The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar. Robert Michael Ballantyne

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      “Beef!” exclaimed Hockins in some excitement, as he pointed to the animal nearest to them, which happened to be a black, sleek, fat young bull, with slender limbs and fierce eyes.

      “Neber mind the wegibles, massa; shot ’un!” exclaimed Ebony in an excited whisper, as he turned his glaring eyeballs on his leader.

      “Hush! don’t speak,” returned Mark, drawing quietly back into cover—for the animal had not observed them. “We must consult what is to be done, because, you know, we have lost our powder-flask, the two charges in my gun are all I have got, and these are only small shot—I have no bullets!”

      Grave concern overspread the face of the sturdy seaman—blank dismay that of the sea-cook!

      “Might as well blaze at the beast wi’ sand,” said Hockins.

      “Or wid nuffin’,” sighed Ebony.

      “Nevertheless, I will try,” said Mark, quickly. “We shall be starved to death at this rate. Yonder is a line of bushes that runs close out to the brute. I’ll stalk it. When close I will make a dash at it, get as near as I can, clap the muzzle against its ribs if possible, and—well, we shall see! You two had better stop here and look on.”

      “No, massa,” said the negro, firmly, “I go wid you. If you is to die, we die togidder!”

      “What are you thinking of, Hockins?” asked the youth, observing that the seaman stood staring at the ground with knitted brows, as if in deep thought.

      “I’ll go with you too,” he replied, drawing his cutlass and feeling its point with his finger. “You may need help. Heave ahead, sir.”

      Mark could not avoid smiling at the way in which this was said, although he was sufficiently impressed with the hopelessness, it might even be the danger, of the attempt he was about to make.

      They found no difficulty in approaching to within about thirty yards of the animal, being well concealed by the line of bushes before mentioned, but beyond that point there was no cover. Here therefore Mark cocked his gun and gathered himself up for a rush, and Hockins drew his cutlass. So agile was our young doctor that he actually reduced the thirty yards to ten before the astonished bull turned to fly. Another moment and the contents of both barrels were lodged in its flank. The effect was to produce a bellow of rage, a toss-up of the hindquarters, and a wild flourish of the tail, as the animal scurried away after the rest of the herd, which was in full flight.

      Poor Breezy stopped at once, with a feeling of mingled disgust and despair. Ebony also stopped, and looked with wide sympathetic eyes in his leader’s face, as though to say, “Well, massa, you’s done your best.”

      But Hockins ran on with persistent vigour, although the creature was leaving him further behind at every stride.

      “Absurd!” murmured Mark, as he gazed at him.

      “No use wassomiver,” said Ebony.

      It did indeed seem as if the seaman’s exertions would prove abortive, but something in the spirit of the wounded bull suddenly changed the aspect of affairs. Whether it was the stinging pain of the small shot in its flank, or the indignation in its breast that influenced it we cannot tell, but in a moment it wheeled round with a furious roar and charged its pursuer.

      Hockins stopped at once, and his comrades fully expected to see him turn and run; but our seaman was made of better stuff than they gave him credit for, and the situation was not so new to him as they imagined. In the course of his voyaging to many lands, Hockins had been to a bull-fight in South America. He had seen with fascination and some surprise the risks run by the footmen in the arena; he had beheld with mingled anger and disgust the action of the picadors, who allowed their poor horses to be gored to death by the infuriated bulls; and he had watched with thrilling anxiety, not unmingled with admiration, the cool courage of the matadors, as they calmly stood up to the maddened and charging bulls and received them on the points of their swords, stepping lightly aside at the same moment so as to avoid the dangerous horns.

      The seaman’s purpose now was to act the part of a matador. He knew that he possessed coolness and nerve sufficient for the deed; he hoped that he had the skill; he felt that hunger could no longer remain unsatisfied; he feared that death by starvation might be the lot of himself and his companions, and he preferred to meet death in action—if meet it he must. All things considered, he resolved to face the bovine thunderbolt with unflinching front, like a true-blue British tar!

      His coolness in the circumstances was evinced by the remarks muttered to himself in a growly tone as the bull approached.

      “Three futt—that’ll be enough. I don’t rightly remember how near them mattydoors let him come before they putt their helms hard down an’ let him go by, but I think three futt’ll do.”

      This decision was barely reached when the bull was upon him with lowered head and erect tail. It was an awful rush, but Hockins stood like a rock with the cutlass pointed. At the pre-arranged moment he stepped to one side, but instead of letting the momentum of the animal do the work, he could not resist the impulse to drive the cutlass deeper into the bull’s neck. The result was that, though he escaped the creature’s horn by a very narrow shave, the cutlass was wrenched violently from his grasp, and he was sent head over heels upon the plain!

      Seeing this, Mark and the negro ran to the rescue, the one howling like a maniac, the other clubbing his gun; but their aid was not required, for the work of the amateur matador had been effectively done. After receiving the deadly thrust the bull plunged forward a few paces, and then fell dying upon the ground, while Hockins got up and began to feel himself all over to make sure that no bones were broken.

      It need scarcely be told that they rejoiced greatly over their success, and that they cut off some of the flesh immediately, with which they returned to the forest to enjoy a much-needed meal.

      “We must kindle a fire now,” said Mark, stopping at an open space in the midst of a very secluded spot at the foot of a magnificent palm-tree. “You see I’m not prepared to act like a cannibal or Eskimo, and eat the meat raw.”

      “There won’t be much fear now,” said Hockins, “especially if we make the fire of dry wood an’ keep it small. Just look at that, Doctor.”

      He held out his cutlass for inspection. It had been seriously bent in the recent encounter.

      “Ain’t that a cryin’ shame to the owners, now, to send us poor fellows to the eastern seas, where we may meet pirates any day, with tin cutlashes like that.”

      “You kin put him straight de next bull you kills,” said Ebony, as he prepared some touchwood; “you’ve on’y got to stick ’im on the left side an’ he’ll twis’ it all right. Now, massa, I’s ready, bring de gun an’ snap de flints ober dat.”

      Hockins straightened his weapon between the branches of a tree, his comrades managed to capture a spark in a mass of dry combustibles, which soon burst into a flame. As the seaman had recommended, only the driest wood was used, and just enough of that to enable them to half-roast what food they required. Then they returned to the carcass of the bull, and cut off a large quantity of meat, using the cutlass as well as their clasp-knives in the operation.

      “Cut the meat in thin slices,” said Mark Breezy, when they began this work.

      “Why you so ’ticklar, massa?” asked Ebony. “I’s fond o’ t’ick slices—w’en him’s not too tough.”

      “Because СКАЧАТЬ