Chapter Eleven.
Cruising in the Dodo—The Bluebell—How oysters grow on trees—Away up the beautiful river—The Bluebell aground—Noontide on the river.
On board the Dodo once more, steaming steadily northwards; some times far out at sea, with nothing but the blue all round them: sometimes hugging the green-wooded shore: sometimes casting anchor at the mouths of mighty rivers, and sending armed boats away to seek for the slave dhows that hid all day under the hanging boughs, and stole out to sea at night. Chisholm, the oldest of our heroes, confessed he had never enjoyed a voyage so much in his life. At last, however, they cast anchor in Zanzibar, and were nothing loth to go on shore to stretch their legs. The captain accompanied them in his gig, dressed in full uniform—cocked-hat, epaulettes, and sword. He was going to visit the Consulate, and expected news of some importance.
Accompanied by a black boy, who wore no clothes worth mentioning, but could speak English and prided himself thereon, they went for a grand tour of inspection. The streets were narrow, long, and winding, and oftentimes bridged over at the top, so that the residents in one house could cross over to see their friends on the other side of the way, without the trouble of coming downstairs. There was a singular absence of windows in the houses of the gentlemen Arabs, Banians, or Hindus; every room of which, although furnished luxuriantly, is very dark and cool. In the bazaar and in the streets where the shops were, there was hardly any moving along, so great was the motley crowd, and, saving the women and the innumerable slaves, every one they met was armed to the teeth. The warrior Arabs, with their long flowing hair, dressed in embroidered robes of snowy white, with cloaks of camel’s hair, gilded turbans and jewelled sword-belts, looked boldly picturesque; these mingled in the streets with—white-gowned Hindus, and long-faced, dark-coated Parsees; sailors in blue and soldiers in scarlet, and sacred solemn-looking cows with gilded horns, which many a one touched with fond reverence, as they walked quietly along. And the background of all this picture was slavery; slavery panting and perspiring as it dragged itself along in chains; slavery cowering under the lash of the driver’s whip; slavery bent to the ground under loads of cowrie shells; slavery, dark unhappy slavery.
Our heroes were glad to find themselves at last out in the green and flowery country, wandering under the shade of giant trees, and inhaling the sweet perfume of orange blossom. The first person they met on their return from shore was Captain Lyell himself. He shook hands with them all round, at which they were not a little surprised, but they could see by his face there was something in the wind.
“Come down below,” he said. When he got them there he continued, “I’ve got good news, gentlemen, in fact, I may say glorious news; let me tell it to you all in one sentence. First, then, I’m promoted; I’m now Captain Lyell in reality, and not by courtesy alone; secondly, I’m going home—another officer has arrived to take command of the Dodo; thirdly, I’ve applied to the Commodore for four months’ leave; fourthly, I’ve got it; fifthly and lastly, I’ve hired a pretty little river steamboat from a Scotch friend on shore here, one that takes all to pieces for the boys to carry, quite an African explore boat, and I’m ready to start with you to-morrow if you like for the interior, and if we don’t get the rarest of sport, why I shan’t believe that my name is plain John Lyell.”
It is needless to say that after this there was another round of hand-shaking, or that the dinner that day was enlivened by some of the captain’s very best and rarest of reminiscences.
The little steamer which Lyell had hired was indeed a beauty, quite a fairy boat. Getting her ready for the voyage and packing the stores, getting in all necessaries, and hiring “the boys” occupied quite a week. Then they went out on their trial trip. The day was beautiful—it was the sunny season in the Indian ocean—there was just enough wind to temper the heat and ripple the sea. The many pretty islands they visited seemed, at a distance, to float in the sky; they were emerald green, and fringed with a beach of snowy sand. They landed on some of these and shot a species of small deer and rabbits—wild rabbits such as we have at home. (I cannot account for the presence of rabbits on some islands in the channel of the Mozambique, but there they are.) In a little sandy cove of one of these islands, they took luncheon al fresco, previously enjoying the luxury of a bath, all taking a header at once and making all the noise they could to keep the sharks at bay.
The trial trip was perfectly satisfactory; so next morning early, it was up anchor and off. The Bluebird hadn’t much space between decks, but they had an awning spread, and lounging on deck was delightful. They headed north, keeping two or three miles from the shore. This shore was a cloudland of green, without beach or sea border of any kind.
“Yonder,” said Lyell, “is where oysters grow on trees.”
There was a laugh at this; but next morning the captain verified his statement, and he took Frank with him in the little boat, and they brought off a bucketful. The explanation is this: the roots of the mangrove trees grow among the water, to these the oysters cling, and at low water can be gathered.
Now here they are at the mouth of a great river; they can hear the thundering of the breakers on the terrible bar as they approach it, over these mountain waves their boat must go, and it is lucky for them that they have so experienced a sailor as Lyell at the helm. But beyond all is peace; the peace that reigns on the broad bosom of a great river whose waters roll slowly seaward. On each side the banks are wooded to the water’s edge. The trees are mangroves, but here and there are bunches of feathery palms.
After dinner they land among a clump of these to drink cool delicious cocoa-nut milk. (This glorious nectar can only be had in perfection in lands where the cocoa palms grow. Each green nut before the fruit is formed contains about a quart of it.) In Africa, wherever you find cocoa-nut trees you find human beings, and here was a negro village, but at sight of the white faces of the travellers the natives fled screaming into the dark depths of the forest. So they had to help themselves. Onward again, and now a thick fog envelopes them, and in a few minutes the Bluebell has run aground and refuses to budge. Then it is all hands to strip and get overboard to lighten ship; all save the little engineer; he stays aboard to go all speed astern. All speed astern means no speed at all for ten minutes at least, during which time it comes on to rain in fearful torrents, and the surface of the river becomes all at once so hot, that they are glad when the Bluebell moves again, and they can get up out of it. They hadn’t bargained for a warm bath. But the mist rolls off presently, and they can once more see their way. But this running aground becomes an almost every day occurrence, so that at last they quite look forward to the order to strip and plunge.
They have left the last Portuguese settlement, and the last Arab encampment, leagues and leagues behind them; they have passed the countries of many different tribes of natives. Most of these fled on their approach, but the warriors of some lined the shores, yelling maniacally, and brandishing their war spears. They have come at last to a portion of the stream where they are but little troubled with the presence of the aborigines, a few only being seen in their log canoes peacefully fishing. But where mankind does not abound in Africa birds and beasts hold sway; and one day, on rounding a point of land, they came upon a scene of such animation, as my poor pen would fail in any attempt to describe. It was noontide on the river; countless herds of zebus and zebras had come down to drink, hippopotami wallowed in the shallows, and the sky above was alive with myriads of strange and beautiful birds, that floated screaming around, or perched on the trees, deafening the ear with their noise and chatter; parrots and lories, ibises, flamingoes and storks—some of these as they circled high in the air being arrayed in plumage of pure white and scarlet, looked strangely beautiful against the sky’s azure blue.
“O!” cried Chisholm, “we mustn’t let such an opportunity as this pass for a big shoot.”
“Give them time to drink,” said Fred; “it would be a shame to disturb them yet a little.”
This was agreed to, and the Bluebird lay still for two hours, which gave ample time to watch the strange manners and customs of these curious specimens of animal life, and after this shooting began. The larger game were wilder than they imagined, and soon made themselves very scarce indeed; but the birds took hardly any heed of their presence, and even when dozens of them fluttered down dead, instead of being afraid, the majority seemed to look upon the matter as a very pretty joke, and the parrots in particular shrieked and laughed till the very welkin rang.
The scenery got more varied as they proceeded more inland; the river swept at times through vast treeless wastes, and on its banks lay alligators basking in the sunshine. This was a temptation never to be resisted. It afforded good ball practice, and I daresay it tickled the alligators up a little if it did nothing else. At other times the river was bounded by gigantic cliffs; here it narrowed, and the current was so strong that a mile an hour of headway was all that could be made, under the highest pressure of steam commensurate with safety.
They had come to the right hunting grounds at last, so thought Chisholm, Frank, and Fred. But Lyell, although always willing to lie to for a day to enjoy the wild scenery, and the shooting the jungles afforded, always counselled going on and on. Early in the morning and an hour or two before the shades of evening fell, were the times they generally chose to disembark for a ramble in the forest.
One day they crept quietly through the bush to a spot whence some noise proceeded. They expected a shot at something. Suddenly they found themselves within a stone’s throw of a herd of most beautiful zebras; they had come to a pool to drink. But beyond them were quite a regiment of giraffes. They could sniff the danger from afar if the zebras could not; they swung their heads as if they were gigantic hammers, stamped with rage, and bounded off ere ever a trigger could be drawn. But our heroes were rewarded half-an-hour afterwards, by falling in with a quantity of hippopotami. These unwieldly monsters were quietly browsing on the rank herbage that the plain afforded them. Probably they never ran so quickly before as they did when fire was opened on them from the bush. Before they had began to shoot, “I say, boys,” said Chisholm, “what a charming view, a nobleman’s castle on a hill, park and trees and all complete! Doesn’t it look like it, though?”
“Yes,” Fred replied, laughing; “and deer and all in it. Don’t they look elegant with their short legs and their swollen mouths?”
Bang—bang—bang!