“Seems to me, sir,” observed Disco, as they plodded along together on the first morning of the land journey—“seems to me, sir, that Chimbolo don’t stand much chance of findin’ his wife alive.”
“Poor fellow,” replied Harold, glancing back at the object of their remarks, “I fear not.”
Chimbolo had by that time recovered much of his natural vigour, and although not yet able to carry a man’s load, was nevertheless quite capable of following the party. He walked in silence, with his eyes on the ground, a few paces behind Antonio, who was a step or two in rear of his leader, and who, in virtue of his position as “bo’s’n” to the party, was privileged to walk hampered by no greater burden than his gun.
“We must keep up his sperrits, tho’, poor chap,” said Disco, in the hoarse whisper with which he was wont to convey secret remarks, and which was much more fitted to attract attention than his ordinary voice. “It ’ud never do to let his sperrits down; ’cause w’y? he’s weak, an’ if he know’d that his wife was dead, or took off as a slave, he’d never be able to go along with us, and we couldn’t leave him to starve here, you know.”
“Certainly not, Disco,” returned Harold. “Besides, his wife may be alive, for all we know to the contrary.—How far did he say the village was from where we landed, Antonio?”
“’Bout two, t’ree days,” answered the bo’s’n.
That night the party encamped beside the ruins of a small hamlet where charred sticks and fragments of an African household’s goods and chattels lay scattered on the ground.
Chimbolo sat down here on the ground, and, resting his chin on his knees, gazed in silence at the ruin around him.
“Come, cheer up, old fellow,” cried Disco, with rather an awkward effort at heartiness, as he slapped the negro gently on the shoulder; “tell him, Antonio, not to let his heart go down. Didn’t he say that what-dee-call-the-place—his village—was a strong place, and could be easily held by a few brave men?”
“True,” replied Chimbolo, through the interpreter, “but the Manganja men are not very brave.”