I led my trembling visitor to the arm-chest, and, seating her gently by my side, inquired why I was favored by so stealthy a visit from the harem. My suspicions were aroused; for, though a novice in Africa, I knew enough of the discipline maintained in these slave factories, not to allow my fancy to seduce me with the idea that her visit was owing to mad-cap sentimentality.
The manner of these quarteroon girls, whose complexion hardly separates them from our own race, is most winningly graceful; and Esther, with abated breath, timidly asked my pardon for intruding, while she declared I had made so bitter an enemy of Unga-golah, — the head-woman of the seraglio, — that, in spite of danger, she stole to my quarters with a warning. Unga swore revenge. I had insulted and thwarted her; I was able to thwart her at all times, if I remained the Mongo’s “book-man;” — I must soon “go to another country;” but, if I did not, I would quickly find the food of Bangalang excessively unwholesome! “Never eat any thing that a Mandingo offers you,” said Esther. “Take your meals exclusively from the Mongo’s table. Unga-golah knows all the Mandingo jujus, and she will have no scruple in using them in order to secure once more the control of the store keys. Good night!”
With this she rose to depart, begging me to be silent about her visit, and to believe that a poor slave could feel true kindness for a white man, or even expose herself to save him.
If an unruly passion had tugged at my heartstrings, the soft appeal, the liquid tones, the tenderness of this girl’s humanity, would have extinguished it in an instant. It was the first time for many a long and desolate mouth that I had experienced the gentle touch of a woman’s hand, or felt the interest of mortal solicitude fall like a refreshing dew upon my heart! Who will censure me for halting on my door-sill as I led her forth, retaining her little hand in mine, while I cast my eyes over the lithe symmetry of those slender and rounded limbs; while I feasted on the flushed magnolia of those beautiful cheeks, twined my fingers in the trailing braids of that raven hair, peered into the blackness of those large and swimming orbs, felt a tear trickle down my hardening face, and left, on those coral lips, the print of a kiss that was fuller of gratitude than passion!
Nowadays that Mormonism is grafting a “celestial wifery” upon the civilization of the nineteenth century, I do not think it amiss to recall the memory of those African establishments which formed so large a portion of a trader’s homestead. It is not to be supposed that the luxurious harem of Turkey or Egypt was transferred to the Guinea coast, or that its lofty walls were barricaded by stout gates, guarded by troops of sable eunuchs. The “wifery” of my employer was a bare inclosure, formed by a quadrangular cluster of mud-houses, the entrance to whose court-yard was never watched save at night. Unga-golah, the eldest and least delectable of the dames, maintained the establishment’s police, assigned gifts or servants to each female, and distributed her master’s favors according to the bribes she was cajoled by.
In early life and during his gorged prosperity, Ormond, — a stout, burly, black-eyed, broad-shouldered, short-necked man, — ruled his harem with the rigid decorum of the East. But as age and misfortunes stole over the sensual voluptuary, his mental and bodily vigor became impaired, not only by excessive drink, but by the narcotics to which he habitually resorted for excitement. When I became acquainted with him, his face and figure bore the marks of a worn-out debauché. His harem now was a fashion of the country rather than a domestic resort. His wives ridiculed him, or amused themselves as they pleased. I learned from Esther that there was hardly one who did not “flirt” with a lover in Bangalang, and that Unga-golah was blinded by gifts, while the stupor of the Mongo was perpetuated by liquor.
It may be supposed that in such a seraglio, and with such a master, there were but few matrimonial jealousies; still, as it would be difficult to find, even in our most Christian society, two females without some lurking bitterness towards rivals, so it is not to be imagined that the Mongo’s mansion was free from womanly quarrels. These disputes chiefly occurred when Ormond distributed gifts of calico, beads, tobacco, pipes and looking-glasses. If the slightest preference or inequality was shown, adieu to order. Unga-golah descended below zero! The favorite wife, outraged by her neglected authority, became furious; and, for a season, pandemonium was let loose in Bangalang.
One of these scenes of passion occurs to me as I write. I was in the store with the Mongo when an aggrieved dame, not remarkable either for delicacy of complexion or sweetness of odor, entered the room, and marching up with a swagger to her master, dashed a German looking-glass on the floor at his feet. She wanted a larger one, for the glass bestowed on her was half an inch smaller than the gifts to her companions.
When Ormond was sober, his pride commonly restrained him from allowing the women to molest his leisure; so he quietly turned from the virago and ordered her out of the store.
But my lady was not to be appeased by dignity like this. “Ha!” shrieked the termagant, as she wrenched off her handkerchief. “Ha!” yelled she, tearing off one sleeve, and then the other. “Ha!” screamed the fiend, kicking a shoe into one corner, and the other shoe into another corner. “Ha! Mongo!” roared the beldame, as she stripped every garment from her body and stood absolutely naked before us, slapping her wool, cheeks, forehead, breasts, arms, stomach and limbs, and appealing to Ormond to say where she was deficient in charms, that she should be slighted half an inch on a looking-glass?
As the Mongo was silent, she strode up to me for an opinion; but, scarlet with blushes, I dived behind the cloth-chest, and left the laughing Ormond to gratify the whim of the “model artiste.”
Years afterwards, I remember seeing an infuriate Ethiopian fling her infant into the fire because its white father preferred the child of another spouse. Indeed, I was glad my station at Bangalang did not make it needful for the preservation of my respectability that I should indulge in the luxury of African matrimony!
But these exhibitions of jealous passion were not excited alone by the unequal distribution of presents from the liege lord of Bangalang. I have observed that Ormond’s wives took advantage of his carelessness and age, to seek congenial companionship outside the harem. Sometimes the preference of two of these sable belles alighted on the same lover, and then the battle was transferred from a worthless looking-glass to the darling beau. When such a quarrel arose, a meeting between the rivals was arranged out of the Mongo’s hearing; when, throwing off their waist-cloths, the controversy was settled between the female gladiators without much damage. But, now and then, the matter was not left to the ladies. The sable lovers themselves took up the conflict, and a regular challenge passed between the gay Othellos.
At the appointed time, the duellists appeared upon “the field of honor” accompanied by friends who were to witness their victory or sympathize in their defeat. Each stalwart savage leaped into the arena, armed with a cow-hide cat, whose sharp and triple thongs were capable of inflicting the harshest blows. They stripped, and tossed three cowries into the air to determine which of the two should receive the first lashing. The unfortunate loser immediately took his stand, and received, with the firmness of a martyr, the allotted number of blows. Then came the turn of the whipper, who, with equal constancy, offered his back to the scourge of the enraged sufferer. Thus they alternated until one gave in, or until the bystanders decreed victory to him who bore the punishment longest without wincing. The flayed backs of these “chivalrous men of honor” were ever after displayed in token of bravery; and, doubtless, their Dulcineas devoted to their healing the subtlest ointment and tenderest affection recognized among Africans.
CHAPTER IX
My business habits and systematic devotion