I mean about eating.”

“You forget, Ailie, we cook our food.”

“Oh! so we do. I did not remember to think of that. That’s a great difference, indeed.”

Leaving Glynn and his little charge to philosophise on the resemblance between men and crocodiles, we shall now return to Tim Rokens and Phil Briant, whom we left in the trader’s cottage.

The irate Irishman had been calmed down by reason and expostulation, and had again been roused to great indignation several times since we left him, by the account of things connected with the slave-trade, given him by the trader, who, although he had no interest in it himself, did not feel very much aggrieved by the sufferings he witnessed around him.

“You don’t mane to tell me, now, that whalers comes in here for slaves, do ye?” said Briant, placing his two fists on his two knees, and thrusting his head towards the trader, who admitted that he meant to say that; and that he meant, moreover, to add, that the thing was by no means of rare occurrence—that whaling ships occasionally ran into that very port on their way south, shipped a cargo of negroes, sold them at the nearest slave-buying port they could make on the American coast, and then proceeded on their voyage, no one being a whit the wiser.

“You don’t mean it?” remarked Tim Rokens, crossing his legs and devoting himself to his pipe, with the air of a man who mourned the depravity of his species, but did not feel called upon to disturb his equanimity very much because of it.

Phil Briant clenched his teeth, and glared.

“Indeed I do mean it,” reiterated the trader. “Would you believe it, there was one whaler put in here, and what does he do but go and invite a lot o’ free blacks aboard to have a blow-out; and no sooner did he get them down into the hold then he shut down the hatches, sailed away, and sold ’em every one.”

“Ah! morther, couldn’t I burst?” groaned Phil; “an’ ov coorse they left a lot o’ fatherless children and widders behind ’em.”

“They did; but all the widders are married again, and most of the children are grown up.”

Briant looked as if he did not feel quite sure whether he ought to regard this as a comforting piece of information or the reverse, and wisely remained silent.

“And now you must excuse me if I leave you to ramble about alone for some time, as I have business to transact; meanwhile I’ll introduce you to a nigger who will show you about the place, and one who, if I mistake not, will gladly accompany you to sea as steward’s assistant.”

The trader opened a door which led to the back part of his premises, and shouted to a stout negro who was sawing wood there, and who came forward with alacrity.

“Ho! Neepeelootambo, go take these gentlemen round about the village, and let them see all that is to be seen.”

“Yes, massa.”

“And they’ve got something to say to you about going to sea—would you like to go?”

The negro grinned, and as his mouth was of the largest possible size, it is not exaggeration to say that the grin extended from ear to ear, but he made no other reply.

“Well, please yourself. You’re a free man—you may do as you choose.”

Neepeelootambo, who was almost naked, having only a small piece of cloth wrapped round his waist and loins, grinned again, displaying a double row of teeth worthy of a shark in so doing, and led his new friends from the house.

“Now,” said Tim Rokens, turning to the negro, and pointing along the shore, “we’ll go along this way and jaw the matter over. Business first, and pleasure, if ye can get it, arterwards—them’s my notions, Nip—Nip—Nippi—what’s your name?”

“Coo Tumble, I think,” suggested Briant.

“Ay, Nippiloo Bumble—wot a jaw-breaker! so git along, old boy.”

The negro, who was by no means an “old boy,” but a stalwart man in the prime of life, stepped out, and as they walked along, both Rokens and Briant did their best to persuade him to ship on board the Red Eric, but without success. They were somewhat surprised as well as chagrined, having been led to expect that the man would consent at once. But no alluring pictures of the delights of seafaring life, or the pleasures and excitements of the whale-fishery, had the least effect on their sable companion. Even sundry shrewd hints, thrown out by Phil Briant, that “the steward had always command o’ the wittles, and that his assistant would only have to help himself when convanient,” failed to move him.

“Well, Nippi-Boo-Tumble,” cried Tim Rokens, who in his disappointment unceremoniously contracted his name, “it’s my opinion—private opinion, mark’ee—that you’re a ass, an’ you’ll come for to repent of it.”

“Troth, Nippi-Bumble, he’s about right,” added Briant coaxingly. “Come now, avic, wot’s the raisin ye won’t go? Sure we ain’t blackguards enough to ax ye to come for to be sold; it’s all fair and above board. Why won’t ye, now?”

The negro stopped, and turning towards them, drew himself proudly up; then, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, he advanced a step and held up his forefinger to impose silence.

“You no tell what I go to say? at least, not for one, two day.”

“Niver a word, honour bright,” said Phil, in a confidential tone, while Rokens expressed the same sentiment by means of an emphatic wink and nod.

“You mus’ know,” said the negro, earnestly, “me expec’s to be made a king!”

“A wot?” exclaimed both his companions in the same breath, and very much in the same tone.

“A king.”

“Wot?” said Rokens; “d’ye mean, a ruler of this here country?”

Neepeelootambo nodded his head so violently that it was a marvel it remained on his shoulders.

“Yis. Ho! ho! ho! ’xpec’s to be a king.”

“And when are ye to be crowned, Bumble?” inquired Briant, rather sceptically, as they resumed their walk.

“Oh, me no say me goin’ to be king; me only ’xpec’s dat.”

“Werry good,” returned Rokens; “but wot makes ye for to expect it?”

“Aha! Me berry clebber fellow—know most ebbery ting. Me hab doo’d good service to dis here country. Me can fight like one leopard, and me hab kill great few elephant and gorilla. Not much mans here hab shoot de gorilla, him sich terriferick beast; ’bove five foot six tall, and bigger round de breast dan you or me—dat is a great true fact. Also, me can spok Englis’.”

“An’ so you expec’s they’re goin’ to make you a king for all that?”

“Yis, dat is fat me ’xpec’s, for our old king be just dead; but dey nebber tell who dey going to make king till dey do it. I not more sure ob it dan the nigger dat walk dare before you.”

Neepeelootambo pointed as he spoke to a negro who certainly had a more kingly aspect than any native they had yet seen. He was a perfect giant, considerably above six feet high, and broad in proportion. He wore no clothing on the upper part of his person, but his legs were encased in a pair of old canvas trousers, which had been made for a man of ordinary stature, so that his huge bony ankles were largely exposed to view.

Just as Phil and Rokens stopped to take a good look at him before passing on, a terrific yell issued from the bushes, and instantly after, a negro ran towards the black giant and administered to him a severe kick on the thigh, following it up with a cuff on the side of the head, at the same time howling something in the native tongue, which our friends of course did not understand. This man was immediately followed by three other blacks, one of whom pulled the giant’s hair, the other pulled his nose, and the third spat in his face!

It is needless to remark that the sailors witnessed this unprovoked assault with unutterable amazement. But the most remarkable part of it was, that the fellow, instead of knocking all his assailants down, as he might have done without much trouble, quietly submitted to the indignities heaped upon him; nay, he even smiled upon his tormentors, who increased in numbers every minute, running out from among the bushes and surrounding the unoffending man, and uttering wild shouts as they maltreated him.

“Wot’s he bin doin’?” inquired Rokens, turning to his black companion. But Rokens received no answer, for Neepeelootambo was looking on at the scene with an expression so utterly woe-begone and miserable that one would imagine he was himself suffering the rough usage he witnessed.

“Arrah! ye don’t appear to be chairful,” said Briant, laughing, as he looked in the negro’s face. “This is a quare counthrie, an’ no mistake;—it seems to be always blowin’ a gale o’ surprises. Wot’s wrong wid ye, Bumble?”

The negro groaned.

“Sure that may be a civil answer, but it’s not o’ much use. Hallo! what air they doin’ wid the poor cratur now?”

As he spoke the crowd seized the black giant by the arms and neck and hair, and dragged him away towards the village, leaving our friends in solitude.

“A very purty little scene,” remarked Phil Briant when they were out of sight; “very purty indade, av we only knowed wot it’s all about.”

If the surprise of the two sailors was great at what they had just witnessed, it was increased tenfold by the subsequent behaviour of their negro companion.

That eccentric individual suddenly checked his groans, gave vent to a long, deep sigh, and assuming a resigned expression of countenance, rose up and said— “Ho! It all ober now, massa.”

“I do believe,” remarked Rokens, looking gravely at his shipmate, “that the feller’s had an attack of the mollygrumbles, an’s got better all of a suddint.”

“No, massa, dat not it. But me willin’ to go wid you now to de sea.”

“Eh? willin’ to go? Why, Nippi-Too-Cumble, wot a rum customer you are, to be sure!”

“Yis, massa,” rejoined the negro. “Me not goin’ to be king now, anyhow; so it ob no use stoppin’ here. Me go to sea.”

“Not goin’ to be king? How d’ye know that?”

“’Cause dat oder nigger, him be made king in a berry short time. You mus’ know, dat w’en dey make wan king in dis here place, de peeple choose de man; but dey not let him know. He may guess if him please—like me—but p’raps him guess wrong—like me! Ho! ho! Den arter dey fix on de man, dey run at him and kick him, as you hab seen dem do, and spit on him, and trow mud ober him, tellin’ him all de time, ‘You no king yet, you black rascal; you soon be king, and den you may put your foots on our necks and do w’at you like, but not yit; take dat, you tief!’ An’ so dey ’buse him for a littel time. Den dey take him straight away to de palace and crown him, an’, oh! arter dat dey become very purlite to him. Him know dat well ’nuff, and so him not be angry just now. Ah! me did ’xpec, to hab bin kick and spitted on dis berry day!”

Poor Neepeelootambo uttered the last words in such a deeply touching tone, and seemed to be so much cast down at the thought that his chance of being “kicked and spitted upon” had passed away for ever, that Phil Briant burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and Tim Rokens exhibited symptoms of internal risibility, though his outward physiognomy remained unchanged.

“Och! Bumble, you’ll be the death o’ me,” cried Briant. “An’ are they a-crownin’ of him now?”

“Yis, massa. Dat what dey go for to do jist now.”

“Troth, then, I’ll go an’ inspict the coronation. Come along, Bumble, me darlint, and show us the way.”

In a few minutes Neepeelootambo conducted his new friends into a large rudely-constructed hut, which was open on three sides and thatched with palm-leaves. This was the palace before referred to by him. Here they found a large concourse of negroes, whose main object at that time seemed to be the creation of noise; for besides yelling and hooting, they beat a variety of native drums, some of which consisted of bits of board, and others of old tin and copper kettles. Forcing their way through the noisy throng they reached the inside of the hut, into which they found that Ailie Dunning and Glynn Proctor had pushed their way before them. Giving them a nod of recognition, they sat down on a mat by their side to watch the proceedings, which by this time were nearly concluded.

The new king—who was about to fill the throne rendered vacant by the recent death of the old king of that region—was seated on an elevated stool looking very dignified, despite the rough ordeal through which he had just passed. When the noise above referred to had calmed down, an old grey-headed negro rose and made a speech in the language of the country, after which he advanced and crowned the new king, who had already been invested in a long scarlet coat covered with tarnished gold lace, and cut in the form peculiar to the last century. The crown consisted of an ordinary black silk hat, considerably the worse for wear. It looked familiar and commonplace enough in the eyes of their white visitors; but, being the only specimen of the article in the district, it was regarded by the negroes with peculiar admiration, and deemed worthy to decorate the brows of royalty.

Having had this novel crown placed on the top of his woolly pate, which was much too large for it, the new king hit it an emphatic blow on the top, partly with a view to force it on, and partly, no doubt, with the design of impressing his new subjects with the fact that he was now their rightful sovereign, and that he meant thenceforth to exercise all the authority, and avail himself of all the privileges that his high position conferred on him. He then rose and made a pretty long speech, which was frequently applauded, and which terminated amid a most uproarious demonstration of loyalty on the part of the people.

If you wish to gladden the heart of a black man, reader, get him into the midst of an appalling noise. The negro’s delight is to shout, and laugh, and yell, and beat tin kettles with iron spoons. The greater the noise, the more he enjoys himself. Great guns and musketry, gongs and brass bands, kettledrums and smashing crockery, crashing railway-engines, blending their utmost whistles with the shrieks of a thousand pigs being killed, all going at once, full blast, and as near to him as possible, is a species of Elysium to the sable son of Africa. On their occasions of rejoicing, negroes procure and produce as much noise as is possible, so that the white visitors were soon glad to seek shelter, and find relief to their ears, on board ship.

But even there the sounds of rejoicing reached them, and long after the curtain of night had enshrouded land and sea, the hideous din of royal festivities came swelling out with the soft warm breeze that fanned Ailie’s cheek as she stood on the quarterdeck of the Red Eric, watching the wild antics of the naked savages as they danced round their bright fires, and holding her father’s hand tightly as she related the day’s adventures, and told of the monkeys, crocodiles, and other strange creatures she had seen in the mangrove-swamps and on the mud-banks of the slimy river.

Chapter Ten.

An Inland Journey—Sleeping in the Woods—Wild Beasts Everywhere—Sad Fate of a Gazelle

The damage sustained by the Red Eric during the storm was found to be more severe than was at first supposed. Part of her false keel had been torn away by a sunken rock, over which the vessel had passed, and scraped so lightly that no one on board was aware of the fact, yet with sufficient force to cause the damage to which we have referred. A slight leak was also discovered, and the injury to the top of the foremast was neither so easily nor so quickly repaired as had been anticipated.

It thus happened that the vessel was detained on this part of the African coast for nearly a couple of weeks, during which time Ailie had frequent opportunities of going on shore, sometimes in charge of Glynn, sometimes with Tim Rokens, and occasionally with her father.

During these little excursions the child lived in a world of romance. Not only were the animals, and plants, and objects of every kind with which she came in contact, entirely new to her, except in so far as she had made their acquaintance in pictures, but she invested everything in the roseate hue peculiar to her own romantic mind. True, she saw many things that caused her a good deal of pain, and she heard a few stories about the terrible cruelty of the negroes to each other, which made her shudder, but unpleasant thoughts did not dwell long on her mind; she soon forgot the little annoyances or frights she experienced, and revelled in the enjoyment of the beautiful sights and sweet perfumes which more than counterbalanced the bad odours and ugly things that came across her path.

Ailie’s mind was a very inquiring one, and often and long did she ponder the things she saw, and wonder why God made some so very ugly and some so very pretty, and to what use He intended them to be put. Of course, in such speculative inquiries, she was frequently very much puzzled, as also were the companions to whom she propounded the questions from time to time, but she had been trained to believe that everything that was made by God was good, whether she understood it or not, and she noticed particularly, and made an involuntary memorandum of the fact in her own mind, that ugly things were very few in number, while beautiful objects were absolutely innumerable.

The trader, who rendered good assistance to Captain Dunning in the repair of his ship, frequently overheard Ailie wishing “so much” that she might be allowed to go far into the wild woods, and one day suggested to the captain that, as the ship would have to remain a week or more in port, he would be glad to take a party an excursion up the river in his canoe, and show them a little of forest life, saying at the same time that the little girl might go too, for they were not likely to encounter any danger which might not be easily guarded against.

At first the captain shook his head, remembering the stories that were afloat regarding the wild beasts of those regions. But, on second thoughts, he agreed to allow a well-armed party to accompany the trader; the more so that he was urged thereto very strongly by Dr Hopley, who, being a naturalist, was anxious to procure specimens of the creatures and plants in the interior, and being a phrenologist, was desirous of examining what Glynn termed the “bumpological developments of the negro skull.”

On still further considering the matter, Captain Dunning determined to leave the first mate in charge of the ship, head the exploring party himself, and take Ailie along with him.

To say that Ailie was delighted, would be to understate the fact very much. She was wild with joy, and went about all the day, after her father’s decision was announced, making every species of insane preparation for the canoe voyage, clasping her hands, and exclaiming, “Oh! what fun!” while her bright eyes sparkled to such an extent that the sailors fairly laughed in her face when they looked at her.

Preparations were soon made. The party consisted of the captain and his little child, Glynn Proctor (of course), Dr Hopley, Tim Rokens, Phil Briant, Jim Scroggles, the trader, and Neepeelootambo, which last had been by that time regularly domesticated on board, and was now known by the name of King Bumble, which name, being as good as his own, and more pronounceable, we shall adopt from this time forward.

The very morning after the proposal was made, the above party embarked in the trader’s canoe; and plying their paddles with the energy of men bent on what is vulgarly termed “going the whole hog,” they quickly found themselves out of sight of their natural element, the ocean, and surrounded by the wild, rich, luxuriant vegetation of equatorial Africa.

“Now,” remarked Tim Rokens, as they ceased paddling, and ran the canoe under the shade of a broad palm-tree that overhung the river, in order to take a short rest and a smoke after a steady paddle of some miles—“Now this is wot I calls glorious, so it is! Ain’t it? Pass the ’baccy this way.”

This double remark was made to King Bumble, who passed the tobacco-pouch to his friend, after helping himself, and admitted that it was “mugnifercent.”

“Here have I bin a-sittin’ in this here canoe,” continued Rokens, “for more nor two hours, an’ to my sartin knowledge I’ve seed with my two eyes twelve sharks (for I counted ’em every one) at the mouth of the river, and two crocodiles, and the snout of a hopplepittimus; is that wot ye calls it?”

Rokens addressed his question to the captain, but Phil Briant, who had just succeeded in getting his pipe to draw beautifully, answered instead.

“Och! no,” said he; “that’s not the way to pronounce it at all, at all. It’s a huppi-puppi-puttimus.”

“I dun know,” said Rokens, shaking his head gravely; “it appears to me there’s too many huppi puppies in that word.”