Black Ivory

“I means that jolly ain’t the word, by a long way, for to express the natur’ o’ my feelin’s. There ain’t no word as I knows on as ’ud come up to it. If I wor a fylosipher, now, I’d coin a word for the occasion. P’raps,” continued Disco, drawing an unusually long whiff from his pipe, “p’raps, not bein’ a fylosipher, I might nevertheless try to coin one. Wot’s the Latin, now, for heaven?”

“Caelum,” replied Harold.

“Sailum, eh? An’ wot’s the ’arth?”

“Terra.”

“Terra? well now, wot rediklous names to give to ’em,” said Disco, shaking his head gravely, “I can’t see why the ancients couldn’t ha’ bin satisfied with the names that we’d given ’em. Hows’ever, that’s neither here nor there. My notion o’ the state o’ things that we’ve got into here, as they now stand, is, that they are sailumterracious, which means heaven-upon-earth, d’ee see?”

As Disco pronounced the word with a powerful emphasis on the u-m part of it the sound was rather effective, and seemed to please him.

“Right; you’re right, or nearly so,” replied Harold; “but don’t you think the word savours too much of perfection, seeing that breakfast would add to the pleasure of the present delightful state of things, and make them even more sailumterracious than they are?”

“No, sir, no; the word ain’t too parfect,” replied Disco, with a look of critical severity; “part of it is ’arth, and ’arth is imparfect, bein’ susceptible of a many improvements, among which undoubtedly is breakfast, likewise dinner an’ supper, to say nothin’ of lunch an’ tea, which is suitable only for babbies an’ wimen; so I agrees with you, sir, that the state o’ things will be sailumterraciouser if we goes ashore an’ has breakfast.”

He tapped the head of his very black little pipe on the edge of the canoe, and heaved a sigh of contentment as he watched the ash-ball that floated away on the stream; then, rousing himself, he seized the steering-oar and followed Harold into a small creek, which was pleasantly overshadowed by the rich tropical foliage of that region.

While breakfast was being prepared by Antonio, whose talents as chef-de-cuisine were of the highest order, Harold took his rifle and rambled into the bush in search of game—any kind of game, for at that time he had had no experience whatever of the sport afforded by the woods of tropical Africa, and, having gathered only a few vague ideas from books, he went forth with all the pleasurable excitement and expectation that we may suppose peculiar to discoverers.

Disco Lillihammer having only consumed his first pipe of tobacco, and holding it to be a duty which he owed to himself to consume two before breakfast, remained at the camp-fire to smoke and chaff Antonio, whose good-nature was only equalled by his activity.

“Wot have ’ee got there?” inquired Disco, as Antonio poured a quantity of seed into a large pot.

“Dis? vy, hims be mapira,” replied the interpreter, with a benignant smile. “Hims de cheef food ob dis konterie.”

It must be remarked here that Antonio’s English, having been acquired from all sorts of persons, in nearly every tropical part of the globe, was somewhat of a jumble, being a compound of the broken English spoken by individuals among the Germans, French, Portuguese, Arabs, and Negroes, with whom he had at various times associated, modified by his own ignorance, and seasoned with a dash of his own inventive fancy.

“Is it good?” asked Disco.

“Goot!” exclaimed Antonio. Being unable to find words to express himself, the enthusiastic cook placed his hand on the region which was destined ere long to become a receptacle for the mapira, and rolled his eyes upwards in rapture. “Hah! oo sall see behind long.”

“Before long, you mean,” observed the seaman.

“Dat all same ting, s’long’s you onerstand him,” replied Antonio complacently.—“Bring vatter now, Jumbo. Put him in careful. Not spill on de fire—zo—goot.”

Jumbo filled up the kettle carefully, and a broad grin overspread his black visage, partly because he was easily tickled into a condition of risibility by the cool off-hand remarks of Disco Lillihammer, and partly because, having acquired his own small smattering of English from Dr Livingstone, he was intelligent enough to perceive that in regard to Antonio’s language there was something peculiar.

“Now, go fitch noder kittle—queek.”

“Yis, sar—zo—goot,” replied Jumbo, mimicking the interpreter, and going off with a vociferous laugh at his little joke, in which he was joined by his sable clansmen, Masiko and Zombo.

“Hims got ’nuff of impoodidence,” said the interpreter, as he bustled about his avocations.

“He’s not the only one that’s got more than enough impoodidence,” said Disco, pushing a fine straw down the stem of his “cutty,” to make it draw better. “I say, Tony,” (our regardless seaman had already thus mutilated his name), “you seem to have plenty live stock in them parts.”

“Plenty vat?” inquired the interpreter, with a perplexed expression.

“Why, plenty birds and beasts,—live stock we calls it, meanin’ thereby livin’ creeturs.” He pointed towards an opening in the mangroves, through which were visible the neighbouring mud and sand flats, swarming with wild-fowl, and conspicuous among which were large flocks of pelicans, who seemed to be gorging themselves comfortably from an apparently inexhaustible supply of fish in the pools left by the receding tide.

“Ho, yis, me perceive; yis, plenty bird and beast—fishes too, and crawbs—look dare.”

He pointed to a part of the sands nearest to their encampment which appeared to be alive with some small creatures.

“That’s coorious,” said Disco, removing his pipe, and regarding the phenomenon with some interest.

“No, ’taint koorous, it’s crawbs,” replied Antonio.

“Crabs, is it?” said Disco, rising and sauntering down to the sands; for he possessed an inquiring mind, with a special tendency to investigate the habits (pranks, as he called them) of the lower animals, which, in other circumstances, might have made him a naturalist.

Muttering to himself—he was fond of muttering to himself, it felt companionable,—“coorious, very coorious, quite ’stroanary,” he crept stealthily to the edge of the mangroves, and there discovered that the sands were literally alive with myriads of minute crabs, which were actively engaged—it was supposed by those who ought to know best—in gathering their food. The moment the tide ebbed from any part of the sands, out came these crablets in swarms, and set to work, busy as bees, ploughing up the sand, and sifting it, apparently for food, until the whole flat was rendered rough by their incessant labours. Approaching cautiously, Disco observed that each crab, as he went along sidewise, gathered a round bit of moist sand at his mouth, which was quickly brushed away by one of his claws, and replaced by another, and another, as fast as they could be brushed aside.

“Eatin’ sand they are!” muttered Disco in surprise; but presently the improbability of sand being very nutritious food, even for crabs, forced itself on him, and he muttered his conviction that they “was scrapin’ for wittles.”

Having watched the crabs a considerable time, and observed that they frequently interrupted their labours to dart suddenly into their holes and out again—for the purpose, he conjectured, of “havin’ a drop o’ summat to wet their whistles,”—Disco thrust the cutty into his vest pocket, and walked a little further out on the flat in the hope of discovering some new objects of interest. Nor was he disappointed. Besides finding that the pools left by the tide swarmed with varieties of little fish—many of them being “coorious,”—he was fortunate enough to witness a most surprising combat.

It happened thus:– Perceiving, a little to his right, some small creature hopping about on the sand near to a little pool, he turned aside to observe it more closely. On his drawing near, the creature jumped into the pool. Disco advanced to the edge, gazed intently into the water, and saw nothing except his own reflected image at the bottom. Presently the creature reappeared. It was a small fish—a familiar fish, too—which he had known in the pools of his native land by the name of blenny. As the blenny appeared to wish to approach the edge of the pool, Disco retired, and, placing a hand on each knee, stooped, in order to make himself as small as possible. He failed, the diminution in his height being fully counterbalanced by the latitudinal extension of his elbows!

Presently the blenny put its head out of the water, and looked about. We speak advisedly. The blenny is altogether a singular, an exceptional fish. It can, and does, look sidewise, upwards and downwards, with its protruding eyes, as knowingly, and with as much vivacity, as if it were a human being. This power in a fish has something of the same awesome effect on an observer that might possibly result were a horse to raise its head and smile at him.

Seeing that the coast was clear, for Disco stood as motionless as a mangrove tree, blenny hopped upon the dry land. The African blenny is a sort of amphibious animal, living nearly as much out of the water as in it. Indeed its busiest time, we are told, (See Dr Livingstone’s Zambesi and its Tributaries, page 843.) is at low water, when, by means of its pectoral fins it crawls out on the sand and raises itself into something of a standing attitude, with its bright eyes keeping a sharp look-out for the light-coloured flies on which it feeds.

For several seconds Disco gazed at the fish, and the fish gazed around, even turning its head a little, as well as its eyes, on this side and on that. Presently a small fly, with that giddy heedlessness which characterises the race, alighted about two inches in front of blenny’s nose. Instantly the fish leaped that vast space, alighted with its underset mouth just over the fly, which immediately rose into it and was entombed.

“Brayvo!” passed through Disco’s brain, but no sound issued from his lips.

Presently another of the giddy ones alighted in front of blenny about a foot distant. This appeared to be much beyond his leaping powers, for, with a slow, stealthy motion, like a cat, he began deliberately to stalk his victim. The victim appeared to be blind, for it took no notice of the approaching monster. Blenny displayed marvellous powers of self-control, for he moved on steadily without accelerating his speed until within about two inches of his prey—then he leapt as before, and another fly was entombed.

“Well done!” exclaimed Disco, mentally, but still his lips and body were motionless as before.

At this point an enemy, in the shape of another blenny, appeared on the scene. It came up out of a small pool close at hand, and seemed to covet the first blenny’s pool, and to set about taking possession of it as naturally as if it had been a human being; for, observing, no doubt, that its neighbour was busily engaged, it moved quietly in the direction of the coveted pool. Being a very little fish, it was not observed by Disco, but it was instantly noticed by the first blenny, which, being rather the smaller of the two, we shall style the Little one.

Suddenly Big Blenny threw off all disguise, bounded towards the pool, which was about a foot square, and plunged in. No mortal blenny could witness this unwarrantable invasion of its hearth and home without being stirred to indignant wrath. With eyes that seemed to flash fire, and dorsal fin bristling up with rage, Little Blenny made five tremendous leaps of full three inches each, and disappeared. Another moment and a miniature storm ruffled the pool: for a few seconds the heavings of the deep were awful; then, out jumped Big Blenny and tried to flee, but out jumped Little Blenny and caught him by the tail; round turned the big one and caught the other by the jaw.

“Hallo, Disco! breakfast’s ready—where are you?” shouted Harold from the woods.

Disco replied not. It is a question whether he heard the hail at all, so engrossed was he in this remarkable fight.

“Brayvo!” he exclaimed aloud, when Little Blenny shook his big enemy off and rolled over him.

“Cleverly done!” he shouted, when Big Blenny with a dart took refuge in the pool.

“I knowed it,” he cried approvingly, when Little Blenny forced him a second time to evacuate the premises, “Go in an’ win, little ’un,” thought Disco.

Thus the battle raged furiously, now in the water, now on the sand, while the excited seaman danced round the combatants—both of whom appeared to have become deaf and blind with rage—and gave them strong encouragement, mingled with appropriate advice and applause. In fact Disco’s delight would have been perfect, had the size of the belligerents admitted of his patting the little blenny on the back; but this of course was out of the question!