BACK TO MANGU
While in camp at Sumbu I had another adventure with a puff-adder, which
is, as I have explained elsewhere, one of the most venomous snakes in
all Africa. We were sitting outside my tent after dinner, enjoying our
coffee and cigarettes as usual, when my personal boy had occasion to go
inside on some errand or other. A moment or two later there came the
sound of a wild commotion from within. The boy was threshing about with
a stick, and calling out excitedly something we could not understand.
We jumped up, and the boy came running out, dangling the dead reptile
gingerly at the end of his stick. He had, he explained, nearly stepped
on it in the dark, and he showed us where it had been coiled, right
opposite my toilet table, where I should have stood on entering. The
curious instinct natives have about snakes, had warned him of his
danger, but had I gone in I should almost certainly have trodden on it;
and there would probably have been an end to me for good and all.
Soon after this incident a piece of very welcome news reached us.
A native runner came trotting up to our camp with a letter in a
cleft-stick, and wrapped in the usual oilskin. It proved to be a
cablegram from the Moving Picture Sales Agency in London--the firm
that is handling our films--telling us that the first lot of pictures
had been received and developed, and that they had turned out very
well indeed. Naturally, we were all immensely pleased and delighted,
for as we had no proper facilities for developing our cinematograph
negatives where we were, we had no means of judging how they were going
to turn out, and Schomburgk, with memories of the failure that had
attended his efforts during his former expedition, had been all along
very anxious about the matter. Now all our apprehensions were set at
rest, our spirits soared high, and we opened a bottle of champagne in
honour of the occasion. The cablegram had only left London thirty-six
hours previously. It had been re-transmitted by telephone from Lome
to Mangu, whence it had been dispatched by relays of runners to our
camp. The date stamp showed that it had left Mangu at ten o'clock
that morning, and it reached us at eight o'clock in the evening, the
distance from Mangu to Sumbu being approximately fifty-five miles. When
it is remembered that there is no proper road between the two places,
nor even a trail in many parts, that the heat in the daytime up here
is so terrific that even the natives ordinarily do not care to move
about in it, and that the letter had to be carried up hill and down
dale, as well as across rivers and streams, it must be admitted that
the performance was a good one. It had been brought to us by what is
known as "chief's mail," an institution peculiar to Togo. The letter,
message, telegram, or whatever it may be, is wrapped in oilskin by the
clerk at the issuing office, firmly fixed into the cleft of a stick,
and handed to a native runner, who at once dashes off with it to the
nearest village along the line of the route it is intended it shall
take. Arrived there, he calls out at the top of his voice "Chief's
mail!" and hands it to the first native he happens to meet, who at
once starts off with it at top speed to the next village, where the
operation is repeated. In this way messages can be dispatched to
practically any part of the country with marvellous celerity.
Our principal reason for remaining at Sumbu was because we wanted
to photograph some pictures of hippopotami, which were reported
to be fairly numerous in the Oti hereabouts. Schomburgk wanted to
secure a good picture of the ordinary hippo, in order to show the
contrast between these big fellows and the pygmy hippopotamus which
he discovered in Liberia, and also to show how the one is practically
always cooped up in some big pool, while the other, the little one,
roams at will all over the place in the forest; otherwise he did not
trouble greatly about game pictures. Day after day passed by, however,
and we saw none, and Schomburgk began to get anxious. Eventually he
sent natives out to look for them, promising a reward to whoever
succeeded. That evening a couple of Tschokossi came in, and reported
that they had located five of them some few miles up-stream, near a
village called Panscheli. This, of course, was welcome news, and very
early the following morning we set out for Panscheli, taking our camera
with us. We crossed the river, which was fairly deep and infested with
crocodiles, without mishap. I was being carried in a hammock, being a
bit run down, and I confess to being a little bit nervous, as I was
being carried by boys who were new to the business, and didn't know
how to handle the hammock properly. Besides this, the responsibility
of having to carry a white woman for the first time made them over
careful, and their progress was slow and tedious. Proper hammock boys,
like those who carried me from Atakpame to Sokode, are exceedingly
swift, smooth, and easy in all their movements. They "break step,"
like stretcher-bearers are trained to do, and sing a curious sort of
chanting melody as they trot along, which is very apt to lull one to
sleep.
Altogether, what with the crossing, and one or two enforced halts on
the way, the journey to Panscheli occupied about two and a half hours,
and a little way beyond the village, in a big and very deep pool, we
came up with the hippos--one big bull, one big cow, and three smaller
ones. This was the first time I had ever seen hippopotami in a wild
state, and Schomburgk was rather looking forward to my being impressed
at the sight. As a matter of fact, however, I wasn't a bit impressed.
The ungainly brutes only poked their heads above water at intervals to
breathe, then down again. I was far more interested in those I had seen
in captivity at the "Zoo" in Hamburg, and in Regent's Park, London.
So shy and wary were these Oti hippos, that even now we had tracked
them to their lair our operator found it impossible to take pictures
of them. So at length, hot, tired, and disgusted, we gave it up as a
bad job, and Schomburgk proceeded to vent his anger on the crocodiles,
shooting six or seven of them. He absolutely refused, however, to shoot
any of the hippos, saying that they were harmless creatures, not like
the beastly crocs, and that anyway it wouldn't be sport, but butchery,
because the poor brutes, although they were in their native element,
had not got the run of the river, but were cooped up in the pool, and
had to come to the surface to breathe. Eventually, however, he so far
relented as to give Hodgson permission to shoot one of the two big
hippos, telling him to remain behind for that purpose. "Perhaps," he
remarked, "you will never get another chance, and anyhow it will do for
meat for the boys."
Meanwhile, on an island in the middle of the pool, I saw the most
extraordinary sight I had ever beheld, an incident that I had often
heard about, but never really believed. The low sandy islet was covered
thick with innumerable water-fowl: teal, egrets, herons, and so forth.
And right in amongst them were five enormous crocodiles, lying basking
in the sun with their mouths wide open, and numbers of little white
birds running in and out, and pecking with their tiny beaks at the
interstices between the big cruel teeth. We promptly tried to cinema
the scene, and again we were disappointed; in fact our luck seemed dead
out on this particular day. The crackling of the dried grass alarmed
the reptiles, and they promptly closed their cavernous mouths, and slid
off the island into the river. Whether any of the poor little birds
were accidentally trapped inside, under the--for the crocs--altogether
exceptional circumstances of the case, I do not know, but Schomburgk
said not, as these birds are exceedingly quick in their movements, and
the crocodiles are careful not to hurt them. The little creatures are
generally known throughout Western Africa as "tick-birds," and they do
not go only with crocodiles, but with elephants, rhinoceri, buffaloes,
&c., as well as tame cattle and sheep. They feed on the vermin, and
especially on the ticks, that infest these creatures; hence their name.
Hence, also, the fact that they are never wantonly interfered with by
their hosts. Even the stupid crocodile has sense enough to know that
it is good for him to be rid of vermin, and to have his great ugly
yellow teeth picked and cleansed for him by these indefatigable little
scavengers.
Panscheli, where we halted for a brief spell on our way back to
Sumbu, is a prettily situated little village of the usual frowsy
Tschokossi type. It stands on the left bank of the Oti going up-stream,
Sumbu being on the right bank, and is surrounded by broad belts of
palm-trees. Curiously enough, the natives hereabouts seem to make no
use whatever of these valuable trees.
[Illustration:
_By permission of_ _Maj. H. Schomburgk, F.R.G.S._
AUTHORESS AND DEAD "HIPPO"
This young bull hippopotamus was shot in the Oti river in the far north
of Togoland. Lying in the water in the background of the picture is
another. These two hippos were the only ones shot by the expedition,
although many others were seen and photographed.]
Very late that afternoon, while we were resting at our base camp at
Sumbu, Hodgson came back and reported that he had shot the two big
hippos, leaving the three smaller ones. In acting thus, he explained,
he had not wilfully disobeyed Schomburgk's instructions, which were, it
will be remembered, to shoot only one, sparing the other four. He had
fallen into an error which, Schomburgk remarked, was quite excusable on
the part of a young hunter unaccustomed to the ways of these animals.
He had shot at one of the big hippos, which sunk, fatally wounded.
Directly afterwards the other big fellow popped up, and Hodgson,
thinking it to be the same hippo, fired again. Afterwards, when, on
coming back to see whether they had risen, he found, not one only,
but two dead hippopotami drifting on the surface of the pool, he was
greatly surprised and disgusted.
Next day we rode over to Panscheli to see the two hippos, taking our
boys with us to get them out. We found the carcases floating on the
surface of the pool, surrounded by innumerable crocodiles biting and
tearing at them. Despite of this our natives plunged fearlessly into
the water amongst them, and fixing long stout coils of native coir
rope round the bodies, soon had them hauled up on dry land. A hippo
when shot sinks immediately, but only takes about two hours to rise. A
crocodile, when fatally hit, jumps clean out of the water, then falls
back, and also immediately sinks. But it takes much longer to rise than
the hippo; thirty-six hours, or even longer, according to the state
of the weather. Consequently none of those shot by Schomburgk on the
previous day were visible, but on the island were above a score of the
loathsome creatures, gorged to repletion, their jaws wide open, and
their living toothpicks, the little tick-birds, to wit, running in and
out, and cleansing their mouths from the remnants of their disgusting
meal. By the way, Schomburgk tells me that the popular idea regarding
the strength and toughness of the "scaly defensive armour" of the
crocodile is all moonshine. The so-called "armour" is not really armour
at all, but merely a leather-like integument, and a modern bullet will
penetrate it almost as easily as it would so much blotting-paper.
While we were up at the island, discussing the chances of a cinema
picture, our boys were cutting up the dead hippos. I never witnessed
a more disgusting sight. The extremities had been gnawed off by the
crocodiles during the night, but the massive trunks, and the huge
heads, were intact, and the natives sliced up the meat, entrails and
all, and squabbled over the tit-bits, their faces, hands, and bodies
smothered in blood. I wanted to get away from the horrible scene, and
at my request Schomburgk took me for a short stroll up the river. Here,
in a bend on a shallow sand-spit, we came unexpectedly on a number
of big turtles. At our approach they popped up their heads like so
many snakes, then bobbed down again as swiftly. Schomburgk succeeded,
however, in shooting one, and I had visions of turtle soup for dinner.
But it sank, and could not be recovered. That night our boys gorged
themselves on hippo meat, and the next morning croton oil was at a
premium.
On January 16th we broke camp and started southward for Mangu. This is
the first stage on our return journey to London, and Schomburgk, at my
suggestion, utilised the occasion to take a "travel picture"--this is
the technical trade term--showing the making up and starting of the
caravan, striking the tents, porters taking up loads, and so forth. It
made a very interesting film, but in order to photograph it, we had to
get up much later than usual, and also delay the start, so as to get
the light, so that our first day's stage was an unusually short one.
We are now marching back across the Oti flats. The season is advancing,
and each day that passes, the heat increases in intensity. The very air
seems to palpitate with it, and even by eight o'clock in the morning
the sun's rays are so powerful that to sit in one's saddle exposed to
them is to endure a mild sort of torture. We camped that night in the
bush, far from any human habitation, under a big tree. It was near
to where I had seen the marabou on my way up, but these beautiful
creatures had now all disappeared. The burning sun had drunk up most of
the water in the "vley," reducing it to the dimensions of a good-sized
puddle, and the little depression, so full of bird life the week
before, was now silent and deserted. In a comparatively little while
the rainy season will set in, and soon afterwards all this district
where we now are will be under water, and consequently of course quite
impassable for man or beast. The antelope, which now cover the flats,
will retire to the higher ground away from the floods, and only the
hippopotami and the crocodiles, and of course the birds, will disport
themselves in and about what will be in effect a vast inland sea of
fresh water.
Next day we resumed our march, striking a new track a little nearer
the river bank. On the way we passed many big heaps of oyster shells.
These river oysters are small, but very sweet and nice, and in the
season they are consumed in enormous numbers by the natives, who come
down to the Oti at this spot on purpose to feast upon them, returning
to their homes in a few weeks' time as fat as butter. The native does
not trouble about an oyster knife in order to open what journalists of
the old school used to term the "succulent bivalves." He just dumps
the oysters down near a big fire, and waits for them to open of their
own accord. Some of these midden-like piles of old shells are of vast
extent, and are probably the accumulation of many years, possibly of
centuries. These shells are now used by the Mangu people for making
lime, and Schomburgk used to note the whereabouts of the heaps so that
they might be able to come up and fetch them away later on.
I was surprised and uneasy at observing, soon after we camped to-day,
that several Tschokossi savages, each with his bow and sheaf of
poisoned arrows, were prowling about in the bush in the distance,
evidently watching us, and taking stock of our movements. We tried to
get in touch with them, in order to find out what their intentions
were, but directly we made a movement in their direction, they as
promptly retired, to reappear once more when we withdrew, and resume
their silent spying upon us. It was somewhat disconcerting, but
Schomburgk did not attach any very great importance to it. No doubt,
he remarked, they were suspicious of our intentions, wondering what we
were doing so far away from the beaten track; since even in the more
remote parts of Togo, like that where we now are, there are certain
well-defined caravan routes, and the natives, treacherous and cunning
themselves, are always mistrustful of any white strangers who quit
these recognised travel lanes, in order to adventure themselves into
the bush on either side.
Nevertheless, when night fell and the camp was still, I felt strangely
uneasy. I could not sleep, and the story of the white man so nearly
slain in his tent by the poisoned arrows of these treacherous savages
kept recurring to my mind again and again. At first a camp in a typical
African bush is strangely silent, but after an hour or so there
invariably begins a regular succession of noises, continuing till just
before dawn. I heard, and perforce listened to them all, on that _nuit
blanche_. First it was a horse neighing, then a hyena yowling; monkeys
started chattering in the trees, a bush buck was bellowing to its mate.
A little later on an old owl started "ter-hoot! ter-hoot!" somewhere
near, and some crested cranes answered her with their rasping "honk!
honk!" like an asthmatical motor horn. My tent was pitched under some
dwarf trees, from which there proceeded a continual crackling of dry
branches. Hark! Surely there are human fingers stealthily groping
about the outside of my frail dwelling. I creep to the flap and look
fearfully out. Then laugh softly. It is only a tree lizard that has
fallen from above, and now runs pattering about the taut canvas. The
moonlight is flooding the country, and all the landscape for miles
around is as a level unbroken plain of snow, or frosted silver, save
that here and there a huge mis-shapen baobab rears its contorted form
and casts weird black shadows athwart the white brightness. I lie
down and close my eyes, determining to sleep, to be startled into
wakefulness again this time by the low gurgling cough of a leopard.
I go to the tent flap once more, and call softly to the horses, who
are commencing to neigh uneasily. As I stand there huge bat-like
moths circle about with whirring wings, or dash blindly into my
averted face; while from the river below comes an endless, monotonous
chorus from the throats of thousands of bull-frogs--"qua-ah! quah-ah!
quah-ah!" a million times repeated. At last I feel myself drifting into
slumberland. The weary eyelids close peacefully over aching eyeballs.
The tired brain ceases to concern itself automatically with things
past or with things present. Have I slept, or have I been awake all
the time, and only imagined the sleep that came not? I am not sure.
But I am at all events certain that I am now wide awake, and that the
camp is in an uproar. One of the horses had got loose, and being a
stallion, as indeed they all are, "goes for" the one next him. The two
fight furiously. The others start kicking and squealing. The boys rush
out, stumbling over the tent ropes in their excitement, and cursing
fluently meanwhile in half a dozen different dialects. And above the
din I can distinguish Schomburgk's voice, angrily inquiring of the
horse boys whose animal it is that has broken loose, and promising
punishment for the careless delinquent later on. That morning at dawn
comes to my tent the erring one, to beg me to intercede for him with
the "master." I promised to do my best. But Schomburgk is adamant. "An
example must be made," he says. "It is sheer downright carelessness. No
horse can break loose like that if it is properly tethered. Some night
we shall have the lot stampeded; or, worse still, one of them will
be fatally injured." Suddenly a happy thought strikes me. "It was a
leopard," I explain, lying fluently, for the leopard incident happened
hours before the horse broke loose. "I heard the brute myself." "Oh,
of course, that alters the case," he says. "A horse might conceivably
get loose if frightened by a prowling leopard. I will let the fellow
off with a talking to." So that little affair ends satisfactorily to
all concerned, and I congratulate myself on the fact that although I
have lied, I have at least lied for an unselfish object, and to some
purpose. Only later on did I learn that Schomburgk knew I was fibbing
all the while, since he was perfectly well aware that a leopard will
not go anywhere near a horse; only he was glad of an excuse to remit
the punishment without injury to discipline.
I start the day's march with aching eyes and head, due to lack of
sleep, and an aching heart, also, for I am obsessed with a curious
feeling of misfortune waiting for us ahead. In vain I try to shake
it off, and when presently a native runner is seen approaching with
a letter carried in the familiar cleft stick, I feel as certain as
certain can be that he is the bearer of bad news. And so it turns out.
The envelope, on being taken from its oilskin wrapper and opened,
proves to contain a telegram from Kamina to tell us that Baron Codelli
von Fahnenfeld's house there had been burned to the ground, and that
all our heavy baggage which we had left stored in it had gone up in
smoke. This was indeed terrible news. I cried nearly all day and the
best part of the next night. Practically the whole of my personal
belongings, including about £200 worth of jewellery, my books and
papers, the little presents and souvenirs that I had bought at Madeira
and elsewhere out of my hard-earned money as presents for the dear ones
at home, my best and daintiest frocks and underwear, to say nothing
of other valued odds and ends--all! all! nothing but dust and ashes!
It was really too awful. Schomburgk's loss was even more serious than
mine, but he took it more philosophically. His manuscripts had gone,
his private letters and papers, his army commissions, his medals and
decorations, photographs, &c., representing fifteen years' camera
work in the African wilds, his diaries, his clothes and uniforms, and
a whole lot of other valuable property, much of which can never be
replaced. We had intended to camp for the night at a place called Magu,
but were so disgusted with fate, and things in general, that, in order
to tire ourselves out and keep from brooding we pushed on as far as
Najo. Here we camped, spending most of our time lamenting, and the next
day, still very much down in the dumps, we rode into Mangu.