Robert Michael Ballantyne - The Fugitives - The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar

“But our retreat is no longer safe,” said Ravonino, when the last echo of their thanksgiving had died away. “We must change our abode—and that without delay. Get ready. By the first light of morning I will lead you to a new home. These soldiers will not return, but they will tell what they have seen, and others less timorous will come here to search for us.”

Immediately the people set about collecting together and packing up what may be termed their household goods, leaving the guide and their visitors to enjoy supper and conversation in their own corner of the cave.

During the progress of supper, which consisted of cold dried meat and rice, the quartette seated on the ferns in the corner of the cave were unusually silent. Mark Breezy and Ravonino continued to eat for some time without speaking a word. Ebony, although earnestly absorbed in victuals, rolled his eyes about as he looked from time to time at his companions with unwonted solemnity, and John Hockins frowned at his food, and shook his shaggy head with an air of dissatisfied perplexity.

“Ravonino,” at length said the last, looking up, and using his grass pocket-handkerchief, “it seems to me, bein’ a plain straight-for’ard sort o’ seaman, that there’s somethin’ not exactly fair an’ above-board in all them proceedin’s. Of course it’s not for me to say what a independent man should do or say; but don’t you think that w’en a man like you professes to be honest, an’ asks other men to trust him, he should at least explain some o’ the riddles that surround him? I’m a loyal man myself, an’ I’ll stand up for my Queen an’ country, no matter what may be the circumstances in w’ich I’m placed; so that w’en I sees another man admittin’ that he’s a outlaw, an’ finds the soldiers of his Queen a-huntin’ all about the country arter him and his comrades—seems to me there’s a screw loose somewheres.”

“Dat’s my sent’ments zactly,” said the negro, with a decisive nod.

Mark took no notice of this speech, but silently continued his supper. For a few moments the guide did not speak or look up. Then, laying down his knife and clasping his hands over one of his knees, he looked earnestly into the seaman’s face.

“You tell me you are loyal,” he said.

Hockins nodded.

“If your queen,” continued Ravonino, “were to tell you to give up the service of God and worship idols, would you do it?”

“Cer’nly not,” replied the seaman, promptly, “for she has no right to rule over my soul. My duty to the King of Kings stands before my duty to the Queen of England.”

Again the guide was silent for a few minutes. Then he said:—

“Hockins, by God’s blessing you have saved the lives of all our party this day—at least it seemed so, for, another step, and that soldier would have discovered us if your little pipe had not stopped him. You are therefore entitled to expect some gratitude, and, from what I have seen of you and your comrades, I have reason to believe you will not betray us, even if you get the chance.”

“Right you are, friend, I will never betray an honest man; an’ I may speak for my comrades as well as self, for they’re true-blue to the back-bone—”

“Furder nor dat,” interposed Ebony, “troo-bloo to de marrow!”

“Don’t you shove in your oar till you’re ordered, you nigger! Well, as I was a-sayin’, we’ll never betray honest men, but I give you fair warnin’ if you’re not honest, we’ll have nothin’ to do wi’ your secrets, an’ if our duty to God an’ man requires us to go against you, we’ll do it without flinchin’.”

“So be it. I am satisfied,” returned Ravonino, calmly. “I will tell you as much as I think you are entitled to know. It may have reached your ears, perhaps, that there has been terrible persecution in this island for many years.”

Here Mark Breezy took up the conversation.

“No,” said he, with something of a deprecatory air, “we did not know it. For my part I am ashamed to say so; but I will say in excuse that the British empire is widely extended in every quarter of the globe, and her missions are so numerous that average men can scarcely hope to keep up with the details of all of the persecutions that occur. Rumours, indeed, I have heard of doings in Madagascar that vie with the persecutions of the Scottish Covenanters; but more than this I know not, though of course there are men connected with our Missionary Societies—and many people, no doubt, interested in missions—who know all about the persecutions in Madagascar. Is it in connection with this that you have been outlawed?”

“It is. Ranavalona, the blood-stained usurper, our present queen, is filled with such bitter hatred of Christianity that she has for many years persecuted the native Christians who have been taught by white missionaries from your land. Hundreds of men and women have been murdered by her orders because they refused to forsake Christ; others have been banished to regions so unhealthy that they have died, and many have been sold into slavery.”

The eyes of the guide gleamed for a moment, and his stern countenance flushed as he thus referred to the sorrows of his people, but by a strong effort he controlled his feelings, and his countenance resumed its habitual quietude.

“My mother and my sister and I,” he continued, “were sold into slavery. My mother was a native lady, high in station, and a member of the court of King Radama the First, who was very favourable to Missionaries. I was an infant at that time; my little sister was not born. My father was an English trader, skilled in many handicrafts, and a great favourite with the king, who fostered the Christian religion and helped those who came to teach us. Our teachers learned our language; taught us the love of God, and, through the power of the Holy Spirit, brought many of us to the Saviour. But they were persevering and wise as well as good. Having learned our language—in which my father helped them much—they taught us to read; translated many parts of the Word of God into our tongue; sent home for presses and types, and had these printed, as well as the Pilgrim’s Progress and other books.

“Peace, joy, and prosperity were spreading in our land. Idol-worship and cruel customs were being uprooted, and everything was going well when the king died—whether a Christian or not, who can tell? for, although favourable to, he never professed, Christianity. ‘The Lord knoweth them that are His!’ The rightful heir to the throne, according to our customs, was Rakotobe—a good young man who had been taught by the missionaries, and was nephew to the king; but Ranavalona, one of the king’s wives, resolved to seize the opportunity. A bold bad woman, with a powerful will and no principle, she carried her point by reckless bloodshed. There were men at court as bad as herself who agreed to aid her. When she boldly claimed the throne, four loyal nobles asserted the claim of Rakotobe. They were instantly speared in the palace. The rightful heir was not present. Soldiers were sent to his residence to seize and kill him before he should hear of what was going on.

“Not content with shedding blood, the cruel monsters dug the poor youth’s grave before his eyes. When they were thus engaged Rakotobe kneeled down to pray, and while he was in this position they speared him and cast him into his grave. Soon after the father and mother of Rakotobe were murdered—the last being starved to death. The brother of Radama was destroyed in like manner. He lingered eight days in agony before death came to his relief. Then Rakotobe’s grandmother and other relations were slain by Ranavalona’s orders, and thus the murderess waded through blood to the throne of Madagascar!