I accepted the offer as to the rifles, but declined to enlist the men in England. I need not say, that having no staff to aid me in enlisting, and no barracks to put the men in, the task was impossible. It was finally agreed that I was to engage the men at the Cape, and clothe them, the Government giving rations and pay as in the army.
I at once ordered fifty double-barrelled rifles of Messrs Barnett & Sons, Tower Hill, London, and one hundred and fifty single barrels on the same principle, of Messrs Hall, Birmingham. The rifles were soon ready; but the military authorities insisted on lengthy trials to burst them—to prove, I suppose, that they would be more dangerous to those who used them than to those they were used against. The cartridges also underwent innumerable trials: it was supposed by long-headed gentlemen at Woolwich, that the iron caps in the base of the bullets might be so struck that a spark could be emitted, the cartridge explode, and the engineer be hoisted by his own petard. Colonel P—— of the 12th gravely surmised the possibility of one man communicating the danger to another; upon which Mr Jeffrey, of marine-blue fame, laughingly remarked that the battalion in that case would begin file-firing by shooting themselves off instead of their firelocks. These, and other equally reasonable suppositions, kept me in England, until I began to fear, from the accounts of slaughter sent home, that there would not be a Kaffir left to try my guns upon. However, as I knew from experience that despatches intended for a public a long way off were apt to be put in a very trumpet-speaking style, and how that through a little bit of brass a little puff can make a big noise, I started for the Cape in the good ship Harbinger, still in the hopes of proving the usefulness of this new weapon.
CHAPTER II.
LAND AT ST VINCENT—SHOOTING EXCURSION ON THE ISLAND—STRANGE DREAM—NARROWLY ESCAPE SHIPWRECK—ARRIVE AT SIERRA LEONE—INTERVIEW WITH THE GOVERNOR—OFFICIAL CEREMONIES—VISIT THE BISHOP—OFFICIAL INSIGNIA—ST HELENA—NEGLECTED STATE OF THE HOUSE WHERE NAPOLEON DIED.
In the same ship were the newly-appointed Governor of the Cape, Mr Darling, and a Mr Macdonald, also recently appointed to the Gambia. The voyage was pleasant on all sides—ship, sea, and passengers—until we put into the Isle of St Vincent for coal. Here an event occurred which I should not relate had I been merely recording the actions of those around me; but I write these pages that others may learn the impulses that guide fellow-beings, who, from one cause or another, have in turn influenced many. As the ship was being coaled I had landed alone, and wandered about, gun in hand, to shoot, if I could, some snipe that were supposed now and again to visit the island. I could see nothing remarkable in this elevated spot but its geographical situation in the volcanic chain that runs from New Granada to St Eustache. As for the snipe, I had not the courage to fire at a poor solitary wanderer like myself that rose at my feet; so, towards evening, I returned to the ship, tired with my walk on this torrid, brick-kiln-looking island, that rose in layers to the clouds like an altar of earth’s burnt-offering reeking to the skies.
I had lain down in my berth, and had dozed off into dreamland, and fancied I saw a woman standing, much as the Virgin in Raffaele’s “Assumption” at Dresden, high up between the ship and the shore, motioning me not to be afraid. At this moment down rushed the governor of the Gambia, exclaiming, “For God’s sake get up! the ship is going ashore!”
I was so much under the influence of the dream, and assured thereby of Divine protection, that I told him to take my life-preserver, which was hanging up in the cabin, and to save himself. Up he rushed again, life-preserver in hand, while I lay quietly in my berth, listening to all the hubbub and trampling of feet on the deck overhead, until the roar of the breakers and the cessation of blowing off steam, made me rather anxious as to whether I was not, after all, going down. My anxieties soon came to an end. The governor appeared once more, saying all danger was over, and thanked me most warmly for having lent him the life-preserver. It appeared from his rather excited account, that after lifting the anchor to start for Sierra Leone, our next place of call, the rudder-chains got jammed between decks, and the steamer was helplessly drifting ashore. The anchor was then dropped again; but, from some untoward mismanagement, the chain had been detached from the capstan, and slipped through the hawser-holes into the sea, going after the anchor to the bottom.
In this awful predicament we approached the rugged shore, when, at the last moment, the recoil of the heavy seas as they were hurled back into the deep from the shore, jerked the rudder-chains free. The good ship Harbinger answered her helm again, and steamed safely away on her mission. The next morning I was congratulated by all on board for my generous conduct in giving my life-preserver to Mr Macdonald (who was rather an elderly personage). So, besides the nuisance of being thanked (which is always a bore), to increase my confusion still more, I knew perfectly well it was utterly undeserved, for I had felt so thoroughly sure of Divine protection when I gave the life-preserver away, that it was evidently useless to me. I never had the courage while on board to tell my dream, through fear of the pitying smiles it would raise; so I passed off, very unwillingly, for a far braver man than I really was.
On arriving at Sierra Leone, some of us landed to visit the garrison and pay our respects to the governor, Colonel O’C——r. The barracks, on the top of the hill overlooking the town, were clean and comfortable; and the officers quite a jolly lot for men stationed in “the white man’s grave,” as Sierra Leone was then called. The soldiers were smart, well set up, strongly-framed negroes, equal I should say, if well led, to a deal of hard fighting. We found the governor at home, enjoying his pleasant quarters in a private residence, with great equanimity and smiling composure. He was a soft, oily-looking gentleman, considerably yellowed by the fierce glare of the town. He lay on a couch, decked out with white muslin mosquito-curtains; and gently turning round as we entered, looked like a lump of yellow butter floating in a basin of iced water; and we youngsters were considerably cooled down as we rushed rather heedlessly into the great man’s sanctum sanctorum. He, however, gracefully ducked his head under the curtains, and waved a ripple of welcome to us all from his extended hands. He was evidently accustomed to unquestioning obedience, so we sat down without saying a word.
The room was full of niggers. It was something wonderful to see them clustered round the bell-shaped muslin curtains of his couch, like busy black flies on a loaf of white crystallised sugar. One had managed to thrust his naked arm, like an antenna, under the folds of the transparent dome, and with a long, white, horse-tail fan, was waving mysterious passes around the yellow, sphinx-shaped head of the presiding deity. Other attendants, with solemn, ebony-wooded heads, were squatting around the place, tossing up and down their lank arms in the most bewildering manner. Now and again they would insert their hands under the arm-pits, then sharply raise them, and with a whack, extend their palms upon the wall. I slipped out of the room, and asked the gallant colonel’s orderly the meaning of this mystic performance. “You see, sir,” he said, “those niggers squatting round the room are waiting to relieve the others on duty at the colonel’s cot; we makes ’em sit still, for when they goes about they scents mighty strong, and if they sits quite still they gets like rancid cocoa-oil; so to make them as sweet as possible, we orders them to keep alive, pegged down.” Poor black wretches! they were writing their misery on the wall, in a manner quite incomprehensible to the gallant colonel.