The appearance at Angollála of the muskets presented to His Majesty by the British Government had already caused no inconsiderable consternation, it being the generally received belief that the bayonet, hitherto a stranger in the land, formed a great receptacle for poisonous spells. The roar of each flight of “fire-rainers” now produced a panic from end to end of the scattered camp. A buzz and a clamour of voices followed each luminous ascent, to burst forth into a loud peal of wonder when the brilliant shower of meteors fell after the explosion. Confusion ensued; horses and mules, breaking from their pickets, scoured away in terror, pursued by henchman and warrior, their figures, flitting in dim perspective among the countless bale-fires, like shades called into existence by some magic agency; and the scene doubtless proved to the gazing monarch that the political object in contemplation had been well and fully accomplished.
Habitual suspicion on the part of the despot inducing him to apprehend desertion to the enemy, the arms of the fusiliers of the body-guard were piled according to long-established usage, in one of the royal tents, and strongly guarded. The chiefs and nobles then sate down to a repast in the pavilion, where hydromel and beer and raw flesh were in regal profusion. As the horn circulated briskly, and the spirits of the guests mounted in proportion, it was curious to listen to the vaunts of coming prowess that arose from the board. No limit was placed upon the victims who were to be gathered to their fathers, and loyalty and devotion knew no bounds. “You are the adorners,” stammered one, as the party broke up, who had been decorated by his English friends; “you gave me scarlet broadcloth, and behold I have reserved the gift for the present occasion. This garment will bring me signal success; for the pagan who espies a crimson cloak over the shoulder of the Amhára, believing him to be a warrior of distinguished valour, takes like an ass to his heels, and is speared without the slightest danger.”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.
The Enemy’s Country.
Rome is said to have subdued the world under the direction of a hen and chickens, but the legions of Shoa and Efát are aroused to victory by the shrill crowing of a cock, which is invariably carried with the army, in one of the wicker baskets forming the pedestal of the banqueting table. One hundred and fifty-six choristers, termed asmároch, are entertained at the expense of the crown, upon extensive grants of land, to chant psalms and hymns each livelong night of the entire year. Twelve are brought on duty every month, and their vigils, which are invariably kept standing, are observed with more than usual strictness during the continuance of a military expedition. Throughout the hours of darkness their loud chorus arose from the pavilion without a moment’s intermission, and their vocal labours around the holy ark ceased only with the approach of dawn.
Many detachments being still in the rear, a halt was proclaimed with a view to admit of their joining the head quarters, and the king, escorted by two thousand cavalry, made an excursion to a knoll at some distance from the encampment, whence on a range stretching to the south-eastward, the hill of Dalófa was conspicuous. Hereon His Majesty has recently erected a palace, which he rarely visits except for the purpose of controlling by his presence the disaffected and turbulent Galla, whose continual outbreaks render it a far from agreeable place of residence. Gazing for hours over the extensive tract of rich meadow land which lay stretched like a map at his feet, the mind of the contemplative monarch, occasionally occupied by the administration of justice, appeared to be chiefly engrossed with the coming chapter of events, and to be abstractedly scanning the direction in which to pounce upon the surrounding foe.
The favourite dancing girl meanwhile attuning her shrill throat to song laudatory of her own vocal powers, and of her happy state of independence, in wild though far from pleasing notes carolled ever and anon as the spirit of the nightingale entered into her soul.
“Care have I none, no flock to keep,
Nor corn to grind, nor field to reap;
’Tis mine alone through the livelong day
To charm the king with my roundelay.
“Task have I none, no toil to share,
Nor wood to fetch, nor load to bear;
’Tis mine alone but to dance and sing,
And drink to the health of my lord the king.”