Some weeks or months afterwards we find the pair at a large village called Malela, which lies at the foot of Ambohimiangavo, apparently a well-known mountain. Ellis mentions it, I observe, but only by name, as the richest iron district of the Central Provinces. They had had some trouble on the way. Among the hints and instructions which Crossley furnished, one in especial counselled Lebœuf to abstain from shooting in the neighbourhood of houses. Each tribe, he wrote, holds some living creature sacred—it may be a beast or a bird, a reptile, or even an insect. ‘These must not be hurt within the territory of such tribe; the natives will readily inform you which they are. But, in addition, each village commonly has its sacred creature, and it will be highly dangerous to shoot until you have identified the object. As you do not speak the language you had very much better make it a rule not to shoot anything on cultivated ground.’
This was not a man to heed fantastic warnings, but he learned prudence before they had gone too far into the wilds. At a short distance from Tamatave, in a field of sugar-cane, Lebœuf saw a beautiful bird, new to him, which had a tuft of feathers on each side the beak—so Wilson described it. He followed and secured the prize. The semi-civilised natives with them paid no attention. But when, an hour later, surrounded by the people of the village, he took out his bird to skin, there was a sudden tumult. The women and children ran away screaming, the men rushed for their weapons. But collectors were not unfamiliar beings, if incomprehensible, so near the port. After some anxious moments, the headmen or priests consented to take a heavy fine, and drove them from the spot.
Their arrival at Malela had been announced, of course, and they found an uproarious welcome. All the people of the neighbourhood were assembling for a great feast. While their men built a hut of branches outside the fortifications—for no house was unoccupied—they sat beneath the trees in the central space. Such was the excitement that even white visitors scarcely commanded notice. Chief after chief arrived, sitting crosswise in an ornamented hammock—not lying—his folded arms resting on the bamboo by which it was suspended. A train of spearmen pressed behind him. They marched round the square, displaying their magnificence to the admiration of the crowd, and dismounted at the Prince’s door—if that was his title—leaving their retainers outside. The mob of spearmen there numbered hundreds, the common folk thousands, arrayed in their glossiest and showiest lambas of silk or cotton. No small proportion of them were beating tom-toms; others played on the native flutes and fiddles; all shouted. The row was deafening. But doubtless it was a brilliant spectacle.
One part of the vast square, however, remained empty. Beneath a fine tree stood three posts firmly planted. They were nine or ten feet high, squared and polished, each branching at the top into four limbs; tree trunks, in fact, chosen for the regularity of their growth. In front was a very large stone, unworked, standing several feet above the ground. The travellers were familiar with these objects now. They recognised the curious idols of the country and their altar. On each side of the overshadowing tree barrels were ranged, one on tap, and another waiting its turn. This also they recognised. However savage the inland population, however ignorant of the white man’s arts, all contrived even then to transport puncheons of rum through swamp and jungle for occasions like this. Now and again persons distinguished from the throng by costlier dress and ornaments were escorted to the spot and they drank with ceremonies. Wilson did not like the prospect. His companion had broken loose once before under a similar temptation. But there was no help.
Presently the Chamberlain, so to call him, approached with a number of officers, and invited them to attend the Prince. They found that potentate sitting at the end of a long file of chiefs. The floor of the hall was covered with snowy mats, which set off the beauty of their many-coloured robes. Beside the Prince squatted a pleasant-looking man in pink vest and white lamba. He wore a broad-brimmed hat of silky felt, black, with a band of gold lace, contrasting at every point with the showily-dressed chiefs around. This, they knew, must be the high priest, the Sikidy. The Prince received them courteously, but since their interpreter knew but little French, and less, as it seems, of the language of this tribe, communication was limited to the forms of politeness. Then slaves brought in the feast, setting great iron dishes on the mats all along the row. Simultaneously the band struck up, and women began singing at the top of their voices.
The heat, the smell, the noise, the excitement of the scene were intoxicating without alcohol. But rum flowed literally in buckets, and palm wine several days old, which is even stronger. Wilson ventured to urge caution after a while, and at length Lebœuf tore himself away. Men came and went all the time, so their departure was unnoticed.
They reached the hut of boughs, now finished. Lebœuf threw himself down and slept; relieved of anxiety, Wilson set off to gather orchids. Malela appears to be a fine hunting-ground for collectors, but he only mentions the fact to explain his imprudence in leaving Lebœuf for some hours. The latter woke, found himself quite alone—for all the servants were merry-making, of course—and he also started off collecting. Unfortunately he traversed the village. And some of the chiefs took him in a friendly spirit to the barrel under the tree.
Wilson was returning—happy with a load of new orchids maybe—when he heard a shot, followed by a clamour of young voices. Next instant a swarm of children burst from the forest, and ran screaming across the open ground. Wilson had heard that cry before. His blood chilled. If the men of the other village were furious, how would it be with these drunken savages! He hurried to the spot whence the children had emerged.
As their voices died away he became conscious of shouting—an exultant tone. It was Lebœuf. They met in the outskirts of the wood. At sight of Wilson he bawled—
‘Hi, young un! got any weeds to sell? Give you tuppence for the lot. Pretty flowers—all a-blowing and a-growing! Take ’em to the missus! The ladies loves you chaps. I say, what’ll old Cutter look like when he sees that?’ Lebœuf threw down an animal which he carried on his shoulder, and danced round it, shouting and laughing.