Harry Milvaine: or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy

“De lion, sa! De lion what come here ebery night, gobble up some poor soul, den smack his lips and go away back to de jungle.”

Now though much against his inclination, Harry had not the heart to go away and leave this wretched tribe to the mercy of a relentless man-eater.

This lion was evidently some very old and wily king of the forest, too old to stalk bigger game. In this village he had “struck oil,” as the Yankees say, and was making the very best of it.

Harry determined to “spoil his game.”

All day he wandered about this swamp-island, wondering at the beauty of the flowers and the richness of their perfume, and admiring the many strange birds and their nests.

When night began to fall he prepared to watch for the foe.

The lion invariably walked on to the stage at the same spot. When shown this, to his horror he found a poor boy there tied to a stake, agony depicted in his staring eyes, and the sweat standing in beads on his brow and draggling his curly hair.

The poor lad was a sop for Cerberus, and every night it seemed to be the custom thus to sacrifice one poor victim to save others in the village. Whether they drew lots for it, or how it was arranged, Harry could not find out.

There was little fog here to-night, but it lay low down all over the marsh, which thus looked like one vast sheet of water glimmering in the starlight. Harry lay in concealment behind a tree, the two rifles loaded and ready, with Jack, Raggy, and the guide spear-armed and not far off.

He had released the boy, who looked quite bewildered on first gaining his freedom, but soon regained his presence of mind, and went off scampering and shouting into the village.

Hours and hours passed by.

Harry was often startled by noises above him, and looking up saw gigantic bats flitting from tree to tree.

Would the lion never come?

Hark! a footstep deep down in the marsh; soft though it was, it could be heard distinctly enough creeping nearer and nearer, pausing often as if to listen, then coming on and on again through the rustling grass.

At last he is in sight.

A monster white-muzzled he-lion.

For a moment he stands ’twixt Harry and the starlight.

Our hero’s hand is shaking. All his nerves are a-quiver, for truth is he is far from well, and the night air is damp and chilly.

Will he miss? The starlight is confusing.

He takes steady aim and fires.

The lion stands erect roaring, maddened with pain.

Quick as a thought Harry seizes the other rifle, and while the lion is still half erect fires again, and the man-eater staggers forward, falling first on his knees, then on his nose, and there remaining – dead.

Harry was a god now in the eyes of these poor people.

In the midst of a large clearing in this swamp-island stood a strange forked, withered tree. Up in this tree a fire was built and lit. Into the open space the dead lion was dragged, and with many an eldritch shout and scream, for hours and hours these savages danced round the dead lion, and the fire that burned in the tree-top.

But Harry was glad when morning came, and happy indeed when next evening he found himself once more among the tree-clad mountains with the marsh far in the rear.

When he lay down to sleep that night he tried to think of the lake with its hundred isles, and of the feast of flowers, but even in his dreams he was haunted by the scenes he had recently passed through, and —

The Village in the Dismal Swamp

Book Four – Chapter Two.

Weary Wanderings – Prisoner in a Savage Land – The Escape by Night – Down with Fever in the Marsh

Nearly a whole year has passed away since the events described in last chapter, and the wayward, wandering Harry has seen many strange sights, had many a wild adventure, and been among many strange tribes and peoples.

He would hardly have travelled so far, he would have returned much sooner towards the east had he not been following up a will-o’-the-wisp. For again and again he was told by natives with whom he came in contact of white men who were held captive by kings of tribes, sometimes it would be to the north, at other times to the south or to the west.

He hoped against hope, and never failed to hunt up these tribes, but disappointment had always been his lot.

So, tired and disheartened at last, he had determined to return, and to strike once more for the lake of the hundred isles.

This returning, however, was not such an easy matter as he had anticipated. For in journeying westwards he found the chiefs with whom he came in contact not unwilling to let him go onwards because he assured them he was coming back. This, and gifts of buttons, etc, procured him liberty to advance, though several times he had to fall back on his rifle, and usually succeeded in scaring warlike chieftains out of their wits.

But on his way back every effort was made to detain him as a slave till he should die, or, as the kings phrased it, “for ever and for ever.”

All this resulted in very slow progress indeed in his backward journey, and constituted a far greater danger than even that from wild beasts.

As an instance of how quickly an African chief can change his tactics, I may tell you of a really warlike tribe whom Harry encountered, who dwelt among the hills in the middle of a vast forest land.

At first the chief of this clan hardly knew how kind to be to Harry and his people. He fêted them and feasted them, brought presents of roasted goat-flesh, of honey, fruit, and of cocoanut beer. Harry much preferred the feasts to the fêtes, for these hardly ever passed without a human sacrifice. He could not tell whether the victims were political offenders or not.

However that may be, had the doomed wretches been simply beheaded it would not have been so awful, but they were first tortured.

In one instance a living chain was made by tying seven unhappy beings head to heels. The tallest branch of a kind of lithe poplar tree was then by great force bent to the ground. To this the living, writhing chain was attached; the branch was then let suddenly free, and up the victims swung.

It is to be hoped they did not suffer long, but they appeared to.

I would not horrify my young readers by describing the orgies that took place at some of those dreadful fêtes. The little I have said will surely suffice to make them thank God they are born in a favoured land, and to pray the Father to hasten the time when the dark continent shall be opened up to commerce, and all such dreadful scenes become things of the gloomy past.

But this chief, when he found that Harry was determined to go, turned his back upon him, and went and shut himself up for a whole day in his tent.

The wanderer well knew what this meant. He knew the chief would send for him next day and give him an ultimatum, and on his refusing compliance therewith would at once slay his followers and put Harry in chains.

But Harry determined to take time by the forelock, and to escape that very evening.

He communicated his intentions to his people, and all were ready. No one slept, though all pretended to.

The night was very dark; a storm was brewing; the sky was covered with a deep, solid canopy of slowly moving clouds, but never a star was visible.

About midnight, when all was still in the camp, Harry arose and touched his men. They knew the signal. He then crawled to the back of the tent and with his knife cut a hole in it and crept out. On their hands and their knees they glided along till they came to the palisade, which they proceeded to mount one by one.

Here lay the greatest danger, and this was soon apparent enough, for the last man stumbled, and slight though the sound he made was, it was quite sufficient to awake the whole camp.

As the fugitives bounded away to the forest Harry thanked Heaven for the darkness of that dismal night.

They could soon hear the yells of the foe as they pressed onwards in pursuit.

They would reach the shelter of the trees in another minute, but one dark form was before all the rest, and was nearing on the guide when Harry fired.

It was a random shot, but the savage fell: the first man that Harry had killed in Africa, and he felt grieved, but still it was in self-defence.

They found themselves in a ravine, and crossed the stream at a place where, from the noise it made among the stones, they could tell it was not deep.

Now the road lay along this glen – such road as it was – but the fugitives went straight on up the mountain side. The hills here were fully three thousand feet high, but they reached the top at last, and felt safe, for far down beneath them, but well up the glen, they heard the shouts of the chief’s people and knew they were off the scent. Then the storm came on, and such a storm! From hill to hill and from rock to rock the thunder rattled and reverberated, while as for the lightning the whole world seemed to be on fire.

Down below them in the forest the scene was singularly grand, for by the light of the flashes they could see each moment the giant tree-tops stand out as clear and distinctly as at midday. Anon they would find themselves blinded or dazzled for a moment, everything about them being either a dark bright blue, dotted with sparks, or a blood-red or crimson.

The very hills on which they stood appeared to shake beneath their feet.

Then came the rain; it descended in streams, and made every one shiver, so ice-cold was it.

But in less than an hour this strange but fearful storm had passed away on the wings of a moaning wind, and the stars shone forth.

They found a cave in which to rest that night, and next day continued the journey through the forest.

To his change of raiment, despite the modest demands of many a savage chief or king, Harry had resolutely stuck, so he did not suffer from the drenching.

Yes, he had a change of raiment, but not one single button or inch of gold lace on his uniform jackets.

Both buttons and lace had long since been gifted away.

About this stage of his wanderings Harry was as tough in muscle as if he had been made of guttapercha, while his hands and face were of a colour somewhat between brick-dust and bronze.

Another month found the little band back once more in the village of the dismal swamp.

The poor creatures there seemed, if anything, glad to see them. On making inquiry, it was found that no more lions had sought to molest them since the man-eater had been shot.

Harry rested here a night, resolving to push on next day, and by a forced march get quite clear of the marsh.

But lo! next day not only the swamp but the village itself was enveloped in a dark, wet mist, and the day wore away without the sun once appearing.

“No good, no good,” was the answer of the guide to Harry’s repeated queries whether it was not possible to make straight headway in spite of the fog.

“No good, no good.”

And the next day showed no improvement nor the next week even.

The outlook was now very dreary indeed.

To make matters worse, the hopelessness of his situation brought a prostration of mind and body, and the hardships and privations he had undergone in his wanderings began to tell upon Harry.

Besides, there was the dread marsh miasma to be breathed day after day, while the very appearance and dejectedness of the people he found himself among was not calculated to mend matters. He found himself growing ill, he struggled against it with all the force of his mind. But alas! a struggle of this kind is like that of floundering in a miry bog – the more you struggle the deeper you sink.

One morning, after a restless night of pained and dreamful slumber, Harry found himself unable to rise from his couch of grass under the flower-clad, creeper-hung baobab tree.

He was sick at heart, racked with pain in every limb, and oh, so cold.

The cold was worse to bear than anything, yet his pulse was bounding along, his skin was hot, and his brow was burning.

Before night he was delirious – dreaming of home, raving in his waking moments about his father, his mother, about Andrew, and Eily, the forest of Balbuie, and the far-off Highland hills.

No nurse could have been kinder to Harry than Somali Jack, no one more attentive than he and Raggy.

Even in this strange swamp-island Jack managed to find herbs, and exercised all his native skill to bring his patient round.

But nights went by, and days that were like nights to Harry, and he grew worse and worse.

At last even Somali Jack gave up all hope.

“Master will never speak again. Master will never shoot and never fight again,” he said, mournfully, “till he shoots and fights in the land beyond the clouds.”

Jack sat down and gazed long and intently at Harry, whose jaw had dropped, and whose breath came in long-drawn sighs or sobs.

He lay on his back, his knees half drawn up, and his hands extended on the grass.

For a long, long time Somali Jack sat looking mournfully at his master; then he seemed to lose all control of himself: he threw out his arms, fell down on his face on the ground, and sobbed as though his heart were breaking.

Book Four – Chapter Three.

Back Again at the Hundred Isles – The King as a Nurse – Harry Tells the Story of the World – News of the “Bunting’s” Men – Preparing for the War-Path

But the worst was past, and the fever had spent itself before the dawn of another day; even the terrible marsh miasmata had been repelled by the strength and resiliency of Harry’s constitution.

He was weak now, very. But he was sensible and able to swallow a little honey and milk, that Jack had culled and drawn with his own hands.

And that day, lo! the sun again shone out, the birds that had been mute for weeks once more remembered their low but beautiful songs, and surely in this swamp-island never did the wealth of flowers that grew everywhere put forth a more dazzling show. Twisted and pinched they had been while the dank fog hung over them, but now they opened in all their wild wanton glory, and vied with each other in the brightness of their colours, their vivid blues, whites, pinks, and crimsons, and velvety sulphurs, and chocolate browns.

They grew up over the trees, borne aloft on climbing stems, they canopied the bushes, they carpeted the ground, and hung their charming festoons round the fruit itself.

But yet in spite of all this wealth of beauty Harry longed to be off, and almost the first words he spoke, though in a voice but little louder than a whisper, were —

“Take me away. Take me away out of here.”

Those words made Somali Jack and Raggy very happy, and even the other boys were rejoiced, for truth to tell, they all dearly loved their brave young master.

All that day Jack and his comrades were very busy indeed. They were making an ambulance hammock. When complete it was simplicity itself.

Only a couple of strong bamboos of great length, and between them a sheet of grass-cloth, add to this a rude pillow stuffed with withered moss, and the whole is complete.

It was a long and a slow journey which they started on next morning, before even the stars had paled before the advancing beams of the sun. But ere ever he had set behind the western hills it had been safely accomplished.

And so by degrees, as Harry’s strength could bear it, stage after stage of the return march was got over and at length, to the invalid’s inexpressible joy, they arrived once more at the banks of the lake of the hundred isles. Walda quickly gathered together an immense heap of withered grass, and quickly had it on flame; then he put on top of it green branches, so that a dense volume of white-blue smoke rose up on the evening air.

They saw it from the king’s island.

King Googagoo – they have strange names, these chiefs of the interior, the repetition of syllables and even words in names is very common – King Googagoo himself came to meet Harry in his barge, but he brought no retinue. He was a very simple king.

As soon as he landed Walda, Peela, and Popa went and threw themselves on their faces in front of his majesty, burying their knives in the earth as they did so. Nor did they rise until he had thrice touched each one with the flat of his spear.

He now went speedily towards Harry, and scanned him very anxiously.

Harry smiled feebly, and held out a hand which the king took and pressed.

“My son has been ill,” he said, “my son has been at the door of the cave of death. No matter, he lives; my son will soon be well. The king will make him well; he shall eat honey and milk, and drink of the blood of she-goats until he is once more strong.”

When landed at the island, the king led the way to his own tent, and Harry was brought here and laid on a bed or dais covered with lions’ skins.

As he shivered with cold, a fire was lit in the middle of the floor. The smoke found its way up almost spirally, and out through a hole in the roof, over which was placed a triple fan kept in constant motion by slaves without.

Another warm lion’s skin was spread over Harry, Somali Jack prepared him a decoction of boiled milk mixed with honey and some pleasant bitter herb. After swallowing this Harry remembered seeing the king squatting on a mat by the fire, and his own boys in a corner; he noticed that whenever any one entered the tent his majesty lifted a beckoning finger, warning them to keep silence. He remembered little more that day, for he fell into a soothing perspiration, and soon after into a deep and dreamless sleep.

It was broad daylight when he wakened, and he felt so much better that he even attempted to rise. It was then he noticed how feeble and weak he was.

Whether or not the bitter medicine mingled with the warm and honeyed milk partook of the nature of an opiate or not, Harry had no means of ascertaining, but for nearly three days he did little else but sleep – and perspire during the intervals of taking nourishment.

He was aware, however, that the great kind-hearted king was almost constantly in the tent, and that he moved about on tiptoe, and talked in whispers, never failing to lift his finger and shake it at any one who entered.

Sometimes an amazon came in and looked at Harry, then smiled a grim smile and retired, and once a terrible-looking old man with triangular teeth like Walda’s put in an appearance. He had a fowl in his arm, which after many strange antics – that showed he was working a fetish – he slew. He then dipped his finger in the blood and smeared Harry’s forehead.

After this another fowl was brought to him, and he then made motions with his hand and arm over the patient, of a semi-mesmeric kind, or as if he were drawing something invisible towards the fowl in his arms. The latter was immediately after chased out of the tent, and from the noise out of doors it was evidently being hunted out of the enclosure entirely.

Next morning a cocoanut shell full of pure warm blood was handed to him; this was not unpleasant to drink, and was repeated three times a day, and day after day for a week. (The blood-cure is not unknown in Europe, but I believe some of the African tribes used it ages and ages ago. – G.S.)

Every hour now, almost, Harry felt himself getting stronger. He was soon able to sit up for hours, then the king exhibited all the exuberant joy of a child of six. With his own hands he brought his patient a small dish of delightfully curried chicken and rice, and as Harry ate it King Googagoo laughed till his black, fat sides shook again.

With returning health came returning hope and happiness, and when, leaning on the king’s arm, Harry made his first venture out of doors it seemed for all the world like going into a new world. Everything was so inexpressibly bright and lovely, the drooping palm trees, the banana groves the greenest of the green, the splendid flowers that grew everywhere, the bright-plumaged birds, the cloudless sky, the blue and placid lake, and the purple hills on the far horizon. It was all like a beautiful dream, it was all a scene of enchantment, and to breathe the balmy air was verily life itself.

How grateful he felt to this simple-minded king; ah! yes, and how grateful to the Great Father above, who had spared his life, and brought him safely through countless dangers.

Harry soon found the air was almost too strong for him, it flushed his cheeks and quickened his breathing, so he retired again, and was almost immediately after asleep on his lion-skin couch.

Next evening a hammock was slung for him near the fire, and lying there he found himself strong enough to entertain the king with a little music on the concertina, which “through thick and thin” Raggy had kept possession of.

Only some sweet old-fashioned Scottish lilts he played, but they pleased his majesty immensely, and after each he rubbed his hands and said, “Lobo! Lobo! Lobo!”

Could Harry now tell him more of the story of the world?

Yes, Harry could and would. He laid the concertina gently down by his side, and, turning half round to where the king was squatting, began to tell him through Raggy the simple Bible story of the creation.

Raggy had heard it all before, and was quite capable of translating it.

Next night Harry was even stronger; King Googagoo brought into the tent quite a crowd of his favourite amazons, and the young historian had to begin at the beginning again.

To have seen the boy preacher leaning half up in his hammock as he told in earnest language his wondrous tale, and the innocent looks of the simple king with the firelight playing over his face, and the background of terrible-looking but listening amazons, would have suggested a picture to many an artist which might have made him famous.

The story of Joseph seemed, next to that of Eden’s garden, particularly to interest his hearers, and many an interjection, many a marvelling “Lobo?” did the king utter while Harry spoke through Raggy.

His remarks, too, were innocent, not to say childish, but very much to the point.

Almost every night for weeks Harry had to tell the Bible and New Testament tale. And one day, when now nearly strong again, he was gratified to find the king himself repeating the story to his people.

And they seemed spellbound.

Harry determined to make the islands his home for many months to come.

Meanwhile scouts were employed to scour the country in many different directions, and endeavour if possible to find out the whereabouts or news at least of the white men.

For a very long time they were unsuccessful. At last, however, much to Harry’s joy, one man returned, bringing with him a vague rumour that he had heard of five men belonging to a foreign country, who lived at the court of a chief not very far from the lakes, but in the fastnesses of a mountain-studded wilderness. So fierce and terrible was this chief reported to be that no one would dare to enter his territory. If any one did – so it was said – he would assuredly be crucified, or hoisted by the heels into a sapling tree, there to hang in the sun until the great grey kites ate the flesh from off his bones.

News of an equally important nature was soon after brought by another and probably braver scout. He had entered the chief’s wild country, he had even seen and conversed with one of the white men, and found out that there were six more in captivity, and that until now they had given up all hopes of ever being able to regain their freedom.

King Googagoo was as much delighted with the news as was Harry.

And the king, moreover, now showed all the fierce impetuosity of his nature.

He smote the ground with the staff of his spear.

“I will go,” he cried, “with all the strength of my amazons and fight this king, and deliver your friends from bondage.”

But Harry saw that whatever was to be done must be done with care and caution. For failure would mean the death – probably by torture – of the unfortunate white captives.

To please King Googagoo he at once accepted his assistance, but said they must prepare.

“All the men of war and all the amazons,” replied the king, “are at your disposal. You have brought everlasting joy to my heart, do with us what you will.”

Harry at once set about operations. He held a great review in one of the largest islands. Every man, he found, was a soldier, but they were sadly deficient in armour of an effective kind. Spears there were, though, in abundance – nothing else save these and knives.