THE BAY OF CORISCO--THE MANGROVE TREES--THE WONDERFUL FLOCKS OF
BIRDS--WHAT I FOUND IN THE POUCH OF A PELICAN--HOW AN OLD KING IS
BURIED, AND THE NEW KING CROWNED.
Now that you have followed me in the Benito country, and to Cape St.
John, I will take you a little further down the coast to the Bay of
Corisco. There, two rivers empty their waters into the sea. One of them
is called the Muni river, and the other the Monda.
I will leave the Muni, for we shall have to come to it by-and-by, and
will speak to you only of the Monda. It is throughout a low-banked
swampy stream. The banks are covered with mangrove trees. Every limb or
branch that grows in the water is covered with oysters--real oysters
too; so that at low tide you can see, in some places for a long
distance, immense beds of this kind of shell-fish.
The mangroves, on which the oysters grow so curiously, are very
extraordinary trees. The main trunk, or parent tree, grows to an
immense size. From a single tree a whole forest will grow up in time,
for the branches send down shoots into the ground, which in their turn
take root and become trees; so that, generally, almost the whole of the
mangrove forest may be said to be knitted together.
The inhabitants of the country at the mouth of the river are called
Shekiani. They are a very warlike tribe, and many of them are armed
with guns, which they obtain from the vessels that come here from time
to time to buy bar wood, ivory, or india-rubber.
I arrived at the mouth of the river, in a small canoe, manned by
several Mbinga men. The canoe was made of the trunk of a single tree,
and had a mat for a sail. At the mouth of the river, high above the
swamps that surround its banks, are two hills. On the top of one of
these hills, a village was situated. There I stayed. It was a village
of insignificant size.
At low tide, the high muddy banks of the river are exposed. So many
birds as are there, I never saw elsewhere: they are to be seen in
countless thousands. The shore, the mud islands, and the water were so
covered with them, that it was really a sight worth seeing. Here and
there flocks of pelicans swam majestically along, keeping at a good
distance from my canoe. You would probably wish to know what these
pelicans are like. I will tell you. They are large birds, and have
an enormous bill, under which is a large pouch, capable of containing
several pounds of fish. They have webbed feet, and their feathers are
white. I wish you could see them looking out for their prey. How slyly
they pry in the water for the fish they are in search of, and how
quickly they pounce upon them unawares with their powerful beak! In an
instant the fish are killed and stored away in the pouch; and when this
is full, then Master Pelican begins to eat. The fish are put in the
pouch as if it were a storehouse.
Now and then a string of flamingoes go stretching along the muddy
shore, looking for all the world like a line of fire. Most beautiful
are these flamingoes! and very singular they appear when not on the
wing, but standing still on their long red legs! They are very wild,
however, and difficult of approach.
Wherever the mud peeped out of the water, there were herons, cranes,
gulls of various kinds. Scattered everywhere were seen those beautiful
white birds (_Egretta flavirostris_). Some of the shore trees were
covered with them, looking like snow in the distance.
Of course I wished to kill some of these birds. So I took a tiny little
canoe, and covered it with branches of trees, that the birds might
think it was a tree coming down the stream, as is often the case.
Then I took a Shekiani with me to paddle, and, putting two guns in
the canoe, we made for the pelicans. The sly birds seemed to suspect
something, and did not give me a chance to approach them for a long
time. But, as you know, in order to succeed in anything, people must
have patience and perseverance. So, after chasing many, I finally
succeeded in approaching one. He was just in the act of swallowing a
big fish, when--bang!--I fired, and wounded him so that he could not
fly. His wing had been broken by my shot. At the noise made by firing
my gun, the birds flew away by thousands. I made for Master Pelican.
The chase became exciting; but at last we succeeded in coming near him.
But how to get hold of him was now the question. His wing only was
broken; and, with his great beak, he might perhaps be able to cut one
of my fingers right off. I was afraid to spoil his feathers if I fired
again. He became exhausted, and with one of the paddles I gave him a
tremendous blow on the head, which stunned him. Another blow finished
him, and we lifted him into the canoe.
I cannot tell you how pleased I was. His pouch was full of fish. They
were so fresh that I resolved to make a meal out of them.
I had hardly put the bird at the bottom of the canoe, when there came
flying towards me a flock of at least two hundred flamingoes. In a
moment I had my gun in readiness. Would they come near enough for me to
get a shot at them? I watched them anxiously. Yes! Now they are near
enough; and--bang! bang!--I fired the two barrels right into the middle
of the flock, and two beautiful flamingoes fell into the water. Quickly
we paddled towards them. In order to go faster I took a paddle also,
and worked away as well as I could. They were dead. Both had received
shots in the head.
We made for the shore. When I opened the pouch of the pelican--just
think of it!--I found a dozen large fishes inside! They were quite
fresh; and I am sure they had not been caught more than half an hour.
You will agree with me that the pelican makes quick work when he goes
a-fishing.
In the evening I felt so tired that I went straight to bed; and I slept
so soundly, that if the Shekianis had chosen, they could have murdered
me without my even opening my eyes.
This village had a new king; and I wondered if his majesty were made
king in the same fashion as the sovereign of the Mpongwe tribe; a tribe
of negroes among whom I have resided, and I will tell you how their
king was made.
Old King Glass died. He had been long ailing, but clung to life with
determined tenacity. He was a disagreeable old heathen; but in his last
days he became very devout--after his fashion. His idol was always
freshly painted, and brightly decorated; his fetich, or "monda," was
the best cared for fetich in Africa, and every few days some great
doctors were brought down from the interior, and paid a large fee
for advising the old king. He was afraid of witchcraft: he thought
everybody wanted to put him out of the way by bewitching him. So the
business of the doctors was to keep off the witches, and assure his
majesty that he would live a long time. This assurance pleased him
wonderfully, and he paid his doctors well.
The tribe had got tired of their king. They thought, indeed, that he
was himself a most potent and evil-disposed wizard; and, though the
matter was not openly talked about there were very few natives indeed
who would pass his house after night, and none who could be tempted
inside, by any slighter provocation than an irresistible glass of rum.
In fact, if he had not been a great king, he would probably have been
killed.
When he got sick at last, everybody seemed very sorry; but several of
my friends told me in confidence, that the whole town hoped he would
die; and die he did. I was awakened one morning, by those mournful
cries and wails with which the African oftener covers a sham sorrow
than expresses a real grief. All the women of the village seemed to be
dissolved in tears. It is a most singular thing to see how readily the
women of Africa can supply tears on the slightest occasion, or for no
occasion at all. They will cry together, at certain times of the day,
on mourning occasions, when a few minutes before they were laughing.
They need no pain or real grief to excite their tears. They can,
apparently, weep at will.
The mourning and wailing on this occasion lasted six days. On the
second day the old king was secretly buried, by a few of the most
trusty men of the tribe, very early in the morning, before others were
up; or perhaps at night. Some said he had been buried at night, while
others said he had been buried in the morning, thus showing that they
did not know. This custom arises from a belief that the other tribes
would much like to get the head of the king, in order that with his
brains they might make a powerful fetich.
During the days of mourning, the old men of the village busied
themselves in choosing a new king. This, also, is a secret operation,
and the result is not communicated to the people generally till the
seventh day.
It happened that Njogoni (fowl), a good friend of mine, was elected. I
do not know that Njogoni had the slightest suspicion of his elevation.
At any rate, he shammed ignorance very well.
While he was walking on the shore, on the morning of the seventh
day--probably some one had told him to go--he was suddenly set upon by
the entire populace, who proceeded with a ceremony which is preliminary
to the crowning. In a dense crowd they surrounded him, and then began
to heap upon him every manner of abuse that the worst of mobs could
imagine. Some spat in his face. Some beat him with their fists, not
very hard of course. Some kicked him. Others threw dirty things at him.
Those unlucky cues who stood on the outside and could only reach the
poor fellow with their voices, assiduously cursed him, and also his
father, and especially his mother, as well as his sisters and brothers,
and all his ancestors to the remotest generation. A stranger would
not have given a farthing for the life of him who was presently to be
crowned.
Amid the noise and struggle, I caught the words which explained all to
me; for every few minutes some fellow, administering a comparatively
severe blow or kick, would shout out, "You are not our king yet; for
a little while we will do what we please with you. By-and-by we shall
have to do your will."
Njogoni bore himself like a man, and a prospective king, and took all
this abuse with a smiling face. When it had lasted about half an hour,
they took him to the house of the old king. Here he was seated, and
became again for a little while the victim of his people's curses and
ill-usage.
Suddenly all became silent, and the elders of the people rose, and said
solemnly (the people repeating after them), "Now we choose you for our
king; we engage to listen to you, and to obey you."
Then there was silence; and presently the silk hat, of "stove-pipe"
fashion, which is the emblem of royalty among the Mpongwe and several
other tribes, was brought in, and placed on Njogoni's head. He was then
dressed in a red gown, and received the greatest marks of respect from
all those who had just now abused him.
Then followed six days of festival, during which the poor king, who had
taken the name of his predecessor, was obliged to receive his subjects
in his own house, and was not allowed to stir out. The whole time was
occupied in indescribable gorging of food, and drinking of bad rum
and palm wine. It was a scene of beastly gluttony and drunkenness and
uproarious confusion. Strangers came from the surrounding villages.
Everything to eat and drink was furnished freely, and all comers were
welcome.
Old King Glass, for whom during six days no end of tears had been shed,
was now forgotten; and _new_ King Glass, poor fellow, was sick with
exhaustion.
Finally, the rum and palm wine were drank up, the food was eaten, the
allotted days of rejoicing had expired, and the people went back to
their homes.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: SCENE WITH THE MBOUSHA.]