Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 235
Stepping cautiously forward on tip-toe, Glynn searched among the leaves all round the fire, following the direction of the sounds, but nothing was to be found; and he experienced a slight feeling of supernatural dread creeping over him, when a peculiarly loud metallic snore sounded clear above his head. Looking up, he beheld by the dull red light of the almost extinct fire, the form of Phil Briant, half-seated, half-reclining, on the branch of a tree not ten feet from the ground, and clasping another branch tightly with both arms.
At that moment, Ailie, who had awakened, ran up, and caught Glynn by the hand.
“Hallo! Briant!” exclaimed Glynn.
A very loud snore was the reply.
“Briant! Phil Briant, I say; hallo! Phil!” shouted Glynn.
“Arrah! howld yer noise will ye,” muttered the still sleeping man— “sno — o — o — o — re!”
“A fall! a fall! — all hands ahoy! tumble up there, tumble up!” shouted Glynn, in the nautical tones which he well knew would have their effect upon his comrade.
He was right. They had more than their usual effect on him. The instant he heard them, Phil Briant shouted— “Ay, ay, sir!” and, throwing his legs over the side of what he supposed to be his hammock, he came down bodily on what he supposed to be the deck with a whack that caused him to utter an involuntary but tremendous howl.
“Oh! och! oh! murther! oh whirra!” he cried, as he lay half-stunned. “Oh, it’s kilt I am entirely — dead as mutton at last, an’ no mistake. Sure I might have knowd it — och! worse luck! Didn’t yer poor owld mother tell ye, Phil, that ye’d come to a bad end — she did—”
“Are ye badly hurt?” said Glynn, stooping over his friend in real alarm.
At the sound of his voice Briant ceased his wails, rose into a sitting posture, shaded his eyes with his hand (a most unnecessary proceeding under the circumstances), and stared at him.
“It’s me, Phil; all right, and Ailie. We’ve escaped, and got safe back again.”
“It’s jokin’ ye are,” said Briant, with the imbecile smile of a man who only half believes what he actually sees. “I’m draimin’, that’s it. Go away, avic, an’ don’t be botherin’ me.”
“It’s quite true, though, I assure you, my boy. I’ve managed to give the niggers the slip; and here’s Ailie, too, all safe, and ready to convince you of the fact.”
Phil Briant looked at one and then at the other in unbounded amazement for a few seconds, after which he gave a short laugh as if of pity for his own weakness, and his face assumed a mild aspect as he said softly, “It’s all a draim, av coorse it is!” He even turned away his eyes for a moment in order to give the vision time to dissipate. But on looking round again, there it was, as palpable as ever. Faith in the fidelity of his own eyesight returned in a moment, and Phil Briant, forgetting his bodily pains, sprang to his feet with a roar of joy, seized Ailie in his arms and kissed her, embraced Glynn Proctor with a squeeze like that of a loving bear, and then began to dance an Irish jig, quite regardless of the fact that the greater part of it was performed in the fire, the embers of which he sent flying in all directions like a display of fireworks. He cheered, too, now and then like a maniac— “Oh, happy day! I’ve found ye, have I? after all me trouble, too! Hooray! an’ wan chair more for luck. Av me sowl only don’t lape clane out o’ me body, it’s meself’ll be thankful! But, sure — I’m forgittin’—”
Briant paused suddenly in the midst of his uproarious dance, and seized a burning stick, which he attempted to blow into a flame with intense vehemence of action. Having succeeded, he darted towards an open space a few yards off, in the centre of which lay a large pile of dry sticks. To these he applied the lighted brand, and the next instant a glare of ruddy flame leaped upwards, and sent a shower of sparks high above the forest trees into the sky. He then returned, panting a good deal, but much composed, and said— “Now, darlints, come an’ help me to gather the bits o’ stick; somebody’s bin scatterin’ them all over the place, they have, bad luck to them! an’ then ye’ll sit down and talk a bit, an’ tell me all about it.”
“But what’s the fire for?” asked Ailie.
“Ay, ye may say that,” added Glynn; “we don’t need such a huge bonfire as that to cook our supper with.”
“Och! be aisy, do. It’ll do its work; small doubt o’ that. The cap’n, poor man, ye know, is a’most deranged, an’ they’re every one o’ them off at this good minute scourin’ the woods lookin’ for ye. O, then, it’s sore hearts we’ve had this day! An’ wan was sent wan way, an’ wan another, an’ the cap’n his-self he wint up the river, and, before he goes, he says to me, says he, ‘Briant, you’ll stop here and watch the camp, for maybe they’ll come wanderin’ back to it, av they’ve bin and lost theirselves; an’ mind ye don’t lave it or go to slape. An’ if they do come, or ye hear any news o’ them, jist you light up a great fire, an’ I’ll be on the look-out, an’ we’ll all on us come back as fast as we can.’ Now, that’s the truth, an’ the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the truth, as the judge said to the witness when he swore at him.”
This was a comforting piece of information to Glynn and Ailie, so, without further delay, they assisted their overjoyed comrade to collect the scattered embers of the fire and boil the kettle. In this work they were all the more energetic that the pangs of hunger were beginning to remind them of the frugal and scanty nature of their last meal.
The bonfire did its work effectually. From all parts of the forest to which they had wandered, the party came, dropping in one by one to congratulate the lost and found pair. Last of all came Captain Dunning and Tim Rokens, for the harpooner had vowed he would “stick to the cap’n through thick and thin.” Tim kept his word faithfully. Through thick tangled brakes and thin mud-swamps did he follow his wretched commander that night until he could scarcely stand for fatigue, or keep his eyes open for sleep; and when the captain rushed into the camp at last, and clasped his sobbing child to his heart, Tim Rokens rushed in along with him, halted beside him, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked on, while his eyes blinked with irresistible drowsiness, and his mud-bespattered visage beamed with excessive joy.
Chapter Thirteen.
Philosophical Remarks on “Life” — A Monkey Shot and a Monkey Found — Jacko Described.
“Such is life!” There is deep meaning in that expression, though it is generally applied in a bantering manner to life in all its phases, under all its peculiar and diversified circumstances. Taking a particular view of things in general, we may say of life that it is composed of diverse and miscellaneous materials — the grave and the gay; the sad and the comic; the extraordinary and the commonplace; the flat and the piquant; the heavy and the light; the religious and the profane; the bright and the dark; the shadow and the sunshine. All these, and a great deal more, similar as well as dissimilar, enter into the composition of what we familiarly term life.
These elements, too, are not arranged according to order, at least, order that is perceptible to our feeble human understandings. That there does exist both order and harmony is undeniable; but we cannot see it. The elements appear to be miscellaneously intermingled — to be accidentally thrown together; yet, while looking at them in detail there seems to us a good deal of unreasonable and chaotic jumble, in regarding them as a whole, or as a series of wholes, it becomes apparent that there is a certain harmony of arrangement that may be termed kaleidoscopically beautiful; and when, in the course of events, we are called to the contemplation of something grand or lovely, followed rather abruptly by something curiously contemptible or absurd, we are tempted to give utterance to the thoughts that are too complicated and deep for rapid analysis, in the curt expression “Such is life.”
The physician invites his friends to a social réunion. He chats and laughs at the passing jest, or takes part in the music — the glee, or the comic song. A servant whispers in his ear. Ten minutes elapse, and he is standing by the bed of death. He watches the flickering flame; he endeavours to relieve the agonised frame; he wipes the cold sweat from the pale brow, and moistens the dry lips, or pours words of true, earnest, tender comfort into the ears of the bereaved. The contrast here is very violent and sudden. We have chosen, perhaps, the most striking instance of the kind that is afforded in the experience of men; yet such, in a greater or less degree, is life, in the case of every one born into this wonderful world of ours, and such, undoubtedly, it was intended to be. “There is a time for all things.” We were made capable of laughing and crying; therefore, these being sinless indulgences in the abstract, we ought to laugh and cry. And one of our great aims in life should be to get our hearts and affections so trained that we shall laugh and cry at the right time. It may be well to remark, in passing, that we should avoid, if possible, doing both at once.
Now, such being life, we consider that we shall be doing no violence to the harmonies of life if we suddenly, and without further preface, transport the reader into the middle of next day, and a considerable distance down the river up which we have for some time been travelling.
Here he (or she) will find Ailie and her father, and the whole party in fact, floating calmly and pleasantly down the stream in their canoe.
“Now, this is wot I do enjoy,” said Rokens, laying down his paddle and wiping the perspiration from his brow; “it’s the pleasantest sort o’ thing I’ve known since I went to sea.”
To judge from the profuse perspiration that flowed from his brow, and from the excessive redness of his face, one would suppose that Rokens’ experience of “pleasant sort o’ things” had not hitherto been either extensive or deep. But the man meant what he said, and a well-known proverb clears up the mystery— “What’s one man’s meat is another’s poison!” Hard work, violent physical exertion, and excessive heat were Rokens’ delight, and, whatever may be the opinion of flabby-muscled, flat individuals, there can be no reasonable doubt that Rokens meant it, when he added, emphatically, “It’s fuss-rate; tip-top; A1 on Lloyd’s, that’s a fact!”
Phil Briant, on hearing this, laid down his paddle, also wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, and exclaimed— “Ditto, says I.”
Whereupon Glynn laughed, and Jim Scroggles grunted (this being his method of laughing), and the captain shook his head, and said —
“P’r’aps it is, my lads, a pleasant sort o’ thing, but the sooner we’re out of it the better. I’ve no notion of a country where the natives murder poor little boys in cold blood, and carry off your goods and chattels at a moment’s notice.”
The captain looked at Ailie as he spoke, thereby implying that she was part of the “goods and chattels” referred to.
“Shure it’s a fact; an’ without sayin’ by yer lave, too,” added Briant, who had a happy facility of changing his opinion on the shortest notice to accommodate himself to circumstances.
“Oh, the monkey!” screamed Ailie.
Now as Ailie screamed this just as Briant ceased to speak, and, moreover, pointed, or appeared to point, straight into that individual’s face, it was natural to suppose that the child was becoming somewhat personal — the more so that Briant’s visage, when wrinkled up and tanned by the glare of a tropical sun, was not unlike to that of a large baboon. But every one knew that Ailie was a gentle, well-behaved creature — except, perhaps, when she was seized with one of her gleeful fits that bordered sometimes upon mischief — so that instead of supposing that she had made a personal attack on the unoffending Irishman, the boat’s crew instantly directed their eyes close past Briant’s face and into the recesses of the wood beyond, where they saw a sight that filled them with surprise.
A large-leaved tree of the palm species overhung the banks of the river and formed a support to a wild vine and several bright-flowering parasitical plants that drooped in graceful luxuriance from its branches and swept the stream, which at that place was dark, smooth, and deep. On the top of this tree, in among the branches, sat a monkey — at least so Ailie called it; but the term ape or baboon would have been more appropriate, for the creature was a very large one, and, if the expression of its countenance indicated in any degree the feelings of its heart, also a very fierce one — an exceedingly ferocious one indeed. This monkey’s face was as black as coal, and its two deep-seated eyes were, if possible, blacker than coal. Its head was bald, but the rest of its body was plentifully covered with hair.
Now this monkey was evidently caught — taken by surprise — for instead of trying to escape as the canoe approached, it sat there chattering and exhibiting its teeth to a degree that was quite fiendish, not to say — under the circumstances — unnecessary. As the canoe dropped slowly down the river, it became obvious that this monkey had a baby, for a very small and delicate creature was seen clinging round the big one’s waist with its little hands grasping tightly the long hair on the mother’s sides, its arms being much too short to encircle her body. Ailie’s heart leapt with an emotion of tender delight as she observed that the baby monkey’s face was white and sweet-looking; yes, we might even go the length of saying that, for a monkey, it was actually pretty. But it had a subdued, sorrowful look that was really touching to behold. It seemed as though that infantine monkey had, in the course of its brief career, been subjected to every species of affliction, to every imaginable kind of heart-crushing sorrow, and had remained deeply meek and humble under it all. Only for one brief instant did a different expression cross its melancholy face. That was when it first caught sight of the canoe. Then it exposed its very small teeth and gums after the fashion of its mother; but repentance seemed to follow instantly, for the sad look, mixed with a dash of timidity, resumed its place, and it buried its face in its mother’s bosom.
At that moment there was a loud report. A bullet whistled through the air and struck the old monkey in the breast. We are glad to say, for the credit of our sailors, that a howl of indignation immediately followed, and more than one fist was raised to smite the trader who had fired the shot. But Captain Dunning called the men to order in a peremptory voice, while every eye was turned towards the tree to observe the effect of the shot. As for Ailie, she sat breathless with horror at the cruelty of the act.
The old monkey gave vent to a loud yell, clutched her breast with her hands, sprang wildly into the air, and fell to the ground. Her leap was so violent that the young one was shaken off and fell some distance from its poor mother, which groaned once or twice and then died. The baby seemed unhurt. Gathering itself nimbly up, it ran away from the men who had now landed, but who stood still, by the captain’s orders, to watch its motions. Looking round, it observed its mother’s form lying on the ground, and at once ran towards it and buried its little face in her breast, at which sight Ailie began to cry quietly. In a few seconds the little monkey got up and gently pawed the old one; then, on receiving no sign of recognition, it uttered a faint wail, something like “Wee-wee-wee-wee-oo!” and again hid its face in the breast of its dead parent.
“Ah! the poor cratur,” said Briant, in a tone of voice that betrayed his emotion. “O, why did ye kill her?”
“Me ketch ‘im?” said Bumble, looking inquiringly at the captain.
“Oh, do!” answered Ailie, with a sob.
The negro deemed this permission sufficient, for he instantly sprang forward, and throwing a piece of net over the little monkey, secured it.
Now the way in which that baby monkey struggled and kicked and shrieked, when it found itself a prisoner, was perfectly wonderful to see! It seemed as if the strength of fifty little monkeys had been compressed into its diminutive body, and King Bumble had to exert all his strength in order to hold the creature while he carried it into the canoe. Once safely there and in the middle of the stream, it was let loose. The first thing it did on being set free was to give a shriek of triumph, for monkeys, like men, when at last allowed to do that which they have long struggled in vain to accomplish, usually take credit for the achievement of their own success.
Its next impulse was to look round at the faces of the men in search of its mother; but the poor mother was now lying dead covered with a cloth in the bottom of the canoe, so the little monkey turned from one to another with disappointment in its glance and then uttered a low wail of sorrow. Glynn Proctor affirmed positively that it looked twice at Phil Briant and even made a motion towards him; but we rather suspect that Glynn was jesting. Certain it is, however, that it looked long and earnestly at Ailie, and there is little doubt that, young though it was, it was able to distinguish something in her tender gaze of affection and pity that proved attractive. It did not, however, accept her invitation to go to her, although given in the most persuasive tones of her silver voice, and when any of the men tried to pat its head, it displayed such a row of sharp little teeth and made such a fierce demonstration of its intention to bite, that they felt constrained to leave it alone. At last Ailie held her hand towards it and said —
“Won’t it come to me, dear, sweet pet? Do come; I’ll be as kind to you almost as your poor mother.” The monkey looked at the child, but said nothing.
“Come, monkey, dear puggy, do come,” repeated Ailie, in a still more insinuating voice.
