Chapter Five.
Simba and Moto’s Midnight Halt in the Forest—Moto’s Plan for saving Selim—Bimba and Moto made Prisoners at Katalambula’s Village—They are brought before the King—Kalulu recognises Moto—The King gives each of them a Wife—Kalulu’s Personal Appearance—The great African Giantess—The Marriage Song—Conclusion of the Marriage Festivities.
Simba and Moto were men as capable of enduring fatigue as the Watuta were, as good runners also; so that even had their enemies pursued them with a greater determination than they showed, the two men might have laughed securely, as night would soon have shrouded them with its friendly mantle.
For a long time, however, the two held on their way, raising their eyes every now and then toward the bright Southern Cross, which shone so clearly, and pointed their future road so plainly. They travelled with their figures half-profile to the Cross, or in a south-westerly direction. But at midnight the two halted in the denser portion of the forest; and there they built two fires and prepared their resting-places with leaves and tender twigs; and having done so, they breathed a long sigh of relief, sat down, and gradually their eyes lost the eager, intelligent look in vacancy.
But after a while Simba said in a deep, low voice, half to himself and half to Moto: “Wallahi! but this has been a sad day for us. That large and costly caravan and the brave men and leaders are gone. It was but last night I stood at their tent-door, looking at my noble master Amer and his friend Khamis, and I was thinking that there never lived finer and nobler-looking men. Ah, Arab sheikhs! where are ye now, chiefs of Zanzibar?” Then, raising his head, he said, “Answer me, thou black, blackest night! Answer me if ye can, oh twinkling stars! Answer me, dark and dread silence! Shall I never see dear master again? Moto, where dost thou think Amer is now?”
To which Moto answered: “Amer, the noblest of his tribe, the worthiest master that ever lived, the man with the kind heart and liberal hand, is not dead—he sleepeth.”
“Sleepeth! Ah, would it were so! then this great heaviness of sorrow within me would vanish. But what meanest thou, Moto?”
“Hast thou forgotten already the words of our noble master, the son of Osman, how that he said to us often, a man cannot die; the body may remain on the ground to moulder, and rot, and become dust, but the life that was in him cannot die? Hast thou never heard him mention the word Soul—that unseen, unfelt thing, which is as light as air, yet is the most important part of a man? For a long time I laughed at Amer’s words in my secret heart, but when I heard all the Arabs say the same thing, and the Nazarenes at Zanzibar say it also, I was obliged to believe, though I could not tell what the soul was like, or who had seen it, or if anybody had ever seen it. But now Amer’s head lies low on the ground and a cruel wound has found his kind heart, I shall keep thinking of his words, and believe in them; and I believe truly that Amer’s soul looks down upon us through this darkness from above.”
“I remember me now much the same thing,” said Simba, “though my sorrow of heart had blinded my memory. Is it not a happy thought, Moto, that master Amer is not quite, quite dead, and that we shall see him again?”
“Yes, very happy. Thou knowest, Simba, that he cannot be dead with us either, for we shall carry him in our memories like a valued treasure, and will never cease talking of him when we are together.”
“Ah! thou hast a good memory, Moto; but who, thinkest thou, is the happiest—master Amer, up above there, or young master Selim, a prisoner?”
“Oh, Simba! while I was beginning to think myself happy, thou hast made my heart black with sorrow, by making me think of what that boy must suffer. If it were not for his future good I would never have left him. Amer is happiest in Paradise, but Selim, his son, living on earth, must be miserable.”
“It is just as I thought also,” said Simba. “Poor child! Do you not remember how pretty he looked when he hinted to his father, that perhaps Simba would like his freedom? How his eyes, always beautiful, seemed filled with softness, and love, and gratitude to me? Ah, Selim, young master of everything that Simba has, it will go hard with some of these savage Watuta if they harm thee!”
“They will not harm Selim or the Arab boys; they will keep them as curiosities, unless some of them have seen Arabs before going about to buy slaves, in which case I pity them all,” said Moto.
“Moto,” shouted Simba, raising himself up, “art thou revenging thyself on me for making thee unhappy with the mention of him? Speak. Selim a slave! That petted, tender Arab boy a slave! Answer me, Moto.”
“It is as I tell thee; if any of the Watuta understand, as we do, what the word Arab is, all the Arab boys will be made slaves, and be beaten like dogs,” answered Moto.
“We are not obeying master Amer by running away from the camp of the Watuta. He told us to save his son Selim. I am going back;” and Simba snatched his spears and gun.
“Fool!” said Moto. “We cannot save him from the Watuta by going into their camp. We can only do it by finishing as we have begun. We must go to Katalambula’s village and see Kalulu. He only can save Selim and ourselves.”
“Well, I believe thou art right,” said Simba. “Let us go to sleep, and at dawn let us be off to see this Kalulu.” Saying which, he lay down between the fires, but sleep did not visit his eyes for some time afterwards.
For fifteen days they marched long and far towards the south-west without any incident worthy of notice. Now and then they left the forest occasionally, to follow a road leading to some village and obtain information as to the whereabouts of the village of Katalambula of those people whom they might meet, with little danger to themselves.
On the sixteenth day of their night they came to a large plain, extremely populous and rich. The dun-coloured tops of huts arose above the tall corn and millet everywhere. At midday they came to a deep river flowing north-west, which the people called Liemba. On the opposite side of the river they were also told was Katalambula’s village.
They were rowed across, for which Simba paid the canoe-man with a couple of arrows, having no other means of paying him. Then, following the right bank of the river for a few minutes, by fields of splendid corn, they came in sight of the village.
It was substantially built; and was constructed in the same manner as the Kwikuru of Olimali, except that the king’s quarters were flat-roofed tembes, surrounding a square of large dimensions, where the king kept his cattle and goats, and two or three donkeys, which were preserved more as curiosities than for any use that were made of them, and where he himself lived with his numerous family of women; for, strange to say, Katalambula, with all his wives, had never been able to obtain a son.
The principal gate was, as usual, decorated with the only trophies savages respect or regard, viz., glistening white skulls of their enemies.
When Simba and Moto arrived near the gate, the former’s gigantic height of body and breadth of shoulders soon attracted attention, and drew crowds towards him of curious gazers.
“Health unto you,” was his greeting to them.
“And unto you, strangers!” they replied. “Whence come you?” they then asked.
“We are travellers,” said Moto, “who have heard of King Katalambula, and have desired much to see Ututa’s king.” This was said in good Kirori, which, excepting a few words, is the same as Kituta.
“Your words are well, strangers. You are Warori?” a chief, who now made his presence known, asked them. “Though your garb is different, and the punctures on the cheek and forehead are wanting.”
“I am a Mrori,” answered Moto, “but my companion is not; he is a stranger from a far land.”
“Then do the Warori carry guns nowadays? And how is it that you wear such fine clothes?” he asked, regarding them suspiciously.
“We were successful in hunting, and shot an elephant, whose teeth we sold for cloth and two guns.”
“And where did you meet elephants?”
“On the frontier, near Urori.”
“And where did you meet the Arabs?”
“In Ututa, two days from Urori.”
“Did you ask them where they were going?”
“They were going to Uwemba.”
“Perhaps you can tell us where they came from?”
“From Ubena.”
“Strangers,” said the chief, “you are liars. No Arabs have been in this country for a long, long time. You are our prisoners, and must come before the King in our company;” and, as he spoke, the men that had gathered near rushed at them and disarmed them.
In a short time they found themselves within the inner square; and under a large sycamore in the centre was seated, on a dried mud platform, raised two feet above the ground, and which ran around the tree like a circular sofa, covered with kid and goatskins, and over these skins of wild beasts, an old white-haired man, whom, by the deference paid to him, the prisoners knew was King Katalambula.
The King had on his head a band of snowy white cloth, and his dress was a long broad robe of crimson blanket cloth. He was a kindly-looking old man, and he was evidently at the time being much amused with something that a tall young lad of sixteen, or thereabouts, was saying; but as the group of warriors guarding Simba and Moto entered the square, the old man looked up curiously, and when they drew nearer he demanded to know what the matter was.
“My sultan, my lord,” said the principal man to whom we were first introduced at the gate, “these men are suspicious characters. To every question I asked them they replied with a he; wherefore we brought them to you to judge.”
“Speak, strangers, the truth. Who and what are ye?”
The quick eye of Moto had seen the young lad standing by Katalambula when he entered, and he suspected that he was the object of his search, the young friend of bygone years.
“Great king,” said Moto, “I did lie; but to you I will give the truth. I am a Mrori, who was taken when a child by the Arabs of Zanzibar. Years after that time, when I was a man, I accompanied an Arab chief, called Kisesa, to Unyanyembe; but soon after arriving, he declared war against the Warori, and—”
“Kisesa!” said the young lad, advancing towards him with the stride of a young lion. “War against the Warori!” he added again, with an angry glitter in his eyes.
“Yes, young chief,” said Moto, humbly; “and I accompanied Kisesa to this war. After a long march we came before a Tillage near Ututa, governed by—”
“By whom?” asked the young chief. “Tell me his name—quick, dog!”
“Mostana,” said Moto, deliberately.
“Mostana!” shrieked the boy, and the word was echoed in a tone of surprise by all.
“Yes, Mostana was his name,” said Moto, unheeding the menacing looks or the angry murmurs which arose from all sides, but hurrying on with his story. “We took the village after a short time, though Mostana’s men fought well, and numbers of our people were killed. Mostana’s men were nearly all killed, and those who were left were made slaves, according to the custom of the Arabs.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Katalambula. “Those cruel people make clean work of it when they fight, but I—”
“Were they all made prisoners?” asked the boy chief, in a curious tone.
“All, except one, and—”
“And his name was—?”
“Kalulu!” replied Moto, in a clear tone.
Again rose a murmur of astonishment from all sides, but, apparently heedless that he had said anything very strange, Moto continued:
“Yes, Kalulu, the son of Mostana, was standing by his father’s side, when Kisesa, observing him, said he would give fifty pieces of cloth to whoever would take him alive. On hearing that, my soul felt a feeling of pity for him, as you must remember I was a Mrori; and, though I liked the Arabs, I could not kill my own people at their bidding, nor did I like to see such a brave boy as Mostana’s son in danger of being made a slave by Kisesa. So, on hearing the offer made by Kisesa, I snatched up a shield and rushed forward to whisper to him to follow me, but the boy thought probably that I was about to kill him, as he put a spear clean through my shield and pinned my arm to it.”
A loud cry of admiration greeted this, while the boy already advanced nearer to Moto and regarded him affectionately; but Moto heeded nothing of this, but continued:
“Seeing me still advance, the boy sprang back just as his father fell dead by a bullet from some gun behind me. I hastened after the boy, saw him look cautiously around, and spring over the palisade; but I was right behind him; and when he was a little distance off in the forest I chased him at my best speed, and soon came up to him. I explained to him who I was, and why I chased him, and told him I was his friend; upon which he told me that he was going to his uncle, a great king in Ututa, and that if ever we met again he would be my friend.”
As Moto finished this part of his story, the boy chief sprang forward and embraced Moto, saying:
“Dost thou not know me? I am Kalulu! And thou art my friend Moto! I shall keep my promise, and the King must thank thee,” said Kalulu, as he drew Moto forward towards Katalambula.
As they heard these words from Kalulu, the chiefs and elders clapped their hands, and saluted Moto, while the King took hold of Moto’s right hand and said:
“Kalulu has told me the story which related how the Kirori slave would not take him when he might have done so; and though I never expected to see the man, I promised him that if any of my people met him and they should bring him to me, I should be his friend; that he should have one of my daughters for wife, and that I would bestow on him anything else he asked, for Kalulu is as dear to me as though he were my son. Speak, Moto, add tell me what I can do for thee.”
Then Moto, after a seat had been given to him, repeated briefly the story which we have already given to the readers, while murmurs of approbation at the wonderful good fortune of Ferodia rose from every side; then, when these had subsided, Moto said:
“Oh, Kalulu, if what I have done for thee deserves kindness at thy hands, and if thou wert sincere when thou didst promise to be my friend, speak to the great King of the Watuta for me, and let him give my young master Selim, the Arab slave, as well as the three other slaves their freedom, and let them depart to their own land, and to the friends who will mourn for them.”
“Kalulu has already given his promise to thee, Moto. Kalulu is the friend of thy friends, and the enemy of thy enemies. Katalambula, the King, hears my words, and will do this kindness for thee for what thou hast done for me. Speak, great King,” said Kalulu, advancing to him as he spoke.
“Ah, Kalulu!” said the King Katalambula, “thou knowest not what thou askest, but I will do for thee what may be done. I can intercede with Ferodia for them, but I may not command him. Those Arab youths are the slaves of Ferodia; but if he is willing to exchange for them, I will give him two female slaves for each of the Arab boy-slaves. Will that content thee, Kalulu?”
“I will wait until he comes here. I will then give thee my answer. But I think thou givest way too much to Ferodia in all things; he likes me not too well, because I stand between him and thy favour. If I were king of the Watuta, I should give Ferodia a lesson.”
“Tush, boy! be not too hasty with thy tongue. Ferodia is chief in his own right of a large tract of country. Dost thou wish me to take that from him which he has won by his spear and his bow?” asked Katalambula, slightly frowning.
“He has not won by himself, with his sword and his spear, the battle against the Arabs. Fight hundred of the ten hundred warriors he has with him are thine, taken from thy country. Wilt thou that he shall choose for himself what he shall please to reserve, or wilt thou choose what he shall have and what thou wilt keep?”
“Boy, boy, Ferodia is the chief warrior of the Watuta; he knows every art of war. He has never been beaten in the battle, either by the Wabena, or the Warungu, or the Wawemba, or any other; and though I have furnished him with men, he has always given me the greater and the most valuable share. Why wilt thou, who art but a boy, tell me these things concerning Ferodia? Be patient; I will ask him when he comes for these slaves for thee. But had it not been for the good deed this man did for thee, I should have ordered Ferodia to roast them all alive. Go thou, rather, and do thy duty towards these travellers; give them food and drink; and when they have rested, give each a house. Then let my daughter Lamoli be given to Moto for wife; and to this tall man give one of my female slaves for wife. Katalambula has spoken.”
While the King was speaking he was evidently getting more peevish, for he was old and soon tired; so Kalulu refrained from taxing his patience further, and beckoning to Moto and Simba, he walked away with his guests, leaving the King to be assisted by his chiefs to his quarters.
When young Kalulu arrived at his own house, or rather room—for the entire square was surrounded but by one house—he again embraced Moto, and promised to leave no stone unturned until he had secured the freedom of the Arab boys. “But,” said Kalulu, “it is well for them that you are my friend, as I do not think I can ever forgive the Arabs for murdering my father; and the King finds it very hard to do this thing for you, because in Mostana he lost a brother; and those of our tribe who have travelled far to hunt and kill elephants always come back with tales of their cruelty. I fear if Ferodia insists on their being slaves my uncle will not resist him; for, but for you, nothing would please him better than to torture them, and I should have liked it too.”
“Oh, Kalulu,” said Moto, “you do not know Selim. He would never have treated a man badly, neither did his father. Simba and I were proud to be slaves of such a man as Amer bin Osman, and we were proud to call Selim our young master. Do you know that Selim is just your age, though you are taller than he is, and you are thinner than he was; though, poor boy! he will be thin enough when he comes here. But how you have grown, Kalulu! yet you cannot be more than sixteen years old!”
“I do not know how old I am,” Kalulu said, laughing. “I wae little when I saw you, or you would never have caught me. But I must do what the King has commanded me to do.” And Kalulu darted out, spear in hand, his ostrich plumes trailing over his head far behind.
Perhaps here would be a fit place to intercalate a description of the native youth whose name forms the title-page to this strange historical romance.
Since ancient Greece displayed the forms of her noblest, finest youth in the Olympian games, and gave her Phidias and Praxiteles models to immortalise in marble, all civilised nations have borrowed their ideas of manly beauty from the statues left to us by Grecian and Roman sculptors, because civilised nations seldom can furnish us with models to compete with the super-excellent types designed by Greece. While American and English sculptors go to Rome to play with marble and plaster, and borrow for their patterns of an athlete or perfect human form, the vulgar, low, and uncouth lazzaroni of Rome, the centre of Africa teems with finer specimens of manhood than may be found in this world; such types as would even cause the marble forms of Phidias to blush, Kalulu was one of the best specimens which the ancient sculptors would have delighted to imitate in stone. His face or head may not, perhaps, have kindled any very great admiration, but the body, arms, and limbs were unmistakably magnificent in shape. He had not an ounce of flesh too much, yet without the tedious training which the modern athlete has to undergo, and following nothing but the wild instinct of his adopted tribe, he was a perfect youthful Apollo in form. The muscles of his arms stood out like balls, and the muscles of his legs were as firm as iron. There was not one of the tribe of his age who could send a spear so far, or draw the bow with so true and steady aim as he, or could shoot the arrow farther. None had such a springy, elastic movement as he, none was so swift of foot, none followed the chase with his ardour, none was so daring in the attack; yet with all that constant exercise, the following of which had given him these advantages, his form lost nothing of that surpassing grace of movement and manly beauty for which he was styled by me, just now, a perfect youthful Apollo.
If I give him such praise for his elegance of form and free graceful carriage, I may not continue in the same strain in the description of his face. Kalulu was a negro, but his colour was not black by any means, it was a deep brown or bronze. His lips were thick, and, according to our ideas, such as would not lend beauty to his face; his nose was not flat, neither was it as correct in shape as we would wish it; but, with the exception of lips and nose, one could find no fault with his features. His eyes were remarkably large, brilliant, sparkling, and black as the blackest ink, while the whites of his eyes were not disfigured by the slightest tinge of unhealthy yellow, nor seamed with the red veins common to negroes of older growth. His ears were small and shapely, and, strange to say, the lobes were not as yet distorted out of all form with the pieces of wood or gourd-necks, which, unhappily, with the Watuta, are too common among their ear ornaments. His ears were simply decorated with two Sungomazzi beads, (these beads are as large as a pigeon’s egg, and are either of coloured porcelain or coloured glass) one to each ear, each bead suspended by a piece of very fine brass wire. His hair, though woolly, hung below his shoulders in a thousand fine braids, adorned with scores of fine red, yellow, and white beads. His ornaments, besides those already mentioned, consisted of three snow-white ostrich plumes, fastened in a band which ran around his head, and which, besides holding the plumes, served to hold his hair; a braided necklace, ivory bands above each elbow, and ivory bracelets, and broad bead-worked anklets.
While the author has been endeavouring to portray Kalulu, that the reader may become acquainted with his excellence, the youthful hero had hastened to bring Lamoli to her husband; and he now appeared on the threshold of the door with his cousin, who at once pleased Moto as much as the King expected she would. We will say this, however, in passing, that though she was not by any means the loveliest of her sex, she was neither ugly, toothless, nor old; nor was she young, pretty, or one calculated to charm our fastidious tastes. But Moto did not refuse her; on the contrary, he thought it a high honour to many the daughter of a king, and became lavish in his praise, with which Lamoli was not at all displeased.
Having performed this marriage according to the customs of the Watuta, Kalulu remembered that he had still another marriage on his hand, and at once asked Simba what kind of a wife he fancied. Simba was not at all displeased with the idea of another wife, though he and Moto had each a wife at Zanzibar, who had borne them children; and he at once replied that Kalulu might choose for him. After an absence of only a few minutes, Kalulu returned with a young woman who might have drawn crowds in London and New York, as the “Great African Giantess.”
As he saw the gigantic couple together, Kalulu clapped his hands in high glee, and danced about them as if he were about to receive a magnificent gift, and laughed as he burst into a mock rhapsody.
“Lo, Kalulu has seen strange things! he has seen two trees drawn together from a great distance! he has seen them walk together arm-in-arm!! Behold how the trees, the sycamore and the mtambu, the great baobab, and the mbiti, how they nod their heads, and are pleased!! For they rejoice that two great trees are married, and a forest of young trees will soon sprout up. As they move, the ground shakes and the huts reel. Verily this is a great day; both the ground and the huts have been guzzling pombe—they are drunk, rejoicing over the marriages Kalulu, the future King of the Watuta, has performed!
“Lamoli, my sweet cousin, daughter of Katalambula—of Katalambula the great King—was sorrowing for a husband. She was thirsting, like a pool in the middle of the plain in a long summer. She, the flower of Katalambula’s household, was sick for a husband. But the day came—ah, happy day! A man from afar—from the island in the sea—he came, he saw me, I knew him. He was my friend; and in him Katalambula—Katalambula the great King—found a husband for his daughter—a mate for Lamoli.
“Ah, Lamoli! Lamoli! Lamoli! weep no more; but laugh until thy mouth reaches from ear to ear, and I, Kalulu, thy cousin, can see the joy welling from thy throat, like living water springing from a rock! Laugh, Lamoli, sweet Lamoli! so that the unmarried women of all Ututa may hear and envy thee; so they may rend their bosoms with rage, or crush themselves to death with the over-weight of their ornaments. Laugh, Lamoli, sweet Lamoli! until every foot of man and woman moves to the sound of thy happy laughter! And thou, tall woman of Ututa! do thou laugh and sing, until all the tall trees of Ututa will become jealous of thee! we then may have rain. And thou, Simba, tall man from afar, well named the Lion! roar for joy, and thou wilt hear the wild lions of the forest roar in concert with thee, and each will be roused to fury, roaring for their loving mates. But enough; be happy, and raise warriors for your tribes. Kalulu is not a singer; he is a young warrior, who is learning how to throw the spear and shoot with the bow. The singers are coming with drums to do you honour, for such are the King’s commands.”
While Kalulu had been thus employing himself, a company of drummers, eight in number, two tumblers,—or, as we should call them, two mountebanks,—and fifty couples of young men and women had formed themselves in a circle; and as Kalulu ceased speaking, the Magic Doctor, or Mganga, as the natives called him, raised his voice and sang the marriage song, while he danced in an ecstatic manner as he sang. I should also say, before giving the song, that the smallest drums only accompanied his voice, while the great drums thundered together when the chorus was given by the dancers. The words were, as near as they can be translated:
We sing the happy marriage song,
We sound the drum, and beat the gong
In honour of Lamoli!
She is the daughter of a king,
Yet she spent her days in weeping,
Being left alone and sorrowing.
Poor sorrowing Lamoli!
Chorus.
Oh, Lamoli!
Poor Lamoli!
Sorrowing
Lamoli!
A day has come, ah, happy day!
That brought a stranger in the way
Of sorrowing Lamoli!
Long ago the stranger did a deed,
A friendly deed, in time of need,
Which won for him the lover’s meed.
Sweet Lamoli!
Chorus. Oh, Lamoli!
Sweet Lamoli!
Charming Lamoli!
This stranger sav’d young Kalulu
From cruel bonds at Kwikuru.
The good stranger!
Kalulu swore to this brave man,
As long as life-blood in him ran,
To praise the name to every man
Of this brave stranger!
Chorus. Oh, stranger!
Good stranger!
Brave stranger!
This man has come to Tuta Land,
This man who sav’d with friendly hand
Our young Kalulu!
Shall we deny him our faint praise?
Shall we refuse him wedlock lays?
Shall we not wish him happiest days?
Who sav’d Kalulu?
Chorus. Oh, Kalulu!
Young Kalulu!
Brave Kalulu!
Our great King heard the stranger’s name,
And nearer to him the stranger came,
To Katalambula!
He said, “I’ve known this story long,
A Mtuta’s memory is strong.
I love the good and hate the wrong,”
Said Katalambula!
Chorus. Oh, Katalambula!
Good Katalambula!
Great Katalambula!
Give him house, give him home. You boy!
Give him pombe and food. Give him joy!
Give him Lamoli!
Brave man! take the pride of our race;
Take the dearest girl with the loveliest face.
Live in the shade of our kingly mace
With good Lamoli!
Chorus. Oh, Lamoli!
Good Lamoli!
Sweet Lamoli!
We sing the happy marriage song.
We sound the drum and beat the gong
For joy with Lamoli.
Now a wife, no longer weeping,
No more to spend her days in mourning,
She will be for ever laughing,
Happy Lamoli!
Chorus. Oh, Lamoli!
Charming Lamoli!
Happy Lamoli!
The music accompanying this song was slow and sweet, worthy of the great occasion on which it was given. During the chorus, the dancing became more lively, and each man and woman lifted the voice high, which created a grand and majestic volume of sound, while the drums were beaten with a terrific vigour. The festivities lasted all the day and night, until sunrise next morning; but during the night they were better attended, nearly a thousand souls joining in the song and chorus. Kalulu and many others were hoarse from over-exertion of voice, when they retired next morning to rest.
Having brought Simba and Moto to their temporary home and through their difficulties, let us now withdraw from this scene for a while, and see how it fares with the Arab boy-slaves and Ferodia’s caravan.
