Camping, Travelling, Shooting, Dreaming, Poetising, Philosophising, and Surprising, in Equatorial Africa.

At sunset the travellers halted in a peculiarly wild spot and encamped under the shelter of a gigantic baobab tree.

Two rousing fires were quickly kindled, round which the natives busied themselves in preparing supper, while their leaders sat down, the one to write up his journal, the other to smoke his pipe.

“Well, sir,” said Disco, after a few puffs delivered with extreme satisfaction, “you do seem for to enjoy writin’. You go at that log of yours every night, as if it wos yer last will and testament that ye couldn’t die happy without exikootin’ an’ signin’ it with yer blood.”

“A better occupation, isn’t it,” replied Harold, with a sly glance, “than to make a chimney-pot of my mouth?”

“Come, sir,” returned Disco, with a deprecatory smile, “don’t be too hard on a poor feller’s pipe. If you can’t enjoy it, that’s no argiment against it.”

“How d’you know I can’t enjoy it?”

“Why? cos I s’pose you’d take to it if you did.”

“Did you enjoy it when you first began?” asked Harold.

“Well, I can’t ’zactly say as I did.”

“Well, then, if you didn’t, that proves that it is not natural to smoke, and why should I acquire an unnatural and useless habit?”

“Useless! why, sir, on’y think of wot you loses by not smokin’—wot a deal of enjoyment!”

“Well, I am thinking,” replied Harold, affecting a look of profound thoughtfulness, “but I can’t quite make it out—enjoyment? let me see. Do I not enjoy as good health as you do?”

“O, cer’nly, sir, cer’nly. You’re quite up to the mark in that respect.”

“Well then, I enjoy my food as well, and can eat as much, can’t I?”

“No doubt of it,” replied Disco, with a grin; “I was used to be considered raither a dab at wittles, but I must say I knocks under to you, sir.”

“Very good,” rejoined Harold, laughing; “then as to sleep, I enjoy sleep quite as soundly as yourself; don’t I?”

“I can’t say as to that,” replied Disco. “You see, sir, as I never opens my eyes arter shuttin’ of ’em till the bo’s’n pipes all hands ahoy, I’ve no means of knowin’ wot you accomplish in that way.”

“On the whole, then, it seems that I enjoy everything as much as you do, and—”

“No, not everything; you don’t enjoy baccy, you know.—But please, sir, don’t go for to moralise; I can’t stand it. You’ll spile my pipe if ye do!”

“Well, I shall spare you,” said Harold, “all the more that I perceive supper is about—”

At that moment Antonio, who had gone down to a streamlet which trickled close at hand, gave utterance to a hideous yell, and came rushing into camp with a face that was pea-green from terror.

“Ach!” he gasped, “a lion! queek! your guns!” Every one leaped up and seized his weapon with marvellous alacrity on receiving an alarm so violent and unlooked-for.

“Where away?” inquired Disco, blazing with excitement, and ready at a moment’s notice to rush into the jungle and fire both barrels at whatever should present itself.

“No, no, don’ go,” cried Antonio in alarm; “be cautionous.”

The interpreter’s caution was enforced by Chimbolo, who laid his hand on Disco’s arm, and looked at him with such solemnity that he felt it necessary to restrain his ardour.

Meanwhile Antonio with trembling steps led Harold to a point in the thicket whence he beheld two bright phosphoric-looking objects which his companion said were the lion’s eyes, adding that lion’s eyes always shone in that way.

Harold threw forward his rifle with the intention of taking aim, but lowered it quickly, for he felt convinced that no lion could possibly have eyes so wide apart unless its head were as large as that of an elephant.

“Nonsense, Antonio!” he said, laughing; “that cannot be a lion.”

“Ho, yis, him’s a lion, for sure,” Antonio returned, positively.

“We shall see.”

Harold raised his rifle and fired, while Antonio turned and fled, fully expecting the wounded beast to spring. Harold himself half looked for some such act, and shrank behind a bush by way of precaution, but when the smoke cleared away, he saw that the two glowing eyes were gazing at him as fixedly as ever.

“Pooh!” exclaimed Disco, brushing past; “I knows wot it is. Many a time I’ve seed ’em in the West Injies.”

Saying which, he went straight up to the supposed lion, picked up a couple of glow-worms, and brought them to the camp-fires, much to the amusement of the men, especially of Jumbo, and greatly to the confusion of the valorous interpreter, who, according to his invariable custom when danger threatened, was found to have sought refuge in a tree.

This incident furnished ground for much discussion and merriment during supper, in which Antonio, being in no wise ashamed of himself, joined noisily; and Chimbolo took occasion to reprove Disco for his rashness, telling him that it was impossible to kill lions in the jungle during the darkness of night, and that, if they did pay them a visit, it would be wise to let them be, and trust to the camp-fires keeping them at a respectful distance. To which Disco retorted that he didn’t believe there was any lions in Afriky, for he’d heard a deal about ’em an’ travelled far, but had not yet heard the sound of their woices, an’, wot was more, didn’t expect to.

Before that night was far advanced, Disco was constrained to acknowledge himself in error, for a veritable lion did actually prowl down to the camp, and salute them with a roar which had a wonderfully awe-inspiring effect on every member of the party, especially on those who heard it for the first time in their lives.

Just before the arrival of this nocturnal visitor, one of the men had been engaged in some poetic effusions, which claim preliminary notice here, because they were rudely terminated by the lion.

This man was one of Kambira’s people, and had joined the party by permission. He was one of those beings who, gifted with something like genius, or with superior powers of some sort, have sprung up in Africa, as elsewhere, no doubt from time immemorial, to dazzle their fellows for a little, and then pass away, leaving a trail of tradition behind them. The existence there, in time past, of men of mind far in advance of their fellows, as well as of heroes whose physical powers were marvellous, may be assumed from the fact that some such exist at the present time, as well as from tradition. Some of these heroes have excited the admiration of large districts by their wisdom, others by their courage or their superior dexterity with the spear and bow, like William Tell and Robin Hood, but the memory of these must soon have been obliterated for want of literature. The man who had joined Harold was a poet and a musician. He was an improvvisatore, composed verses on the incidents that occurred as they travelled along, and sang them with an accompaniment on an instrument called the sansa, which had nine iron keys and a calabash for a sounding-board.

The poet’s name was Mokompa. With the free and easy disposition of his race, he allowed his fancy to play round the facts of which he sang, and was never at a loss, for, if the right word did not come readily, he spun out the measure with musical sounds which meant nothing at all.

After supper was over, or rather when the first interval of repose occurred, Mokompa, who was an obliging and hearty little fellow, was called on for a song. Nothing loath, he seized his sansa and began a ditty, of which the following, given by Antonio, may be regarded as a remarkably free, not to say easy, translation:—

    Mokompa’s Song.

    

    Kambira goes to hunt,

            Yo ho!

    Him’s spear am nebber blunt,

            Yo ho!

    Him kill de buff’lo quick,

    An’ lub de porridge thick;

    Him chase de lion too,

    An’ stick um troo an’ troo.

    De ’potimus as well,

    An’ more dan me can tell,

    Hab down before um fell,

            Yo ho!

    De English come to see,

            Yo ho!

    Dat werry good for we,

            Yo ho!

    No’ take us ’way for slaves,

    Nor put us in our graves,

    But set de black mans free,

    W’en cotch um on de sea.

    Dem splendid shooters, too,

    We knows what dey can do

    Wid boil an’ roast an’ stew,

            Yo ho!

    One makes um’s gun go crack,

            Yo ho!

    An elephant on um’s back,

            Yo ho!

    De drefful lion roar,

    De gun goes crack once more,

    De bullet fly an’ splits

    One monkey into bits,

            Yo ho!

    De glow-worm next arise,

    De Englishman likewise

    Wid werry much surprise,

    An’ hit um ’tween de eyes,

    “Hooray! hooray!” um cries,

    An’ run to fetch um’s prize—

            Yo ho!

The last “Yo ho!” was given with tremendous energy, and followed by peals of laughter.

It was at this point that the veritable lion thought proper to join in, which he did, as we have said, with a roar so tremendous that it not only put a sudden stop to the music, but filled the party with so much alarm that they sprang to their arms with surprising agility.

Mindful of Chimbolo’s previous warning, neither Harold nor Disco sought to advance, but both looked at their savage friend for advice.

Now, in some parts of Africa there exists a popular belief that the souls of departed chiefs enter into lions and render them sacred, and several members of Harold Seadrift’s party entertained this notion. Chimbolo was one of these. From the sounds of growling and rending which issued from the thicket, he knew that the lion in question was devouring part of their buffalo-meat which had been hung on the branch of a neighbouring tree, not, however, near enough to the fires to be visible. Believing that the beast was a chief in disguise, Chimbolo advanced a little towards the place where he was, and, much to our traveller’s amusement, gave him a good scolding.

“You call yourself a chief, do you—eh?” he said sternly. “What kind of a chief can you be, to come sneaking about in the dark like this, trying to steal our buffalo-meat! Are you not ashamed of yourself? A pretty chief, truly; you are like the scavenger-beetle, and think of yourself only; you have not the heart of a chief. Why don’t you kill your own beef? You must have a stone in your chest, and no heart at all.”

“That’s werry flowery lingo, but it don’t seem to convince him,” said Disco, with a quiet smile, as the lion, which had been growling continuously over its meal all the time, wound up Chimbolo’s speech with another terrific roar.

At this point another believer in transmigration of souls, a quiet man who seldom volunteered remarks on any subject, stepped forward and began seriously to expostulate with the lion.

“It is very wrong of you,” he said, “to treat strangers in this fashion. You might have more respect for Englishmen who have come to see your land, and never did you any harm. We are travelling peaceably through the country; we never kill anybody, and never steal anything; the buffalo-meat is ours, not yours, and it ill becomes a great chief like you to be prowling about in the dark, li............