Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 132.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JULY 10, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

‘CHOP’ WITH KING JA-JA.

Rumours of war came floating down the Bonny river to the traders at its mouth. The oil-canoes which came sluggishly alongside the towering black hulks brought whispers of solemn palavers and Egbo meetings in the recesses of the far river reaches; and the long black war-canoes of the Bonny chiefs, with their forty or fifty little black slave-boy rowers, were manœuvring every day with an amount of shrieking and yelling out of all proportion to the result attained. Will Braid and Yellow, two mighty black chiefs, were understood to be in open rebellion against their lawful sovereign, King Amachree of New Calabar. Forts of mud and wattles had been thrown up on the New Calabar river, and Gatling guns and other gruesome instruments had been mounted thereon, and the two recalcitrant niggers were having a high good time of it challenging the universe at large to mortal combat, and, what was of much more importance, stopping the all-dominating palm-oil trade on the New Calabar river. The puissant kingdom of Bonny, too, next door, was supposed to be mixed up in the quarrel, and was lending more or less overt assistance to the rebellious chiefs, and things were tending generally to one of those lingering, little, all-round wars which so delight the West African nigger, and so sorely afflict the unfortunate white or rather yellow traders who wear out their few years of life on hulks at the mouths of the fever-breeding oil-rivers.

At this juncture, the great king-maker, righter of wrongs, and arbitrator-in-chief, Her Majesty’s Consul-general at Fernando Po, was invoked; and the result was the convocation of the greatest ‘palaver’ that had taken place for years, on board the big hulk _Adriatic_ in the Bonny river. One by one the long war-canoes shot alongside, the glistening brown backs of the long line of rowers bending like one great machine to the rhythm of their shrill song, and the swish and dig of their paddles in the green water. One by one the gorgeous beings who sat on a raised platform in the centre of each canoe emerged from under the great umbrellas that covered them, and took their places on the quarter-deck of the hulk. They were a motley lot to look upon, these owners of thousands of their fellow-men, many of them decked up for the occasion with gaudy, ill-fitting European garments, but mostly wearing bright plush waistcoats, high hats, and what is called a fathom of cloth round their loins, this fathom of cloth being two large-sized, brilliant-patterned cotton handkerchiefs joined together.

A table covered with the union-jack was placed upon the quarter-deck, under the penthouse roof of the hulk, at which sat the British consul in his war-paint, surely the best of good fellows and finest of officers. Poor fellow! He never wore his war-paint again, as the sequel will show. On each side of the consul sat a wandering M.P. and myself as visitors; and next to us, again, sat Captain Barrow, the secretary of the governor of the Gold Coast, who was down here to prepare for a Niger recruiting expedition; and Captain Von Donop of Her Majesty’s ship _Decoy_, whose orders would not allow him to bring his ship into the pestilent river, but who came in himself, accompanied by two black Houssa troops. In a semicircle in front of us sat the Bonny chiefs; and similarly behind us were ranged the New Calabar chiefs, most of whom carried a large portion of their wealth round their necks in the form of enormous coral beads, of almost fabulous value, and some of whom had their arms literally covered with beautiful ivory bangles. In advance of the Bonny-men sat King George, a fine, tall, well-educated young negro, well known in London, and a very favourable specimen of his race, but an utter cipher in his so-called kingdom; a well-dressed and well-behaved enough young oil-merchant, but, from a regal point of view, a decided fraud, as his father was before him.

It had been proposed that the neighbouring King Ja-Ja of Opobó should act as arbitrator in the dispute, which was really between Bonny and New Calabar, the insurgent Will Braid and Yellow being quite powerless to resist their sovereign without the Bonny-men’s assistance; and across the thick yellow haze and sheets of falling rain, which blurred the endless vista of mangrove swamps, we all stretched our eyes to watch for the arrival of King Ja-Ja. But Ja-Ja had once, and not so long ago, been a Bonny chief himself; and after many years of fierce warfare with his great rival, the mighty Oko Jumbo, had slipped away one night in the dark with all his people, his wives, and his riches, and founded a kingdom for himself a few miles away on the Opobó river, where he had waxed rich and powerful; so the wily old Ja-Ja thought it wisest to avoid the reaches of the Bonny, even with the king-making consul as his friend, for who could tell whither the far-reaching vengeance of the dread Oko might extend? So Ja-Ja sent a very diplomatic message, saying he had mistaken the day, and hoped to see the consul next week to talk over the matter at Opobó.

The consul began by stating the case—that he could not allow trade to be stopped by this war, and severely took the Bonny-men to task for helping the rebels to withstand King Amachree, their lawful sovereign—and a great deal more to the same effect, which, being interpreted by the king of Bonny, produced a very depressing effect on gentlemen in front of us, and a most liberal display of ivories and broad smiles from the potentates in our rear. The Bonny-men were ill at ease, and many and many a time their opal eyeballs strained across the yellow mist and falling torrents as their king began, sadly and apologetically, albeit in good English, to reply to the consul’s scolding; for the greatest of all Bonny-men, before whom King George is but a puppet—the overpowering Oko Jumbo—had not arrived, and the Bonny-men saw how hopeless was their case with the great white consul against them and their own champion absent.

But suddenly, as the king was speaking, came faintly at first, through the wet sickly air, the shrill song of the paddlers, and a cry went up from the Bonny-men, and many a dusky finger pointed to where Oko’s canoe, with its sixty rowers and its ostrich feathers at the prow, came swiftly gliding over the waters. The king ceased speaking with a sigh of relief; and soon the master of Bonny stepped on the hulk’s deck. A grand old pagan of the bygone school is Oko Jumbo, tall and strong, with a fine handsome face and powerful head, with very little attempt at European dress, or indeed dress of any sort, although his two sons, who reside mostly in England, are civilised gentlemen.[1] Oko, in a few trenchant words, closed the business for the day. He would undertake to produce the two rebel chiefs on board the hulk on the next Thursday, if the white consul would guarantee the attendance of King Ja-Ja the arbitrator, all things in the meantime to remain _in statu quo_. Of course everybody knew that one promise was as improbable of fulfilment as the other; but a palaver which comes to a definite conclusion at a first, second, or even third sitting would be against all precedent, so both sides were satisfied, and the high contending parties adjourned for refreshment, amidst much friendly snapping of fingers and other strange rites.

Early next morning, the little steam launch _Ewaffa_ started from Bonny to convey the consul, his secretary, and myself to visit the domains of Ja-Ja. A broad river stretches on either side of us, the waters of which are thick and green with the rotting slime of myriads of fallen leaves. The banks are not of land, but a dense jungle of trees growing down into the water, and dropping long suckers from their outstretched arms to form fresh trees. The roots of this jungle intercept as in a net the mud and slime and vegetable débris brought down by the river, and in course of time the inner parts of the jungle become sufficiently solid to afford footing for crocodiles and hippopotami, but quite impenetrable to human beings, the outskirts of the jungle being always comparatively new trees, growing dense and rank in the water itself, and interlaced thickly with great, strong, green hanging creepers, upon which swing and chatter the mangrove monkeys. As we steam up the river and across its numerous branches, no sound but the shrill chirp of these monkeys breaks the oppressive stillness. Now and again the black snout of a hippopotamus shows out of the thick ooze on the banks, or a motionless crocodile is seen basking in the sun. Occasionally, a long, low canoe glides noiselessly by; the boat, rower, and paddles all jet black, and hardly visible against the dark-green background of impenetrable jungle. The air is soft and sickly, with a whiff now and then of unutterable nastiness. The great fierce sun casts a yellow, all-pervading, hazy glare on the thick water, which is covered with a festering scum of miasmatic air-bubbles.

After some monotonous hours of this unvarying prospect, with a rare glimpse of the far-away sea through some of the maze of creeks, we suddenly stick fast in the mud. Oh, those three hours! Our nude crew of fine stalwart Krooboys up to their waist in water pushing and tugging; the screw of the launch stirring up the horrors at the bottom, and the blistering sun on the fetid water, made up an ensemble I shall never forget. And so we dragged on all the weary day, now sticking fast, now going on a few miles, the consul’s secretary already down with fever; past several batteries of Gatling guns mounted upon canoes moored across the mouths of creeks, and past the river and town of Andony, with its little mud battery and six-pounder Krupp guns, until, turning sharply the corner of an island of jungle, we find ourselves in the Opobó river, with the distant sea and the white men’s hulks on the horizon. Soon we come to an inlet in the dense mass of verdure, and, passing the mournful wrecks of two hulks half submerged in the muddy ooze, we land, carried on the stalwart shoulders of our Krooboys to a little sandy gully, and are received by about three-quarters of the population of Ja-Ja’s kingdom, with perhaps a dozen yards of clothing amongst the lot. Some old muzzle-loading guns, nine and eighteen pounders, of obsolete pattern, were scattered about, half buried in the deep white sand, unused and unusable. Inward, following the course of the gully, was what may be called the main street of the town, although no attempt was made at uniformity, the houses, such as they were, merely mud and palm-leaf huts, being scattered at random under and amidst the great palms and india-rubber trees. Followed at a respectful distance by the male portion of the crowd, the females being generally rather shy of white men, and apparently desirous of hiding behind tree trunks and peeping round at us from afar, we advanced up the gully to the interior of the town.

Ja-Ja is a most fanatical fetich-man, and signs of his paganism were to be seen at every few steps in the numerous ju-jus on our way. These ju-jus may, and do, assume any shape, and the most unlikely objects may be made sacred by their dedication, although no information is obtainable with regard to the exact rites practised or the supposed uses of the ju-jus. Idols in the usually accepted sense of the word they certainly are not, but rather things set apart for the worship of unseen spirits, or dedicated to the honour of a certain supposed god. A very common ju-ju, and, as it happened, the first one that met our eyes in Opobó, is a white hen cruelly nailed up alive to the top of a pole and left to starve and flutter to death. Then, in succession, we saw a grotesque human figure of yellow clay surmounted by an ox-skull, and covered with a penthouse roof of thatch; a miscellaneous collection of bones in a suspended grass cradle; a conical mound of yellow clay daubed and decorated with colour, and stuck all over with cocks’ feathers; a Bass’s beer-bottle on the top of a white pole; and so on _ad infinitum_. The great ju-ju house itself is much smaller than the celebrated building of human skulls at Bonny, and is a conical mud building with a high thatch roof, surmounted by an ox-skull, and lined with human skulls in the usual artistic, West African fashion.

Wading up to our ankles in mud through the rank dense vegetation, and passing a primitive forge, where four swart negroes were making nails on a stone anvil with a stone hammer, their forge bellows being two sheepskins worked alternately by a man with two short sticks, as if he were playing on a pair of kettledrums—such a bellows and forge, in fact, as you may see any day on the Egyptian hieroglyphics—we caught sight of King Ja-Ja coming to meet us. A brilliant-coloured umbrella was held over his head by an attendant, and, as usual with African chiefs, he was followed by quite a crowd of evil-looking rapscallions of all ages and in all states of undress, carrying a perfect museum of obsolete arms, the staff of state, like a beadle’s mace, and other paraphernalia. Ja-Ja is a fine-looking old savage, as black as polished ebony, with hair like silver, and was in full dress to receive us—a red flannel shirt, worn as usual with the tails loose, embroidered most elaborately with the imperial French arms, and plentifully besprinkled with _N_s and _E_s, the Napoleonic bees, and other emblems of a bygone dynasty in France. This was the king’s only garment, except the usual bandana loincloth of two uncut handkerchiefs.

Ja-Ja received his great patron the consul with much finger-snapping and other signs of friendship, and led the way to his house. The outer wall of his compound, which incloses some three acres of ground, is formed by the huts of his slaves and people, the whole place reeking with filth beyond all European imagination. In the centre of the compound stands a fetich india-rubber tree, with a ju-ju hut under it; and near it is built the house inhabited by some of Ja-Ja’s favourite wives; the palace itself being at the end of the compound, and overlooking all. It is a gaudily painted wooden building, raised on piles some eight feet high, and surrounded by a veranda. The house, a new one, is the pride of old Ja-Ja’s heart, and was constructed by negro workmen from the British settlement at Accra. It is furnished with a desperate attempt at European style; but the whole effect is absurdly incongruous with the nude or semi-nude male and female servitors, and the evident uneasiness of Ja-Ja himself amongst his civilised surroundings. In the corner of the principal parlour, which leads straight from the veranda, is a most gorgeous red and gold throne, with a liberal allowance of crowns, sceptres, orbs, and ‘King Ja-Jas’ scattered on every coign of vantage; and on its topmost pinnacle is stuck jauntily an absurd conical hat like a fool’s-cap, with enormous feather-like ears on each side of it, with which head-dress the king volunteered the statement that he had been ‘making ju-ju’—whatever that might mean.

I was trying hard, but unsuccessfully, to make out Ja-Ja’s extraordinary attempts at pigeon-English, when from the adjoining room came a female voice, which partly explained the attempts I had noticed at European furnishing.

‘O yas, sah,’ said the voice, with the comical affectation and bombastic intonation of the civilised nigger—‘O yas, sah, I’se berry seedy, sah; I’se miscalkerlated de day, sah!’ and thereupon Miss Sally Johnson—‘a Barbadian born, sah!’—sailed into the room, positively _dressed_ in a flowing cotton gown of most approved fashion; evidently a very superior person, looking down upon poor Ja-Ja and his people with much commiseration, and not a little contempt. This lady is prime-minister, secretary of state, and Ja-Ja’s guide, philosopher, and friend in all that relates to the ways of the white man; and her experience and knowledge of all civilised matters are too great to be questioned within the realms of Opobó. Her initiative with regard to the gown, however, was not followed, for she was the only person dressed in the place, unless we so consider the eccentric harlequin suits of dye upon the children of all ages, and even upon Ja-Ja’s marriageable daughters, who were plentifully scattered about the compound. The patterns stained upon the bright sleek brown skins are in some cases very elaborate and brilliant, and had really a pleasing effect.

Ja-Ja was rather overcome with the responsibility of entertaining the consul and his friend at so short a notice, and seemed so distressed that he had no civilised ‘chop’ to offer us, that we proposed to go on to the mouth of the river and dine with the white traders in the hulks, and return on the morrow to a grand ‘chop’ or banquet at Ja-Ja’s. So the old king brought out some calabashes of _mimbo_ or palm-wine—which tastes like soap-suds and gin—and, what was more acceptable, a bottle of very drinkable Rudesheimer, and saw us down to our boat, followed by all his rabble rout of subjects.

The next morning, in a tropical downpour, we were received at Opobó with due honour. One of the rusty old guns had been turned right side uppermost, and was being banged away at a great rate, to the imminent risk of everybody within a hundred yards of it. Ja-Ja, with a largely reinforced guard of more truculent-looking ragamuffins than ever, awaited us on the beach. Tom-toms and horns vied in their din with the shrieks, yells, and howls with which the untutored subjects of Ja-Ja honoured their monarch’s guests. In the principal room of the palace we found the table laid for our repast, and Miss Johnson was continually changing from the languid super-fine importance of the reception-room to the fierce invective and stern command of the kitchen, or back again, as circumstances required. It required several applications of severe corporal punishment to the wretched slaves—to judge from the howls we heard when any hitch occurred—before what is termed the ‘chop’ was served. Neither beef nor mutton can be reared on this pestilent coast, so the choice of viands is not large; but what was wanting in variety was made up in quantity. Kids stewed and roasted whole, great fish, and fowls enough for a ship’s company, were served up, all in great clay bowls, and all made into ‘palm-oil chop,’ the prevailing dish of the coast. This is a sort of greasy curry, made with many spices and the finer parts of the palm-oil, very trying to European stomachs unaccustomed to such delicacies. Mimbo, again, was the principal drink, and Ja-Ja pledged us all in mimbo many a time and oft; but although I can stand palm-oil _or_ mimbo, I cannot stand palm-oil _and_ mimbo, so contented myself with a beverage at once less soap-suddy and less intoxicating. Ancient steel knives and forks were produced with an air of proud superiority by Miss Johnson for our use; but Ja-Ja, although he made a timid attempt to use them too, soon gave it up as a dangerous experiment, and took to his fingers with a sigh of relief, handing us out the titbits, moreover, by the same medium.

The redoubtable guard flocked round the veranda, and scrambled to every point where a view of our extraordinary proceedings could be gained, and an aggregate of acres of ivories saluted each movement of the wonderful white men who can do everything. Doors and windows were darkened by grinning happy brown faces, and the crowd of servitors within the room were envied mortals indeed. Ja-Ja himself was served by the heir-apparent or heir-presumptive of his swampy kingdom; but it is wonderful how little difference there is between heirs-apparent and common clay when there is no tailor to accentuate it. The consul seeing the king in so good a temper, broached the subject of a mission-school to be established at Opobó, which Ja-Ja had always refused; but on this occasion he not only promised to allow it, with effusion, but offered to build the house at his own expense. All being arranged about the next palaver at Bonny, which Ja-Ja promised to attend personally or by proxy, we took our leave with many presents and words of good-will.

Of our tedious, sickly journey back to Bonny, I say nothing here, only that in it our brave, great-hearted consul, as true an Englishman as ever breathed, caught the deadly fever he had defied so long. The next morning, I found him yellow and delirious; and in three days he died, one more sacrifice of England’s brightest and best to the insatiable fever-fiend of the West Coast.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] One of these sons died since this was written, and left an English wife and family.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

That same afternoon, Rosina Fleming met Isaac Pourtalès, hanging about idly below the shrubbery, and waiting to talk with her, by appointment, about some important business she had to discuss with him of urgent necessity.

‘Isaac, me fren’,’ Rosina began in her dawdling tone, as soon as they had interchanged the first endearments of negro lovers, ‘I send for you to-day to ax you what all dis talk mean about de naygur risin’? I want to know when dem gwine to rise, an’ what dem gwine to do when dem done gone risen?’

Isaac smiled a sardonic smile of superior intelligence. ‘Missy Rosie, sweetheart,’ he answered evasively, ‘le-ady doan’t understand dem ting same as men does. Dis is political business, I tell you. Le-ady doan’t nebber hab no call to go an’ mix himself up along wit politic an’ political business.’

‘But I tellin’ you, Isaac, what I want for to know is about de missy. Mistah Delgado, him tell me de odder ebenin’, when de great an’ terrible day come, de missy an’ all gwine to be murdered. So I come for to ax you, me fren’, what for dem want to go an’ kill de poor little missy? Him doan’t nebber do no harm to nobody. Him is good little le-ady, kind little le-ady. Why for you doan’t can keep him alive an’ let him go witout hurtin’ him, Isaac?’

Pourtalès smiled again, this time a more diabolical and sinister smile, as though he were concealing something from Rosina. ‘We doan’t gwine to kill her,’ he answered hastily, with that horrid light illumining once more his cold gray eyes. ‘We gwine to keep de women alive, accordin’ to de word ob de holy prophet: “Have dey not divided de prey? To ebbery man a damsel or two: to Sisera, a prey ob divers colours.” What dat mean, de divers colours, Rosie? Dat no mean you an’ de missy? Ha, ha, ha! you an’ de missy!’

Rosina started back a little surprised at this naive personal effort of exegetical research. ‘How dat, Isaac?’ she screamed out angrily. ‘You lub de missy! You doan’t satisfied wit your fren’ Rosie?’

Isaac laughed again. ‘Ho, ho!’ he said; ‘dat make you jealous, Missy Rosie? Ha, ha, dat good now! Pretty little gal for true, de missy! You tink me gwine to kill him when him is so pretty?’

Rosina gazed at him open-eyed in blank astonishment. ‘You doan’t must kill him,’ she answered stoutly. ‘I lub de missy well meself for true, Isaac. If you kill de missy, I doan’t nebber gwine to speak wit you no more. I gwine to tell de missy all about dis ting ob Delgado’s, I tink, to-morrow.’

Isaac stared her hard in the face. ‘You doan’t dare, Rosie,’ he said doggedly.

The girl trembled and shuddered slightly before his steady gaze. A negro, like an animal, can never bear to be stared at straight in the eyes. After a moment’s restless shrinking, she withdrew her glance uneasily from his, but still muttered to herself slowly: ‘I tell de missy—I tell de missy!’

‘If you tell de missy,’ Pourtalès answered with rough emphasis, seizing her by the shoulder with his savage grasp, ‘you know what happen to you? Delgado send evil one an’ duppy to creep ober you in de dead ob night, an’ chatter obeah to you, an’ tear de heart out ob you when you lyin’ sleepin’. If you tell de missy, you know what happen to me? Dem will take me down to de big court-house in Wes’moreland village, sit on me so try me for rebel, cut me up into little pieces, burn me dead, an’ trow de ashes for rubbish into de harbour. Den I come, when I is duppy, sit at de head ob your pillow ebbery ebenin’, grin at you, make you scream an’ cry an’ wish youself dead, till you dribben to trow youself down de well, or poison youself for fright wit berry ob manchineel bush!’

This short recital of penalties to come was simple and ludicrous enough in its own matter, but duly enforced by Isaac’s horrid shrugs and hideous grimaces, as well as by the iron clutch with which he dug his firm-gripped fingers, nails and all, deep into her flesh, to emphasise his prediction, it affected the superstitious negro girl a thousand times more than the most deliberately awful civilised imprecation could possibly have done. ‘You doan’t would do dat, Isaac,’ she cried all breathless, struggling in vain to free her arm from the fierce grip that held it resistlessly—‘you doan’t would do dat, me fren’. You doan’t would come when you is duppy to haunt me an’ to frighten me!’

‘I would!’ Isaac answered firmly, with close-pressed lips, inhuman mulatto-fashion (for when there is a demon in the mulatto nature, it is a demon more utterly diabolical than any known to either white men or black men: it combines the dispassionate intellectual power of the one with the low cunning and savage moral code of the other). ‘I would hound you to deat’, Rosie, an’ kill you witout pity. For if you tell de missy about dis, dem will cut your fren’ all up into little pieces, I tellin’ you, le-ady.’

‘Doan’t call me le-ady,’ Rosina said, melting at the formal address and seizing his hand penitently: ‘call me Rosie, call me Rosie. O Isaac, I doan’t will tell de missy, if you doan’t like; but you promise me for true you nebber gwine to take missy an’ kill him.’

Isaac smiled again the sinister smile. ‘I promise,’ he said, with a curious emphasis; ‘I doan’t gwine to _kill_ him, Rosie! When I take him, I no will _kill_ him!’

Rosina hesitated a moment, then she asked shortly: ‘What day you tink Delgado gwine at last to hab him risin’?’

The mulatto laughed a scornful little laugh of supreme mockery. ‘Delgado’s risin’!’ he cried, with a sneer—‘Delgado’s risin’! You tink, den, Rosie, dis is Delgado’s risin’! You tink we gwine to risk our own life, black men an’ brown men, so make Delgado de king ob Trinidad! Ha, ha, ha! dat is too good, now. No, no, me fren’; dis doan’t at all Delgado’s risin’! You tink we gwine to hand ober de whole island to a pack ob common contemptful naygur fellow! Ha, ha, ha! Le-ady doan’t nebber understand politic an’ political business. _Hé_, Rosie, I tell you de trut’; when we kill de buckra clean out ob de island, I gwine meself to be de chief man in all Trinidad!’ And as he spoke, he drew himself up proudly to his full height, and put one hand behind his back in his most distinguished and magnificent attitude.

Rosina looked up at him with profound admiration. ‘You is clebber gentleman for certain, Isaac,’ she cried in unfeigned reverence for his mental superiority. ‘You let Delgado make de naygur rise; den, when dem done gone risen, you gwine to eat de chestnut yourself him pull out ob de fire witout burn your fingers!’

Isaac nodded sagaciously. ‘Le-ady begin to understand politic a little,’ he said condescendingly. ‘Dat what for dem begin to ax dis time for de female suffrage.’

Grotesque, all of it, if you forget that each of these childish creatures is the possessor of a sharp cutlass and a pair of stout sinewy arms, as hard as iron, wherewith to wield it: terrible and horrible beyond belief if only you remember that one awful element of possible tragedy inclosed within it. The recklessness, the folly, the infantile misapprehension of mischievous children, incongruously combined with the strength, the passions, the firm purpose of fierce and powerful full-grown men. An infant Hercules, with superadded malevolence—the muscles of a gorilla with the brain of a cruel schoolboy—that is what the uneducated negro is in his worst and ugliest moments of vindictive anger.

‘You doan’t tell me yet,’ Rosina said again, pouting, after a short pause, ‘what day you gwine to begin your war ob de delibberance.’

Isaac pondered. If he told her the whole truth, she would probably reveal it. On the other hand, if he didn’t mention Wednesday at all, she would probably hear some vague buzzing rumour about some Wednesday unfixed, from the other conspirators. So he temporised and conciliated. ‘Well, Rosie,’ he said in a hesitating voice, ‘if I tell you de trut’, you will not betray me?’—Rosie nodded.—‘Den de great an’ terrible day is comin’ true on Wednesday week, Rosie!’

‘Wednesday week,’ Rosina echoed. ‘Den, on Wednesday week, I gwine to make de missy go across to Mistah Hawtorn’s!’

Isaac smiled. His precautions, then, had clearly not been unneeded. You can’t trust le-ady with high political secrets. He smiled again, and muttered complacently: ‘Quite right, quite right, Rosie.’

‘When can I see you again, me darlin’?’ Rosie inquired anxiously.

Isaac bethought him in haste of a capital scheme for removing Rosina to-morrow evening from the scene of operations. ‘You can get away to-morrow?’ he asked with a cunning leer. ‘About eight o’clock at me house, Rosie?’

Rosie reflected a moment, and then nodded. ‘Aunt Clemmy will do de missy hair,’ she answered slowly. ‘I come down at de time, Isaac.’

Isaac laughed again. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I doan’t can get away so early, me fren’, from de political meetin’—dar is political meetin’ to-morrow ebenin’ down at Delgado’s; but anyhow, you wait till ten o’clock. Sooner or later, I is sure to come dar.’

Rosina gave him her hand reluctantly, and glided away back to the house in a stealthy fashion. As soon as she was gone, Pourtalès flung his head back in a wild paroxysm of savage laughter. ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ he cried. ‘De missy, de missy! Ha, ha, I get Rosina out ob de road anyhow. Him doan’t gwine to tell nuffin now, an’ him clean off de scent ob de fun altogedder to-morrow ebenin’!’

STATION NO. 4.

Standing at the corner of two unimportant streets, in Philadelphia, U.S., and having no external features to distinguish it from the numberless stables and coach-houses in its vicinity, except the words ‘Station No. 4’ painted in large black letters on its gray door, its unpretentious exterior gives no hint of the marvels to be found within. Yet, for all its modesty and seeming indifference to appearances, Station No. 4 is no whit behind its more elaborate fellow-stations in matters of organisation and interior economy, down to the minutest details of drill and machinery; and the fine stalwart lads, whose acquaintance we are about to make, have shown their pluck and training in many of the most destructive fires which from time to time have ravaged the Quaker City.

As is usual in America, no order or official introduction is requisite to insure sightseers a welcome and the fullest explanation of everything of interest; nor is the application of the ‘silver key’ expected; while the mere fact that the visitor is a foreigner, and more especially if he prove to be an Englishman, is sufficient to secure him a hospitable reception and a more than ordinarily courteous escort. Our rap on the door-panel is instantly followed by the appearance of a sturdy, good-looking young fellow in a plain uniform of dark-blue cloth, under whose guidance we are soon deep in the mysteries of electric signalling, self-adjusting harness, and all the thousand-and-one ingenious contrivances for time-saving, which have long since made the American fire-brigades the most efficient in the world.

We find ourselves in a long narrow building, some forty or fifty feet in length, and ten or twelve in width. On one side is a staircase leading to the upper floors; on the other, a narrow gangway, kept clear of encumbrances, runs from end to end of the building. A wide doorway, like that of a coach-house, opens upon the main street; and at the farther end, facing the doorway, are three stalls, in each of which stands a horse, wearing a blind-halter, but otherwise unencumbered, and not attached in any way to the stall. A single line of rails is laid in the floor from end to end, on which rest the wheels of the engine and hosecart; for, unlike our English machines, the engine does not carry either the hose itself or the men who work it, a separate two-wheeled vehicle, something of the build of a small wagonette, being employed for this purpose. This hosecart stands in front of the engine, and carries, besides the long coil of tube, all the appliances, such as axes, ropes, &c., which are likely to be needed at a fire; and a couple of the portable chemical engines, known as _Extincteurs_, packed away in boxes beneath the seats. Both engine and hosecart are furnished with large clear-toned bells, and it is the duty of one of the men to keep these bells ringing during the whole journey to a fire, as a warning to all other traffic to leave the car-tracks in the centre of the street clear for the passage of the engine. The clamour of these bells, as, in the dead of night, engine after engine rushes at full gallop through the streets, is one of the most impressive accompaniments of a great fire, and is a far more effectual means of clearing a crowded thoroughfare than the shouts of the firemen, so familiar to a Londoner’s ears.

Having exhausted the hosecart, and shown how carefully all its equipments are packed so as to combine the minimum of space with the maximum of availability, our guide passes on to the engine itself, for which he seems to entertain as much affectionate pride as if it were a living pet. It stands immediately behind the hosecart, allowing a space of about three feet between the end of its pole and the back of the cart. The driving-seat is very high, and gives room for one man beside the driver, all the rest of the force having their allotted seats in the cart. The engine itself, a powerful steamer, is as handsome an object as bright paint and brilliantly polished metal can make it; and no one, judging from its spick-and-span appearance, would credit it with the yeoman service it has done in many a conflagration. Beneath the boiler, the fire is already laid, with wood soaked in coal-oil and a substratum of highly inflammable ‘kindling,’ ready to spring into a blaze on the smallest conceivable provocation. The boiler is connected by a tube with a large stationary boiler in the cellar beneath, and a constant supply of hot water passes from the latter to the former. This tube being automatically severed from the engine the instant an alarm is sounded, and the engine-fire kindled at the same moment, a sufficient pressure of steam for the pumps is generated long before the scene of the fire is reached, and so again valuable time is saved.

Our attention is next drawn to the harness, which is suspended from the ceiling exactly over the places occupied by the horses when attached to the engine and cart. Great ingenuity is displayed both in the construction of each part of the trappings and in the mathematical accuracy with which it adjusts itself to the exact spot of the horse’s anatomy which it is intended to occupy. The collars are of iron, hinged at the topmost point, and having a clasp like that of a lady’s bracelet to close them beneath the horse’s neck. When hanging, they are open to their full extent; and as they descend upon the horse, they close and snap by their own weight. The polechains are attached by spring snaps to the collars, and this is the only part of the harnessing which has to be done by hand after the alarm sounds. The entire harness for each vehicle is suspended by a single cord, which merely requires a touch of the driver’s hand, when he reaches his seat, to adjust and liberate the whole.

Against the wall, close by the door, and well in view from the foot of the staircase, are a large gong, a clock, and a glass-covered dial, the last bearing the numbers which indicate all the sections into which the city is divided for the purposes of the brigade. At the further end of the building, as already mentioned, are the horses, clever, well-trained, serviceable-looking animals, of which our guide has much to say, his anecdotes and manner of speaking of them showing that they are as great favourites with the brigade as their engine itself. The big sturdy fellow on our right, as we stand facing them in their stalls, does duty between the shafts of the hosecart; the others, a well-matched pair so far as size and strength go, belonging to the engine.

As yet, our cicerone is the only member of the force whom we have seen, the rest being ‘off duty,’ and spending their leisure hours in the comfortable reading-room on the first floor. But now our guide disappears for a moment, and presently returns with an older man, whom he introduces as the superintendent of the station. The latter, after a few minutes’ chat, in the course of which we manage to pay one or two well-merited compliments to the American system, volunteers to indulge us with a private view of the working of the station. Placing us so as to insure fair-play to the men and horses, and assuring us that no one in the building but ourselves is in the secret of his intention, he approaches the gong, and touches a spring which sets the electric current working. The transformation is instantaneous. The gong sounds sharply; the doors of the stalls fly open; a whiplash, suspended like the sword of Damocles over the hosecart horse’s flanks, descends sharply, and sends him off down the narrow gangway at a swinging trot. His companions follow, and range themselves in place on either side of the engine-pole. The harness falls into place obedient to the touch of the driver, who, with the rest of the men, has glided from the floor above, and has already swung himself to his seat. Two others clasp the chains to the collars; and in another instant each stands ready to mount to his place in the cart the moment the word is given to start. Glancing at our watches, we see that the whole time since the first stroke of the gong is exactly _eight seconds_—an almost incredible illustration of what can be done by perfect organisation and careful drilling.

The private rehearsal being now at an end, the reverse process follows, with scarcely less despatch and mechanical regularity; and almost before we have realised the completeness of the preparations, the horses are once more in their stalls, the men have returned to their occupations above-stairs, and the usual orderly aspect of things is restored, _within one minute_ from the sounding of the alarm. The superintendent is well pleased with the admiration and applause his little performance elicits, and now proceeds to point out one or two minor details which had escaped our notice. He shows that the clock has stopped—registering the exact moment at which the call sounded—explains the machinery by which the electric current throws open the doors of the building and of the horses’ stalls—points out how the precise locality of the fire is shown by the number of beats on the gong and by the numbered dial; how the tube which supplies hot water to the boiler has been closed and disconnected; and finally, conducting us upstairs to the dormitory, how the gas in the chandelier is turned on and ignited by an electric spark, so as to avoid delay in case of a night-alarm.

And so at length, rather exhausted by then having exhausted the wonders of the place, we bid our friendly guide ‘good-day,’ and once more find ourselves in the street. Station No. 4 has resumed its unpretentious aspect, and as we turn away, we can hardly credit that commonplace exterior with such marvellous contents. It is as if we had been admitted for a brief space to the Palace of Enchantments of some fairy tale or Arabian Nights’ story, and it is difficult to realise that we have only been behind the scenes of one of the hardest-worked departments of a nineteenth-century police.

Each Company is responsible only for attendance upon calls within certain fixed limits, except in the case of a general call. But as every summons rings in every station, the organisation is kept in perfect order by the frequency of the alarms. In connection with the fire brigade there is also a Patrol or Salvage Corps, whose quarters are similarly equipped in all respects; while the arrangements for the comfort and recreation of the staff are rather better, and the number of hands employed considerably larger than in the individual stations. The importance of efficiency in both departments may be judged from the fact that, as our guide informed us, the calls to actual fires, upon Station No. 4, average about twenty per month during the long winter season.

WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

The very next day the office porter at Thurles & Company—I never heard who the ‘Company’ was—received orders to go to Bristol on some errand for the firm, and wait for a packet, which he was to bring back with him. Thurles & Company had two out-of-door porters or messengers; but this was the man who attended to the head-clerk’s room, to the counting-house, and, of course, on Mr Thurles. He went, and I suppose his employers had written to the Bristol people asking them to keep the man down there for a while, as he was gone a very long time. In his absence, another person had to be appointed to perform his duties; and I may as well say at once that I was the temporary porter, and that the regular party had been purposely sent away to make room for me. Dressed in plain brown livery, with brass buttons, wearing a false pair of whiskers—I shaved quite close in those days—with collar and tie as much unlike my usual style as could be, without anything like a caricature, I was not easily to be recognised, even if—as was hardly probable—some of the clerks had ever seen and known Sergeant Holdrey of the metropolitan police. There were not many clerks at Thurles & Company’s, so on the first day of my taking office I knew them all.

My inexperience in my duties occasioned me, and others too, some inconvenience at first, and would have been much worse but for a little assistance I derived from a clerk who observed it—a young fellow named Picknell. I had noticed him when I first went in, and did not like his looks. He was short and thin, very dark-complexioned like a gipsy, with eyes that you couldn’t fix, and couldn’t say whether they were watching you or not; and I never could make up my mind from first to last as to whether he had or had not a cast in his eye. However, he took compassion on me, and told me several things which were useful, and from the first seemed to take an interest in me. Well, on this day I could do but little. I kept my eyes open; noticed the manner and style of the clerks, and of the porters as well. These latter had not been suspected; but they were none the less likely to have been in the job, and of course I noticed thoroughly the window and its position as regarded the safe.

Mr Thurles had said the robbery must have been committed by some one whose appearance was familiar to the people in the neighbourhood, as he would certainly be noticed; but after seeing the premises, I did not agree with him. The entry was made in just the way a regular ‘tradesman’ would have done it; but this was no guide, if the place had been prepared for him.

I went home to think over the matter and to decide what my first move should be. I was going round a crescent which lay in my road home, when I was startled by seeing two figures cross the farther end, and, as they passed under the light of a lamp, I could have sworn that one was my Winny; the other was a man I could not recognise. I laughed at the fancy, however, as it was impossible that my girl should be there; and I had turned down a street which led to my place, when, by a sudden change of mind, I turned sharply round and went in the direction where I had seen these persons. But just there the crescent joined a large and busy thoroughfare, in which it was easy to lose any one; at anyrate, I could see nothing of them, although I walked first on one side and then the other for several minutes. Once I thought I saw a couple resembling them enter a shop, and I hurried up, only to find, when close to them, that these were not in the least like the persons I thought I had seen.

This incident disturbed me more than I could account for, and do what I would, I could not help thinking of it all the way home; and as I put my key in the door, my heart fluttered in such a way as it had never done with more serious business. It was an immense relief to me to find Winny there and my tea waiting for me as usual.

‘What has been troubling you, father?’ she said, as I took off my hat and coat. ‘You look harassed.’

‘Well, I am a little harassed, Winny. I don’t like being taken from home again.’ I had determined to say nothing about the crescent incident, of which I began to feel a trifle ashamed.

I made up my mind to have a nice enjoyable Christmas, for the business of Thurles & Company was not of the kind to demand my running about without rest, and, in honest truth, I did not see how I was to begin anywhere, so a day’s consideration would not hurt it.

We had a quiet day enough. My wife’s brother and his wife came to tea and supper; as also did Dick Berry, an old comrade—pensioned off like myself—and his wife. We had a cosy evening; but Winny and I had our dinner alone. When it was over and I got my pipe, I could not help thinking of very different times—when my poor wife was alive—always so cheerful!—when the two boys, who died with the scarlet fever, were still with us, and when Tom, my other boy, had not gone to Australia. While I was thinking like this, I caught Winny’s eye fixed on my own, and I supposed something of the same train of fancy was in her mind, for she rose from her chair, threw her arms round my neck, and—to my alarm, as well as my surprise, for she was not a girl to give way—burst out sobbing.

I was upset for the moment; but rallying, I said: ‘Come, Winny, my dear! We must keep up a better heart than this. I know you are thinking of the past; but I would rather you, with all your life before you, thought of the future.’

For the moment she was worse instead of better for this cheering up, and I really thought was going to be hysterical; but she rallied herself with a great effort, and after kissing me again and again, dried her eyes, and laughed at herself for being so foolish.

We had no fresh outbreak; but, for all that, I was glad when my friends dropped in and things became more generally cheerful. We had our usual chat, our game at cards; although Winny was a woman grown, she always looked for the ‘speculation’ at Christmas, just as she had done when a child. We had our songs too; but over these, I gave my old friend Dick, who was a beautiful singer—had been better, I know, but was capital still—a hint not to make the ballads too sentimental, consequently he left out _Isle of Beauty_, which was his great favourite, and worth walking a mile to listen to. So the evening passed off pretty well.

On the next day I was at Mr Thurles’ office again. Being Boxing Day, there was only one clerk there. It was necessary, it appeared, to keep the office open; but no particular business was expected to be done. The clerk on duty was the young man Picknell. He was as pleasant as before, and quite disposed to make the time pass agreeably, so that the loss of my holiday should not be so bad after all. He sent out for a bottle of wine, as on such a day, he said, no one ever came after the morning; and being, it seemed, of an abstemious turn, he meant it all, or nearly all, for me. Now, that was kind of him; but, as it happens, I am abstemious also, and do not care for anything in that way until the evening. However, to show that I appreciated his kindness, I drank a glass or two. Also—it was a waste of good liquor, I own—I threw a little under the grate while he was out of the room. I wanted to please him, and at the same time to keep my head clear.

To keep up the idea that I was enjoying myself, I allowed my tongue to run somewhat more than usual. He was by no means displeased at this, but rather encouraged it. I was at a loss how to introduce the robbery. I wanted to get at the gossip and opinion of the office on the subject; but it was a ticklish matter to begin upon, when the difficulty was solved by Mr Picknell mentioning it. Mr Thurles had told me that only a few of his people knew all the facts of the burglary; but if he thought such a thing was possible, I did not, and would have betted that every man in the concern knew quite as much about it as did his master.

‘Through the window under which you are sitting, David,’ said Mr Picknell—I was ‘David’ as the new porter—‘some thieves broke into the office a little time back. We had a most mysterious robbery here.’

‘Then that must have been what I heard two of the gentlemen talking about the other day,’ I answered. ‘Did you lose much, sir?’

‘I believe not a great deal,’ continued the clerk; ‘and why such expert burglars as these must have been, should not have arranged for a greater haul, no one can guess.’ He went on to tell me, very clearly, how all was supposed to have been done, and in telling me this, he mentioned Mr Godfrey’s name. He showed me where the young man sat, and explained his duties. He touched only slightly upon these things; yet it was quite clear from what he said that no one had such facilities for knowing what was in the safe as Mr Harleston, and no one could so easily have taken a cast of the keys. He did not say this right out, yet he contrived to impress it all upon me as clearly as though he had put it down in writing.

I was easily led, you may suppose, to talk upon this subject, and he led me on accordingly. But, of course, if you lead a man anywhere, you have to go first along the same path, hence, naturally, he had to dwell upon the matter just as much as I did. Having learned so much, I wanted to hear more about Mr Godfrey.

‘Why does not the young gentleman come here now?’ I asked. ‘I understood he was engaged in the office.’

‘So he was,’ returned the clerk with a queer smile; ‘but things are not pleasant just now.’